‘The FBI doesn’t want the film,’ said Black. ‘I seriously doubt they’re in the running.’
‘They’d like it if they could get it for nothing, I assure you.’ Her bombing run was dead on target.
‘So that leaves us the Reds, the Whites and maybe even the Krauts,’ said Jane.
‘You have evidence the Nazis are interested?’
‘No, but it makes sense. Anything the Brits want that bad and the Reds are gunning for would interest Uncle Adolf, don’t you think?’
‘I never really thought of them as players in the game.’
‘If the film actually shows Lockhart in attendance at the assassination of the tsar and his family it would be extraordinarily embarrassing for the royal family, especially at this particular moment in history. It would be proof positive that the king had abandoned his cousins to a gruesome death. Hardly the stuff of patriotism.’ Black paused. ‘That’s Mr Wells’s position at any rate, which I suppose would also be the position of his friends, including people like Hoare and Beaverbrook. It would be a disaster for Churchill since Lockhart still works for the Foreign Office.’
‘Poor Aigee,’ said the countess, tapping the ash off her cigarette again. ‘Such a worrier.’
‘War has changed, madam,’ said Black. ‘Battles can be won or lost on the basis of world opinion, not just bombs and bullets.’
‘Bombs and bullets have as little to do with war as world opinion, Detective Black. Wars are fought and won on the basis of politics and money, which are often the same thing. The United States will enter the war when it becomes politically somewhat more expedient than it is at the moment and when it suits their financial situation.’
‘This is a great conversation here,’ Jane cut in sourly. ‘Solving the world’s problems over a coffee table. What we want to know is what we’re getting into here and if anyone’s going to be firing any more bullets at us.’
Black interjected, ‘And does the film even exist.’
‘Certainly it exists.’ The countess sniffed loudly.
‘Where is it?’
‘In a safe place, I assure you.’
‘How do we get it?’
‘By paying a great deal of money to Mr Levitsky for the privilege.’
‘You’re telling me this is going to be some sort of auction?’
‘Something like that.’
‘When?’
‘Five days. Saturday, December sixth.’
‘Where?’
‘You will be informed well in advance and told the rules of play.’
‘This is no game,’ Jane said crisply. ‘And we’re not playing.’
‘Don’t quibble about words,’ the countess said, then added, ‘Zadnitza tupoj.’
‘And if the film isn’t worth buying?’ Jane asked, ignoring what she assumed was an insult.
‘Then feel free not to buy it,’ snapped the countess. She stood up and crossed the room to where a telephone rested on a table near the window. ‘Now shall I call you a taxi?’
Black stood up and went to the large front window. The green two-door sedan with the large aerial he’d seen on their arrival was still there. ‘Presumably that vehicle is always parked in front of your building?’ he asked the Budberg woman.
‘The green one or the blue one?’ She shrugged. ‘It’s usually one or the other. I presume it’s Mr Hoover’s young men. There are always two in each car.’
‘What’s around back?’ Jane asked.
‘A hill. A path. The next street.’
‘They’ll have someone there,’ said Black, shaking his head. He glanced down at the green car again. The passenger-side door was opening and a young man in a grey suit stepped out. He glanced up at the building and then started walking across Wilshire. ‘I think we’re about to have company.’
‘I told my friend Aldo to say if anyone called they were supposed to say one of their trucks had been stolen. I didn’t want to get him into any trouble.’
‘Well, they must have called.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘I rather think the direct route is best,’ Black answered. He gave Moura Budberg a chilly smile. ‘And I wouldn’t want us to discommode our host.’
‘I suppose I should return to my own apartment to greet our friend when he arrives,’ said Budberg.
They said a brief goodbye to the Russian woman and stepped out into the hall. There was only one elevator in the building and the indicator light said it was on its way up. Jane and Morris Black headed for the fire stairs, taking them two at a time. They reached the bottom and paused in the main floor stairwell. The steps continued down one more flight.
‘He’s going to knock on her door and find out we’re not there pretty quick,’ said Jane.
‘Give me a minute or two,’ said Black. ‘I’m going to look for the basement exit. After two minutes, step out of the stairwell, cross the lobby and step outside where the other man can see you. Keep his attention on you.’
‘Then what?’
‘When you see me coming cross the street, lean in through his window as though you want to talk to him. Show him as much of your…’ He flushed slightly.
‘Cleavage?’
‘Um, yes,’ said Black. ‘As much as you can.’
Jane adjusted her bra slightly and undid two buttons, her breasts almost popping out of her dark-coloured blouse. ‘How’s that?’
Black stared. ‘Quite lovely as a matter of fact.’
Jane leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘What a Romeo.’
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘Get going,’ Jane said. ‘We may not have much time.’
‘Quite right,’ said Black. He took a last look at her and headed down the last flight of steps to the basement.
Jane stayed where she was and began to keep a silent count as the seconds winked by. She had a fair idea of what Black was going to do and realised how mad it was, both in the execution and the aftermath. She shook her head, grinning as she continued to count off the seconds. And he’d seemed like such a level-headed fellow when she’d first met him, a little shy, a little reserved, the methodical cop plodding along, doing his job. But there was more than met the eye – during the interrogation of Mercador he’d been a lying son of a bitch, playing the role of an NKVD officer down to his socks. At the Trotsky villa he’d drawn fire without a thought for himself and when they’d discovered the two bodies on the Super Chief he’d treated it like an everyday occurrence. Not to mention the fact that aside from his thinning hair and being a little on the scrawny side he was also sexier than hell, especially with that accent, which she’d always been a sucker for…
Before she got too deeply into that particular line of thinking, the little voice in her head reached the count of 120. Two minutes was up and it was time to go onstage. She adjusted her blouse, wished she had a couple of linen napkins or at least a few Kleenex to stuff into her bra and stepped out of the stairwell and headed across the lobby. The uniformed doorman was following every step and was right there to open one of the double glass doors. She stepped out of the shadows of the awning that ran out to the sidewalk and posed for a few seconds until she was sure she’d caught the FBI agent’s undivided attention. She headed across Wilshire, moving directly towards the car, swinging her can a little, but hopefully not making it look too much like a bad vamp. She reached the car, leaned over and stuck her head in through the open window, balancing her melons on the edge of the opening.
‘You looking at something, Mr FBI man, or you just being patriotic waving that flagpole in your pants?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.’
‘About being FBI or the state of your notion?’ She smiled. Pretty soon she was going to run out of Mae West lines from My Little Chickadee. There was a clicking sound as the Mexican semi-automatic was cocked. The agent jerked his eyes away from Jane and looked across at the passenger-side door. The pistol was being poked through the open window by Morris Bl
ack.
‘Take out your weapon, slowly,’ said Black, ‘and put it on the seat beside you.’
The young man hesitated, focused on the gun in Black’s hand, and then did as he was told. His weapon turned out to be a standard-issue Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special with a four-inch barrel. He laid it on the passenger seat, his eyes still on Black.
‘Get out of the motor car. Leave the key in the ignition,’ said Black.
‘Fuck you,’ said the FBI agent.
‘Commendable courage,’ said Black. ‘But pointless. I will shoot, you know.’
‘You don’t have the pills for it, pal. None of you Limeys do.’
‘Really?’ said Black. ‘Well, think about this. I won’t shoot you in the head or the chest or the pills, as you call them. I’ll shoot you in the knee. You’ll walk with a limp for the rest of your life and your career as a heroic G-man will be over. How does that sound?’
The man stared at him. Jane reached out and pulled the door open. The man hesitated for a single second and then stepped out of the car. Jane swung in behind the wheel and slammed the door as Black got in on the other side.
‘Drive,’ said Black and Jane drove, leaving the unfortunate and unarmed FBI agent standing in the middle of Wilshire Boulevard, watching them go.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday, December 1, 1941
Ventura
Vassili Zarubin continued to thrust for as long as he could but eventually gave up the ghost, slithering out from between the strong thighs of Miss Karen Kristensen, the safe-deposit officer at the First National Bank. As well as the sweat he had worked up over the last hour with her in the bedroom of her little house off Pico Street, he was also slick with her fluid, glistening from his navel halfway down to his knees, his still-thick organ wet with her, his dark pubic hair matted. He had never expected to find her either so passionate or so well versed in such intimate matters and he’d long ago realised that he was not the seducer but the seduced. The woman with the strong thighs and the expressive mouth and tongue had done things to him he would never have believed possible. In comparison to the women of his own cold land, she was a wonderful, furnace-hot dream come true. Not to mention the interesting meal prepared for them by what appeared to be the entire Soo Hoo family at the Chinese Gardens Cafe on Main Street.
Vassili was reasonably sure he hadn’t shamed himself as a lover. She had moaned sincerely as he entered her even though he knew perfectly well he was no more than a little larger than average and she had climaxed at least twice, her voice ringing out so loudly that it occurred to him her neighbours might think she was in desperate straits and call the police. At one point her own ministrations had made him feel as though he was about to pass out and the two ejaculations he had experienced had been enormous. The tables had certainly been turned. At the end of the evening he had been sure that she would be in his thrall and now it seemed that it was the reverse. To repeat his recent experience he knew he would do virtually anything she wanted.
‘That was wonderful,’ he said, still panting. He crawled up the bed and dropped down beside her, his head falling back against the pillow. She turned on her side and he could feel the whole length of her pressed up against him. Her body was powerful and fit, her breasts large and heavy, her legs long and her hips almost as lean as a boy’s. Ridiculously he felt himself beginning to harden again – ridiculous because he simply didn’t have the physical energy to repeat his performance, at least not for a few more minutes.
He felt her move even closer, throwing one leg over his, pressing her soaking sex against his thigh, moving in a gentle rhythm. The mixture of the woman’s perfume and her own rich musk was intoxicating. To break his own concentration on the sensations she was raising in him, he reached out to the night table and picked up his cigarettes. He lit one and dropped back against the pillow again.
‘I’ll have one of those,’ said Karen. She made a little laughing sound deep in her throat. ‘Since you seem to be taking a break.’ Vassili handed her the one he was smoking and lit a second one for himself.
‘You saved an old lady’s life.’
‘Old?’ he said. ‘You’re not old.’
‘When you haven’t had a man for the better part of a year you start to feel old, believe me.’
‘I’m surprised to hear you say that.’
‘Don’t be. Ventura doesn’t have a lot to offer in the way of interesting men or at least single ones.’ She took a drag on her cigarette and blew smoke rings up at the dimly seen ceiling above the bed. ‘Most of them come through the bank one way or another, either asking for loans or co-signing for them. Every businessman in the city has walked by my desk over the last eleven years.’
‘That’s how long you’ve been with the bank?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not the president,’ he said.
‘If I’d let myself be screwed by that shit Dorfman in Loans, or old man Mason, I probably would be by now. Amazing how many of my co-workers were so solicitous of my physical needs after Clancy died.’
‘Clancy?’
‘My husband, Ray Clancy.’ She took another drag. ‘I went back to using my maiden name.’
‘I hope he died in bed with you,’ said Zarubin. ‘He would have been halfway to paradise already.’
Karen leaned over and bit him gently on the shoulder. ‘You’re sweet,’ she said softly and then sighed. ‘The truth is, he was a cheating son of a bitch who I probably would have killed myself if he hadn’t done it on his own, drunk as a skunk in his car on the way back from a card game in Oxnard. That’s what his friends said anyway. Only trouble was, he wasn’t alone in the car. One of the town pumps was with him and she died as well. It was never official but they tell me her head was crushed on the steering column and when they dragged the bastard out of the wreck his fly was unzipped and his dick was hanging out. Not that it was much of a dick when you get right down to it.’ She reached over Vassili with her free hand and squeezed his half-hard organ. ‘Not like yours, Mr Mary Sunshine.’
‘You’re going to make me blush,’ he said, trying to sound shy. She reached over him again to tap her cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table, her big firm breast pressing against him. Her touch made him even firmer and she helped him along, squeezing him and slowly moving her fist up and down on his shaft. ‘You’re just about ready to go.’
‘My brain agrees with you, my body doesn’t.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ said Karen, squeezing him a little harder. He gently removed her hand from his organ.
‘Nature calls, I’m afraid.’
She released him and naked he climbed out of bed, went out the door into the hall and crossed to the bathroom. He closed and locked the door, then tried to make water, which was virtually impossible in his present condition. He put down the seat and sat down on the toilet, tucking his organ uncomfortably between his legs while it slowly detumesced and tried not to think about the job he’d come to do. If Moura Budberg’s information was correct, the Americans, the Brits, the Alexandrovski and maybe even the Germans would all be vying for Levitsky’s mysterious film. He wanted more than the film; he wanted Levitsky himself. Even after more than twenty years Stalin still wanted the man’s head on the end of a stick and Zarubin was bound and determined to deliver it to him. Beneath him he felt himself begin to shrivel and after a few moments he urinated, still sitting down.
He stood up, flushed, then washed his hands. There was only one toothbrush in the little porcelain rack at the sink, so he wet his finger and squeezed a blob of Karen’s Listerine Tooth Paste onto the tip of his finger and went over his gums and teeth with it.
When he returned to the bedroom, she was sitting with her back up against the padded headboard, her thighs open, wiping herself off with a tissue. It was a remarkably intimate sight for a man who was used to taking his pleasure with women who rarely removed their nightdresses and he stood for a moment, watching her.
‘Very much.’
‘Me too,’ she answered. ‘Even though you don’t look quite as dramatic as you did a few minutes ago.’ She grinned. ‘But I can fix that.’ She wadded up the tissue and threw it onto the night table. ‘First I want to know exactly who you are.’
‘You know who I am,’ he said pleasantly.
‘I know you told me your name was Andy Pelham and I know you told me you were in the shipping business but I don’t believe you.’ She paused. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t lie to me again.’
‘Why don’t you think I was telling the truth?’ Zarubin asked. His little pocket pistol was in his jacket, which was hanging over the chair, but he wanted to hear her out first.
‘Well, first of all you’re too smart to be in something like shipping. There’s something about you. People in the shipping business are like dull razor blades. They cut but they leave a lot to be desired.’
‘And the name?’
‘In the first place you don’t look like an Andy and the driver’s license you showed me was from Santa Barbara. You could run a shipping business out of Santa Barbara just as easy as Ventura, and the final thing is, you don’t make love like somebody named Andy who’s in the shipping business. Call it woman’s intuition, or maybe I’m just smarter than you thought I was.’ She waited. ‘So? Who are you?’
He stalled. ‘How does somebody in the shipping business make love?’
‘Like every other businessman. Businesslike. Get your clothes off, get your dick in, get it off and get it out. Have one last drink and say good night.’
‘Sounds boring.’
‘It is boring. And you haven’t answered my question. Who are you? Not just some slick passing through and looking for a little tail, I hope.’
The House of Special Purpose Page 27
