The Spoilers / Juggernaut (13 page)

‘I like the money,’ she said. ‘Just as you do.’

‘You must be making quite a lot,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s not everyone who can lay hands on a hundred thousand dollars’ loose cash—that’s the boodle for the successful trial, in case you’ve forgotten. I take it this isn’t a one-shot venture?’

‘What do you care?’

‘I like to stick where the money is. It would be nice if this built up into a regular income.’

She moved closer to him. ‘There is no reason why not. All that is required is that you do your work and keep your mouth shut. Both are essential to your general health.’

‘Would that be a threat?’ asked Abbot lightly.

She snuggled up to him, pressing her body against his. ‘It would. Nobody plays tricks with me, Monsieur Abbot.’

‘No tricks intended,’ said Abbot, chilled at the disparity between her words and her present actions. He had seen her dossier and it chimed in exactly with Eastman’s description. A buzz-saw, he had said. Anyone laying a hand on Delorme or any of her dubious enterprises would draw back a bloody stump at best. And there was a list of six names of varied nationality to demonstrate the worst. He danced with five-foot-six of warm womanhood pressed vibrantly against him and thought that perhaps she was a spider, after all.

She breathed into his ear, ‘You dance very well, Mike.’ He winced as her teeth nipped his earlobe.

‘Thanks, but there’s no need to be so enthusiastic,’ he said drily.

She giggled. ‘Dan was shocked. He kept talking about his wife and children. Does he really have a wife and children?’

‘Of course. Three kids, I think.’

‘He is a peasant type,’ she said. ‘His brains are in his hands. You are different.’

Abbot chuckled internally at the outrage Parker would show at being described as a peasant. ‘How am I different?’

‘You know very well,’ she said. ‘Welcome to the organization, Mike. We’ll try to keep you very happy.’

He grinned in the semi-darkness. ‘Does that include Jack Eastman?’

‘Never mind Jack Eastman,’ she said, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘Jack will do what I tell him. He doesn’t…’ She stopped speaking and made a sinuous movement so that her breasts nuzzled his chest. ‘
I’ll
keep you very happy,’ she whispered.

The music stopped and she stepped away from him after a lingering moment. He escorted her back to the table and thought he saw a satirical gleam in Eastman’s eye.

‘I’m not tired yet,’ she said. ‘It’s nice having three escorts. Come on, Jack.’

Eastman took her on to the floor again and Abbot dropped into the chair next to Parker. He found he was sweating slightly. Must be the heat, he thought, and picked up his newly refilled champagne glass.

Parker looked at the throng on the dance floor. ‘That woman scares me,’ he said gloomily.

‘What did she do—try to rape you on the floor?’

‘Bloody near.’ Parker’s brow turned pink again. ‘By God, if my missus could have seen me there’d be a divorce tomorrow.’ He tugged at his collar. ‘She’s a man-eater, all right.’

‘It seems as though our jobs are neatly allocated,’ said Abbot. ‘You look after the torpedo and I look after Jeanette.’ He sipped his champagne. ‘Or she looks after me, if I understood her correctly.’

He found he was smiling.

They stayed for quite a while at the Paon Rouge, dining and watching the cabaret. They left at about two in the morning to find the Mercedes waiting outside. Eastman got in the front next to the driver, and Abbot found himself rubbing shoulders and legs with Jeanette who wore a shimmering silver cape.

The car moved away, and after a while he looked out of the window at the sea and said, ‘It would be helpful if I knew where we were going.’

‘You’ll find out,’ she said, and opened her cigarette case. ‘Give me a light.’

He flicked his lighter and saw Parker sitting on the other side of Jeanette, easing his tight collar. ‘You’re the boss.’

The car proceeded smoothly on the road out of Beirut towards Tripoli and he wondered where it was taking them—and why. He did not wonder long because presently it swung off the road and drew up in front of a large wooden gate which was swung open by an Arab. The car rolled into a large yard and stopped.

They got out and Abbot looked around. As far as he could see in the darkness it seemed to be some sort of factory. A large shed loomed against the night sky, and beyond the moon sparkled on the sea. ‘This way,’ said Eastman, and Abbot followed him into an office.

The first thing he saw when the lights snapped on was his own suitcase against the wall. ‘What the hell…?’

‘You’ll be staying here,’ said Eastman. ‘There are two beds in the next room. No bathroom, I’m afraid—but there’s a wash-basin.’ He glanced at Jeanette and then his gaze came back to Abbot. ‘You should be quite comfortable,’ he said sardonically. ‘Ali will do your cooking.’

Jeanette said, ‘You’ll stay here until after the trials of the torpedo. How long you stay depends on yourselves.’ She smiled and said lightly, ‘But I’ll come to see you—often.’ She turned to Parker and said abruptly, ‘How long to make the conversion?’

Parker shrugged. ‘Two weeks—with the right equipment. A hell of a long time, or never, without it. But I’ll have to have a torpedo first.’

She nodded. ‘Come with me.’ They followed her from the office and across the yard to the big shed. Ali, the Arab, produced a big key and unlocked the door, then stood back to allow them to enter. The shed was on two levels and they came out on a platform overlooking the main workshop. A flight of wooden stairs led down to ground level.

Abbot looked over the rail, and said, ‘Well, I’m damned! You were pretty sure of us, weren’t you?’

Illumined under harsh lighting was a sleek and deadlylooking torpedo set up on trestles, gleaming because of the thin film of protective oil which covered it. To Abbot it looked enormous, and the first thought that came into his head was: How in hell did this bitch lay her hands on a torpedo at three days’ notice?

Warren checked the maps again, and his pen traced out the record of their journeys. The two weeks they had spent in Kurdistan had been wasted, but he did not see how they could have done differently. There had been a chance, admittedly a slim one, of running across Speering, and they could not have passed it by. But it had been a futile two weeks.

So they had returned to Tehran in the hope of finding something, what he did not know. All he knew was that he had failed, and failed dismally. Every time he had to write to Hellier confessing failure he cursed and fretted. The only bright spot was that Abbot and Parker seemed to be making good in the Lebanon—it seemed that his ‘insurance policy’ might pay off in the end. But now they had dropped out of sight and he did not know what to make of it.

Johnny Follet took it all phlegmatically. He did not know what Warren was looking for so assiduously, nor did he care so long as he was paid. He had long ago written off his resentment against Warren and was quite enjoying himself in Tehran, and took it as a pleasant and exotic holiday. He wandered the streets and saw the sights, and presently found himself some congenial companions.

Ben Bryan was also uneasy, if not as much as Warren, but that may have been because he did not have Warren’s
overall responsibility. He and Warren pored over the maps of northwest Iran trying to figure out where Speering could have gone to ground. ‘It’s no use,’ said Ben. ‘If these maps were up to the standard of British Ordnance Survey we might have a hope, but half the damned roads up there aren’t even shown here.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Warren.

Ben did not know, and they all idled in low gear.

Andy Tozier had a problem—a minor problem, true—but still a problem, and it puzzled him mightily. He was losing money steadily to Johnny Follet and he could not see how the trick was worked. The money he lost was not much when considered against the number of games played, but the steady trickle annoyed him.

He spoke to Warren about it. ‘On the face of it, it’s a fair game—I can’t see how he does it.’

‘I wouldn’t trust Johnny to play a fair game,’ said Warren. ‘What is it this time?’

‘It goes like this. We each have a coin, and we match coins. We don’t toss them, so the element of chance is eliminated as far as that goes—we each have control as to whether we show a head or a tail. Got that?’

‘It seems all right so far,’ said Warren cautiously.

‘Yes,’ said Tozier. ‘Now, if I show heads and he shows tails he pays me thirty pounds. If I show tails and he shows heads he pays me ten pounds.’

Warren thought about it. ‘Those are two of the four possible occurrences.’

‘Right!’ said Tozier. ‘The other two occurrences are both heads or both tails. If either of those happen I pay him twenty pounds.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Warren, and scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘There are four possible cases of which you can win two and he can win two. Taking all four cases as equal—which they are—if they all happen you will win forty
pounds—and so will he. It seems a fair game to me.’ It also seemed a childish game but that he did not say.

‘Then why the hell is he winning?’ demanded Tozier. ‘I’m nearly a hundred pounds down already.’

‘You mean to say that you never win?’

‘Oh, no. I win games and so does he—but he wins more often. It’s a sort of see-saw, but he seems to have more weight than I have and my money tends to roll towards him. The thing that makes me wild is that I can’t figure the gimmick.’

‘Perhaps you’d better stop playing.’

‘Not until I find out how he does it,’ said Tozier determinedly. ‘The thing that gets me is that it isn’t as though he could ring in a double-headed penny—that wouldn’t help him. Hell, it would make it worse for him because then I’d
know
what he was calling and I’d act accordingly.’ He grinned. ‘I’m willing to go another hundred just to find the secret. It’s a profitable game—I could use it myself if I knew how.’

‘It seems as though you’ll have plenty of time to play,’ said Warren acidly. ‘We’re getting nowhere here.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Tozier. ‘I’ve had an idea. What about that pharmaceutical place where Speering ordered his supplies? They’d deliver the stuff, wouldn’t they? So they must have an address somewhere in their records. All we have to do is to extract it somehow.’

Warren looked at him wearily. ‘Are you suggesting a burglary?’

‘Something like that.’

I’ve thought of it, too,’ admitted Warren. ‘But just tell me one thing. How the devil are we going to recognize what we want even if we see it? These people keep records in Persian, which is a foreign language to begin with, and in Arabic script which none of us can read. Could you sort it out, Andy?’

‘Hell, I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Tozier. ‘My colloquial Arabic isn’t bad but I can’t read the stuff.’ He looked up. ‘Do you mind if I talk to Johnny about this?’

Warren hesitated. ‘Not as long as you stick to generalities. I don’t want him knowing too much.’

‘I won’t tell him more than he ought to know. But it’s about time he was put to work. He’s a good con man and if we can’t get the information in any other way then perhaps we can get it by Johnny’s fast talk.’

So Tozier talked to Johnny Follet and Johnny listened. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Give me a couple of days and I’ll see what I can come up with.’ He disappeared into the streets of Tehran and they did not see him for four days. When he came back he reported to Tozier, ‘It can be done. It’ll take a bit of fooling around, but it can be done. You can have the information in less than a week.’

Follet’s plan was so diabolical that it raised the hairs on the back of Warren’s head. He said, ‘You’ve got an evil mind, Johnny.’

‘I guess so,’ said Follet insouciantly. ‘There’s a part for everyone—the more the merrier. But for Christ’s sake take it seriously; it’s got to look good and real.’

Tell me more about this man.’

‘He’s assistant to the Chief Clerk in the Stores Department of the company. That means he issues goods against indents and keeps the books on quantities. He’s just the guy to have the information you need—or to be in a position to get it. There’s no money involved because he never handles it; all that is done by the main office. That’s a pity in a way because we lose a chance of really hooking him.’

‘Why don’t we just bribe him?’ asked Tozier.

‘Because the guy’s honest, that’s why—or a reasonable facsimile. Suppose we tried to bribe him and it didn’t take? He’d report to his bosses and the information would be whisked out of that office so fast that we wouldn’t get another chance at it. And they might tell the police and then we’d be in trouble.’

‘They might not tell the police,’ said Warren. ‘We don’t know how much this firm is involved with Speering, but it’s my guess that it’s in on the whole thing. It must be. Any firm issuing certain chemicals and equipment has a damned good idea of what they’ll be used for. It’s my guess that this crowd is in it up to its collective neck.’

‘What thing?’ asked Follet alertly.

‘Never mind, Johnny; carry on with what you were saying.’

Follet shrugged. ‘This guy—Javid Raqi—is a bright boy. He speaks English well, he’s had a good education and he’s ambitious. I guess that chief clerk won’t last long with friend Javid on his heels. He has only one flaw—he’s a gambler.’

Tozier smiled. ‘Your flaw, Johnny?’

‘Not mine,’ said Follet promptly. ‘He’s a sucker gambler. Now, that doesn’t mean he’s a fool. He’s learned to play poker—the guys working on the gas line taught him—and he’s a good player. I know because he’s gotten some of my dough right now, and I didn’t have to let him win it, either—he gouged it out of me like a pro. But it means he can be got at—he can be had; and once he’s been got at then we squeeze him goddam hard.’

Warren wrinkled his nose distastefully. ‘I wish there were some other way of doing this.’

‘Never give a sucker an even break,’ said Follet, and turned to Tozier. ‘The whole scheme hinges on that videotape gadget. How well does it work?’

‘I have it set up in my room; it works very well.’

‘That I have to see for myself,’ said Follet. ‘Let’s all go up there.’

They all went up to Tozier’s room and Tozier switched on the TV and pointed to the videotape machine. ‘There it is. It’s already connected to the TV set.’

The machine looked very much like an ordinary tape recorder, although bulkier than most. The tape, however, was an inch wide and the reels were oversized. Follet bent down and examined it interestedly. ‘I’d like to get this just right; this gadget will take in everything—sight and sound both?’

‘That’s it,’ said Tozier.

‘How’s the quality?’

‘If you use the video-camera there’s a bit of blurring, particularly on movement, but if you take a taping of a TV programme then the reproduction is indistinguishable from the original.’ He looked at the TV screen. ‘I’ll show you now.’

A man was speaking and his voice was heard as Tozier turned up the volume. Warren did not know the language but it seemed to be a news broadcast because the man disappeared and a street scene replaced him, although his voice continued. Tozier bent down and flicked a switch and the reels began to turn, much faster than a normal recording machine. ‘We’re recording now.’

‘That tape’s fairly whipping through,’ commented Follet. ‘How long can you record?’

‘An hour.’

‘Hell, that’s plenty.’ He regarded the television screen for a while, then said, ‘Okay, let’s have a repeat.’

Tozier ran the tape back and switched the television set to a previously selected unused channel. He stopped the recorder and set it to playback, then snapped the starting switch. On the television screen appeared the street scene they had just witnessed, together with the voice of the announcer.

Follet bent forward with a critical eye on the screen. ‘Hey, this quality’s fine. It’s just about as good as the original, like you said. This is going to work.’

He straightened. ‘Now, look, the action starts on Saturday and you’ve got to get it right. Not only have you got to get every word right, but the way you say the word. No false notes.’ He looked at them appraisingly. ‘You’re amateurs at this game, so we’ll have some rehearsals. Imagine we’re putting on a play and I’m the producer. You only have to play to an audience of one.’

‘I can’t act,’ said Bryan. ‘I never could.’

‘That’s okay—you can work this television gadget. As for the rest of us—I’ll play the easy guy, Andy does the hardnosed stuff, and Warren can be the boss.’ Follet grinned as he saw the expression on Warren’s face. ‘You don’t say much and you say it quietly. The way I figure it the less acting you do the better. An ordinary conversational tone can sound real menacing in some situations.’

He looked about the room. ‘Now, where do we put Ben and the videotape?’

Tozier went to the window, opened it and looked out. ‘I think I can run a line into your room, Johnny. We can settle Ben in there.’

‘Good enough,’ said Follet. He slapped his hands together, ‘Okay, first rehearsal—beginners, please.’

At twelve-thirty on Saturday they waited in a lounge just off the foyer of the hotel, not exactly in hiding but certainly concealed from casual inspection. Follet nudged Warren. ‘There he is—I told him to wait for me in the bar. You go in first; Andy will give you time to settle, and I’ll be in right after. Get going.’

As Warren left, he said a little worriedly to Tozier, ‘I hope Ben doesn’t ball up his bit with the television.’

Warren crossed the foyer and entered the bar where he ordered a drink. Javid Raqi was seated at a table and appeared to be somewhat nervous, although probably not as nervous as Warren as he steeled himself to play his part in the charade. Raqi was a young man of about twenty-five, smartly dressed in European fashion from top to toe. He was darkly handsome if you like Valentino looks, and probably had a great future. Warren felt sorry for him.

Tozier appeared at the door, his jacket draped carelessly over his arm. He walked forward, past Raqi, and something apparently dropped from a pocket to plop right at Raqi’s feet. It was a fat wallet of brown leather. Raqi looked down and stooped, then straightened with the wallet in his hand. He looked towards Tozier who had walked on without missing a pace, then followed him to the bar.

Warren heard the murmur of voices and then the louder tones of Tozier. ‘Well, thank you. That was very careless of me. Allow me to buy you a drink.’

Johnny Follet was now in the room, on Raqi’s heels. ‘Hi, Javid; I didn’t know you two knew each other.’ There was surprise in his voice.

‘We don’t, Mr Follet,’ said Raqi.

‘Oh!’ said Tozier. ‘So this is who you were talking about, Johnny. Mr Raqi—that’s the name, isn’t it?—just rescued my wallet.’ He opened it to display a thick wad of notes. ‘He could have taken the lot without winning it.’

Follet chuckled. ‘He’ll probably take it anyway. He’s a right sharp poker-player.’ He looked around. ‘There’s Nick. It’ll be a foursome, Javid; does that suit you?’

Raqi said a little shyly, ‘That’s all right, Mr Follet.’

‘The hell with Mr Follet. We’re all friends here. I’m Johnny and this is Andy Tozier—and coming over is Nick
Warren. Gentlemen, Javid Raqi, the best poker-player I’ve come across in Tehran—and I’m not kidding.’

Warren smiled stiffly at Raqi and murmured something conventional. Follet said, ‘Don’t buy a drink, Andy; let’s go where the action is. I have everything laid on—booze and food both.’

They all went up to Tozier’s room, where the television set had been moved over to the window. Follet had laid on quite a spread; there was cold chicken, sausages of various sorts and salads, together with some unopened bottles of whisky. Everything was set for a long session. Unobtrusively, Warren looked at his watch—it read just after twelve—exactly half an hour slow. He wondered how Follet would doctor the expensive-looking watch he saw on Raqi’s slim brown wrist without Raqi knowing it had been done.

Follet opened a drawer and tossed a sealed pack of cards on to the table. ‘There you are, Javid; you have first deal. Stranger’s privilege—but you won’t be a stranger long. Go easy on the water in mine, Nick.’