Have This One on Me

Four

Bruckman had never taken Girland seriously. He regarded him merely as a layabout who had a lot of luck when he had worked for the C.I.A. He knew him to be quick with a gun, an expert karate fighter, but also a womaniser, and this was something Bruckman could never forgive. He considered O’Halloran’s respect for Girland’s abilities grossly exaggerated. Since he regarded Girland with contempt, he didn’t take the precautions he would have done had he been convinced that Girland was a true professional, and here he made a fatal mistake.

Girland spotted him as Girland was registering at the Alcron Hotel. He caught a brief glimpse of Bruckman in a mirror behind the desk as he was completing the registration card. Bruckman was moving quickly to the small bar at the other end of the lobby. Girland immediately recognised him.

Girland completed the form, his brain alerting into top gear.

Bruckman!

As soon as he had reached his bedroom on the third floor and had got rid of the porter who had carried up his suitcase, Girland dropped into an easy chair, lit a cigarette and for some minutes appraised the situation

Why was Bruckman in Prague? Why should he be at the Alcron Hotel? Was there a connection between his breaking into Girland’s Paris apartment and now being in Prague?

Girland mulled this over in his mind and then, suddenly, the nickel dropped.

Good grief! he thought. Of course! I should have tumbled to it when that kid in the stretch pants told me Bruckman had broken in. Boy! Am I slipping! I wondered if the big slob was planting something on me. I checked but I didn’t check deep enough. He did plant something and he’s planted it in my suitcase! Whatever it is, I’ve brought it behind the Iron Curtain!

He got out of the chair, picked up his suitcase and tossed the contents on to the bed. He examined the empty suitcase carefully, but could see nothing suspicious. Taking out a penknife, he made a cut in the lining, then ripped the lining out of the case. Neatly Sellotaped to the bottom of the case was a white envelope with a red sticker on it.

Girland let out a hissing breath. He knew this particular sticker indicated that the contents of the envelope was Top Secret. Carefully, he eased the envelope free, then laying it on the dressing table, he spent some minutes levering the flap open with the penknife. He removed two flimsy sheets of paper from the envelope, then he sat down.

He read the contents three times. He examined the President’s initials which he had seen often enough to recognise.

He stared at the typed heading:

and the brief distribution:

What the hell goes on? he thought. If this is a plant for the Soviets to get hold of, it could start a third world war! Just what the hell is this?

He read the memo for a fourth time, then he lit a cigarette and stared into space, his brain busy.

Although he was now no longer an active agent, he hadn’t forgotten his training and he had a sound political background He was certain that the Joint Chiefs of Staff hadn’t intended that this explosive document should be taken behind the Iron Curtain. This much was obvious. Somewhere along the line, someone — possibly Dorey — had slipped up. Or could it be that Dorey had become a double agent and he was using Girland to take this document out of Paris?

Girland decided against this idea. It was unthinkable. But it might be that Bruckman was a double agent. Again Girland dismissed the idea. If the document had been a photo-copy, Bruckman could be a suspect. But this was a numbered, original copy and it would be quickly missed. The obvious explanation was that Dorey — if it was Dorey — had slipped up.

Why should I care? Girland asked himself. I’ve been used as a sucker. I bet there’s no stolen payroll, no wooden angel. This is some bright scheme, dreamed up by Dorey, that has turned sour. But what’s it all about?

He sat for some time thinking, but he could think of no explanation. Looking again at the two sheets of paper, he wondered what to do with the m His first reaction was to bum them, then he realised if he did so Dorey’s career would be finished. Play this cool, he told himself. You could still come out of Prague with a profit. Right now I have Dorey over a barrel. This is a matter of negotiation. Dorey has made use of me. Now it is my turn to make use of him.

He put the two sheets of paper back in the envelope, then getting to his feet, he crossed to the dressing table. He removed the centre drawer. Kneeling, he fixed the envelope to the top of the space left by removing the drawer. This wasn’t the safest place to hide such a dangerous document, but he was confident that as a temporary hiding place it would do. He replaced the drawer.

It was now half-past one and he went thoughtfully down to the restaurant where he had a good lunch of hors d’oeuvres, lamb chops and fruit salad.

After lunch, he went over to the boutique that sold souvenirs of Prague and bought a street guide. He sat in the lounge and studied the map of the city, locating Chivatova ulice, the address Harry Moss had given him. He found it was within walking distance of the hotel and decided he would take a look at the street

Leaving the hotel, he walked down to the main street with its clanging trams and swarms of people, moving around like a disturbed ant’s nest. It would be dead easy, he thought, for Bruckman to tail me in this mob and he paused every now and then to look into shop windows, turning to scan the people scurrying around him, but failing to see Bruckman.

He had no need to worry about Bruckman. At this moment, Bruckman had returned to his own hotel, satisfied he now knew where Girland was staying and sure Girland wouldn’t make an attempt to collect the money until he had cased Mala Reid’s apartment. The attempt, Bruckman told himself, would take place the following day.

When Bruckman asked for his room key, the clerk handed him the key and a telegram. Up in his shabby room. Bruckman read the telegram. It was a request for certain missing invoices, followed by a list of numbers and letters. These, Bruckman knew, were the real guts of the message in code.

Twenty minutes later, he had decoded the message which now ran:

Translated, this told Bruckman:

Bruckman re-read the message, then sitting back in his chair, he blew out his cheeks. Just what the hell is this? he thought. Again he read the message. The sense of urgency infected him and he got to his feet. He had his orders. It shouldn’t be difficult to get the papers back. Girland had no idea they were in his suitcase. He set fire to Dorey’s cable and to the decoded message and let the ashes drop in the ashtray. Then he unlocked his brief-case that was lying on the desk and took from it a .32 police automatic. He checked the magazine, then slid the gun into his pocket Again from the brief-case he took a black three-inch silencer which he also dropped into his pocket. If necessary, liquidate him. He would rather knock Girland off than try to make a deal with him. Girland was too tricky to make a deal with. Bruckman thought as he moved heavily from his room

His hotel was five minutes walking distance from the Alcron Hotel. He reached the Alcron at twenty minutes past three. The American tourists who infested the big luxury hotel were out, sightseeing. There was a quiet calm in the lobby and the lounge. Bruckman walked over to the Head Porter’s desk.

The Head Porter gave him a little nod and looked expectantly at him.

‘You have Mr. Girland here?’ Bruckman asked.

The Hall Porter consulted his register.

‘Yes, sir. Room 347.’ He turned and looked at the key rack. ‘Mr. Girland is out right now. Do you wish to leave a message?’

‘That’s okay,’ Bruckman said. ‘I’ll telephone him. Thanks.’

He wandered over to the Boutique shop and looked at the souvenir gifts, then when he was sure the Hall Porter had forgotten him, he walked over to the elevators.

‘Floor three,’ he said.

As he walked down the long corridor, checking the room numbers, he thought that this was a dead easy assignment. With Girland out, he could collect the papers and then telegram Dorey for instructions.

He had his flexible steel pick in his hand as he reached the door of room 347. The corridor was deserted. In ten seconds, Bruckman had unlocked the door and entered the bedroom. He looked around, his heavy red face disapproving. This punk knows how to live, he thought, remembering his own tiny, shabby hotel room. He shut the door and slid the bolt. Then he walked over to Girland’s suitcase that was on the luggage rack He opened it relieved to find it wasn’t locked, then he had a rush of blood to his head. The lining had been ripped out... the suitcase was empty.

Bruckman stood staring down into the empty suitcase and he cursed under his breath. How the hell had this goddamn layabout found out about the papers? Well, he had! Bruckman dropped the lid of the suitcase and looked around the room.

He knew it would be a waste of time to search the room. Girland was a trained agent. He had either taken the document with him or had hidden it so securely that Bruckman would have to take the room apart to find it. If he did this, the fact would be reported, and the Security Police would move in. This was something Bruckman wanted to avoid at all cost.

He took out his gun and screwed on the silencer. He had now to talk Girland into making a deal. Obviously, Girland would have read the document, so even if he parted with it, he could still be in a position to blackmail Dorey. Bruckman rubbed his fleshy jaw. He could promise him anything. Girland was only interested in money. So he would agree to pay any sum Girland asked for. Then once Girland parted with the document, he would kill him. One well directed silent shot and Bruckman could walk out of the hotel, get on the next plane to Paris and his assignment was finished.

Pleased with his thinking, Bruckman crossed the room and slid back the bolt, then sat down in the easy chair. He put his silenced gun under his fat thigh, lit a cigarette and prepared himself for Girland’s return.

While Bruckman was waiting, Girland had reached Chivatova ulice. He was now satisfied no one was following him. Away from the main streets and once in the narrow lanes that branched like veins off the busy thoroughfares he could be sure he wasn’t being tailed. He found the apartment block he was looking for and he paused outside the high doorway that led to a dark, dirty lobby. He looked to right and left, then certain no one was watching, he moved into the lobby. A line of mailboxes on the shabby paint peeling wall told him that Mala Reid occupied an apartment on the fifth floor which Harry Moss had said had been his hide-out.

He climbed the stairs and finally reached the front door on which was pinned a card which read: Mala Reid.

Girland thumbed the bell push, moved back and waited. There was a long pause, then as he was about to ring again, the door opened.

He regarded the sable-haired girl with unexpected pleasure. Quite a doll! he thought and turned on his charming smile. His eyes ran over her. She was wearing a light blue sleeveless frock that clung to her figure with the caress of a well-fitting glove.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Do you happen to speak English?’

Mala had been preparing to visit Vlast again. She had been to his apartment in the morning, only to find him out. The sight of this tall, broad shouldered American made her heart skip a beat.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice a little shrill. ‘What is it?’

Girland looked beyond her into the big living-room. He saw the wooden angel in the comer. Well, at least, that part of Harry Moss’s story was true.

‘Would Harry Moss live here?’ he asked, wondering why the girl was so obviously frightened.

‘No.’

‘Well, heck!’ Girland looked rueful. ‘That’s too bad. He gave me this address. I’ve come all the way from New York... he’s an old friend of mine. Would you know where he’s got to?’

‘No,’ Mala said, ‘I can’t help you,’ and she closed the door in his face.

Girland hesitated. Don’t push your luck too far, he told himself. At least there’s a wooden angel. This needs thinking about and careful handling. He turned and walked down the stairs to the street. Who was Mala Reid? A nice dish, he thought. What made her so scared? He paused outside the building while he thought. Could it be the money was really inside that angel? If it was, how could he get at it? He would have to find out when the girl left the apartment and if she lived alone. Did she know the money was there? Girland shook his head. It wasn’t going to be easy, but if it meant picking up thirty thousand dollars, he couldn’t expect it to be easy.

It was while he stood in the sunshine, outside the building that Zerov, one of the men Smernoff had planted in the opposite building, photographed him. It was a routine picture. Everyone entering and leaving the opposite apartment block was photographed. Zerov had already taken thirty-five pictures and he now wound off the film which he passed to his companion Nicalok.

‘Get it processed,’ he said. ‘Comrade Smernoff will be expecting something from us.’

Nicalok took the film cartridge and left the apartment. By then, Girland was walking back to the Alcron, pondering how he could find out more about Mala Reid. As he walked up the main street, leading to his hotel, he came upon an arcade, leading to the entrance of the Alhambra night club. He was passing it when he came to an abrupt stop. On a bill posted to the wall was Mala Reid’s name and a photograph of her, wearing black tights and a bra. The Czech letter press meant nothing to him, but the photograph was all he wanted. So... He moved on. Well, he now knew where she worked. Tonight, he would go to the Alhambra. He reached the hotel and asked for his key. The Hall Porter handed it to him.

‘There was a gentleman inquiring for you, sir,’ he said. ‘He said he would telephone later.’

‘Is that right?’ Girland was puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine who it would be. Do you remember him?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The Hall Porter was proud of his memory. ‘A tall, heavily built gentleman. He has had an accident to his right ear.’

Girland grinned.

‘Oh, sure. I didn’t know he was here. He’s an old friend of mine. Thanks.’ He slid a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes across the desk. He had quickly discovered that cigarettes were much more appreciated in Prague than money.

He rode up in the elevator. So Bruckman was asking for him, he thought. Watch it, he told himself. This could be action stations.

He reached his bedroom door, unlocked it and swung the door open. Then he walked in. The sight of Bruckman sitting in the easy chair came as no surprise. He was glad he had been tipped off by the Hall Porter.

‘Hello, Oscar, nice to see you again,’ he said, moving into the room and closing the door. ‘How’s the wife and kids?’

Bruckman stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray that was now overflowing with cigarette butts. He shifted his weight slightly so he could get at his gun. His red, fleshy face was expressionless, his cold, grey eyes never left Girland.

‘Sit down, punk,’ he said in his cop voice. ‘You and me have to talk.’

Girland smiled at him.

‘Now, Oscar, try to act your age,’ he said, leaning against the door. ‘You’re getting a little long in the tooth for that kind of talk and you’ve put on too much weight. With that fat belly you’re carrying around like a pregnant cow and all the booze you have been swilling, you’re not in my class. Do you want to start something? It would be a pleasure. Where’s your buddy boy O’Brien? Remember what I did to him the last time you tried to get tough?’

Bruckman produced his gun. He was still lightning fast and the gun jumped into his hand in one dazzling movement.

‘I said sit down, punk!’ he said, with a snarl in his voice.

Girland laughed.

‘Oscar, you slay me. You should be in the movies... strictly B features, but you might make quite a decent living. Go ahead and shoot me.’ He walked deliberately up to Bruckman. When he was close to the big man, he looked down at him, still smiling. ‘Go on, Oscar. Fire away.’ then the side of his hand smashed down on Bruckman’s wrist, sending the gun flying across the room.

Bruckman cursed and started to his feet, but Girland shoved him back in the chair.

‘Relax, Oscar. You can’t murder me just yet. We have to talk... remember?’

Bruckman nursed his wrist. His eyes glowered hate at Girland who walked over to the bed and dropped on to it. He stretched out, folding his hands behind his head.

‘Go ahead, Oscar,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘What’s on the thing you call your mind?’

Bruckman continued to massage his wrist, then at last getting some feeling back into it, he got up and picked up his gun. He put it on the table near him, then sat down again.

Glaring at Girland, he said, ‘You know... you have a T.S., Girland. I want it.’

‘You want it?’ Girland grinned. ‘What an understatement! I’ll tell you who also wants it: Mr. Johnson wants it. Mr. Kosygin wants it. Mr. Ho Chi Minh wants it... and more than any of them, my dear old pal Dorey wants it.’

Bruckman contained his fury with an effort that turned his face dark.

‘Let’s have it, Girland, and let’s cut out the funny talk.’

Girland raised his head, his eyebrows lifting.

‘I wouldn’t have thought any of this funny, Oscar,’ he said. ‘Suppose we begin at the beginning. You broke into my Paris apartment and planted this T.S. in my suitcase. I can only imagine you were obeying Dorey’s orders. There was a time when I began to wonder if you had turned double agent, but I decided you wouldn’t have the brains for that kind of a job.’

Bruckman nearly fell out of his chair.

‘What the hell are you saying? Me... a double agent?’

‘Relax, Oscar. You’ll bust your truss if you go on like this. I decided you weren’t a double agent. This T.S. is dynamite, so Dorey must have made a mistake in giving it to you. Right?’

‘I’m not talking to you. Hand it over Girland!’ Bruckman leaned forward, his heavy face flushed, his eyes glittering. ‘I know you’re a crook, but I hope you won’t be that low as to start a third world war! Now, hand it over and I’ll take it back to Paris.’

‘The trouble with you. Oscar,’ Girland said sadly, ‘is you have no appeal. Don’t give me that stuff about a third world war. Dorey started this. He picked on me, and he couldn’t care less what happened to me so I couldn’t care less what happens to him. Just what had he in mind? And Oscar, don’t try any bright lying. I haven’t been wasting my time since I’ve been here. I know all about Mala Reid. Let’s have the whole story, then I could give you the T.S., but you’re not getting it until I know the story.’

Bruckman’s eyes shifted to the gun on the table.

‘Oh, Oscar, don’t revert to type,’ Girland said, watching him. ‘The T.S. is somewhere where you won’t find it, but if you murder me — as I know you’re longing to — sooner or later. Mr. Kosygin will have it. Now come on what was this plan Dorey dreamed up in his retarded mind?’

Bruckman hesitated.

‘How do I know if I tell you, you’ll hand it over?’ he demanded.

‘Well, of course, you don’t know, but I will. Don’t laugh right now, but you will have to trust me.’

‘One of these days,’ Bruckman said furiously, ‘I’ll fix you! Make no mistake about that! I’ll fix you for good!’

‘What dialogue,’ Girland said, shutting his eyes. ‘Boy! Have you missed your vocation! Television would love you.’

Bruckman considered his position He wondered if he should cable Dorey for further instructions. This situation was something he couldn’t handle. Then he remembered what Dorey had told him... make any deal.

His job was to get this document back to Dorey. It was then up to Dorey to take it from there.

‘Okay.’ he said. ‘This was the setup,’ and he told Girland of Dorey’s plan to use him as a smoke screen to get Latimer into Prague.

Girland listened, his eyes closed. When Bruckman stopped talking, Girland opened his eyes and smiled at Bruckman.

‘So the money is in the wooden angel?’

‘It’s there. I put it there myself.’

‘Dorey! What a lovable little midget he’s turned out to be,’ Girland said. ‘Well. I guess he has reason to try to fix me. I’ll give him that. Okay, Oscar, now we go to work.’ He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. ‘Tonight, you will go to Mala’s apartment and collect the money. I’ll be watching on the sidelines. We will meet at the airport. You will give me the money... I will give you the T.S. You will then fly off to Paris and give Dorey my love. But don’t get any bright ideas about alerting the police that I will be leaving with thirty thousand dollars. I assure you, if they arrest me, I’ll buy myself out of trouble by telling them the contents of the T.S. Does all this sink into the thing you call a brain?’

Bruckman glared at him.

‘I couldn’t have believed any decent American could act like this.’ he said. ‘All you think about is money. You are...’

‘Oh, skip it, Oscar. You’ll have me sobbing on your shoulder. What’s so wrong about money anyway?’ He got up and walked to the door which he opened. ‘Shove off.’

Bruckman put his gun into its holster and walked out into the corridor.

‘Tonight, around ten-thirty,’ Girland said. ‘I’ll be there, watching. So long for now, Oscar, and watch your blood pressure.’ He closed the door as Bruckman walked heavily towards the elevator.

Smernoff came into the big, sparsely furnished office and closed the door. Malik, dwarfing the desk at which he was sitting, glanced up, pushing aside a pile of decoded cables that had arrived an hour or so ago from Moscow; cables of no interest to him, but which he had to read to keep abreast with G.R.U.’s European activities.

‘Well?’

Smernoff pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘The situation develops,’ he said. ‘I have a photograph that will interest you.’ He took from his brief-case a glossy print which he handed to Malik.

Malik looked at the photograph. His expression didn’t change, but his green eyes darkened.

‘Girland!’ he said quietly.

‘It was pure luck. I told Zernov to photograph everyone leaving the building, and this fish comes into the net.’

‘Girland,’ Malik repeated, then sat for some moments, thinking. Finally, he said, ‘He could be Worthington’s replacement.’ He looked at Smernoff. ‘This surprises me. I thought Girland had fallen out of favour.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t see Girland as Worthington’s replacement, can you? Something’s wrong here. Girland would have no reason to stay in Prague. The man who will replace Worthington will work here... have a job here... we know Girland never works.’

‘Could be a temporary replacement until the permanent man arrives.’

Malik shook his head.

‘Dorey doesn’t work like that.’ He thought again. ‘Girland could be a smoke screen. Could be Dorey wants us to think he is the replacement.’

Smernoff shrugged. It was Malik’s job to do the thinking.

‘Anything else?’ Malik asked, still staring at the photograph.

‘The Reid girl went this morning to the apartment of Karel Vlast who was out. I’ve checked on Vlast. He is suspect,’ Smernoff said. ‘At one time he was an engraver, now he is a night elevator attendant. Suk suspects that lie fakes passports. He has no proof.’

‘And this woman went to see him? She may be trying to get out,’ Malik said. ‘Why hasn’t Suk arrested this man Vlast?’

‘He says he has no proof against him... just suspicions.’

‘We don’t need proof.’ Malik said angrily. ‘Arrest him and question him. Have his place searched. If he fakes passports, there will be evidence. Do it at once.’

Smernoff got to his feet.

‘And Girland?’

‘Knowing Girland, he will be at the Alcron.’ The corners of Malik’s lips turned down. ‘He always believes in luxury. Have him watched, but leave him alone for the time being. He could lead us to Worthington. Make sure he doesn’t find out he is being watched.’

‘And the girl?’

‘Leave her alone too. She could also lead us to Worthington. I want her room bugged. When she leaves tonight, send Zernov to her place. If Girland’s been there, he will go again. I want a record of their conversation.’

‘I’ll arrange it.’ Smernoff said and left the office.

Malik picked up the photograph and again stared at it. The last time he and Girland had clashed, he had warned Girland when they next met, it would be their last meeting. With slow, savage viciousness, he tore up the photograph.

For the past hour Mala had discussed Girland’s visit with Worthington. They kept asking each other who this man was, who was Harry Moss, was this man one of Dorey’s agents, looking for Worthington?

Worthington was nervous. He had hidden in the bathroom while Mala had talked to Girland, fingering his automatic, his body cold with the sweat of fear.

‘I just don’t know.’ he said finally in exasperation. ‘We can’t go on and on like this. He might be harmless. We mustn’t work ourselves up for nothing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Isn’t it time you went to Vlast?’

Mala nodded.

‘All right... yes, I’ll go.’

Worthington had taken a number of photographs of her for the passport. He gave her the film cartridge.

‘He’ll want at least three hundred dollars.’ He took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. ‘Give him this. Tell him we will pay the rest when he has the passport ready.’

As Mala was leaving the apartment, Karel Vlast was sitting at his window nursing his aching hand. He had been to the hospital that morning. They had given him a shot of something, but it hadn’t done much good. He could see by the expression on the doctor’s face that his h and was bad. The doctor told him to come back the next day. As he sat at the window, worrying about Worthington’s passport, he saw a black Tetra car pull up in the street below. Four men spilled out of the car and walked quickly across the street and entered his apartment block.

Vlast felt his heart contract. He knew these men were from the Security Police. For the past two years he had been expecting just such a visit. He got hurriedly to his feet. He had his preparations ready. He took off the top of his dining table and wedged the oak board under the door handle of his front door. From the top of the cupboard in his tiny hall, he took a hammer and two six-inch nails. Breathing heavily, he hammered the two nails into the floor to act as an additional wedge for the board that now barricaded the front door.

He could hear the tramping feet as the four men climbed the stairs. He reckoned it would take some fifteen minutes to batter down the door. It might, with luck, take them even longer. This was a precaution he had long ago planned to give himself time to destroy any evidence that might incriminate his friends.

He returned to the sitting-room. Opening a cupboard, he took out a large tin box, the lid tightly sealed with tape. He ripped off the tape and tossed the petrol soaked rags the box contained into the fireplace. As the front door bell rang, he lumbered into his bedroom, pulled out the bottom drawer in his chest of drawers, groped into the space and took out a number of passport blanks. The front door bell rang again. He groped into the back of the chest and found Worthington’s photographs, his passport and two more photographs of friends he had promised to help.

He heard his front door creak as powerful shoulders thudded against it. He carried the passports, the photographs and several envelopes containing information he needed to complete a faked passport into the sitting-room and dropped them into the fireplace, then as his front door began to come loose at its hinges, he struck a match and set the petrol soaked rags into a violent blaze. The front door began to split down the panels under the violence of the men in the passage. Vlast was quite calm. He picked up the poker and stirred the blazing mass of papers, scattering the ashes, making sure there would be nothing left to betray his friends. Then, satisfied, he took from his waistcoat pocket a tiny capsule he had carried around with him for months for such an emergency as this. He slipped the capsule into his mouth and sat down heavily in his favourite dusty armchair.

The door was now half ripped open. He looked across the room, at Smernoff whose sweating face was vicious with fury. He waited that extra second until Smernoff was forcing his squat, broad shouldered body through the smashed doorway, then with a murmured prayer, he bit down on the capsule.

Worthington heard Mala coming up the stairs. He had now come to recognise her step and he got to his feet. For the past hour, he had been in a state of acute anxiety. He had tried to assure himself that Vlast’s injury was only trifling, and in a day or so he would have the passports ready, but at the back of his mind, there was a nagging warning that it was not going to be that easy. Yet in spite of the danger, he was now almost enjoying his stay with Mala. Their close association, and now she had agreed to go with him to Geneva, helped to still his fears. He had dreaded the thought of leaving Prague and passing through the Police Control alone. But with Mala, he could face the ordeal. In protecting her, he would forget about himself.

He went to the door when he heard Mala fumbling for her key and opened it. One look at her white, tense face sent a cold chill crawling up his spine.

She came quickly into the room and Worthington shut the door.

‘What’s happened?’ His voice was so husky, he had to clear his throat.

She walked over to a chair and sat down, dropping her bag on the floor.

‘He’s dead. They were taking him away when I arrived. He’s dead.’

Worthington stood petrified. This couldn’t be true. He collapsed in a chair opposite hers.

‘There must be some mistake...’ The words came from him in a terrified croak.

‘The Security Police were there. There was an ambulance. They were bringing his body out on a stretcher as I passed.’ Worthington marvelled at the steadiness of her voice. ‘The blanket, covering him, slipped as they put him in the ambulance. I saw him... he was dead.’

Worthington put his hands to his face and he shuddered. His hopes for the future, the money he had so painfully and carefully hoarded in Geneva, his plans to escape were wiped out with Vlast’s death. There was no chance now, he told himself, of ever getting out of Prague.

Mala watched him. His despair stiffened her morale.

‘We have the money,’ she said. ‘We could still get away.’

Worthington heard, but he knew this was worthless talk. Without a cleverly faked passport, it was impossible to get away. He made the effort and pulled himself together. He must now think of her and not of himself. He must leave her. She might not last long, but she would last longer if he wasn’t with her. He thought of the automatic under his arm. The best way would be to walk out of here, find some quiet spot and then shoot himself. He flinched at the idea. Would he find the courage to pull the trigger when the cold barrel was touching his forehead?

‘Alec!’ Mala’s voice had sharpened. ‘Are you listening to what I am saying? We have all this money... thirty thousand dollars! Surely we can make use of it. We must make use of it? We can buy passports! We can still get away!’

He lifted his head and stared at her, his eyes glazed.

‘I know of no one except Vlast and he is dead. There must be someone here who could fake a passport... who would accept a large bribe... but who?’

Mala got up and began to move around the room. She now realised that she must depend on herself to get them out of this situation. She was aware of a sudden protective feeling for this tall, weak Englishman He had planned to save her, now she felt compelled to try to save him. She suddenly thought of Jan Braun.

‘I know someone who will help us,’ she said and came back to her chair. She sat down. ‘His name is Jan Braun. His father and my father were close friends. They were executed together. Jan is a farmer. He has a small farm thirty kilometres outside Prague. He could know someone who would get us passports. I’ll go and see him.’

Worthington looked hopefully at her.

‘Are you sure you can trust him?’

‘Of course. His father died with mine... of course, I can trust him.’

Watching her, Worthington felt a new hope growing in him. He could see she was no longer frightened. Miraculously, she had become the dominant force of this uneasy partnership.

‘He brings his produce to Prague every week,’ Mala went on. ‘Tomorrow is market day. I’ll go to the market and tell him what is happening.’

Worthington wiped his face with his soiled handkerchief.

‘No I’m going to leave you Mala. This could involve you. I don’t want that to happen. No... I’ll leave you. I’ll find a way...’

‘Oh, be quiet!’ she said impatiently. ‘Where would you go? Be sensible!’ She suddenly smiled at him. ‘You tried to help me... now it is my turn.’ She got to her feet, ‘I’ll get supper. It’s getting late.’

Worthington remained in his chair while she went into the kitchenette. He thought with bitterness: God! How weak and useless I am!

He had no appetite for the steak she grilled, but he forced himself to eat. Looking at him, seeing how frightened and hopeless he looked, she suddenly reached out and patted his hand.

‘It’ll work out, Alec,’ she said. ‘We’ll get away.’ She got to her feet. ‘I must get ready or I’ll be late.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Near to tears, Worthington went behind the screen and lay on the bed.

When Bruckman left Girland, he went immediately to his hotel. In his bedroom, sitting on the bed a cigarette burning between his thin lips, he put through a call to Paris. There was some delay, then a voice said, ‘International Credit.’

‘This is Bruckman, speaking from Prague. I had your telegram about those invoices.’

‘Yes. Mr. Bruckman. Will you hold a moment, please?’

Bruckman waited. He knew he was being put through to Dorey. It was only in an emergency that he was permitted to call International Credit that would route an agent direct to the C.I.A. This was an emergency. Bruckman felt he had to have confirmation that his deal with Girland would be approved.

‘Yes, Mr. Bruckman?’ He recognised Dorey’s voice.

‘Those missing invoices,’ Bruckman said. ‘Our third party found them. We are arranging a deal. It’s cash on delivery. Okay?’

There was a pause, then Dorey said, ‘You have the money deposited with you?’

‘Yes but there’ll be no change. Still okay?’

‘It’ll have to be.’ Dorey’s voice sounded sour. ‘I told you... you have a free hand,’ and the line went dead.

Bruckman grimaced and hung up.

A little after ten o’clock, he left the hotel and took a tram that brought him within easy walking distance to Mala’s apartment. He arrived in the street a minute or so before ten-thirty. He saw no sign of Girland, but he knew Girland was concealed in some dark doorway, watching him.

At this moment, Zernov had decided it would be safe to plant the bug Smernoff had given him in Mala’s apartment. He was mounting the stairs as Bruckman entered the lobby. Zernov heard him and looked over the banister rail. He could vaguely make out a heavily built man, starting to climb the stairs. Zernov took off his shoes and ran silently up to the fifth floor. He could hear Bruckman’s heavy approaching tread. Worthington also heard it. Jumping to his feet, Worthington turned off the light and darted out on to the balcony, carefully closing the french windows after him. He crouched down behind the shrub.

Bruckman reached Mala’s front door and rang the bell, watched by Zernov who had gone up the next flight of stairs and was peering at Bruckman through the banister rails.

Bruckman satisfied himself there was no one in the apartment, then he picked the lock and walked in, turning on the light and shutting the door.

Watched by Worthington, Bruckman went immediately to the angel, lifted off the head and reached down into the body. He pulled out the brown paper parcel, replaced the head and moved quickly to the door. He hadn’t been in the apartment more than a minute or so. He turned off the light, stepped out on to the dark landing, relocked the door and then using a small flashlight, he started down the stairs.

Zernov watched him. He saw Bruckman was now carrying a brown paper parcel in his left hand. This could be important for Zernov was sure Bruckman hadn’t had the parcel when he had entered the apartment. He decided he had to know what the parcel contained. Drawing his gun and leaving his shoes on the stairs, he sneaked silently down to the landing as Bruckman made his way heavily and slowly to the street level, lighting the stairs with the beam of his flashlight.

Zernov groped and found the time switch button that controlled the light on the stairs. He turned the switch on. Light flared up on the stairs. Bruckman spun around, dropping his flashlight, his hand whipping out his automatic. His movements were so swift, Zernov was taken by surprise. Bruckman saw him at the head of the staircase and immediately fired. The bang of the gun crashed through the silent building, Zernov staggered back. Bruckman’s bullet had ripped through his sleeve, nicking his forearm, but even as he staggered, he fired three times, and his aim was more deadly than Bruckman’s.

Hit in the chest and the left arm, Bruckman fell backwards, rolling and sliding down the stairs to the second landing. The time switch, set only for a minute and working badly, turned off the light.

Cursing, Zernov, his arm burning, blood dripping down his fingers, once again groped for the switch, but couldn’t find it. He heard Bruckman get to his feet and start, with stumbling feet, down the stairs.

Realising Bruckman might get away, not knowing how badly he had wounded him, Zernov started down the stairs in pursuit.

Bruckman heard him coming. He turned and fired up the stairs. The bullet whipped past Zemov’s face. He crouched down in the darkness and waited, then he heard Bruckman resume his stumbling descent. The big man was moving slowly now.

Shot through the lungs, Bruckman knew this was his finish. He could scarcely breathe and was slowly drowning in his blood, but his toughness kept him moving. He forced his body down the last flight of stairs and he staggered into the lobby. He paused there, still clutching the brown paper parcel under his left arm. He spat blood, then moved slowly and heavily, like a stricken elephant, out into the dimly lit street.

Zernov crept down into the lobby. Bruckman’s broad back, outlined against the street lights, made a perfect target. Lifting his gun, Zernov squeezed the trigger.

Bruckman reared back, then fell on his side, the brown paper parcel falling into the gutter.

Nicalok, hearing the shooting, came charging down into the street, gun in hand, from the opposite building.

Girland watched from a nearby doorway. He saw Bruckman fall and the parcel slide from under his arm into the gutter He had drawn his automatic, but the sudden blare of police sirens warned him it would be too dangerous to attempt to get the parcel.

He ran silently down the street, keeping in the shadows, and ducked down the first narrow lane he came to as the police cars skidded to a halt.

Moving quickly, he headed back to his hotel. That was that, he thought in disgust. Thirty thousand dollars down the drain! Well, he would pack and get out There was now no point in staying in Prague. Then he thought of the T.S. document. There was now no Bruckman to take it back to Dorey. Why should you care? he asked himself, but he found he was slowing his pace and abruptly he came to a standstill, leaning against a shabby wall while his thoughts were busy. To hell with Dorey! he tried to tell himself. Then he grimaced. He couldn’t let a document of that importance fall into Russian hands. You sucker! he said to himself. He thought for some minutes. There was Malik to take into consideration. Girland knew he couldn’t hope to leave the country without being searched. Then he remembered Mala Reid. She was one of Dorey’s agents. It must be her job to get the papers to Dorey.

Girland decided he would contact her, and slightly cheered, he looked around for a taxi. He was lucky to find one after a patient wait and was driven to the Alhambra nightclub. As he walked into the shattering noise of swing music and the buzz of voices, a waiter came out of the darkness.

‘I’m sorry, sir, we have no free tables.’

Girland took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.

‘Squeeze me in somewhere,’ he said, allowing the waiter to get a good glimpse of the bill. ‘I want some privacy.’

The bill changed hands.

‘I have a booth reserved for eleven-thirty, sir. You could have it for half an hour.’

‘That’s fine,’ Girland said and followed the waiter along a narrow corridor to a small booth with a table set for four that looked directly on to the miniature stage.

‘Would this do, sir?’ the waiter asked.

‘Yeah... don’t run away.’ Girland grimaced at the sound coming from the stage. Four under-dressed, unattractive girls were singing. Their shrill, untrained voices magnified by the microphone, beat against his ear drums. He sat down at the table, took a blank card from his wallet and wrote: Would you join me? I am interested in buying your angel. He gave the card to the waiter. ‘Give this to Mala Reid, and make yourself another ten bucks.’

The waiter gaped at him, read the card and then grinned.

‘Yes, sir. Do you want dinner?’

‘No... I want Miss Reid... hurry it up Comrade.’

When the waiter had gone, Girland sat back in the semi-darkness and listened to the noise the four girls were making. Their act finally finished and a few subdued lights came on. It was obviously the interval. He lit a cigarette and continued to wait.

Ten minutes later, the door of the booth pushed open and Mala came in. She was still wearing her blue frock She had just been about to change when the waiter had brought Girland’s message. She was very tense and her eyes showed her alarm. When she saw Girland, she started back, half turned to run, then stopped, staring at him.

‘Hello, baby,’ Girland said, getting to his feet. ‘Come on in.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise of the people talking in the restaurant below. ‘Remember me? Yes, I see you do. Don’t look so scared. I’m always nice to lovely women.’

Mala remained motionless, staring at him, terrified.

‘What... what do you want?’

‘Sit down,’ Girland said. ‘Relax. You and I have lots to talk about. Would you like a drink?’

‘No... what do you want?’

‘Sit down.’ Girland pulled out a chair. ‘You don’t have to be scared of me. Come on... sit down.’

Very tense, reluctantly. Mala took the chair.

Girland said quietly. ‘Now watch carefully... this mean anything to you?’ He touched the knot of his tie ran his thumbs down the back of his coat lapels and tapped his right shoulder with his left hand. This was a combination of signals that all Dorey’s agents used when they contacted other agents they didn’t know.

Mala recognised the signals. She knew then this handsome, very dashing looking American had come from Dorey, but that didn’t still her fears.

She nodded.

‘Fine,’ Girland said. ‘Now listen carefully... you have a job to do.’ He began to tell her about Dorey’s plan to use him as a smoke screen, but Mala interrupted him.

‘Stop! I don’t want to hear! I’m not working for him anymore! Don’t tell me anything!’

Girland regarded her, his eyes hardening.

‘You are Dorey’s agent in Prague, aren’t you? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m not working any more for him!’ Mala said desperately. She got to her feet. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you!’

‘You’ll have to have something to do with me,’ Girland said. ‘Sit down!’

She hesitated, then seeing the expression in his eyes, she obeyed.

‘You’ve reached a point of no return,’ Girland said. ‘Now listen...’ Speaking briefly, he told her of Dorey’s plan to get Latimer into Prague, how Dorey had made him the smoke screen, and about the thirty thousand dollars. He went on to tell her about Bruckman’s part and how he had been shot. ‘So the money’s gone.’ Girland concluded. ‘We are now landed with a Top Secret document that must be got back to Dorey. I can’t get it out. Malik knows too much about me. It is now up to you...’ He paused as he saw she was shaking her head.

‘He didn’t get the money. We found it. It’s on the base of the angel,’ she said.

‘We? Who is we?’

Mala hesitated. There was something about this man that inspired her with confidence. He was so unlike Worthington. She felt, if anyone could help her, this man would. She told him about Worthington.

Girland listened, suppressing a groan.

There was a tap on the door. Both stiffened as the door opened. Worthington, wearing his horn spectacles and carrying his suitcase, came into the booth.