1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal

by James Hadley Chase

  This evening, strolling down Bond Street, he was satisfying his suppressed longing for possessions. Every now and then, he would pause before a shop window and stare with his flat green eyes at the various luxury articles he longed for but knew he could never possess.

  There was a portable roulette set that he would have liked to own. In another corner of the window, temptingly displayed, was a leather-embossed blotter complete with a silver and onyx pen set that beckoned to him the way an impossible-to-buy toy beckons to a child. He stood staring through the window of the shop, his face disciplined into a blank mask, his big knuckled fists clenched out of sight in his pockets.

  Unwillingly, he moved on, walking slowly, fighting the temptation to stop and look again at things displayed so blatantly in the windows, but now mindful that there was someone following and watching him, ready to make a report, jealous of his reputation, more than willing to ruin him.

  The faint sound of a touched motor horn made him look sharply towards a cruising Jaguar that had slowed to a crawl and was only slightly ahead of him.

  A girl was at the wheel: blonde and smiling, not more than twenty-three, a mink stole around her shoulders, her eyes inviting, the lines around her mouth etched deeply in worldly awareness and sin.

  Malik looked away. He walked on. He felt the blood move through his body. He had a sudden impulse to go with this whore and show her how a Russian can reduce a woman to a gasping, moaning animal, flattened beneath muscle and sinews. The urgent need to do this brought sweat beads out onto his forehead, but he kept walking, mindful of the unseen watcher, knowing every move he made, good or bad, would be reported, if not tonight, then later.

  The Jaguar swung to the kerb as he passed and the girl said softly, “Why be lonely, darling? We could have fun.”

  Malik kept on. The luxury articles in the shop windows had suddenly lost their fascination. He wanted now only to return to his hotel. Four walls, a curtained window and a locked door offered him the sanctuary he felt in need of, away from watching eyes.

  The Jaguar gained speed and passed him. He watched it go with regret. As he reached Piccadilly, the electronic-pulser he wore on his wrist, disguised as a watch, began to throb. This was a signal that he was wanted. Immediately he became alert, the fleshy desires, the envy of luxury wiped from his mind. He touched the winder on the pulser to stop the pulse beat, then walked swiftly down Piccadilly to the Berkeley Hotel. Ignoring the stare from the top-hatted doorman, he entered and moved around the groups of chattering people, cocktails in their hands, to him overdressed and stupid looking, to the telephone booths.

  He gave the attendant a number, again ignoring the man’s obvious disapproval of his appearance, then when the man pointed, Malik shut himself in one of the booths. It smelt of some expensive perfume and he thought for a brief moment of the blonde in the Jaguar. His big fists clenched. It would have been good to have shown her how a Russian takes a woman. The telephone bell tinkled and he lifted the receiver.

  A man’s voice said, “Hello?”

  “Four and two and six make twelve,” Malik said, using his own special identity code.

  “You are to leave immediately for Paris,” the man told him in Russian. “You are booked on flight 361, leaving at 20.40 hours. Your things have been packed and are waiting for you at the Air Terminal. S. will be at Le Bourget. This is an emergency.” The line went dead.

  Malik paid for the call and then, leaving the hotel, he picked up a taxi and was driven to the Cromwell Road Air Terminus.

  A fat, suety-faced man who was known to Malik as Drina was waiting in the reception lobby. He had with him Malik’s shabby suitcase, his ticket and 300 French francs.

  “You still have a little time,” Drina said. He spoke respectfully.

  He was a great admirer of Malik, wishing he had the talent and the drive that had established Malik as the top agent. “Is there anything else I can do? I packed your things carefully. Smernoff will meet you at the other end. He would appreciate some duty free cigarettes.” The suety face grimaced into a smile. “I thought I could mention it.”

  Malik hated this fat, dumpy man as he hated anyone connected with failure. He had had dealings with him before and his servile, fawning manner irritated him.

  Wordlessly, he took the suitcase, the ticket and the money, then walked away. He knew the watcher was still watching. It wouldn’t do even to swear at Drina.

  When he arrived at Le Bourget airport, he went through the police control without trouble. His false passport was in order.

  He was travelling as an American subject on vacation. The police at the airport were used to Americans. They considered that America threw up an odd assortment of breeds. This Slav looking man was just another visitor, welcomed only for his dollars. Malik passed through the barrier and walked out into the big reception hall where Boris Smernoff was waiting. Malik was glad to see him.

  Smernoff knew his job. He had the reputation of being the most clever and ruthless hunter of men and Malik had often worked with him. He was thickset, dark and heavily built with a bald patch, narrow, cruel eyes and a talent for accepting any difficulty without protesting. His philosophy was: if it is possible, it will be done; if it is impossible, it can be done.

  A few minutes before Malik’s arrival, there had been a sudden scene of violence. Three young beatniks, dressed in leather jackets with dirty nondescript faces had appeared suddenly and had converged on a man who was sitting inoffensively by the barrier where the passengers from London would arrive. One of them had hit this man over the head with a gutta-percha cosh and then before anyone could act, they had rim out, bundled into a shabby Simca and had driven rapidly away into the rain and the darkness.

  The assaulted man was one of M.I.6’s Paris agents, alerted by London that Malik was arriving. He had been taken away in an ambulance and Smernoff who had organised the assault was confident that there was no other watcher to see Malik arrive.

  As Malik crossed the hall towards Smernoff, Smernoff’s thin lips moved into a smile.

  “Did you bring me cigarettes?” he asked as the two men shook hands.

  “You can poison your own self,” Malik said. “Why should I want to hasten your death?”

  “You think of no one but yourself,” Smernoff said, shrugging, “I have never known you to do anyone a favour.”

  Malik grunted.

  But as they walked out of the airport, he found himself considering this remark. It irritated him to find it was true.

  The two men got into a 404 Smernoff had parked in a parking bay. As Smernoff set the car in motion, he said, “This could be a tricky one. A woman has been found suffering from complete loss of memory. She is at the moment in the American Hospital. It is thought she is the mistress of Feng Hoh Kung. We have orders to take her from the hospital to a house already prepared at Malmaison. You have been selected to take care of the operation. American Security know who she is and they have already put a guard on the hospital. It is also possible in a few hours, she will be moved somewhere less accessible.”

  “They think she has information?” Malik asked.

  “They think she might have.”

  For a few moments Malik sat in silence absorbing this assignment. It appealed to him. He liked action and walking into a hospital which was guarded and taking a woman out, then getting away, was the kind of job he knew he was good at.

  “Have you done anything yet or have you waited for me?”

  “The matter is urgent,” Smernoff said. “I have a man watching the hospital and reporting back every ten minutes. It seems to me the quickest way of getting her is to walk in and take her. We are lucky. An American General, in for a check-up, is on the same floor as she is. I have American Army uniforms, a Jeep and an ambulance at readiness. If you don’t like this idea, you will say so. This is your operation: not mine.”

  Malik glanced at the hard, cruel face of his companion and his eyes glittered. Smernoff was his assistant. He took orders. Malik
wondered how much longer that would continue if Smernoff began using his head. He had outlined a plan that Malik would have made. Malik knew this.

  “You think like me, Boris. It is a pleasure to work with you. This is a good plan. It should work. I’ll see you get the credit.”

  Smernoff laughed.

  “No, you won’t,” he said, “but if the plan meets with your approval I am glad to pass it on to you. Credit means nothing to me. Why should I care about credit?”

  “You are not ambitious, Boris?” Malik asked.

  “No . . . are you?”

  “I wonder sometimes. No . . . I suppose I’m not.”

  Smernoff started to say something, then stopped. He remembered it was unwise to talk too much about oneself.

  “Who will look after this woman when we get her to Malmaison?” Malik asked. “We are not supposed to be nursemaids, are we?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. She is very beautiful. It could be amusing,” Smernoff said. “No, Kovska has given the job to Merna Dorinska.”

  “That bitch! What’s she doing in Paris?” Malik said, stiffening.

  “She’s often here. It is said Kovska and she . . .”

  “Who says that?” Malik demanded, a bark in his voice.

  Smernoff was never intimidated. He shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “Didn’t you know? Then you are the only one who doesn’t.”

  “I know. It is better not to talk about it.”

  “You know I would rather take a goat to bed with me than that woman,” Smernoff said. “Kovska wouldn’t know the difference.”

  The two men burst out laughing, they were still laughing as Smernoff pulled into the courtyard of the Russian Embassy.

  * * *

  John Dorey arrived at the American hospital at 16.40 hours.

  He was thoroughly irritated because he knew he had lost valuable time, but he had to be certain that the tattoo marks on this woman were genuine. It had first been necessary to locate Nicolas Wolfert, the U.S. Embassy’s Chinese expert. It so happened that Wolfert had taken a day off and was fishing on his small estate at Amboise. By the time he had been located, brought by helicopter to Paris, rushed in a car to the Embassy, then put in the picture four valuable hours had been wasted. With Wolfert, Dorey had brought along Joe Dodge, the Embassy’s top photographer.

  Dr. Forrester, a tall, lean man with tired, dark ringed eyes received Dorey in his office while Wolfert and Dodge waited in the corridor. Forrester had already been alerted by O’Halloran of the possible importance of his patient and was more than willing to cooperate.

  “This could be top secret,” Dorey said as he sat down. “I’m relying on you, doctor, to see this woman isn’t got at. There are plenty of reasons why she should be murdered. I want her food prepared only by someone you can completely trust and no nurse, unless you can guarantee her, is to attend her.”

  Forrester nodded.

  “Captain O’Halloran has already gone over this with me. I’m doing my best. What else do you want?”

  “I want photos of the tattoo marks. I have a photographer waiting.”

  Forrester frowned.

  “The marks are on the woman’s buttock.” He leaned back and surveyed Dorey. “You can’t send some strange man into her room, expect her to expose herself while he takes photos. This I can’t allow.”

  “So she’s conscious?”

  “Of course she is conscious. She’s been conscious now for the last three days and she is in a very highly nervous state.”

  “I must have those photographs,” Dorey said, a rasp in his voice. “They may even have to be sent to the President. Give her a shot of Pentathol. Then she won’t know she has been photographed. It won’t take more than a few minutes. I also want my Chinese expert to see the markings. Let’s get it done right away.”

  Forrester hesitated, then shrugged.

  “Well, if it’s that important,” he said, reached for the telephone, spoke quietly, then hung up. “Your men can go up in ten minutes.”

  “Fine.” Dorey went to the door and spoke to Dodge, then he came back and sat down again. “Tell me about this woman.”

  “On arrival she was found . . .”

  “I know all that. I read your report,” Dorey said impatiently. “What I want to know is . . . is she faking? Is she really suffering from amnesia?”

  “I would say so. She doesn’t respond to hypnotism. She had on arrival a small bruise at the back of her head. This could have come when she collapsed and it might have caused loss of memory. It is a little rare, but it could be possible. Yes, I think her loss of memory is genuine.”

  “Any idea how long it could last?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. A week . . . a month . . . I don’t think longer than a month.”

  “How about scopolamine?”

  Forrester smiled.

  “We considered using scopolamine, but it is dangerous. If she is faking, it would work, but if she isn’t, there’s always the risk it would drive her memory deeper into herself. If you want to try it, I won’t object, but if she is really suffering from amnesia then scopolamine could retard her memory recovery by months.”

  Dorey thought for a long moment, then he got to his feet.

  “I’ll see you again after I’ve talked to my Chinese expert. Thanks, doc, for your cooperation. I’ll try and get her moved as soon as I can organise a place for her.”

  Thirty minutes later, Wolfert, a squat balding man whose pink and white complexion belied his forty-six years, came into the small room Forrester had put at Dorey’s disposal. With Dorey was O’Halloran.

  “Well?” Dorey asked, getting to his feet.

  “She’s Erica Olsen, Kung’s mistress,” Wolfert said. “I’ve seen his initials on his various possessions too often to mistake the marks on this woman. This is a very special kind of tattoo . . . a special colour, almost impossible to fake.”

  Dorey looked sharply at this man who was considered to be the top expert in Chinese customs.

  “Almost?”

  “I suppose a very clever tattoo artist could just fake it, but I doubt it. I’m covering myself.” Wolfert’s fat face lit up with a knowing smile. “No one can ever be absolutely certain, but I am willing to bet my pension she is Kung’s mistress.”

  Dorey looked at O’Halloran.

  “Watch her, Tim. I’ll have to alert Washington. I can’t do anything without their say-so.” He rubbed his forehead as he thought. “More delay, but this could be something big. I’ll get back to the Embassy.”

  “You don’t have to worry about her,” O’Halloran said. “She’ll f be right here, safe and sound, when you want her.”

  But he was not to know that in a few hours Malik would be arriving in Paris. Even when Malik finally arrived, the Divisional Head of M.I.6 was so furious that his man had been knocked on the head and had lost Malik that he neglected to warn O’Halloran that the most dangerous of Russian agents was now roaming, unwatched around Paris. Had O’Halloran known this, he would have guarded Erica Olsen more closely. But he didn’t know. He assumed a patrolling guard, armed with an automatic rifle, was good enough.

  But when dealing with Malik, nothing was good enough.

  A few minutes after 6 p.m., a delicately built youth walked into Sadu Mitchell’s shop. He carried a small suitcase, shabby with metal corners, the kind of suitcase a door-to-door salesman would use. His complexion was unhealthy, the colour and texture of dead, stale fish and his small, black eyes flicked to right and left with the suspicious restlessness of a man who trusts no one. He could have been twenty-five, even thirty, but was in fact eighteen.

  His coal-black hair was cropped close and lay over his small head like a skullcap. His movements were as supple and as sinuous as those of a snake.

  Jo-Jo Chandy had been born in Marseilles. His father had been a waterside pimp: his mother unknown. When he was ten years old, his father had been killed in a knife fight. This hadn’t bothered Jo-Jo. He was glad to be
free and he soon made a reasonable I living working as a drummer for a Negro prostitute whose sexual technique gained her Jo-Jo’s admiration and many clients. When he had saved enough money, he decided Paris would offer many more opportunities for his evil talents. But here, for a time, he found he was mistaken. The police were unsympathetic to pimps and after being arrested and beaten up several times, he gave up and took a job in a Chinese restaurant as a plongeur. Here he met a Chinese girl: one of Yet-Sen’s agents. She was quick to recognise in this thin, vicious boy a potential and useful weapon. Yet-Sen took charge of him. Jo-Jo received training and money. A year later, he became one of Yet-Sen’s most reliable hatchet men.

  Completely amoral, with no sense of right or wrong, Jo-Jo existed only for money. There was no task, no matter how dangerous or vicious, that he hesitated to undertake providing the final reward was money. Life for him was the spin of the roulette wheel. His philosophy was what you put in you took out, and never mind the risk.

  Pearl Kuo, who was completing a sale of jade to a fat American woman wearing an absurd flowered hat and an equally absurd pair of bejewelled spectacles, looked for a brief moment at Jo-Jo as he came into the shop. She knew who he was. His arrival excited her. At last, she thought, Sadu was to take an active part in the Chinese movement: something she had been waiting for with longing and impatience.

  When the American woman had left the shop, Pearl smiled at the waiting Jo-Jo. Her almond shaped eyes sparkled, and looking at her, Jo-Jo felt a wave of hot lust run through him.

  “He is expecting you,” she said. “Please . . . this way,” and she opened a door behind the glass counter.

  Jo-Jo continued to stare at her, his little eyes moving over the flowered cheongsam she was wearing that revealed her perfectly proportioned body. Then he walked through the doorway into Sadu’s living room.