Queen Victoria's Revenge (7 page)

The inspector poked his head out of the door. “Mr. Hawkin. Could that word have been
encubridor?”

“Sounds right. But I never heard it before.”

“It apparently means a fence, receiver of stolen goods, in Cuban slang. That would make sense in context, would it not?”

“Positively. They needed the money as a sample for the fence to see. If that's what the word means.”

“It does. Our Spanish Department is quite knowledgeable. A messenger will be here for you in a moment. A room's been booked at the Regent Palace Hotel, which, so I'm given to understand, is favored by your countrymen.”

“Tourists,” Tubby said as soon as the inspector had vanished. “Full of them. Right on Piccadilly Circus. Traffic will keep you awake all night.”

“Mr. Hawkin?” a young, pert, long-haired and short-skirted girl in a tight sweater asked, smiling. “I'm to take you to the hotel.” He nodded like a simpleton and followed obediently, wondering at all the stories he had heard about the undersexed and ugly English girls.

The cab ride was all too brief and she unhappily departed as soon as he was given his room key. The bellhop widened his eyes a bit at the lack of luggage, but they shrank back to normal when he was presented with an American dollar bill, which, he assured Tony, he would have no trouble cashing even though it was devalued. The room was on the smallish side and furnished in early British nothing, while the roar of traffic did come in clearly through the window. However, after a search he found a phone, a number for room service and a menu. He settled for a sandwich and some beer after a linguistic struggle with a strangely accented person at the other end of the line. Then he stripped off his shirt and picked up the tape that held the gigli saw in place about his wrist. It would not come free easily so he decided to ignore it and washed the dust of England from it as well as his arm and the rest of his easily accessible skin. His chin was decidedly scratchy; after he ate he would have to think about getting a shave and, if possible, a clean shirt. Cash in what little money he had, then find the American Embassy and get some more. Nineteen dollars was not going to take him very far.

He was scrubbing himself dry with the towel when the subservient knock sounded on the door. So quickly! There was much to be said for the service here, fastest he had ever experienced.

When he threw the door open a small dark man wearing sunglasses and a fuzzy beard moved swiftly in and closed the door behind him.

“The money, where eez eet?” he said and, as though for punctuation, balled his brown leather-gloved fist and buried it deep in Tony's midriff.

SIX

It was a nasty blow that sent Tony staggering back across the room, doubled over with pain. Since the bed was only a few feet from the door it struck him behind the knees and he collapsed backward onto it.

“Speek,” the intruder said, stalking menacingly after Tony with hard fist raised, easily dodging a feeble kick.

“Listen. What are you talking about? I have no money. A few dollars in my wallet. You can have it.”

“Two meelion dollars.”

“That
money. You should have said so. The last I saw of it it was vanishing with a tall Scotsman named Angus and a number of his friends.”

“Where they go?”

“I have no idea …
ouch!”

The fist struck again, and impelled by the pain, Tony rolled off the far side of the bed. His assailant came around the end and Tony picked up the chair. At the same instant there was a light tapping on the door. The bearded man extracted a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Tony. “Who eez eet?”

“Room service. I ordered some food.” The gun vanished, though its outline was clear in the other's pocket. “Answer eet. A wrong move and
pan
you are dead.”

“Don't worry, don't worry.” Tony padded to the door and opened it to reveal a slim, dark woman with a sheaf of papers in her hand. Tony crossed his hands over his bare chest and gaped.

“Mr. Hawkin? I'm the assistant manager. I'm sorry to disturb you but there is some question about the registration. If I could come in? Thank you.”

She entered well before he could answer her, smiled at the scowling bearded man, then consulted her papers.

“It seems you have not entered your passport number, nor have you paid in advance for the room, which is our normal policy. You must realize…” Behind her back the gunman was making jerking motions toward the door with his head while grating his teeth. The message was unmistakable. Tony broke in.

“Look, miss, if you please. That was all explained when I was sent here by Scotland Yard.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows climbed higher and higher. “Are there charges involved? I don't think the hotel approves of this.”

“No, not that, the opposite. It was all explained.”

“Well not to
me
I'm sorry to say. If you don't mind I'll just ring up the office.”

Muttering darkly over her papers, she went to the phone and picked up the receiver. When she did this the gunman turned away from her toward Tony, rolling his eyes downward and showing the shape of the gun in his pocket.

As soon as his back was turned to her, the girl raised the telephone handpiece high—then brought it down sharply on the back of his neck. He slumped to the floor without a sound. Tony tried not to gape.

“Sorry about this, Mr. Hawkin. But when I saw him following you I thought there might be trouble. The hand on gun in pocket rather convinced me. He was up to no good I assume?”

“He hit me. But, you … he…”

“Him? He's an Al Fatah muscleman we have been watching. My name is Esther Ben-Alter. We had orders from an old friend of yours to keep an eye on you, render help if needed. When I saw this
kelev
going up to your room I thought I might look in.”

Tony was struggling into his shirt and getting more confused every instant. “Old friend?”

“Jacob Goldstein. He sends his best wishes.”

“Then you're an Israeli. Al Fatah, Palestinians…”

“You're catching on.” She bent over the unconscious agent and relieved him of his gun. “We have been doing a little investigating into Air Mecca for a long time, since some of the financing behind it isn't too kosher. There's Palestinian resistance money in it and we think they have other plans besides pilgrim transportation. Which is our problem, not yours. Jacob says we are to help you in any way we can. Take this card, it's a bakery that is also our cover. There's someone there all the time. Say ‘onion bagel' and you'll be connected to the right parties. Now, if you'll give me a hand with this one we'll get rid of him. Be careful when you open the door from now on. Apparently they don't look on the skyjacking of their own planes the same way they do others.”

Fortunately the hall was empty, as was the automatic elevator when they rang for it. Esther held the door while Tony dragged the Al Fatah agent in and propped him up in the corner. The doors closed on him with a pneumatic sigh and he slid away.

“Please don't go yet,” Tony asked. “I do have some questions and I need some help, like where can I get a razor? Things like that.”

“My pleasure.”

They were back in the room for no more than a few moments when there was a rapid knocking on the door. Tony shied away from it; there was just too much activity for him. “Who is it?” he called out. A muffled voice muttered something about room service.

“Answer it,” Esther whispered, hand behind back, Arab gun ready in hand. He opened the door cautiously. A white-coated Indian, turban-wearing Indian, not his kind, stood patiently outside at the helm of a wheeled cart.

“My order? In here, thanks.”

Saliva pumped at the sight of the many layers of crust-trimmed white bread, bits of turkey, bacon and tomato peeking shyly from the edge, brown bottled beer to one side.

“I'm not disturbing you, am I, Hawkin?” a familiar voice asked.

Inspector Smivey was in the hall, derby hat on head, tight-rolled umbrella in hand. He was talking to Tony but his eyes were fixed steadily on Esther. She returned the cold gaze with a warm smile and bent to retrieve the sheaf of blank paper from the floor where she had dropped it. She spoke before Tony could.

“How do you do, Inspector? I have been interviewing Mr. Hawkin for an article for my paper. We have a great interest in skyjackings where Arabs are involved, as you can well imagine?”

“But this was an
Arab
plane that was skyjacked, Miss Ben-Alter.”

“Same cast of characters, Inspector. But I am sure you have important matters to talk over with Mr. Hawkin so I will be going. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Hawkin. Good-bye.”

She slipped out, still smiling, with the inspector's scowls following in her wake. The waiter rattled dishes and opened the beer bottle. “Extraordinary,” the inspector said. “Drunks at this time of day. There was a foreign chap sleeping it off in the lift when I came up. Tourist I imagine.”

The Indian waited, dark-eyed and patient in the doorway, and Tony gave him one of his diminishing stock of dollar bills, symbol of Indian-Indian compatibility, then closed the door behind him.

“I would watch out for that woman if I were you,” the inspector said.

“Newswoman?” Tony said innocently around a large mouthful of sandwich.

“Yes. She wants you to think that. Some sort of Israeli agent. Up to no good I'm sure. In any case, hope you don't mind my dropping in.” Mumble of understanding through mouthful of sandwich and beer. “I wanted to ask you if you would mind stopping by the Yard tonight to look at our identification files. Mug books I believe you call them. I won't be there but you'll be expected. Be of great help to us. Your skyjacker Angus turns out to be Angus Macpherson, one of the moving figures in the Free Scotland movement. We have been looking for him on a number of other charges, to which we have now added murder. He was a judo chap in the forces, that broken neck looks very much like his work. If you got through the pictures perhaps you can pick out some of his mates.”

Tony belched lightly and sighed. “I'll be happy to go, Inspector.”

“Five-minute walk. Just head down Regent Street right off the Circus here, down the steps and the Yard is just across from the New Admiralty Building there, the great ugly thing with all the masts on the top that looks like a beached battleship. We've identified the dead man too, Ramon Garcia, Cuban in exile, troublemaker. Been in and out of your American jails for possession of weapons, things like that. The other two you captured are part of his group. Any questions?” The inspector tweaked lightly at one of the hairs sprouting from his ears.

“Have you heard anything about my passport?”

“Your embassy is sending a chap around here at ten tomorrow morning. He can take care of any other problems you might have.”

Inspector Smivey let himself out and Tony locked the door carefully behind him. The gigli saw under his wrist itched and he scratched at it and thought of taking it off. But it wasn't the sort of thing you liked to leave lying around, unless you were a brain surgeon that is, and in the end he left it in place. He was tired and really did not feel like going out, but he had promised the inspector. Maybe the fresh air would wake him up. He yawned widely as he was tying his tie before the bathroom mirror, and saw that he was developing nice black splotches under his eyes. The life of an international operator is never an easy one. But … Scotland Yard needed him, and an agent is never off duty. Squaring his shoulders, he left the room—after first making a careful survey of the corridor.

Tourists of many nationalities crowded the lobby and he pushed through a babble of strange tongues and exotic dress to the street outside. It was dark now and Piccadilly Circus blazed with lights and boomed with traffic, spreading before his eyes the opening shot in almost every English motion picture ever made. A man with a cloth cap and the voice of a bullhorn was selling newspapers on the sidewalk and shouting something incomprehensible, but a large sheet posted next to him advertised “NEW SKYJACK REVELATIONS” in black letters. Tony wished he had some of the local coin to buy those revelations. Never mind, he could ask about them in the Yard. He strolled through the milling early evening crowds, admiring the signs and the shop windows, almost being killed when he stepped off the curb into whirring traffic and looked in the wrong direction.

There was less traffic when he came to Pall Mall, the first street he had ever seen that was named after a cigarette, but he stopped nevertheless while he figured out which way to look. Right, that was it, not left, and he looked right and saw only a large black car slowly approaching.

“Do you have a light for my cigarette?” a voice asked behind him and he was turning to say no before he realized that the voice had spoken in Spanish—not English. He turned faster and saw the familiar and unwelcome face of the skyjacker Jorge.

“You are under arrest,” he said firmly, and wondered how he would go about implementing that. Jorge grinned widely, then planted his shoulder against Tony's chest and pushed.

The black car had stopped behind them with the rear door open. Tony shot into it nicely and strong hands pinioned him. As he struggled Jorge fell in on top of him, the door slammed and they were away. Tony stopped struggling at the now familiar sight of guns and sighed. His newfound popularity for armed villains was something he could just as well do without.

“You are prepared to co-operate with us?” the man behind him said, speaking what Tony was beginning to recognize all too clearly as Cuban Spanish. He turned about to face his questioner, a sturdy, dark-haired man of middle years, firm-jawed and hawknosed, wearing a black eye patch. Tony recognized him from newspaper pictures.

“The Cuban Moshe Dayan?”