CHAPTER ELEVEN – AILEEN
First-class air travel flies a whole world above economy: seats are wider and much more comfortable, and service is streets ahead – particularly when you fly on your own. The airhostess told Lindsay that her name was Aileen, and that she hailed from Edinburgh, but was now sharing a rather cramped flat near Gatwick with two other British Caledonian girls, whereupon Lindsay modestly mentioned his flat in the Kings Road, bang in the middle of swinging Chelsea. Aileen promptly brought a second glass of champagne.
‘We’ve got plenty more.’ She lowered her chinablue eyes demurely. ‘I was thinking of driving up to London this evening, I’ve a wee Mini in the staff carpark.’ She judged that this man might pack a good dinner, and maybe a bit of clubbing into the bargain, and she needed some entertainment. The flat in Crawley was cramped, and uncomfortable, and Crawley had no night life at all. Lindsay sipped his champagne, and thought what a nice change an airhostess would make from Melanie. Top models often came temperamental, but Melanie was just straight spoiled. Too many glossies had gone to her head, and she had begun focussing on moving upmarket. Lindsay’s flat was comfortable, with a livingroom large enough for a small cocktail party, a separate diningroom seating eight, and four decent bedrooms. But it was not smart enough for a girl featured on the front cover of ‘Queen’.
Lindsay brooded for a moment as Aileen went off to fetch more champagne, smiling up at her as she came back, bottle in hand.
‘How about dinner, and a disco or two?’
Aileen fluttered her eyelashes, and filled his glass, chinablue eyes shining. ‘I’d love to.’ Then her face fell. ‘But’ve nothing to wear. I can’t go like this.’ She pirouetted, making her skirt swirl up very prettily above her knees. ‘I’ll have to stop off at the flat, to see what I can find.’
Lindsay thought quickly. The BMW couple must be back in civilsation by now, and police might looking for him, at home as well as abroad. Perhaps he could talk this girl into helping him get out of Gatwick without attracting attention.
‘Why don’t you go home and change, while I wait for you? I’ll pay for your petrol up to the King’s Road.’
‘Och, no, it’s no expense.’ She stood very close to his seat, and moved her thigh invitingly as Lindsay’s fingers made accidental contact. She fancied a little adventure, and cabin crew were not very exciting. ‘You can come out through the General Aircraft Terminal with me, the one they use for private aircraft, instead of having to go through all that customs and passport rigmarole. It’s very much faster.’
Major Jones and Major Spary, one still grim from losing Roswirtha Schulz at Dusseldorf airport, the other rather more buoyant after convoying Delahaye to the Alexanderbrucke, both now comfortable in tweed hacking jackets and cavalry twills, meanwhile sat enjoying a companionable drink at the British officers mess behind the Berlin Olympic stadium. Jones was a shadowy figure behind his bluff, tweedy exterior: he was both officially retired, and unofficially still very active, maintaining a roving intelligence brief and managing some very delicate operations. Losing Roswirtha had been a major blow, particularly as he knew that at least one very senior member of Whitehall’s intelligence establishment would now be sadly grieving her her death, and he racked his brains for some way to square her account with the Teutonic Order. Delahaye’s bustup with the CIA had been amusing, but he would have much preferred Wotan dead. He was also a little baffled by Lindsay’s appearance – Spary had already passed on intercepted West German police radio reports of Lindsay’s autobahn adventure.
‘Seems a smart man.’ He sipped at a large single grain whisky, the Isle of Skye’s finest.
‘Delahaye or Lindsay?’ Spary looked after field security in West Berlin, fielding a watching brief for Jones on the side. He knew a good deal about Delahaye. But Lindsay, the man from The Times, was a wholly new name.
‘Both.’ Jones frowns. It would be good to set Wotan up in some way.
‘Do you think the reds have a link with the paper?’
‘Bound to.’ Jones sipped again. Perhaps the CIA and the Teutonics would cook up some fresh skulduggery, and go down together. Ackerman was a bad sort: slimy at work, and a cheat on the golf course.
‘Gerry will probably try and extradite him.’ Spary looked at his whisky thoughtfully. Times men were generally good types: reds hung out at the Guardian and the Observer. But Lindsay might be a double agent.
Jones scowled. ‘Not if he’s one of us.’
He sniffed. Whitehall had too many departments trying to run their own little circuses. Lindsay was a dark horse. Perhaps somebody in the Foreign Office wanted to muscle in on military intelligence. It had happened before. He drained his whisky, and looked at his watch.
‘Keep an eye on Wotan and Ackerman, and see what they do next. I’m off, back to London. I’ll keep an eye on Lindsay.’
Spary watched the thickset figure stump off, and mused. Perhaps Jones had a plan up his sleeve. He must be closing on retirement, and Spary coveted his job. Not every intelligence officer gets to manage delicate operations, and he dearly wanted to step into Jones’ shoes.
Meanwhile some very angry Americans and Germans were holding a post-mortem on the Hilton fiasco. They were gathered in a back room of a police station close to Wotan’s villa, and included Dan Ackerman, CIA station chief in Berlin, Klaus Martins, CIA team leader kidnapped by Delahaye and released at the Alexanderbrucke, Wotan and a couple of bodyguards, police colonel Koegel, police captain Ehrlich from Tempelhof, who was perhaps most angry of all because he had been summoned from home on his rest day, and a police stenographer. Ackerman and Martins were both dressed informally, Ehrlich wore a suit, because he was determined to make a point, Wotan was in black, with the great silver cross of the Teutonic Order at his neck, his bodyguards were also in black, and Koegel and the stenographer were in uniform. Wotan was present reluctantly, because he rarely ventured out of the villa except to meet men and women of very great power and very deep purses. But Ackerman was Jewish, and would only sup with the Teutonic Order using the very longest of spoons: he sat as far from Wotan as he could, and the two men faced each other from two ends of a long table. Martins sat next to Ackerman, Wotan’s two bodyguards stood suspiciously at his shoulders, Koegel, Ehrlich and the stenographer grouped defensively with their backs to a plain white wall.
Koegel had just read out a general circulation telex from Hannover police, reporting the armed theft of a large BMW at an autobahn rest area some way east of the city, the kidnapping of the driver and a companion, and their release, totally naked, in woods close to Hannover airport.
‘They found the car, with the man’s and the woman’s clothes, tucked away at the airport.’ Koegel’s voice was flat and dispassionate. He intended to maintain as low a profile as possible: the Amis had already tried dropping him in one load of shit. From now on he would express no opinion, initiate no action, and remain as invisible as he can.
Ackerman glowered at Wotan. He spoke in English, although he was fluent in German, because he had no time for krauts of any kind, let alone gangsters. ‘You said he was a journalist.’
Wotan’s face was wholly impassive. He replied in German. ‘We searched him.’
‘So?’
‘Delahaye must have given him the gun.’
‘And told him the Mercedes was loaded?’
The ghost of a smile, the very merest ghost, flitted briefly across Wotan’s face. ‘Your man. Your bomb.’
Ackerman scowled. He was a bull of a man, and did not welcome being wrongfooted. ‘OK. What now?’
He had come to the police station because Wotan claimed to have a plan. Congressman Cook was back in Washington, and questions were already being asked in high places: executioners might even now be sharpening axes. The CIA and German intelligence both knew that Lindsay was on his way back home from Hannover passport control, and both had demanded his arrest and immediate return. But the Brits were playing deaf.
Wotan put the tips of his fingers together in a little tent, pressing them to his mouth as though in prayer. He was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke slowly, as though to himself.
‘I have some people in London, useful acquaintances. If you talk to the management at the Interglobal, I will arrange for them to find him.’
Ackerman frowned. ‘Interglobal?’
‘He had a room there. It’s an American hotel. They will talk to you.’ He paused. ‘Can you arrange to get him out of Britain?’
‘I’ll send a plane.’
‘A plane?’ Wotan raised an eyebrow. He was too polite to envisage another Hilton fiasco. ‘Where will you send it?’
Ackerman smiled, a sly, shifty smile. ‘We sometimes use an abandoned airfield, north-east of London.’
‘My people will deliver him there.’ Wotan pushed his chair back, and got to his feet, taking a black cloak from one of his bodyguards. He had said enough. Ackerman was a slimy little yid, and totally untrustworthy. Lindsay would cost the CIA a very great deal of money.
Peter Lester shared a first-class Sunday night dinner at the Interglobal with Rosser and Horstmeyer, with the Daily Telegraph and the two travel press men dancing tipsy attendance. Lindsay had vanished, but his copy was really first-class stuff, and Lester knew that his head was now wholly safe on his shoulders. He was not anxious, though Horstmeyer had been a little concerned. Freelances are frequently free spirits, here one moment, gone the next, and Lester visualised him safely tucked up with his luscious redhead. He had recovered his ticket, and he could make his own way back to London, if he so chose. No doubt he would surface again, on his return from the Bahamas, to collect his brown paper envelope.
He chewed delicately on a fine chunk of filet mignon, and sipped a glass of excellent claret, and reflected a little tightly that life as a successful PR consultant with a world-class leisure industry client was really no bad thing. Perhaps he deserved a holiday: Interglobal had opened a brand new hotel in Rio de Janeiro, and mid-summer was off-peak.
Rosser and Horstmeyer were equally jovial. Lester had shown them his bundle of Lindsay’s copy, and both men knew that Interglobal would reap a handsome reward. They ate and drank, working their way through a meal fit for kings, and downed generous quantities of the very best that the Interglobal’s cellars could offer, until they were quite replete, and then they ate large wedges of raspberry torte, smothered in whipped cream, and prepared themselves for their brandies.
They they both frowned. The head waiter had arrived, to stand hovering uncertainly. He stepped forward to speak quietly into Rosser’s ear. Rosser glowered, not quite catching his message, and then leaned towards Lester, just managing to keep his balance.
‘The police are here. It’s about Lindsay.’ He spoke in a stage whisper, and the four other men at the table were all immediately alert.
Lester struggled to focus. He sensed bad news, but he had been drinking quite hard, and the Interglobal’s restaurant was a little hazy. He levered himself to his feet as Rosser and Horstmeyer rose, holding on to the back of his chair for support. ‘I’d better come with you.’ A police presence suggested some kind of misfortune, perhaps an accident. He was the only member of the group with Lindsay’s home address and telephone number. He would be needed.
Rosser and Horstmeyer were already on their way. The Daily Telegraph and the two travel press men rose to follow, but Lester waved them back into their seats. This might well be a serious business, and no time for an impromptu press conference.
He beamed a little owlishly. ‘Stay here, and keep drinking. I’ll brief you when I get back.’
Ackerman, Martins and Koegel stood waiting in the restaurant foyer, though Koegel kept himself well in the background: he was only present as an observer.
Ackerman ignored Lester and Horstmeyer. He knew that Rosser was both senior man present, and an American into the bargain, and he came straight to the point.
‘I’m from the CIA, Mr. Rosser. We want to learn everything we can about a man called Lindsay, who flew in with you.’ He snapped out his words. He did not mention Wotan.
Rosser frowned. ‘He’s a journalist.’
Ackerman scowled. ‘We think he may be rather more than that.’
Lester paled. Pennies suddenly began to drop in a clattering shower. ‘The package?’
Ackerman and his two companions stared at him.
‘He hid a package, in my bag, on the plane, along with all my press briefing material.’ He spoke nervously, in quick little bursts of words. ‘I found it, when I unpacked, and gave it back to him. Then he went off. He said he had a date, with a redhead, she’d been on the plane.’
‘She got off at Dusseldorf?’
Lester nodded miserably. He had been set up, and screwed.
Ackerman sighed. Lindsay had mousetrapped everyone, just like a true professional. ‘Has he got a base in London?’
Lester rummaged in his inside pocket for his diary, and rattled out Lindsay’s address in the Kings Road and telephone number. He had been double-crossed, and anger was now taking the place of the alcohol in his head. He added Melanie’s name for good measure. Lindsay had been a bastard, and now deserved everything that he got.
Ackerman was jubilant as he left the Interglobal. He pressed Martins’ arm. Koegel was trailing a little way behind the two CIA men. He had his own car waiting behind the Americans’ Ford – he was only an observer.
‘We’ll nail this one, no problem.’ He could see himself back at CIA headquarters in Langley, waiting proudly for his citation. He could already hear the Director’s sonorous words: ‘for courageous service to his country’. He walked with a spring in his step: this time the Brits and their red friends would learn a salutary lesson.