Vulture Is a Patient Bird

Chapter One

His built-in instinct for danger brought Fennel instantly awake. He raised his head from the pillow and listened. Black darkness surrounded him: the darkness of the blind. Listening, he could hear the gentle slap-slap of water against the side of the moored barge. He could hear Mimi’s light breathing. There was also a slight rhythmetic creaking as the barge heaved in the swell of the river. He could also hear rain falling lightly on the upper deck. All these sounds were reassuring. So why then, he asked himself, had he come so abruptly awake?

For the past month he had lived under the constant threat of death, and his instincts had sharpened. Danger was near: he felt it. He imagined he could even smell it.

Silently, he reached down and groped under the bed until his fingers closed around the handle of a police baton. Attached to the end of the baton was a short length of bicycle chain. This chain turned the baton into a deadly, vicious weapon.

Gently, so as not to disturb the sleeping woman at his side, Fennel raised the sheet and blanket and slid out of bed.

He was always meticulously careful to place his clothes on a chair by the bed: no matter where he stayed. To find his clothes, to dress quickly in the dark was vitally important when living under the threat of death.

He slid into his trousers and into rubber soled shoes. The woman in the bed moaned softly and turned over. Holding the flail in his right hand, he moved silently to the door. He had learned the geography of the barge and the solid darkness didn’t bother him. He found the well greased bolt and drew it back, then his fingers found the door handle and turned it. Gently, he eased open the door a few inches. He peered out into the rain and darkness. The slapping sound of water against the side of the barge, the increased sound of the rain blotted out all other sounds, but this didn’t deceive Fennel. There was danger out there in the darkness. He could feel the shorthairs on the nape of his neck bristling.

Cautiously, he opened the door wider so that he could see the full length of the deck faintly outlined by the street lights of the embankment. To his left, he could see the glow of light from London’s West-end. Again he listened; again he heard nothing to alarm him. But the danger was there… he was sure of it. He crouched, lay flat and slid out on to the cold, wet deck. Rain pattered down on his naked, powerful shoulders. He edged forward, then his lips came off his even white teeth in a snarl.

Some fifty metres from the moored barge, he could see a rowing boat drifting towards him. There were four powerfully built men crouching in the boat. He could see the outline of their heads and their shoulders against the glow of the distant lights. One of the men was using an oar to direct the boat towards the barge: his movements were careful and silent.

Fennel slid further on to the deck. His fingers tightened on the handle of the flail. He waited.

It would be wrong to describe Fennel as courageous as it would be wrong to describe a leopard as courageous. The leopard will run when it can, but when cornered, it becomes one of the most dangerous and vicious of all jungle beasts. Fennel was like the leopard. If he saw a way out, he ran, but if he were trapped, he turned into a nerveless animal determined only… no matter the means… on self preservation.

Fennel had known sooner or later they would find him. Well, they were here, drifting silently towards him. Their approach left him only with a vicious determination to protect himself. He was not frightened. He had been purged of fear once he knew for certain that Moroni had decreed that he should die.

He watched the boat as it drifted closer. They knew he was dangerous, and they were taking no risks. They wanted to get aboard, make a quick dash down into the bedroom and then the four of them would smother him while their knives carved him.

He waited, feeling the rain cold on his naked shoulders. The man with the oar dipped the blade and made a gentle stroke. The boat heaved over the wind-swept water at a faster rate.

Fennel was invisible in the shadows. He decided he had judged his position accurately. They would board the barge about four metres from where he was lying.

The rower shipped the oar and laid it gently as if it were made of spun sugar along the three seats of the boat. He now had enough way to bring the boat to the side of the barge.

The man sitting on the front seat stood up and leaned forward. He eased the boat against the side of the barge, then with an athletic spring, he came aboard. He turned and caught the hand of the second man who moved forward. As he was helping him on to the deck, Fennel made his move.

He rose up out of the darkness, slid across the slippery deck and slashed with the flail.

The chain caught the first man across his face. He gave a wild yell, staggered, then pitched into the river.

The second man, his reflexes swift, spun around, knife in hand to face Fennel, but the chain slashed him around the neck, tearing his skin and sending him reeling back. He clutched at nothing, then went into the water, flat on his back.

Fennel darted into the shadows. His grin was vicious and evil. He knew the other two men in the boat couldn’t see him. The light was behind them.

There was a moment of confusion. Then frantically, the man who had used the oar, grabbed it and began to pull away from the barge. The other man was trying to get his companions out of the river into the boat.

Fennel lay watching. His heart was hammering, and his breathing came in jerky snorts through his wide nostrils.

The two men were dragged aboard. The rower had the second oar now in the rowlock and was pulling away from the barge. Fennel remained where he was. If they saw him, they might risk a shot. He waited, shivering in the cold, until the boat disappeared into the darkness, then he got to his feet.

He leaned over the side of the barge to wash the blood off the chain. He felt the icy rain sliding down inside his trousers. He thought they might come back later, and if they did, the odds would be stacked against him. They would no longer be taken by surprise.

He shook the rain out of his eyes. He must get out, and get out fast.

He went down the eight steps into the big living and bedroom and flicked on the light.

The woman in bed sat up.

“What is it, Lew?”

He paid no attention to her. He stripped off his sodden trousers and walked naked into the small bathroom. God! He was cold! He turned on the hot shower tap, waited a moment, then stepped under the healing hot spray.

Mimi came into the bathroom. Her eyes were drugged with sleep, her long black hair touselled, her big breasts escaping from her nightdress.

“Lew! What is it?”

Fennel ignored her. He stood, thick, massive and short, under the hot spray of water, letting the water soak the thick hairs on his chest, belly and loins.

“Lew!”

He waved her away, then turned off the shower and took up a towel.

But she wouldn’t go away. She stood outside the bathroom, staring at him, her green, dark ringed eyes alight with fear.

“Get me a shirt… don’t stand there like a goddam dummy!”

He threw aside the towel.

“What happened? I want to know. Lew! What’s going on?”

He pushed past her and walked into the inner room. He jerked open the closet door, found a shirt and struggled into it, found a pair of trousers and slid into them. He pulled on a black turtle neck sweater, then shrugged himself into a black jacket with leather patches on the elbows. His movements were swift and final.

She stood in the doorway, watching.

“Why don’t you say something? Her voice was shrill. “What’s happening?”

He paused for a brief moment to look at her and he grimaced. Well, she had been convenient, he told himself, but no man in his right mind could call her an oil painting. Still, she had provided him with a hideout on this crummy barge for the past four weeks. Right now, without her plaster of make-up, she looked like hell. She was too fat. Those sagging breasts sickened him. Her anxious terror aged her. What was she… forty? But she had been convenient. It had taken Moroni four weeks to find him, but now it was time to leave. In three hours, Fennel thought, probably less, she would not even be a memory to him.

“A little trouble,” he said. “Nothing. Don’t get excited. Go back to bed.”

She moved into the room. The barge lifted slightly as the wind moved the river.

“Why are you dressing? What were you…”

Just shut up, will you? I’m leaving.”

Her face sagged.

“Leaving? Why? Where are you going?”

He took a cigarette from the box on the table. He was feeling fine now after the hot shower and more assured, but he knew she was going to be a nuisance. She was horribly possessive. She needed his brutal love-making… the reason why she had kept him there. She wasn’t going to be shaken off easily.

“Get into bed,” he said. “You’ll catch cold.” Thinking: as if I give a damn. “I have a phone call to make.”

She knew he was lying and she grabbed hold of his arm.

“You can’t leave me! I’ve done everything for you. You’re not to go!”

“For God’s sake, shut up!” Fennel snarled and shoving her aside, he crossed the room to the telephone. As he dialled the number, he looked at his wrist-watch. The time was 03.50 hrs. He waited, listening to the steady burr-burr-burr of the ringing tone. There was a click and a sleepy voice demanded, “W’o the “ell is this?”

“Jacey? This is Lew.”

“Gawd! I was asleep!”

“This earns you twenty nicker,” Fennel said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Get your car. Meet me at the Crown pub, King’s Road in twenty minutes, and I mean twenty minutes.”

“You crackers? Look at the time! W’ot’s up? I’m not coming out. It’s raining fit to drown a duck.”

“Twenty nickers… twenty minutes,” Fennel said quietly. There was a long pause. He could hear Jacey breathing heavily and imagined he could hear his greedy brain creaking.

“The Crown?”

“Yes.”

“The things I do! Well, okay. I’m on my way.”

Fennel replaced the receiver.

“You’re not leaving!” Mimi’s face blotched with red and her eyes were glaring. “I won’t let you leave!”

He ignored her and went swiftly to the dressing-table, jerked open a drawer and snatched up the essential articles he always kept there: a safety razor, a tube of brushless cream, a toothbrush, threepacks of Players cigarettes and a haircomb. These he stowed away in his jacket pocket.

She again grabbed hold of his arm.

“I’ve done everything for you!” she wailed. “You blasted jailbird! Without me, you would have starved!”

He shoved her away and crossed the room to the mantelpiece that framed a phony fireplace in which stood an electric stove. He took down a big Chinese teapot. The moment he touched it, she sprang forward and tried to take the teapot from him. Her eyes were wild, her long black hair hung over her face making her look like a demented witch.

“Take your hands off that!” she screamed.

The flickering evil in his washed out grey eyes should have warned her, but she was too frantic to stop him taking her savings to be warned.

“Take it easy, Mimi; he said. “I have to have it. I’ll let you have it back… promise.”

“No!”

She hooked her fingers and slashed at his face as her left hand wrenched at the teapot. Fennel jerked his head back, released the teapot and then savagely struck her on the side of the jaw. The force of the blow flung her backwards. She fell, her eyes rolling up and her head thudding on the floor. The teapot smashed to pieces as her grip was released and money spewed from it.

Fennel poked aside the pile of silver and picked up the small roll of ten pound notes. He didn’t look at the unconscious woman. He put the money in his hip pocket, picked up his flail and went up on deck. As far as he was concerned his thirty days with Mimi were chalk marks on the blackboard now erased.

Rain was falling heavily, and the wind felt bleak against his face. He stood for some seconds looking at the embankment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. Nothing moved. Hewould have to take a chance, he thought, and ran the landing plank, from the barge, down to the wet tarmac. He slid down the plank, gained the dark shadows and again paused to listen. Again he heard nothing to alarm him. His fingers tightened on the flail and keeping close to the embankment wall, he walked silently to the distant steps that led to the upper embankment.

If Jacey was late, he could be sunk, he thought. They would have to stop the bleeding: the one who had been hit on the neck would bleed like a stuck pig. Then they would telephone Moroni and report failure. Moroni would get four or five men down there fast. Fennel decided he had a possible half-hour of freedom: certainly not more.

But he had no need to worry. As he reached the darkened

Crown public house, he saw Jacey’s battered Morris pull up. He sprinted across the road, opened the car door and slid in.

“Back to your place, Jacey.”

“Wait a mo’,” Jacey said. The street light lit up his aged, rat face. “W’ot’s on the move?”

Fennel gripped Jacey’s thin wrist.

“Back to your place!” he snarled.

Jacey caught a glimpse of the vicious twist of the mouth and the half mad expression of contained rage. He grunted, engaged gear and set the Morris in motion.

Ten minutes later, the two men were in a small, shabbily furnished room, lit by a dusty, shadeless lamp that hung precariously from the dirty ceiling.

Jacey put a bottle of Black & White on the table and two glasses. He poured two stiff drinks and cradled his glass in his dirty hands while he regarded Fennel uneasily.

Jacey was a bookie’s clerk and did any odd job for the lesser tearaways to earn extra money. He knew Fennel to be a major tearaway. He had met him in Parkhurst jail when they were serving sentences: Fennel for robbery with violence: Jacey for trying to pass badly forged ten shilling notes. When they had been released, they had kept in touch and Jacey had been flattered to have a big man like Fennel interested in him. But now he was sorry he had had anything to do with Fennel. He had heard through the underworld grapevine that Fennel had talked and five of Moroni’s men had walked into a police trap. He knew Moroni had put the death sign on Fennel, but he was too greedy to pass up the chance of earning twenty pounds.

Fennel took out Mimi’s roll of ten pound notes. He pulled off two and tossed them on the table.

“Freeze on to those, Jacey,” he said. “I’m staying here for a couple of days.”

Jacey’s ferret-like eyes widened. He didn’t touch the money on the table.

“Can’t ’ave you ’ere for two days, Lew. Ain’t safe. They’ll carve me if they find out you’ve been “ere.”

“I can carve you too,” Fennel said softly. “And I’m here.”

Jacey scratched his unshaven chin. His eyes darted about the room while he considered the situation and the risks. Moroni was probably in bed, asleep, but Fennel was here. Fennel could be as dangerous as Moroni.

“Okay, then… two days… not an ’our more,” he said finally.

“In two days, I’ll be out of the country,” Fennel said. “I’ve got a job. Maybe, I won’t be coming back.” He finished his whisky and then walked into the inner room and over to the battered couch that served Jacey as a bed. He kicked off his shoes and lay down.

“You sleep on the floor, and turn that goddamn light off.”

“Go a’ead,” Jacey said bitterly. “Make yourself at ’ome.”

He reached up and turned off the light.

A week previously, Garry Edwards had seen in the Daily Telegraph the following advertisement:

Experienced helicopter pilot required for a three week unusual assignment. Exceptionally high remuneration. Send career details and photograph. Box S. 1012.

He had re-read the advertisement and had brooded over it. He liked the two words unusual and exceptional. He was looking for unusual work and badly needed exceptional money, so without telling Toni, he had written a letter to Box S.1012, setting out the details of his past career which was as full of lies as a colander is full of holes. He had enclosed a passport photograph and had mailed the letter.

A week had passed, and he now had given up all hope of any exceptional remuneration and any unusual job. On this cold, wet February morning, he sat in Toni’s small, untidy sitting-room with a cup of Nescafe by his side while he searched the Situations Vacant columns in the Daily Telegraph.

Garry Edwards was a tall, powerfully-built man of twenty-nine years of age. He was handsome in a rugged way, with humorous brown eyes and dark-brown hair worn fashionably long to his collar. His mouth could laugh easily or tighten to a dangerous thinness. As he sat on Toni’s broken down settee, dressed, in a white beach wrap, his long narrow feet bare, the wall clock showed the time was 08.45 hrs.

Having searched the Situations Vacant columns carefully, he dropped the newspaper to the floor in disgust. Well, he would have to do something pretty soon, he told himself. He had exactly one hundred and thirty pounds, five shillings and seven pence before he had to ask Toni to support him, and this, he told himself without much conviction, he would never do.

He had run into Toni White on the Calais—Dover channel boat. Happily, she had been in the bar when he had embarked with two tough-looking French detectives who remained with him until the vessel was about to sail. When they had gone, and after Garry had waved cheerfully to them as they stood on the rain-swept quay to see the vessel leave the harbour — a wave they had stonily ignored — he had gone down to the first class bar for his first drink in three years.

Toni had been sitting on a bar stool, her micro-mini skirt scarcely covering her crotch, sipping a Cinzano bitter on the rocks. He had ordered a double Vat 69 with a dash and then had saluted her. She seemed the kind of girl a man could salute if the man had a way with him, and Garry certainly had a way with him.

Toni was twenty-two years of age, blonde, elfin-like with big blue eyes with dark, heavy eyelashes a cow would envy. Also, she was very, very chic.

She regarded Garry thoughtfully and with penetration. She decided he was the most sexy-looking man she had ever seen, and she had a hot rush of blood through her body. She wanted to have him: to be laid by him as she had never been laid before in her short, sensual life.

She smiled.

Garry knew women. He knew all the signs, and realized that here was an invitation that needed little or no finesse.

He had in his wallet the sum of two hundred and ninety pounds: what remained of the sale of his aircraft before the French police had caught up with him. He was full of confidence and raring to go.

He finished his drink, then smiling, he said, “I would love to know you better. We have over an hour before we land. May I get a cabin?”

She liked his direct approach. She wanted him. His suggestion made everything simple. She laughed, then nodded.

It was easy to get a cabin, draw the curtains and lock themselves in. The steward had to rap a dozen times to remind them they had reached Dover and if they didn’t make haste, they would miss the boat train.

While sitting by his side in an otherwise empty first classcompartment on their way to London, Toni had told him she was a successful model, had plenty of work, had a two room apartment in Chelsea and if he wanted a roof… “well, honey-love, why not move in?”

Garry had been planning on a cheap room in some modest hotel off the Cromwell Road until he could take stock and find himself lucrative employment. He didn’t hesitate.

He had been living now with Toni for some three weeks, spending his remaining capital but not finding any lucrative employment. Now, with no prospects, he was getting slightly anxious. Toni, however, thought it all a huge joke.

“Why worry, you big gorgeous animal?” she had demanded the previous evening, jumping on to his lap and nibbling his ear. “I have all the money in the world! Let’s make hectic love!”

Garry finished his half-cold coffee, grimaced and then went to the window to stare down at the slow-moving traffic and at the stream of men and women, sheltering under umbrellas, hurrying to work.

He heard a sound at the front door: letters being dropped into the box.

Toni received many letters each morning from gibbering young men who adored her, but Garry hoped there just might be a letter for him. He collected fifteen letters from the box, flicked through them quickly and found one for himself. The deckled edge, handmade paper of the envelope was impressive. He ripped it open and extracted a sheet of paper.

The Royal Towers Hotel

London. W. I.

Would Mr. Garry Edwards please call at the above address on February 11th at 11.30 hrs. and ask for Mr. Armo Shalik. (Ref. Daily Telegraph. Box. S.1012).

Well, yes, Garry thought, he would certainly call on Mr Armo Shalik. With a name like that and with such an address there had tobe a smell of money.

He took the letter into the small bedroom.

Toni was sleeping heavily. She lay on her stomach, her shortie nightdress nicked up, her long, lovely legs spread wide.

Garry sat on the edge of the bed and admired her. She really was delightfully beautiful. He lifted his hand and smacked her sharply on her bare rump. She squirmed, closed her legs, blinked and looked over her shoulder at him. He smacked her again and she hurriedly spun around and sat up.

“That’s assault!” she declared. “Where are my pants?”

He found them for her at the end of the bed and offered them. She regarded him, smiling.

“Do I need them?”

“I shouldn’t have thought so,” Garry said with a grin. “I’ve had a letter. Could you turn your indecent mind to business for a moment?”

She looked questioningly at him.

“What’s cooking?”

He told her about the advertisement in the Daily Telegraph, that he had answered it, and now he had a reply. He gave her the letter.

“The Royal Towers! The newest and the best! What a lovely name! Armo Shalik! I smell bags and bags of gold and diamonds.” She tossed the letter into the air and threw her arms around Garry’s neck.

Around 11.00 hours. Garry detached himself from Toni’s clutch, took a shower and then dressed in a blue blazer and dark-blue Daks. He surveyed himself in the mirror.

“A little dark under the eyes,” he said, straightening his tie. But that is to be expected. Still, I think I look healthy, handsome andhandmade… what do you think, you beautiful doll?

Completely naked, Toni was sitting in the armchair, sipping coffee. She regarded him affectionately.

“You look absolutely gorgeous.”

Garry picked her out of the armchair and fondled her. Having kissed her, he dumped her back in the chair and left the apartment.

At exactly 11.30 hrs. he approached the hall porter of the Royal Towers Hotel and asked for Mr. Armo Shalik.

The hall porter surveyed him with that blank expression all hall porters wear when they neither approve nor disapprove. He called a number, spoke quietly, then replaced the receiver.

“Tenth floor, sir. Suite 27.”

Garry was whisked up by the express lift to the tenth floor. He was conducted by the lift-man to the door of Suite 27. He was obviously too important and too fragile to knock on the door. The lift-man did this service, bowed and retired.

The smell of money, as far as Garry was concerned, was now over-powering.

He entered a small distinguished room where a girl sat behind a desk on which stood three telephones, an I.B.M. golf ball typewriter, an intercom and a tape-recorder.

The girl puzzled Garry because although she had a nice figure, was dressed in a stylish black frock, was beautifully groomed, her hair immaculate, she was nothing to him but a sexless photograph of a woman long since dead. Her blank face, her immaculately plucked eyebrows, her pale lipstick merely emphasized her lack of charm: a robot that made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

“Mr. Edwards?”

Even her voice was metallic: a tape-recording badly reproduced.

“That’s me,” Garry said, and because he never liked to be

defeated by any woman, he gave her his charming smile.

It had no effect. The girl touched a button, paused, then said, “Mr. Edwards is here, sir.”

A green light flashed up on the intercom. Obviously, Mr. Shalik didn’t care to waste his breath. He preferred to press buttons than to talk.

The girl got up, walked gracefully to a far door, opened it and stood aside.

Impressed by all this, Garry again tried his smile which again bounced off her the way a golf ball bounces off a brick wall.

He moved past her into a large sunny room, luxuriously furnished with period pieces and impressive looking paintings that could have been by the great masters but probably weren’t.

At a vast desk sat a small, fat man, smoking a cigar, his chubby hands resting on the desk blotter. Garry judged him to be around forty-six years of age. He was dark-complexioned with close cut black hair, beady black eyes and a mouth that he used for food but not for smiles. Garry decided he was either an Armenian or an Egyptian. He had the stillness and the probing stare of power. As Garry walked slowly to the desk, the beady black eyes examined him. They were X-ray eyes, and by the time Garry had reached the desk, he had an uncomfortable feeling this fat little man knew him rather better than he knew himself.

“Sit down, Mr. Edwards.” The accent was a little thick. A chubby hand waved to a chair.

Garry sat down. He now regretted laying Toni an hour ago. He felt a little depleted and he had an idea that this fat little man wouldn’t have much time for depleted applicants for the job he was offering. Garry sat upright and tried to look intelligent.

Shalik sucked in rich smelling smoke and allowed it to drift from his mouth like the smoke from a small, but active volcano. He picked up a sheet of paper which Garry recognized as his letter of application and he studied it for several moments, then he tore it upand dropped it into a hidden wastepaper basket.

“You are a helicopter pilot, Mr. Edwards?” he asked, resting his hands on the blotter and regarding the ash of his cigar with more interest than he regarded Garry.

“That’s correct. I saw your ad and I thought…”

The chubby hand lifted, cutting Garry off.

“This nonsense you have written about yourself… at least, it proves you have imagination.”

Garry stiffened.

“I don’t get that. What do you mean?”

Shalik touched off his cigar ash into a gold bowl at his elbow.

“I found your lies amusing,” he said. “I have had you investigated. You are Garry Edwards, aged twenty-nine, and you were born in Ohio, U.S.A. Your father ran a reasonably successful service station. When you were sufficiently educated, you worked with your father and you came to know about motor cars. You and your father didn’t get along. Probably faults on both sides, but that is of no interest to me. You had the opportunity to learn to fly: you took it. You have talent with machines. You got a job as an air chauffeur to a Texas oilman who paid you well. You saved your money. The job didn’t interest you. You met a wetback smuggler who persuaded you to smuggle Mexicans into the States. The pay was good, and when the operation was over, you decided to go into the smuggling business. You went to Tangiers, bought your own aircraft and flew consignments of various contrabands into France. You prospered as smugglers do for a time. However, you became greedy as smugglers do and you made a mistake. You were arrested. Your co-pilot managed to get your plane in the air while you were struggling with the police. He sold your plane and banked the money for you to have when you came out of the French prison after serving a three year sentence. You were deported from France and you are here.” Shalik stubbed out his cigar and looked at Garry. “Would you say my information is correct?”

Garry laughed.

“Dead on the nail.” He got to his feet. “Well, it was a try. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

Shalik waved him back to his chair.

“Sit down. I think you are the man I am looking for. You can satisfy me that you have a pilot’s licence and that you can handle a helicopter?”

“Of course,” Garry returned and lugged out a plastic folder which he had brought along and laid it on the desk. Then he sat down again.

Shalik examined the papers which the folder contained. He took his time, then he returned the folder.

“Satisfactory.” He took another cigar from his desk drawer, regarded it carefully, then cut the end with a gold cutter. “Mr. Edwards, am I right in thinking you would be prepared to handle a job that is not entirely honest so long as the money is right?”

Garry smiled.

“I’d like that qualified. What do you mean… not entirely honest?”

“Difficult, unethical work that does not involve the police in any way, but pays handsomely.”

“Can you make it clearer than that?”

“I am offering three thousand dollars a week for a Three-week assignment. At the end of the assignment you will be nine thousand dollars better off. There are certain risks, but I can promise you the police won’t come into it.”

Garry sat upright. Nine thousand dollars!

“What are the risks?”

“Opposition.” Shalik regarded his cigar with indifferent, beady eyes. “But life is made up of opposition, isn’t it, Mr. Edwards?”

“Just what do I have to do to earn this money?”

“That will be explained to you tonight. You will not be alone. The risks and responsibilities will be shared. What I want to know now is if you are willing to do three weeks work for nine thousand dollars.”

Garry didn’t hesitate.

“Yes… I am.”

Shalik nodded.

“Good. Then you will come here at 21.00 hrs. tonight when I will introduce you to the other members of the team and I will explain the operation.” The chubby hand made a slight signal of dismissal.

Garry got to his feet.

“Please don’t talk about this assignment to anyone. Mr. Edwards,” Shalik went on. “You must regard it as top secret.”

“Sure… I’ll say nothing.”

Garry left the room.

The girl at the desk got up and opened the door for him. He didn’t bother to smile at her. His mind was too preoccupied. Nine thousand dollars! Wow!

The girl watched him enter the lift and then she returned to her desk. She sat for some moments, listening. Then hearing nothing from the inner room, she softly opened a drawer in her desk and turned off a small tape-recorder whose spools were conveying tape through the recording head.

Precisely at 21.00 hrs. Garry was shown into Shalik’s office by the dark-haired girl who he knew now by the name-plate on her desk to be Natalie Norman.

There were two men sitting uneasily in chairs, smoking andwaiting. They both looked closely at Garry as he took a chair. In his turn, he looked closely at them.

The man on his left was short and heavily built. He reminded Garry a little of Rod Steiger, the Oscar-winning movie star. His close cut woolly hair was white, his washed out grey eyes shifty. His thin lips and square chin hinted at viciousness.

The other man was some ten years younger: around Garry’s age. He was of middle height, thin, his hair bleached almost white by the sun and his skin burnt to a dark mahogany. He wore a straggly moustache and long sideboards. Garry liked the look of him immediately, but disliked the look of the other man.

As he settled himself in the chair, a door at the far end of the room opened and Shalik entered.

“So you have all arrived,” he said, coming to his desk. He sat down and went through the ritual of lighting a cigar while he looked at each man in turn with intent, probing eyes. “Let me introduce you to each other.” He pointed his cigar at Garry. “This is Mr. Garry Edwards. He is a helicopter pilot and a car expert. He has spent three years in a French prison on smuggling charges.” The other two men looked sharply at Garry who stared back at them. The cigar then pointed to the younger man. “This is Mr. Kennedy Jones who has flown from Johannesburg to attend this meeting,” Shalik went on. “Mr. Jones is a safari expert. There is nothing he can’t tell you about wild animals, South Africa in general and the fitting out of an expedition into the African bush. I might add Mr. Jones has had the misfortune to spend a few years in a Pretoria jail.” Jones stared up at the ceiling, a grin hovering around his humorous mouth. There was a pause, then Shalik went on, “Finally, this is Mr. Lew Fennel who is an expert safe breaker… I believe that is the term. He is regarded by the police and the underworld as the top man in his so-called profession. He too has served a number of years in prison.” Shalik paused and looked at the three men. “So, gentlemen, you have something in common.”

None of them said anything: they waited.

Shalik opened a drawer in his desk and took out a folder.

“The introductions concluded, let us get down to business.” He opened the folder and took from it a large glossy photograph. This he handed to Fennel who stared with puzzled eyes at the medieval diamond ring shown in the photograph. He shrugged and passed the photograph to Garry who in turn passed it to Jones.

“You are looking at a ring,” Shalik said, “designed by Caesar Borgia.” He looked at the three men. “I take it you all know of Caesar Borgia?”

“He’s the guy who poisoned people, wasn’t he?” Fennel said.

“I think that is a fair description. Yes, among many other things, he poisoned or caused to be poisoned a number of people. This ring you see in the photograph was designed by Borgia and made by an unknown goldsmith in 1501. To look at the ring, it would be hard to believe that it is a lethal weapon, but that is what it is… a very lethal weapon. It works in this way. There is a tiny reservoir under the cluster of diamonds and this reservoir was filled with a deadly poison. In the cluster of diamonds is a microscopic hollow needle of exceptional sharpness. When Borgia wished to get rid of an enemy, he had only to turn the ring so the diamonds and needle were worn inside and he had only to clasp the hand of his enemy to inflict a small scratch. The enemy would be dead in a few hours.

“The ring was lost for four centuries. It turned up in the effects of a Florentine banker who died with his wife and family in a car crash a couple of years ago. His effects were sold. Fortunately, an expert recognized the ring and bought it for a song. It was offered to me.” Shalik paused to tap ash off his cigar. “Among my various activities, I buy objets d’art and sell them to wealthy collectors. I knew of a client who specialized in Borgia treasures. I sold him the ring. Six months later, the ring was stolen. It has taken me a long time to find out where it is. It was stolen by agents working for another collector who has acquired, through these agents, probably the finest collection of art treasures in the world. This operation, Gentlemen, which I am asking you to handle, is for you three to recover the ring.”

There was a long pause, then Fennel, sitting forward, said, “You mean we steal it?”

Shalik looked at Fennel with distaste.

“Putting it crudely, you could say that,” he said. “I have already pointed out there is no question of police interference. This collector has stolen the ring from my client. You take it from him. He is in no position to complain to the police.”

Fennel let his cigarette ash drop on the rich Persian carpet as he asked, “How valuable is this ring?”

“That doesn’t concern you. It is, of course, valuable, but it has a specialized market.” Shalik paused, then went on, “I will tell you a few details about the man who now has the ring. He is enormously rich. He has a compulsive urge to own the finest art treasures he can lay his hands on. He is utterly unscrupulous. He has a network of expert art thieves working for him. They have stolen many objets d’art from the world’s greatest museums, and even from the Vatican, to fill his museum which is without doubt the finest in the world.”

Feeling he should make a contribution to this discussion, Garry asked, “And where is this museum?”

“On the borders of Basutoland and Natal… somewhere in the Drakensberg mountains.”

Kennedy Jones leaned forward.

“Would you be talking about Max Kahlenberg?” he asked sharply.

Shalik paused to touch off his cigar ash.

“You know of him?

“Who doesn’t, who has lived in South Africa?”

“Then suppose you tell these two gentlemen what you know about him.”

“He’s the man who has the ring?”

Shalik nodded.

Jones drew in a long, slow breath. He rubbed his jaw, frowning, then lit a cigarette. As he exhaled smoke, he said, “I only know what is common knowledge. Kahlenberg is a bit of a mythical figure on which all kinds of weird rumours stick. I do know his father, a German refugee from the First World War, struck it rich, finding one of the biggest gold mines just outside Jo’burg. Old Karl Kahlenberg was shrewd and no fool. He invested well and milked his mine dry. From what I hear, he ended up with millions. He married a local girl when he was over sixty years old. He married because he wanted a son to carry on his name. He got his son: Max Kahlenberg. There was a real mystery about the birth. No one except the doctor and the nurse saw the baby. There was a rumour it was a freak… some even said it was a monster. Anyway, no one ever set eyes on the baby. The old man died in a hunting accident. Mrs. Kahlenberg moved from Jo’burg and built a house in the heart of the Drakensberg range. She continued to keep her son hidden, cutting herself off from all social contacts. She died some twenty years ago. Max Kahlenberg remains a recluse. He is supposed to be as clever as his father. He has enlarged the house his mother built. He has around one hundred square miles of jungle surrounding the house and he employs a number of trained Zulus to keep hikers, tourists and gapers away from the house.” Jones paused, then leaning forward, stabbing his finger into the palm of his hand, he went on, “From what I’ve heard, getting near Kahlenberg’s place would be like trying to open an oyster with your fingers.”

Again there was a long pause, then Fennel crushed out his cigarette and looked at Shalik, his eyes narrowed.

“Is what he says right?”

Shalik lifted his fat shoulders.

“A fairly accurate statement,” he said. “I have never said that this is an easy assignment. After all, I am paying very well. The approach to Khalenberg’s house is not easy, but not impossible. I have a considerable amount of information which will help you.”

“That’s fine,” Fennel said with a little sneer, “but suppose we get to the house… how do we get in?”

“Although Mr. Jones has a fair knowledge of Kahlenberg’s background,” Shalik said. “He has omitted — or perhaps he doesn’t know — the fact that although Kahlenberg is a cripple, he is fond of beautiful women.” He leaned back in his chair. “Every fortress has its soft underbelly if you know where to look for it. I have a woman who will act as your Trojan Horse. If she can’t get you into Kahlenberg’s house, no one can.”

He pressed a button his desk.

There was a long pause, then the door behind Shalik opened and the most sensational, beautiful woman any of the three men, gaping at her, had ever seen, came slowly into the room and paused by Shalik’s desk.