Читать книгу A Season in Hell - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had commanded Group Four since its conception in 1972, a large untidy man in his early sixties with a deceptively benign face who affected crumpled suits, his only hint of anything in the slightest sense military his Guards’ tie. Ferguson preferred to work at home when possible, in the Georgian splendour of his Cavendish Square flat, which was where he was the following morning, sitting in comfort beside the Adam fireplace, drinking tea and working his way through a stack of papers, when his Gurkha manservant, Kim, appeared.

‘Colonel Villiers is here, sir. He says it’s urgent.’

Ferguson nodded and a moment later Tony Villiers entered, wearing a black polo-neck sweater, Donegal tweed jacket and faded green cord slacks. His face was white, the eyes very dark, every evidence of real distress there. He was carrying a briefcase.

‘My dear Tony.’ Ferguson stood up. ‘What on earth is it?’

‘This report just came in, sir. Fed into the general computer, it arrived on my desk, following the usual cross-indexing procedure for service personnel.’ Ferguson adjusted the half-moon reading glasses he wore, walked to the window and studied the report Villiers had handed him.

‘Quite extraordinary.’ He turned. ‘But why you, Tony? I don’t understand.’

‘Eric Talbot was my cousin Edward’s boy. You remember him, sir? Half-Colonel in the Paras? Killed in the Falklands.’

‘Good God, yes. So you’re family?’

‘Exactly, sir.’

‘But if the boy was passing himself off as this George Walker, how did the Kent Police establish his real identity so quickly?’

‘The boy was only partially burned. They were able to take his fingerprints and they were on the national computer.’

‘Really?’ Ferguson frowned.

‘The boy was a student at Cambridge – Trinity College. Last year he got picked up in a police raid on the wrong sort of party.’

‘Drugs?’

‘That’s right. It was a user only charge, so he didn’t go to gaol. I’ve only just found this out from Central Records Office at the Yard.’

Ferguson walked to his desk and sat down. ‘Talbot, yes, I remember Colonel Talbot’s death in the Falklands now. Tumbledown wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, he was liaising with the Welsh Guards.’

‘And the father. Baronet as I recall. Sir Geoffrey Talbot.’

‘He had a stroke some time ago when his wife died,’ Villiers told him. ‘He’s been in a nursing home ever since. Doesn’t even know what time of day it is.’ He paused. ‘Look, do you mind if I have a drink, sir?’

‘Of course not, Tony. Help yourself.’

Villiers went to the sideboard and poured a brandy into a cut-glass tumbler. He walked to the window and stood there, peering out. ‘The thing is, he’s my uncle you see, sir. My mother’s brother, not that we were ever close.’

‘Tony, I really am sorry. A good thing the old boy’s not capable of taking this in. I mean, he lost one heir to the Falklands, another in this particularly distressing way.’ He tapped the report. ‘I wonder who inherits the title.’

‘Actually, I do, sir,’ Villiers said.

Ferguson removed his glasses wearily. ‘In normal circumstances such a thing would be a cause for congratulation …’

‘Yes, well, we’ll forget about that and concentrate on this.’ Villiers opened the briefcase and produced a plastic packet, which he placed on the desk in front of the Brigadier. ‘Heroin, and the immediate opinion at the lab on briefest of examination is that it’s very good stuff indeed. This is the kind of article you could cut three times over and still sell on the street.’

‘All right, go on,’ Ferguson said, his face grave.

‘It was found inside Eric’s body when the medical examiner checked him. It also became plain to him that the boy had been dead for days and the subject of a postmortem. Apparently, he recognized the surgical technique used as French, so Kent Police tried the fingerprints on the Sûreté in Paris and came up with this.’

Villiers passed another report across and Ferguson studied it. Finally he sat back. ‘So what have we got here? The boy goes to Paris on a false passport. Drowns in the Seine under the influence of drugs. After the postmortem, his body is claimed using forged papers and flown to England.’

‘Packed with heroin,’ Villiers said.

‘Of which this is only a sample. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It makes sense. The police have already established that the hearse was stolen. There’s no such funeral firm as Hartley Brothers. The whole thing was an elaborate front.’

‘Which went wrong. An accident of some sort.’

‘Exactly. They had to retrieve the stuff quickly and get the hell out of it fast.’

‘So fast that this packet was overlooked.’ Ferguson looked grim. ‘You do realize what you’re suggesting, don’t you? The possibility that the boy was deliberately killed in the first place so that his body could be used in this way.’

‘That’s right,’ Villiers agreed. ‘I’ve asked the lab for an estimate. They say, judging by the size of that packet, the body could have carried at least five million pounds’ worth at street value.’

Ferguson drummed his fingers on the table. ‘However, except for your own personal connection, I don’t really see how this concerns us.’

‘But it does, sir, very much so. I’ve got a copy here of the French coroner’s report.’ Villiers took it from the briefcase. ‘Notice the chemical analysis of the blood. Traces of heroin, cocaine, and also scopolamine and phenothiazine.’

Ferguson leaned back. ‘Science was never my strong point at school. Explain.’

‘It all started in Colombia last year. The depressive alkaloid scopolamine is produced from the fruit of shrubs in the Andes. It can be converted into an odourless serum, no colour, no smell, a few drops of which can reduce any individual to a state of total chemical hypnosis for at least three days. The condition is so absolute that the victims have no recall of what they’ve done. Men have killed, women been totally degraded, turned into sex slaves.’

‘And the phenothiazine?’

‘It neutralizes certain side-effects. Makes the victims more docile.’

Ferguson shook his head. ‘God help us if it ever takes root over here.’

‘But it has, sir,’ Villiers said urgently. ‘During the past twelve months in Ulster there have been four cases of members of the Provisional IRA executed by Protestant paramilitary forces where the postmortem has revealed the same thing. Scopolamine and phenothiazine.’

‘And you think there could be a link with this business?’

‘There could be other cases. We’ll have to run a computer check, but if there is a link and if it concerns the UVF or the Red Hand of Ulster or any other Protestant extremist group, then it is our business.’

Ferguson sat there frowning. Finally, he nodded. ‘Right, Tony, drop everything else or get someone in the department to handle it. I’ll leave you to sort this one out. Top priority. Keep me informed.’

It was a dismissal. He replaced his glasses and Villiers took the reports and the heroin and put them in his briefcase. ‘There is just one more thing, sir, on the personal side.’

Ferguson looked up in surprise. ‘Well?’

‘Eric had a stepmother, sir, Sarah Talbot. She’s an American.’

‘You know her?’

‘Oh, yes. She’s a very unusual woman. Eric adored her. His own mother died when he was born and Sarah meant a great deal to him, as he did to her.’

‘And now you’ve got to tell her about this tragic business. How will she take it?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Villiers shrugged. ‘She was a Cabot from Boston. Very Blue Book. Her father was a millionaire several times over. Steel, I think. She’d had no mother from an early age, so they were close. She was a typical spoiled rich bitch, as she once told me, who still managed an honour’s degree from Radcliffe.’

‘And then?’

‘She underwent a sea-change at twenty-one. Hated what was happening in Vietnam. Lost a boyfriend there. Two or three years later, she ran for Congress. Almost won, too. But the voters grew progressively disenchanted with her politics, she lost the election, gave up politics entirely, got her MBA from Harvard and joined a Wall Street firm of investment brokers.’

‘Helped by Big Daddy’s money?’

Villiers shook his head. ‘Started from scratch on her own and now has a considerable reputation. She met Edward on a visit to London, in the National Gallery one Sunday morning. She told me once that she forgave him for being a soldier because he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in a uniform and red beret.’

‘And there was the boy.’

‘As I said, it was love at first sight for both of them. I don’t mean this in the wrong way, sir.’ Villiers sounded awkward. ‘But I sometimes felt she loved Eric more than his father.’

‘Women go with the heart, Tony,’ Ferguson said gently. ‘Where is she at the moment?’

‘New York, sir.’

‘Then you’d better get it over with.’

‘Yes, I’m not looking forward to that.’

‘Of course, this Irish connection making it a security matter does mean you could legitimately make the whole affair the subject of a D-notice. That would keep it out of the newspapers, television and so on.’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘I mean, no need to make things any more unpleasant for the family than they already are.’

‘That’s good of you, sir.’ Villiers walked to the door, paused, then turned. ‘There is one more thing I should mention, sir.’

‘More, Tony?’ Ferguson said wearily. ‘All right, tell me the worst.’

‘Sarah, sir. She’s a very good friend of the President.’

‘Oh my God!’ Ferguson said. ‘That’s all we needed.’

Victoria Station was crowded with people, queues for some of the express trains. Albert wore a brown suede jacket and jeans as he pushed his way through the throng carrying the bulging holdall filled with heroin. Locker number forty-three was locked, of course. He took the key from his pocket and opened the locker. All very simple. He put the bag inside, locked the door and walked away.

He hesitated just by the main entrance, intrigued. He had to know, it was as simple as that, and none of Bird’s overprotective hysteria could put him off. He turned round and walked back, going into one of the cafés, ordering a coffee and finding a seat by the window from which he had a clear view of the lockers.

The café was already busy and two women came and sat at the table, crowding him in, and then the whole thing was over in an instant. He’d been looking for a man, of course, not the grey-haired, stout old woman in a man’s raincoat and beret, already at the locker, key in hand.

She got the bag out as Albert struggled to get past the women at his table, had disappeared into the crowd by the entrance to the underground before he could do anything. He stood outside the café, angry for a moment, then shrugged and walked away.

Smith, from his vantage point beside the newsagent’s where he had witnessed everything, shook his head and said softly, ‘Oh, dear, I’m really going to have to do something about you, aren’t I?’

Manhattan was, as Manhattan always is on a wet November evening, busy, the traffic quite impossible, the sidewalks crowded with people hurrying through the rain. Sarah Talbot eased down the window of the Cadillac and looked out with conscious pleasure.

‘A hell of a night, Charles.’

Her chauffeur, a tough-looking young man in a smart black suit, his cap on the seat beside him, grinned. ‘You want to get out and walk, Mrs Talbot?’

‘No thanks. My shoes are by Manolo Blahnik. I got them in London on my last trip and he definitely wouldn’t like me to go out in the rain in them.’

She was a month away from her fortieth birthday and looked thirty, even on a bad morning. Her dark hair was held back by a simple velvet bow leaving the face clear, grey-green eyes sparkling above rather prominent cheekbones. It was not that she was beautiful in any conventional sense, but people always looked twice. Just now, she was particularly elegant in a black velvet suit by Dior. She was on her way to her favourite restaurant, The Four Seasons, on 52nd Street, to dine alone, strictly from choice. A personal celebration, for that afternoon she’d pulled off the deal of her career, the takeover of a chain of department stores in the Midwest, and against tough male opposition. Oh, yes, my girl, she thought, Daddy would have been proud of you tonight. Which didn’t give her any particular satisfaction.

She said, ‘I need a vacation, Charles.’

‘That sounds fair, Mrs Talbot. The Virgins are nice this time of the year. We could open the house, get the boat out.’

‘You’d be down there every other week if I let you, you rogue,’ she said. ‘No, I was thinking I might fly over to England. Visit Eric at Cambridge.’

‘That’s nice. How’s he doing over there?’

‘Fine. Just fine.’ She hesitated. ‘To be honest, I haven’t heard much from him lately.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that at all. He’s a young guy and you know what students are like. Girls on their mind all the time.’

He swore softly, swinging the wheel as the car in front braked, and Sarah sat back, thinking of Eric. It had been two months since she’d had a letter and when she’d tried to get him on the phone he’d simply not been available. Still, as Charles said, students were students.

The chauffeur passed a newspaper over. ‘Good story in there you maybe missed. That big Mafia trial, the members of that Frasconi mob. The judge handed them down two hundred and ten years between them.’

‘So?’ Sarah said as she took the paper.

‘Look who they got a picture of coming out of court. The guy who was responsible for putting them all away.’

The man in the photo on the courtroom steps was at least seventy, heavily built, with the fleshy, arrogant face of an ancient emperor. An overcoat was draped over his shoulders and he leaned on a cane. The caption read: Ex-Mafia boss Rafael Barbera outside the court.

‘He’s smiling,’ Sarah commented.

‘He should be. He owed those guys from way back. The Frasconis killed his brother in the Mafia wars twenty years ago.’

‘Twenty years seems a long time to wait.’

‘Not for those guys. They believe in paying you off if it takes a lifetime.’

She read the rest of the report. ‘It says here he’s retired.’

Charles laughed. ‘That’s good. Listen, Mrs Talbot, I’m from Tenth Street. That’s Gambino territory. Let me tell you about Don Rafael. His parents brought him over from Sicily when he was ten. He was Mafia by family tradition. Went through the ranks so fast he was Don at thirty and the smartest of them all. Never served a day of his life in prison. Not one.’

‘A lucky man.’

‘No, not lucky, smart. He retired back to the old country a few years ago, but the word is he’s number one man over there. Capo Mafia in all Sicily.’

At that moment, a hand appeared at her partially open window and she turned to see Henry Kissinger reaching across from the car next to hers. She opened the window completely and leaned out. ‘Henry, how are you? It’s been ages.’

He kissed her hand. ‘Get back in, Sarah, you’ll get wet. Where are you going?’

‘The Four Seasons.’

‘So am I. I’ll catch up with you later.’

His car moved away and she sat back and closed the window. ‘Jesus, Mrs Talbot, is there anyone you don’t know?’ Charles asked.

‘Don’t exaggerate, Charles.’ She laughed. ‘Just concentrate on getting us there.’

She sat back and looked at the photo of Don Rafael Barbera and suddenly realized, with a certain surprise, that she rather liked the look of him.

The Four Seasons was very definitely her favourite restaurant and not only because of the superb food, but the decor. The whole place had such style, from the shimmering gold curtains and dark wood to the quiet elegance of the waiters and captains.

She was seated instantly, as a favoured customer, at her usual table in the Pool Room, from where she could survey the room. The place was crowded and she could see Tom Gayitfai and Paul Kori, the owners, hovering in the background, looking even more anxious than usual, which was hardly surprising in view of the guests. Henry Kissinger was sitting at a table to her right and the Vice-President himself was at a table at the far end of the pool, which explained the large young men in dark suits she’d noticed in the vestibule on the way in, their air of efficient, quiet violence filling her with distaste.

Her waiter appeared. ‘The usual, Mrs Talbot?’

‘Yes, Martin.’

He snapped his fingers and the Dom Perignon 1980 was at her table in an instant.

‘Looks like a fun evening,’ she commented.

‘Actually the Vice-President is getting ready to leave, but they’ve all been waiting to see whether he or Kissinger would be the first to go and say hello to the other,’ he told her. ‘Can I take your order now?’

He offered the menu, but she shook her head. ‘I know what I want, Martin. Crisped shrimp with mustard fruit, then the roast duckling with cherries, and since it’s a big evening, I’ll finish with …’

‘The bitter chocolate sherbet.’ They both laughed and he started to turn away, then paused. ‘Hey, he’s on the move.’

‘It seems Kissinger wins on points,’ Sarah said.

‘Like hell it does.’ Martin was in a panic. ‘He’s coming right this way, Mrs Talbot.’

He moved to one side fast and the Vice-President arrived plus his inimitable smile. ‘Sarah, you’re looking as remarkable as usual. No, don’t get up. I can’t stop. Due at the UN.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Talking about you at the White House last night.’

‘Good things, I hope?’ she said.

‘Always good where you’re concerned, Sarah,’ and he was gone.

People were staring at her curiously and Henry Kissinger gave her a little nod, a slight smile on his face. Martin refilled her glass and he was smiling too. She savoured the Dom Perignon, thinking about it. They’d be talking about this at the bar of ‘21’ within an hour; the gossip columns would have it in the early editions.

‘Woman of the Year next, Sarah,’ she said softly and raised her glass. ‘To the woman who has everything.’ She paused. ‘Or nothing.’ She frowned. ‘Now why in the hell did I say that?’

And then Martin was there, leaning over the table. ‘Your chauffeur’s in the vestibule, Mrs Talbot. He says it’s urgent.’

‘Really?’ She got up at once, no unease in her at all, bewildered, if anything.

Charles’s face should have told her, the hunted look, the way he glanced to one side as he talked. ‘I’ve got Mr Morgan in the car, Mrs Talbot.’

‘Dan?’ she said. ‘Here?’ Dan Morgan was president of the brokerage firm of which she was now a senior partner.

‘Like I said, he’s in the car.’ Charles was obviously upset. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Talbot.’

The doorman held up an umbrella for her as she crossed the pavement to the car and Dan Morgan, greying, distinguished in black tie and evening dress, glanced up at her, his face grave.

‘Dan, what is this?’ she demanded.

‘Just get in, Sarah.’ He opened the door and pulled her to him. ‘Get Mrs Talbot’s coat, Charles. I think she’ll be leaving.’

Charles moved away and Sarah said, ‘Dan what’s going on?’

He had a large envelope on the seat beside him, she noticed, as he took her hands. ‘Sarah, Eric is dead.’

‘Dead? Eric?’ She was underwater now, in slow motion. ‘That’s ridiculous. Who says so?’

‘Tony Villiers tried to get hold of you earlier. When he couldn’t, he phoned me.’ Charles returned with her coat and got behind the wheel. ‘Just drive,’ Morgan told him.

‘Where to, Mr Morgan?’

‘Anywhere, for God’s sake,’ Morgan said violently.

The car pulled away. Sarah said, ‘It can’t be true. It can’t be.’

‘It’s all in here, Sarah.’ Morgan picked up the envelope. ‘Villiers wired it all over to the office. I went and picked it up.’

She stared at the envelope and said dully, ‘What’s in there?’

‘Doctor’s reports, police coroner, that sort of thing. It’s not good, Sarah. In fact it’s about as bad as it could be. Better you leave them till later when you’re calmer.’

‘No,’ she said, her voice dangerously low. ‘Now. I want them now.’

She took the envelope from him, had opened it and turned on the interior light before he could stop her. Her face was wild, the eyes staring. When she had finished, she sat there, unnaturally calm.

‘Stop the car, Charles,’ she ordered.

‘Mrs Talbot?’

‘Stop the car, damn you!’

He swung the car into the kerb, she had the door open before they could stop her and was running through the rain to the nearest alley. When they reached her, she was leaning against the wall beside overflowing trash cans being violently sick. Finally, she stopped and turned to face them.

Morgan held out his handkerchief. ‘We’ll take you home now, Sarah.’

‘Yes,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll need my passport.’

‘Passport?’ he said incredulously. ‘The only things you need are the right pills and bed.’

‘No, Dan,’ she said. ‘I need a plane. British Airways, Pan Am, TWA, it doesn’t matter which, as long as it’s going to London and it’s going tonight.’

‘Sarah!’ he tried again.

‘No, Dan, no arguments. Just get me home. I’ve got things to do,’ and she walked away from him through the rain and got into the back of the car.