The Loo Sanction (17 page)

Jonathan raised his cup. “Cheers.”

“Cheers, Jon.”

They drank in silence as the rain stiffened against the window.

“Grace,” she said at last.

“Madam?”

“The person who can get you into The Cloisters. A really beautiful black woman who owns a club in Chelsea. She's very close to Strange.”

“Her name is Grace?”

“Yes. Amazing Grace. Kind of a stage name, I suppose. A nom de guerre. Her club is superposh with expensive drinks and cute little black hookers with tiny waists and fine wide asses. But she's the real attraction herself.”

“Beautiful?”

“Oh, Christ, yes!”

“Amazing Grace. Great name.”

“Great chick. Her place is called the Cellar d'Or. It doesn't open until midnight.”

Jonathan finished his tea and put down the cup. “I better get a lot of sleep before I go over there. It may be a long night.”

Vanessa walked him to the door. “Listen, old friend and aging stud, you'll take real care of yourself, won't you?”

“I will. Now, let's think about you. Is there somewhere you could go for a few days? Somewhere well away from here?”

“I see your point. There's a woman I know in Devon. She writes mysteries.”

“And she lives in a cottage, keeps a Siamese cat, and drinks red wine.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“No, I don't know her, Van. It's just that people love to play out their stereotypes.”

“Even you?”

“Probably. But it's hard to recognize. I'm a typical example of a species of which there is only one living specimen.”

“Blowhard bastard.”

“Right family, but what's the genus?”

“Wiseass?”

“I didn't know you were up on animal taxonomy. But seriously, Van. You will get out of town, won't you?”

“Yes, I will.”

“This afternoon?”

“I have a little work to do. I'll get through it as soon as I can.”

“Make sure you do.”

She smiled. “For a cold-blooded bastard, you're not a bad guy. Come, give us a big hug.”

They embraced firmly.

Halfway down the walk, he stopped to smell the wet hydrangeas again. “I've got a problem,” he told Vanessa, who was leaning against the bright green door, the Gauloise dangling from her lips. “I can't remember what bathing caps smell like.”

“Like hydrangeas,” Van said.

         

Back in the gaudy Baker Street flat, he stretched full length on the bed he and Maggie had used a few days before. Beyond the windows, a cold wet evening had already descended, and he lay in the growing gloom, alone and unmoving, putting himself together for whatever lay ahead at the Cellar d'Or.

Amazing Grace. Outlandish name, but somehow consonant with this whole bizarre business. This was not at all like his sanction experiences with CII. Those had been simple mechanical affairs. He had taken an assignment only when he really needed the money, and had gone to Berne or Montreal or Rome, met a Search agent who had already done all the background work, and received the complete tout on the target: his habits, the layout of his home or office, his daily routine. And after working it out, he had walked in, performed the sanction, and walked away. They were never real people, only faceless beings, most of them examples of the humanoid fungus that populates the world of espionage—scabs and pus pots the world was better rid of.

And there had been very little personal danger for him. He traveled freely under his professional role of art historian. He had no motive, no personal relation to the target. He didn't even have fingerprints. CII had seen to that. When he became a sanction active, his fingerprints disappeared from all government, police, and army files.

But this Loo business was different. He hated this job, and he was afraid of it. He had quit working for Search and Sanction because his nerves had become frayed, and because his tolerance for working with well-meaning patriotic monsters had worn thin. And now he was older, and the task was more complicated. And there was Maggie to look after. The ingredients of disaster.

Shit!

But they had him. Loo and that damned vicar had him against the wall. And he wasn't going to prison for murder, even if it meant killing a dozen Maximilian Stranges.

He ran a shallow meditation unit and got some rest that way, slightly under the surface of the still pond he projected on the back of his eyelids.

He snapped out of it. It was time to call Sir Wilfred Pyles.

“Don't speak,” Sir Wilfred said directly they were connected. “Fifteen minutes. This number.” He gave Jonathan a number, then hung up.

During the fifteen minutes before he dialed, Jonathan sat hunched over the instrument, realizing that something had tumbled. Sir Wilfred obviously couldn't use his own phone for fear of a tap and he had doubtless moved to a public phone to await the call.

The phone was picked up on the first ring. “Jon?”

“Yes.”

“I assume you have the picture?”

“Yes.”

“Rather like old times, eh?”

“I'm afraid so. I take it something tumbled.”

“Indeed it did! You're into something very hot, Jon. I rang up an old chum in MI–5 and asked him to run a little check for me. They often do it for old boys who want to sort out a business acquaintance, or a call girl. He said he'd be delighted to. It seemed a piece of cake. But when I mentioned the name of your Maximilian Strange, he froze up and asked me to hold the line. Next thing you know, one of those intense young spy wallahs was talking to me, demanding to know details. Well, I fobbed him off as best I could, but I'm sure he saw right through me.”

“So you weren't able to find out anything.”

“Well, nothing directly. But their reactions speak volumes. If that constitutionally lethargic lot in MI–5 were stirred to action by the mere mention of your fellow's name, he must be top drawer. You haven't gotten to Bormann by any chance?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“I'm afraid I've done you a disservice, Jon. MI–5 is onto you.”

“You told them my name?”

“Of course. Surely you haven't forgotten the code of our line of work: every man for himself.”

“And fuck the hindmost.”

“You must be thinking of the Greek secret service. Well,
tchüss,
Jon.”

“Ciao, buddy.”

         

Jonathan raked his fingers through his hair, and took several deep oral breaths before lying back on the bed.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

He lay there for hours, forcing himself to doze occasionally. Eventually, he swung out of bed and prowled around the house for something to eat. He was not really hungry; he had taken care of that before coming up to his flat, eating a large meal of slow-burning protein; treating his body, as he used to in his mountain-climbing days, as a machine requiring the right fuel, the proper amount of rest, the correct exercise. He had eaten correctly. If there was any action tonight, it would come between midnight and three o'clock. The protein would be in mid-burn by then, and he would have consumed two or three drinks—just the right amount of fast-burning alcohol.

A goddamn machine!

It was only to fill the time and distract his mind that he looked around for food. As usual, wherever he lived, the only food in the place was a chaotic tesserae of exotic bits. He had always had a fascination for rare foods, and he enjoyed wandering about in the gourmet sections of large department stores, picking up whatever struck his fancy. His search of the kitchen produced a small jar of macadamia nuts, a tin of truffles in brine, preserved ginger, and a half bottle of Greek raisin wine. He ate the lot.

As he wandered through his flat, turning off lights behind him, it occurred to him to check the guns he had asked Yank to stash for him. His directions for concealment had been followed exactly. He took one out and examined it. The bulky blue steel .45 revolver felt heavy and cold in his hand as he snapped out the cylinder and checked the load. The slugs were scooped and a deep cross had been cut into the head of each. No range. No accuracy to speak of. The bullet would begin to tumble five yards from the barrel. But when it hit, it would splat as wide and thin as a piece of tinfoil, and a nick in the forearm would slam the victim down as though he had been struck by a train. Good professional job of dumdumming.

He considered taking one of the guns with him to Chelsea. Then he decided against it. It was impossible to conceal a howitzer like this, and a pat down would tip him before he had come within striking distance of The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange. He'd just have to be careful.

He flicked the cylinder back and replaced the gun.

The phone rang.

“What's up, Doc?”

“Why are you calling, Yank?”

“Oh, I got a couple of things up my sleeve. My arm, for one. No laugh? Oh, well. Then tell me this: How did things go with Miss Dyke?”

“I had a pleasant visit.”

“And?”

“And I got a possible lead to The Cloisters.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“I'll tell you about it if it works out.”

“No, you'd better tell me about it now. The Vicar wants to know what you're up to at every moment. He wouldn't want to have to start back at square one if something were to happen to you. Or if you were to do something foolish.”

“Like?”

“Like try to run off. Or sell out. Or something like that. Not that I really think you would. Having met the Vicar, I think you have a pretty good idea of what he would do to anyone who tried to do the dirty on him.”

“Ship me off to the Feeding Station?” Jonathan brought that up on purpose.

After a swallow: “Something like that. So tell me. What is your lead to The Cloisters?”

“A woman named Grace. Amazing Grace. She runs a place called the Cellar d'Or. Mean anything to you?”

“Are you sure it's a woman?”

“What do you mean?”

“Amazing Grace is a hymn, after all. Get it?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!”

“Sorry. No, I never heard of the woman. But I'll check through the Loo files for you. Anything else?”

“Yes. Do you have a tail on me?”

“Pardon?”

“A man's been following me all day. Out to Vanessa's and back. Is he one of yours?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Medium build, blue raincoat, one hundred and sixty pounds, glasses, left-handed, rubbers over his shoes. He's probably standing down in the street right now, wondering how to appear to be reading his newspaper in the dark. If he's not yours, he's MI–5
's. Too fucking amateur to be anything else.”

“How could he be MI–5? They're not in on this.”

“They are now. I made a mistake.”

“The Vicar's not going to like that.”

“Hard shit. Can you get in contact with MI–5 and pull this guy off? There are probably three of them, the other two out on the flanks. That's normal shadow procedure for your people.”

“It could be they're only trying to help.”

“Help from MI–5 is like military advice from the Egyptian army. If you don't get rid of them, I'll do it myself, and that will hurt them. I don't want them blowing my scant cover. Remember, I'm the only man you've got in the game.”

“Not quite. We've managed to situate Miss Coyne.”

“Oh?”

Yank was instantly aware that he had breached security. “More about that later, when we get together with the Vicar for a final briefing. Meanwhile, good hunting tonight. See you in the funny papers.”

Jonathan hung up and crossed to the window to look down on the man who had followed him from Vanessa's. Christ, he was getting sick of British espionage. Sick of this whole thing. He indulged his anger for a while, then brought it under control by taking shallow breaths. Calm. Calm. You make mistakes when you're angry. Calm.

Chelsea

A
s Jonathan stepped from the Underground train at Sloane Square, he was still being followed by the fool in the blue raincoat who had been with him since Vanessa's. Presumably, Yank had not been able to get through to MI–5 and give them the word to discontinue surveillance. Jonathan decided to let him hover out there on his flank. At least he could keep an eye on him until the time came to shake him off, should the shadowing seem to endanger his cover.

Halfway up the tiled exit tunnel he passed an American girl sitting on a parka. Flotsam of the flower tide. She abused a cheap guitar and whined a Guthrie lament, having chosen a spot where the echo would enrich her thin voice with bathroom resonances and allow her to slide off miscalculated notes under the cover of reverberation. She was barefoot, and there was a large rip in the stomach of her tugged and shapeless khaki sweater. The surface of the parka was salted with small coins to invite passersby to contribute to maintenance.

Jonathan dropped no coin, nor did the man following in the blue raincoat.

Once away from the square, he closed into himself as he walked along seeking the address Vanessa had given him. He had no desire to come into contact with the jostling crowds of street people. It had been fifteen years since last he had been in Chelsea. In those days, a few of the young people who chatted in pubs or made single cups of cappuccino last two hours eventually went home to paint or write. But not these youngsters. They neither produced nor supported. Chelsea had always been self-consciously artsy, but now it had become younger, less attractive, more American. Head shops crowded up against the Safeway, and jeans were to be had in a thousand varieties. Discotheques. Whiskey a go-gos. Boutiques with scented candles and merchandise of green stamp quality. Shops vied for obscure names. Tall girls with hunched shoulders clopped along the pavement, and peacock boys swaggered in flared suits of plum velvet, cuffs flapping with dysfunctional bells. Rancorous music bled from doorways. People in satchel-assed jeans stared sullenly at him, an obvious representative of “the establishment,” that despised class that oppressed them and paid their doles.

He had hoped the young would spare Chelsea the humiliation they had inflicted on San Francisco, Greenwich Village, the Left Bank. And he was angry that they had not.

But after all, he mused, one had to be fair-minded. These youngsters had their virtues. They were doubtless more content than his generation, hooked as it was on the compulsion to achieve. And these young people were more at peace with life; more alert to ecological dangers; more disgusted by war; more socially conscious.

Useless snots.

He turned off into a side street, past a couple of antiques shops, and continued along a row of private houses behind black iron fences. Each had a steep stone stairway leading down to a basement. And one of these descending caves was illuminated by a dim red light. This was the Cellar d'Or.

         

He sat watching the action from his nook at the back of one of the artificial plaster grottoes that constituted the Cellar d'Or's decor. The light was dim and the carpets jet black, and the uninitiated had to be careful of their footing. The fake stone grottoes were inset with chunks of fool's gold, and all the other surfaces, the tables, the bar, were clear plastic in which bits of sequins and gold metal were entrapped. The glow lighting came from within these plastic surfaces, illuminating faces from beneath. And the air between objects was black.

He sipped at his second, very wet Laphroaig, served, as were all the drinks in the club, in a small gold metal chalice. The most insistent feature of the club's bizarre interior was a large photographic transparency that revolved in the center of the room. It was lit from within, and every eye was drawn frequently to the woman who smiled from the full-length photograph. She stood beside what appeared to be a very high marble fireplace, her steady, mildly mischievous gaze directed at the camera and, therefore, at each man in the room, no matter where he sat. She was nude, and her body was extraordinary. A mulatto with café au lait skin, her breasts were conical and impertinent, her waist slight, her hips wide, and perfectly molded legs drew the eye to small, well-formed feet, the toes of which were slightly splayed, like those of a yawning cat. The black triangle of her écu appeared cotton soft, but it was something about the muscles and those splayed toes that held Jonathan's attention. Stomach, arm, leg, and hip, there was a look of lean, hard muscle under the powdery brown skin—steel cable under silk.

That would be Amazing Grace.

The Cellar d'Or was essentially a whorehouse. And a rather good one. All the help—the chippies, the barmen, the waiters—were West Indian, and the music, its volume so low it seemed to fade when one's attention strayed from it, was also West Indian. Despite the general air of ease and rest, the place was moving a fair amount of traffic. Men would arrive, and during their first drink they would be joined by one of the girls who sat in twos and threes at the most distant tables. Another drink or two and some light chat, and the couple would disappear. The girl would return, usually alone, within a half hour. And all this action was presided over by a smiling giant of a majordomo who stood by the door or at the end of the bar and watched over the patrons and the whores with a broad, benevolent smile, his jet black head shaved and glistening with reflections of gold. Nothing in his manner, save the feline control of his walk, gave him the look of the professional bouncer, but Jonathan could imagine the cooling effect he would have on the occasional troublemaker, descending on him like a smiling machine of fate and disposing of him with a single rapid gesture that most insouciant lookers-on would mistake for a friendly pat on the shoulder. The giant wore a close-fitting white turtlenecked jersey that displayed a pattern of muscles so marked that, even at rest, he appeared to be wearing a Roman breastplate under his shirt. In age, he could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty.

One of the girls detached herself from a co-worker and approached Jonathan's table. She was the second to do so, and she looked very nice indeed as she crossed the floor: full-busted, long-legged, and an ass that moved hydraulically.

“You would care to buy me a drink?” she asked, her accent and phrasing revealing that she was a recent immigrant.

Jonathan smiled good-naturedly. “I'd be delighted to buy you a drink. But I'd rather you drank it back at your own table.”

“You don't like me?”

“Of course I like you. I've liked you ever since we first met. It's just that . . .” He took her hand and assumed his most tragic expression. “It's just . . . you see, I had this nasty accident while I was driving golf balls in my shower and . . .” He turned his head aside and looked down.

“You are joking me,” she said, not completely sure.

“In fact, I am. But I do have some serious advice for you. Did you see that fellow who came in here after I did? The one with the blue raincoat?”

She looked over toward the far corner, then wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, I know,” Jonathan said, “he's not as pretty as I am. But he's loaded with money, and he came here because he's shy with women. When you first approach him, he'll pretend he doesn't want anything to do with you. But that's just a front. Just a game he plays. You keep at him, and by morning you'll have enough money to buy your man a suit.”

She gave him a sidelong glance of doubt.

“Why would I lie to you?” Jonathan said, offering his palms.

“You sure?”

He closed his eyes and nodded his head, tucking down the corners of his mouth.

She left him and, after a compulsory pause at the bar so as not to seem to be flitting from one fish to another, she patted her hair down and made her way to the far corner. Jonathan smiled to himself in congratulation, sipped at his Laphroaig, and let his eyes wander over the photograph of Amazing Grace. Lovely girl. But time was passing, and he would have to make some kind of move soon if he was going to meet her.

Uh-oh. Maybe not. Here he comes.

Like everything else about the giant, his smile was large. “May I buy you a drink, sir?” Quiet though it was, his voice had a basso rumble you could feel through the table.

“That's very good of you,” Jonathan said.

The giant made a gesture to the waiter, then sat down, not across from Jonathan as though to engage him in conversation, but beside him, so they were looking out on the scene together, like old friends. “This is the first time you have visited us, is it not, sir?”

“Yes. Nice place you've got here.”

“It is pleasant. I am called P'tit Noel.” The giant offered a hand so large that Jonathan felt like a child shaking it.

“Jonathan Hemlock. But you're not West Indian.”

P'tit Noel laughed, a warm chocolate sound. “What am I, then?”

“Haitian, from your accent. Although your education has spoiled some of that.”

“Very good, sir! You are observant. Actually, my mother was Haitian, my father Jamaican. She was a whore, and he a thief. Later, he went into politics and she into the hotel business.”

“You might say they swapped professions.”

He laughed again. “You might at that, sir. Although I was schooled in this country, I suppose something of the patois will always be with me. Now, you know everything about me. Tell me everything about yourself.”

Jonathan had to smile at the disregard for subtlety. “Ah, here come the drinks.”

The waiter had not needed an order. He knew what Jonathan was drinking, and evidently P'tit Noel always drank the same thing, a chalice of neat rum.

Jonathan raised his glass to the large transparency of Amazing Grace. “To the lady.”

“Oh, yes. I am always glad to drink to her.” He drew off the rum in two swallows and set the goblet down on the gold table.

“Beautiful woman,” Jonathan said.

P'tit Noel nodded. “I am happy to know you are interested in women, sir. I was beginning to doubt. But if you are holding out for her, you waste your time. She does not go with patrons.” He looked again at the photograph. “But yes, she is a beautiful woman. Actually, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.” He said this last with the hint of a shrug, as though it were obvious to anyone.

“I'd like to meet her,” Jonathan said as casually as possible.

“Oh, sir?” There was an almost imperceptible tensing of the pectoral muscles.

“Yes, I would. Does she ever come in?”

“Two or three times each evening. Her apartments are above.”

“And when she comes, is she dressed like that?” he indicated the transparency.

“Exactly like that, sir. She is proud of her body.”

“As she should be.”

P'tit Noel's smile returned. “It is very good for business, of course. She comes. She takes a drink at the bar. She wanders among the tables and greets the patrons. And you would be surprised how business picks up for the girls the moment she leaves.”

“I wouldn't be surprised at all, P'tit Noel.”

“Ah. You pronounce my name correctly. It is obvious you are not English.”

“I'm an American. I'm surprised you couldn't tell from my accent.”

P'tit Noel shrugged. “All pinks sound alike.”

They both laughed. But Jonathan only shallowly. “I want to meet her,” he said while P'tit Noel's laugh was still playing itself out.

It stopped instantly.

“You have the eyes of a sage man, sir. Why seek pain?” He smiled, and with a sense of comradeship Jonathan noticed that the smile did not come from within. It was a coiled, defensive crinkle in the corners of the eyes. Precisely the gentle combat smile that Jonathan assumed to put the victim off pace.

“Why are you so tight?” Jonathan asked. “Surely many men come in here and express interest in the lady there.”

“True, sir. But such men have only love on their minds.”

“How do you know
I'm
not sperm-blind?”

P'tit Noel shook his head. “I feel it. We Haitians have a sense for these things. We are a superstitious people, sir. The moment you came in, I sensed that you were trouble for Mam'selle Grace.”

“And you intend to protect her.”

“Oh yes, sir. With my life, if need be. Or with yours, should it sadly come to that.”

“No doubt about how it would go, is there?” Jonathan said, skipping unnecessary steps in the conversation.

“Actually, none at all, sir.”

“There's an expression in the hill country of the United States.”

“How does it go, sir?”

“While you're gettin' dinner, I'll get a sandwich.”

“Ah! The idiom is clear. And I believe you, sir. But the fact remains that you would lose any battle between us.”

“Probably. But you would not escape pain.”

“Probably.”

“I'll make you a deal.”

“Ah!
Now
I recognize you to be an American.”

“Just tell the lady that I want to talk to her.”

“She knows you, then?”

“No. Tell her I want to talk about The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange.” Jonathan looked for the effect of the words upon P'tit Noel. There was none.

“And if she will not see you?”

“Then I'll leave.”

“Oh, I
know
that, sir. I am asking if you will leave without disturbance.”

Jonathan had to smile. “Without disturbance.”

P'tit Noel nodded and left the table.

Five minutes later he returned. “Mam'selle Grace will see you. But not now. In one hour. You may sit and drink if you wish. I shall tell the girls that you are not a fish.” His formal and clipped tone revealed that he was not pleased that Amazing Grace had deigned to receive the visitor.

Jonathan decided not to wait in the club. He told P'tit Noel that he would take a walk and return in an hour.