Garry laughed.
"Dead on the nail." He got to his feet. "Well, it was a try. I won't take up any more of your time."
Shalik waved him back to his chair.
"Sit down. I think you are the man I am looking for. You can satisfy me that you have a pilot's licence and that you can handle a helicopter?"
"Of course," Garry returned and lugged out a plastic folder which he had brought along and laid it on the desk. Then he sat down again.
Shalik examined the papers which the folder contained. He took his time, then he returned the folder.
"Satisfactory." He took another cigar from his desk drawer, regarded it carefully, then cut the end with a gold cutter. "Mr. Edwards, am I right in thinking you would be prepared to handle a job that is not entirely honest so long as the money is right?"
Garry smiled.
"I'd like that qualified. What do you mean . . . not entirely honest?"
"Difficult, unethical work that does not involve the police in any way, but pays handsomely."
"Can you make it clearer than that?"
"I am offering three thousand dollars a week for a Three-week assignment. At the end of the assignment you will be nine thousand dollars better off. There are certain risks, but I can promise you the police won't come into it."
Garry sat upright. Nine thousand dollars!
"What are the risks?"
"Opposition." Shalik regarded his cigar with indifferent, beady eyes. "But life is made up of opposition, isn't it, Mr. Edwards?"
"Just what do I have to do to earn this money?"
"That will be explained to you tonight. You will not be alone. The risks and responsibilities will be shared. What I want to know now is if you are willing to do three weeks work for nine thousand dollars."
Garry didn't hesitate.
"Yes . . . I am."
Shalik nodded.
"Good. Then you will come here at 21.00 hrs. tonight when I will introduce you to the other members of the team and I will explain the operation." The chubby hand made a slight signal of dismissal.
Garry got to his feet.
"Please don't talk about this assignment to anyone. Mr. Edwards," Shalik went on. "You must regard it as top secret."
"Sure . . . I'll say nothing."
Garry left the room.
The girl at the desk got up and opened the door for him. He didn't bother to smile at her. His mind was too preoccupied. Nine thousand dollars! Wow!
The girl watched him enter the lift and then she returned to her desk. She sat for some moments, listening. Then hearing nothing from the inner room, she softly opened a drawer in her desk and turned off a small tape-recorder whose spools were conveying tape through the recording head.
Precisely at 21.00 hrs. Garry was shown into Shalik's office by the dark-haired girl who he knew now by the name-plate on her desk to be Natalie Norman.
There were two men sitting uneasily in chairs, smoking andwaiting. They both looked closely at Garry as he took a chair. In his turn, he looked closely at them.
The man on his left was short and heavily built. He reminded Garry a little of Rod Steiger, the Oscar-winning movie star. His close cut woolly hair was white, his washed out grey eyes shifty. His thin lips and square chin hinted at viciousness.
The other man was some ten years younger: around Garry's age. He was of middle height, thin, his hair bleached almost white by the sun and his skin burnt to a dark mahogany. He wore a straggly moustache and long sideboards. Garry liked the look of him immediately, but disliked the look of the other man.
As he settled himself in the chair, a door at the far end of the room opened and Shalik entered.
"So you have all arrived," he said, coming to his desk. He sat down and went through the ritual of lighting a cigar while he looked at each man in turn with intent, probing eyes. "Let me introduce you to each other." He pointed his cigar at Garry. "This is Mr. Garry Edwards. He is a helicopter pilot and a car expert. He has spent three years in a French prison on smuggling charges." The other two men looked sharply at Garry who stared back at them. The cigar then pointed to the younger man. "This is Mr. Kennedy Jones who has flown from Johannesburg to attend this meeting," Shalik went on. "Mr. Jones is a safari expert. There is nothing he can't tell you about wild animals, South Africa in general and the fitting out of an expedition into the African bush. I might add Mr. Jones has had the misfortune to spend a few years in a Pretoria jail." Jones stared up at the ceiling, a grin hovering around his humorous mouth. There was a pause, then Shalik went on, "Finally, this is Mr. Lew Fennel who is an expert safe breaker . . . I believe that is the term. He is regarded by the police and the underworld as the top man in his so-called profession. He too has served a number of years in prison." Shalik paused and looked at the three men. "So, gentlemen, you have something in common."
None of them said anything: they waited.
Shalik opened a drawer in his desk and took out a folder.
"The introductions concluded, let us get down to business." He opened the folder and took from it a large glossy photograph. This he handed to Fennel who stared with puzzled eyes at the medieval diamond ring shown in the photograph. He shrugged and passed the photograph to Garry who in turn passed it to Jones.
"You are looking at a ring," Shalik said, "designed by Caesar Borgia." He looked at the three men. "I take it you all know of Caesar Borgia?"
"He's the guy who poisoned people, wasn't he?" Fennel said.
"I think that is a fair description. Yes, among many other things, he poisoned or caused to be poisoned a number of people. This ring you see in the photograph was designed by Borgia and made by an unknown goldsmith in 1501. To look at the ring, it would be hard to believe that it is a lethal weapon, but that is what it is . . . a very lethal weapon. It works in this way. There is a tiny reservoir under the cluster of diamonds and this reservoir was filled with a deadly poison. In the cluster of diamonds is a microscopic hollow needle of exceptional sharpness. When Borgia wished to get rid of an enemy, he had only to turn the ring so the diamonds and needle were worn inside and he had only to clasp the hand of his enemy to inflict a small scratch. The enemy would be dead in a few hours.
"The ring was lost for four centuries. It turned up in the effects of a Florentine banker who died with his wife and family in a car crash a couple of years ago. His effects were sold. Fortunately, an expert recognized the ring and bought it for a song. It was offered to me." Shalik paused to tap ash off his cigar. "Among my various activities, I buy
objets d'art
and sell them to wealthy collectors. I knew of a client who specialized in Borgia treasures. I sold him the ring. Six months later, the ring was stolen. It has taken me a long time to find out where it is. It was stolen by agents working for another collector who has acquired, through these agents, probably the finest collection of art treasures in the world. This operation, Gentlemen, which I am asking you to handle, is for you three to recover the ring."
There was a long pause, then Fennel, sitting forward, said, "You mean we steal it?"
Shalik looked at Fennel with distaste.
"Putting it crudely, you could say that," he said. "I have already pointed out there is no question of police interference. This collector has stolen the ring from my client. You take it from him. He is in no position to complain to the police."
Fennel let his cigarette ash drop on the rich Persian carpet as he asked, "How valuable is this ring?"
"That doesn't concern you. It is, of course, valuable, but it has a specialized market." Shalik paused, then went on, "I will tell you a few details about the man who now has the ring. He is enormously rich. He has a compulsive urge to own the finest art treasures he can lay his hands on. He is utterly unscrupulous. He has a network of expert art thieves working for him. They have stolen many
objets
d'art
from the world's greatest museums, and even from the Vatican, to fill his museum which is without doubt the finest in the world."
Feeling he should make a contribution to this discussion, Garry asked, "And where is this museum?"
"On the borders of Basutoland and Natal . . . somewhere in the Drakensberg mountains."
Kennedy Jones leaned forward.
"Would you be talking about Max Kahlenberg?" he asked sharply.
Shalik paused to touch off his cigar ash.
"You know of him?
"Who doesn't, who has lived in South Africa?"
"Then suppose you tell these two gentlemen what you know about him."
"He's the man who has the ring?"
Shalik nodded.
Jones drew in a long, slow breath. He rubbed his jaw, frowning, then lit a cigarette. As he exhaled smoke, he said, "I only know what is common knowledge. Kahlenberg is a bit of a mythical figure on which all kinds of weird rumours stick. I do know his father, a German refugee from the First World War, struck it rich, finding one of the biggest gold mines just outside Jo'burg. Old Karl Kahlenberg was shrewd and no fool. He invested well and milked his mine dry. From what I hear, he ended up with millions. He married a local girl when he was over sixty years old. He married because he wanted a son to carry on his name. He got his son: Max Kahlenberg. There was a real mystery about the birth. No one except the doctor and the nurse saw the baby. There was a rumour it was a freak . . . some even said it was a monster. Anyway, no one ever set eyes on the baby. The old man died in a hunting accident. Mrs. Kahlenberg moved from Jo'burg and built a house in the heart of the Drakensberg range. She continued to keep her son hidden, cutting herself off from all social contacts. She died some twenty years ago. Max Kahlenberg remains a recluse. He is supposed to be as clever as his father. He has enlarged the house his mother built. He has around one hundred square miles of jungle surrounding the house and he employs a number of trained Zulus to keep hikers, tourists and gapers away from the house." Jones paused, then leaning forward, stabbing his finger into the palm of his hand, he went on, "From what I've heard, getting near Kahlenberg's place would be like trying to open an oyster with your fingers."
Again there was a long pause, then Fennel crushed out his cigarette and looked at Shalik, his eyes narrowed.
"Is what he says right?"
Shalik lifted his fat shoulders.
"A fairly accurate statement," he said. "I have never said that this is an easy assignment. After all, I am paying very well. The approach to Khalenberg's house is not easy, but not impossible. I have a considerable amount of information which will help you."
"That's fine," Fennel said with a little sneer, "but suppose we get to the house . . . how do we get in?"
"Although Mr. Jones has a fair knowledge of Kahlenberg's background," Shalik said. "He has omitted — or perhaps he doesn't know — the fact that although Kahlenberg is a cripple, he is fond of beautiful women." He leaned back in his chair. "Every fortress has its soft underbelly if you know where to look for it. I have a woman who will act as your Trojan Horse. If she can't get you into Kahlenberg's house, no one can."
He pressed a button his desk.
There was a long pause, then the door behind Shalik opened and the most sensational, beautiful woman any of the three men, gaping at her, had ever seen, came slowly into the room and paused by Shalik's desk.
Chapter Two
Some ten years ago, Armo Shalik, sick of his small way of life, let it be known by a discreet advertisement in an Egyptian newspaper that he was prepared to undertake for a reasonable fee any assignment that presented difficulties. He received only one answer to his advertisement, but it was enough, since his client was an Arabian Prince who wished to have inside information concerning a future oil deal between a rival of his and an American oil company. By using the Prince's money and his own brains, Shalik obtained the information. The deal netted him $10,000, a modest enough fee, but the Prince was grateful, and he passed the word around that if you were in difficulties, if you wished for inside information, Shalik was the man to consult.
The following year with the capital he had saved, Shalik moved to London. He acquired a small list of extremely wealthy clients who continually consulted him. Money, of course, was no object. Shalik's fees rose sharply, but he always delivered. Among his clients were three Texas oil millionaires, four Arabian princes, two enormously wealthy American women, a Greek shipping tycoon and a number of British, French and German industrialists.
He was often to say, "Nothing is impossible with unlimited money and brains." He would pause to stare at his client. "You will supply the money . . . I the brains."
Armo Shalik prospered. In the early days, he considered whether to have a permanent staff to work under him, but he decided this was economically unsound. Shalik never wasted a dime. To keep a staff of experts on his payroll would mean half of them most of the time would be drawing on his money and doing nothing. He decided to fit men and women to the job when the job arrived. He discovered a not too scrupulous Detective Agency who were prepared not only to recommend likely applicants without asking awkward questions, but also to screen them, giving him intimate details of their background. It was in this way that he had found Lew Fennel, Kennedy Jones and Garry Edwards.
His permanent staff was small: consisting of Natalie Norman who acted as his receptionist and personal assistant, and GeorgeSherborn who was his private secretary and valet.
But Shalik soon found that his assignments became more complicated and therefore more lucrative, he needed a woman in the field to be permanently at his disposal: a woman who had to be trained to work with and for him: a woman of exceptional talents and exceptional looks. Such a woman could be more useful to him than a dozen male experts. During the past years, he had hired a number of women to work with his experts, but more often than not they had failed him: either losing their nerve at a crucial moment or becoming sentimentally attached to the men they were working with, and this was something Shalik abominated.