You Have Yourself a Deal

Chapter Two

Mark Girland felt depressed. If there was one thing he disliked more than another it was to spend an evening alone in his cheerless one-room apartment which was on the seventh floor of an old, shabby building on Rue des Suisses.

It was raining, his shoes leaked and he was temporarily out of money. He had eight francs and seventy-two centimes in his pocket. It didn’t seem possible, he thought ruefully, that three months ago he had had $5000 safely stashed away in a bank.

The trouble with me, he said to himself, trying to make himself comfortable in the canvas deck abortion that served him as an armchair, is that I am a layabout and a wastrel. I had all kinds of ideas how I was going to spend that nest egg. Who would have believed three miserable horses could have put up such a performance? He remembered with regret the afternoon at Long-champs racecourse, when all his money went into the satchel of a grinning bookmaker.

In spite of losing what he had hoped to have been the means to a new career, Girland firmly decided, after the Robert Henry Carey affair, that espionage was strictly for suckers. He had had the satisfaction of telling that old goat, John Dorey, to drop dead.

Regarding him over the tops of his rimless glasses, Dorey had said, “I don’t think you are the type of man I can use, Girland. You are not to be trusted. You always put yourself first and your work a poor second. I can’t use a man who thinks of himself first. So you will no longer work for me.”

Girland had grinned cheerfully.

“Who in his right mind wants to work for you? When I think of the dirty, smelly little jobs I did for your stooge Rossland — may he rest in peace — and the centimes I got out of it, I should have had my head examined. So I no longer work for you. Goodbye, and drop dead.”

But that speech of independence had been made when he was the owner of $5000, not entirely honestly gained, but gained.

But in spite of the depressing fact that he was now continually short of money, he still had no regrets that he had parted with the C.I.A.

For the past two months, he had made a somewhat precarious living as a street photographer. Armed with a Polaroid camera he had spent his days haunting the tourist byways on the lookout for a pretty American tourist on her first visit to Paris, and there were many of them. The photograph once taken, the print produced, he then spent a few minutes persuading the girl to part with a ten-franc note. Girland could charm a bird off a tree, and his technique with women had to be seen to be believed. Often, the transaction successfully concluded, the girl, flushed and aroused, would go with him back to his seventh floor apartment.

There were worse ways of making a living, he thought, scowling at the Polaroid camera that lay on the worm-eaten refectory table, but not much worse.

This day had been a complete write-off. It had rained steadily, and although Girland had wandered the streets, he had found no suitable subject. The two fat women he did finally photograph in desperation had threatened to call a gendarme when they learned they were expected to part with 20 francs for a rather indifferent photograph.

Girland regarded the big room with its two uncurtained windows that overlooked the roofs, the chimneys and the television aerials of Paris. At the far end of the room was a kitchen sink and an ancient gas cooker. There was a big radio and gramophone against another wall. A wardrobe and a bookcase with American and French paperbacks completed the furnishing.

Girland, lean, tall and dark, wrinkled his nose. What a hole! he thought. What it needs is a coat of paint, a vase of long-stemmed roses and an erotic blonde with a Bardot body, but right now I would settle for the blonde.

He got up and walked to the open window and stared out at the black, glistening roofs. Rain was still coming steadily. In the far distance he saw a flash of lightning. Shrugging, he was moving to the radio in the hope that there was something on he could listen to when the front door bell rang.

He looked at the door, cocking his left eyebrow, then he crossed the room and peered through the tiny peephole at the two men standing in the passage. He recognised the military raincoats and the snap-brimmed hats and he hesitated, his brain Suddenly very alert.

Then he relaxed and grinned. Probably an identity card check, he thought. These guys have very little to do with themselves except to be a nuisance. It seemed a long time now since he had had callers from the Central Intelligence Agency. Who knows? Dorey might have had a heart attack. He might even have left him something in his will. He opened the door.

Two massively built men, their faces the colour of old teak and as hard, moved in, riding him back. He recognised one of them, but not the other. The one he recognised was getting on in years. He was probably fifty. His name was Oscar Bruckman and he was one of Captain O’Halloran’s strong-arm squad, notorious for his brutality, his courage and his fast, deadly shooting. The other man was younger. He seemed very sure of himself and he balanced himself on the balls of his feet as if ready to throw a quick, damaging punch: a sandy-haired, flat-faced Irishman with freckles and ice-grey eyes.

“Get your coat,” Bruckman snapped. “You’re wanted.”

Girland moved back, relaxed, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his eyes watchful.

“That’s nice to know. Who wants me?” he asked.

The younger man whose name was O’Brien said, “Come on! Come on! Let’s go. Who cares what you want to know?”

Girland regarded him, then he looked at Bruckman, then he shrugged. “Well, don’t get yourself worked up,” he said mildly. “I’ll come along.”

He walked casually to his wardrobe, took his short white raincoat off the hanger, his hand sliding into the coat pocket, his body hiding the movement, then dropping the coat, he whirled around, a squat, black ammonia gun in his hand. “Don’t move!”

The two men froze, glaring at him, their eyes shifted to the gun, well knowing what it was and its effects.

“Okay, okay, Girland, relax,” Bruckman said, controlling his temper. “Maybe we were a little rough. Dorey wants you. Come on! Let’s quit this fooling. This is an emergency.”

Girland smiled at him.

“You know something? I hate your kind. I hate you big, blustering sonsofbitches who shove people around just for the fun of it. Get out! I’ll give you ten seconds, and if you’re not out by then, you’ll get a blast from this gun! You’ll go down stairs and wait ten minutes, then you’ll come up, nice and polite, and then perhaps I’ll listen to you. Now get out!”

O’Brien said, “I’ll take your yellow guts apart! I’ll...”

Bruckman’s big hand slapped across O’Brien’s face, sending him staggering back.

“Shut your trap!” he barked for he knew Girland didn’t bluff.

“You still act fast, Oscar,” Girland said. “I was just going to give this stupid ape a squirt.”

“I know... I know,” Bruckman said and grinned. “They told me you had gone soft. Still the same troubleshooter, huh? Okay, we’ll do it all over again, and this time we’ll be nice.” He shoved O’Brien out of the room and Girland kicked the door shut.

He stood hesitating for a long moment, then he crossed over to the telephone and dialled Dorey’s number.

He had a little trouble getting Dorey, then when he did, he said, “This is Girland. What’s the idea sending a couple of apes to pick me up? I told you to drop dead. Can’t you stay dead?”

“I have a job for you,” Dorey said, his voice soft and as smooth as butter. “There’s money in it. Don’t act hard to get, and besides there’s a woman in it too.”

Girland thought of his eight francs and seventy-two centimes.

“How much money?”

Dorey knew this wasn’t the time for cheeseparing.

“Ten thousand francs,” he said promptly.

Girland suppressed a whistle.

“Have you been drinking, Dorey?”

“Get over here and don’t be insolent!” Dorey snapped.

“How about the woman... what’s she like?”

“Swedish, young, blonde and beautiful,” Dorey said.

“Oh, boy!” Girland laughed. “Sounds right up my alley. You could have yourself a deal.”

He hung up, struggled into his raincoat and turning off the light, started down the stairs, three at a time. Halfway down he encountered Bruckman and O’Brien ponderously climbing towards him. He stopped on the third landing and waited for them to join him.

“I’ve just been talking to your pinheaded boss,” Girland said as the two men glared at him. “Seems like I’ve become a V.I.P.”

O’Brien’s small eyes gleamed.

“I’ve heard about you, Girland,” he said. “You’re the kind of goddam layabout I don’t like. One of these nights, I hope I run into you, then we can have some action.”

Girland looked at Bruckman.

“Your little pal sounds pretty tough, Oscar. You look after him. He might get himself hurt.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Bruckman growled. “Let’s go. We are wasting time.”

Girland took a handkerchief from his pocket, made to blow his nose, dropped the handkerchief and bent to pick it up. His movements were so casual the two men merely watched with impatience.

Girland suddenly snatched at O’Brien’s trousers cuffs, got a grip and heaved upwards.

O’Brien gave a choked yell as he somersaulted down the stairs. His back crashed against the banister rail, smashed through it and he thudded to the lower floor. A shower of broken woodwork and dust fell on him. He moved weakly, then flopped over on his side.

His eyes popping, Bruckman looked over the broken banister rail, then turned and stared at Girland who was putting his handkerchief in his pocket, his lean, dark face expressionless.

“You crazy bastard!” Bruckman gasped. “You’ve probably killed him!”

“Not him... he’s tough,” Girland said mildly, then with a lightning movement, he grabbed Bruckman’s hat brim in both hands and crammed the hat over Bruckman’s eyes. As the big man staggered back, cursing, Girland slammed a punch low down into Bruckman’s solid belly. Bruckman dropped onto his knees, gasping. Humming happily, Girland started down the stairs, jumped over O’Brien’s prostrate body and continued on down to the street.

As he emerged into the rain and crossed to where his dilapidated Fiat 600 was parked, he decided that life, after all, wasn’t so bad. This was the first time he could remember in months that he had really enjoyed himself.

A number of nurses came hurrying out of the Staff exit of the American hospital and began walking down the broad Boulevard Victor Hugo towards the Nurses’ Annex. Some of them sheltered under umbrellas, others made do with their capes against the fine drizzle that was falling.

Jo-Jo sitting in Sadu’s sports car, jerked a dirty thumb towards the group of girls as they passed the car.

“One of them will know which room she’s in,” he said. “Time’s getting on. Ask them.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Sadu snapped. “Is it likely they would tell me? Besides, we would attract attention.”

“Look... here’s one coming on her own. Tell her you’re a newspaperman. We’ve got to know where this bitch is.”

Sadu hesitated.

The group of nurses had disappeared into the wet darkness. He saw a girl on her own, wearing a cloak, coming down the boulevard which had suddenly become deserted. He knew what Jo-Jo had said made sense. They couldn’t just sit there. Somehow he had to find out where this woman was.

He got out of the car which was parked outside one of the vast apartment blocks that was under construction. The blank, glassless windows made black squares in the face of the white wall, towering above him. The inevitable clutter and mess, the big concrete mixer, the planks of wood and the coils of wire choked up the entrance to what would be before very long more homes for the wealthy of Paris.

The nurse came abreast of him. In the half-darkness he could see she was young and dark.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I am representing Paris Match. Could you kindly tell me on what floor and. in what room this woman is who has lost her memory?”

The nurse stopped and looked at him.

“Pardon, monsieur?”

“It is of interest to my paper,” Sadu said, restraining his impatience with difficulty. “We would like to know on what floor and in what room this woman is... the woman with the tattoo marks.”

The nurse retreated a step.

“I can’t tell you that. You must ask at the Information desk,” she said. “If they want you to know, they will tell you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sadu saw Jo-Jo leave the car, moving as swiftly and as silently as an attacking snake. He came up behind the nurse as she was beginning to move away. His right hand flashed up and the nurse gave a choked cry and then fell forward. Instinctively, Sadu grabbed her, holding her against him. He looked wildly down the long dark boulevard. In the far distance he could see two men coming briskly towards them.

“Get her into the building!” Jo-Jo snapped. “Quick!”

Sadu realised it was the only thing to do. He picked up the unconscious girl and ran with her across the sidewalk and into the darkness of the building. He stumbled over the debris scattered on the ground as he reached the inner lobby. Jo-Jo joined him.

“Put her down.”

Sadu lowered the girl on a pile of cement sacks.

“You’re mad!” he gasped as soon as he could get his breath. “She’ll recognise me! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Jo-Jo knelt beside the girl. He knocked off her white cap, then seizing her by her hair, he began brutally to shake her head.

The girl moaned softly, then her eyes opened. Jo-Jo’s dirty hand closed over her mouth, his fingers cruelly pinching her cheeks.

“Make a sound and I will kill you,” he whispered viciously. “Now, listen to me. Can you hear me?”

Her eyes round with terror, she looked up at him, squirming away from his smell of dirt.

He released his grip over her mouth.

“Where is this woman? Quick! Where is she?”

The girl gulped, tried to squirm further away and Jo-Jo, with a curse, slapped her face.

“Where is she?”

“Don’t touch me! She... she’s on the fifth floor: room 112,” the nurse told him, her voice shaking with terror.

“Room 112. Fifth floor. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say so before, you stupid fool?” Jo-Jo said. There was a rapid movement and a flash of steel. The nurse heaved up and then dropped back with a long, whistling sigh.

Jo-Jo stood up.

Sadu had seen the movement and had heard the sigh which sent a chill crawling up his spine. It was too dark to see clearly what had happened, but the sound of the sigh had struck terror into him.

“What have you done?” He grabbed hold of Jo-Jo. “What the hell have you done?”

Jo-Jo jerked away. He leaned forward and wiped the blade of his knife on the nurse’s cloak.

“Come on!” he said impatiently. “We now know where she is. Come on! We’re wasting time!”

With a shaking hand, Sadu took out his cigarette lighter and flicked on the flame. He leaned forward and stared down at the nurse’s dead face. He had only one brief horrifying glimpse before Jo-Jo blew the flame out.

“Come on,” Jo-Jo snarled. “They won’t find her until tomorrow and then it doesn’t matter.”

“You’ve killed her!” Sadu gasped.

“What else did you expect me to do with her? She would have put the finger on you and the flicks would have picked you up and then we would all have been down the drain. Come on... we’re wasting time!”

He walked cautiously out of the building, then headed for the hospital.

“Come in, Girland,” Dorey said as Girland appeared in the doorway of his office. “How have you been keeping?”

Girland moved into the big room and closed the door. With a mocking grin, he said, “Why should you care? You must be in one hell of a mess to call on me.” He crossed the room and dropped into one of the lounging chairs. “So they finally put your name up in gold. My! My! Washington must be short of talent these days.”

“You are an insolent sonofabitch,” Dorey said with a thin smile, “but I have to admit you have certain crude talents. These I am prepared to hire.” He leaned back in his executive chair and studied Girland. “I have been following your career if you can call it a career. You haven’t been doing so well recently, have you? A street photographer is getting pretty near bottom, isn’t it?”

Girland helped himself to a cigarette from the silver box on Dorey’s desk.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a matter of standards. Guys like you want money, power and ulcers. I take it as it comes. I would rather photograph a pretty woman than have an ulcer.”

Dorey shrugged.

“Well, it’s your business. Let’s find out first if you want to work for me again.”

“Work for you?” Girland laughed. “No, I don’t, but something was said about ten thousand francs. I am willing to work for anyone for that kind of money.”

“You seem to have only two things on your mind: women and money,” Dorey said. “I suppose you are built that way, but...”

“I live the way I like to live and it’s no business of yours. What’s the job?”

The two men regarded each other. Dorey felt a certain satisfaction as he met Girland’s steel hard eyes. After all, he told himself, this man had proved himself brilliantly astute, and also very tough. Dorey was sure he hadn’t made a mistake in picking him.

Briefly he explained about Erica Olsen.

“This woman could tell us a lot about Kung,” he concluded, “and we want to know about him. There has been a persistent rumour coming out of China that he has developed a new weapon. This may or may not be true, but we must know for certain. We also want to know what makes Kung tick. His mistress is the most likely person to know this.”

Girland sank lower in his chair.

“What makes you think she will talk?”

“That will be up to you. From the reports I have on you, you seem to have a way with women. Why else do you imagine I am giving you this job?”

Girland studied the glowing end of his cigarette, then grinned. “I can see the apes you employ couldn’t handle this one. You know, Dorey, you are smarter than I thought you were.”

“Try not to be insolent,” Dorey snapped. “Then you will do this job?”

“I didn’t say that. Don’t let’s rush it. Exactly what am I to do?”

“Her loss of memory appears to be genuine. Her doctor thinks it will return by slow degrees. You are to live with her and to report to me everything she comes out with about Kung.”

Girland sat up.

“Live with her? What do you mean?”

“You are to play the role of her husband,” Dorey said, resting his elbows on the desk. “At the moment she has no idea who she is, what her background is... she knows nothing. So you arrive as her husband. She has to accept you. You will have all the necessary proof if she needs convincing. I have your marriage certificate and her passport made out as Mrs. Erica Girland. You are a rich businessman on vacation in the South of France. This woman... your wife... disappeared while you were in Paris on business. You eventually find her in the American hospital. You naturally take her back to your villa in Eze. There you will help her recover her memory. Sooner or later she will come out with some information, and this is the information I want and I am paying for.”

Girland leaned back and shook his head in wonderment.

“You certainly get ideas!” he said and his admiration was genuine, “but let’s think about this. Suppose she gets her memory back suddenly and all in one piece? I’m going to look an awful dope pretending to be her husband, aren’t I?”

“That isn’t likely, and if it does happen, you are being paid to look an awful dope,” Dorey said smoothly.

Girland laughed.

“What’s this about a villa in Eze?”

“It belongs to me,” Dorey said, not without some smug satisfaction. “It is isolated, comfortable and safe. My servants will look after you both.”

“Well! Well!” Girland looked amazed. “No wonder you risk ulcers. You’re doing yourself pretty well, aren’t you?”

Dorey shrugged.

“So I take it you will do the job?”

“I’m not completely sold. From what I heard from Rossland, you have never given anything good away. How do I know this Swede isn’t fat and ugly? Even for ten thousand francs I wouldn’t want to be the husband of an unattractive woman.”

“You waste time, Girland,” Dorey said and took a glossy photograph from his desk drawer. He flicked it across his desk, knowing it was his trump card. “Here is part of her anatomy, showing the tattoo marks. Perhaps this will assure you that at least she isn’t fat.”

Girland studied the photograph, his eyes alight with interest. He gave a long, low whistle.

“Wow! Is her top as good as her bottom?”

Dorey passed over a U.S. passport.

“The photograph doesn’t do her justice, but it will give you the general idea.”

Girland studied the photograph on the forged passport, then he sat back.

“You have yourself a deal. When do I start?”

“Right now. I have arranged a car for you. You will go to the hospital, put her in the car and drive to Eze tonight. You should be there early tomorrow morning. The sooner we get out of Paris, the safer it will be. This is now your operation. Make sure there are no mistakes.”

“What car are you giving me?” Girland asked.

“A 202 Mercedes. It’s below in the car pool. Grafton will show you the various gadgets.” Dorey passed a folder across the desk. “These are all the papers you need. There is also a marriage certificate among them in your name.”

“I’m feeling married already.”

“The story broke in France-Matin. Watch out... I imagine the Chinese and probably the Soviets are now interested in this woman. So when I say watch out, I mean watch out.”

“I should have known there was a snag.” Girland got to his feet. “Wasn’t there something said about money?”

Dorey pushed a packet of one hundred franc notes across his desk.

“That’s two thousand on account. You’ll get the rest when you have some information for me.”

Girland stowed the money away in his hip pocket.

“How about expense money? I’ll have to buy a complete outfit. You don’t expect me to impersonate a rich businessman without the trimmings, do you? I’ll want at least...”

“You won’t get it,” Dorey said firmly. “Diallo, my servant will arrange what is necessary for you to have. I have already talked to him on the telephone and I have arranged with my bank for a sum for him to draw on. You don’t draw on it, Girland. Understand?”

“Your trust in me is touching,” Girland said cheerfully.

Dorey ignored this. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a small plastic box.

“Here is a gimmick that might be useful.” He pushed the box across the desk. “It’s a radio pill... the size of a grape pip. Get this woman to swallow it. If you happen to be unlucky and lose her, with this pill, we can find her again.”

“That’s neat,” Girland picked up the box and opened it. He looked at the tiny black pill. “How does it work?”

“The heat of the body causes the transistor battery to become active. Anyone having a specially tuned radar receiver can pick up the bleeps within a radius of a hundred kilometres. The pill remains active for forty-eight hours. Carry it under your thumbnail and be careful you don’t lose it.”

As Girland fixed the pill under his thumbnail he said, “So you are expecting trouble?”

“I always expect trouble. Then if it doesn’t happen, I’m surprised. It’s better than the other way around. You won’t be on your own, Girland. My men will watching you. Your job is to get her to Eze. Don’t take any chances. Once you are at Eze, you should be safe.”

“Looks as if I’m going to earn my money after all,” Girland said ruefully. “Okay, I’ll get off. As soon as we arrive, I’ll call you.”

He left the office and walked to the elevator a little less enthusiastic than when he had arrived.

Pfc Willy Jackson shifted his automatic rifle from one arm to the other to look at his strap watch. The time was 10.10 p.m., and he stifled a sigh. He had more than two hours of duty before he was relieved. Still, he told himself, it could be a lot worse. Patrolling a hospital corridor was a damned sight better than standing in the rain outside SHAPE Headquarters. It was more than a darn sight better, he decided as a nurse came briskly down the corridor, giving him a friendly smile and passing on, swinging her hips and touching her hair with the practiced hand of a woman who knows she is being admired.

Pfc Willy Jackson was a well-disciplined soldier who had ambitions. All that talk about every soldier having a Marshal’s baton in his knapsack was food and drink to Jackson. He considered Eisenhower, Bradley and Patton the three greatest men who had ever lived. In another twenty years, he also could be a General. Willy Jackson was twenty-three. He was brimful of confidence: one of the best shots in the Army, the champion light heavyweight boxer of his Battalion and the best pitcher of the SHAPE baseball team. Jackson had everything that made an excellent soldier... and that was to be his downfall.

While he was thinking with some pleasure what he and the nurse who had just passed could do together if ever he had the opportunity of meeting her off duty, the elevator doors opened and a man, dressed in the uniform of an American Staff Colonel, stepped into the corridor.

Willy Jackson was susceptible to rank. A Captain made him tread carefully: a Major brought him out in a sweat: a Colonel reduced him to an inarticulate idiot.

It was his greatest ambition to reach the rank of Colonel when he was thirty years of age, and when he saw this squat, powerfully built man wearing an immaculate uniform with three blazing rows of combat ribbons, his mouth turned dry and he presented arms with a slap and a stamp that shook the corridor.

Smernoff, a little awkward in his brand new uniform, his hand hovering close to the butt of the gun he had on his hip, regarded him. He had already been informed about Jackson. He hoped he would have no trouble with him.

“What are you doing here, soldier?” he barked, coming to rest in front of Jackson.

“Guarding the corridor, sir,” Jackson said, sweat breaking out on his freckled face. This was the first time in his military career that an officer of a majority rank had deigned to speak to him.

“Where’s General Wainright’s room?”

“No. 147, sir.”

“You guarding General Wainright?”

“No, sir. This woman in No. 140.”

“Oh, yeah.” Smernoff relaxed a little. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy. “I’ve read about her. At ease, soldier.”

Jackson slightly relaxed. He allowed his blue, somewhat innocent eyes to meet Smernoff’s dark cruel, beady eyes, then he abruptly looked away.

What a man! he thought. Jackson! You have got to get with it! You’ve got to cultivate the way this guy looks!

“This woman,” Smernoff said, hooking his thumbs into his trousers pockets. “Have you seen her?”

“No, sir.”

“They say she has Chinese marks tattooed on her arse. Is that right?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“How’s the General?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Soldier, let me tell you something: you’re lucky to be a Pfc.” Smernoff was beginning to enjoy himself. “You don’t have to worry about goddam Generals. What room did you say the old bull was in?”

Jackson flinched. He considered General Robert Wainright was a fine soldier. This disrespect shocked him.

“Room 147, sir.”

“Okay, carry on, soldier,” and Smernoff began to walk, heavy-footed, erect and very much the Colonel down the corridor. Then he stopped short, turned and cursed.

“You... soldier!”

Jackson stiffened to attention.

“Sir!”

“Go down to my Jeep. I have left my goddam briefcase!”

Automatically, Jackson turned and started for the elevator, then stopped.

“Excuse me, sir. I am on guard.” The agony in his voice nearly made Smernoff laugh.

“You’re relieved! I’m here, aren’t I? Get my briefcase!”

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson pressed the call button and when the elevator doors swished open, he entered the cage and descended to the lobby.

Parked in the drive, was a military Jeep. Jackson ran over to it. Two Pfcs were standing, talking together. They turned as Jackson came up.

“The Colonel’s briefcase,” Jackson snapped.

“Oh, yeah,” one of the soldiers said. Then things happened so fast Jackson later had only a vague idea just what did happen. The nearest soldier hit him on the side of his jaw, his fist incased in a brass knuckle-duster. His companion snatched the automatic rifle out of Jackson’s hand as he fell. The other soldier dragged the unconscious man into the Jeep, handed his companion a bulky briefcase, threw a tarpaulin over Jackson and drove rapidly away.

Kordak, the remaining soldier, ran back to the hospital. At the entrance, he slowed, nodded to the reception clerk who stared with boredom at him, then entered the elevator and was whisked to the fourth floor.

Smernoff was pacing up and down.

“Well?”

Kordak, a slim, dark, weasel-faced man who had worked with Smernoff for some time, nodded and grinned.

“No trouble at all.”

He gave Smernoff the briefcase, then shouldering the automatic rifle, he began to patrol the corridor.

Smernoff went into a nearby lavatory. He took from the briefcase a doctor’s white coat which he put on over his uniform. He hid his peaked cap in a laundry basket. Then he took from the briefcase a stethoscope which he hung around his neck and a small flat box which contained a hypodermic and a phial of colourless fluid. His movements were swift, and in a few seconds the American Colonel had changed into a businesslike looking Ward Doctor.

He walked out into the corridor.

Kordak was coming towards him.

“Get a wheel stretcher!” Smernoff snapped. “There must be one on this landing,” and he walked quickly down the corridor until he came to a door numbered 140.

He opened the door and walked into a dimly lit room where a woman lay in a hospital bed. Her honey-coloured hair made a frame to her white, beautiful face. Large dark-blue eyes looked sleepily at him as he came up to the bed.

“Good evening,” Smernoff said. “It is only your injection. You must get plenty of sleep.”

The woman said nothing. Her eyes watched Smernoff’s swift expert movements. He had practised again and again with the hypodermic and he handled it with confidence.

As he took her cool wrist between his hot, sweating fingers, the woman shivered.

“It is all right,” he said soothingly and stabbed the needle into the suntanned flesh.

Like a black fly, Jo-Jo gripped the drainpipe between his knees and inched himself upwards. His claw — like, dirty fingers reached for the ledge above him, gripped and he pulled himself up, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left knee, gripping the pipe higher up and then pulling himself onto the ledge. He paused to take breath. He had now reached the third floor. Below, he could just make out Sadu walking uneasily up and down by his car. He pressed himself against the rain-soaked wall. Immediately below him, a black and white Citroen ambulance had swung into the drive and pulled up. A giant of a man with silver-coloured hair and wearing a white overall slid out of the driving seat.

Jo-Jo wasn’t interested. He looked up at the next ledge ten feet above his head. Then he began to climb again. He had one bad moment. The pipe was wet and slippery. His fingers and knees gripping the pipe suddenly failed to hold his weight. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, he hovered between life and death. He slid three feet and his body swayed outwards, then he recovered his balance and grinned viciously. Jo-Jo wasn’t intimidated by death. That was a hazard he was ready to accept in return for money.

Far below, Sadu watched his progress, saw him nearly fell and drew in a quick hissing breath. He watched the dark figure hoist itself to the fourth floor ledge, pause and then start for the fifth floor.

Rain fell on Sadu’s heated face. He was aware of the thumping of his heart. Another group of nurses, busily chattering and laughing, came out of the hospital gates and moved past him. Sadu, afraid of being noticed, got back into his car and lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. He was glad to have an excuse not to watch Jo-Jo’s climb as Jo-Jo began to edge along the ledge, peering into the lighted windows while he searched for Erica Olsen.

Jo-Jo wasn’t to know that the nurse he had murdered had lied to him and there were no women patients on the fifth floor and no room numbered 112.

He was still creeping along the ledge, cursing to himself when a sleek, black Mercedes pulled up by the hospital’s entrance.

Girland got out and slammed the door shut. Out of the corner of his eye he saw in the shadows a waiting Citroen ambulance. It meant nothing to him. Hospitals and ambulances went together.

He ran up the steps and entered the lobby.

“Monsieur?” the reception clerk asked, regarding Girland unfavourably. Visitors at this hour were never welcomed.

“Dr. Forrester, please,” Girland said briskly.

“Dr. Forrester is not here. He’s gone home.”

“I’ve come to take my wife home,” Girland said. “Room 140. You know about her?”

The reception clerk, a balding little man with liver smudges under his eyes, brightened slightly. Who in the hospital hadn’t heard about the woman with the tattoo marks?

“The woman who has lost her memory?”

“That’s right,” Girland said. “Let’s have some action. I’m taking her home. Who is in charge of her case?”

The clerk opened a file index, regarded it, then said, “I have a note here... are you Monsieur Girland?”

“That’s correct.”

“Oh, y e s... Nurse Roche.” He picked up a telephone receiver and spoke into it. “She’ll be right down.”

Girland resisted the temptation to light a cigarette. He was suddenly aware that he was hungry. All this had been pretty rushed. After leaving Dorey, he had gone to the car pool and listened to the instructions about the car’s various gadgets, then had driven to his apartment and collected his shaving kit and a few other things he thought he would need, then had driven to the hospital. There had been no time for a meal. Now he was faced with a 900-kilometre drive with a woman who had lost her memory and could be tricky. It was going to be quite a night, he thought, shaking his head.

A young nurse came from the elevator. She was under twenty years of age. Her bright little face and her pert eyes interested Girland.

“You have come for your wife, Mr. Girland?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Dr. Forrester said you were coming. Have you a car?”

“Yes. How is she? Fit to travel?”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Forrester is quite satisfied. Yes, she will be fit to travel.”

“Okay, then let’s go.”

As they walked together to the elevator the nurse whose name was Ginny Roche, said, “We are all terribly curious, Mr. Girland. Was it your idea that your wife should be tattooed?”

Girland regarded her, his face serious.

“Oh, no. It’s an old family custom. You should see her mother.”

The girl’s eyes widened.

“How awful.”

“My wife is pretty proud of her tattoo,” Girland said as they got into the elevator. “I have to watch her. She’s always trying to show it to people... gets a little embarrassing.”

Ginny looked at him and then laughed.

“Oh, I see... you’re kidding.”

Girland smiled at her.

“That’s it.”

“I expect you are glad you have found her. It must be dreadful to lose one’s memory.”

“It would suit me,” Girland said. “I have so much on my conscience.”

The elevator doors swished open and Ginny led Girland across the corridor to Room 140.

She opened the door and Girland, suddenly aware of unexpected tension, walked into the room. He came to an abrupt standstill when he saw a short, thickset man, wearing a white coat bending over the woman in the bed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Girland said.

The man turned slowly and stared at Girland. His small black eyes shifted from Girland to Ginny who was looking at him, a dismayed expression on her face.

Smernoff quickly recovered his nerve.

“What is it, nurse? Who is this gentleman?”

“I’m sorry, doctor.” Ginny was puzzled. She hadn’t been working in the hospital for very long, but she thought she knew all the doctors by sight. She had never seen this man before, but her awe of authority made her cautious.

“She’s my wife,” Girland said, pointing to the woman in the bed. “Dr. Forrester said it was okay for me to take her home.”

Smernoff moved into the shadows. He dropped the empty hypodermic into his pocket. He regarded Girland. He immediately decided this tall, wiry man must be one of Dorey’s agents. This could mean trouble, and there was something about this man that stirred his memory. He felt certain he had seen him before.

“Well, that is all right,” he said. “She has had an injection and she won’t wake now until tomorrow morning. Come back then, and she will be quite fit to travel.”

When you enter a hospital, a doctor becomes some kind of god. The white coat, the stethoscope and the know-all manner makes an impression on most people, and Girland was no exception.

“Excuse me, doctor, but I was told I could move her tonight.”

“Well, you can’t,” Smernoff snapped. “Didn’t you hear what I said? She has had an injection. She will be ready to leave tomorrow, but not before.”

Girland lifted his shoulders in resignation and began to move to the door when he suddenly noticed this man was wearing khaki trousers below his white coat and his highly polished shoes were of a military cut. His eyes shifted to the hard, flat face. He had a sudden memory of a man with a rifle, shooting at him in a wasteless desert in Senegal.

“Okay, doctor, then I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he said mildly, but his brain was working swiftly. He must be mistaken, he was telling himself. The Russian who had tried to kill him in Senegal was dead. He was sure of that.

He opened the door and was confronted by Kordak, pushing a wheel-stretcher before him.

Kordak’s automatic rifle lay on the stretcher. With a lightning movement, Kordak snatched up the rifle and levelled it at Girland.

“Don’t move!”

Ginny caught her breath in a gasp. Cursing, Smernoff reached her and clapped his hand over her mouth.

“Scream and I’ll break your neck!” he snarled.

Girland moved cautiously back, his hands held shoulder high as Kordak came into the room.

There was a brief dramatic pause, then Smernoff released Ginny.

“Make a sound and you’ll be sorry,” he said, stripping off his white coat. He jerked out his Service revolver from its polished holster. “Get this woman onto the stretcher! You and you!” His gun swung from Girland to Ginny. “Hurry!”

Girland pulled the stretcher into the room and pushed it close to the bed. As he did so, he removed the radio pill from under his thumbnail.

Ginny white faced, but quite steady, walked around the bed and stripped off the blanket and sheet. The sleeping woman was wearing a hospital nightgown. Girland was too occupied with the situation to admire her beauty. He took her under the armpits, began to lift her, purposely stumbled and half fell on her. In that brief moment as he recovered his balance, he forced the radio pill into the woman’s mouth. As he straightened he hoped she would swallow it.

“Watch what you are doing!” Smernoff snarled. “Hurry!”

With Ginny helping, Girland slid the woman’s sleeping body onto the stretcher. As they did so, their eyes met. Girland gave her a reassuring wink, but it didn’t seem to reassure her.

At this moment, Jo-Jo who had found an unlatched window and had explored all the rooms on the fifth landing, now discovered the nurse he had murdered had lied to him. Cursing, gun in hand, he ran down the stairs to the fourth floor.