Hostage Tower (10 page)

Her grin became rather fixed, and as she looked away she saw that his still appeared genuine, unforced, and guileless. It was the kind of smile a man might try on a pretty girl whom he didn't know at all … or no one he remembered all too well.

‘Follow me, please,' Claude instructed them. C.W., nearest the door, jumped out first, and turned to help Sabrina. She held his arm for balance, and he guided her down.

‘My, but you're polite, fella,' Graham sneered. C.W. turned, and met Graham's cold, disdainful eyes with his own challenging gaze. Mike grinned, and said, ‘D'you mind moving now – unless you're going to help me down too?' C.W. spun on his heel, and stalked away.

‘Watch yourself, Graham,' cautioned Leah. ‘Mister Smith doesn't like friction, and he may decide that Whitlock or Sabrina are more important to the operation than you are. Now that you're committed, that would not be pleasant for you. Nobody leaves a Smith project once begun, unless it's in a box.'

‘Well, Mister Smith may be due for a surprise,'
Graham said, ‘Meanwhile, it's kind of you to mention it. I'm grateful.'

‘I'm so glad,' said Leah, levelly.

Leah, clad in a rough-spun one-piece jump suit, but still managing to look decorative, led the way – not into the imposing entrance of Château Clérignault, but to the rear of the house, skirting the kitchen gardens. They came to a stable yard, where half a dozen men, dressed as Leah was, sat hunched round a weapons demonstrator. A large target in the form of a fresco of four running figures spanned the far end of the yard.

Leah held up a hand, and the file halted. The demonstrator swivelled the powerful heavy-calibre machine-gun on its tripod to face the target, a hundred yards away. She shouted a command, and the figures began to move: down until they almost disappeared, darting up again, lurching from side to side, all at bewildering speed.

Casually, with crisp, economic bursts of fire, the gunman cut them to pieces, one by one. As far as Graham could tell, not a single bullet was wasted. He concentrated on just one cut-out dummy – a sideways-on, crouching commando. The head went first; then a projecting arm was slashed off; the torso was neatly bisected; and finally each leg was separated at the kneecap. It was an impressive performance, and Mike got the feeling it had been laid on specifically for his benefit.

‘Are these guys part of our operation?' C.W. enquired. ‘Not necessarily,' Leah replied. ‘Mister Smith has many little – exercises – in train in various parts of the world, under different field commanders. Yours, however, will have his individual attention.'

‘We're honoured,' Graham ventured. Leah ignored him, and then led the way to the stable block. They passed through a tunnel into another, smaller yard, where a massive black stallion was coupling with a whinnying mare. Further bursts of gunfire, and the brutal lunging of the impatient horse, lent the graciously proportioned buildings an unwanted air of animal savagery.

Claude nervously gave the rutting stallion a wide berth, and passed with Leah into the long, pine-panelled gun-room. There, a cold table had been laid out, with chilled manzanilla sherry and aperitif wines flanking a quadrille of lobsters, crabs and choice hams.

‘Mister Smith thought you might prefer to lunch here, and get to know each other properly, since you're going to be thrown together rather a lot in the days to come. So … enjoy each other's company. Mike, Sabrina and C.W. – you haven't in any case met Pei and Tote properly.

‘Pei's from – Indonesia, is it?' – the happy little Asian nodded, and grinned even more spectacularly – ‘and Tote here is Finnish. We've never been able to spell his name, let alone pronounce it. but he's quite happy to be known as Tote.'
The immensely broad and squat gorilla looked as though happiness was a condition entirely foreign to him, but he twisted his lips into what he clearly imagined to be a pleasant expression, though the effect on the three Americans lay somewhere between a snarl and a snake-bite. Pei, however, seemed to approve, and slapped Tote smartly on the back.

‘Shall we be seeing Mister Smith soon?' Sabrina asked. She was curious to get her first sight of the man who, she had inferred from snatches of conversation with Philpott, was capable of causing untold harm to UNACO – and the world.

‘No,' Leah said. ‘In fact, you won't see him today at all. You'll meet him tomorrow morning, though. When we've finished lunch, I'll take you to your rooms, and you can settle in. Later, we'll go on a quick tour of the château and the training grounds. May I caution you once more that you are not in any way to seek to communicate with, shall we say, the outside world. The telephones here are not for your use. Members of the staff will not carry messages for you. Even an attempt to make contact with anyone, no matter whom, will be construed as treachery. And you know the penalty for treachery.'

Their rooms at the château were self-contained suites, named after people, places or periods of French history, and decorated appropriately. Sabrina felt specially honoured to be Le Roi Soleil, while Pei and Tote, who insisted on sharing
Thermidor, were entirely ignorant of the French Revolutionary Calendar, but liked the working models of guillotines. Louis Seize was over-stylized for C.W., while Graham found Napoleon stark, but militarily compulsive.

As soon as she could, Sabrina slipped along to Louis Seize, and found C.W. in the king-sized bath, decently camouflaged with foam. She perched on the toilet seat, as C.W. groaned and slid even further down into the water. ‘I know I'm madly attractive,' he said, ‘but couldn't you even wait for me to scrub off?'

‘It's not your body I want, C.W.' she grinned. ‘Not this time, anyway. It's Mike Graham.'

‘Well why don't you go and sit on his can, then?' C.W. complained, not unreasonably.

Sabrina laughed, and said, ‘This is serious. Can you stand a drop more water?' He nodded. She turned both taps on, and pulled the toilet flush. Above the noise, she said, ‘Graham used to be a top man in the CIA. Now he's a defector. He taught me on a weapons course once. He's bound to have recognized me. We could be sunk, finished.'

C.W. said, ‘Oh. Jeeze, I see what you mean.' He sat up in the rapidly overflowing tub, and told her he had previously checked the bathroom for bugs, and found none. ‘So kill the plumbing, will you? Apart from anything else, you've diluted my sarong.' Sabrina looked down into the water and said, ‘So I have. Hey – cute.'

She turned off the taps, and asked. ‘What do we do?'

C.W. made a circular motion with his hand, and she obediently averted her gaze. ‘OK,' he ordered. She looked back. He was in a white terry-cloth robe, patting dry his glowing black skin.

‘Has Graham given any sign, anything, that he knows you?' Sabrina shook her head. ‘But I don't see how he can have failed to recognize me,' she insisted.

‘OK,' C.W. said. ‘You're probably right. But there's nothing else we can do except play it by ear. If he drops the word to Smith, publicly or privately, we'll know about it soon enough when somebody takes us out to the stables and uses us for target practice. If he doesn't tell Smith, then either you're wrong, and he hasn't spotted you, or he's up to some devious little game of his own. In which case we keep cool until we find out what it is. Check?'

‘Check. If it's target practice, though, I don't intend to go quietly.'

‘You're on,' C.W. said approvingly. ‘If I have to go, I'll take Smith with me.'

The castle library was a sumptuous room, panelled in rosewood, with marvellously embossed cornices and a delicately tinted ceiling. An enormous Indian carpet covered the central well, and there were steps leading to the bookshelves, with trolley-ladders to reach to the highest. Reading-desks lit by anglepoise lamps stood in the well, and around them a series
of delicate little occasional tables, veneered in rosewood and overlaid with marquetry, sat expectantly before long, cushioned sofas in maroon leather. Drinks and savouries were laid out, and the new arrivals waited with Leah and Claude for the Seigneur of Château Clérignault.

As always when Smith was due to appear, Claude prowled the room, checking everything, suspecting everyone, trusting no one. Mike Graham lounged on a chesterfield, sipping white port and munching cheese-biscuits topped with Beluga caviare. Sabrina sat as far from him as she could get without arousing suspicion; Pei and Tote inspected the room together, and chuckled over a volume of oriental erotica. C.W. noted with amusement a pamphlet title that read: ‘TOP SECRET. US ARMY ORDNANCE. BAT GUIDANCE SYSTEM'. He picked it up and scanned it. It was genuine.

Smith walked through the open door. He had changed his appearance since Leah last saw him – in the Jacuzzi that morning – and Claude failed to recognize him at first. His hair was now dark-brown, his face slightly fuller. He looked taller, younger, more commanding. He was dressed in superbly cut riding clothes, with ludicrously polished boots. He held a riding crop in one hand, methodically tapping the other with the fringed end, and when he spoke it was in the accents of the English upper classes. The white stock at his throat was held in place by a black pearl stickpin.

‘Good day to you,' he said, ‘and to those of you whom I have not met before – welcome. I am Mister Smith. Not a strikingly original name, I grant you. Merely the latest, and most adequate for my purposes.'

He looked intently from face to face, studying the features, marking their expressions. His gaze lingered on Sabrina, and Leah's lips tightened fractionally. But living with Smith induced chronic fatalism, and she knew that if she had to resign her place in Smith's bed to the ravishing newcomer, she would do so with as good a grace as she could muster, and wait her time.

Only Pei and Tote looked uncomfortable under Smith's prolonged scrutiny. Graham stared nonchalantly back at his host, while C.W. grinned amiably and said, ‘Hi, there.'

‘Excellent,' Smith beamed – then added to C.W., ‘Except that when you speak to me, you will always address me as “Mister Smith”. That rule is invariable. Understood?'

‘Sure,' C.W. acknowledged. He let fifteen seconds pass, and said, ‘Uh – Mister Smith.'

Smith gave the slightest of bows. ‘You will be pleased to learn, I am sure, that your identity checks and backgrounds have emerged unsullied from our computers. You are whom you claim to be, and you are the people I want for the little scheme I have in mind. However, it is – though important – of little use that I am satisfied with you if, on the other hand, you are dissatisfied
with each other, or with me for that matter. Does any of you know, or suspect, something concerning one of the others which you believe could jeopardize my plans? If you do, now is the time to speak.'

C.W. tensed his body, and his brain grew ice-cold. Now, he thought; it's now, or never. He checked the position of Claude, whom he calculated was the only armed man in the room. His eyes flickered beyond the library door. The stable yard weapons instructor stood in the hall, arms folded, his back turned to them, a sub-machine gun slung carelessly on his shoulder, finger hovering near the trigger guard.

C.W. let his gaze sweep the room, and saw things he had missed before. The cornice corner mouldings concealed television cameras. One of the ceiling bosses was surely a machine-gun snout. Or was he getting paranoiac? Graham was taking his time, he thought; sadistic bastard.

Mike Graham looked Sabrina full in the eyes. Hers were cast down, but the knowledge that Graham's piercing stare was transfixing her, compelled her to jerk her head up and let her eyes meet his. He gave a half-smile of acknowledgement – and sat back and laced his fingers together meditatively.

Sabrina felt the breath pumping from her lungs. C.W. shifted uncomfortably on his aching feet, poised for what had seemed an eternity to take his flying body at Claude's gun, to give them some
sort of chance. Mike Graham spoke not a single word. Neither did any other person in the room.

‘Again,' Smith said, ‘excellent. We all trust each other. We may even like each other. That helps, I find. No close attachments of course –' his gaze wandered to Pei and Tote. ‘But friendships, yes.'

The tension drained from the room, and Sabrina wondered whether her face had registered the panic which had come so near to erupting when Graham's eyes had pierced her like accusing daggers. Smith spoke again.

‘Incidentally, is anyone afraid of heights?' They looked at each other, and shook their heads like marionettes. ‘Good,' Smith went on. ‘And – C.W. would you have any trouble impersonating a French chef to a French chef? There are black chefs here – I've checked.'

C.W. grinned and shook his head afresh. ‘Un morceau de gâteau,' he replied. Smith laughed, and said to Sabrina, ‘There's one more pairing which requires specialized skills, that you and Tote possess. It's welding. You'll work together.' Sabrina nodded at Tote, who blinked twice.

‘I think that takes care of the preliminaries, then,' Smith announced, rapping his gloved hand sharply with the riding crop. ‘More details later, of course. Target, dates, and so on. But for the moment, there's one important piece of information you should have. Indeed, I need it, too. Mr Graham? Perhaps you would care to tell us what a Lap-Laser is.'

Mike sat up and said, ‘Of course. The Lap-Laser is a tactical self-searching field weapon, laser-armed, auto-recharging – stop me if I'm getting too technical … No? OK. It's lethal to a thousand metres, and it uses a guidance system known as BAT.

‘Russia and America have been racing to perfect the gun for years,' Mike went on, ‘but neither had any success until the Americans tried a new element in the guidance system. They discarded the original radar, and substituted lasers to control the gun as well as power it. Now, it really works. It's still a little unstable and – shall we say – indiscriminate. But, my God, it works.