Queen Victoria's Revenge (16 page)

“Well, join me in one, won't you?”

“A pleasure.” His glass rapped commandingly on the wood. “Patrick my boy, a large Paddy's for us both, and one for yourself since you have a thirsty look. And there's a hole in me jar, and in me friend's here, and he insists that they be filled.”

They were, quickly enough, the youthful bartender murmuring his thanks and draining his glass, accepting Tony's money with alacrity. Tony's change was wet, pools of beer were rapidly forming on the bar, the bills sodden.

“Sure and there are other things about Guinness you should be knowing. 'Tis a noble adjunct to food, making any meal a repast, but is particularly known for its compatibility with the denizens of the sea, and of all these creatures the oyster in particular—look there and you will see what I mean.” There was a tiled alcove occupied by a small bar laden with tubs of oysters. A number of these were being opened rapidly and professionally by a third teen-age bartender. Without conscious effort Tony found himself and his newfound companion at this bar, glasses firmly in hand, looking down at two plates of these same oysters. Tony paid. The combination was indeed delicious and he made no protest when another dozen appeared. It was one way of getting rid of the soggy bills.

Halfway through another pint of Guinness, memory of his mission surfaced through the brown waves.

“Is there a telephone here?”

“Telephone, there is that. Through the door right next to the bog, you can't miss it, just follow your nose.”

After much rattling through the numerous volumes of the London phone directory Tony found the embassy's number. There was a long list of instructions to be followed in order to make a call from a pay phone and he read them carefully, blinking often to clear away a sort of Guinness-colored fog that interfered with his vision. The call could be dialed without depositing money, in fact there were dire warnings and metal bars to prevent this. A certain button had to be pressed, dial, money, button—he finally mastered it after a couple of false tries and obtained a listening voice that assured him that this was the American Embassy, which was also closed.

“But I must contact…” Who should he contact?

“If you will leave your name I will see what I can do.… Hawkin …
Anthony
Hawkin? Yes, I have an extension here in case you should call. Please hold the line and I will connect you.”

After rattles and mechanical mutterings a familiar voice came on the line.
“Is that you, Hawkin?”

“Yes, but is that…?” A gush of nostalgic memory. “It can't be, is that Ross Sones?”

“Of course.”

“But you're in Washington.”

“No I'm not. I'm here handling liaison over the money. Which is just what I want to talk to you about…”

“Scotland Yard is after me, that's what you were going to say.”

“We have a bad connection, Hawkin. Get over here at once.”

“The police want me, why don't you say so?”

“Hawkin, what's the trouble? I want to talk to you about you know what. Not on a public phone. The police aren't involved in any way.”

“Sure, that's what you say, Sones.” To Tony's ears the FBI man's voice dripped with insincerity. Well there was one easy way to find out.

“Look Sones, I can't talk right now. I'm in a sort of restaurant and my food has just arrived. I haven't eaten in two days, I have to eat, I'm out of change for the phone. Look—here is the number of this phone. Call me back in twenty minutes, I'll be right here, and tell me what you want me to do. Good-bye.”

Right here indeed! Shoving the sodden coins and bills deep into his pocket, he exited at a fast walk, waved farewell to his new friends and climbed the stairs to the street above. Not twenty yards away was an establishment whose windows had an enchanting selection of cardboard Buckingham Palaces, toy guardsmen, ash trays with Tower Bridge on them and other gimcrack dear to the heart of the tourist. By standing in the entrance between the two show windows he could pretend to admire these dubious objects while, at the same time, really looking through the windows and, unobserved himself, watch the entrance to the Irish House.

Many went down, none emerged, as though entering the underworld itself, and in less than five minutes his patience—and suspicions—were well rewarded.

Two policemen, official and stern in tall helmets and brass buttons, appeared and tramped through the doorway and down and out of sight.

ELEVEN

Remembering the precautions that the Israelis had taken, Tony attempted the same. A cab dropped him off some blocks distant from The Marmion and he skulked the rest of the way. One of the agents, Jinon or Isaj, sat on the steps drinking Paris green-colored soda pop from a bottle and did not look up when Tony passed. Yet he must have transmitted some signal for Esther came to meet him in the darkness of the hall.

“Is there any place we can talk quietly?” he asked.

“In the breakfast room, we won't be disturbed there. Would you like a bite to eat? A drink?”

“No, yes. I mean no, no. Unless you have coffee or tea or something like that.” Memories of Guinness and Paddy's still cast a numbing miasma over his frontal lobes; he must cut down on the drink.

“A nice glass of tea. I'll be right back.”

There was a single long table stretching the length of the room, already set with silverware for breakfast, jars of jam, salt and pepper. A hulking dark piece of furniture rested against one wall, bristling with drawers and knobs, its top bearing magazines and old newspapers while above this a portrait, all cigar and bulldoggish scowl, of Churchill brightened the scene. Esther brought the tea and they sat at the far end of the table by the window. The upright spoon in the glass almost got him in the eye but he managed to duck under it to slurp the reviving beverage, washing the dark remains of Guinness from his throat.

“I'm in a little bit of trouble,” he said offhandedly.

“Is that what they call American understatement? When I first met you there was an Al Fatah thug in your room trying to beat you up. Now you return to London to be met by a squad of Scots musclemen. Enough there to give anyone nightmares.”

“Yes, but that's only the half of it. I was spirited away from London at gunpoint by a team of Cuban skyjackers who were in league with the Scottish nationalists and they fixed it to look as though I had cashed some of the marked skyjack bills and later I really did cash some so that, it looks, well…”

“Are the police after you too?”

He nodded unhappily. “Yes—but you won't turn me in, will you?”

“Never! As a spy myself I am a little outside the law. Not only that but Jacob would kill me if I allowed one hair of your head to be harmed. This is quite a track record you have accumulated after only a couple of days in the country. How are you getting along with the Pakistani Secret Service?”

“What do you mean? This is no joke…”

“I'm sorry, I never intended, here have more tea. I was only asking. They are very interested in the skyjacking as well since it looks like the weapons the gang used were loaded aboard in Karachi. I thought maybe they were onto you too.”

“Well I've managed to miss them so far, thanks a lot.”

“I'm sorry,” she said soothingly. “I was just asking. Could your Cuban troubles have anything to do with Colonel Juarez-Sedoño?”

“You bet they do, he's the joker in charge of their whole operation. How much do you know?”

“A little that I will be happy to tell you. But first, please, tell me what has happened to you since I left you at the hotel.”

Tony told, happy to gain tongue-clucking sympathy for the plight the colonel had put him in. Mile by mile he traced his adventures to Glasgow and thence to Carradale and Campbeltown. Esther refilled his tea glass as he flew to Glasgow and, seeing he needed something stronger to get him to Edinburgh, found a bottle of whisky to sustain him for the rest of the voyage. Old Mortality, a very sustaining scotch indeed, and it enabled him to survive the trip back to London and their meeting at the station.

“You
have
been busy,” she said with professional approval. “Of course you were forced to change those hundred dollar bills to escape, but that will have to be proven later to the police. There is no point in giving yourself up until you are a bit closer to the truth.”

“I'll agree to that. Now tell me what you know about the colonel.”

“Not very much. We first learned of his existence when we followed an Al Fatah agent to his home. He has had dealings with them on and off for years, possibly trading in munitions. In any case he is in our books as a ‘perhaps unfriendly.' And we did uncover the fact that he is in with the anti-Castro groups in England. So, as soon as we heard that Cubans were involved in the skyjacking, we put a watch on his house. I'm sorry we weren't quick enough to be there when they took you away, but we have had the place under observation ever since. In doing this we know we are one step ahead of the police, who have not yet linked the colonel with the skyjacking. There is one bit of intelligence that I know will be of interest to you. The colonel has a visitor, a young lady, who arrived yesterday and is still there. We don't know if she is remaining voluntarily, but she surely came there on her own. An Egyptian girl named Jasmin Sotiraki.”

“The hostess from the plane!”

“The very one. The web of intrigue is getting very tangled but, to continue the simile, all of the strands seem to be leading in one direction.”

“Well if you can make sense out of this whole thing I wish you would tell me. What has Jasmin got to do with the others?”

“She has long been an Al Fatah sympathizer so we are forced to conclude that they are involved in this affair as well. After all, you had one of their agents in your hotel room.”

“You mean it might be an Al Fatah Scottish Cuban plot?”

“It looks that way. Stranger things have happened.”

“Oh no they haven't! This one takes the record for confusion if nothing else. If you will permit me to count on my fingers in my slow Indian, art historian way—”

“Have some more scotch first.”

“Why not. It can't make things any more obscure. All right. We have a great big DC-10 that is owned by a lot of Arabs, some of which are the Al Fatah. Somewhere along the line the Al Fatah gets involved with the Scottish Home Rule people who contact the Cuban counterrevolutionaries. They cook up a plan to skyjack the plane and it works. But something goes wrong when the Scots decide they want all the money for themselves and grab it. So all of the others, along with the police, are after the Scots, who, before they have time to do anything constructive to cast off the English yoke, are hijacked in return, their leader Angus Macpherson polished off in the robbery, and the money vanishes a second time. Which is where we are now, correct?”

“Correct—but with one single important addition. In the house in Carradale you heard the man, Willy, say that someone was in with Angus just before he was shot. Do you remember his exact words?”

“Not really, something about a fencing-cully.”

“You have a fine memory. That is a slang term for a fence or receiver of stolen goods.”

“Then it could be the fence who knocked off Angus in order to get the hot bills without paying for them?”

“It certainly looks that way. Which gives us a strong lead. Your pursuer Willy may know who this fence is. We must try to question him.”

“Wait! Not only him, let me think.” He took a deep drink from his glass without thinking, choked and began coughing on the strong spirits. Esther came around the table and pounded on his back and pounded the cough away and, apparently, memory back in. “The bundle of bills I took from the colonel was brought to him by Ramon from the plane. And I heard him say that they were for the fence. Samples to set the deal up I guess. Could it be the same fence?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But it is a lead and perhaps the only lead we have.”

“Right—so we follow it up. If we can find the fence the Cubans planned to use he may be the murderer and the man with the money. If he is not he might very well know who the other fences are who could handle a deal like this.”

“There is a very strong possibility that you may be correct. But is there no other clue to this fence's identity? Did no one else see him? There must be a description.”

“There may be—but for that you will have to ask Willy or one of the others who were there in the house in Carradale. All I know is the kind of car he was driving and his license number.”

Esther slowly raised her eyes to his, great dark eyes with depths a man could drown in. Soulful Mediterranean eyes very much like Jasmin's Egyptian ones—though perhaps it would not be wise to tell her that. These eyes searched his carefully, then a slim hand reached out and took a glass and poured a small measure of Old Mortality. Esther downed it briskly and sighed.

“You are a man of many surprises, Tony. Why did you not mention this earlier?”

“Because I forgot, honestly. It has been busy, you know. I heard someone call out about the car and I scratched the information on one of the hundred dollar bills so I wouldn't forget. Here.” He groped the wallet from his pocket—then paled. “I cashed the bill with the details on it!”

Tony scrabbled through the bills quickly, turning them about and holding them up to the light, then sighed deeply. “No I didn't, sorry for the scare. I tucked it into the middle of the stack to be safe. Here it is. GRN, that must mean green. Then CAPRI and the number 8463Y. Do you have that?”

“I do. If you will excuse me for a moment I will have Isaj get on the phone with this. We have certain contacts in the police department who will put this in as a routine request for information.”