A Woman Involved (47 page)

‘I want to stay here forever,’ she said.

He did not want to think about what he had to do in December, about the terrible thing he might have to do in Rome. He tried to push it out of his mind and just live for today, and for her. He knew she was doing the same. And mostly he succeeded. They did not talk about the microfilm
again; they were on their honeymoon and it seemed that if they did not talk about what they had to do, the problem would just go away, be put right simply, and they would be forgotten. He did not yet know how he was going to trick her, what excuse he was going to make for leaving her, and right now he did not want to think about it. For the moment he had stopped running, and he just wanted to rest, in her arms. It was lovely to have nothing to do, to stay in bed as long as they liked.

Finally, they got up and had a bath. They could see the fire blazing in the bedroom. He fetched beers and they sank into the hot iron tub together. Squashed up together side by side, slippery, her long blonde hair piled on top of her head, drinking beer, washing each other’s backs. They laughed a lot. They had the same sense of humour. And nonsense was hilarious. He was a scream, apparently. When he told her a story she started to giggle before he got to the funny bits, just in anticipation, and when he got to the punchline she laughed as if it were the funniest thing she had heard. It is lovely to be in love with somebody who thinks you’re a laugh-a-minute.

Long hot baths with beer and your own true love is a lovely way to start the day. When the water began to grow cold, she heaved herself up, gleaming, satiny, and they dashed back to the fire. The towels were warm. They rubbed themselves dry in front of the fire, then scrambled into their tracksuits, and they went to have breakfast. And the warmth of the kitchen, the snow in the courtyard and the ice on the windows, and the delicious smell of porridge and fried eggs and sausages. It tasted like the best food he had ever eaten. They opened a bottle of wine, and settled down to another lovely day of doing nothing, and they talked about the things they were going to do one day. She said:

‘Start by building a beautiful sunken bath in mosaic tiles with jacuzzi pumps built in, so we can have sexy whirlpool baths. Hanging plants all around. And maybe a bar in the corner. We could buy our own generator for electricity. And we should build fireplaces in the other bedrooms. Get a bricklayer. We can work with him.’

‘And a fountain in the courtyard. And vines?’

‘Yes … We don’t need a swimming pool because we’ve got
that beautiful pool at the waterfall. And we’ll get two horses, and go riding out over these hills.’ She smiled at him, ‘Oh, let’s stay forever, Jack …’

It was a wonderful thought, and usually he did believe that one day this would be their summer home. He did believe, now, that it was the British who murdered God’s Banker, and he shared her belief that therefore they would also get rid of her, and him, if they thought it necessary; but as an Englishman he simply did not believe that it would be impossible to make a deal with his own British government, with the help of a good lawyer, say to them, ‘The job is done, the communists have been cleaned out of the Vatican and the microfilm is destroyed, so leave us alone now, guarantee our safety and we swear we’ll keep our mouths shut, but if you keep harassing us we’ll tell the press this whole shameful story and sue you to the highest court in the land …’ As a Royal Navy man brought up to believe that the British were the best, he simply did not believe that a British lawyer could not pull that trick off with his own British government: but all that was in the future and right now he did not want to think about it. And sometimes she believed it too: in her happiness she believed in the lovely, remote world they were living in, that the big bad world beyond would forget about them and let them live happily ever after once she had done her duty. She looked at Morgan and she loved him with all her heart, and she knew he was a babe in the woods compared to her but with all her heart she trusted him to do what he considered right, even if it was in fact the wrong thing to do. In her saner moments, she knew that all this was but a dream that would never be allowed to come true, but for
now
it was true. It was a wonderful thought, that they could stay here, and do these things to make their lovely home lovelier.

He said, ‘I’ve got a living to make. We’ll have to go back and tackle that first.’

She looked at the fire, thinking how best to put it. Then she said carefully, ‘I want to put my arms around you when I say this. But I say it soberly, with my heart in my hand: and it is this … I have enough money for both of us. There is no urgency for you to go back to work.’

He smiled. ‘Thank you, but I couldn’t do that.’

‘But what is money? We’ve seen that! And this is
your
land – what’s wrong with you working it? We can plant wonderful fruit trees here!’

He smiled. It was a pretty thought. And, it could be done, one day. And sometimes he believed they would do it now, this winter, after Christmas.

November went like that. They were wonderful days. Every morning he went to look for footprints in the snow. Every day he grew more confident that they were safe here.

Then it was the beginning of December, and it was time to go back to Rome. That day he went to the village. He bought provisions, then he made a telephone call to the secretary of the Appia Antia Golf Club. Then he received Makepeace’s call. When he returned to the farm he poured two glasses of wine and told her the lie. And he swore to God it was the last lie he would ever tell her. He said:

‘Makepeace is arriving tomorrow. I’m going to fetch him at the railway station in Chambery. Then, the next day, all three of us are driving to Switzerland, to get the microfilm. Then we’re going to Rome, to sort this out, with Makepeace riding shotgun.’

Her heart was sinking.

‘I thought we weren’t going to do anything until after Christmas. We haven’t even discussed any plan.’

He pushed her glass towards her. ‘I’ve got a plan.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Today I phoned Renata. She told me she has found a watertight way of getting us to see the Pope.’ He forced a smile. ‘This solves all our problems.’

She stared. ‘The Pope … ? How?’

‘She couldn’t tell me on the telephone. But it’s through Benetti, the masseur. All she said was “guaranteed”.’ He smiled at her. ‘This is terribly lucky.’

She sat back in her chair.

‘Lucky … ? It is
marvellous
!’ She waved her hand: ‘All we do is tell the Pope the story. Play him the Klaus Barbie tape, show him the microfilm, and tell him to get on with it – set his house in order.’

He wanted to thank God for helping him deceive her. ‘Except we’ve got to monitor the situation somehow – we’ve got to be
sure that he
does
clean his house out, not whitewash the situation.’

The Pope wouldn’t do that! KGB agents in his hierarchy?’ She spread her arms. ‘Oh, this is wonderful news! You’ve done it, Jack! …’ Her eyes were suddenly shining with relief.

‘Renata’s done it.’

‘But you found Renata!’

‘It’s almost all over …’ Morgan smiled.

And oh God, God, he wished it were true; and the past three weeks were like a dream.

The next day Morgan went to meet Makepeace. But not at the station in Chambery; he met him in the local village, for Makepeace had his own car. Makepeace handed him a sheet of paper and said:

‘Here’s your man, Hank. Henry Wilcox. There’s his company, Worldarms Limited, in Lyons. His telephone number. Legitimate arms dealer, apparently, you’ve got to have end-user certificates and all that jazz before he’ll supply even a hand-grenade, let alone an exocet missile.’

Morgan didn’t believe that. ‘Well done, Dougie. Did you have to use any strong-arm?’

‘Nope. First I made a few enquiries amongst the boys in Marseilles. Somebody came up with the name Hank Wilcox. Took a train up to Lyons and checked out his address. A pretty big show. A warehouse, surrounded by security fence. Guards, dogs, the works. Legitimate. Then I went back to Marseilles, and checked out Meteor Air. A one-man band. One plane. The boss was flying it so I spoke to his wife or girlfriend, who was running the shop. Quite a looker, she was. French, but spoke English. Told her I wanted to freight some cargo, could I have some prices? She said it depends on size and weight, and asked what kind of cargo. I said it was coming from Worldarms – did she know them? Yes, she did. Would there be any difficulty air-freighting that kind of cargo? No there wouldn’t, provided the documentation was “watertight”. ,She said the export licence was the big thing, you can’t get that without the “end-user certificate”. So I said I was going to be dealing with Hank Wilcox, he would know all these regulations, wouldn’t he? Oh yes, Hank knew everything.’ Makepeace
shrugged airily. ‘So I was sure we were talking about the same chap. Thank you, madam, I’ll be back when I’ve done my shopping. Orry-wa, Monsewer. And here I am. Easiest three hundred nicker I’ve ever earned.’

‘Well done, Dougie! Now forget I ever asked you to do that.’

‘Mum’s the word. You don’t really want an exocet missile do you?’

‘No. What do you know about “end-user certificates”?’

‘You know, sir,’ Makepeace said, surprised.

‘Yes, but I’m not up-to-date.’

‘Simple,’ Makepeace said. ‘The arms manufacturers are only allowed to sell to approved customers. That means, to a
government
, who is approved by the manufacturer’s government. So if Aerospatiele, who manufacture exocets here in France, want to sell exocets to, say, Italy, the Italian government must issue a certificate stating
it
wants the missiles for their own use, not for resale to somebody else – like Gaddaffi. The French government says okay, that’s in order, and it then issues an export licence to Aerospatiele to ship the missiles to Italy. No end-user certificate, no export licence, no exocet missiles.’

‘But those certificates can be bought. Or forged. Do you know anything about that?’

‘No,’ Makepeace said, ‘but Danziger would.’

‘Forget Danziger! He doesn’t know about this, does he?’

Makepeace said, ‘He’s the guy who came up with Hank Wilcox’s name.’

‘But he doesn’t know you were asking on my behalf!’

‘
No
,’ Makepeace sighed, ‘relax.’

‘And Sanchez? Did you find out anything about him?’

‘No,’ Makepeace said. ‘I asked around. But thought I shouldn’t press my luck with Mamsell Goldilocks.’

‘Pity,’ Morgan said. ‘But you did the right thing.’

Makepeace handed over the miniature tape-recorder and the canister of nerve gas, and Morgan handed over Anna’s passports, and gave him his instructions.

‘I’m not looking forward to this,’ Makepeace grumbled. ‘I wish you’d warned me she wouldn’t know you were leaving.’

‘Just don’t let her out of your sight. And tell her I love her.’

‘She’s going to be crazy about you,’ Makepeace said morbidly
‘– you should have seen her in Amsterdam, gave me a terrible time …’

Makepeace waited an hour before driving out to the farm, as instructed. By that time Morgan was well on the way. But not to Rome, yet. To Lyons.

He had telephoned Hank Wilcox to make sure he was available. ‘To discuss very big business.’ It was noon when Morgan drove into Lyons, a gracious old city, divided by its rivers. By coincidence, he drove past the Mont Luc Prison, where forty years ago Klaus Barbie had tortured and murdered his prisoners, heroes of the French Resistance, where today Klaus Barbie was imprisoned awaiting trial for his war crimes, and it gave Morgan a brief malicious pleasure to think of the bastard languishing somewhere up there behind those grey walls.
Poetic justice.
He drove on down town, and checked into a hotel. He telephoned Worldarms again.

‘Why sure, Mr Blackstone,’ Hank Wilcox said, ‘but wouldn’t you rather come round to my premises – only a pleasure to show you the shop!
Then
we can go back to your hotel for lunch. Except lunch is on me …’

Morgan wondered if he was barking up the wrong tree. Hank Wilcox sounded so wholesome.

The security guard said, ‘Monsieur Blackstone? –
Oui
, monsieur!’ and waved the taxi through. There was a closed-circuit television eye above the entrance to the warehouse, but the steel doors opened promptly. A pretty French girl, flanked by a smiling security guard, admitted him. ‘Mr Blackstone, this way,
s’il vous plait.
’

She led him into a reception room. The walls were lined with antique rifles and pistols, the armchairs were leather. There was a bar. On a low table were glossy brochures of Worldarms’ fine products, in half a dozen languages, including Arabic. ‘What is your pleasure, Monsieur Blackstone?’

‘Beer, please.’

He picked up the first glossy brochure. It had a picture of seven different modern rifles, fanned out like a poker hand, and the banner-line read, in Western-style lettering:

‘
Why, hullo!
…’ Hank Wilcox said, beaming, with his hand held out, ‘is everybody looking after you? …’

He was a neat, fresh-faced man of about forty with a college-boy haircut, as American as apple-pie. He wore a floral shirt with a matching tie under a sporty check suit. ‘This,’ he waved a hand down the warehouse, ‘is the biggest armoury in Western Europe. Only guy who comes close is Machine Gun Sam in Manchester – Interarms Limited, my competition. Four hundred thousand weapons here, enough for twenty-odd British divisions. Our annual turnover is well over a hundred million dollars.’