You Have Yourself a Deal

Chapter One

Captain O’Halloran parked his Jeep in one of the bays in the courtyard of the United States Embassy, picked up a black leather briefcase on the seat beside him, slid his big frame out of the Jeep and walked briskly up the steps leading into the Embassy. He nodded to the man behind the reception desk, took the elevator to the second floor, walked down a corridor, climbed six stairs to another level as a tall, well-built woman of thirty-five or six came hurrying towards him. She was Marcia Davis, P.A. to the Head of the Paris Division of the C.I.A. Her face lit up with a smile as O’Halloran paused. Her grey eyes ran swiftly over him. His red, fleshy face, his shapeless nose, his light blue eyes and hard mouth always gave her a slight sinking feeling. She often speculated what it would be like to be gripped in those thick, muscular arms.

“Hello, Tim,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“The old man in?” O’Halloran asked, also speculating how this attractive redheaded woman would react if he were ever lucky enough to get her into his bed.

“When isn’t he?” she returned. “You’ll find him... come the day you don’t. Have you had your vacation yet?”

“Vacation? What’s that?” O’Halloran asked, grinning. “I’ll be lucky if I get Christmas off. How about you?”

“September... I’ve booked on a Cruise. See you, Tim,” and with a flashing smile, she hurried on.

O’Halloran looked back and watched the challenging swing of her hips, put on, he shrewdly guessed, for his own special benefit. Then jerking his mind back to business, he continued on down the corridor to a door on which was inscribed in gold lettering:

The lettering was sparklingly new and O’Halloran grinned, shaking his head in awed admiration. So finally Dorey had made it, he thought. There had been a time, not so very long ago when the Division had been running a sweepstake on Dorey’s chances of survival. That was when Washington had sent Thorley Warely over as Head of the Division and Dorey, after thirty-eight years of service at the Embassy, had been relegated to second place but now Warely was back in Washington and Dorey, although over sixty years of age, had taken on a new lease in life. He was a man O’Halloran admired and liked: a man who took risks, short cuts and had vision.

O’Halloran rapped, opened the door and walked into the comfortable office where Dorey was sitting at a vast desk, reading a file.

Dorey was a small bird-like man, wearing rimless glasses. Always immaculately dressed, he looked like a successful banker rather than the Director of the C.I.A. He dropped the file on his desk, eased back his executive chair and looked at O’Halloran over the tops of his glasses.

“Hi there, Tim. I haven’t seen you in weeks. Something come up?”

O’Halloran kept the door open and jerked his thumb at the gold lettering.

“Congratulations, sir.”

Dorey smiled a wintry smile.

“Thank you. Shut the door and sit down.” He picked up a gold fountain pen and studied it as he went on, “Everything comes to those who play the right cards at the right time.”

“I must remember that, sir.” O’Halloran took off his service cap and sat down in one of the big lounging chairs grouped in front of Dorey’s desk.

“I was heading for retirement,” Dorey went on as if talking to himself, “then Robert Henry Carey[1] appeared on my landscape and that altered things.” He lifted his shoulders. “A stroke of fate. Sometimes we get the right card... more often not.” He laid down the pen and looked directly at O’Halloran. “Well, Tim, what is it?”

“I had a handout from the Sûreté this morning,” O’Halloran said, zipping open his briefcase. He took out a file and laid it on his knee. “I thought you should hear about it.”

Dorey rested back in his chair. He put the tips of his fingers together and formed his hands into the shape of an arch. This was his favourite listening stance.

“Go ahead.”

“Two nights ago, evening of the 4th, a man, parking his car on the Quai de la Tournelle, saw a woman lying in the shadows. He called a gendarme who was passing. The woman was in a coma. An ambulance was called and she was taken to St. Lazare hospital. They were full up. The woman was wearing a scarf decorated with the Stars and Stripes and a coat with a Macy label. This was excuse enough for her to be loaded back into the ambulance and taken to the American hospital.” O’Halloran paused to consult the file.

“So far this doesn’t particularly interest me,” Dorey said with a note of impatience in his voice.

“The woman was found to be suffering from an overdose of barbiturates,” O’Halloran went on in his gravelly cop voice, ignoring Dorey’s interruption. “She was treated and put into a ward. She surfaced the following day and was found to be suffering from acute amnesia. She has no idea who she is, where she lives... a complete memory blank. She speaks fluent English with an American accent and is in a distressed, nervous condition. Hers is not a unique case, of course. Quite a number of people get some form of amnesia. Dr. Forrester who is in charge of her ward was anxious to get rid of her. Beds are in demand at the hospital. He gave a description of the woman to the Sûreté who thinking it possible she was either Swedish or Norwegian contacted those embassies without success.”

“What made them think she was either Swedish or Norwegian?” Dorey asked.

“Apparently she looks as if she comes from Scandinavia: blonde, tall... a typical type.”

“She had no papers with her?”

“No. She didn’t even have a handbag.”

Dorey moved impatiently. “Well?”

“I received the usual Sûreté handout about her this morning.” O’Halloran looked at the open file on his knee. “Here is her description: blonde, exceptionally good-looking; blue eyes, heavily suntanned, height five foot seven, weight 126 lbs.” He paused, glanced up at Dorey. “Marks of identification: small mole on her right forearm, and three Chinese symbols tattooed on her left buttock.”

Dorey stared at O’Halloran, then picking up his fountain pen, he rubbed the gleaming gold against his thin nose.

“Chinese?”

“That’s right. Three Chinese symbols.” O’Halloran put the file on the desk. “Well, sir, there is a file somewhere in your Division which came around to me about ten months ago for information. Its subject was Feng Hoh Kung, the top rocket research man in Pekin. I remember, amongst a lot of useless information, it was stated that this guy is a little crazy in the head. He likes to put his initials on everything he owns. It is said his initials are on his house, his car, his horse, his dogs, his cooking pots, his clothes, his shoes... and the women who serve him. Remember too it was said that a year ago he acquired a Swedish mistress. He has three initials. There were three symbols that could be his initials on this woman’s bottom. So...” O’Halloran stretched his massive frame and smiled at Dorey. “I thought you should hear about it.”

Dorey sat motionless.

“Who else has this handout?”

“The British Embassy, the Scandinavian Embassies and France-Matin.”

Dorey winced.

France-Matin was a newspaper he loathed. If there was any hint of trouble, any germ of scandal this paper invariably made capital out of it.

“Did the Sûreté give the handout to the press?”

“I stopped them in time.”

“But France-Matin has it?”

O’Halloran took a newspaper from his briefcase and handed it across the desk.

“They have it,” he said.

On the second page was the headline: Do You Know This Woman? Below the caption was a badly reproduced photograph, taken by an uninspired police photographer of a blonde woman who could be any age from twenty to thirty who stared fixedly out of the smudgy newsprint. But in spite of the crudeness of the reproduction, her beauty came through.

Dorey grunted as he read: Chinese symbols, as yet to be translated, have been found tattooed on the mystery woman’s body.

“How did they get hold of this?” he demanded angrily.

O’Halloran lifted his shoulders.

“How does a vulture find a meal twenty miles away?”

Dorey leaned back in his chair. He thought for a brief moment, then he said slowly, “This could mean nothing I suppose: a lot of women...” He stopped and shook his head. “Three Chinese symbols! No, this is too much of a coincidence.” He sat upright. “Tim, we’ll treat this as a top level operation. If we are wrong, we are wrong, but if this woman...” He drummed on the desk. “What action have you taken so far?”

O’Halloran settled more comfortably in his chair.

“I have taken precautions.” He spoke with the confidence of a man who knows his job. “It so happens General Wainright is in the hospital for a check-up so that gave me the excuse to put a guard in the corridor. Wainright and this woman are on the same floor. I have called Dr. Forrester and warned him she might be a security risk and no nurse unless known to him should attend to her. The guard has instructions to let only the nurse in the woman’s room. I have alerted the reception desk to refuse any visitors calling on her.”

Dorey nodded.

“Nice work, Tim. Okay, you can leave this to me. The first move is to find out just what these symbols are on the girl’s body. If by some extraordinary bit of luck she is Kung’s mistress, she becomes more than a V.I.P., and we’ll be answerable for her. Get out there, Tim. Make sure nothing goes wrong while I get this organised.”

O’Halloran got briskly to his feet.

“We could be wasting our time, sir.”

“But if we aren’t?” Dorey smiled. “I’m lucky to have a man like you working for me. Get moving. I’m starting something this end.”

As O’Halloran left the office, Dorey thought for a moment, nodded to himself and reached for the telephone.

In a dingy courtyard off Rue de Rennes, there is a small restaurant called Le Temple du Ciel. It is not to be found in any guidebook although it serves the best Chinese food in Paris. Should any tourist discover the restaurant, he would be told with a sorrowful smile that all tables had been reserved. Le Temple du Ciel was strictly for the Chinese.

While Dorey was talking to O’Halloran, Chung Wu, the owner of the restaurant was sitting behind the cash desk, supervising his team of waiters as they served lunch to a couple of dozen or so habituées, hidden behind high silk screens that surrounded each table. The clatter of Mah-Jongg tiles, the raised voices and the blare of swing music made a deafening noise without which the Chinese feel isolated and unhappy.

The telephone bell shrilled. Chung Wu picked up the receiver, listened, spoke softly in Cantonese dialect, laid down the receiver and walked to a table where Sadu Mitchell was about to begin his lunch.

Sadu’s chopsticks were hovering over a dish of King-sized prawns done in a light, golden batter as Chung Wu appeared around the screen. Chung Wu bowed, then turning slightly, he bowed to the Vietnamese girl who sat by Sadu’s side.

“Regrets, monsieur... the telephone... immediate,” Chung Wu said in his atrocious French.

Sadu uttered an obscenity that made his companion giggle. He threw down his chopsticks and waved Chung Wu away. ‘

Sadu Mitchell was tall, slim and thin-faced. His jet black hair was taken straight back, his clothes were immaculate, his almond-shaped eyes were as hard as jet beads. He was the illegitimate son of an American missionary who, thirty years ago, had been a conspicuous failure in Pekin. When he finally came to realise that he was making no impression on his so-called flock, he found consolation in whisky and an attractive Chinese girl who considered it her duty to help relieve the stress and strain of his unsuccessful fight to convert the heathen. The result of her administrations was Sadu — half-Chinese, half-American — who resented his illegitimacy so bitterly that he had come to regard the United States of America as his personal enemy.

For the past ten years, Sadu had made a successful living from a small boutique which he owned on the Rue de Rivoli where he sold jade and expensive antiques to American tourists. He was a man lost without a woman. During the past year he had found, after several discards, a Vietnamese girl who called herself Pearl Kuo whose beauty completely captivated him as it was meant to captivate him. He discovered her hatred of America made his own bitter dislike a pale and flabby affair. She had lost her family and her home during an American air attack in North Vietnam. She had fled to Hanoi where she had become an agent working for the Chinese. They finally sent her to Paris. Before long she had persuaded Sadu that it was his duty to work also for the Chinese movement. Since he was in constant touch with Americans in his shop, she explained to him, he had the opportunity of picking up scraps of information which he was to pass on to Yet-Sen, an elderly Chinese who worked at the Chinese Embassy. Sadu found this amusing since it gave him the chance to damage American prestige. It was surprising how Americans talked when in a foreign country as if they imagined no one around them could understand English, and sometimes their indiscretions were startling. Sadu’s scraps of information helped to feed the Chinese propaganda machine. He felt he was doing something tangible towards levelling the score against his father who had died some ten years ago. What he didn’t realise was that he was being carefully groomed for more important and more dangerous work. Pushed gently by Pearl and drawn carefully by Yet-Sen, Sadu was about to reach the point of no return.

This telephone call was to make him into a fully-fledged agent.

Pushing aside the screen, he walked to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

“Yes? Who is it?” he demanded impatiently, thinking of his cooling prawns.

“I am at your shop. Come immediately.” He recognised Yet-Sen’s guttural voice.

“I can’t come now. I...”

“Immediately,” and the line went dead.

Sadu cursed, then returned to his table. Pearl looked inquiringly at him.

“Yet-Sen,” Sadu said, his face dark with fury. “He wants to see me at once.”

“Then you must go, cheri.”

“I’m not his damned servant,” Sadu said, hesitating.

“You must go, cheri.”

Sadu was now so under her influence that he hesitated no longer.

“Well, wait for me here,” he said. “I shouldn’t be long,” and he left the restaurant.

It took him a little under ten minutes, driving his small red T.R.4 aggressively through the heavy traffic to reach his shop. As he pulled up, a fat Chinese who had been staring sightlessly at the jade displayed in Sadu’s window turned and moved to the car, got in and said quietly, “Go somewhere where we can talk.”

Sadu edged the car out into the traffic and drove rapidly down the Rue de Rivoli. He battled his way around the Concorde and started down along the Quai.

Yet-Sen said, “This is an emergency. You have been chosen to handle it. It is a great compliment. Find space to park in the Louvre gardens.”

Sadu felt a qualm of uneasiness. He glanced at the fat man, sitting in his thick city suit, his yellow face blank, his small hands, like ivory carvings, folded across his bulging stomach. He drove into the gardens and found parking space, as it was lunch time, in front of the Ministère des Finances and turned off the car engine.

Yet-Sen took a copy of France-Matin from his hip pocket and handed it to Sadu. He tapped the badly reproduced photograph of a blonde woman.

“By tomorrow morning this woman must be dead,” he said. “We have every confidence in you. You will have all the necessary help, but you must arrange the details. At six o’clock this evening a man will call on you. He is the weapon... he has no brains. You are to be the brains. Now, please listen carefully...”

Sadu sat motionless, his thin, long fingers gripping the steering wheel of his car and listened. This became his moment of truth. He suddenly realised that his petty hatred of America, the chip he had carried so long on his shoulder had finally come home to roost. He wasn’t certain whether to be pleased or dismayed by this sudden change in his status. But he instinctively knew whatever his reactions, the job would have to be done.

London’s Bond Street has a particular fascination for tourists. Even when the shops are closed at the early hour of 5.30, people from all countries of the world will continue to walk down the traffic-congested street and shop-window gaze, admiring old prints, the leather bound books, the linen, the expensive cameras and the de luxe gifts displayed at Asprey’s.

Among the stream of people moving down Bond Street at the cocktail hour of 7 p.m. was a giant of a man wearing a shabby, foreign cut suit, scuffed shoes and a Marks & Spencer shirt and tie. This man had silver coloured hair, cut close, a square-shaped face, high cheekbones and flat green eyes. His age might be between thirty and forty, but not more. His muscular body was a shade under six foot five. His suntanned face was relaxed and expressionless. He walked easily with the light step of a trained fighter, his big hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

This man whose known name was Malik was Russia’s most successful agent. He had been in London now for a week. He had been told to look at the City, get the feel of it and to behave like a tourist. It was possible he might have work to do here.

So Malik was relaxing. He was staying at a small nondescript hotel in Cromwell Road. He was fully aware that M.I.6 was watching him. He was also aware that his own people had a man following him. All this Malik accepted with indifference. It was part of the game, and he regarded his job as a game, exciting, satisfying and which pandered to his sadistic instincts.

This evening, strolling down Bond Street, he was satisfying his suppressed longing for possessions. Every now and then, he would pause before a shop window and stare with his flat green eyes at the various luxury articles he longed for but knew he could never possess.

There was a portable roulette set that he would have liked to own. In another corner of the window, temptingly displayed, was a leather-embossed blotter complete with a silver and onyx pen set that beckoned to him the way an impossible-to-buy toy beckons to a child. He stood staring through the window of the shop, his face disciplined into a blank mask, his big knuckled fists clenched out of sight in his pockets.

Unwillingly, he moved on, walking slowly, fighting the temptation to stop and look again at things displayed so blatantly in the windows, but now mindful that there was someone following and watching him, ready to make a report, jealous of his reputation, more than willing to ruin him.

The faint sound of a touched motor horn made him look sharply towards a cruising Jaguar that had slowed to a crawl and was only slightly ahead of him.

A girl was at the wheel: blonde and smiling, not more than twenty-three, a mink stole around her shoulders, her eyes inviting, the lines around her mouth etched deeply in worldly awareness and sin.

Malik looked away. He walked on. He felt the blood move through his body. He had a sudden impulse to go with this whore and show her how a Russian can reduce a woman to a gasping, moaning animal, flattened beneath muscle and sinews. The urgent need to do this brought sweat beads out onto his forehead, but he kept walking, mindful of the unseen watcher, knowing every move he made, good or bad, would be reported, if not tonight, then later.

The Jaguar swung to the kerb as he passed and the girl said softly, “Why be lonely, darling? We could have fun.”

Malik kept on. The luxury articles in the shop windows had suddenly lost their fascination. He wanted now only to return to his hotel. Four walls, a curtained window and a locked door offered him the sanctuary he felt in need of, away from watching eyes.

The Jaguar gained speed and passed him. He watched it go with regret. As he reached Piccadilly, the electronic-pulser he wore on his wrist, disguised as a watch, began to throb. This was a signal that he was wanted. Immediately he became alert, the fleshy desires, the envy of luxury wiped from his mind. He touched the winder on the pulser to stop the pulse beat, then walked swiftly down Piccadilly to the Berkeley Hotel. Ignoring the stare from the top-hatted doorman, he entered and moved around the groups of chattering people, cocktails in their hands, to him overdressed and stupid looking, to the telephone booths. He gave the attendant a number, again ignoring the man’s obvious disapproval of his appearance, then when the man pointed, Malik shut himself in one of the booths. It smelt of some expensive perfume and he thought for a brief moment of the blonde in the Jaguar. His big fists clenched. It would have been good to have shown her how a Russian takes a woman. The telephone bell tinkled and he lifted the receiver.

A man’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Four and two and six make twelve,” Malik said, using his own special identity code.

“You are to leave immediately for Paris,” the man told him in Russian. “You are booked on flight 361, leaving at 20.40 hours. Your things have been packed and are waiting for you at the Air Terminal. S. will be at Le Bourget. This is an emergency.” The line went dead.

Malik paid for the call and then, leaving the hotel, he picked up a taxi and was driven to the Cromwell Road Air Terminus.

A fat, suety-faced man who was known to Malik as Drina was waiting in the reception lobby. He had with him Malik’s shabby suitcase, his ticket and 300 French francs.

“You still have a little time,” Drina said. He spoke respectfully. He was a great admirer of Malik, wishing he had the talent and the drive that had established Malik as the top agent. “Is there anything else I can do? I packed your things carefully. Smernoff will meet you at the other end. He would appreciate some duty free cigarettes.” The suety face grimaced into a smile. “I thought I could mention it.”

Malik hated this fat, dumpy man as he hated anyone connected with failure. He had had dealings with him before and his servile, fawning manner irritated him.

Wordlessly, he took the suitcase, the ticket and the money, then walked away. He knew the watcher was still watching. It wouldn’t do even to swear at Drina.

When he arrived at Le Bourget airport, he went through the police control without trouble. His false passport was in order.

He was travelling as an American subject on vacation. The police at the airport were used to Americans. They considered that America threw up an odd assortment of breeds. This Slav looking man was just another visitor, welcomed only for his dollars. Malik passed through the barrier and walked out into the big reception hall where Boris Smernoff was waiting. Malik was glad to see him. Smernoff knew his job. He had the reputation of being the most clever and ruthless hunter of men and Malik had often worked with him. He was thickset, dark and heavily built with a bald patch, narrow, cruel eyes and a talent for accepting any difficulty without protesting. His philosophy was: if it is possible, it will be done; if it is impossible, it can be done.

A few minutes before Malik’s arrival, there had been a sudden scene of violence. Three young beatniks, dressed in leather jackets with dirty nondescript faces had appeared suddenly and had converged on a man who was sitting inoffensively by the barrier where the passengers from London would arrive. One of them had hit this man over the head with a gutta-percha cosh and then before anyone could act, they had rim out, bundled into a shabby Simca and had driven rapidly away into the rain and the darkness.

The assaulted man was one of M.I.6’s Paris agents, alerted by London that Malik was arriving. He had been taken away in an ambulance and Smernoff who had organised the assault was confident that there was no other watcher to see Malik arrive.

As Malik crossed the hall towards Smernoff, Smernoff’s thin lips moved into a smile.

“Did you bring me cigarettes?” he asked as the two men shook hands.

“You can poison your own self,” Malik said. “Why should I want to hasten your death?”

“You think of no one but yourself,” Smernoff said, shrugging, “I have never known you to do anyone a favour.”

Malik grunted.

But as they walked out of the airport, he found himself considering this remark. It irritated him to find it was true.

The two men got into a 404 Smernoff had parked in a parking bay. As Smernoff set the car in motion, he said, “This could be a tricky one. A woman has been found suffering from complete loss of memory. She is at the moment in the American Hospital. It is thought she is the mistress of Feng Hoh Kung. We have orders to take her from the hospital to a house already prepared at Malmaison. You have been selected to take care of the operation. American Security know who she is and they have already put a guard on the hospital. It is also possible in a few hours, she will be moved somewhere less accessible.”

“They think she has information?” Malik asked.

“They think she might have.”

For a few moments Malik sat in silence absorbing this assignment. It appealed to him. He liked action and walking into a hospital which was guarded and taking a woman out, then getting away, was the kind of job he knew he was good at.

“Have you done anything yet or have you waited for me?”

“The matter is urgent,” Smernoff said. “I have a man watching the hospital and reporting back every ten minutes. It seems to me the quickest way of getting her is to walk in and take her. We are lucky. An American General, in for a check-up, is on the same floor as she is. I have American Army uniforms, a Jeep and an ambulance at readiness. If you don’t like this idea, you will say so. This is your operation: not mine.”

Malik glanced at the hard, cruel face of his companion and his eyes glittered. Smernoff was his assistant. He took orders. Malik wondered how much longer that would continue if Smernoff began using his head. He had outlined a plan that Malik would have made. Malik knew this.

“You think like me, Boris. It is a pleasure to work with you. This is a good plan. It should work. I’ll see you get the credit.”

Smernoff laughed.

“No, you won’t,” he said, “but if the plan meets with your approval I am glad to pass it on to you. Credit means nothing to me. Why should I care about credit?”

“You are not ambitious, Boris?” Malik asked.

“No... are you?”

“I wonder sometimes. No... I suppose I’m not.”

Smernoff started to say something, then stopped. He remembered it was unwise to talk too much about oneself.

“Who will look after this woman when we get her to Malmaison?” Malik asked. “We are not supposed to be nursemaids, are we?”

“I wouldn’t mind. She is very beautiful. It could be amusing,” Smernoff said. “No, Kovska has given the job to Merna Dorinska.”

“That bitch! What’s she doing in Paris?” Malik said, stiffening.

“She’s often here. It is said Kovska and she...”

“Who says that?” Malik demanded, a bark in his voice.

Smernoff was never intimidated. He shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Didn’t you know? Then you are the only one who doesn’t.”

“I know. It is better not to talk about it.”

“You know I would rather take a goat to bed with me than that woman,” Smernoff said.

“Kovska wouldn’t know the difference.”

The two men burst out laughing, they were still laughing as Smernoff pulled into the courtyard of the Russian Embassy.

John Dorey arrived at the American hospital at 16.40 hours. He was thoroughly irritated because he knew he had lost valuable time, but he had to be certain that the tattoo marks on this woman were genuine. It had first been necessary to locate Nicolas Wolfert, the U.S. Embassy’s Chinese expert. It so happened that Wolfert had taken a day off and was fishing on his small estate at Amboise. By the time he had been located, brought by helicopter to Paris, rushed in a car to the Embassy, then put in the picture four valuable hours had been wasted. With Wolfert, Dorey had brought along Joe Dodge, the Embassy’s top photographer.

Dr. Forrester, a tall, lean man with tired, dark ringed eyes received Dorey in his office while Wolfert and Dodge waited in the corridor.

Forrester had already been alerted by O’Halloran of the possible importance of his patient and was more than willing to cooperate.

“This could be top secret,” Dorey said as he sat down. “I’m relying on you, doctor, to see this woman isn’t got at. There are plenty of reasons why she should be murdered. I want her food prepared only by someone you can completely trust and no nurse, unless you can guarantee her, is to attend her.”

Forrester nodded.

“Captain O’Halloran has already gone over this with me. I’m doing my best. What else do you want?”

“I want photos of the tattoo marks. I have a photographer waiting.”

Forrester frowned.

“The marks are on the woman’s buttock.” He leaned back and surveyed Dorey. “You can’t send some strange man into her room, expect her to expose herself while he takes photos. This I can’t allow.”

“So she’s conscious?”

“Of course she is conscious. She’s been conscious now for the last three days and she is in a very highly nervous state.”

“I must have those photographs,” Dorey said, a rasp in his voice. “They may even have to be sent to the President. Give her a shot of Pentathol. Then she won’t know she has been photographed. It won’t take more than a few minutes. I also want my Chinese expert to see the markings. Let’s get it done right away.”

Forrester hesitated, then shrugged.

“Well, if it’s that important,” he said, reached for the telephone, spoke quietly, then hung up. “Your men can go up in ten minutes.”

“Fine.” Dorey went to the door and spoke to Dodge, then he came back and sat down again. “Tell me about this woman.”

“On arrival she was found...”

“I know all that. I read your report,” Dorey said impatiently. “What I want to know is... is she faking? Is she really suffering from amnesia?”

“I would say so. She doesn’t respond to hypnotism. She had on arrival a small bruise at the back of her head. This could have come when she collapsed and it might have caused loss of memory. It is a little rare, but it could be possible. Yes, I think her loss of memory is genuine.”

“Any idea how long it could last?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. A week... a month... I don’t think longer than a month.”

“How about scopolamine?”

Forrester smiled.

“We considered using scopolamine, but it is dangerous. If she is faking, it would work, but if she isn’t, there’s always the risk it would drive her memory deeper into herself. If you want to try it, I won’t object, but if she is really suffering from amnesia then scopolamine could retard her memory recovery by months.”

Dorey thought for a long moment, then he got to his feet.

“I’ll see you again after I’ve talked to my Chinese expert. Thanks, doc, for your cooperation. I’ll try and get her moved as soon as I can organise a place for her.”

Thirty minutes later, Wolfert, a squat balding man whose pink and white complexion belied his forty-six years, came into the small room Forrester had put at Dorey’s disposal. With Dorey was O’Halloran.

“Well?” Dorey asked, getting to his feet.

“She’s Erica Olsen, Kung’s mistress,” Wolfert said. “I’ve seen his initials on his various possessions too often to mistake the marks on this woman. This is a very special kind of tattoo... a special colour, almost impossible to fake.”

Dorey looked sharply at this man who was considered to be the top expert in Chinese customs.

“Almost?”

“I suppose a very clever tattoo artist could just fake it, but I doubt it. I’m covering myself.” Wolfert’s fat face lit up with a knowing smile. “No one can ever be absolutely certain, but I am willing to bet my pension she is Kung’s mistress.”

Dorey looked at O’Halloran.

“Watch her, Tim. I’ll have to alert Washington. I can’t do anything without their say-so.” He rubbed his forehead as he thought. “More delay, but this could be something big. I’ll get back to the Embassy.”

“You don’t have to worry about her,” O’Halloran said. “She’ll f be right here, safe and sound, when you want her.”

But he was not to know that in a few hours Malik would be arriving in Paris. Even when Malik finally arrived, the Divisional Head of M.I.6 was so furious that his man had been knocked on the head and had lost Malik that he neglected to warn O’Halloran that the most dangerous of Russian agents was now roaming, unwatched around Paris. Had O’Halloran known this, he would have guarded Erica Olsen more closely. But he didn’t know. He assumed a patrolling guard, armed with an automatic rifle, was good enough.

But when dealing with Malik, nothing was good enough.

A few minutes after 6 p.m., a delicately built youth walked into Sadu Mitchell’s shop. He carried a small suitcase, shabby with metal corners, the kind of suitcase a door-to-door salesman would use. His complexion was unhealthy, the colour and texture of dead, stale fish and his small, black eyes flicked to right and left with the suspicious restlessness of a man who trusts no one. He could have been twenty-five, even thirty, but was in fact eighteen. His coal-black hair was cropped close and lay over his small head like a skullcap. His movements were as supple and as sinuous as those of a snake.

Jo-Jo Chandy had been born in Marseilles. His father had been a waterside pimp: his mother unknown. When he was ten years old, his father had been killed in a knife fight. This hadn’t bothered Jo-Jo. He was glad to be free and he soon made a reasonable I living working as a drummer for a Negro prostitute whose sexual technique gained her Jo-Jo’s admiration and many clients. When he had saved enough money, he decided Paris would offer many more opportunities for his evil talents. But here, for a time, he found he was mistaken. The police were unsympathetic to pimps and after being arrested and beaten up several times, he gave up and took a job in a Chinese restaurant as a plongeur. Here he met a Chinese girl: one of Yet-Sen’s agents. She was quick to recognise in this thin, vicious boy a potential and useful weapon. Yet-Sen took charge of him. Jo-Jo received training and money. A year later, he became one of Yet-Sen’s most reliable hatchet men.

Completely amoral, with no sense of right or wrong, Jo-Jo existed only for money. There was no task, no matter how dangerous or vicious, that he hesitated to undertake providing the final reward was money. Life for him was the spin of the roulette wheel. His philosophy was what you put in you took out, and never mind the risk.

Pearl Kuo, who was completing a sale of jade to a fat American woman wearing an absurd flowered hat and an equally absurd pair of bejewelled spectacles, looked for a brief moment at Jo-Jo as he came into the shop. She knew who he was. His arrival excited her. At last, she thought, Sadu was to take an active part in the Chinese movement: something she had been waiting for with longing and impatience.

When the American woman had left the shop, Pearl smiled at the waiting Jo-Jo. Her almond shaped eyes sparkled, and looking at her, Jo-Jo felt a wave of hot lust run through him.

“He is expecting you,” she said. “Please... this way,” and she opened a door behind the glass counter.

Jo-Jo continued to stare at her, his little eyes moving over the flowered cheongsam she was wearing that revealed her perfectly proportioned body. Then he walked through the doorway into Sadu’s living room.

During the hours that Sadu had been waiting, he had told Pearl what Yet-Sen had said.

“He expects me to kill this woman,” Sadu had said, his pale face glistening with sweat. “This would be murder. What am I to do?”

“You are only to arrange the affair. You don’t kill her yourself,” Pearl replied soothingly. Her slim fingers touched his face. “This is for China, Sadu, and besides, now it is too late to turn back. You must obey. If you do not, then I must leave you and they will kill you. I know that. But there is no need to speak of that. If they ordered me to do it, I would do it. You should be proud to have been chosen.”

Realising his position, Sadu decided to be proud. He hated the Americans. They had harmed him. This was, when one thought about it, not murder, but revenge.

So he received Jo-Jo with arrogant disdain.

“Sit down. I understand you are to kill this woman and I am to see you do your work correctly.”

Jo-Jo sat down. He rested the small suitcase on his knees. A faint, but unmistakable smell of dirt came from him which made Sadu grimace.

Sadu went on, now very sure of himself, “First, we have to find out where in the hospital this woman is... on what floor... in what room. Once we know that, it should be easy for you. You might have to climb to her room.” Pleased with his planning, he regarded Jo-Jo with a patronising smile. “I suppose you can climb?”

Still clutching the suitcase, Jo-Jo asked, “Is this your first job?” His thin lips curved into a sneering smile of amusement. “Don’t lean on it. You drive the car... I’ll take care of the details. You will get the credit... I’ll get the money. That way, everyone will be happy.”

Sadu stiffened. A flush of fury spread over his face. He moved closer to Jo-Jo, towering over him.

“You don’t talk to me like that! I am handling this!” he exploded, his voice choked with rage. “You will do exactly what I tell you...”

“Sadu... please.” Pearl’s soft voice made Sadu jerk around. “I think he should handle it. After all, he has the experience. Please...”

Jo-Jo looked at her, then he opened the suitcase. From it he took a .25 automatic and a silencer. He screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the gun, then he thrust the gun down the waistband of his trousers. The sight of the gun arid Jo-Jo’s professional, deliberate movements deflated Sadu’s rage. For a long moment he stood hesitating and staring.

“We’ll now go to the hospital,” Jo-Jo said. Again his eyes moved over Pearl’s body, then he looked directly at Sadu. “First, as you have said, we have to find where this woman is to be found. It won’t be dark for another three hours so we have plenty of time.” He tossed the suitcase into a corner and walked out of the room.

Pearl touched Sadu’s arm. “Do what he says. He is a professional. You will gain experience from him.”

Sadu hesitated, then controlling his fear, suddenly aware of his utter incompetence, he followed Jo-Jo out onto the busy Rue de Rivoli.

Pearl watched the two men get into Sadu’s sports car and drive away. It was too early to close the shop, but she did light a joss stick and she did kneel for a long moment in prayer while the scented smoke swirled around her.

About the time Malik was meeting Smernoff at Le Bourget airport, Dorey received the green light from Washington to go ahead with his plan.

His suggestion had been considered by the Heads of Joint Chiefs of Staff and the F.B.I. They had been cautious. In its present stage, they felt it wasn’t at Presidential level This woman could be a fake. But they did accept the possibility that this was something to be treated as a top operation. Dorey’s Washington boss had said over the satellite telephone connection: “I’m going to leave this to you, John. Anyway, for the primary moves. You can spend what you like... if it lays an egg, we can always cover the expense somehow. But right at this moment, I would rather not know what you are doing. You go ahead, keep it unofficial, and if the egg produces a chicken, let me know.”

Dorey smiled mirthlessly. “You can safely leave it to me, sir,” he said and hung up.

But this was the kind of operation Dorey liked. He now had a free hand, money to spend and no one but himself responsible for success or failure. For the past hour he had been thinking and he was now ready to swing into action. The time was 8 p.m. Malik at this time was in the aircraft bringing him from London to Paris. Sadu and Jo-Jo were sitting in Sadu’s car outside the American hospital. The woman believed to be Erica Olsen, mistress of China’s leading missile and atomic scientist, was still drowsy from the Pentathol shot. The guard, Pfc Willy Jackson, an alert, disciplined soldier without much intelligence, but very quick on the trigger, was walking up and down the hospital corridor, glancing now and then at the closed door behind which Erica Olsen was dozing.

Dorey lifted the telephone receiver and called O’Halloran.

“Tim... do you remember Mark Girland?”

“Girland? Why, sure, he used to work for Rossland, didn’t he?”

“That’s the fellow. He’s in Paris right now and I want him. He has a studio apartment on Rue des Suisses. I don’t give a damn how you get him but get him. I want him here in an hour.”

“Just a second, sir, if I remember right, this Girland is a toughie. Suppose he won’t come?”

“Girland? Tough? He’s not working for me now. I hear he’s a street photographer or something. Anyway, pick him up, Tim. Send a couple of good men after him. I want him here within an hour.”

He replaced the receiver and leant back in his executive chair. He felt pretty pleased with himself. He felt he was handling this situation with some brilliance.

Mark Girland!

Not many people would have thought of Girland.

He was the man to handle Dorey’s problem. Girland was tailor-made for the job.

Dorey frowned. Tailor-made... if of course he could persuade Girland to do the job.

Marcia Davis had left a plate of chicken sandwiches and a glass of milk on the desk before she had gone home. Now, Dorey, his mind busy as to how he should handle Girland, reached for a sandwich and thoughtfully bit into it.