The Doll’s House (27 page)

Harry faced the Russian. They were in his office. Zarubin said, ‘Rilke heard the news this morning. You didn't know?'

‘Christ, of course I didn't—' Oakham made a fist and punched the hard surface of his desk. ‘Why – why did they go last night?' He fumbled for a cigarette; the pack was empty. He searched the desk drawers, cursing.

‘They caught Monika and the bodyguards killed her. That was lucky,' Zarubin went on.

Oakham glared at him. ‘Not so lucky for Monika!'

He lit the cigarette, inhaled and then said, ‘There must be a message – Jan would have contacted me about the change. Wait a minute—' He called through to reception; Vassily watched him, perched on the edge of the desk, one long leg swinging. ‘Yes … he did … Oh, right – thanks. Yes, great news …' He jerked round to the Russian. ‘Jan called in,' he said, ‘said he was coming back this morning early. That was to tell me the plan had been advanced … shit! He wasn't due till tonight—'

He'd been lying in bed with Rosa when Jan had phoned through. He could imagine how his old friend had fretted and worked himself up when he couldn't make contact. ‘Shit,' he said again. ‘I should have been here.'

‘Rilke would agree with you,' Zarubin remarked. ‘So where is he? And where are Daniel and the others? The murder was discovered at midnight, that's what the news said. So why aren't they here, as planned?'

‘How the hell should I know?' Oakham snapped at him. He knew the Russian was goading him, needling him because he'd slipped up by going off for the night.

He said, ‘They had a bail-out plan if anything went wrong, and Monika didn't get out – Daniel and Stevenson and the boys were to lie low and give us warning. That's what must have happened – they knew there'd been a cock-up.'

‘Daniel hasn't contacted us. And he was leading the team!' Zarubin pointed out.

‘He will!' Oakham insisted angrily. ‘Daniel knew he had to get the hell out and not risk getting picked up. Half the bloody Special Branch must have been screaming up the road when they heard what had happened. So he ran for it. He's a pro – he's gone into hiding, but he'll get in touch.'

‘But not the Pole,' Vassily said. ‘You insisted he came back here. Before they made the move. And he hasn't come back.'

Harry Oakham looked at him; his eyes were hot with rage. ‘I know what's best for him,' he said. ‘Don't worry about Jan. He'll get back.'

‘He was the weak link,' the Russian said harshly. ‘I never wanted to risk using him; I said so, but you wouldn't listen. He's the one who could break down and destroy us all.'

Harry took a step towards him. Zarubin saw the clenched hands and the fury in his face. He didn't back off.

‘You listen to me. Jan held out against the worst fucking interrogation your lot could put him through. He's the only one of that lousy bunch who'd die before he gave us away.'

‘If you believe that,' Zarubin sneered, ‘you'll believe anything! Rilke wants an urgent meeting.'

‘Rilke can get stuffed,' Oakham snarled. ‘I'm going to look for Jan!'

‘Good-morning,' Zarubin said. Rosa turned; she was waiting for Oakham in the garden. He was late.

‘Good-morning,' she said. He didn't walk on. He said, ‘Have you heard the news this morning?'

‘No. What news?' It was a dead month, the silly season when there was no news. Or wars broke out.

‘It was on the television,' Zarubin said. ‘An Arab Prince was murdered at his hotel in London.' He watched her carefully. There was the normal expression of surprise and a little shock. He guessed she was waiting for Oakham.

‘How awful. Was it anyone important?' It was an instinctive Foreign Office response.

‘Very important, a son of the Saudi King.'

‘That could be a disaster,' Rosa said. She decided there was no harm in telling the truth. ‘I'm a diplomat,' she explained. ‘The Middle East isn't my area, but we all know what a powder keg it is.'

He nodded. A diplomat. It had a familiar ring to it in his experience. He smiled at her. ‘You must be a very clever lady.'

‘Not really.' She glanced at her watch. Oakham was fifteen minutes late.

‘Are you going for a walk?' Zarubin asked her.

‘No, I was actually waiting for Mr Oakham.'

‘Ah,' he said. ‘Perhaps we could have a talk sometime. I am working on a book. It would be nice to have a talk with someone intelligent who knows the world. It's pleasant here, but I haven't found any company that is sympathetic.'

Jane was right; he was a good-looking man, and she could see how his remoteness could appear romantic. ‘It must be lonely, working on your own down here,' she said. Still Oakham hadn't come. She decided to go back to her room and call through to his office.

‘I couldn't work in London,' Zarubin explained. ‘I need peace. London is noisy and dirty and not safe at night. Do you live there?'

‘Yes.' The criticism irritated her. ‘Perhaps you should have written your book at home. It's quite safe to write books now, I believe.'

He registered the rebuke. He smiled and said, ‘I apologize. It is your city. I haven't been home for many years, but one day soon I hope to go. As you say, I can write books there now. I hope you're not offended?'

Rosa relented; she was anxious to get rid of him. ‘Of course I'm not. We must have a talk sometime. Excuse me.' She went back to the hotel and up to her room.

The telephone buzzed in Harry Oakham's office. He knew it must be Rosa. He didn't answer. He'd gone away with her and let Jan down. He couldn't have spoken to anyone; he couldn't think of anything but the Pole, out there on his own, the world crumbling round him as it had done before. Go and look for him, but where?

His retort to Zarubin mocked him with its futility. He could get into his car and drive the route Jan should have taken. He might be pulled up, unable to go on. Stricken by the terrible panic attacks that were the legacy of his imprisonment. It was a feeble chance, but the only one Oakham had. Just re-trace the route and hope to God that Jan was stranded somewhere on it.

Rosa. He paused on his way to the door. She'd be waiting. He scribbled on a piece of paper, addressed an envelope and stuck it down. No afternoon spent making love, no time to dream with her. The reality was a murder and a dead assassin. And the man he loved like a son, on the run for his life.

Rosa thanked reception. There was no reply from Harry's office or his house. Nobody knew where to find him.

It was twelve forty-five; she felt uneasy, troubled. Then dismissed the feeling. Something must have come up suddenly. She switched on ITV for the lunch-time bulletin.

It was the main story. Prince Abdullah Al Rashid, favourite son of the King of Saudi Arabia, had been murdered by a prostitute in his penthouse suite at the Regis. The woman had been shot dead by his bodyguards. Television reporters and cameramen were camped outside the hotel which was surrounded by a police cordon.

Detectives were searching the square and the adjoining streets for clues. Comment was tactful out of consideration for Saudi feelings. Rumours were circulating that it was a terrorist assassination, since the Prince's regular Arab chauffeur was missing and the dead woman was not known to his household. A senior police officer gave a cautious briefing and confirmed that so far they had not arrested anyone in connection with the crime. Tight security was in force round all Arab embassies and European embassies connected with the Gulf War.

A retired diplomat acted as political pundit and gave a grave view of the possible repercussions in the Muslim world.

The news ended and there was still no word from Harry Oakham.

Jan couldn't remember where he was. The sun was burning through the windscreen. He pulled down the shade to shield his eyes. He hadn't slept, he was sure of that. He'd pulled up when it was dark because he couldn't remember where he was supposed to be going.

The dark had worried him. There were no overhead lights, just trees and a black sky without stars.

He had started to panic. Sweat broke out all over his body and ran down his face, turning his hands slippery on the wheel.

His foot came off the accelerator. All he knew was he had to stop before he crashed the car. His stomach heaved and he got out, shaking and nauseous. He was in a road in the middle of a black countryside, and he couldn't think how he had got there or where he should go.

He hadn't had a memory blackout for years. He had one then and he was overwhelmed with terror. Menace was all around him. It threatened from the featureless darkness of the distance. He plunged back into the safety of the car and locked the doors. He huddled in his seat and closed his eyes against the fear. Nature let him slip away.

He slept in a comatose way until the hot sun woke him, and he remembered driving away from London, with the shrieking sirens in the background. Driving back to Harry. Running, as he had run so often in the past, through hostile streets and towns where the enemy was in control. Slowly he stretched his cramped body, and forced himself to open the door and get out.

His throat was dry and he found it hard to swallow. He told himself he was all right. He was over the worst. It was a long time since he'd suffered an attack, but it was over now. But he didn't recognize the place. Harry was waiting for him, and he didn't know how to reach him.

It had all gone wrong. He was clear about that. The sirens, the blue flashing lights, his own flight from the scene. He began to shake again. He must get to Harry. And again nature was merciful.

He remembered the telephone number. It just came into his thoughts like a bright star of salvation. Find a telephone, he told himself. Start the car, drive down the road, and find a telephone.

He didn't know how long he drove or how far before he saw a kiosk in the middle of an ugly little town, and drew up beside it. He got out, fumbling in his pocket for coins.

It wasn't vandalized. He nearly burst into tears with relief when he heard Harry Oakham's voice.

‘Where are you, old son?'

Harry spoke soothingly. His free hand was clenched so tight his nails bit into the palm. The stricken voice mumbled, ‘I don't know where I am.'

‘Oh Christ,' Oakham muttered.
Oh Christ, he's cracked
.

‘Well, don't worry about it. Are you in a call box?'

‘Yes. What shall I do, Harry? Help me …'

‘I'll help you. Look on the telephone dial. What's the exchange?'

There was an agonizing pause. If he ran out of money and they lost contact … ‘Brentwood,' Jan said at last. Harry let his breath out. He forced confidence into his voice.

‘You're nearly home, you old sod. Can you see a street sign? What's the name of the road? No, hang on, give me the number you're calling from so I can call you back if we get cut off.'

Jan was looking over his shoulder. ‘Handcross Road,' he said. ‘I'm in Handcross Road. Harry—'

Oakham said loudly, ‘Stay put. Don't try and drive, just stay put. I'll come and get you. I'll be there in one hour. One hour, Jan. Just hang on.'

Jan said, ‘Yes, yes, I'll wait,' but the line had cleared.

He got back to the car; his legs were weak and he was still shaking. But Harry was coming. All he had to do was sit in the car and wait for him. Then everything would be all right.

Harry was on his way out of the office when he remembered the note he scribbled to Rosa. He dropped it at the desk and said, ‘I'll be gone a couple of hours, send that up to Mrs Bennet will you.' Then he was out of the main door and down the steps, almost at a run towards his car in the manager's reserved space.

Jan hadn't been picked up. ‘Thank Christ,' he said over and over. All I've got to do is get to him, bring him home. Then I'll deal with those two bastards, Rilke and Zarubin. But Jan comes first.

He drove down the dual carriageway, touching ninety all the way. He kept the radio tuned in and got the news bulletin. The same item about the murder, a few more details creeping in.

The Prince's driver and a woman had been discovered tied up in a car by Regent's Canal. The woman had been taken to hospital. She had been badly beaten up. Oakham swore. They'd been told not to get rough. The driver said they had been ambushed by terrorists on their way to the hotel.

It was hinted that the gang were Arab extremists. The hijacked Mercedes had been found abandoned in Lancaster Place. So far no suspects had been arrested but investigations were continuing. The Government had sent messages of sympathy to the Saudi Royal Family.

No suspects had been arrested. Daniel and the others had got away. He wouldn't know what had happened till he reached Jan.

Rilke had recovered his nerve. He was very angry; Zarubin thought that it made him a dangerous man to cross. And in his view, that was what Oakham had done. He'd gone absent, and that had put them all in jeopardy. Rilke's voice was dry and snapping, like twigs underfoot.

‘He could have told them to cancel the operation,' he said. ‘You never, never depart from your schedule unless it's a matter of life and death. Every amateur is taught that. If it couldn't be done according to the timescale, then it should have been abandoned!'

He sat with his hands twisting in and out. ‘How does he expect to find that Pole?' he demanded. Zarubin shrugged. His coolness was infuriating to Rilke, but he controlled himself.

‘He doesn't know,' Vassily answered. ‘It was an emotional response, not properly considered. He's not the professional I thought he was. He reacted like a fool.' He took out a pocket file and cleaned under his nails. ‘If Daniel's been caught, he'll sell us to make a deal for himself. But not immediately. He'll bargain.'

‘We have no way of knowing,' Rilke countered. ‘We sit here, waiting to be arrested while that swine goes looking for that crazy Pole …'