The Doll’s House (10 page)

Oakham had dismissed the staff. He turned back to the little group. He called them his ‘Dolls', which irritated Rilke and made the murderous Dutchwoman laugh. The Israeli, Daniel, would be next to arrive, followed by the Russian, Vassily Zarubin. He was officially dead. Werner had forwarded an item from the Soviet news agency, Tass, reporting the car crash in the Crimea. Major Vassily Zarubin, only son of the distinguished KGB General, Josef Zarubin, had been killed. Vassily had buried himself with his father's help and was already making his way via Turkey. Rilke had tried to score a point with Oakham.

‘And what role in the hotel management is our Russian friend going to fill? How do you propose to disguise him?'

Oakham was amused by the attempt.

‘I don't,' he said in his carefree way. ‘Vassily's a Russian author, writing a serious biography of the saintly Vaclav Havel. If you want to hide something conspicuous, Hermann, put it where everyone can see it. That's what I was taught anyway.'

He grinned at Rilke, mocking him. ‘Let's go and have a drink; then Jan and I have to be on duty. See our guests are happy. We're fully booked for dinner!'

He led the way to his own house. The ex-Marine Sergeant Bill Stevenson, and his pair of goons followed. Rilke knew the type. He'd used them himself when he wanted something violent done, with muscle and no brains involved. Brutes with criminal tendencies who'd lend themselves to anything for money and excitement.

Stevenson had been dismissed from the regiment for savage bullying of recruits; his assistants both had dishonourable discharges for various offences. Rilke objected to drinking with them as if they were equals. But he wasn't in charge. Oakham was.

He didn't like that either.

‘It went off all right, didn't it?' Harry asked. Jan and he were on their way back to the hotel for the early evening rounds.

‘It went fine, you handled it very well.'

‘Our friend Hermann was looking bloody sour – anything up?'

The Pole shook his head. ‘He's like that. He's a miserable little swine. He only smiles when he's got some poor sod under interrogation. He's bored, and he's not the boss. He'll cheer up when the action starts.'

They crossed the top landing and Jan glanced at the doll's house behind its wall of glass.

‘I hate that thing,' he muttered. ‘I don't know why you keep it, Harry.'

Oakham had told him the legend of the Lisle stepmother who had starved one of the children to death during the father's absence. His revenge was to build the doll's house and place his daughter's skeleton in the window, so the murderess saw it every day of her life. She had gone mad and drowned herself in the lake. Jan had shuddered in horror.

Harry paused on the upper landing. He noticed that the glass front needed polishing. He lingered because he knew how much Jan loathed the thing; he couldn't resist teasing him sometimes.

‘When I was a little boy I used to come here and play with the children; the Lisles were living here then. They were scared stiff they'd see the skeleton in the window. There's supposed to be a curse on it. Anyone who tries to move it, drops dead. They all believed in it.'

Jan said, ‘I'll move it, I don't believe in curses.'

‘Oh yes you do, you superstitious old Papist! Besides, it's a plus for the hotel, the only one of its kind. Probably a listed building.'

He laughed. Jan turned away.

‘It's obscene. Let's go down.'

He sounded troubled and Harry came up to him and clapped him affectionately on the shoulders.

‘Come on,' he chided, ‘it's a lot of nonsense. People make up stories about old houses like this. I don't believe a word of it, never did.'

They came down the stairs and into the main hall. He mustn't pull Jan's leg like that. There were raw nerves close to the surface; he mustn't forget what Jan had suffered.

‘Let's start off in the cocktail bar,' he suggested.

It was an established nightly routine to go round, greeting the guests, making new arrivals feel at home. He rather enjoyed it, and surprisingly, so did Jan. Jan had perfected a little bow when he said good-evening. It was very dignified. But as they crossed the hall, one of the receptionists came after them. It was the pretty girl who blushed. Harry had a soft spot for her.

‘Excuse me, Mr Oakham, there's a call for you. A Mr Harris.'

He stopped.

He said to Jan, ‘You do the rounds. I'll follow on.'

Mr Harris. Alias Hakim, his Lebanese contact. He went into his office, closed the door. There was a scrambler fitted to his private telephone. He lifted the receiver.

‘Put Mr Harris through please, Jane.'

He pressed the switch and the line was safe from eavesdroppers.

‘Oakham,' he said. ‘Is that you, Hakim?'

They didn't bother much with small talk.

‘I've got a proposition for you.'

Oakham lit a cigarette.

‘What kind?'

‘I want to meet with you.'

‘You'll have to come up here. There's a pub at Dedham, the Old Mill. How urgent is it?'

‘Very urgent. Tomorrow.'

‘All right, twelve o'clock in the bar.'

There was a pause.

‘It's a secure place? I prefer London.'

‘I prefer the Old Mill. Don't worry, hang a camera round your neck and look like a tourist. Whatever the proposition is, you know it's going to cost you.'

‘We know,' was the answer.

‘And I want half the fee in advance,' Harry stated.

Always get your money first with the Lebanese.

‘OK, OK. Tomorrow. Twelve o'clock.'

The line cleared.

Oakham sat still. Then he drew an elaborate doodle on the pad in front of him. He had known Hakim for a long time. He negotiated – for murder, kidnapping, blackmail, any act of terrorism for a number of organizations. He only used the best.

Harry had made sure he was approached as a potential customer. A proposition. Whoever was employing Hakim wanted to hire him and his associates for something nasty. And dangerous.

He tapped the pen lightly, screwed up the paper, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. He never wrote anything down. He didn't need to. Years of committing things to memory had produced a computer in his head. Rilke had clients booked in at the beginning of the month. Three choice specimens from Ulster. Eager to sit at the master's feet and learn how to torture another human being into submission. But this would mean action. Something for him, maybe. Excitement stirred his blood. It always sent the adrenalin running, and it was never tinged with fear.

He went out, locking the office door and went to look for Jan. He'd been a sod, goading him over the doll's house. Harry gave himself a mental kick for being such an insensitive fool. He loved Jan, as Jan loved him. He'd tell him about Hakim. That would lift his spirits. He'd give him dinner and a few drinks. They'd speculate on what tomorrow would bring. Just like old times. He found the Pole coming out of the main dining room.

He said, ‘Everything all right? Happy customers?'

‘Fine, no complaints.'

He was still looking strained.

‘Then come back with me. I've got some good news. Things have started moving.'

Rosa arrived at the ladies' annexe of Boodle's in St James's at exactly two minutes past one. Peter Jefford was waiting for her in the bar. A man was sitting with him. He had said one o'clock; they had drinks on the table; they had been there for some time.

‘Rosa, this is Jim Parker. Mrs Bennet.'

He was a nondescript type, medium height, bland features, hair growing back into premature baldness. He had shrewd grey eyes.

‘Now,' Peter Jefford said, ‘what would you like to drink? Jim and I are ahead of you; we got here early.'

‘White wine, please.' She settled into a chair, crossed her legs.

The man Parker was looking at her, and it wasn't in admiration.

The drink came, Jefford said something about the traffic.

‘They're digging up the road by Hyde Park Corner. It's absolutely chaotic. Why on earth can't they do the work at night or in the early hours instead of blocking up the whole of Knightsbridge?'

Parker had produced a packet of cigarettes. Rosa took one. He lit it for her.

‘Thank God someone else smokes,' he said. ‘People look at me as if I'd got AIDS when I light up.'

‘Jim works for the Service,' Jefford explained. ‘The Senior Service, and I don't mean the Navy.' He smiled slightly. ‘His job is to keep an eye on all of us, in a way. Isn't it?'

‘You could almost call it personnel. Welfare.' He glanced at Rosa. ‘Sir Peter tells me you've joined ‘C' Section.'

‘Yes,' Rosa answered. ‘I thought it sounded very interesting.'

‘But you're a career diplomat, Mrs Bennet. This isn't going to be permanent.'

‘No, it's an interim posting.'

There was a pause. She sipped her wine.

Peter Jefford said, ‘I'd like you to explain our problem to Mrs Bennet. But first I'd like to fill her in on your role, Jim, if that's all right.'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Jim's job is to clear Intelligence officers for security when they retire. Or leave for any other reason. He liaises with Special Branch if necessary. It's a routine job nine times out of ten, but a very important one. Jim is quite a bloodhound.' He acknowledged Parker with his slight smile. ‘He's picked up several high-risk cases. And he thinks he's got another one. Now, Jim, you carry on. But first, let's order lunch.'

She was very good-looking, Jim Parker thought. Classy, self-possessed. Not a type of woman who appealed to him. Too brainy, too competitive.

Jefford felt she'd be suitable for this particular job, but he wanted to try her out for weak spots before he agreed. She'd be under his direct authority if she took it on.

‘What do you feel about spies, Mrs Bennet?'

‘I don't know. I've never met one.'

‘You've met lots of them but you wouldn't have known it. You think it's an honourable profession? Or a bit grubby? Seedy – like those Len Deighton characters? Or the tortured intellectual types – you know, Smiley, and all that lot?'

‘I don't read thrillers,' Rosa said. She didn't like his manner.

‘Just as well. They're a load of old rubbish. So you don't have an opinion. So why did you join ‘C'? That's spying.'

‘I understood it was Intelligence.'

‘Nice name for the same thing. Could you answer the question for me?'

‘I told you, I thought it would be interesting. And helpful to my career.'

‘So the idea of listening in and reporting back didn't bother you?'

‘Not if it was in the country's interests, no. Why should it?'

She had answered sharply. For the first time she saw a gleam of approval in the stony eyes. A very brief gleam.

‘So you feel it's all right if it's done out of patriotism?'

‘Yes, of course. I don't understand what you're getting at, Mr Parker.'

‘What do you think about assassination?'

She was caught off guard. She stared at him.

‘What sort of man goes in for that, do you think?'

‘Some sort of psychopath,' she retorted.

‘But suppose it had to be done. In the country's interests, like you said. What about that?'

‘I don't know,' Rosa answered. ‘I can't make a judgement. I think I'd rather not know if it was necessary.'

‘You're not the only one who feels like that,' he said.

He lit another cigarette. He was absorbed in the game of question and answer.

‘We had a section in the war; very brave men and women, ready to kill for their country. Nobody had scruples about them then. Afterwards it was closed up. The war was over, we couldn't have dirty hands officially. Unofficially, it was business as usual. Now it
is
closed up. They're rather an embarrassment. The Americans still go round knocking people off and calling it eliminated with extreme prejudice.' He laughed. ‘They do murder the English language, don't they! Anyway our licensed eliminators, if I can use the jargon, are disbanded. Golden handshakes – well, silver handshakes really – pensions, help with jobs, tokens of appreciation all round. One of their best men, a section head called Harry Oakham recently gave in his keys. Fifty-two, and starting a new life. Which is where I come in, Mrs Bennet. My job is to follow him up for a full year, just to see how he's adapting. To make sure he's not getting into trouble. Financial or otherwise. To give a helping hand, if need be. Or a word of advice. Like Sir Peter said, I'm a sort of welfare officer. After-care. It's all above board, quite open. I keep in touch once or twice and then fade out. I don't actually fade out until I can give the final clearance. That can take a long time. I'm not happy about Oakham.'

‘I think our table's ready,' Peter Jefford said.

‘What sort of man is he?' Rosa asked. Jefford had excused himself before the coffee, leaving them alone.

Parker spooned sugar into his cup.

‘I could give you details on his file. It wouldn't tell you anything about him, not what he's really like. He never minded killing; that's certain. But he never got a kick out of it. That's certain too. That kind don't last. They're certainly not kept on and promoted in peace time. Very brave, physically and mentally like rock. Never got caught. Loyal to his field workers. Liked the action, hated the desk job. It all sounds like someone out of those bloody thrillers, doesn't it? Only he isn't. I went to see him; I had my welfare cap on. He wasn't there. So I talked to his wife instead. Let me tell you about that.'

‘It's good of you to spare the time, Mrs Oakham.'

She'd got a part-time job as receptionist in a local estate agent's, and luckily for her visitor, this was a free afternoon.