The Doll’s House (21 page)

He told her about himself; he made the desk job in a stuffy office seem as funny as the brightest television sitcom. But when he spoke of boredom and frustration in his job she detected bitterness and some kind of angry grief. The food and wine were lulling her senses, blunting her judgement of the man sitting close to her now, his knee brushing her thigh under the table.

‘Do you want to move into the library?' he asked. ‘There'll be a lot of people there. Or shall we stay where we are?'

‘I'm happy here,' Rosa said. ‘You know, I just can't see you as a Civil Servant. I think of the ones I've known and I just can't imagine it.'

‘I can't imagine you as a Foreign Office bluestocking,' he remarked. ‘You're a beautiful woman, but a lot of people must have told you that. I'm going to have a cigar – if you don't mind.'

She shook her head. She watched his hands as he sliced the end off his cigar and drew on it; the rich smell of tobacco rose into her nostrils. It was a sensual smell, intensely male.

She saw the signet ring and asked him, ‘Is that your crest?'

‘Oakham's,' he answered. ‘It was my father's. We had the same size finger so it didn't have to be altered.'

‘We don't have anything like that. We're straight middle class.'

‘I don't call a Regius Professor of History at Oxford middle class,' he countered. ‘Anyway, life's all about a sense of humour and loyal friends. Even one loyal friend is enough.'

‘And you have one?' She had to probe, or the situation would slide further still.

‘Yes. I'm lucky, I have a friend like that. He's gone abroad now. Gone to Poland, where his family came from. I miss him like hell.'

The Pole who'd been in prison … Jim Parker was wrong about that. Harry Oakham was telling the truth. Why should he lie to her? Why should he mention the man at all …?

‘Maybe he'll come back,' she said.

‘Nothing in this bloody country to come back for,' he said. ‘He was a good man. I miss him,' he repeated.

‘It's past twelve,' Rosa said. ‘We can't sit here all night, keeping your poor staff—'

‘You're a nice person, Rosa. I should have thought of that. It's time we put the hotel to bed. Thank you so much for tonight. And forgive me if I've been a bore talking about myself. I didn't think you wanted any
post mortem
of your own.'

‘I've had a lovely dinner and enjoyed every moment of it. As for being a bore, Harry, don't fish for compliments.'

He laughed and took her arm. ‘I won't; I'll see you to your room, and then I'll put my manager's hat on and take a quick check round before we lock up.'

They walked up the stairs together, past the Doll's House.

‘Fascinating piece of history,' she said, pausing for a moment. She didn't want him to come any further.

‘I'll tell you the legend some time.' Harry stood looking down at her. He seemed to read her mind. ‘You go on up. I'll go down and put the hotel to bed. Thank you again.' He didn't touch her. He didn't need to; it was like a charge of naked electricity between them.

‘Goodnight, Rosa. Sleep well.'

She turned and hurried up to the landing and through the door into the corridor. In her own room she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed in her clothes. She felt drained.

‘Oh, my God,' she whispered, ‘what am I getting into …'

‘What the fucking hell are you playing at, Zarubin?'

The Russian gazed at Oakham. He had been reading when Oakham used his master key and slammed into his room at close to one in the morning.

‘Playing? I don't understand you. And don't swear at me!'

‘You're supposed to keep a low profile,' Harry spat the words at him. ‘Not try and pick up one of the hotel guests! In the bar – I saw you—'

‘No you didn't,' Zarubin countered. ‘
She
told you. I only asked for a newspaper. I saw you eating and drinking together. What about your profile?'

‘That's my business,' he snapped back. ‘If you want a fuck, then tell me and I'll find you a tart – but keep away from the hotel guests!' Zarubin threw back the bed covers. He got up, stretched and stood facing Oakham. He was taller than the Englishman.

He was tempted to tell him what he'd seen from the window. But he resisted. Not yet. Not till he had satisfied himself that she was an infiltrator. Spy was an old-fashioned word.

Was she watching the Irish terrorists? Was that the reason she was in the hotel? If it was, then she was a danger to them all. But Oakham wasn't the type of man to provoke into sudden action. He wasn't a chess player. Zarubin yawned.

‘I'm not a prisoner here. I came of my own will. I was bored tonight and I felt like talking to a pretty woman. If she belongs to you, Harry, then I made a mistake. It won't happen again. Now get out and let me go to sleep.' He opened the door and stood aside.

For a moment Harry Oakham hesitated. The bastard had seen right through him
and
had the last word. He stalked out, and the door closed very quietly behind him. It wasn't just security. Zarubin was the professional's professional, and it was a crude excuse for his own jealous impulse, to accuse him of taking a risk.

He didn't want Vassily Zarubin, who was fifteen years younger and had little Jane and the girls going into a romantic swoon, chatting up Rosa Bennet. Simple. He didn't want competition. She'd excited him in a way he couldn't remember with anyone for years. Apart from the enormous sexual charge he felt when she was close, he liked her. He liked the honesty and independence, devoid of pettiness or vanity, the way she spoke her mind.

He wanted her, but he wasn't going to rush her. She wouldn't let him, and he respected her for that. They had time; time to circle each other and get a little nearer, until the chemistry was right for both of them. And there'd been something in her eyes as they stood beside the doll's house and she said good night …

He fell asleep and woke up sweating with a nightmare, where the naked woman he held in his arms had the face of Judith, pale and blind in death.

Security at the Regis Hotel effectively sealed off the penthouse suite and the special lift, and covered the two floors below. Special Branch had men inside the hotel and on patrol in the street, covering all entrances. A small team of sharpshooters was in place in the building opposite. The Saudi Prince had survived one assassination attempt in Paris, and as a result, chose London for medical attention and amusement because the precautions were so much better.

He arrived in a high-speed bullet-proof Mercedes limousine with opaque windows, and unmarked police cars in front and at the rear. His entourage came in a fleet of hire cars. His personal bodyguards, men of the ruling tribe, sworn to protect the Royal Family to the death, always travelled with him. The entrance was cordoned off, the lobby cleared, and the Prince was escorted up to his penthouse in the private lift. His own cook prepared his food and his taster sampled everything in case of poison.

He had an appointment with his specialist the next day. His visit was a private one, so there were no official receptions, but a private dinner given by the Foreign Secretary at his London home.

The Prince was tired after his journey and he slept. Jan kept watch outside the Conduit Street club in vain for the first twenty-four hours. On the second day he was rewarded.

A limousine with blacked-out windows drew up by the side entrance, and a tall girl shrouded in a sparkling veil, got inside. Jan followed. They turned right up St George Street and round Hanover Square. To his surprise, the limousine took a left turn down Tenterden Street. It was a narrow, ill-lit area leading to Bond Street. Surely, he thought, puzzled, the driver was going wrong. Bond Street was one way. Then the indicators flashed right, the car turned out against the flow of traffic for a few yards and turned down Blenheim Street. Diplomatic immunity – Jan muttered to himself. The law didn't apply to
him
. As they sped up Oxford Street and turned towards the hotel, he dropped back and passed them slowly as the woman got out and walked quickly into the entrance. He drove back to Kensington Gore, bought a glass of wine in a local bar and asked to use the telephone.

He spoke quietly. He didn't identify himself to Harry. He was back in the routine of their days in the field. Never give a name, never use a name. ‘We're ready,' he said. ‘Send them tomorrow. My place.'

‘OK,' Harry answered. ‘Good man. You all right, old son?'

The scrambler switch was on. In his excitement, Jan had forgotten they couldn't possibly be overheard. ‘I'm all right. It'll go well. I promise.'

‘Good man,' Harry said again, and Jan rang off. He went back to his seat; he spilled a little of the wine because his hand was shaking. He was the co-ordinator. He could hand over to the Israeli tomorrow.

He didn't have to be anywhere near when they ambushed the car and Monika took the girl's place. He was to leave London and go back to Suffolk before they activated the plan. He wouldn't have to face the violence. He wouldn't think about the Saudi or what was going to happen. He hadn't even thought about the money clocking up for him in Switzerland. He was doing it for Harry.

The girl who served him with a second glass of wine asked him if he was feeling all right. He looked so ill and he was shaking all over. He said, ‘Yes, fine. Bring me the bill please,' and she shrugged and went away to write it out. She'd done her best.

Rosa didn't see him for two days. She drove into Woodbridge, and bought a novel set in Provence, and a biography of Talleyrand which had just been re-issued by Penguin. She'd read it when she was a schoolgirl, and it had shaped her choice of the Foreign Office as a career. She wasted time in shops selling over-priced bric-à-brac and calling it antiques, and sat in the hotel gardens trying to read. The novel was pretentious and gloomy. She put it aside and turned to her old friend the biography. But she found her attention wandering. Where was Oakham? In the end, she asked at reception. She'd made a point of stopping to chat to Jane for a few minutes when she passed. ‘I haven't seen Mr Oakham about,' she remarked on the second day. ‘Is he away?'

Jane said, ‘He's very busy. He told me yesterday that Mr Pollock wasn't coming back till the end of the week.' She glanced up at Rosa. ‘I expect he'll be about this evening. Any message for him?' She had a mischievous gleam in her eye.

The dinner had gone on till past midnight. The restaurant staff said they'd been sitting there talking and he'd ordered the top of the wine list for her. Jane thought it was romantic. She liked Mrs Bennet. And, obviously, so did Mr Oakham.

Concentrate on Oakham
. Those were Rosa's instructions. She couldn't afford to let time pass. ‘Ask him if he'd like to join me in the bar after dinner,' she said, ‘if he's not too busy.'

‘Oh, I'm sure he won't be,' Jane beamed at her. She couldn't wait to tell the other receptionist about it. She was rather snooty, but she liked a gossip.

‘Oh,' Rosa had moved on, but she turned back. ‘I meant to ask. When is the Adventure Trail going to be open? I'd love to walk round it.'

‘I'm not sure,' Jane answered. ‘I think they're still working in there. Some time in the next couple of weeks. Not that I can see many of our clients climbing around in there. Too many business lunches!' she giggled.

‘Oh, I don't know,' Rosa leaned against the desk. ‘A lot of businesses are very keen on health and fitness for their executives. Perhaps it is a bit silly; a swimming pool or squash courts would have been better.'

Jane was on the defensive. She loved her job and she was very loyal by nature. ‘We
are
going to have water skiing and wind surfing on the lake.'

‘Really? Who's going to run that – it sounds rather fun.'

‘The handymen, Bob and Ron. They're ex-Paras or Marines or something.'

The man who'd picked her up in the buggy had been built like a tank. Rosa said casually, ‘I've seen one of them running about in a pick-up. Are they nice?'

Jane pulled a face. ‘Hard to say. They don't mix much, not with the rest of the staff. Spend their evenings down at the Crown. Their boss is a real tartar. He's an ex-sergeant I think.'

‘Where do they live?' Rosa asked. ‘In the village?'

‘No, there're three little workmen's cottages by Dunns Wood. Mr Oakham had them modernized. The housekeeper didn't want them living in our staff quarters. We get a lot of foreign girls here you see, working as pupils for a few months. She didn't like the idea of three tough guys let loose. Neither did Mr Oakham. In fact,' she lowered her voice, ‘he actually said to the housekeeper, it'd be like putting foxes in a chicken run. Don't tell him I told you, will you? It was so funny …'

‘Of course not.'

But Jane was in full flood now. ‘Poor old Jim doesn't like them,' she confided. ‘He's the old maintenance man; he worked here with the other owners. He says they're cheeky to him. They did all the electrical work at Croft Lodge and the carpentry. He was very put out about it. He said that had always been his job.'

‘You've lost me,' Rosa said. ‘What's Croft Lodge?'

‘That's the auditor's house,' she explained. ‘He and his wife live there. They're Swiss. He's got an assistant. He lives there too.'

‘Do they come up to the hotel?'

‘Mr and Mrs Brandt? No, they don't come in for meals or anything. We were all introduced to them when Mr Oakham took over. We haven't seen the other man yet. She was really attractive – very elegant. He wasn't much to look at. He looked just like someone who did accounts – you know what I mean. Small, not handsome or anything. Talking of handsome, Mrs Bennet, have you seen the author, Mr Zarubin?' She mispronounced the name, drawing out the first syllable.