Whiff of Money

One

On this brilliantly sunny May morning, Paris was looking at its best.

From his large office window, John Dorey, head of the French division of the Central Intelligence Agency, surveyed the trees with their fresh green foliage, the young girls in their new spring outfits and the Place de la Concorde, besieged as usual by traffic. He felt it was good to be alive. He glanced at the few files on his desk and was glad there was nothing for his immediate attention. Relaxing back in his executive chair, he contemplated the view through the window with a benign smile.

With thirty-nine years’ service in Intelligence behind him, Dorey, aged sixty-six had good reason to be pleased with himself. Not only did he hold the exalted rank of Divisional Director (Paris), but he also had been practically begged to remain in office beyond the usual retiring age. This was unassailable proof that his work had been and was still beyond reproach and that he could consider himself indispensable.

Dorey was a small, bird-like man, wearing rimless spectacles. He looked more like a successful banker than what he was: the shrewd, ruthless Director of an extremely efficient organisation whose secret machinations and wealth were so vast that few people realised just how powerful it was.

As Dorey was thinking that the girl, waiting to cross the street and who was wearing a gay micro-mini dress, was the perfect picture of a spring morning, his telephone bell buzzed.

Dorey frowned. The telephone was the bane of his life. One moment he had peace and quiet: the next moment the telephone would shatter the atmosphere as nothing else could.

Lifting the receiver, he said, ‘Yes?’

Mavis Paul, his secretary, announced, ‘Captain O’Halloran on the line, sir. Shall I put him through?’

Captain Tim O’Halloran was in charge of all the CIA agents in Europe. He was not only Dorey’s right hand man, but also a close friend.

Dorey sighed. Whenever O’Halloran telephoned, there was usually trouble.

‘Yes… I’ll talk to him.’ When the line clicked, Dorey went on, ‘Is that you, Tim?

‘Good morning, sir.’ O’Halloran’s gravelly voice was curt. ‘Would you scramble, please?’

Trouble! Dorey thought as he pressed down the scrambler button. ‘Okay, Tim… what is it?’

‘I’ve had a report phoned in by Alec Hammer… he covers Orly airport. He tells me that Henry Sherman has just arrived off the overnight flight from New York. Sherman is wearing a disguise and travelling on a false passport.’

Dorey blinked. He wondered if his hearing was failing. When you reach the age of sixty-six.

‘Who did you say?’

‘Henry Sherman. The Henry Sherman.’

Dorey felt a rush of blood to his head.

‘Is this a joke?’ he demanded, his voice sharp. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Henry Sherman has just left Orly airport, heading for central Paris, wearing a disguise and with a false passport,’ O’Halloran repeated woodenly.

I don’t believe it! There must be a mistake! Sherman is in Washington! I…’

I know where he is supposed to be, sir, but right now he is on his way to the centre of Paris. Hammer is sure of this.

You may remember Hammer was Sherman’s bodyguard for four years before he was transferred to us. Hammer says Sherman’s walk, the way he swings his arms and jerks his head are unmistakable. This man, wearing a moustache and dark glasses travelled tourist class from New York. Hammer says this man is Henry Sherman. Hammer is one of my best men. He doesn’t make mistakes.’

‘But Sherman is guarded night and day by the F.B.I.! He couldn’t possibly have left Washington without them knowing and we would have been alerted. Hammer must be mistaken!’

‘No, sir.’ There was now a note of impatience in O’Halloran’s voice. ‘And another thing: this man is travelling on Jack Cain’s passport. You will remember Cain looks very much like Sherman and was used two or three times last year as a decoy to get the Press away from Sherman. Since then Cain has grown a moustache’

‘Are you sure this man isn’t Cain?’

‘I’m sure. I’ve been checking. Right now, Cain is in hospital with a fractured leg from a car accident. Sherman is supposed to be in bed at his residence with flu. Only his wife sees him. No one else goes into his room. Somehow, Sherman has evaded his guards while his wife is pretending he is still in bed. I am convinced that Hammer is right: Henry Sherman is footloose in Paris.’

‘Do you know where he is staying?’

‘No sir. Hammer lost him when Sherman took the only taxi from Orly airport. Hammer has the number of the taxi. He’s waiting at Orly to see if the taxi returns so he can get a line on Sherman, but it’s a long shot. Do you want me to check all the hotels?’

Dorey hesitated, his mind working swiftly. Finally, he said, ‘No. Did Sherman have any luggage with him?’

‘A small suitcase… that’s all.’

‘Then leave it, Tim. Warn Hammer to say nothing. If he spots the taxi he is to try to find out where Sherman was taken, but he mustn’t make a thing of it. This could be a very tricky one. Stay near a telephone, Tim. I could need you in a hurry,’ and Dorey hung up.

He pushed back his chair and stared sightlessly across the room his mind busy.

If this man was really Henry Sherman, the thought, what in the world was he doing in Paris? He was pretty sure that O’Halloran was right and this man was Sherman. Had Sherman gone out of his mind? Dorey dismissed this thought immediately. The fact that Mary Sherman had obviously helped her husband to make this dangerous and mysterious journey must mean that they were both involved in a very serious, personal matter which had forced Sherman to sneak out of the country and come to Paris.

Dorey wiped his damp hands on his handkerchief. If the Press got hold of this story! Henry Sherman of all people, in a disguise and travelling on a false passport!

Dorey had reason to be alarmed for Henry Sherman was running for the Presidency of the United States and so far he was well ahead of the small field. Apart from being the very possible future President, Sherman was one of the richest and most powerful men in America. He was the President of the American Steel Corporation, Chairman of the United American & European Airways, and he held innumerable directorships on various important boards. His influence was considerable and he was on first-name terms with all the important members of the present Government. He had always led an immaculate private life, and his wife, it had been generally agreed, would make the ideal First Lady.

Dorey had known Sherman for some forty-five years. As freshmen, they had shared a room together at Yale University.

Thinking back, Dorey realised what a dynamo Sherman had been even at the beginning of his spectacular career and how much Sherman had inspired him to work to gain his own position in the world when there had been times when he could have lagged behind. Dorey was very much aware that it was due to Sherman’s influence that he was still at his desk instead of eating his heart out in retirement. He had heard that Sherman had said: ‘Retire Dorey? Why? Because he is sixty-five? Ridiculous! He has years of experience behind him. He has tremendous drive still and he is utterly ruthless… we can’t afford to be without him… so keep him!’ Dorey remembered this. Although he had to admit that often Sherman was too tough, too anti-Russia, too anti-China and made enemies easily, Dorey felt an unshakeab le loyalty towards this man who had done so much for him. If there was anything he could do for Sherman, he wanted to do it. But what should he do in this situation? Sherman was no fool. He must know he was risking his chances of becoming President by coming to Paris as he had done. What a scandal would blow up if this reckless move were to be discovered! The Press of the world would make headlines of it!

Dorey thought for some minutes, then he made his decision. The best thing he could do for Sherman was to do nothing.

He knew Sherman was very capable of looking after himself. O’Halloran had been warned to do nothing. Hammer was a good agent and he wouldn’t talk. Dorey decided to let Sherman remain anonymous, to do what he had come to do, then return to his supposed sick bed. If no one interfered, Sherman would do exactly this, but suppose someone did?

Dorey looked out at the sunshine and at the green trees. The view no longer held any charms for him. Suppose the French police picked Sherman up and charged him with travelling on a false passport? Suppose some crackpot who hated him — as many crackpots hated him — recognised him and assassinated him? Suppose…

Dorey flinched. Anything could happen to a man of Sherman’s stature. But what was he to do?

As if in answer to this question, the telephone bell buzzed.

‘What is it?’ Dorey snapped, anxious not to be disturbed from his line of thinking.

I have a caller on the line, sir,’ Mavis Paul said. ‘He won’t give his name. He says you and he were at Yale together.’

Dorey drew in a long breath of relief.

‘Put him through at once.’

There was a brief pause, then a man’s voice said, ‘Is that you, John?’

‘Yes. Don’t identify yourself. I know who you are. I am entirely at your service. Is there anything I can do?’

I want to see you… it’s urgent.’

Dorey cast a quick eye at his engagement diary. He had two appointments set up within the next two hours, but neither of them was important.

‘Where are you?’

‘Hotel Pare, Rue Meslay.’

‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes. Please remain in your room. I take it I ask for Mr Jack Cain?’ Dorey couldn’t resist this and it pleased him to hear a startled catch of breath at the other end of the line.

‘Yes, but…’

‘I’m on my way.’ Dorey hung up, snatched his coat and hat from the rack and walked quickly into the outer office.

Mavis Paul, dark, beautifully built and very assured, paused in her typing. She had been with Dorey now for a little over a year, and both of there had come to respect each other. Mavis was conscientious, serious, in spite of her glamour, ambitious and a ferocious worker: all qualities that Dorey admired, but at this moment, he was not in an admiring mood.

His cold, set expression startled Mavis.

‘ I may not be back before three,’ he said, scarcely pausing.’ Cancel my appointments. Say I am not well,’ and he was gone.

Mavis was too experienced not to put two and two together. O’Halloran had telephoned: a stranger had telephoned, and now her boss had shot off like a rocket. These brief events added up to trouble, but Mavis was used to trouble. She shrugged her pretty shoulders and reached for her address book to cancel the appointments.

Dorey drove his Jaguar to Hotel Pare, a small, dingy hotel near Place de la Republique. As was to be expected in this arrondissement — as in all arrondissements of Paris — he found no parking space. He finally left the Jaguar on a pedestrian crossing within a minute’s walk from the hotel, certain a contravention would be waiting under his windscreen wiper on his return.

Reaching the hotel, he paused to regard the entrance, thinking at least Sherman had been discreet. No one in their right minds would imagine the future President of the United States would stay at such a place.

He pushed open the glass door, smeared with finger prints, and entered the tiny lobby that smelt of garlic and faulty drains. A bald-headed, fat man sat behind the reception desk, aimlessly turning the pages of Le Figaro. Behind him was a rack of keys and by his side, a small, antiquated telephone switchboard.

‘Monsieur Jack Cain?’ Dorey said, coming to rest in front of the desk.

The bald-headed man blinked sleepily. ‘Who, monsieur?’ Dorey repeated the name.

Reluctantly, the bald-headed man took a tattered register from a drawer and examined it. Then he nodded his head as he said, ‘Room 66, monsieur. Third floor.’ He then returned to his aimless reading.

As he climbed the three flights of stairs, covered by green, threadbare carpet, the smells seemed to grow stronger and Dorey wrinkled his nose. He reached the third-floor landing, walked along a dimly-lit corridor until he found Room 66.

He paused, aware that his heart was beating a little too fast. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the climb or because he was about to face the future President of the United States.

He rapped gently on the door. After a brief pause, the door opened.

‘Come in, John.’

Dorey moved into a small, shabbily furnished bedroom and Henry Sherman closed and locked the door. The two men regarded each other.

Sherman was an imposing, massive figure of a man in his late fifties. Some six feet three inches tall, he had broad shoulders, a fleshy, deeply tanned face, piercing, steel-blue eyes and a thin hard mouth. He was not only handsome, but he exuded that authoritative air and personality that put him in the top echelon of V.I.Ps.

Dorey hadn’t seen him now for some five years. He could see the change in him. Something pretty bad must have happened, Dorey decided, for Sherman to look so haggard and to have these black smudges of worry under his steel-blue eyes.

‘It’s good to see you again, John,’ Sherman said. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ He paused, looking at Dorey, then went on, ‘How did you get onto Jack Cain?

Dorey slid out of his coat. As Sherman sat on the bed, Dorey took the only upright chair.

‘You were spotted leaving Orly, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘Your embarkation card was checked. O ‘Halloran called me. I told him to lay off.’ Sherman passed his hand over his face. His massive shoulders sagged a little. ‘But how could I have been spotted?’ he asked without looking up.

‘Alec Hammer covers Orly. You remember him? He recognized your walk.’

Sherman looked up. His tired face split into a rueful grin.

‘You have good men working for you, John.’

‘Yes. When do you plan to leave here, sir?’

‘I’m booked out on the next flight in three hours’ time. Can you guess why I am here?’

Dorey shook his head.

‘No, sir. Something pretty urgent, of course. You’re taking one hell of a risk… but I don’t have to tell you that.’

Again Sherman smiled wearily.

‘I know it, but Mary and Cain co-operated. Otherwise, I would never have got here.’ He leaned forward, his massive hands on his knees and stared directly at Dorey. I am here because you are the only man I can rely on to keep me in the Presidential race… and I mean that.’

Dorey shifted uneasily, but his deadpan expression didn’t change.

‘It will be my pleasure, sir, to do the best I can. What am I to do?’

Sherman continued to stare at him.

‘You mean that?’

‘Yes… I mean it’

I knew I could rely on you, John. Goddamn it! You and I are old friends. When this mess blew up, I told Mary you were the only one I could trust to help. Mary fixed it. Without her, I’d never have got here.’ There was a pause, then Sherman went on, T haven’t much time. I want you to see something, then we’ll talk. Sit where you are.’

He got to his feet, crossing the room to where his suitcase stood against the wall. From the suitcase he took an 8 mm film projector, neatly stowed away in its blue carrying case. Quickly, he assembled the machine, threaded on a spool of film, then set the projector on the shabby dressing-table. He plugged into the lamp socket, pulled the thick, dusty curtains, shutting out the late morning sunlight.

Dorey watched all this uneasily.

Neither man said anything until Sherman had switched on the projector, quickly focusing the picture on the grubby white wall in front of Dorey, then he said, ‘I’ve seen this. I don’t want to see it again.’ He crossed the room, his body cutting off the picture on the wall for a brief moment, then he sat on the bed, his face in his hands, his eyes staring bleakly at the threadbare carpet by the bed.

Dorey watched the film. It was one of those blue films so popular at American stag parties: obscene, crude, sexually brash and to Dorey utterly disgusting. The male participant had a black hood over his head, disguising his features. The girl was around twenty-two years of age, dark, sun-tanned and sensually and sensationally built. The film lasted some five minutes and Dorey was relieved when the spool ran out. He had often heard of these blue films, but he had never seen one before. He was shocked to see living proof on this film that a man and a woman could behave in a way no animal would behave. He felt a sense of outrage. What was Sherman thinking of, showing him this filth?

As the end of the film began to flick around in its spool, Sherman got up, switched off the projector, then walked across the room and drew back the curtains. He turned and looked at Dorey who had taken off his spectacles and was looking anywhere but at Sherman.

Sherman said quietly, his voice unsteady, ‘The girl in that film, John, is my daughter.’

As Captain O’Halloran was pleased that his agent, Alec Hammer, had been alert enough to identify Henry Sherman so too was Serge Kovski, head of the Paris division of Soviet Security, pleased that his agent, Boris Drina, had also identified Sherman.

Drina, a fat, suety-faced, nondescript-looking man in his late forties, spent much of his time hanging around Orly airport. Kovski had placed him there because he knew Drina lacked courage and brains and was idle. The only reason why Drina was retained as an agent was because he possessed an extraordinary photographic memory. Once he had had a glimpse of someone, he could identify him, even after a long period of time. Imprinted on his mind were this man’s characteristics, his features and even the sound of his voice.

Four years ago, Henry Sherman, with his wife, had arrived at Orly for a dinner with the President of France. Drina had seen this tall, massively-built man leave Orly, and the camera in Drina’s mind had photographed this man’s movements, his swinging walk, the quick jerk of his head and the sound of his voice. All this remained an undeveloped negative in Drina’s mind until he spotted Sherman, now wearing a moustache and dark glasses move from behind the Douane barrier and make his way quickly to the taxi rank.

Drina knew immediately that this man was the likely President of the United States. Unlike Alec Hammer who couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes and hesitated, Drina relied on his photographic memory and immediately moved into action. He followed Sherman, and as Sherman was taking the only taxi on the rank, Drina was close enough to hear him say, ‘Hotel Pare, Rue Meslay.’

Drina had managed to get this close by pretending to take the taxi while Sherman was speaking to the driver.

Seeing him about to get into the taxi, Sherman said curtly, ‘This is mine, monsieur.’

Drina lifted his shabby hat that looked like a drowned cat and backed away.

‘Excuse me.’

As soon as the taxi had driven off, Drina walked quickly to the nearest telephone kiosk. Any exertion made him breathless as he lived on a diet of vodka, onion soup and too much bread. Before putting through the call to Kovski, he paused to get back his breath.

His report electrified Kovski. Knowing Drina’s reliable, photographic memory, Kovski didn’t waste time querying if Drina just might be mistaken.

The two men spoke in Russian.

Kovski said, ‘Go to the Hotel Pare immediately. I will send Labrey there. Every move Sherman makes must be reported to me. I will see Labrey has a radio car. Go at once. You have done well.’

Drina had his own car parked at Orly. Even while Alec Hammer was still talking to O’Halloran, Drina half-ran, half-walked to his car, then scrambling breathlessly into the car, he started the engine.

You have done well was music to his ears. He couldn’t remember when last Kovski had given him any praise. His heart beating fast, his breath wheezing through his fat covered lungs, Drina sent his Renault shooting along the autoroute towards Paris.

The girl in this film is my daughter.

For a moment Dorey again wondered if his hearing was failing, but one look at Sherman’s haggard face and the cold misery in his eyes told him he had heard aright.

Dorey’s mind worked swiftly. Vaguely now, he remembered hearing that Sherman had a daughter. The last time he had heard anything of her was that she was being educated at an expensive school in Switzerland. When was that? Possibly six or seven years ago. Since then he had heard nothing of her. Whenever Sherman and his wife went on vacation, attended premieres or important dinners, the daughter was conspicuous by her absence. Dorey recalled the girl in the film. Now he knew who she was, he realised she took after her mother. She had Mary’s beauty, Mary’s slimness, long legs and beautiful hands.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ was all he could say.

‘Yes.’ Sherman sat on the bed. ‘You’d better hear the whole, sordid story, John.’ He paused, rubbing his hands across his face. ‘Gillian and I have never hit it off.’ He looked directly at Dorey.

‘I guess it was half my fault… half hers. Maybe more my fault than hers because I didn’t want children. Anyway, from the very beginning when she was a baby, we resented each other and she was a complete little hellion. She deliberately set out to be difficult, making blackmailing scenes, yelling and screaming if she didn’t get her own way. When she reached her teens she became insufferable… anyway to me. How the hell can a man work when there is pop music, long-haired creeps, shouting and yelling, Gillian kicking up trouble every hour of the day? I just couldn’t stand it any longer. Why the hell should I? It was my house and Gillian turned it into a goddamn zoo. So I packed her off to Switzerland. The school was top class and they promised to discipline her. She remained in Switzerland, not coming home at all, for four years. God! It was a relief to get her out of my hair… you have no idea the peace I had once she had gone! Well, she stayed at the school until she was nineteen. By then Mary and I were used to living without her.’

Sherman looked down at his massive hands, frowning. ‘Both of us were constantly busy. When we found time to take a vacation we went with a group of people who were helping me build my political career…there was no place for a teenage daughter. Anyway, Gillian would have been bored stiff with the people I moved around with, so we arranged for her to stay in Europe. We wrote regularly, of course. She didn’t seem to be interested in anything so I suggested she should study architecture. She agreed. I found a woman professor to go around with her, teach her, take her to France, Germany and Italy and generally keep an eye on her.

Then eighteen months ago, I heard from her professor that she had packed her things and had gone off into the blue.’

Sherman paused. I thought maybe this was the best thing that could happen. I was busy… Mary, of course, was worried, but frankly, John, Mary was also busy… she wants to become the First Lady as much as I want to become the President.’

Dorey was only half-listening to this. He couldn’t get out of his mind the pictures of the naked girl he had watched with so much disgust. Sherman’s daughter! He felt a chill run up his spine. If this film got into the wrong hands, not only would Sherman be politically finished, but his social life would also be ruined.

Sherman was saying, ‘Of course I accept some of the blame. We’ve behaved selfishly, but Gillian just doesn’t fit in with our way of life nor we with hers. I thought it best to let her make her own life. I was ready to give her money, but she never asked for it.’ He paused to stare at Dorey who sat motionless, his legs crossed, his hands in his lap. ‘We tried to bury her, and this is the result.’

‘Yes,’ Dorey said, feeling he was expected to say something. ‘I understand.’

Sherman forced a rueful smile.

‘That’s because you are loyal to me, John. Most people would say I deserve what I’m getting. We have been neglectful parents and now we are reaping the whirlwind… and my God!… what a hell of a whirlwind!’ He took from his wallet a piece of paper and handed it to Dorey. ‘Take a look at this.’

Dorey unfolded the paper. The typewritten note ran:

Dorey studied the uneven typing. He held the letter up to the light, studying the faint watermark. ‘You have the envelope, sir?’

‘The film and the letter came in the Diplomatic bag,’ Sherman said. He opened a brief-case, lying on the bed and took out a stout manilla envelope. He handed it to Dorey. The envelope was addressed to: Mr. Henry Sherman, 134, Whiteside Crescent. Washington. c/o American Embassy. Paris. Please forward. Personal & Urgent.

There was a pause, then Sherman said, ‘Well, John? You see why I am here. Someone in Paris — and this is your territory — is blackmailing me to give up running for the Presidency. Mary and I have talked it over. She wanted me to give up, but then I thought of you. Jack Cain has always served me well. I went to see him in hospital, told him I had to come to Paris and asked him to lend me his passport. He gave it to me without hesitation even though he knew if this leaked, he’d lose his job. So, here I am. If you can’t come up with a solution, I’ll have to withdraw from the election. I don’t have to tell you that being the President means more to me than anything that has happened in my life so far. Can you come up with a solution?’

Dorey’s agile mind was already busy with the problem. Seeing his expression of concentration, Sherman sat back and lit a cigar with an unsteady hand. He had to wait several minutes before Dorey said, T could find this blackmailer in a few days and I could put him out of business. I have the men and the organisation to do it. That’s why I’m in office. But this isn’t the solution, I’m afraid.’ He looked directly at Sherman. ‘You and I are friends. We have things in common. You have done a lot for me, and I would more than welcome the opportunity to do something for you. But you have enemies. Some of my men wouldn’t want you as President. They don’t agree with your views… that’s their privilege. It would be impossible for me to use my network on this problem without one or maybe more of my agents deliberately leaking the news that your daughter is in a blue film. I’m putting this bluntly because we haven’t much time. As I see it, I can’t, use my organisation to help you. You know how my system works. Every assignment I work on has its own file; a copy always goes to Washington. To open a file on this problem is unthinkable. I’m sorry, sir, but that is the position.’

Sherman rubbed his hand over his face, then lifted his massive shoulders in a resigned shrug.

‘Mary said more or less the same thing. I know you are right, John. I had a faint hope that you might be able to help, but I didn’t pin much on that hope.’ Again he shrugged. ‘So, okay, I’m caught. At least it was a try.’

‘I didn’t say I can’t help you, sir. I said my organisation can’t help you,’ Dorey said quietly.

Sherman looked sharply at him.

‘You can help me?’

‘I think so. It will cost money.’

Sherman made an impatient movement.

‘What’s money to me? I don’t give a damn what it costs. How can you help me?’

‘I could offer this assignment to Girland, If anyone can swing it, he can.’

‘Girland? Who is he?’

Dorey smiled wryly.

‘You may well ask. Girland was once one of my top agents, but I had to get rid of him. He was too much the rebel. He always put himself first. He has no social conscience and he moves so close to dishonesty I marvel he isn’t in jail. He has swindled me out of considerable sums of money. He is tough, ruthless, an expert Karate fighter and a first-class shot. He is dangerous, calculating, shrewd and tricky. He has a lot of courage and I am not saying this lightly. He has lived for years in Paris. He knows Paris the way I know the back of my hand. He mixes with every kind of crook, con-man, swindler, tart and queer. He has shady contacts everywhere. Those who live in the shadows trust him. He has two obsessions: money and women. If there is anyone who can solve your problem, it is Girland.’

Sherman looked uneasily at Dorey.

‘Are you sure, John? A character like that could also attempt to blackmail me once he knew the set-up. Surely you’re not serious?’

‘Girland would never blackmail anyone. In his odd way, he has his standard of ethics. I know Girland. He is a rebel and he is tricky, but if he accepts an assignment, I have never known him not to deliver the goods. He is your only hope, sir.

I wouldn’t say this unless was sure.’

Sherman hesitated, then raised his hands helplessly.

I have no alternative then, have I? If you really believe we should hire this man and he can fix it, then let’s hire him.

Will he take the assignment?’

Dorey smiled sourly.

‘Give Girland a whiff of money and there is no job he won’t do. It’ll probably cost you twenty thousand dollars. I’ll try to get him for less of course. With that kind of money hanging in front of his nose, Girland would undertake to kidnap Charles de Gaulle.’

Drina found Paul Labrey lounging at a table outside a cafe that faced Hotel Pare. He sat down heavily beside Labrey, took off his hat and wiped his balding, sweating forehead.

‘Anything happened?’ he asked.

‘Your man arrived fifteen minutes ago,’ Labrey said, not looking at Drina. ‘He’s in there now.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No.’

Drina continued to mop his face. He scowled at Labrey whom he disliked, knowing Labrey regarded him with contempt and looked on him as a joke.

Paul Labrey was twenty-five years of age. His French mother, now dead, had been a waitress in a lowly bistro. His father, whom he had never known, had been a passing American soldier.

Labrey was tall, painfully thin with thick flaxen hair that reached to his shoulders. His skin was milky-white, his mouth wide and hard and his hazel eyes shifty. Green tinted sunglasses were never off his face. Some of his friends thought he even slept in them. He wore a black turtle neck sweater and black hipsters that seemed to be painted on him. He was known to be dangerous and vicious in a fight. He was also known to be cunning, quick witted and a Communist.

One of Kovski’s agents had come across him in a cellar club, addressing a group of hippies, explaining to them the theory of Communism. The agent was so impressed by what he heard that he alerted Kovski. Labrey had been interviewed and accepted as an agent, and was now drawing enough money from the Russian Security police to live the life he wanted to live, but he, in turn, gave service.

Kovski often found Labrey useful since American tourists were only too happy when Labrey introduced himself and offered to show them the more seamy side of Paris night life. The Americans talked to him and he listened and reported back. Kovski often marvelled at the amount of loose talk that went on among V.I.P. American tourists when they came to Paris and had too much to drink and were enjoying themselves. Labrey had a good memory. Much of what he reported

was of no interest, but every now and then something would crop up of importance and this was relayed to Moscow.

Kovski considered Labrey an excellent investment at eight hundred francs a month.

The barman from the cafe came out into the sunshine and stood over Drina.

‘Monsieur?’

Drina would have liked to have had a vodka, but he was afraid that Labrey would report back that he was drinking spirits while on duty. Sullenly, he ordered a coffee.

As the barman returned to the cafe, Labrey said, ‘Why don’t you buy yourself a new hat? That thing looks like a drowned dog.’

Drina was sensitive about his hat. He couldn’t afford to buy a new one, but even if he had had the money, he would not have parted with this hat. It was his one link with his happier days when he lived in Moscow.

‘Why don’t you have a haircut?’ he snarled. ‘You look like a lesbian!’

Labrey hooted with laughter.

‘You improve with age,’ he said when he stopped laughing ‘That’s not bad! Maybe you aren’t such a dummy as you look.’

‘Shut up!’ Drina said furiously. ‘Back in Moscow, I would have…’

But Labrey wasn’t listening. He was still chuckling.

‘Lesbian! I love that! I must tell Vi.’

Drina suddenly sat upright as he saw John Dorey walk quickly along the street, pause for a long moment to survey the dingy Hotel Pare, then enter.

Labrey looked questioningly at Drina, seeing his face stiffen.

‘Don’t go theatrical on me, comrade… someone you know?’

‘Shut up!’ Drina snapped. He went into the cafe and shut himself into a telephone kiosk. He called Kovski.

‘What is it?’ Kovski demanded.

‘John Dorey has arrived at Hotel Pare,’ Drina said in Russian.

‘Dorey?’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause, then Kovski asked, ‘Is Labrey with you?’ ‘Yes.’

Kovski thought for a long moment. So Dorey was having a secret meeting with Sherman. This could be of vital importance. He mustn’t make a mistake.

I will send you two more men to you immediately. Sherman niul Dorey must not be lost sight of… you understand?’

‘Yes.’

Drina returned to the outside table and sat down. He removed his hat and mopped his forehead.

‘The man who went into the hotel is John Dorey, Director of the CIA,’ he told Labrey. ‘Comrade Kovski is sending two more men to help us. Sherman and Dorey must not be lost sight of… it is an order.’

Labrey nodded. His flaxen hair danced on his collar.

Serge Kovski was a short fat man with a chin beard, an enormous bald dome of a head, ferrety eyes and a thick, blunt nose. He was shabbily dressed in a baggy black suit and there were food stains on his coat lapels for he was a gross eater.

While he was reading through a mass of papers that had come in the Diplomatic bag, his telephone bell rang.

It was Drina again.

‘Sherman has left in a taxi for Orly,’ Drina reported. ‘Labrey and Alex are following him. I think Sherman is taking the 15.00hr. flight to New York. Labrey will call you as soon as they arrive at the airport. Max and I followed Dorey. He left Hotel Pare before Sherman did. He was carrying an 8 mm Kodak movie projector. He must have had this from Sherman as he didn’t have it when he arrived. He drove in his car to Rue des Suisses. Leaving his car, he entered an apartment block and walked to the top floor.’ Drina was deliberately holding back on the final denouement. ‘The top floor of this building, comrade, is occupied by Mark Girland… the man we have had trouble with before.’

Kovski’s ferrety eyes narrowed as he listened.

‘Very well,’ he said, after apause. ‘Max is to follow Dorey when he leaves. You will follow Girland. Be very careful of Girland. He is tricky. Don’t let him see you.’

‘I understand,’ Drina said and hung up.

Kovski stared down at his desk while he thought, then with a sneering little smile, he pressed a bell button.

A fat, shapeless, elderly woman came in, a notebook and pencil in her hand.

‘Send Malik to me,’ Kovski said curtly, not looking at her. Now that he had lived in Paris for some eight years, he had become used to seeing the young, slim girls moving on the streets and he secretly lusted for them. Elderly, fat women no longer appealed to him.

The woman went away. A few minutes later the door opened and Malik came in.

Before he had disgraced himself and had fallen from favour, Malik was considered to be the most dangerous and the most efficient of all the Soviet agents.

He was a giant of a man; a splendid looking athlete with silver blond hair cut short. His square-shaped face, with its high cheekbones, its powerful, aggressive jaw, its short, blunt nose revealed his Slav extraction. His flat, green eyes were windows revealing a cold and ferocious ruthlessness that made most people flinch from him.

He and Kovski were bitter enemies. Until the moment when Malik had fallen into disgrace, he had always treated Kovski with cold contempt. Although Kovski was his senior in rank, Malik never accepted this fact, and Kovski was too cowardly to attempt to exert his authority over this menacing giant. But now, once the news broke that Malik was no longer considered the best agent and had been removed from the active field and given a desk job, Kovski decided at last he could take revenge on this man who had treated him so contemptuously. He had written to his own superior, suggesting that Malik should be transferred to Paris, pointing out that he could use him usefully as he was behind in his paper work and Malik could make a trusted clerk. Kovski’s boss also hated Malik and he appreciated Kovski’s sense of humour. So Malik was sent to Paris and loaded down with routine and dull paper work. There was nothing he could do about it except continue to hate Kovski and bide his time.

The two men looked at each other.

I didn’t hear you knock,’ Kovski growled.

Malik inclined his head:

‘Because I didn’t.’ He looked around, drew up an upright chair and sat astride it, staring at Kovski with his bleak, snake’s eyes.

For a brief moment, Kovski wanted to tell Malik to stand while he was talking to him, but he hadn’t the nerve. There was that deadly menace lurking in the green eyes that warned Kovski that Malik could be pushed so far, and no further.

He knew Malik had only to reach out and grip his neck in his huge killer’s hands for him to die quickly and unpleasantly.

‘You have a chance to get back into favour,’ Kovski said with his sneering smile. ‘Listen carefully.’ He told Malik what he had learned about Sherman’s arrival, how Dorey had seen Sherman and had left with a movie projector.

‘And this should interest you: Dorey is now talking to Girland… the man who has always defeated you in the field…who is responsible for your present disgrace. I must know what is happening. You are to take over this assignment.

Labrey, Drina, Alex and Max are already working on this. You must find out why Dorey has this movie projector: why Sherman has been here: why Girland is being consulted. I want immediate action. Do you hear me?’

Malik stood up.

‘Deafness is not among my many failings,’ he said, and without looking at Kovski, he left the room.