A novel by
Everyone dreams from time to time of profiting from free adventures, and nobody profits better from free adventures than good travel writers. Everything is paid for: everything is free. Complementary air tickets, glamorous foreign parts, days spent basking on golden beaches surrounded by bronzed and adoring beauties, evenings drowned in free champagne at top-notch nightclubs. Travel writers live in a wholly glossy world.
However Richard Lindsay, freelance travel writer bound for Berlin with a feature commission from The Times, felt distinctly grumpy as he paid off a taxi at London's Heathrow airport on a hot Saturday morning in June 1969.
Lindsay's head was hammering, caught on an anvil in a murderous hangover beat, and he was both wan from hosting a disastrous party, and bitter. He had seen Melanie, his top model flatmate, first entwine herself around a photographer with smart magazine connections, and then vanish with the photographer in tow.
He had watched Mark, Melanie's brother, go on to compound his pain by helping himself to Lindsay's most expensive brandy in a bid to show sympathy, only to spill most of it on a prized Turkish carpet, and then throw up on the carpet into the bargain.
He had been up until past three in the morning clearing order out of chaos, had only slept fitfully, had cut himself shaving, and had been screwed by a grasping minicab driver in his bid to make Heathrow on time.
Now he stood blinking in the sun. He needed to find Peter Lester, PR consultant to Interglobal Hotels. Lester was chaperoning the Berlin trip, and Lester was an understanding man. They could check in quickly and head straight for the bar in the departure lounge, and a large brandy or two might well soothe some of his pain.
He pushed at a glass door into the terminal building. The door slid silently to one side, and he floundered wildly, momentarily unbalanced, dropping his blue overnight bag. His flailing hands scrabbled for support, snatching at a stocky man in his path, hooking into a tweedy sleeve.
The stocky man pulled away, glowering. He had very fierce blue eyes, and his neatly trimmed moustache bristled angrily. He shook Lindsay off brusquely. ‘Are you drunk?’ His voice rose, sharp with a military authority.
Lindsay grunted.
The stocky man sniffed suspiciously. ‘You smell like a bloody sewer.’ He stepped back, still glowering, before turning on his heel to disappear into a swirling melee of passengers
Lindsay bent to retrieve his bag. He could feel himself working up into a really very bad mood, even though Berlin promised two free nights in a top new hotel. He sighed, and clenched his teeth, took a deep breath, and stared painfully at the little knots of people clustered around check-in desks. He must locate Lester, and quickly, or collapse.
Suddenly a pain stabbed at his thigh, hard and sharp. A porter passed, spiny as a hedgehog in a cluster of sharp-cornered suitcases.
The man grunted with the impact of their collision. ‘Mind yer back, mate, y'er in the bleedin' way.’ He grimaced at Lindsay, his eyes malevolent and his teeth as sharp as a shark’s, before sweeping on, his cases clearing a tornado path, to dump his load by a group of well-fed businessmen. Then he turned back, circling out wide as he passed.
Lindsay glowered, but the man had already passed him.
The glass door opened again and the porter swept back into the terminal building in a blur of red jacket and black cases on a fresh trip. One of his cases thumped Lindsay's shoulder, and the porter paused.
‘Told you to move yer bleedin' self, din' I?’ His voice rasped with accusation and contempt. ‘Y'er a bloody idiot, standing right in my bleedin' way. Y'er a bloody obstacle, that's what.’
He moved on, and dropped his load again, smirking at the businessmen as he pauseed to pocket a banknote, preening himself for an instant. It was plain that he considered himself a very superior porter, an ace in crowded spaces, and the very devil himself with flying baggage.
Lindsay watches, and felt rage and fury ignite within him: he had not come to Heathrow to serve as target practice. His mind began to calculate spaces and distances with computer precision as the porter started back, and he held his overnight bag carefully, most carefully, balancing himself on the balls of his feet like a bullfighter.
The porter was an arrogant bastard. This time he set a path deliberately close to Lindsay, shark teeth gleaming bright.
Lindsay waited until the man was almost level with him, and then moved with split-second timing, swinging sideways in a light dancing movement as the man passes, aiming at the porter's ankles, driving his bag home hard.
The blow was a bullseye. The dull hard thud of the impact stopped the porter dead in his tracks, sending him reeling. He spun round, lurching, banged into a nearby nun, all penguin in starched black and white, and collapsed, sliding down the nun's long black habit as a group of her companions erupted in small shrieks and squawks of sudden alarm.
For a moment he lay spreadeagled, spluttering furiously, and then staggered back to his feet, his face puce with his effort to keep from swearing in saintly company.
‘Y'er did that on purpose.’ Rage overcame self-control. ‘Yer hit me on fucking purpose, din' y'er?’ His voice rose into an angry shout as waiting travellers turned to stare.
Lindsay ignored him. He had made his point, and taken his revenge. But the porter began to advance, and it was plain that he was bent on revenge. Lindsay tensed. The man was now close, flecks of spittle shining his lips, and danger signalled. He balanced himself again, defensively this time, holding his bag in front of him like a shield.
The porter paused momentarily, gathering himself together, and lunged. Lindsay parried him away deftly, and they glared at each other, each trying to guess what would happen next. But suddenly Lindsay’s bag was swept aside by a broad tweedy shoulder.
‘Pack this up, both of you.’ The stocky man in the tweed suit had pushed between them, and was glowering impartially. ‘This is no place for fights.’
The porter halted, and began to protest furiously. Lindsay was watchful. But the stocky man was adamant. ‘I'm not interested in what happened, I’m telling you both to pack it up.’ His voice was stern as he glared at the porter. ‘Get back to your work, at once, or I'll call the police.’
The porter hesitated for a moment, clenching his teeth, and then reluctantly conceded defeat and turned to stalk away. Lindsay took a deep breath, avoiding the stocky man's fierce blue eyes, and scanned the crowded concourse again.
A hand tugged at his sleeve, and he tensed. The hand fluttered nervously. It connected to a small neat man, dapper in pale grey, smiling a little anxiously. ‘Richard, dear boy, it's me, Peter.’
Peter Lester was trying hard to look bright, but internally he felt in a state close to panic. Berlin was unravelling at speed: half his target party of travel writers had failed to show, and appeared to have ditched him for more enticing trips, whilst Howard Rosser, Interglobal's international marketing director, was very much present and had made his disappointment plain in a string of threatening hints. The Berlin Interglobal was brand new, a prestige project, and merited only the best. But the three travel writers already in the bag were not much of a haul, and Lester knew that nemesis would follow failure if the trip flopped.
He patted Lindsay's sleeve hopefully. ‘You looked as though you could do with a drink, dear boy.’
Lindsay merely grunted. He needed several drinks, all close together, and all of them large ones.
Lester tugged gently. ‘Come on. I'll check you in quickly, then we can head for the bar.’ He began to steer Lindsay towards the nearest check-in desk. He had the germ of a plan in his head, but he needed to move with great care. Lindsay was a freelance, and one of the best, writing fast, accurate, and nice bouncy copy. His arrival might pave the way for a neat rescue plan. But packaging could prove tricky. He smiled hopefully. ‘I'm expecting you to have a really most rewarding trip.’
Lindsay glanced at him quickly. Something was afoot.
Lester avoided his eyes. ‘We're only six - three people have ditched me.’ He paused uncertainly. ‘I need your help.’ Then he swallowed, preparing to throw himself at Lindsay's feet, because he had a wife and two children to feed, and a whacking great mortgage to service. He would beg, if need be, and bribe with an open hand, because freelances were essentially cold-hearted greedy bastards, and money always talked when tears failed. ‘I need coverage, and I need it fast. Otherwise I'm going to have major problems.’
The PR man's voice carried an undertone of fear, and Lindsay's head began to clear a little.
Lester grimaced. He was caught fast between a rock and a hard place, and he had no choice. ‘Rosser wants me to place a couple of major features in travel supplements.’
Lindsay was suddenly alert. Major features were big money. But they were also dancing a courting ritual, and he needed to show reluctance. ‘I'd love to help, Peter. But I'm flying to the Bahamas on Monday.’ This was true, because he was due to fly home early on Monday morning, pack his bags, and fly straight out again for a week in the sun. He had pencilled in a week for writing on his return.
Lester understood immediately. He was not being turned down, but the price might be high. His hopes rose, and he infused his voice with honey. ‘We'll give you an office and a typewriter. You can bash them out on Saturday and Sunday night.’
‘While you're all drinking?’ Lindsay looked sour. He was counting on having a good time in Berlin.
‘We'll throw in a pretty secretary to looked after your typing errors.’ Lester leered, and then hurried on. ‘We've got a mass of promotional bumf, dear boy. You can digest it, polish it up a bit, and you'll be home and dry.’ His voice grew creamy with flattering. The interest in Lindsay’s eyes showed that he was winning, and only a price remained to be settled. ‘You can do one piece about the excitement of Berlin: the Wall, the nightlife, the girls, Interglobal comfort. You can do the other on the comfort of Berlin...’
‘The Interglobal, the nightlife, the girls?’
‘We'll make it worth your while.’ Lester could see Rosser out of the corner of his eye, and Interglobal's international marketing director was fidgeting impatiently. He must snare this bird at speed.
Lindsay waited. He was a freelance, and a clock had begun to tick in his mind.
‘A couple of hundred in a plain brown envelope?’
Lester watched Lindsay anxiously, and winced as his offer plainly fails to connect. Freelance features conventionally came in at twenty-five pounds a thousand words, and he was bidding four times the going rate. But Lindsay had him across a barrel.
His mind hunted desperately for options and possible enhancements. Budget cash was tight, perhaps he could pay in kind. He tried a non-cash ploy. ‘We'll put you in the Presidential Suite.’
Lindsay's eyes were as hard as stones.
Now Lester was sweating. His mind cast here and there, searching the world for temptations. ‘How about Hawaii? We've got a new place in Honolulu.’ His voice was almost a whine. ‘Have you ever been to Hawaii?’
Lindsay dismissed the offer with a curt nod. Hawaii was tempting, but really not tempting enough.
‘A week in Hawaii, and a week in Puerto Rico?’ Lester gabbled his words. Rosser was now lookeding pointedly at his watch, two trade paper reporters standing with him were plainly restive, and a man from the Daily Telegraph was yawning. ‘A week in Hawaii, a week in Puerto Rico, and a hundred in petty cash?’
‘On top of the plain brown envelope?’
Lester gulped, and winced, and then yielded. He would be paying a king's ransom, but he had shed his burden. He was free, home and dry and safe. ‘All right.’ He nodded weakly, his heart aflood with relief. A bargain had been cut in flesh, and sealed in blood, but his neck was secure.
He took a deep breath, allowed himself a moment to brighten professionally, and pushed Lindsay towards his waiting cluster, smiling briskly at Rosser. Now he was riding on a cloud.
‘Here we are, Howard. I've found my man.’
The cluster of four men stared at Lindsay accusingly. He was late, and wasting valuable drinking time.
Lindsay sketched a smile of apology. He ignored the two travel press reporters - minor beings tailored by Cecil Gee - and the man from the Daily Telegraph, lanky in ill-fitting pinstripes, to focus on Rosser, tall and grim-faced in an expensively tailored black Italian silk suit, spotless white shirt and matching black tie, with only small gold chains on his highly polished black loafers to belie his undertaker image.
Lester hurried on. Rosser was plainly working himself into a bad mood, and needed placating. ‘Richard writes for The Times, but we’ve hammered out a little deal, and he’s going to do some other pieces as well.’
Rosser clasped his hands behind his back. Lester sounded as though he had offered money, and budgets were tight. Now all four men were scowling. The scent of corruption fouled the air, and three journalists were furious at being barred from the trough.
Only Lester remained nervously cheerful. But it was plain that Rosser's patience had begun to fray, and he quickly opened a smart grey leather document case to tug out a fat folder.
‘I'll just check him in, then we can head for the bar.’
Rosser glanced at his watch again, and Lindsay judged that it was now time to be helpful. ‘Let me.’ He held out his hand. ‘You go and set them up. I'll queue.’ He smiled the smile of a good sport.
His words were a charm. Rosser and the three journalists turned and were gone in the blink of an eye, whilst Lester barely had time to stuff a ticket into his hand before taking off after them.
The queue for the check-in desk shuffled forward, and Lindsay idly studied the line of people ahead of him. Then he stiffened. A sweep of lustrous copper hair glowed a little way ahead of him, and it was well groomed and expensively trimmed, the mane of a woman of style, perhaps even a beauty. He perked up a little. He had always nursed a secret passion for copper hair, and copper hair might conceivably nurse a secret passion for freelance journalists in a world where wonders constantly waited around corners.
He pulled himself together, composing a brave, wry expression, and glimpsed a swirl of elegant brown silk as the queue shuffled forward again. The woman's head moved fractionally as a hand with long slim fingers patted an errant strand of copper into place, and he glimpsed just a blink of a most seductive profile. He was certain that he had been noted, and appraised, and very possibly approved.
Now the queue was exciting. Lindsay manoeuvred in a bid to take a closer view, pointing like a gundog, and his headache was no longer a problem. But a beefy shoulder crowded him out, and he frowned.
A big man in a cheap suit, perhaps a German, or a Slav, was deliberately blocking his way, possibly suspecting a queue-jumping bid. Lindsay tried a fresh manoeuvre, but the beefy man would not give way, and for a moment the two men locked into a complicated polka of one step forward, two steps back. Then the queue began to move, and a moment later the woman had vanished.
A sharp tapping sound summoned Lindsay back to the real world. A British European Airways girl with beautiful china blue eyes, neatly brushed blonde bob and remarkably well-filled crisp white blouse sat waiting, one hand stretched out impatiently for his ticket, the other tapping a pencil impatiently on her counter.
Lindsay stared at her blouse, heaving gently with the impatience of her breathing, and was wholly captured. He held out his ticket, just an inch from the girl's fingertips, so that she had to lift her arm and flex, and fixed her with the best approximation of a slaying looked he could muster, given the circumstances.
The girl stared back at him and dismisses him with a supercilious sniff as she took the ticket deftly, disembowelling it with one swift and practised movement. She was used to being fancied by most passing male travellers, perhaps all passing male travellers, and she had dated far richer and better looking men than this one on many, many occasions. Her hands hovered above her keyboard, ready to fly him away.
Then she looked at the ticket again with a frown, and her lips tightened from a perfect cupid's bow into a thin tight line.
‘I'm sorry, sir.’ Her voice was stern. ‘This ticket is made out for a Miss Connolly.’
Lindsay stared at her uncomprehendingly, his slaying looked crumpling, and his hangover suddenly returned in full force. Catastrophe: Lester had peeled him off the very worst possible wrong ticket. His mind spun round and round as time seemed to stand still and he scrabbled desperately for salvation.
He was lost, on the wrong side of passport control, time was running short, and he must conjure rescue out of thin air. He filled his brown eyes with imploring adoration as he stared into bewitching chinablue.
‘I'm sorry. It's not my fault. I'm with a group.’ He fired off his words in a barrage of urgent little arrows. ‘The man in charge just peeled off a ticket. He's already gone through. He must have given me the wrong one.’ His eyes pleaded for compassion.
It was no use. The girl shook her head, and her pencil swung up to point into the distance. ‘You can page your companions from the information desk over there, sir.’ For a moment, just a fraction of a split second, her eyes gleamed with mockery, and perhaps just a shade of amusement.
Lindsay was panic-stricken. ‘But they may not hear.’ His voice climbed in gathering fear, and he glanced at his watch. His flight time was perilously close, and closing. He must have mercy. ‘Please, I may miss my flight.’
The girl's pencil was an unforgiving pointer. She was already staring past him, ready for her next customer.
Fury and frustration can sweep panic aside. Lindsay was on the spur of cursing the stupid blue-eyed little cow and telling her some home truths about arrogant little bitches, when he noticed both that she had already stamped a pile of boarding cards, and that she was off-guard. He swooped, and grabbed, snatching his ticket back from her along with a boarding card from her little pile, and was racing for passport control before she had time to take breath.
The girl yelped with surprise, colouring pink with her anger as she watched him run. Her hand hovered over the telephone on her counter for a moment. But then she held it out again for a new passenger.
‘Next, please.’
She had already slotted her smile back into place. She would store the incident as a tasty tidbit of lunchbreak gossip, and hope that the silly pushy bastard had a really bad day.
Lindsay was panting as he reaches passport control. He danced impatiently from one foot to the other as he waited for a fumbling little old lady to tuck her passport back into her handbag. He was now desperate for a reviving shot of brandy, scotch, brandy, anything alcoholic.
His nervousness was plain, and eyecatching. The passport official behind the control desk noted him with immediate interest. He was a suspicious man, neat and bearded in a dark bureaucratic suit, with hooded eyes, ambitious to catch a villain or two, drug smuggler perhaps, or even a terrorist, to enhance his promotion prospects.
He marked Lindsay's anxiety with a touch of joy, and began to leaf carefully through his passport. The pages were thick with East European visas, and could well signal a communist fellow traveller, perhaps even an intelligence agent, a spy of some kind. It was a gift from heaven, and he looked up, very cool and stern.
‘You seem to be in a bit of a hurry, sir.’ His deference was openly suspicious.
Lindsay avoided his eyes. He was late, and getting later by the second. His plane might even now be embarking. He had had quite enough of being messed about. ‘I'm in a hurry.’ He bit the words out.
‘Where are you going, sir?’
‘Berlin.’ Lindsay made the word very short.
The man's eyes lit up with a kind of wolfish expectation. Berlin ranked as the world's premier spy centre.
‘Why, sir?’
Lindsay was tempted to tell him to mind his own business, but he was too wise openly to court trouble. ‘I'm a freelance journalist. I'm going with a press party.’
‘Ah.’ The man's wolfish expectation sharpened. He was holding Lindsay's passport open at the page listing his personal details, and the space for employment listed him quite clearly as an antique dealer. He had plainly stumbled on something very fishy, and he might well have hooked a most promising catch. ‘But your passport says something else, sir.’
Lindsay took a deep breath. Two years earlier he had worked on a Sunday Times investigation into international trading in stolen antiques, masquerading as a top dealer. The paper had paid for him to change his passport, and he had kept it - somehow antique dealer had sounded very much smarter than freelance journalist.
‘I'm a freelance. I deal in antiques as a hobby, and it sounds a bit more classy.’
‘A better cover?’ The passport officer's voice was silky.
Lindsay's eyes were chips of granite. The man behind the desk plainly thought he was holding a spade, but he was dealing with somebody much too fly to start digging his own grave.
The passport closed with a snap. ‘I see.’ The passport officer's face was suddenly stern. ‘I shall have to make some enquiries.’
His voice was formal, and his face hard as he reached for his telephone. Lindsay was now a suspect, and must be checked off against Home Office guidelines. Searches must be made, and procedures followed, before rewards could be collected. But he had great expectations.
He waited for a moment, ignoring Lindsay's pleading eyes, and then began to read his passport details into the telephone, breaking off every few seconds to allow time for someone at the other end of the line to search, tensing as he finished reading, almost quivering with barely suppressed excitement. Questions were being asked, and files were being checked, and suspicion might well trigger a successful trap.
He listened, tapping his fingers on his counter, and then grunted into the telephone in an acknowledgement of some kind, and grunted again, and after a moment his face fell, and suddenly his excitement was gone, quite deflated, like a burst balloon.
He held out Lindsay's passport, now grim-faced. ‘This passport is faulty, Mr. Lindsay, because your personal details are not correct. You may use it to leave the United Kingdom, and to return again. But you must then apply for a new passport.’
It
was a dismissal, and a defeat. Lindsay stared at him for a moment, barely able
to believe his luck, and then almost snatched the slim blue booklet, stuffing
it into his inside jacket pocket as he hurried away. He had lost drinking time,
he had lost his chance to track down the beautiful copper-haired woman, and he
was late, late, late. But now he was on his way to his plane, and with luck he
would still catch it, and perhaps then he would be able to fill a glass.