Live to Tell (48 page)

“Don’t ’urt me,” the man cried. “What did you ’ave to do that fer? I only want to talk to yer. I couldn’t do it in the bar. Someone might see. That’s why I turned the light off. I didn’t want yer seein’ my face. Yer ’urtin me!”

With disgust, Ben released him. “You silly bugger,” he said.

The door burst open and another man crashed in.

“What the fucking hell’s going on in here,” the stranger said and Ben realised it was the barman who served him earlier.

“Nothing mate, just a misunderstanding. My friend tripped over in the dark. Come on Charlie. I’ll take you home.” He frog-marched the man out of the pub and around the corner into an alleyway where he forcibly extracted the information he wanted. He was past caring about the sensibilities of the informant. He just wanted the address where he thought the woman was likely to be living. Strangely, the man seemed to appreciate Ben’s involvement, as if it absolved him of further responsibility.

Ben let him go and brushed the dust off his own jacket.

“Listen, fella,” he said as he shoved the man back into the glare of High Holborn, still rumbling with traffic. “If things start going down—ring me! Don’t concern yourself with what Fenton might do. I can protect you from him.”

“Yeah, sure you can, sir.”

With shoulders bent, the man shuffled off and Ben noticed he had a limp. He shuddered involuntarily and wondered if his informant was also the victim of a sectarian beating.

Ever alert to the possibility of being stalked, Ben walked home. He chose a route using alleys and side streets, avoiding the main road to Kenton Street. Frequently glancing over his shoulder he tried to make sure that if anyone was following him, he would spot them.

It was a relief finally to open the front door to the small Kenton Street apartment and step inside. He pushed the door shut, and grabbed a beer from the kitchen. It was quiet inside the building, and taking the bottle with him Ben checked each room in turn. All were silent and peaceful. He held the bottle by its neck, afraid to put it down in case in the constricted space he knocked it over and spilled the beer. I don’t understand someone like Guy owning a place like this, he thought eyeing the Louis XV furniture and deep blue
Sevres
porcelain. Wonder if he inherited it?

Ben never had visitors other than his mother. She came one day uninvited and expressed approval of the refined world her only child inhabited. She said “Oh, my. Isn’t it all just like Nana’s.”

Ben smiled at the thought. Walking back into the sitting room he sat down on a Victorian chaise-longue that passed as a sofa. He found it difficult to get comfortable on the seat and decided it was built for slender women in padded bustles, not for men with legs.

After a few uncomfortable minutes he finished the beer and stood up. He returned to the kitchen and fetched the bear-shaped puppet he purchased a week earlier at
Hamleys.
That same day he also bought a padded oven glove and now he cut off the thumb and forced the remainder of the glove inside the puppet. The coal black glass eyes of the bear gazed back innocently at him.

Putting the over-stuffed creature down beside him on the chaise-longue he looked around. The apartment contained several rather delicate antique chairs. “It feels like I’m living in a bloody museum,” he said out loud. He poked the red velvet curtains lined with heavy cream lace that hung at the window. “This room is more suitable for some old lady to live in. Oh, bugger!” As he turned from the window he nearly knocked over a ceramic shepherdess resting on a side table. “One who likes dusting,” he added.

Two of the antique chairs had dainty bone china cups and saucers strategically placed on their seats to deter anyone tempted to sit on them. Ben grabbed one and took off its clattering occupant. Turning the chair over he carefully peeled back a Velcro strip and removed a canvas bag tightly bound to the underside of the seat. From the bag he took out a gun and pushed it inside the puppet. Then he went back to the kitchen for another beer.

This was my last evening in my own house for heaven knows how long. Coming home after a tearful farewell to Angela I clattered along the cobbled road. I almost reached Mrs Jeffery’s house when her door opened a few inches and she peered out.

“Oh there you are. I hoped I would catch you. I’m going to miss our chats when you’ve gone, you know. Yes it’s all very depressing. I just don’t know any more. Nothing seems to last.”

I felt guilty. I enjoyed our ‘chats’ too. I held out my hand and squeezed hers. “It won’t be forever. I’ll be back,” I said quietly, still mindful of the risk of being overheard.

She smiled and said, “I do hope so. Do come in for a few minutes.”

I went into the house and followed her through to the kitchen.

“Well you won’t believe what happened today,” she continued. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. This man knocked my door and asked if I wanted a puppy. And, well, you won’t believe it, he had one in a plastic bag—a little Labrador, I think. I mean, fancy carrying a puppy around in a bag. I was so cross I nearly boxed his ears. He said that as I’d lost my cat would I like a puppy to take its place. I ask you! I said “No, I certainly wouldn’t.” Then he asked if I thought you’d like it instead—as you’d also lost the cat. I told him you most certainly would
not
like a puppy. You were out of the house at work all day, and anyway you were going to Italy tomorrow, so there!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
 

Ben sat at his office desk. He was editing a report for a meeting of his Joint European Intelligence Unit later in the day. Heather put her head around his door.

“It’s eleven, Sir. Is it okay if I give the names of the visitors to the security guards on the front desk? Sir?”

Abstracted, Ben looked up. “Er, yes. If there are any last minute changes we’ll have to deal with them ‘as and when’. Has Mr Bauer confirmed?”

“I think so. Yes I have a note; he rang me two days ago at 1400hours on September the ninth.”

The phone gave a staccato ring, an ominous sound breaking into the calm, Ben thought. Now get a grip, it’s just a phone ringing, dammit. He reached for the receiver.

“Bastard. After what yer said I thought I could rely on you. You’re no better than shit, you bastard.” The sentence ended in a sob. “You said you’d look out fer ’er. You said she’d be alright. You’re like the rest of ’em. All talk.”

Ben went cold. “What’s happened?”

“What’s happened? What’s happened? I put my life on the line and what ’ave you dun? Nothin’. Well now it’s too late! I can’t stop ’im but I thought you could.”

The first thought to cross Ben’s mind was that these were the most words his hesitant caller had ever strung together at one go. He waved Heather out of the room.

“Try to calm down and tell me what’s happened, please.”

“It’s today, you bastard. It’s today. God why did I think I could rely on you fer ’elp. I must be barmy. She’s goin’ to Italy and e’s goin’ to go fer ’er at Heathrow. Make a big splash, ’e said. And yer lettin’ ’im. I don’t know what to do.” The man began to sob loudly into Ben’s ear.

God, thought Ben. Where did the time go? It seems like only yesterday but it’s more than a week since I had the meeting with this guy in the
Cittie
of
Yorke
pub. Ben knew he must have been too complacent. Getting the information he wanted was gratifying but not enough. He should have acted sooner. A hectic work schedule is no excuse, he thought.
Oy
veh
, what a mess. He stood up.

“Okay, okay, don’t panic. I’ll sort it. Okay?”

He got rid of the caller, who could offer him no more information, and rang another number.

Thankfully Jurgen was there. Urgently Ben explained the task ahead. Jurgen curtly answered “Hold.” Trusting him, Ben waited.

“Right I have it. You said Powell, right? She is travelling Alitalia to Pisa accompanied by a Dr. Scarlatti. The take-off time is 1400hours from Terminal 2.”

“Good God. How did you do that? I don’t have access to that sort of information without asking the police. Even then I’ve no guarantee of success,” he said.

Jurgen laughed.

By now Ben was as familiar with Michael Fenton’s face as his own. Pictures of the man were pinned up all over the walls of his Kenton Street kitchen. Some were propped up in other rooms, and several more were stored in his office desk. He felt saturated by the man. Having taken this precaution he hoped Jurgen’s memory of a beautiful woman he had not seen in fifteen years would not let them down.

Ben decided the fastest way to reach the airport was via The Piccadilly Line from Leicester Square station, but the train he travelled on seemed unusually sluggish. He arranged to meet Jurgen his partner in conspiracy at Heathrow station near the exit, but began to wonder if he would ever reach his destination. Seated on the train he found himself drumming his fingers on the carriage wall. Once again the train creaked to a halt mid way between two stations. “God,” he muttered. “What the hell’s going on?”

His eyes searched the grass covered embankment outside the carriage window for clues, but none came to him. He looked at his watch.

The train slowly lurched on, and then a hundred yards from Northfield station it stopped. A whistle and a thumping sound came over the intercom system followed by a short cough.

“The train ahead has broken down. This train will be terminating at Northfields, ladies and gentlemen. We have a broken down train on the track ahead. All change at Northfields. All change.”

Oh bugger it, thought Ben. Am I going to get there today?

At the open air station he bundled off the train with hundreds of other disgruntled travellers. Many who were en route to the airport dragged cases behind them and gazed around in bewilderment. Ben looked at his watch again and pushed his way through the crowd to the station exit. In the street outside, it seemed like hundreds of people were milling about helplessly. There was no taxi rank and no hope. He looked up and down the road, trying to decide in which direction to go to reach a main road where he might be able to catch an airport bus. This is ridiculous, he thought. Of all days for this to happen. He slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand. “
Oy
veh
.”

A voice shouted from somewhere in the station. “Quick, Ben. Back on the train!”

Without thinking, Ben charged back through the barrier and onto the platform to find Jurgen ahead of him struggling to hold the train door open.

“Stand clear of the doors.” A red faced guard blowing a whistle shouted and the two men fell back on board.

Ben closed his eyes. “Phew. I’m just getting too old for all this. Need to jack it all in. Spend the rest of my life beachcombing or something.”

“No you can’t,” said Jurgen. “You’d miss the excitement of travelling by tube every day—the uncertainty of will you get there? Will you be mugged? Will you catch flu or something worse? At least the train’s nearly empty now.”

“I can certainly do without this sort of anxiety too often,” Ben said and sat down.

Sitting opposite him Jurgen stared thoughtfully at Ben. “Had you thought it might be a hoax? Or even the two men might be the same guy—a trick? Could it be it’s you they’re after?”

“Yes I admit it crossed my mind but… Well, you don’t know, but last week I finally met the informant. He is
not
Michael Fenton. I have no doubt at all on that score. But the rest? Why? I only served in Northern Ireland once, years ago. Since then all of my service has been in the Balkans and the Gulf—so why me?”

Jurgen shrugged and the train picked up speed.