Have This One on Me

Three

Oscar Bruckman had been in Prague now for two days. He was staying at a modest hotel in the Stare Mesto district, and had been acting like a staid American tourist. One of the first places of entertainment he had visited was the Alhambra night club. He had seen Mala Reid’s act, and had noted the time she came on and when her act finished. Bruckman, who was tone deaf, had no idea if this attractive girl could sing or not. He didn’t care, but he did appreciate her figure.

He had also been to her apartment block. His keen photographic eyes had recorded all the necessary details he would have to use later. He had stepped into the doorway to light a cigarette. He had noted there was no concierge nor elevator.

Around five o’clock on this second day in his stay in Prague he received the green light from Dorey in a coded cable. Girland had obtained a visa for Prague and would be leaving the following morning.

As Mala was beginning her act at the Alhambra, Bruckman put the package, containing the thirty thousand dollars Dorey had given him, into a shabby brief-case and left his hotel.

He walked to Mala’s apartment. At this time of night, the streets were practically deserted. Only a few tourists wandered around, gaping at the beautiful buildings, pausing to examine the various old house signs used before house numbers came into fashion.

He entered the apartment block and walked cautiously up the steep spiral staircase, making no attempt to deaden his footfalls on the bare boards. He was far too astute ever to appear furtive. He climbed the stairs as an expected visitor, and Worthington heard him coming.

The past two days had been a big strain on Worthington. Every sound outside the apartment had sent him scurrying out to the balcony. Mala had been understandably frightened of him, and to his distress, she now spent all her waking hours out of the apartment, sitting in cafés, wandering around various museums, going to a movie... anything, rather than stay alone with him in the apartment, only returning at eight o’clock when she had to prepare for her act at the Alhambra.

Time hung heavily on Worthington’s hands. He had only his uneasy thoughts for company.

Mala had screened the alcove, containing the bed, with a sheet hung over a length of string. On her return from the nightclub, she would have a few brief, casual words with Worthington, then she would retire behind the screen, leaving Worthington to spend the rest of the bleak hours in an armchair until she again left the apartment early in the morning.

When she was dressing for the nightclub. Worthington went behind the screen and lay on the bed. He had to listen to her movements, taking a shower and dressing. He wished that she could love him as he loved her. They were two lonely people, he kept telling himself: people hovering on the brink of disaster and certain death. But she gave him no hint of encouragement. She was distant, polite and so obviously anxious to see the last of him.

Now, once again, she had gone to the club, leaving a faint smell of perfume some American admirer had given her lingering in the room and he was faced with four hours of restless sleep on his own. He was about to undress when he heard Bruckman coming up the stairs.

His heart missed a beat. Looking quickly around to make sure he had left no tell-tale sign that he was living in this room, he snapped off the light and tiptoed out on to the balcony, easing the french windows shut behind him. He drew his Colt automatic and got behind the flowering shrub. The gun in his hand gave him no confidence. Even in the worse kind of emergency, he couldn’t imagine himself ever pulling the trigger.

Bruckman paused outside the front door. The building was silent. He thumbed the doorbell and waited. He had his story ready if anyone came to the door. From the mailboxes downstairs, he had taken the name of the owner of the apartment above. He would apologise for his mistake and then walk up the stairs.

He waited patiently, then rang again. After a further wait, he was satisfied the apartment was empty. He took from his wallet a flexible piece of steel and expertly unlocked the door. He moved into the dark room, groped for the light switch and turned it on.

Peering around the shrub, Worthington caught a brief glimpse of Bruckman as he moved into the room. He immediately recognised the big heavily built man. Fear, he knew was in him but up to now had never truly experienced, paralysed him.

He knew Bruckman was O’Halloran’s strong arm thug who did most of O’Halloran’s dirty work. He was an executioner for the C.I.A. used when an Agent with important information threatened to defect.

Who had betrayed him to Bruckman? Worthington wondered, his heart hammering. He thumbed back the safety catch on his gun, but he knew he could never shoot Bruckman. There was this weak, compassionate streak in him that made it impossible for him to take human life. He knelt on the balcony, cold with fear, waiting for Bruckman to discover him.

Minutes passed: nothing happened. Terrified, Worthington again peered into the room.

Bruckman was coming out of the bathroom. He was massively menacing as he looked around the room, then he walked over to the life-size wooden angel and stared thoughtfully at it.

Worthington watched him, puzzled. Bruckman’s broad back blocked the angel from Worthington’s view. Then Bruckman half-turned and Worthington saw he was holding the angel’s wooden head in his hands. This he placed on the floor, then he opened his brief-case and took from it a small package done up in brown paper. He forced the package down the hollow neck of the angel into the body. He worked quickly and without fuss, and in a moment the angel’s head had been replaced. He looked around the room, picked up the empty brief-case, walked to the door, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.

Worthington waited, unable to believe his luck, then he gently pushed open the french windows. He could hear Bruckman clumping down the stairs and he moved cautiously across the dark room to the front door. He eased it open. Bruckman’s heavy tread was dying away. Then Worthington heard the entrance door slam shut.

He turned on the light and went shakily to the armchair and sat down. He had been too close to death, he thought. He was so badly frightened that he could only sit motionless, staring at the wooden angel, thankful he was still alive. His mind crawled with alarm.

He was still sitting in the chair, now half asleep, his body and mind beginning to relax when Mala returned. As soon as she saw his face, tight with fear and the sweat beads on his forehead, she knew something had happened. Quickly she closed the door and shot the bolt.

‘What is it?’

Worthington got slowly to his feet. He made a desperate effort to conceal his fear, but he could see her growing terror.

‘Bruckman’s been here. He picked the lock. I... I hid on the balcony.’

Mala stared fearfully at him.

‘Who is he? What do you mean?’

‘He’s one of Dorey’s men,’ Worthington said, trying to control his impatience. ‘When I saw him come in, I was sure someone had given me away.’ He rubbed his dry lips with the back of his hand. ‘I thought he was going to murder me.’

Mala shivered.

‘But why should he — he murder you?’

‘Dorey knows that if I am caught I will give you and Cain away,’ Worthington said, his voice desperate. ‘But he wasn’t here to kill me.’ He pointed to the wooden angel. ‘He put a package in there. Is that where they leave things for you to pass on?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Mala stared at the angel. ‘He left something in there?’

‘Yes. He lifted off the head and put a package in the body. I thought it was something you were expecting... after all, you are still working for Dorey.’ Seeing how bewildered she looked, he went on, ‘If you don’t know anything about it, we’d better see what it is.’

‘No! Leave it alone! If he left something in there, I don’t want to know about it!’ Mala exclaimed wildly.

Worthington looked at her in exasperation.

‘Are you telling me the truth? Are you sure they don’t use that as a hiding place?’

‘Of course they don’t! Leave it alone! I don’t want to know about it!’

‘You are behaving like a child. You are an agent. You have already passed a lot of information back to C.I.A. through Cain and me, and you have been paid for doing it. That makes you a professional. Pull yourself together! Sooner or later, they will find a replacement for me. When they do, he will contact you, and you will have to work for him as you have worked for me.’

‘I’m not working for them anymore!’ Mala cried, facing him. ‘I’ve had enough! Will you please go! No one can force me to do what I don’t want to do!’

Worthington looked pityingly at her. He could well understand her terror. When he had heard Malik had arrived in Prague, he too had become terrified.

‘Please listen to me and don’t get so upset,’ he said gently. ‘You have accepted their money. If they don’t want you, they will drop you, but you can never drop them. If you try to drop them they will silence you. The only chance you have of dropping them is to disappear as I am going to disappear. Unless you have a way to get out of this country and hide yourself, they will kill you.’

She looked desperately at him.

‘I don’t believe it! They couldn’t do that!’

‘Why do you imagine I’m leaving Prague? I knew this would happen and I have been preparing for just this emergency.’ Worthington paused, hesitated, then went on. ‘This is the wrong time to tell you, but I have to.’ His weak face was glistening with sweat’ and his eyes were desperately earnest. ‘Mala, I love you. I have been in love with you from the moment we first met. I wish there were less banal words to tell you what you mean to me...’ He broke off in despair when he saw her shocked expression. ‘I shouldn’t have told you... I am sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ Her frightened contempt made him shrivel. ‘You say you love me? Then why did you come here? Why have you made use of me to save yourself? Love me... you mean you love yourself!’

Worthington sat motionless, then finally he said, ‘I had nowhere else to go. I hoped and prayed you would have a little feeling for me.’

‘I don’t want you here!’ Mala cried. ‘How many more times do I have to tell you? You mean nothing to me! Don’t you understand... nothing!’

She turned away from him. Worthington studied her long, slim back, thinking how lovely she was, longing to take her in his arms.

‘We could go away together,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come with me to Switzerland? Vlast would fake a passport for you. We could travel as man and wife. When we reach Geneva, you can make up your mind if you would like to stay with me. I have money in Geneva.’

She spun around.

‘I’m remaining here! I’m not working for them anymore! If only you would go, I’ll be safe!’

‘No agent is ever safe. If we leave Prague together, you will be safer with me in Geneva.’

‘Oh, stop it! Why don’t you go!’ Her voice shot up a note and Worthington flinched, wondering if the people above or below could hear her.

‘We had better see what Bruckman has left here,’ he said.

‘No! Leave it alone!’

‘He could have planted something on you. I don’t trust Dorey. He might be betraying you. We must see what it is.’

Mala watched in tense silence as he crossed over to the wooden angel and lifted off the head.

Harry Moss was waiting when Girland got out of the Air Terminal bus at the Departure Centre at Orly Airport. He walked over to Girland as Girland collected his shabby suitcase from the luggage compartment of the bus.

‘Hi,’ Moss said. ‘Here’s your ticket. Let’s get rid of your bag and then we’ll talk.’

Having checked in and got rid of his suitcase, Girland walked with Moss over to an empty bench and sat down.

From his cowboy shirt pocket. Moss took a folded piece of paper.

‘Here’s the address. The money is in the body of a wooden angel.’ He had received this information from Dorey the previous evening who had, in turn, received it from Bruckman in a coded telegram from Prague. ‘It’s dead easy. The head lifts off. You’re booked to return in three days. Saturday I’ll be right here, waiting for you.’

‘That is one thing I’ll bet on,’ Girland said dryly. He read the address which meant nothing to him. ‘A wooden angel?’

‘Yeah. It stands in the left hand corner of the room. You can’t miss it.’

‘Is anyone living in the apartment?’ Girland asked, putting the address in his wallet.

‘I wouldn’t know... could be. Accommodation in Prague is tight, but that’s up to you.’ Moss gave him a sly look. ‘You can’t expect to pick up all that dough without earning it, can you?’

‘What else can you tell me about the place?’

‘There’s no concierge. It’s a walk-up... fourth floor. The lock on the door is nothing.’ Moss was quoting from the information Dorey had given him. ‘All you have to watch out for is that no one is in the apartment when you break in.’

Girland rubbed the back of his neck while he thought. Then he shrugged. This job worried him a little. It seemed too glib, but he kept telling himself he had nothing to lose.

‘I have the address... Where’s the spending money?’

Reluctantly, Moss produced a small roll of notes.

‘Here you are... a thousand francs. This will just about skin me... don’t waste it.’

Girland put the notes in his wallet as a voice, over the public address system, announced that passengers on Flight 714 to Prague should now proceed to Gate No. 8.

‘Well, here I go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Don’t have a hemorrhage if you don’t see me Saturday. This could be trickier than you think.’

‘There’s nothing to it.’ Moss walked with Girland to the escalator that would take him to Gate 8. ‘I’ll be right here... Saturday.’

Girland had his boarding card punched, then with a wave of his hand, he ran up the moving staircase.

Fifteen minutes later, he was climbing the tourist class stairway into the Caravelle. The air hostess fluttered her eyelids at him and Girland gave her his charming smile. As long as he could remember, he had always been the darling of air hostesses. It came as no surprise, after the plane had taken off, that the air hostess came down the aisle and whispered to him that there was plenty of room in the first class compartment.

Girland regarded her. She was a pretty little thing with sparkling dark eyes and a saucy smile.

‘Well, that’s nice,’ he said and leaving his cramped seat; followed by disapproving eyes, he made his way to the first class compartment.

He refused champagne and chose a double Scotch on the rocks. He flirted for a while with the air hostess, then when she had gone, and now slightly mellowed by his drink, he relaxed back in his seat and did some thinking.

Bruckman’s mysterious visit to his apartment still bothered him. During the two days he had been waiting for the Prague visa, he had gone over his apartment with skill and care. He had wondered if Dorey had wanted to bug the apartment, but he found no bug. Had Dorey planted something on him? Again he found nothing suspicious. Why should Dorey want to plant something on him anyway? He finally decided that Dorey was still hoping to get some of the money back Girland had taken off him, but although this seemed unlikely. Girland couldn’t think of any other explanation for Bruckman’s visit.

Harry Moss worried him too. Although Girland had checked Moss’s story, it still seemed a little far-fetched and Moss seemed to Girland too much like a character out of a B movie.

Girland shrugged impatiently. Well, he would see what happened when he reached Prague. At this moment the air hostess was bringing him caviar on toast. As there were only two other passengers in the first class compartment, she sat by his side. They flirted, chatted and ate while the plane earned them over the Iron Curtain and to the Prague airport.

As soon as Harry Moss saw the Caravelle airborne, he hurried to a telephone booth and called Dorey.

‘He’s off,’ he said. ‘Hook, line and sinker. Is there anything else you want me to do?’

‘No, there’s nothing else,’ Dorey said. ‘Good work, Alan. I’m sending you a small contribution. Thank you very much.’

‘Don’t mention it. It was a pleasure.’ There was a pause, then Moss said, ‘Don’t make that contribution too small. Uncle.’

Dorey grimaced, then hung up. He scribbled a telegram to Bruckman, alerting him of the time of Girland’s arrival. He added this warning: ‘Girland knows you. Keep well out of sight and don’t underestimate him. This operation must work.’

He gave the telegram to his secretary. Mavis Paul. When she had gone, he sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

He felt pleased with himself.

Three men sat around a table in a large airless room of the Ministry of the Interior. In this vast building, built like a fortress, the Prague Secret Police had their headquarters.

Suk, second in charge of the Secret Police, was staring at a large-scale street map of the City, spread out on the table. There was a strip of plaster on his bald head, covering the cut and the bruise from Worthington’s attack. A throbbing headache still tormented him.

Opposite him, Malik sat like a massive Sphinx, his cold green eyes moving from Suk to the map and then back to Suk. The third man was Boris Smernoff, thickset with a dark, cruel face and a bald patch which he tried vainly to hide by combing long thin strands of black hair over the ever expanding baldness. He was Malik’s right hand man, an expert shot and G.R.U.’s most persistent and successful hunter of men.

‘He can’t escape,’ Suk said. ‘He must be somewhere here,’ and he tapped the street map. ‘It is only a matter of time.’

‘You don’t think time is important?’ Malik said in his clipped English, the common language between these two men. ‘It is only a matter of time? You have been negligent. Comrade. I warned you about this man. Now, he has disappeared. You say it is only a matter of time. I hope so. What steps are you taking to find him?’

Suk wiped the sweat off his forehead. Without looking at Malik, he said. ‘He can’t get out of the country. I’m sure of that. We are now making inquiries. Someone must be hiding him. We have already checked all the hotels. The airport and the frontier posts have been alerted. We...’

Malik silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand.

‘When you find him I want to talk to him... understand?’

‘Yes. Comrade Malik.’

‘What is more important is his replacement. They are certain to replace him. I want details of everyone coming by air, train and road. I don’t think Dorey will send in anyone just yet, but he may. Anyone slightly suspect must be doubly screened. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Comrade Malik.’

‘Well, get on with it and find Worthington.’

Suk got to his feet and left the office, closing the door softly behind him

Malik looked at Smernoff who was lighting a cigarette.

‘Well? What is it?’

Smernoff smiled, showing his tobacco-stained teeth.

‘This man Jonathan Cain.’ he said. ‘He is possibly of interest: a buyer of glass. He comes to Prague twice a month. He had lunch with Dorey four days ago. The report came through as routine from one of the waiters at Chez Joseph, a luxury Paris restaurant with private rooms. Dorey and Cain met... that’s for certain. Malinkov merely mentioned it in his weekly report. He said it might mean nothing. Dorey often lunches with various friends.’

‘Malinkov is a fool,’ Malik said. ‘What do you know about Cain?’

‘Very little... he is a typical American business man. When he comes here, he frequently visits the Alhambra nightclub. There is nothing against him in any way... except he lunched with Dorey.’

Malik leaned back in his chair, frowning.

‘The Alhambra night club? Do you know it?’

‘I’ve been there.’ Smernoff flicked ash on the floor. ‘You can eat reasonably well there. They have small booths where you can be alone. The acts are noisy and not much, but there is a girl singer whose parents were American and Czech. The father was against the regime... he was executed. The girl calls herself Mala Reid ... she’s taken her mother’s name.’

Malik examined his blunt fingernails, then glanced up.

‘Has Cain had anything to do with her?’

‘He seems to be an admirer of hers. Several times he has given her flowers. He has never gone with her to her apartment.’

‘Flowers...’ Malik thought, then stretched his long, massive arms. ‘Yes... perhaps we might take a look at this girl, Boris. Have her watched. This could be a waste of time, but at the moment, we seem to have nothing else to use except time.’ He looked up, his green eyes glittering. ‘I want to know everything about this girl... understand?’

Smernoff got to his feet.

‘So do I,’ he said and left the room.

Malik stood up and walked over to the window. There were two pigeons on the lower balcony. The male was going through his elaborate dance of love. The female was ignoring him. Malik watched them for some moments. He felt contempt for the male pigeon. What a fool the male was when he became infatuated with the female, he thought and turned away.

He began to think about Cain... then his mind switched to Worthington and his possible replacement. Perhaps, after all, Suk was right. In this country, it could only be a matter of time, and, of course, patience.

Worthington fingered the brown paper packet he had taken from the angel’s body.

‘You see? This is a plant,’ he said. ‘I never trusted Dorey.’

Mala made no attempt to hide her terror.

‘But why? What have I done?’

Worthington shrugged.

‘How can we tell? We must see what he has planted on you,’ and he took from his pocket a penknife.

‘We’d better not...’

‘Of course we must, then we are prepared.’ Sitting at the table Worthington began to slide the blade of the knife carefully under the Sellotape that secured the parcel. It took him some minutes to open it. Mala stood over him, watching, her heart beating wildly.

Worthington unwrapped the paper and drew out the thick packet of one hundred dollar bills.

They both stared unbelievingly at the money, then with shaking fingers, Worthington began to count the bills.

After a long tense silence, he said. ‘For God’s sake! This is a fortune! Thirty thousand dollars!’

Mala turned cold. She sat down abruptly by his side.

‘What does it mean?’

Worthington stared at the money on the table for some time, then he suddenly nodded. ‘There can only be one explanation. This isn’t a plant. Mala. This is funds for my replacement.’ His thin face darkened. ‘They never gave me money like this. I warned you... when this man replaces me, he will contact you. This is why Bruckman hid the money here. The money is to buy information.’ He sat back. ‘They have already written me off my replacement will come here and collect the money. They are using your place to finance him. They don’t give a damn about the risk to you.’

Mala drew in a shuddering breath.

‘All that money!’

‘They have no right to do this!’ Worthington went on. The sight of the hundred dollar bills fascinated him. ‘If they had consulted you... you could have refused or agreed, but that’s not the way they work. They do it like this... not caring what happens to you.’ He leaned forward, tapping the dollar bills. ‘Malik might come here and find these... then you would be done for.’

Mala also was hypnotised by the sight of so much money.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘With this money, ‘Worthington said quietly and emphatically, ‘you will have no trouble leaving Prague. You will be independent. You could come with me to Geneva. You could buy a passport... it’s a fortune!’

Mala shifted her eyes from the money to him.

‘But it doesn’t belong to me! I couldn’t use it for myself!’

‘They haven’t thought of you... why should you think of them? Money means nothing to them. If we take this, they will replace it. This money can buy your freedom.’

Mala hesitated, then shook her head.

‘No! Put it back... I’m not touching it.’

Worthington regarded her, then seeing the determined expression in her eyes, he shrugged wearily.

‘All right... you are being stupid, but if you really feel like that I can’t help you.’

She pressed her hands to her face,

‘Yes, I feel like that.’ She got to her feet. ‘Please put it back where you found it.’ She again looked at the money, then she walked slowly over to the screen. ‘I’m going to bed.’ She paused and looked directly at him. ‘All right, I know I am stupid, but I’m not a thief!’

‘When one’s life is in balance,’ Worthington said quietly, ‘I suppose it could be said it is better to be a thief than to be stupid.’

She hesitated, then went behind the sheet. Worthington heard her drop on the bed. He looked at the money. With thirty thousand dollars, plus his Swiss savings, he would be safe for life, he thought. He didn’t hesitate for more than a moment or so. Getting to his feet, he went into the kitchenette and returned with two copies of The Morning Sun. He folded the newspapers to the size of the hundred dollar bills. Then he put the folded newspapers into the wrapping and began to reseal the packet.

‘What are you doing?’ Mala asked, appearing from behind the screen. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

‘Not being stupid.’ Worthington satisfied himself the packet was secure, then got up and crossed to the wooden angel. He forced the packet down the hollow neck into the body. He replaced the head. ‘You can be as stupid as you like, but I know the value of money.’

‘You mean you’re taking it? You can’t! It doesn’t belong to you!’

Worthington picked up the packet of money.

‘Go to bed. You’re tired. You must leave this to me.’

‘What do you plan to do with it?’

‘It’s better for you to know nothing about it. Please go to bed.’

‘We could never smuggle it out. It’s you who is being stupid!’

Worthington looked at her, his expression resigned.

‘I am doing my best to get you out of a mess. You don’t seem to realise what a damn awful mess you are in. Dorey’s replacement mustn’t find this money here. You must not be implicated. Since you are so honest, will you please leave me to look after your interests?’

She saw the sincere, anxious expression in his eyes and the tension on his weak face.

She hesitated, then asked, ‘Where will you hide it?’

He drew in a long breath of relief. So, in spite of her honesty, she was at last realising not only her danger, but what this money could mean to them both.

‘Under the angel. We can get at it quickly if we have to. I’ll tape it to the base of the angel.’

‘All right.’ She came to him, her cold fingers touching his wrist. ‘I’m sorry Alec. I don’t mean to be difficult. I do understand how you feel about me. If you think we can do it, I will come with you to Switzerland.’

Worthington smiled wryly. It was the money, of course, he thought, not himself that now made her change her mind.

‘You must see Vlast tomorrow. Tell him you need a British passport. He’ll get you one if the money is there.’ Worthington turned the packet in his hands. ‘Have you an envelope to take this?’

‘There’s a plastic bag in the kitchen... would that do?’

‘That would do.’

She saw the sad, disillusioned expression on his face and she felt ashamed.

‘Thank you. Alec. I can’t help it if I don’t love you, can I? I’m sorry about the way I’ve treated you I’m just scared stiff.’

Worthington smiled at her.

‘That’s all right. I’m scared stiff too. We’ll make it. Mala. Once you are in Geneva, you may see things differently. You never know... you might even come to like me.’

While they were talking two thick-set men, wearing black mackintoshes and black slouch hats took over a room that overlooked Mala’s apartment on the opposite side of the street. An elderly woman who had lived in this room for many years was ruthlessly bundled out to stay in an old people’s home.

Smernoff had given his orders. From the moment the two men took up their positions behind the lace curtains of the window. Mala was under the G.R.U.’s microscope.

Mavis Paul, Corey’s secretary, dark, beautifully built and very assured, glanced up as O’Halloran came into her office.

‘Good morning. Captain,’ she said and gave him her bright smile she reserved for her favourites. ‘He is expecting you... go right on in.’

O’Halloran grinned, giving her a dashing salute.

‘You look pretty good this morning,’ he said gallantly. ‘Come to think of it, when don’t you look good?’

She laughed

‘I’ve heard that story dozens of times. Anyway, thanks,’ and she flicked a finger at Dorey’s office door. ‘Right in there Captain,’ and she began to hammer away at her I.B.M. electric typewriter.

O’Halloran pulled a resigned face.

‘I’ve nothing to do tonight,’ he said. ‘How about a gorgeous dinner at Lasserre? Three stars and a sliding roof? Interest you?’

‘My roof doesn’t slide,’ she said, pausing for a brief moment. ‘No dates... but thanks,’ and she continued to type.

‘Well, I guess a guy can always try,’ O’Halloran said and walked over to Corey’s office door. ‘Take a raincheck on it.’

‘I will and thank you.’

But he knew she wouldn’t. He had come to realise that Mavis Paul not only took her work seriously, but also her after working hours. She just did not make dates.

He tapped on the door and entered.

As usual, Dorey was immersed in a file. He glanced up, waved to a chair and went on reading.

O’Halloran sat down and put his service cap on the floor by his side. A minute later, Dorey signed the file and pushed it out of his way. He sat back and smiled at O’Halloran.

‘Glad to see you back, Tim. Had a good trip?’

O’Halloran had been to Antwerp on a dull and unprofitable assignment. This had kept him out of Paris for the past three days.

‘Okay... nothing much.’ he said. ‘You’ll get my report tomorrow.’

‘Things go well this end,’ Dorey said with satisfaction. ‘I’ve had confirmation from Bruckman that Girland has arrived in Prague. Latimer is waiting to fly in. This has to be carefully timed. The moment Girland’s picked up, Latimer goes in. I have an open reservation for him so there’ll be no delay. Probably in a couple of days, Latimer will be in Prague. Girland works fast. He’ll grab the money and then try to get out. Bruckman is covering him all the time.’

‘Anyone else out there?’ O’Halloran asked. ‘It’s throwing a lot on Bruckman.’

‘He can handle it. I asked him if he wanted help, but he said no. I have a lot of confidence in him.’

O’Halloran looked dubious.

‘Yeah. I’d have thought he should have had help. Girland is tricky. If he once gets the idea that Bruckman is tailing him, I don’t think Bruckman stands a chance.’

Dorey shifted impatiently.

‘The trouble with you, Tim, is you are a pessimist. Bruckman knows his job. He’ll keep out of sight.’

O’Halloran lifted his heavy shoulders.

‘I’d be happier if he had someone with him.’

‘You can leave this to me,’ Dorey said. He was pleased with his arrangements and he wasn’t going to listen to any criticism from O’Halloran. ‘By the way, there’s a memo from the Joint Chiefs of Staffs that came in last week while you were away. It’s so Top Secret I can’t let it out of my office.’ He got to his feet and crossed over to his safe. ‘It covers our future planning in Vietnam and how we are to cope with any possible Russian interference. It’s pure dynamite! I hope they know what they are doing. Anyway L.B.J, has initialled it so I suppose they do. There’s a paragraph about our security out there you should see.’

He spun the dial, pressed a combination of buttons and then opened the safe. After a moment, he came back with a long white envelope with a red sticker on it. He handed the envelope to O’Halloran.

‘Read it, Tim. It’ll make your hair stand on end I’ve another goddamn file to get off.’

He sat down at his desk and pulled a file towards him while O’Halloran lifted the flap of the envelope and took out two sheets of paper.

There was a moment’s pause, then O’Halloran said, ‘What’s this? I guess you’ve given me the wrong envelope.’

Dorey wrenched his mind away from the file he was studying and frowned at O’Halloran.

‘What’s that?’

O’Halloran offered him the two sheets of paper.

‘This isn’t anything from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. This is a key to a code we scrapped last month.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Dorey said, stiffening. He snatched the sheets of paper from O’Halloran and stared at them.

Watching, O’Halloran saw the blood drain out of Dorey’s face. The sheets of paper fluttered on to Dorey’s desk. He looked so bad, so white that O’Halloran started to his feet.

Jeepers! he thought. He’s having a heart attack.

‘What is it Chief?’ he asked sharply. ‘Want me to get help?’

Dorey made an effort. Slowly, he gained control of himself and then he glared at O’Halloran, fury sparking in his eyes.

‘Shut up! Let me think!’ His voice was cold and rasping.

O’Halloran recognised the danger signals. It was seldom he had seen Dorey in this mood. He sat down and waited, not looking at Dorey.

Dorey again picked up the two sheets of paper and examined them, then he reached across the desk and picked up the envelope which he also examined. He dropped it on his blotter and, pushing back his chair, he walked over to the safe. O’Halloran watched him check through the contents, then Dorey turned. His white face was drawn and old looking, but his mouth was hard and firm and his eyes glittering.

‘Tim... I’ve done something inexcusable.’ He walked slowly to his chair and sat down. ‘Those papers I imagined I had given to Bruckman to put in Girland’s suitcase... I put them in a Top Secret envelope to impress the Czechs. I had the Chiefs of Staff memo on my desk when Bruckman came in. Somehow... I must have been incredibly careless... I gave him the wrong envelope.’ He paused, staring down at his hands. ‘So Girland of all people has taken a Tops memo into Prague of all places! If the Russians get hold of it, all hell could explode and I’m finished!’

O’Halloran stared at Dorey for a moment, stunned, unable to believe he had heard right, then seeing Dorey’s expression, he knew it must be right. At once he became the cold, alert thinking machine whose reputation for swift, shrewd action had won him his place in the Security Division.

‘I’ll cable Bruckman,’ he said crisply. ‘He’ll get the envelope. Girland can’t possibly get the money and leave Prague for two or three days. We’ll cancel the operation. If Bruckman doesn’t alert the Czech police that Girland has this money, they won’t stop him when he leaves, so we have two covers. Even if Bruckman fails to get the envelope, the Czech police won’t stop Girland leaving if they know nothing about the money. Right?’

‘There’s Malik,’ Dorey said quietly. ‘He could stop Girland.’

‘Then Bruckman must get the envelope,’ O’Halloran said.

‘Do you think he is capable of handling this? My God! You were right, Tim. I should have sent someone with him. This is now a hell of an assignment for him to handle alone.’

‘He’s a good man. He’s damn well got to handle it! There’s no time to send anyone else to help him.’

Dorey hesitated, then nodded. He drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write a cable to Bruckman. Watching his steady hand as he wrote, O’Halloran shook his head in silent admiration. Here was a man on the brink of disaster whose slip might turn the Cold War into a Hot War and whose career could come to an abrupt end but who was now in complete control of himself and right back in the fight to save the situation.

‘Think this will do?’ Dorey said, handing O’Halloran his draft cable.

O’Halloran read it. Its urgency was unmistakable.

‘Yes. Do you want me to encode it?’

The two men looked at each other, then Dorey nodded.

‘I’d be glad, Tim. Let’s try to keep this between ourselves as long as we can. If Bruckman fails to get the memo back, I’ll have to alert Washington.’ Dorey stared bleakly into space. ‘If I have to do that, I might just as well cut my throat.’

O’Halloran snorted, then picking up the draft cable and snatching his cap, he left the office for the Code and Cipher Division.

Mavis Paul paused in her typing as O’Halloran swept past her. She was startled. She looked anxiously at Dorey’s office door. What had gone wrong? She wondered. O’Halloran must have something bad on his mind not to have paused to say good-bye to her.