The Property of a Lady (48 page)

Cal whistled softly. He had thought he could handle the Ivanoff case diplomatically, but now things were getting out of hand. He needed help. He punched the phone buttons
again, got Jim Cornish at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and asked him about Markheim.

“They got him, all right,” Cornish told him. “And Abyss. The info came through this morning from Istanbul. It’s all in the NID, waiting on your desk. Yes, Abyss is very dead—with the dagger still sticking out of his back and ten thousand dollars in his pocket. Pretty gruesome stuff, uh?”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Cal said thoughtfully.

Cornish laughed, a hearty belly laugh, and Cal winced, holding the phone away from his ear. “That’s a pretty mild statement, considering,” Cornish said.

“You’ve heard cusswords before, no need to hear more from me this early in the morning.” Cal bit into his whole-wheat toast thoughtfully and said, “So I was right about Istanbul, he was there all the time.”

“Good a place as any for a man to hide out, I guess. And the ten thousand must have been his payoff.”

“It’s not enough. Abyss had to have been paid more than ten grand. But the fact that he had it in his pocket must mean he had only just been paid.
So where is the rest of the money?”

“A bank account?” Cornish guessed.

“Exactly—and a brand-new bank account, I’ll bet.” Cal’s mind raced ahead. “Do me a favor, Cornish, will you? Check all the banks in Istanbul and see where Mr. Georges Gerome opened a new account. Or maybe the bank manager has already come forward and told the Turkish police?”

“Doubtful. The mention in the papers was a small one, anyone could have missed it. But okay, we’ll follow that up.”

“And when you find the account, ask how the money was paid. A check? A banker’s draft? Find out if it was from a Swiss bank and if so, which one.”

“Will do,” Cornish said irritably; he didn’t like to be told how to do his job.

Washington sparkled under a bright blue sky as Cal drove along Virginia Avenue. He cut across Eighteenth Street and made a right on Seventeenth, heading for his office in the West Executive Wing of the White House.

A bunch of reporters were hanging around the west gate, and as he nosed his car through the crowd he wondered who they were waiting for. Lights blazed as TV cameras focused on him, and he suddenly found himself staring into a microphone thrust through his open window.

“Mr. Warrender, can you tell us what you were doing in Geneva?” someone demanded.

Cal remembered Valentin had kept his mouth shut at the airport and simply shook his head.

“What’s the story on Markheim’s murder? And we’ve just heard about Abyss. Who do you think is knocking them off? And why?”

Cal shook his head again thankfully as Security let him through. As the gates clanged shut behind him he could see the cameramen outside still filming. He wondered if Genie Reese was home yet. He’d bet his bottom dollar hers would be the first call he would get this morning.

After asking his secretary to get him some coffee, he sank wearily into his chair. A copy of the NID Cornish had mentioned was waiting for him. The National Intelligence Daily contained a summary of the latest reports from American agents all over the world, using electronic eavesdropping equipment and satellite spy photography as well as news reports. Sometimes what it contained was useful, sometimes not. The NID with its red and black flag emblem was sent to the President and circulated to officials with top-secret clearance or higher at the Defense Department, the State Department, and the CIA. Today there was one page devoted to the latest on Markheim’s murder: that all his business ledgers and diaries were missing and that intelligence suspected it was a “wet” affair—Russian slang for an assassination, “wet” meaning
“blood.” There was also the pick-up on the Georges Gerome/Abyss murder in Istanbul.

Cal knew that the “Early Bird”—the cut-and-paste distillation of the major news articles and hot information taken from the nine major newspapers as well as the wire services and the three TV networks and also circulated to the top brass—would not have picked up on it yet. But by tomorrow everyone on “the loop”—the important short list of people who received high-level information first—would know the details, and it would be hot Washington gossip. He had to make a move. He sat back in his chair, his eyes closed and his arms folded, thinking. Whoever the “Lady” was, she was in terrible danger. The Russians meant business. And he was sure now there was somebody else besides the two nations who wanted the mines.

He called the CIA again. “Cornish,” he said, “do we know what the Russians have been doing with those Indian mines all these years? I mean, were they working them?”

“I guess so,” Cornish replied, “but we were never given the go-ahead on the Ivanoff thing, so we’ve never really explored all the angles.”

“Start exploring,” Cal retorted as clues clicked into place in his mind. “We know the mines are valuable because of the tungsten, and that tungsten is vital to steel production. And who is the world’s largest producer of steel and
armaments?”

“Jesus, Cal, you don’t think …?”

“Arnhaldt is in Düsseldorf,” Cal said, “and so is—
was—
Markheim.”

“I’ll get right on to it,” Cornish said. “Be back to you later today.”

Cal grinned as he put down the phone. He just might have cracked the mystery of the third player in the Ivanoff game. He’d bet his last dollar Arnhaldt had bought the emerald. What would Genie Reese think about that? He would give her a call later, maybe ask her to dinner.
Sure, she had upset the hell out of him with her recklessness, but there was just something about her. Perhaps it was that her determination matched his own; she was a trier, he would certainly give her
?
for effort. He pictured her sitting opposite him on the banquette at the Hotel Beau Rivage, remembering the way her blue eyes had widened when he told her about the billions and the way she pushed her hand through her long blond hair when she was nervous, and he remembered the mouth that was too vulnerable for the role she was playing. Yes, he liked Genie Reese, he really liked her.

It was five-thirty in the afternoon when Cornish called him back. He said the facts about Arnhaldt operating the mines had been confirmed and he was following it up. Also intelligence from Düsseldorf said that Markheim had accepted a large bribe from someone, probably KGB agents, to divulge the name of his client, and there was no doubt that the Russians now knew about Arnhaldt. Cal nodded; it was as he expected. He told Cornish to let him know if they were able to come up with anything else, and then he glanced at his watch. Genie hadn’t called him so he would call her.

“Hi,” she said. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful. They smell like a summer garden.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, relieved to hear her voice. “Is my apology accepted?”

“Oh, sure. There’s really nothing to apologize for.”

“Yes there is, but nothing we can talk about over the phone.” She didn’t reply and he said quickly, “Are you all right?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Her voice was cautious.

“Well, you skipped out on me again in Düsseldorf. I’m just glad to hear you’re back safely, what with events there.”

“Events? Oh, yes.” She hesitated and then said quickly, “Cal, I’m really glad you called. Can you see me tonight?”

He smiled. “You beat me to it. I was going to ask you to have dinner.”

“Dinner? Well, maybe….”

He thought it wasn’t the most enthusiastic acceptance he’d ever heard but he really wanted to see her. “Shall we say eight o’clock then? The bar at the Four Seasons? We’ll take it from there.”

“I’ll be there. Cal? Watch the six o’clock news tonight, will you? I think maybe we will have something else to talk about.”

He put down the phone with a frown, wondering what she had meant. He sure hoped she wasn’t going to make another dumb move like she had with Solovsky. He hadn’t expected her to go that far. But Genie was a high flyer, aiming for the top. And because of him she was playing a dangerous game to get there.

He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to six. There wasn’t time to get to the television station and find out exactly what she was up to before she went on the air. Goddamn, why did she always act without asking him first? Who knew what Solovsky had told her to do? He switched on the TV angrily, waiting for the news.

Genie didn’t need her notes on the autocue. She knew exactly what she had to say. She stared at the studio clock as its hands ticked slowly toward the hour. Valentin had been home since this morning and he still had not called her. And maybe now he never would. Tears pricked her eyes and she bit her lip. She couldn’t cry now, she would be on camera in a few minutes. Besides, she had cried enough in the last couple of days to last a lifetime. What had happened to the old Genie, the jaunty, fearless reporter? She’s still here, she reassured herself. After all, look what’s she’s going to do now.

She gripped her notes tightly as a makeup girl fussed with powder and lip brush. She knew there was only one sure-fire way to bring all the players in this game into the
open. And only one way to find the murderer. It was the biggest gamble of her life, but one she was prepared to take.

She had made the decision that morning and gone straight to the network director. He had listened carefully and asked several pertinent questions, and then he had agreed to let her do it. “But you’d better deliver,” he’d warned. She had shivered. If she didn’t deliver her career was through. And maybe her life.

At four minutes to six the phone rang and the voice on the other end melted her into sudden softness.

“Valentin,” she whispered.

“Genie, I must see you,” he said urgently.

“Yes
, yes … of course….”

“Your place,” he said tersely. “Seven o’clock.”

He rang off as the hands on the clock moved to three minutes before six.

“Okay, Genie,” the director called, “let’s have some action here.”

She took her place behind the big curved desk, blinking in the battery of lights as the makeup girl powdered her brow yet again, staring numbly ahead as the music intro’ed and the credits unrolled on the monitor. She was quite calm now. She was ready.

Cal slumped in a chair in front of the TV set, his jacket off, his tie loosened, and a can of Miller’s at his side. The credits had finished, the international headlines were read, and then the anchorman said, “First our reporter, Genie Reese, has some important revelations on the strange case of the Ivanoff emerald.”

The picture changed to Genie, cool, unsmiling, and tailored in a blue silk shirt that matched her eyes. Her hair was drawn back into a velvet bow and there were pearls at her throat and ears. Cal thought that she looked like a girl who would smell deliciously of Chanel No. 5.

Genie faced the cameras seriously. “It seems the case of
the Ivanoff emerald and the speculation as to the identity of its owner, the unknown ‘Lady,’ has reached new depths with the murder of the agent in the purchase, Paul Markheim, in Düsseldorf, and now also the murder in Istanbul of the man thought to have cut the stone, Gerome Abyss. People are asking if the old story is true after all, and if the KGB is still on the ‘Lady’s’ trail. Or maybe it’s the CIA? Or—and this is looking more and more likely—is there a third player in the drama?

“There is only one person who can answer those questions, only one person who can stop this trail of murder and mystery, and that is the ‘Lady’ herself. I have been making my own investigations into the Ivanoff affair and I now know
who
the ‘Lady’ is. In three days’ time I shall present a taped interview with her, here on the six o’clock news on station WXTV. Be watching.”

“Genie,” her producer said through the ear mike, “you’d sure better have got it right, because all hell is about to break loose.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” she replied simply.

“Okay,” he said, “the limo is waiting to take you home. It’ll be at your disposal for the next week, and a couple of heavies will be mounting guard on your house as soon as they can get over there. Okay?”

“Sure.” She glanced at the clock as she gathered her things together. “I’ll see you guys in a couple of days then.”

The producer glanced after her worriedly as she walked from the studio. “I sure hope we did the right thing,” he said.

For a few seconds Cal was frozen in his seat. Then he leapt to his feet, yelling at his secretary in the next office to get him the TV station on the phone. The girl had gone home. Groaning with frustration, he found the number and dialed it himself. It was busy, and he guessed that
after Genie’s sensational statement the switchboard was jammed.

Flinging on his jacket, he slammed from the office and took a cab over there.

“Sorry, Mr. Warrender,” the man at reception told him, “but Miss Reese has already left.”

“Where’s she gone?” he demanded.

The man shrugged. “I can’t say, sir.”

“Goddamn,” Cal said savagely. “Let me talk to the station director.”

“He’s gone too, sir,” the man said, avoiding his eye.

He strode to the pay phone in the lobby and dialed her home number. He let it ring for a long time but there was no reply, not even her answering machine. He wondered where the hell she was, cursing himself again for involving her in what had turned out to be a dangerous game. There was no way to reach her. He would just have to wait until their date at eight o’clock, and then he was going to tell her she wasn’t leaving his sight for a minute until this affair was over, even if he had to move in with her! Dammit, didn’t she realize she had just told
the world
that
she
knew who the “Lady” was? Didn’t she even consider what a dangerous position she had put herself in? Gloomily he took himself off to the Four Seasons to wait for her.

He sat in the pleasant flower-laden cocktail lounge, nursing a drink, listening to the piano music and watching the ebb and flow of Washington’s bright young things, checking his watch worriedly every ten minutes. Eight o’clock came and went. At ten past his name was paged. There was a message from Genie saying she couldn’t make it. He called her number again and got no reply. He called the operator, got the home number of the station director, and called him.