Authors: John Gordon Davis
Morgan thought. ‘And where’s this seaplane going to be?’
Makepeace produced a map of Amsterdam. He tapped a large expanse of water on the north-east edge.
‘That’s the IJ-meer. An inland sea. It goes for miles. There’re forests all along it. It’s joined to Amsterdam by canals. You get out to that inland sea in the dark. Down comes the seaplane. Off you go. Schipol airport will see you on radar, but you’ll be gone before they can do anything.’
Morgan looked at the map. He sighed.
‘Okay, Dougie … That’s a good plan. Safer than leaving from an ordinary airfield. And where do we land in Switzerland? Got a map?’
Makepeace glowed. ‘Sure.’ He unfolded one. ‘Of course, the beauty of the seaplane is that Switzerland is full of lakes. But, as Danziger pointed out, the Swiss air traffic controllers will see us on their radar, see us disappear down when we land, then see the plane again when it takes off a few minutes later. So the best plan is to
jump.
That way, the plane appears legitimate all the way. It simply flies across Switzerland to Italy as per a filed flight plan and we jump
here
.’ He tapped the map. ‘Where the car’s waiting for us.’
Morgan was staring at him. ‘Jump?’ he said.
‘Yes. With parachutes,’ Makepeace added helpfully.
‘And what makes you think Mrs Hapsburg is capable of jumping?’
‘Hell, there’s nothing to it,’ Makepeace said – ‘I teach ladies to parachute every weekend, it’s a popular sport. A couple of hours’ instruction and they’re up there doing it.’
‘And if she refuses?’
‘Then we have to land on a lake. But it’s a pity. The Swiss air traffic controllers will want to know why.’
Morgan sighed. Oh, Makepeace. It made sense, and the question of Anna jumping was academic because he had other plans for her – but oh Makepeace … ‘Dougie? Don’t you know I hate jumping?’
Makepeace blinked. ‘No, sir. You never told me.’
‘Hate it,’ Morgan sighed.
‘But you can still do it, sir,’ Makepeace said encouragingly. ‘Just one, two, three,
woops
–’ he gave a little jump – ‘count to ten, then rip her.’ He added earnestly: ‘The alternative is to land on a lake and attract attention.’
Morgan rubbed his chin.
‘And Danziger knows a good place to jump over?’
‘Perfect. Deserted. He’ll be waiting, with a car.’
Morgan nodded unhappily. ‘And the seaplane?’
‘It flies straight on to Lake Como, in Italy, as per legitimate flight plan. There it refuels. The pilot files another legitimate flight plan, to the Zurich See, outside Zurich. He lands, and waits for us. We come out of the bank, jump in a boat, rush off to the seaplane, and off we go. We’ll be gone before the Comrades can say Jackski Robinovitch.’
Morgan took a worried breath. Then put his hand on Makepeace’s shoulder.
‘Okay, Dougie. That’s a good plan.’ He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. ‘Where’s the plane right now?’
‘In Copenhagen,’ Makepeace said cheerfully. ‘I go up to Denmark tomorrow. The pilot’s a pal of mine, who flies rich anglers to Scandinavia. We fetch you tomorrow night.’
Morgan sighed. ‘Another whole day we’re at risk! With the wolves at the door.’
‘You’re at no risk here. They’ve got a good bouncer here, a very tough guy called Erik. A hundred per cent reliable. This is a perfect setup for you. Anyway, you need a day’s sleep. And so do I.’
Oh, yes, he was right on that one. ‘This guy, Erik – does he sleep on the premises?’
‘Yes, he’s here twenty-four hours. Sleeps upstairs.’
He dropped his hand on Makepeace’s shoulder again. ‘All right, Dougie.’
‘May I ask a question?’ Makepeace said, encouraged.
‘Yes?’
‘Well,’ Makepeace said earnestly, ‘if this job is legal, why don’t we call in the Swiss police to give Mrs Hapsburg protection when she leaves the bank?’
‘For two reasons,’ Morgan said wearily. ‘Firstly, if she asks for police protection, she’ll have to explain
why
– tell the Swiss authorities the whole story. And she does not trust the Swiss not to collaborate with the British. She wants
secrecy,
Douglas. Besides we’re hoping that the Comrades and the Brits will
not
be waiting outside the bank in Zurich – so calling in the Swiss police would be defeating all our efforts at secrecy, wouldn’t it?’
‘I see,’ Makepeace said. ‘Of course. And where do we fly to after we’ve done the job?’
‘I don’t know yet. England probably.’
‘You better think about it pretty damn quick – the pilot will want to know so he can file a flight plan and appear legitimate. How can you go to England if the Brits are after you?’
‘I’ll get a lawyer.
Then
I’ll demand official police protection.’
Makepeace shook his head. ‘I wish I knew what all this was about,’ he said, ‘then I could be more help. And the second reason? – why you can’t go to the Swiss police for protection?’
Morgan sighed tensely. ‘That’s all.’
But of course, there was a second reason. And the thought of it made his nerves cringe. It could blow everything up in his face and send him to a Swiss jail for a very long time. Because the day after tomorrow he had to walk into a Swiss bank and impersonate Max Hapsburg, alias Maxwell Constantine, and forge one or other of his signatures.
But there was no need for Makepeace to know that.
Xaviera led him down the sweeping staircase. There was a tinkle of laughter from the bar. She led him round the bottom of the staircase. ‘Do you see a door here?’
‘No.’
She smiled. ‘Our customers who want this particular service like to feel dramatic.’ She pressed a button, and a section of panelling opened, to reveal a stone staircase. An ornate gas lamp flickered on the wall.
She led the way down. At the bottom was a stout door, with a grille. She held up a big iron key. ‘Most important.’ She inserted it. The door swung open. She pointed imperiously: ‘
Get in there!
’
He looked at her, astonished. Her face broke into a pleasant smile. ‘Come in.’
The dungeon’s walls and floor were stone, flickering in artificial gaslight. On one side was a cell, iron bars from floor to ceiling. On the other was a medieval rack, and a whipping post. And all around, from the stone walls, hung manacles, collars, chains, black leather whips, corsets and masks. In the centre stood a double bed, glistening with red satin sheets. Next to it was a small table with a candle and a bottle of wine.
‘There’s a very nice bathroom through there, which Anna is using right now. You’re perfectly safe here. Our clients only use this place by appointment. So we can get an expert in.’ She explained: ‘None of my girls do it, you see.’
Morgan smiled, exhausted. ‘These clients really enjoy pain?’
‘Agh, it’s mostly in the mind. We try not to hurt anybody. Their wives won’t play with them, you see.’
‘I see.’
‘In the morning, you’ll find a kitchen upstairs. Help yourself. Including the bar. Sleep well.’ She handed him the key.
Morgan sat a long moment on the bed, then heaved himself up. Before he collapsed asleep. Tomorrow he had to perfect Max’s signatures – but he could not bear to think about it tonight. And he could not bear to think about the deception he was going to commit on Anna. He picked up the bottle of wine, and walked to the bathroom.
He opened the door, onto billowing steam and the fragrance of soap. Anna lay in the swirling suds of a whirlpool bath, her head back, hair sodden. She opened her eyes, and smiled.
They had not even made love. He had wanted to, desperately: to cling to her, maybe for the last time. Too tense, too exhausted, they had both just fallen asleep.
He was suddenly awake at six o’clock that Sunday morning, his nerves cringing for more sleep. Today was the day he was leaving her, tricking her. And tomorrow he was going to perpetrate a deception that she would probably find unforgivable. He lay beside her in the pitch blackness, and with all his heart he longed to take her in his arms, feel her softness and smoothness, to calm himself, to claim her. He lay there a minute, trying to clear his mind, get the tension out of his body. Then he swung out of bed.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He let the cold water beat down on his head for a full minute. Then he rubbed himself dry. He looked at his hands. They were
trembly. He went back into the dungeon and got dressed. He picked up their bag. He unlocked the dungeon door, and climbed the steps.
He emerged into the ornate, silent hall. The concealed lights were burning amongst the ferns, setting the Thai statue aglow. He found the kitchen door, behind the reception desk. He was not hungry but he made himself eat some cold chicken. Then he went into the bar.
He sat down on a stool, under a light. He opened the bag. He took out all Max’s keys and put them in his pocket. He took out all Max’s passports. The photographs of himself he had had taken in New York, the bottle of glue, the notebook. Then he saw something in the bag he had not noticed before. It was a paper packet.
Printed on the paper was
Farmacia Lopez, Garrucha.
He opened the packet, and pulled out the contents. He was looking at a little box of condoms.
He was astonished. Anna had bought condoms in Garrucha when she bought clothes and hairdye? …
He smiled briefly. Well, well, well. He returned the box and the packet to the bag.
He opened his penknife. He carefully, very carefully prised the photographs off all three of Max’s passports.
Then he carefully pasted glue on the back of three of his own photographs. He carefully pasted one into each of Max’s passports.
He looked at them.
His photographs lacked the official embossment on the corner, but they would pass brisk scrutiny. Jack Morgan was now both Max Hapsburg and Maxwell Constantine.
But which was he to be on the fateful day? Tomorrow.
In which name was the deposit box?
That question made his stomach turn over. He thought he knew, but the doubt made him feel feverish. He could telephone the bank with some ruse, to try to find out – but it was very risky. And he would only have one chance. He had to be able to do both signatures in case he got a last-minute clue as to which name the box was in, but once he had started the impersonation he could not switch. And if he used the wrong name, if there was no box in that name, suspicion would fall
on him like a ton of bricks. Honest men do not walk into strange banks trying to gain access to non-existent boxes. Questions, attempted fraud, police. And it would be all over.
He dragged his hands down his face.
One step at a time.
He picked up Maxwell Constantine’s passport.
It was more likely that Max had put the microfilm in a box under Maxwell Constantine’s name.
He opened his notebook.
He studied the signature. It had no flourishes: it was made by a man who was not accustomed to using the name.
He picked up his pen. He carefully; slowly, began.
That day seemed unreal. The beautiful whore-house completely silent; the Thai statue and Buddha staring at him out of the gloom; his nerves tight, the cramped frustration of torturing out the same picture of lines over and over and over again. That’s how he came to think of it – a picture, like a cartoonist’s sketch. And as a cartoonist can draw the same face over and over again, so became his forgeries. He could close his eyes and visualize each millimetre of every letter, each curl and twirl.
It was after eleven o’clock when he finally threw down the pen. His shoulders ached, his hand ached. If he pushed his tendons through the same motions once more he would scream. He heaved himself off the stool, and walked behind the bar. He got a beer out of the refrigerator, and poured it. He took three deep swallows.
He went back to his stool. He lit a cigarette and inhaled it deeply. He stared into the gloom.
This time tomorrow it would all be about to begin … This time the day after tomorrow he could be sitting in a Swiss prison. Or in a Russian safe house. Or lying on a mortuary slab.
This time tonight he would be saying goodbye to Anna. Maybe forever.
He dragged his hands down his face.
Now cut that out. Cut the melodrama, and think positively …
It was going to be all right! He would sleep this afternoon, and he would sleep on the plane and tomorrow his hand would be steady. He had those two signatures off pat. Only a
handwriting expert would catch him out. And he would have Makepeace and the boys riding shotgun for him as he left the bank. What were the chances of being overwhelmed with those guys looking after him? He had all the advantages – even if the Comrades somehow managed to follow him to Zurich, they would riot know which bank he was heading for, nor when.
All the advantages are on our side. And how big a fight dare they start in broad daylight outside a Swiss bank?
He squeezed his eyes with his fingertips.
The answer was, A very big fight. We saw that in New York. And the Swiss police are my problem too. If they arrive on the scene I will have a lot of explaining to do about forging a dead man’s signature – and the British won’t come forward to help me …
He took another big swallow of beer.
By the time the Swiss police arrive you’ll be miles away. Airborne.
Flying to where? …
He drew deeply on his cigarette.
To England. Fuck ’em. Say what you like about the British, about the likes of Christopher Carrington and Brink-Fucking-Ford, but when it comes to the protection of the law that’s the only place I really know and trust. Say fuck ’em all and fly back to England and get the best lawyer and then walk into Carrington’s office and tell them to get the Comrades off my back or I’ll blow your whole story sky-high and sue Her Majesty to Kingdom Come … And Anna and I are going to get married and live happily ever after …
He pulled on his cigarette.
And if you screw up at the bank? … If you try the wrong name and they blow the whistle on you? … Or you screw up the signature? … And what about destroying Anna’s trust? … He stubbed his cigarette out.
Think positively! And remember that what you’re doing is right!