You Have Yourself a Deal

Chapter Five

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Ginny said wistfully.

She and Girland were standing side by side by the sleeping woman’s bed.

“I guess,” Girland said and moved away.

She was certainly beautiful, he thought. It made him a little uneasy that he was to pretend to be her husband. He realised suddenly that he was not looking forward to the moment when she recovered consciousness.

“How is she going?” he asked, looking out of the window.

“All right. Sometime tonight she will wake up,” Ginny said. “Her pulse beat is returning to normal. I’d say around two or three in the morning.”

Girland moved to the door. Together they went down to the terrace. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, turning the sky and the sea a dark, vivid red. Girland was still wearing shorts and sandals, and Ginny, now in a white cotton frock, walked to the balustrade of the terrace and rested her hands on the hot stone. She looked down at the twinkling lights of Eze village, then beyond at the darkening outline of Cap Ferrat.

“I wish I were as beautiful as she is,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I would love to be blonde.” She turned, resting her small hips against the balustrade and looked at Girland, “Do you think I would look better if I were a blonde?”

Girland groaned silently.

“Why not buy a blonde wig and then you’ll know,” he said. Women’s problems about their beauty bored him. To him a woman was either beautiful or not. “You look lovely as you are.” He looked at his watch. “I must have a word with Sergeant O’Leary. I won’t be long.”

As he walked down the steps into the garden, Ginny looked after him. His strong muscular shoulders, his straight back, his massive suntan gave her a little pang. She now discovered she was falling in love with him and this realisation came as a shock to her. She watched him out of sight, then turning abruptly, she hurried into the villa and up to her room.

Girland found O’Leary sitting on a stool outside the lodge. Near him was the black Alsatian dog which stiffened at Girland’s approach. Girland walked straight up to the dog and put his hand around the dog’s black muzzle.

O’Leary caught his breath sharply and began to get to his feet.

“Hello, chum,” Girland said, looking straight into the dog’s eyes.

The dog regarded him, then pushed its muzzle deeper into Girland’s hands.

“Hell!” O’Leary said, relaxing. “You gave me a fright. I thought you were going to lose your hand. That dog’s vicious.”

Girland continued to caress the dog.

“I like dogs,” he said. “They seem to like me.” He gave the dog a final pat and then sat on a rock by O’Leary’s side. “Looks like we have the yellow boys as well as the Commies to watch out for.”

“Yeah. Let them all come,” O’Leary said indifferently. “We can handle them. There was a guy here around a couple of hours back. He wanted to know if this was Lord Beaverbrook’s old home. I didn’t dig for him. Beaverbrook had a place further down the coast, didn’t he?”

“Cap d’Ail. Who was this guy?”

“Search me. A beatnik: dirty, young. I told him to beat it... he did.”

Girland rubbed the side of his nose.

“Look, O’Leary, suppose they threw a bomb at this gate... they could get in, couldn’t they?”

“Sure they could, but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. I have two boys at the head of the drive, nicely placed and concealed with machine guns. We can’t get taken from behind. All we have to bother about is our front, and by the time they get those gates down, we’ll be ready for them.”

The two men talked of this and that for half an hour, then Girland got to his feet.

“Maybe I’d better have a gun up there,” he said. “If we do have trouble, I’d be happier with a gun.”

O’Leary grinned.

“I have just the job for you.” He went into the lodge and returned with a.38 automatic and three clips of ammunition.

Back in the villa, Girland put the gun on the undershelf of the terrace table, then stretched out on the chaise lounge.

Diallo came onto the terrace.

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour, sir,” he said. “Another drink?”

Girland grinned at him. He was thoroughly enjoying this feeling of luxury.

“Why not? A Cinzano Bitters. What are we eating, Diallo?”

“Well, sir, I thought an avocado with crab, then a gigot with a touch of garlic. I have a very fine Pont-l’Évêque and a beautiful Brie. Perhaps a citron sorbet to follow.”

Girland closed his eyes.

“Hmmmm... don’t tell me, give me.”

With now a feeling of complete security, he relaxed. After all, O’Leary had told him that trouble was his business. O’Leary was one of O’Halloran’s bright, Irish fighters. Girland told himself he now had nothing to worry about until Erica Olsen recovered consciousness, and that would be some hours ahead. He dozed.

“Hey!”

The blonde girl, wearing a flame-red sleeveless dress, who stood before him brought him upright.

He stared, then grinned.

“Well! For a moment you had me fooled.”

Ginny looked anxiously at him.

“Do you like it? It took a whole bottle of peroxide.”

Girland regarded her small, immature figure, her bright, expectant eyes, her young alert face and he smiled.

“Ginny... you look gorgeous. Yes, of course, I think you look more beautiful blonde. Come and sit down. Tell me the story of your life.”

She regarded him, an exasperated expression in her eyes.

“I don’t want to tell you the story of my life... it is far too dull. Tell me the story of your life.” She came and sat by his side, self-consciously touching her hair. “Are you sure you like me better this way?”

Girland crossed his long legs and lit a cigarette.

“How old are you, Ginny?”

She stiffened.

“What’s that to you?”

“Eighteen?”

“Of course not! I’m nineteen!”

Girland put his hand over hers.

“I’m nearly twice your age.” He shook his head. “I envy you, Ginny. It’s wonderful to be as young as you are.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about! Do you like me blonde?”

“I like you anyway. How is the patient?”

Ginny moved impatiently.

“She’s all right. You are far more interested in her than you are in me!”

“Ginny dear,” Girland said, keeping his face straight, “she is my wife.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that! I know all about it. She is no more your wife than I am!”

Girland flicked ash off his cigarette.

“Can you guess what we are having for dinner?”

She stared at him, then stood up and walked slowly over to the balustrade. He watched her, then grimaced. Complications, he thought. She is a sweet kid, but...

He remained where he was, smoking and staring up at the stars as they began to appear in the darkening sky.

He was relieved when Diallo announced that dinner was served.

Sadu Mitchell was always being startled by Pearl’s unexpected knowledge and her odd contacts. When they left Nice Airport in the 404 that Hertz Rental had ready for them, she directed him through Nice, along the Corniche to Villefranche Pass and to a tiny hotel, set back against the mountain where a small, elderly woman came out to greet them. This woman, in a white sweater and black slacks, was Vietnamese.

Slightly bewildered, Sadu watched the two women greet each other while Jo-Jo sat in the back of the car, sneering to himself.

The woman, Ruby Kuo, turned out to be Pearl’s aunt. She also owned the hotel. There was a little delay before the three were given rooms as Pearl and Ruby had much to say to each other. Eventually, Sadu got Pearl to himself. Jo-Jo joined them. It was decided that Jo-Jo should go immediately to Dorey’s villa and explore the ground. It was Pearl who gave him the Beaverbrook excuse.

A couple of hours later, Jo-Jo returned. He found Sadu and Pearl waiting for him in the snail garden that Ruby kept for her own use.

“The Army’s there,” Jo-Jo said, shrugging. “I haven’t a hope in hell of getting at her.” He sat down and began to pick his nose. “You are supposed to be the brains of this outfit... you fix it.”

Pearl and Sadu looked at each other. Then Pearl said, “I will talk to Ruby,” and she went into the hotel.

Sadu questioned Jo-Jo about the position of the villa.

“It’s built against the mountain,” Jo-Jo said. “There are high walls around it and the Army’s there. There’s a police dog too. You can’t even see the villa from the gate. If she stays holed up there, we’ll never get at her.”

Sadu got to his feet and walked to the end of the garden. He thought of what Yet-Sen had said: if there is another mistake, an example will be made. What did that mean? His hands turned clammy. He was now regretting getting mixed up with Yet-Sen. It was Pearl’s fault. She had nagged at him, and at that time, it had seemed not only safe and simple, but the right thing to do.

Twenty minutes later, Pearl returned. The two men looked expectantly at her.

“It can be done,” she said. “My aunt knows the villa. She has lived here for many years. There is a little known footpath from the Grande Corniche that leads down to the back of the villa. The path is never used now. We could get near the villa by this path.”

“Suppose they know about it?” Sadu said uneasily. “Suppose there is a man and a dog there, waiting for us?”

Pearl shrugged indifferently.

“A man and a dog does not make an impossibility,” she said. “Jo-Jo has a gun and a silencer.”

Sadu regarded her flower-like, expressionless face. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. This woman, he thought, was too dedicated. He began to hate her.

Jo-Jo got to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Time’s getting on.”

“I will drive the car,” Pearl said. “You must go with him.” This to Sadu. “I will leave you at the footpath and then go on to La Turbie. I will wait there half an hour, then come back. By then you should have been able to see what can be done.”

“When you two have finished making plans,” Sadu said angrily, “let me remind you I am in charge of this operation. We will not go now. At this hour the Corniche will be crammed with cars. We will wait until the traffic thins out.” He looked at his gold Omega. The time was 14.15 hrs. “We will not leave here until midnight.”

Pearl and Jo-Jo exchanged glances, then Jo-Jo shrugged.

“Don’t we get any food here?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”

“She’s awake,” Ginny said as she came out onto the terrace.

Girland was lying on the chaise lounge. The time was 9.30 p.m. He had had an excellent dinner and was now watching a satellite jinking across the star-laden sky.

He raised his head, then swung his legs off the chaise lounge.

“Do you want me to do anything?”

“She wants to know where she is. I think you had better...”

Girland hurriedly pulled on a sweatshirt and followed Ginny into the villa. There was a table lamp in the woman’s bedroom which cast shadows. He crossed to the bed.

Erica Olsen looked up at him and Girland drew in a long, slow breath. He had thought her beautiful in sleep, but now the big, violet coloured eyes were open, bringing life to her face, she was even more beautiful.

“Where am I?” she asked, looking up at him. “Who are you?”

“I am Mark, your husband, darling,” he said gently. “You are home. It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Home?” Her long cool fingers moved over the back of his hand. “I can’t remember anything. You are my husband?”

“Yes, darling. Don’t you remember me?”

She closed her eyes. For a brief moment, she remained still, then she said, “It is beautiful and black like a grape.”

Girland looked searchingly at her.

“What is? What do you mean?” he asked, sensing that what she had just said was important. “What is beautiful and black like a grape?”

“Did I say that?” She opened her eyes. “I don’t know why I said it. Who did you say you were?”

“Your husband... Mark.”

“You can’t imagine how it feels to remember nothing. I didn’t know I was married. I don’t remember ever seeing you before.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. The doctor says your memory will come back in time. Just don’t worry. You are home now and I am here to look after you.”

“You are very kind.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I feel so tired. I... I thought at one time I was in hospital.”

“So you were, but I have brought you home.”

“It’s a nice room.” Her eyes opened and she looked fixedly at him. “Mark? Is that your name?”

“That’s right. You try to sleep. Tomorrow, you’ll feel better. I’ll be right here, Erica. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Erica? Is that my name?”

“Of course, darling.”

“I didn’t know.” Again the dark blue eyes regarded him. “And you really are my husband?”

“Yes.”

She seemed to relax and she closed her eyes.

“Oh, it’s good to be home.”

When he was sure she was sleeping, he gently disengaged his hand from hers and stood up.

Ginny and he moved away from the bed.

“What was all that about a black grape?” Girland asked. “What did she mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to stay with her.” Ginny was now the efficient nurse. “She’ll probably sleep all night.” She looked at him unhappily. “You were very convincing. If I hadn’t known, I would really have thought you were her husband.”

Girland made a movement of irritation. He didn’t feel very proud of himself. “You don’t imagine I like this, do you? This is a job. I get paid for it.”

He left the room and went down to the terrace.

Kovski came into the small office where Malik was sitting behind a desk, digging holes in the desk blotter with a paper knife.

Kovski was the head of the Paris division of Soviet Security.

He was a short fat man with a chin beard, an enormous bald dome of a head, ferrety eyes and a thick nose. He was shabbily dressed, and there were food stains on his coat lapels. He was one of the most dangerous and cunning members of the Secret Police and Malik’s boss.

Malik looked up and regarded him with his green snake’s eyes. He didn’t bother to move. Malik was very sure of himself. Kovski could be replaced tomorrow, but Malik knew his own position was unassailable unless he made a mistake, and Malik never made mistakes.

“What is happening?” Kovski demanded, coming to rest before the desk.

“I am waiting,” Malik said and began digging the paper knife into the blotter again.

“We can no longer wait,” Kovski snapped and threw a cable onto the blotter.

Malik read the cable, then pushed it back across the desk. He got to his feet, towering over Kovski.

“Why didn’t they say so before?”

“Information has just been received that Kung has invented a new weapon,” Kovski said. “It is now vital that we should know about it. It is possible this woman knows something. We need the information immediately. Where is this woman?”

“We have one small lead that could mean something.” Malik went on to tell Kovski about Kerman. “We are checking. We have four men in Nice, but this could take time. Why wasn’t I told this was immediately?”

Kovski drew in a sharp breath. When dealing with Malik, he found no one but Malik could ever be in the right.

“You know now! This woman must be found! After all, you lost her.”

Malik regarded him.

“I didn’t lose her. Your mistress, Merna Dorinska, lost her.”

Kovski flinched and blood rushed into his face.

“Don’t call that woman my mistress!”

“I am sorry. I mean your whore,” Malik said.

The two men stared at each other. Kovski’s eyes were the first to shift.

“What are we going to do?” he asked in a milder tone.

Malik returned to his chair and sat down.

“Dorey has a secretary. Her name is Marcia Davis,” he said, picking up the paper knife. “She will know where this woman is. I would have done this before had I known it was so urgent. You can leave it to me.”

“Done what?” Kovski asked, staring uneasily at Malik.

“It would be better if you left this to me,” Malik said. “I am in charge of the operation. I suggest the less you know about it until I have definite information, the better for both of us.”

Kovski hesitated. “What are you going to do with this woman, Marcia Davis?”

“Do you want to know?” The glittering green eyes made Kovski very uneasy.

“I hope you know what you are doing, Malik.”

“Oh, yes, I know what I am doing. We are wasting time. You either allow me to handle this my way or I must withdraw.”

Kovski shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“We must not fail.”

“Who said anything about failing?”

Kovski nodded, then turning, he went out of the office.

Malik reached for the telephone.

“Send Smernoff to me at once,” he told the inquiring voice.

He replaced the receiver and picked up the paper knife. Slowly and viciously, he again began to dig holes in the blotter.

Slightly out of breath, and sweating, Sadu paused.

“Wait!” he said curtly to Jo-Jo who was moving down the steep path, gun in hand, his eyes probing the star lit darkness.

Jo-Jo paused and looked over his shoulder.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“You are moving too fast,” Sadu said, his voice low. “This is dangerous. We could start a landslide.”

The path that Ruby had told Pearl about did exist. It was overgrown with clumps of dried grass, weeds and roots of trees. No one appeared to have used it for years. They were halfway down and from where he stood, Sadu could already see, outlined against the mountain, the roof of the villa.

The two men began a more cautious descent.

Sadu was careful to let Jo-Jo go on well ahead. He had no wish to encounter a police dog. Jo-Jo was paid for this kind of work: he wasn’t.

They covered a few more metres of rough ground, then Jo-Jo came to a stop. After making sure there was no immediate danger, Sadu joined him.

The two men could now look down on the terrace of the villa, some thirty metres below them. They could see Girland lying on the chaise lounge, sharply outlined under the lights of the terrace against the white paving stones.

Jo-Jo surveyed the scene with an expert eye.

“If she comes out on the terrace, she will be a sitting duck,” he said. “I will have to have a rifle with a telescopic sight. I’ll have only one shot to do the job with. If I am to get away, I’ll also want a silencer. A .22 rifle will do. With a telescopic sight, a head shot will do the trick.”

Sadu grimaced.

“I’ll arrange it,” he said. “There is plenty of cover here. As soon as I get the rifle, you will come here and wait.”

Jo-Jo picked at a sore on the back of his hand.

“Just so long as she comes out on the terrace,” he said.

Flanked on either side by Harry Whitelaw and the owner of the restaurant, Claude Terrail, Marcia Davis walked out of the elegant room with its superb view of Notre Dame.

Dining at La Tour d’Argent was always an experience, she thought. The meal had been more than excellent. The filet de sole cardinal and the Soufflé Valtesse had been beyond reproach.

Harry Whitelaw of the New York Post had been amusing, and his attentions, as always, flattering. She had known Whitelaw off and on for a number of years. He was a tall, humorous man with no complications. Marcia was always able to relax in his company. She had never had any trouble with him. He came to Paris three times a year, and each time he took her to La Tour d’Argent which he claimed to be the best restaurant in Paris.

Claude Terrail, tall and aristocratic-looking, shook hands at the tiny elevator, then Marcia and Whitelaw descended to the street level.

“That was a perfect meal, Harry,” Marcia said as she collected her mink stole from the woman attendant. “Thanks a million. When will you be in Paris again?”

Whitelaw pushed three francs into the woman’s hand. He was never quite sure, even after innumerable visits to the French capital, just how much he should tip.

“I’ll be over for Christmas.” He regarded her as the doorman went in search of a taxi. “How’s Dorey?”

“He’s fine.”

“You know, we have wondered about him. We thought he was through.”

Marcia laughed.

“Who didn’t? No one should ever underestimate Dorey.”

Whitelaw said as casually as he could, “Anything exciting happening?”

“Oh, Harry!” Marcia gave him an old-fashioned look. “Just when I was thinking this lovely dinner had no strings.”

Whitelaw grinned.

“No harm in trying. Okay, forget it.” He moved a step away from her and regarded her affectionately. “You know, Marcia, you are a very attractive woman. Tell me something: just why haven’t you married?”

Marcia stroked the fur of her stole. Her smile was a little rueful.

“Here’s your taxi, Harry. Thanks, and I’ll be waiting for a call from you... Christmas.”

“You’ll get it. You know something? I’ve begun to ask myself why the hell I haven’t married.”

When he had driven away in the taxi, Marcia walked to where she had parked her Mini-Cooper on the Ponte de la Tournelle. She unlocked the car door and slid into the driving seat. For a moment or so, she stared through the dusty windshield. Did Harry mean anything by that last remark? she wondered. She was now thirty-five. She was getting bored being Dorey’s slave. Although she loved Paris, how much nicer it would be to have her own home in New York.

Don’t jump to conclusions, girl, she said, shrugging, then thumbing the starter, she drove rapidly to her three-roomed apartment on the Rue de la Tour.

Humming under her breath, she parked her little car, walked briskly through the dark courtyard, pressed the door release, then entered the lobby. She rode up in the elevator to the third floor. Leaving the elevator, she took from her bag her front door key and inserted it into the lock. She had some trouble opening the door, and this puzzled her. Up to this moment, the lock had worked efficiently. But by pulling the door towards her and putting pressure on the key, she managed to get the door open.

This was something she must look at tomorrow morning, she thought, but right now, she wanted her bed. There was nothing nicer than to have a first-class meal and good company, then come back, throw off your clothes and get into bed with a good book. She would read for twenty minutes, then turn out the light.

She snapped on the lights and walked into her living room. Then she stopped short, her blood turning cold, her mouth opening to scream.

The chill of cold steel touched her throat as Smernoff snarled, “One sound out of you, you bitch, and I will cut your throat.”

Malik lounged in her favourite armchair. A Russian cigarette burned between his thick fingers and his silver-coloured hair made a sharp contrast against the wine-coloured chair back.

“Don’t be foolish,” he said in his bad French. “All right, Boris, let her alone.”

Marcia recognised Malik. She had seen his photograph often enough in the various files she handled daily. She knew him to be the most dangerous of the Russian agents. Her heart quailed as Smernoff gave her a hard shove towards Malik.

“Sit down, Miss Davis,” Malik said politely. “We have no time to waste. I must know where Erica Olsen is. Please tell me.”

It said much for Marcia’s courage and self-control that by the time she had sat down and was facing Malik, she had recovered from the shock of finding these two men in her apartment, and she had also recovered her composure. She knew she was in deadly danger. She knew these two men would get the information they wanted from her unless she outwitted them. Her mind worked swiftly. She remembered Girland had already told Malik that Erica Olsen was to go to the American Embassy. This, she decided, must be her story. It would be hard to disprove, and she must be careful to convey to these two that she was giving the information reluctantly.

“You are Malik, aren’t you?” she said, looking steadily at the silver-haired giant.

“Never mind who I am. Where is Erica Olsen?”

“Where you can’t possibly get at her.”

“Miss Davis, I dislike being disagreeable to women,” Malik said, flicking ash on the carpet. “My companion has no such compunctions. You are wasting my time which is valuable. I am going to ask you again, and then if I don’t get a satisfactory answer, I will allow my companion to take over the interrogation. Where is Erica Olsen?”

Marcia appeared to hesitate. She shrank back in the chair. Her hands moved to her throat and her eyes became wide.

“I told you... where you can’t possibly get at her. She’s in the Embassy.”

“I was expecting you to say that,” Malik said. “My information is that she is on the Côte d’Azure. Where is Erica Olsen, please?”

Marcia stared into the expressionless eyes and she knew she had lost her gamble.

“Go to hell!” she said quietly, then starting up, she groped for the glass ashtray on a nearby occasional table with the intention of throwing it through the closed window.

She felt a blinding pain on the side of her neck, then she felt herself falling.

Smernoff who had chopped her with the side of his hand, caught hold of her and pulled her back into the chair.

Malik stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

“Go ahead,” he said, and began to look around the room. He thought how comfortable it was and how he would like to own it. Everything was in good taste. There were several good etchings on the walls. One by Springer, a movement of birds, particularly pleased him. These Americans certainly knew how to live well. He thought of his own one-roomed home in Moscow, and he wrinkled his nose.

Smernoff had taken a hypodermic from his pocket. He stabbed a heavy dose of scopolamine into a vein on Marcia’s arm.

A half an hour later, Marcia was talking sleepily.

“Dorey has a villa in Eze,” she told Malik. “Erica Olsen is there with Girland. There are six of O’Halloran’s men guarding the villa.”

“How is the villa called?” Malik asked quietly.

“Villa Hélios.”

Malik moved away from her and looked at Smernoff.

“I think that covers it.”

Smernoff nodded.

“Well, all right.” Malik collected five butts of his Russian cigarettes from the ashtray and put them in a matchbox. “Then she’s yours. It is a pity. She’s attractive, isn’t she?”

Smernoff shrugged. Women bored him.

“All cats are grey in the dark,” he said indifferently. “What is one woman less in the world?”

“Be careful.” Malik moved to the door. “Give me five minutes.”

Smernoff smiled.

“You don’t have to tell me. I know my job.”

Malik nodded and left the apartment. He rode down in the elevator. The time was now 11.50 p.m. The concierge was in bed. No one saw him as he let himself out, crossed the street to where his car was parked. He got in and drove away.

Alone in the apartment, Smernoff helped Marcia to her feet.

“You need some fresh air,” he said and led her willingly to the open french window and out onto the balcony. He stood by her side looking down at the Rue de la Tour. At this hour, the street was deserted.

Marcia, drugged, sleepy and relaxed, put her hands on the damp balcony rail and breathed in the close night air.

Smernoff looked up and down the street. He looked intently at the lighted windows of the various nearby apartments. No one was out on their balconies. He stepped behind Marcia, bent, gripped her ankles tightly and heaved upwards.

She fell soundlessly, breaking her neck, her back and her right arm as she landed on the top of a parked Dauphine.

Ginny came out onto the terrace. Girland lifted his head and laid down the paperback he was reading.

“Well? How is she?”

“She’s all right,” Ginny said and sat in a chair near him. “She’s sleeping. I’ve given her a mild sedative. She should be able to get up tomorrow.” She looked at him. “Then you will have to play your role as her husband.”

Girland shrugged.

“I told you... it’s a job. I get paid for it.”

“I don’t think I want to stay here,” Ginny said, looking down at her hands. “I would rather return to the hospital.”

“This is your job, Ginny,” Girland reminded her. “You’re getting paid for it too.”

“She won’t need a nurse after tomorrow.”

“Okay, then let’s wait until tomorrow before you decide to rush off.”

Ginny got up and wandered to the balustrade. She remained still, looking down at the distant lights, then finally, she turned and looked at Girland who was staring up at the stars.

“I’m going to bed. She’ll sleep. Good night.”

Girland felt the tension in her, but he resisted the temptation to go to her. She was too young, he thought irritably. I can’t afford complications.

“Okay, Ginny,” he said casually. “Good night.”

She went into the villa.

He lit a cigarette and picked up the paperback, but he found he couldn’t be bothered with it. He threw it aside, got to his feet and looked around him. Somewhere in the garden, he could hear O’Halloran’s men talking in subdued voices.

“Is there anything else, sir?” Diallo asked as he came out onto the terrace. “A drink, perhaps?”

“No... fine, thanks. You go to bed. I’m just turning in,” Girland said.

“Then I will, sir. Good night.”

When the Senegalese had gone. Girland flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the darkness, then turning off the terrace light, he walked into the villa. As he was about to climb the stairs, the telephone bell began to ring. He went into the big living room and picked up the receiver.

It was Dorey.

“My secretary died half an hour ago,” Dorey said, in a hard, tight voice. “She fell from her apartment window. The post mortem is being rushed through. There is a puncture mark on her arm. I think she has been injected with scopolamine. If she has, she has talked. Be very much on guard, Girland. I’m sending down six more men. On no account is Erica Olsen to be allowed out into the open. Do you understand? Don’t let her out onto the terrace. It is just possible someone could snipe her from the Corniche if he was a first-class shot. She is to remain in the villa. This you must see to and I hold you responsible.”

“Okay,” Girland said. “I’ve already thought about the terrace. Is this Malik?”

“It must be, but I have no proof,” Dorey said bitterly. “The roads and airport are being watched. If he heads south, I will let you know.”

“I’ll talk to O’Leary right away. I’ll get him to put a man up on the Corniche.”

“Do that.”

“Oh, another thing. I want to see the file you have on Kung. Can you let me have it?”

“Why?”

“I know nothing about him. If she says something connected with him, I want as much information about him, to make sure she isn’t talking nonsense, as I can get.”

“Has she said anything yet?”

“She said something about a black grape.”

“A grape?”

“Yes. I don’t know what it means... it could mean nothing, but if she’s going to let drop things like that, I want to be sure I’m not missing anything.”

“Well, all right, I’ll send the file down with O’Halloran’s men. What exactly did she say about this grape?”

Girland told him.

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know. Extraordinary. All right, Girland, keep at it and report to me anything else she comes out with,” and Dorey hung up.

Girland left the villa and went down to the lodge. He told O’Leary what had happened.

“Get a man and a dog up on the Corniche. From up there, a class shot could pick us off like rabbits.”

“Oh, no,” O’Leary said firmly. “You’re wrong. I’ve checked from the Corniche. There’s no way down and the villa is completely screened from the road. If I had thought there was any danger from up there, I would have had a man there right away, but our rear is safe. Trouble is my business, Girland. You look after the woman. I’ll take care of the trouble.”

“I want a man and a dog up there,” Girland said quietly. “It’s an order, O’Leary.”

The two men stared at each other, then O’Leary, his eyes sparkling with anger, said, “If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll get.” He paused, then added, “but it’s a waste of a man.”

“You’re getting another six by tomorrow... and that’s what I want.”

Girland returned to the villa and walked slowly up the stairs, his mind occupied. He paused at Erica Olsen’s door, opened it quietly and looked into the room. She was sleeping, her blonde hair spread out on the pillow, her face with its classical beauty, relaxed and peaceful.

Girland closed the door and went along to the bathroom. He took a cold shower, then carrying his clothes, he walked the few paces to his bedroom and opened the door.

A small voice said, “Mark... please... don’t put on the light.”

He stood in the doorway, his clothes held against him, covering his nakedness.

“Ginny?”

“I don’t care! I know I will lose you tomorrow. Once that woman is up, you will never even look at me.” The moonlight coming through the slats in the wooden shutters gave him enough light to see Ginny sitting up in his bed, holding the sheet against her. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Ginny, darling, I could never hate you.”

Girland moved across the room, dropped his clothes and sat on the bed. He pulled the sheet from her.

“But, Ginny, are you sure?” His arms went around her slim, naked body.

“I know I am shameless,” she whispered, her fingers caressing his back, “because I am so very sure.”

She was an irresistible gift that Girland took gently and with pleasure.

Malik and Smernoff completely fooled the police who were watching for them on all roads leading south. They drove rapidly to Le Touquet Airport, then chartered an air taxi to Aix-en-Provence Aero Club. There one of Smernoffs men was waiting for them in a fast car. They drove through Draguignan, Grasse, Tourettes and down to Cagnes-sur-Mer. Here, in a shabby villa by the sea which one of the Soviet Embassy’s contacts owned, they sat around a table and Malik questioned Petrovka who Smernoff had alerted as soon as they suspected that Nice was the likely hiding place.

Petrovka, thin and young, with a burning ambition to be as successful as Malik, had gone to Dorey’s villa while Malik and Smernoff were on their way down to Cagnes. His report was brief and to the point.

“The villa is impregnable,” he said. “There is no way of breaking in except by a frontal attack. There are six heavily armed men guarding the place.”

He then produced a sketch map of the villa which Malik studied. Malik lit a cigarette and pushed back his chair.

“This needs thinking about. A frontal attack is out of the question.” He pointed to the map. “Are you sure we can’t get down the mountain from the upper road? Is there no path?”

“There is no path shown on the local maps.”

Malik made an impatient movement.

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Go there at once and make sure.”

Petrovka got to his feet.

“At once,” he said and left.

Malik looked at Smernoff, his green eyes glittering.

“He should have checked. He is a fool.”

Smernoff shrugged.

“Show me anyone as young as he who isn’t a fool,” he said. “I have to make do with what I can get.”

There were a number of French and American tourists on the 7.30 a.m. flight from Paris to Nice which arrived at 8.55 a.m. Among them was a young Chinese girl who carried a violin case. She wore a cheap-flowered dress and stiletto heel shoes. She walked a little awkwardly. She passed through the police barrier with the other tourists and then walked out into the lobby.

Jo-Jo, in a bad mood because he had had to get up so early, came over and joined her. He had no interest in Chinese women. He thought their short, thick legs unsightly and their hips so much lumps of meat.

“Have you got it?” he asked the girl as she paused before him.

“Yes.”

“Then come on.”

He walked out of the airport to where he had parked the 404. The girl followed him, stumbling a little, but very proud of her stiletto heels. They got in the car and Jo-Jo, driving carefully, headed for Villefranche.

Neither of them said anything during the drive to Ruby’s hotel. Pearl greeted the girl. In the security of their bedroom, Sadu opened the violin case and took from it a .22 rifle, neatly in half, a telescopic sight and a silencer. The gun was a beautiful precision firearm made by a Japanese hand. He handed the gun to Jo-Jo.

“Well, there you are,” he said. “I have done my job, now you do yours.”

Jo-Jo carried the gun to the bed and sat down. He assembled the gun, screwed on the silencer, then clamped on the telescopic sight. Walking to the window, he aimed at a distant tree. His movements were so efficient and professional that Sadu felt a little chill in spite of the stuffiness of the room.

Jo-Jo turned and smiled. He seldom smiled, and his thin, vicious face became even more vicious as he showed his badly-discoloured teeth.

“It’s a beaut,” he said. “She is as good as dead.”