Have This One on Me

One

The Caravelle from Prague touched down on schedule at Orly airport, Paris. Among the passengers to leave the aircraft was a short; thickset man in his middle forties. His round, fleshy face was nondescript, his steel grey eyes restless. He wore a drab brown and black check sports jacket, grey flannel slacks and a brown straw hat that rested on the back of his head. He carried a black, well-worn brief-case which he had nursed on his knees during the hundred-minute flight.

This man’s name was Jonathan Cain. He held an American passport and had a two-room office on Rue Paul Cezanne off Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. His business was exporting fine glass to various important galleries in New York and Washington.

Every other week, he flew to Prague where his orders for glass were received with respect and attention. The Czechs needed foreign currency and Jonathan Cain represented a steady and important source of foreign currency revenue.

Leaving the bus that had taken him to the Arrival Centre, Cain walked briskly into the building, passed through the police control and the Douane with a brief nod of recognition from the coloured official, and then out into the hot sunshine where he hailed a waiting taxi, telling the driver to take him to Rue Royale.

As the taxi pulled away, Cain looked back through the rear window, his eyes alert and searching. No other taxi had moved from the rank, but he was not satisfied. He continued to look behind him as his taxi began to race along the auto-route that would eventually lead to the traffic-choked streets of central Paris.

Cain had every reason to be cautious, for apart from being a glass exporter, he was also one of the most reliable couriers working for the Central Intelligence Agency in Paris. His job was to keep contact with various agents behind the Iron Curtain, to pass on information, to take messages back to Paris and to keep tabs on the work of the agents, making sure they were earning their money and making doubly sure none of them had become blown

He was returning from Prague with disturbing news. He seldom contacted John Dorey, the Divisional Head of C.I.A. branch in Paris. It would be fatal to him if he was seen with Dorey, but the situation was such that he now had to see Dorey. He had to be certain that he wasn’t being followed.

But seeing the mass of traffic now behind him, Cain shrugged and settled back in his seat. The time to lose anyone following him would be when he reached Rue Royale.

Thirty minutes later, the taxi swirled around the Arc de Triomphe, stormed down Avenue des Champs Elysées, forced its way round Place de la Concorde and finally reached Rue Royale. Cain got out, paid the driver, then walked towards Place de la Madeleine. At the corner of Rue Royale and Boulevard de la Madeleine was a luxury glass-ware shop. Cain entered He walked down the long aisle, flanked on either side by tiers of cut-glass, nodded to the blonde saleswoman who gave him an automatic smile of recognition, and entered a small office where Jacques Foy was talking on the telephone.

Foy, young, effeminate and blond with a sunlamp complexion, glanced up, nodded and went on talking in a shrill, petulant tone.

Shutting the door, Cain took off his sports jacket and his hat, opened a closet, hung the jacket and hat on a peg, took out a blue blazer and shrugged himself into it. From a shelf, he took a green and cream straw hat which he put on. Then waggling three fingers in Foy’s direction, he opened a door at the rear of the office and carrying his black brief-case, walked quickly down a narrow alley that led into Rue Duphot. Here he picked up a taxi and told the driver to take him to Chez Joseph, Rue Cambon.

Joseph Fevret, the owner of the restaurant, greeted him as he entered the small bar. The two men shook hands, then Fevret, portly, balding with a close clipped moustache and beard, led Cain up the narrow stairs and into a small, private dining-room. The table set for two stood by the window. White lace curtains obscured the diners from inquisitive passers-by in the street below.

‘I hope you had a good trip. Monsieur Cain,’ Fevret said. ‘Is there anything special you would care to have for lunch?’

Cain dropped his hat on a chair, wiped his face with his handkerchief and shook his head.

‘I’ll leave it to you, Joseph. Something special.’

‘I suggest Moules farcies en cocotte. A half a bottle of my special Chablis. Then Tournedos Massena with a half a bottle of Ausone 1945,’ Joseph Fevret said, knowing that Cain always wanted the best and expected the best. He had given some thought to the suggested meal during the morning.

‘Sounds fine,’ Cain said. He glanced impatiently at his wrist-watch. The time was twelve forty-five. ‘When my friend arrives, bring him right up.’

‘Of course. Monsieur Cain.’ Fevret bowed and left the room.

Cain sat down away from the table and lit a cigarette. His heavy face was thoughtful. A few moments later, a waiter came in with a double Vodka martini which he placed on the table. He bowed to Cain as he left the room.

Cain ate the olive, flicked the cocktail stick into the fireplace and then sipped his drink. He again glanced at his watch. He was shooting his cuff back into place when the door opened and John Dorey came in.

Dorey, with thirty-nine years of service at the Paris American Embassy behind him, now held the exalted rank of Divisional Director of the C.I.A. Aged sixty-six, he was a small, bird-like man, wearing rimless spectacles. He looked more like a successful banker than the shrewd, ruthless head of an extremely efficient organisation that was in continual battle with the Russian espionage network.

‘Hello, Jon.’ Dorey said as he closed the door. ‘You’re looking pretty good.’

‘Think so?’ Cain shook hands. ‘I wish I felt it.’

There came a discreet tap on the door and the waiter came in with a Cinzano Bitter, soda and ice which he offered Dorey. Cain knew this was Dorey’s drink, and Dorey, taking the glass, nodded, pleased.

When the waiter had gone, Dorey drew up a chair and sat down.

‘Has something happened?’ he asked with deceptive mildness.

‘An understatement,’ Cain said. ‘Worthington’s blown.’

Dorey stroked his beaky nose. He sipped his drink, then shook his glass slightly, making the ice cubes clink.

‘Your man in Prague?’

Cain took out a packet of Marigny cigarettes. He was used to Dorey by now. Dorey always liked to have the set-up explained to him from an outside angle as if he wasn’t aware of all the facts.

‘Alec Worthington,’ Cain said patiently. ‘English. Married to a Czech. Lived in Prague for ten years. Teaches English to various political leaders. We bought him three years ago. He has a bug about acquiring capital — who hasn’t? We pay his earnings into Credit Suisse Banque. Bern. He has saved around sixty thousand dollars. Up to now his information has been useful and he has earned his keep. Somewhere along the line, he must have made a false move. Probably he was over-confident. Now, he is suspect. He could bluff it out as I am sure there is no proof against him, but he’s lost his nerve. The money he has saved haunts him. He wants to get out and spend it. Can’t say I blame him, but that’s not much use to us. He’s a mess now. We will have to replace him. He plans to bolt.’

Dorey finished his drink as the door opened and the waiter wheeled in a trolley. The two men moved to the table, Dorey’s eyes were blank behind the glittering lenses of his glasses, but when a plate was set before him, he became alert, regarding the Moules farcies with approval.

‘Joseph’s is probably still the best unknown restaurant in Paris’ he said. ‘These look very good.’

‘Yeah.’ Cain began to eat. He was sure Dorey wouldn’t attempt to solve his problem until after the meal.

Later, when the Tournedos Massena arrived with the Château Ausone in a cut glass decanter, Dorey said, ‘You are spoiling me.’

‘Okay, if that’s the way you feel,’ Cain said and poured the wine. ‘I’m spoiling myself too.’

The two men finished their meal. There was little conversation. Dorey asked after Cain’s business. Knowing he wasn’t interested, Cain didn’t elaborate on the subject. He said business was pretty good and left it at that.

It was only after the coffee had been served and the waiter had finally left them that Dorey said. ‘I never did think much of Worthington. Well, all right... I’ll find a replacement.’

‘I don’t envy your replacement,’ Cain said seriously. ‘The red light’s up. It’s tough out there now. They have a Russian security man tightening up their system... a man called Malik.’

‘Malik?’ Dorey looked up, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh... yes. He’s probably one of the best and the most dangerous of them. So Malik is out there, is he?’

‘He’s the reason why Worthington has panicked and wants to get out.’

‘Do you think Worthington will get out?’

Cain shrugged.

‘I don’t fancy his chances. Anyway, I am sure he will try. The last time I saw him he was falling to pieces badly.’

‘When do you think he will try?’

‘I don’t know. Right now he is screwing up his courage. It’s my bet, once he makes a move to get out, they will grab him.’

‘Haven’t we got a woman out there?’

‘Mala Reid.’

‘Yes, I thought so. She’s good, isn’t she?’

‘She has been useful.’

‘Under pressure, Worthington will talk.’

‘Yes, he’ll talk all right.’

‘That could be awkward for you and Mala?’

‘Damned awkward.’

Dorey sipped his coffee. His mind was busy, but his expressionless face didn’t reveal the intensity of his thoughts. Cain watched him.

‘I don’t want to lose Mala, and I certainly don’t want you to lose your contacts in Prague,’ Dorey said eventually. ‘Perhaps we could do something about Worthington.’

There was a long pause, then Cain said quietly, ‘The only thing we could do of any use would be to kill him. Once Malik gets hold of him there’s nothing we can do. Mala and I will automatically be blown.’

‘That’s something we must avoid.’ Dorey finished his coffee. ‘It’s not as if we owe him anything. He’s been useful, but he has been well paid. It would have to be done quickly, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not later than tomorrow night.’ Cain stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Even tomorrow night might be too late.’

‘I think I have his address. It’s the same?’

‘Yes.’

‘He lives there with his wife?’

‘Yes.’

Dorey thought, then put down his coffee cup. He looked cold and remote.

‘I will arrange it.’ He stared at Cain. ‘In the meantime you had better keep clear of Prague. Have you any reason to think Malik suspects you?’

‘No one suspects me.’ Cain said with quiet confidence. ‘I’m the white-headed boy who brings in the dollars.’

‘Don’t be too sure. Malik is dangerous.’

‘So long as you shut Worthington’s mouth, I’ll be all right.’

Dorey nodded.

‘His mouth will be shut. Now about a replacement...’ He thought for a long moment. ‘There’s Jack Latimer. He speaks the language. He’s been working for International Calculators now for the past two years. I could get him transferred to Prague with no trouble. What do you think?’

Cain poured more coffee into his cup.

‘If Malik wasn’t there, I’d say yes. Latimer is a good man but I have an idea Malik will smell him out before he can get set. The red light is up. They know you will be replacing Worthington. Any newcomer will come under a microscope.’

‘Never mind about that. Could you work with Latimer?’

‘Of course.’

‘All right. I’ll arrange it.’ Dorey got to his feet. ‘Thank you for a beautiful lunch. Jon. You do nothing now until I give you the green light. In a couple of weeks — with any luck — you will be able to return to Prague and contact Latimer. I am sure he will be much more useful to us both than Worthington’

Cain shook his hands. He knew Dorey well enough not to ask further questions. If Dorey said he would fix something, he did it.

He watched Dorey leave, then finished his coffee and rang for the bill.

Alec Worthington closed the lid of his suitcase and snapped down the catches. He looked at his wristwatch, then walked over to the window. He peered through the net curtains down into the narrow street. The squat man in a short black raincoat and slouch hat was still leaning against the wall, his hands hidden in his coat pockets. He had been there now for the past four hours.

Worthington stepped back and dabbed at his sweating temples with his handkerchief. Again he looked at his watch. The time was five minutes to ten. In five minutes Suk would be arriving for his English lesson When Suk arrived, the watcher would go. Suk was the second in charge of the Czech Secret Police. So long as he was with Worthington, there was no need for the watcher to remain. When Suk had finished his lesson the watcher would return. All this Worthington knew. The terrifying routine had been going on now for the past four days. Now, this day, Worthington had decided he must go. Time was running out. He felt the pressure. Even now, he might have left it too late. He felt instinctively that they might arrest him at any moment.

But he wasn’t ready. If there had been more time, he could have followed his original plan, but he knew they were almost ready to take him. He had to run to cover.

He pushed the suitcase under the bed, then he walked into the small living-room. He was tall, slightly built; a man in his late forties. His grey-black hair was thinning. He was unmistakably English with his hooked nose and his closely clipped military moustache.

Emilie, his wife, had gone out shopping. She wouldn’t be back for at least two hours. Every shop had its queues, and shopping for food was long, serious business in Prague. He felt no pang about leaving her. When he had first met her, some fifteen years ago, he had thought her the most exciting woman in the world. During the passing years, she had grown fat and had become dull minded. Love had left them and he couldn’t remember when they had intercourse together. The thought of that made him wince. All she could think of was food and where to find it. As far as he knew she had no idea that he worked for the C.I.A. and that he had accumulated a reasonable fortune in Switzerland. Nor, as far as he knew, did she know that there was another woman... nor did the other woman know that Worthington had fallen in love with her.

He crossed to his desk: a poor piece of furniture, rickety, scratched, with numerous cigarette burns on its unpolished surface. He opened a drawer and took from it a cosh he had made from a piece of sacking. It contained sand and pieces of lead he had picked off the sloping roof while Emilie slept. He balanced the weapon in his hand, his heart beating uncomfortably. He wasn’t a man of violence. He hated violence, but now his life was threatened. He had no alternative but to resort to violence.

He slid the cosh into his hip pocket, then he sat down at his desk. He was surprised that he was so calm: it was a calm of fatality. The lesson today, he remembered, was a reading from Galsworthy’s The Forsyte Saga.

Although he hated and feared Suk, Worthington had to admit the Czech was showing promising progress. His accent was now acceptable. It was surprising that a man of his brutal reputation should find such obvious pleasure from the very English Forsytes.

Worthington opened the well-worn book and found the place where Suk had left off the previous day. He was thankful to see his hands were steady. As he placed the book on the desk, he heard footsteps on the bare wooden stairs that led to his fourth floor apartment. Wiping his hands on his handkerchief, he went to the window and looked again into the narrow street.

The watcher had gone.

The front door bell rang. Putting away his handkerchief, he went to the door and opened it.

Suk nodded to him and walked past him into the living-room... a fat bulky man with thin lips, stony, suspicious little eyes.

‘It is a fine morning,’ Worthington said automatically. ‘The sun makes it pleasant to walk. Please be seated. Mr. Suk.’

‘It is a fine morning and it is pleasant to walk.’ Suk said, putting his black, greasy hat under the chair. He stared at Worthington as Worthington moved around his desk and picked up the Galsworthy novel. ‘I hope your wife is well.’

‘She is very well, thank you,’ Worthington said, knowing this was an exercise in English and that Suk had no interest in his wife.

‘I hope your wife is well too.’ He handed the book to Suk.

‘Yes, she is well,’ Suk said. He crossed one fat leg over the other. ‘Thank you,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Well, let us commence,’ Worthington said, trying to steady his voice. ‘Shall we continue to read? You did very well yesterday. I have marked where you should begin.’

Suk again stared at him, settled his bulk into the chair and holding the book away from him, began to read. Worthington, his hands behind him, moved slowly around the room. He wondered if Suk could hear how violently his heart was pounding. The muscles in his legs were twitching. He wanted badly to sit down, but this had to be done quickly. It could be his last and only chance of freedom.

‘One moment,’ he said, pausing. His teacher’s instinct for perfection overrode the urgent need for action. ‘Do you understand what he means by that sentence? Will you read it again?’

In his heavy voice, Suk read, ‘Dry up! Don’t I tell you he’s taken the knock?’ He stared at the printed pages, then he scowled, shaking his bald head. ‘No, I don’t know what it means.’

‘Dry up means stop talking,’ Worthington explained, his fingers touching the cosh in his hip pocket. ‘Taking a knock means he has had a misfortune. Do you understand now?’

‘Yes,’ Suk said.

‘Then please go on.’ Worthington began to move around the room. He was now behind Suk. His sweating fingers drew out the cosh. He stared at the enormous bald head. What thoughts, he wondered, were going on under that bony structure? Was Suk really planning to arrest him and hand him over to Malik?

Suk was reading a descriptive passage of Soames Forsyte in court. He suddenly stopped as if he had a premonition that something was about to happen. He began to turn his head as Worthington, his breath whistling between his teeth, struck him.

The sand-filled canvas bag smashed down on Suk’s head. The canvas split, showering sand and bits of lead over the carpet. Suk remained motionless, his great head low on his chest, sand trickling down the top of his bald head, around his flat ears and on to his scurfy collar. Holding the limp, empty strip of canvas, Worthington watched him in horror. Then the squat body seemed to become boneless. Suk slid off the chair and his fat body thudded to the carpet, an inert mass of flesh and shabby clothes.

Worthington dropped the strip of canvas and ran unsteadily into the bedroom. He snatched out the suitcase from under the bed, grabbed up his black mackintosh that was now a uniform in Prague and ran back into the sitting-room. Suk still lay where he had fallen. Worthington wondered in terror if he had killed him, but there wasn’t a moment to lose. He left the apartment and began to walk quickly down the four flights of stairs.

As he was descending to the first floor landing, he heard someone coming up. He paused, hesitating. There was nowhere to hide. He knew if the person coming up was one of his neighbours, he or she would be immediately curious about the suitcase he was carrying. He was still hesitating, in an agony of indecision, when Emilie, his wife, came into sight.

Emilie now forty-four, was a short, enormously fat woman with blonde dyed hair that looked like a discarded bird’s nest, whose blue eyes were buried in layer of fat and whose shabby summer dress struggled desperately in its attempt to confine her bulging figure.

They stared at each other.

Emilie’s eyes went to the suitcase and then she looked at Worthington who was smiling fixedly, wondering if he would have to kill her.

‘So you are leaving?’ she said. She always spoke in Czech to him. ‘Don’t look so frightened. Do you think I care?’

He drew a long slow breath, realising in his desperation to get away, he could have killed her. ‘Yes, I’m leaving,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Good-bye, Emilie. I hope it works out for you. Don’t go up yet... do some more shopping.’

She moved her heavy shopping basket from one hand to the other.

‘So you are finally going to join your whore?’ she said. ‘Good riddance! I’ve been waiting for this moment. I am glad to see you go.’

Worthington flinched.

‘I’m sorry, you’ll be all right. Your father...’

‘Don’t tell me what to do! Go to your whore,’ and turning she began to plod up the stairs to the next landing.

‘Emilie! Don’t go up!’ Worthington’s voice shot up in panic. ‘Do more shopping. I... I had to hit him... he’s up there.’

She paused and regarded him.

‘You fool!’ Her voice was full of contempt. ‘Do you imagine you will get far?’

Worthington realised he was wasting time. He looked at her, feeling this was the last time he would see her. He looked from her to the red cabbage showing through the network of her shopping bag. She was always partial to red cabbage.

‘Good-bye, Emilie.’

The last he ever saw of her as he glanced back was a picture that fitted her so well, clutching on to the basket of food, her eyes screwed up, her face cold. As he reached the door to the street, he heard her plodding down the stairs after him. She would go back to the market and then return with more food. He didn’t blame her. Life in Prague now centred around food.

He walked quickly d own the narrow street, his eyes searching every doorway. There was no one to see him go. They had been so sure that so long as Suk was with him, reading Galsworthy, he wouldn’t attempt to escape.

At the end of the street, Worthington paused at a tram stop, falling in behind a long queue of people who waited with the passivity of cattle for the tram to arrive.

As he waited, he wondered how long it would be before Suk recovered and began a relentless and deadly hunt for him. It depended, Worthington thought, on the thickness of Suk’s skull. He grimaced as he thought of the violence of his blow.

The tram clanged to a standstill and there was a surge forward. There was no hope of a seat and Worthington found himself wedged against an elderly man who looked at him and then away. Worthington’s obvious English appearance made the man suspicious, but this Worthington was used to. People in the streets, hotels and restaurants always looked curiously at him. They knew by his shabby clothes that he couldn’t be a tourist. Ever since he had lived in Prague, he had been the subject of suspicion.

When the tram reached the Town Hall square, Worthington got off. He walked briskly past the famous clock, constructed in the 15th century by Hanus of Rouze. Already tourists were assembling to watch the statuettes of the Apostles and of Christ appear when the hour struck. He looked up at the figure of Death the Reaper which would toll the passing of time, and slightly quickened his step, knowing that his own time was threatened.

Working his way through the crowds that thronged the sidewalk, he turned down a narrow street, flanked on either side by restyled Baroque buildings until he came to a courtyard. Here he paused and looked back over his shoulder. An old woman, limping, her gnarled knuckles white over the handle of her stick, was coming towards him. He and she were alone in the street. He walked into the courtyard, skirting a moss covered fountain that had long ceased to function and then, with another furtive glance over his shoulder, he stepped into a dark doorway and began to mount steep wooden stairs.

On the top floor, a little breathless, he walked down a dimly lit passage and stopped outside a shabby door. Again he paused to listen, then satisfied no one was coming up the stairs, he pressed the bell push.

He heard a movement behind the door, the sound of a key turning, then the door swung open.

He always experienced the same surge of excitement when he saw Mala Reid. He had been in love with her from the time they had first met, but he had never given any indication of his feelings. He knew by her attitude, by the way she received him that she regarded him merely as a man who delivered messages as she would regard the postman and now as she looked inquiringly at him, her dark eyebrows lifting, he again realised how impersonally she regarded him.

‘Why, hello... what are you doing here?’

Worthington entered the big studio, set down his suitcase, took off his hat and shed his raincoat. While he did so, he regarded the girl who had shut the door and was leaning against it, her expression worried.

Mala Reid was twenty-eight years of age. She had been born in Prague of American and Czech parents. Her father, the Czech, had been executed during the revolution. Her mother had died some three years ago of generalised cancer. Mala now made a reasonable living as a singer at the Alhambra nightclub. Her voice wasn’t anything very much, but with the aid of a microphone, she had managed to satisfy not-too-critical tourists. She did have a small talent for imparting feeling and sensuality into the songs she sang, and the American tourists liked her. This was a qualification that the Government encouraged. Because of her, extra dollars were earned. She had been singing now every night at the club for the past two years.

She was above average height. Her hair was tinted to the colour of sable. She was attractive without being beautiful. She had high cheek bones, large violet coloured eyes, a full-lipped mouth and a long, thin nose that turned up slightly to give her a cheerful, gamine look. Her body was her biggest asset: full breasted with a narrow waist, solid hips and long sensual legs. Her body kept the eyes of the tourists occupied while they scarcely listened to her voice.

Two years ago one of Dorey’s agents had persuaded her to work for the C.I.A. Although she was of normal intelligence, the agent felt she didn’t realise into what danger and into what situations, his sales talk was leading her. She was strongly against regimentation, against Communism, and it seemed to her the obvious thing to agree to help. Up to now, she hadn’t done a great deal to help. She had passed messages on to other agents, she had worked with Worthington, not knowing how involved he was and how close to danger he was living. Three times, during the past two years, without understanding what was happening, she had given the C.I.A. vitally important information They had marked these achievements to her favour although she had been merely a postman Back in Paris, Dorey’s opinion of her capabilities were exaggerated. Had she known that she was now regarded as the best woman agent in Czechoslovakia, she would have been utterly dismayed.

Because she had lived all her life in Prague, was a good dollar earner and knew how to behave herself, she was regarded by the Security Police as a good citizen. She was completely suspicion-free and therefore a perfect tool for Dorey.

Worthington’s sudden appearance startled her. The time was eleven-ten in the morning. She had just got up and was finishing a cup of coffee. She was wearing a faded housecoat, her bare feet in pink mules. She looked from Worthington to the battered suitcase he was carrying.

‘Are you going away?’

Worthington took out his handkerchief and dabbed his temples.

‘Yes. Sit down, Mala. I want to talk to you.’

‘Is something wrong?’

Worthington thought of Suk’s crumpled body lying on the floor in his sitting-room with The Forsyte Saga by his side. He looked at Mala, feeling a pang of pain and frustration. Even at forty-seven, and after eight years of celibacy. Worthington could still think regretfully of the pleasure a girl like this, with her body could give him. Comparing her to Emilie, remembering his wife’s gross fat and her meanness sickened him.

‘I have to stay here for a few days.’ Worthington said as Mala, looking bewildered, sat down. ‘I’m sorry... I have to. There are things I have to do. There are things you must do.’ He leaned forward, his face twitching. ‘I have to stay here.’

‘Stay here?’ Mala gaped at him. ‘But there’s no room! You... you can’t possibly stay here!’

‘I have to. I promise you I won’t be a nuisance. It is only for a few days, then I will be leaving Prague. Without your help, I can’t leave.’

‘But there is only one bed.’ Mala waved to the small divan standing in an alcove. ‘You can’t stay here!’

How simple it would be, Worthington thought bitterly, if she offered to share her bed with me. But why should she? She doesn’t love me. Who am I to her?

‘I can sleep on the floor... there’s nothing to worry about. You can trust me... I just have to stay here.’

Mala regarded him, her eyes opening wide. Seeing how white he was, seeing the lurking fear in his eyes, she said, ‘Are they looking for you?’

Worthington nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Captain Tim O’Halloran leaned back in the chair. Tall, broad shouldered with light blue eyes, a hard mouth and a red fleshy face, he was in charge of all the C.I.A. agents in Europe and was Dorey’s right hand man

Dorey, sitting behind his desk, fiddling with a paper knife, had told him of his meeting with Cain. O’Halloran had listened, his hard face expressionless, knowing that Dorey would come up with some kind of solution. He had tremendous faith in Dorey.

‘So there we have it,’ Dorey said, putting down the paper knife. ‘If Malik catches Worthington, both Cain and Mala Reid will be blown. Worthington must be liquidated. Who can do it?’

‘Mike O’Brien,’ O’Halloran said without hesitation. ‘He can fly out tonight on a diplomatic passport... no trouble at all. By late tonight or by tomorrow morning, he will fix it.’

Dorey frowned, thought, then shrugged.

‘All right Tim, go ahead... fix it.’ he said and waved to the telephone.

He drew a bulky file towards him as O’Halloran began to dial a number. He was still reading the file when O’Halloran put down the receiver.

‘You can consider it done,’ O’Halloran said quietly.

Dorey nodded and continued to read. O’Halloran sat back and waited. While Dorey examined the file, his thin face tight and pale, O’Halloran thought back on the years he had worked under this man. He was perhaps a little kinky to O’Halloran’s thinking, but there was no doubt that he was brilliant, shrewd and utterly ruthless when the cards went down. O’Halloran decided in the brief minutes that it took Dorey to sign his name on the clipped-in page of the file that he would rather work for Dorey than anyone else in the C.I.A.

Dorey pushed the file away and then looked up, his eyes studying O’Halloran through his bifocals.

‘We now have to replace Worthington,’ he said. ‘I think Jack Latimer would do, but Cain isn’t optimistic. They will be watching for a replacement. Cain thinks Latimer could get blown before he even started.’

‘Latimer is our man,’ O’Halloran said. ‘Suppose I talk to Cain?’

‘I’ve talked to him. Cain always makes sense.’ Dorey put his fingertips together. ‘Malik is there. Do you remember Malik?’

‘Who doesn’t?’ O’Halloran said, straightening in his chair.

‘Yes... Malik is the Soviets’ best man. Well, at least, we know he is there. So...’ Dorey paused to study his fingernails, his eyebrows coming down in a frown. ‘We have to fool Malik and get Latimer into Prague.’

Knowing Dorey had already solved the problem. O’Halloran said nothing. He waited.

‘We must create a smoke screen.’ Dorey went on. ‘We will put an obvious agent into Prague and while Malik is working him over, Latimer slips in.’

O’Halloran rubbed his fleshy jaw.

‘Sounds fine, but the obvious agent as you call him will have it rough.’

Dorey smiled bleakly.

‘Yes, certainly, but he will be expendable.’ He paused and regarded O’Halloran, then went on, ‘Did you know Girland is back? He arrived from Hong Kong this morning.’

‘Girland?’ O’Halloran sat forward. ‘Back here?’

‘Yes. I keep tabs on Girland. He owes me a lot of money. It is time he paid me back.’ Dorey picked up his paper knife and examined it. ‘I am going to use Girland as my smoke screen. When Malik hears Girland is in Prague, he will jump to the conclusion that Girland is our replacement. While he is working Girland over, Latimer will slip in. How do you like the idea?’

O’Halloran stared down at his freckled hands while he thought. He had considerable respect for Girland who, at one time, had been Dorey’s best agent.

‘What makes you think Girland will go to Prague?’ he asked finally. ‘Girland no longer works for us. He is no fool. I can’t see him going behind the Curtain.’

‘Girland has two weaknesses: women and money,’ Dorey said. ‘He will go. I guarantee it.’

‘If he does, you will lose him. Do you want to lose him?’

Dorey’s thin lips tightened.

‘Girland thinks only of himself. He has worked for us only because he has made a profit out of us. He has managed to swindle me out of quite a large sum of money. It is time we made use of him as he has made use of us. So we lose him... it will be no great loss.’

O’Halloran shrugged.

‘If you’re smart enough to get him to Prague, then it is no skin off my nose what happens to him. I don’t have to remind you he’s a smart cookie. Just why should he go to Prague?’

‘If the bait is tempting enough, the fish always bites,’ Dorey said. ‘I have a beautiful tempting bait for Girland. He’ll go to Prague.’

Worthington came out of the tiny bathroom, dabbing his face with a towel. He had shaved off his moustache and his lean face now looked longer and weaker.

‘It makes quite a difference,’ he said. ‘I have worn a moustache for twenty-five years. I feel rather lost without it.’ He took from breast pocket a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and slipped them on. Wearing these and without my moustache, I don’t think they can possibly recognise me, do you?’

Mala stared hopelessly at him. The moustacheless upper lip and the glasses had changed his appearance. The way he had taken over her apartment, the way he had assumed that she would help him had left her stunned.

‘I thought I would bleach my hair,’ Worthington went on, peering at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘I have a bottle of peroxide in my bag. I’m not sure how to use it.’ He turned and looked inquiringly at her. ‘Could you help me?’

Mala drew in a long shuddering breath.

‘No... I won’t help you!’ she said, trying to control her voice. Terror was mounting inside her. She knew if they caught Worthington, he would betray her. That long weak face warned her there was no steel in him. Once they began to interrogate him, he would tell them everything. Then they would come here and take her away. The thought of being in the hands of the Security Police, what they would do to her, made her sick with fear. ‘Please go. I mean it. Please... please go!’

Worthington looked reproachfully at her.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he said. ‘Suppose I make you a cup of tea? Tea is so much better than alcohol.’ He looked vaguely around. ‘Where do you keep your tea things?’

Mala gripped the arms of her chair.

‘Will you please go! I don’t want you here! I won’t help you! Please go!’

‘Now, don’t be silly,’ Worthington said. He removed his spectacles and carefully put them in his breast pocket. ‘If they catch me, they will catch you. Let’s have some tea.’

He went into the kitchenette and Mala heard him put on the kettle. She looked desperately around the room as if for a means of escape. She wanted to run out of the apartment, but where could she run to? She now bitterly regretted listening to Dorey’s agent, with his smooth talk of patriotism, her duty and the money she would make. Up to this moment, she hadn’t realised to what she had committed herself. Now, all the ghastly stories she had heard of what happened to spies when they were caught, crowded into her mind. Suppose she called the police? Would they be lenient with her for betraying Worthington? She knew they wouldn’t be. She imagined their hot, cruel hands on her body. She thought of the outrageous things they would do to make her talk. Even if she told them everything she knew — and it wasn’t much — they would still go on and on, sure she was holding something back.

Worthington came out of the kitchenette, carrying a pot of tea.

‘When I have bleached my hair,’ he said, setting the teapot down on the table, ‘I want you to take photographs of me. I have a camera with me. I need a photo for my passport.’ He went back to the kitchenette and returned with cups and saucers. ‘Then I will ask you to go to an address I will give you.’ He began setting out the cups and saucers. ‘The man there will put the photo on my passport. He is an expert. Once all that is done, then I can go. They don’t know I still have a British passport. With my changed appearance, I should be able to get out as a tourist.’ He lifted the lid of the teapot and stared at the tea. ‘I do miss China tea,’ he said and sighed. He replaced the lid, ‘Do you take milk?’

Mala stared at him, shrinking back in her chair. She had to bite her knuckles to stop herself screaming.

Mike O’Brien arrived in Prague by car at nine o’clock p.m. He had flown by air taxi to Nurnberg, picked up a car and had driven fast to Prague.

O’Brien, young, sandy haired, flat faced with freckles and with ice-grey eyes was O’Halloran’s hatchet man. During the three years he had worked for O’Halloran, he had been called upon to execute four agents who were on the point of defecting. These executions were now routine to him. He had no compunction about taking human life. Even his first killing had left him unmoved. To him, it was merely a job to be done: a ring on the door bell, the silenced gun, the squeeze of the trigger. He had decided from the start that a head shot was safest. With a .45 slug, a man’s brain would be immediately shattered.

He had studied a street map of the City. He had no trouble in finding Worthington’s apartment. He parked his car, slid out, slammed the door shut and walked briskly into the apartment block. As he ascended the stairs, he touched the gun hidden, in his pocket. With any luck, he told himself, he would be back in Nuremberg by midnight. He would spend the night there, then fly back to Paris.

He reached Worthington’s floor and before he rang the bell, he snicked back the safety catch on his gun. He made sure that it would slide out of his pocket, then he dug his thumb into the bell push.

There was a brief pause, then he heard footsteps and the door swung open.

A giant of a man confronted him. This man had silver-coloured hair, cut close, a square shaped face, high cheek bones and flat green eyes.

O’Brien felt a shock run through him as he recognised Malik. He hadn’t met him before, but he had seen his unmistakable photograph in the dossier the C.I.A. had of him.

O’Brien looked beyond Malik. Three men, two of them holding Sten guns, all wearing dark, shabby suits and black hats, were staring at him, motionless and menacing.

Malik said, ‘Yes?’ His voice was polite the flat green eyes expressionless.

O’Brien’s mind moved swiftly. Had they caught Worthington? It looked as if they had. Why else should they be in the apartment?

‘Is Mr. Worthington here?’ he asked. ‘I understand he gives English lessons.’

‘Come in,’ Malik said and stood aside.

O’Brien hesitated, but the threat of the Sten guns warned him of his danger. He moved into the shabby living-room. The three men, behind Malik, continued to stare at him, continued to remain motionless.

‘Mr. Worthington is not here,’ Malik said closing the door. ‘May I see your passport?’

With a slight shrug, O’Brien produced his passport and handed it to Malik.

‘How is Mr. Dorey?’ Malik asked as he tossed the passport to the man without a gun.

O’Brien grinned.

‘He’s not dead... that I do know. How is Mr. Kovski?’ This was the name of Malik’s chief.

‘He’s not dead either,’ Malik said. There was a pause, then he went on, ‘You are a little late. Worthington left here about ten o’clock this morning. Please tell Mr. Dorey that I will take care of Worthington. Assure him that Worthington will not escape.’ He gave a stiff little bow. ‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey. If you will please accompany this man, he will return your passport at the airport.’

The short, bulky man who had put O’Brien’s passport in his pocket, moved to the door. O’Brien accepted the inevitable. He followed him.

‘One moment, Mr. O’Brien,’ Malik said. ‘Please don’t return. You wouldn’t be welcomed. Do you understand?’

‘Sure,’ O’Brien said. ‘So long.’ He walked past the bulky man and headed for the stairs. As he did so, he heard the muffled sound of a woman sobbing somewhere in the apartment. This would be Worthington’s wife, he thought, mentally shrugging. He wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.

Malik!

He grimaced.