Whiff Of Money (3 page)

Dorey smiled wryly.

'You may well ask. Girland was once one of my top agents, but I had to get rid of him. He was too much the rebel. He always put himself first. He has no social conscience and he moves so close to dishonesty I marvel he isn't in jail. He has swindled me out of considerable sums of money. He is tough, ruthless, an expert Karate fighter and a first-class shot. He is dangerous, calculating, shrewd and tricky. He has a lot of courage and I am not saying this lightly. He has lived for years in Paris. He knows Paris the way I know the back of my hand. He mixes with every kind of crook, con-man, swindler, tart and queer. He has shady contacts everywhere. Those who live in the shadows trust him. He has two obsessions: money and women. If there is anyone who can solve your problem, it is Girland.'

Sherman looked uneasily at Dorey.

'Are you sure, John? A character like that could also attempt to blackmail me once he knew the set-up. Surely you're not serious?'

'Girland would never blackmail anyone. In his odd way, he has his standard of ethics. I know Girland. He is a rebel and he is tricky, but if he accepts an assignment, I have never known him not to deliver the goods. He is your only hope, sir.

I wouldn't say this unless was sure.'

Sherman hesitated, then raised his hands helplessly.

I have no alternative then, have I? If you really believe we should hire this man and he can fix it, then let's hire him.

Will he take the assignment?'

Dorey smiled sourly.

'Give Girland a whiff of money and there is no job he won't do. It'll probably cost you twenty thousand dollars. I'll try to get him for less of course. With that kind of money hanging in front of his nose, Girland would undertake to kidnap Charles de Gaulle.'

Drina found Paul Labrey lounging at a table outside a cafe that faced Hotel Pare. He sat down heavily beside Labrey, took off his hat and wiped his balding, sweating forehead.

'Anything happened?' he asked.

'Your man arrived fifteen minutes ago,' Labrey said, not looking at Drina. 'He's in there now.'

'Nothing else?'

'No.'

Drina continued to mop his face. He scowled at Labrey whom he disliked, knowing Labrey regarded him with contempt and looked on him as a joke.

Paul Labrey was twenty-five years of age. His French mother, now dead, had been a waitress in a lowly bistro. His father, whom he had never known, had been a passing American soldier.

Labrey was tall, painfully thin with thick flaxen hair that reached to his shoulders. His skin was milky-white, his mouth wide and hard and his hazel eyes shifty. Green tinted sunglasses were never off his face. Some of his friends thought he even slept in them. He wore a black turtle neck sweater and black hipsters that seemed to be painted on him. He was known to be dangerous and vicious in a fight. He was also known to be cunning, quick witted and a Communist.

One of Kovski's agents had come across him in a cellar club, addressing a group of hippies, explaining to them the theory of Communism. The agent was so impressed by what he heard that he alerted Kovski. Labrey had been interviewed and accepted as an agent, and was now drawing enough money from the Russian Security police to live the life he wanted to live, but he, in turn, gave service.

Kovski often found Labrey useful since American tourists were only too happy when Labrey introduced himself and offered to show them the more seamy side of Paris night life. The Americans talked to him and he listened and reported back. Kovski often marvelled at the amount of loose talk that went on among V.I.P. American tourists when they came to Paris and had too much to drink and were enjoying themselves. Labrey had a good memory. Much of what he reported

was of no interest, but every now and then something would crop up of importance and this was relayed to Moscow.

Kovski considered Labrey an excellent investment at eight hundred francs a month.

The barman from the cafe came out into the sunshine and stood over Drina.

'Monsieur?'

Drina would have liked to have had a vodka, but he was afraid that Labrey would report back that he was drinking spirits while on duty. Sullenly, he ordered a coffee.

As the barman returned to the cafe, Labrey said, 'Why don't you buy yourself a new hat? That thing looks like a drowned dog.'

Drina was sensitive about his hat. He couldn't afford to buy a new one, but even if he had had the money, he would not have parted with this hat. It was his one link with his happier days when he lived in Moscow.

'Why don't you have a haircut?' he snarled. 'You look like a lesbian!'

Labrey hooted with laughter.

'You improve with age,' he said when he stopped laughing 'That's not bad! Maybe you aren't such a dummy as you look.'

'Shut up!' Drina said furiously. 'Back in Moscow, I would have...'

But Labrey wasn't listening. He was still chuckling.

'Lesbian! I love that! I must tell Vi.'

Drina suddenly sat upright as he saw John Dorey walk quickly along the street, pause for a long moment to survey the dingy Hotel Pare, then enter.

Labrey looked questioningly at Drina, seeing his face stiffen.

'Don't go theatrical on me, comrade... someone you know?'

'Shut up!' Drina snapped. He went into the cafe and shut himself into a telephone kiosk. He called Kovski.

'What is it?' Kovski demanded.

'John Dorey has arrived at Hotel Pare,' Drina said in Russian.

'Dorey?'

'Yes.'

There was a pause, then Kovski asked, 'Is Labrey with you?' 'Yes.'

Kovski thought for a long moment. So Dorey was having a secret meeting with Sherman. This could be of vital importance. He mustn't make a mistake.

I will send you two more men to you immediately. Sherman niul Dorey must not be lost sight of. . . you understand?'

'Yes.'

Drina returned to the outside table and sat down. He removed his hat and mopped his forehead.

'The man who went into the hotel is John Dorey, Director of the CIA,' he told Labrey. 'Comrade Kovski is sending two more men to help us. Sherman and Dorey must not be lost sight of... it is an order.'

Labrey nodded. His flaxen hair danced on his collar.

* * *

Serge Kovski was a short fat man with a chin beard, an enormous bald dome of a head, ferrety eyes and a thick, blunt nose. He was shabbily dressed in a baggy black suit and there were food stains on his coat lapels for he was a gross eater.

While he was reading through a mass of papers that had come in the Diplomatic bag, his telephone bell rang.

It was Drina again.

'Sherman has left in a taxi for Orly,' Drina reported. 'Labrey and Alex are following him. I think Sherman is taking the 15.00hr. flight to New York. Labrey will call you as soon as they arrive at the airport. Max and I followed Dorey. He left Hotel Pare before Sherman did. He was carrying an 8 mm Kodak movie projector. He must have had this from Sherman as he didn't have it when he arrived. He drove in his car to Rue des Suisses. Leaving his car, he entered an apartment block and walked to the top floor.' Drina was deliberately holding back on the final denouement. 'The top floor of this building, comrade, is occupied by Mark Girland ... the man we have had trouble with before.'

Kovski's ferrety eyes narrowed as he listened.

'Very well,' he said, after apause. 'Max is to follow Dorey when he leaves. You will follow Girland. Be very careful of Girland. He is tricky. Don't let him see you.'

'I understand,' Drina said and hung up.

Kovski stared down at his desk while he thought, then with a sneering little smile, he pressed a bell button.

A fat, shapeless, elderly woman came in, a notebook and pencil in her hand.

'Send Malik to me,' Kovski said curtly, not looking at her. Now that he had lived in Paris for some eight years, he had become used to seeing the young, slim girls moving on the streets and he secretly lusted for them. Elderly, fat women no longer appealed to him.

The woman went away. A few minutes later the door opened and Malik came in.

Before he had disgraced himself and had fallen from favour, Malik was considered to be the most dangerous and the most efficient of all the Soviet agents.

He was a giant of a man; a splendid looking athlete with silver blond hair cut short. His square-shaped face, with its high cheekbones, its powerful, aggressive jaw, its short, blunt nose revealed his Slav extraction. His flat, green eyes were windows revealing a cold and ferocious ruthlessness that made most people flinch from him.

He and Kovski were bitter enemies. Until the moment when Malik had fallen into disgrace, he had always treated Kovski with cold contempt. Although Kovski was his senior in rank, Malik never accepted this fact, and Kovski was too cowardly to attempt to exert his authority over this menacing giant. But now, once the news broke that Malik was no longer considered the best agent and had been removed from the active field and given a desk job, Kovski decided at last he could take revenge on this man who had treated him so contemptuously. He had written to his own superior, suggesting that Malik should be transferred to Paris, pointing out that he could use him usefully as he was behind in his paper work and Malik could make a trusted clerk. Kovski's boss also hated Malik and he appreciated Kovski's sense of humour. So Malik was sent to Paris and loaded down with routine and dull paper work. There was nothing he could do about it except continue to hate Kovski and bide his time.

The two men looked at each other.

I didn't hear you knock,' Kovski growled.

Malik inclined his head:

'Because I didn't.' He looked around, drew up an upright chair and sat astride it, staring at Kovski with his bleak, snake's eyes.

For a brief moment, Kovski wanted to tell Malik to stand while he was talking to him, but he hadn't the nerve. There was that deadly menace lurking in the green eyes that warned Kovski that Malik could be pushed so far, and no further.

He knew Malik had only to reach out and grip his neck in his huge killer's hands for him to die quickly and unpleasantly.

'You have a chance to get back into favour,' Kovski said with his sneering smile. 'Listen carefully.' He told Malik what he had learned about Sherman's arrival, how Dorey had seen Sherman and had left with a movie projector.

'And this should interest you: Dorey is now talking to Girland... the man who has always defeated you in the field...who is responsible for your present disgrace. I must know what is happening. You are to take over this assignment.

Labrey, Drina, Alex and Max are already working on this. You must find out why Dorey has this movie projector: why Sherman has been here: why Girland is being consulted. I want immediate action. Do you hear me?'

Malik stood up.

'Deafness is not among my many failings,' he said, and without looking at Kovski, he left the room.

Two

A little after 10.00 hrs. on this bright May morning, Girland came awake. He came awake by slow degrees, groaning a little, stretching and yawning, then remembering he had work to do, he heaved himself reluctantly from under the sheet and walked with eyes half shut into the shower-room. Still only half-awake, he ran his electric shaver over his face, moaning softly to himself and feeling like a resurrected corpse.

He had had an exhausting evening and the girl who had been him had been young and wildly enthusiastic. He had been glad to see her go, and thankful she hadn't insisted on spending the rest of the night with him.

It wasn't until he had stood under the blast of cold water from the shower for some minutes that he finally came alive, then he discovered he felt fine. He threw on a sweat shirt and a pair of blue hipsters and as he did so, he found he was hungry. He hurried into the kitchenette and peered hopefully into the refrigerator.

A few minutes later two eggs were cooking in a pan of butter and two thick slices of ham were sizzling under the grill.

The coffee percolator was performing and Girland now felt much more with the world.

After breakfast, he cleared the table, dumping the used crockery into the sink. Then lighting a cigarette, he placed a mirror from his dressing-table on the table. He found a pack of playing cards, then sitting down in front of the mirror, he began to shuffle the cards.

This evening he had been invited to a poker game. He knew that two of the players were professional card sharpers: the other six were pigeons to be fleeced, and Girland had no intention of being fleeced himself.

He hadn't played serious poker for some time and suspected that his technique might have become rusty. Watching his hands in the mirror, flicking the cards through with lightning speed, he saw that the manoeuvre of bringing all the aces to the top of the deck would be obvious to a trained eye.

He continued to practise for the next hour until he was satisfied that all his rust had been removed. He then began another manoeuvre which was much more difficult: that of dealing himself Ace, King, Queen after eight hands had already been dealt. He was still working on this, the ashtray now over loaded with cigarette butts when the telephone bell rang.

He put down the cards, hesitated, then shrugging, he crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

'Is that you, Girland?' a voice asked: a voice that sounded oddly familiar.

'If it isn't, some creep is wearing my clothes,' Girland returned. 'Who is this?'

'I shall be with you in ten minutes ... wait for me,' and the line went dead.

Girland replaced the receiver, rubbed the end of his nose and frowned.

'Unless I am very much mistaken,' he said aloud, 'that sounded very much like that old goat, Dorey.'

He looked around the big studio room. It had undergone certain changes for the better since he had lifted several thousand dollars off Dorey. Gone were the canvas deck-chairs that had once served him as armchairs. Now the room sported a deep reclining padded-chair and a big settee which his girl-friends appreciated very much. There was also a splendid Bukhara rag on the floor: its rich colouring did much to give a tone of luxury to this otherwise dark-looking room.