because you are stupid!' His rage so carried him away that he found he was no longer afraid of Malik.
'By sending this cable, you would be certain that Sherman could not become President of the United States,' Malik said, his face expressionless.
'You think so, you fool?' Kovski snarled. 'Are we so sure this man is really Sherman? We have only the word of that idiot Drina! If this man is really Sherman - and there are doubts and we alert the American police, then how are we to find out why he came here? This is what we want to find out! As soon as the CIA know we know who he is, they will throw up a smokescreen and then we will find out nothing!'
'We don't need to find anything out if you will send the cable. We will have achieved what we want . . . Sherman, won't be elected President.'
'You are a triple fool!' Kovski's voice was completely out of control. 'How many more times do I have to tell you, idiot?
What we want to know is why he came here ... go and find out! As long as Sherman believes he has come here and has got back safely to America, we have him where we want him!'
'But we have him where we want him by sending this cable', Malik said quietly.
'Get out!' Kovski slammed his fist down on the desk. 'Do what I tell you! Find out why Sherman has been here! That's your job!'
A thin smile lit up Malik's stone-like face.
'Those are your orders?'
'Yes! Get out and do your job!'
Malik nodded and rose to his feet.
I am compelled to obey your orders,' he said, staring at Kovski, 'but I only obey them because you are my superior.'
He left the office, quietly, shutting the door after him and returned to his own office. He turned off the tape recorder, rewound the tape, listened for a few seconds to the playback, then satisfied he had an excellent recording, he ran off the tape. He found a large envelope and wrote on it: Conversation between Comrade Kovski and myself. May 5th. Subject: Henry Sherman. He put the spool of tape into the envelope and sealed it with Sellotape, then dropped the envelope into his pocket, This was yet another tape to be added to a small collection he had in a safe deposit bank not far from the Soviet Embassy: yet another nail in Kovski's coffin.
* * *
Still careful he wasn't being followed, Girland made his way from the American Embassy to Pierre Rosnold's studio on Rue Garibaldi. The studio was housed on the fourth floor of an old-fashioned building, but there was nothing old-fashioned about the ornate elevator nor about Rosnold's entrace. The double doors that led to the studio were covered with white suede, embossed with gilt scrolls and which opened automatically when Girland broke an invisible beam as he approached them. He found himself in a small lobby, draped in red velvet with gilt chairs, and a glass-topped gilt table on which were spread the usual glossy magazines.
Girland decided that Rosnold's set-up was of better taste and smelt more of money than Benny's exotic studio.
As he was surveying the scene, a door facing him opened and an elderly man, wearing a black hat and a light-grey overcoat came into the lobby. He moved with the arrogance of the very rich. In his right gloved hand, he carried a bulky envelope. His long, thin aristocratic face, the lines around the weak, sensual mouth, the smudges under his baggy eyes made him look like an ageing Casanova. His satisfied expression swiftly changed to startled apprehension as he saw Girland. He gave Girland a quick, uneasy glance, then moving quickly, he left the lobby, clutching his envelope and Girland heard him entering the elevator.
'Yes?'
Girland glanced around.
A woman stood in the doorway, regarding him. She was tall, probably in her early thirties, slim, dark with a heart-shaped face that could have been a tinted plaster mask.
'Mr Rosnold please,' Girland said with his most charming smile.
The smile bounced off her like a golf ball slammed against a wall.
'Mr Rosnold is not here.'
'You mean he doesn't work here any more?'
'He is not here.'
'Then where do I find him?'
Again the dark eyes went over Girland, examining his clothes. From the bleak expression that showed in her eyes, the woman thought nothing of him.
'Do you want a sitting?'
The automatic doors swung open and another elderly, rich looking man came in. He hesitated for a brief moment at the sight of Girland, then gave the woman a wide, toothy smile.
'Ah, Mile Lautre, how well you are looking.' He again glanced uneasily at Girland.
The woman stood aside and smiled. The plaster mask cracked for a moment, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.
'Please go in, monsieur. I won't be a moment.'
The elderly man slid around her and passed through the open doorway.
'If you will give me your name, I will tell Mr Rosnold you have called.'
'It's urgent. When will he be back?'. Girland asked.
'Not before Monday. May I have your name?'
'It's very urgent. Where can I contact him?'
The woman stared at him. She was as hostile as a barbed-wire fence. 'Your name please?'
'Tom Stag. Mr Rosnold and I have business together.'
'I'll tell Mr Rosnold when he returns.' The woman began to back through the doorway. 'Perhaps you will telephone for an appointment on Monday,' then she closed the door.
Girland left and crossed to the elevator. He thumbed the call button and while he waited, his mind was busy. When the cage stopped before him, he got in and went down to the ground floor. Before leaving the elevator, he took out his wallet and extracted two ten franc notes. He walked over to the concierge's window and tapped.
A fat, elderly woman, her hair in steel curlers, a shawl around her shoulders opened the window and regarded him with that stony, indifferent stare that most Paris concierges cultivate.
'Excuse me,' Girland said and turned on charm. I am sorry to disturb you, madame. I want to see Mr Rosnold very urgently.'
'Fourth floor,' the concierge snapped and prepared to shut the window.
'Perhaps you could help me.' Girland put the two ten franc notes on the shelf of the window, keeping a finger on them.
The woman looked at the notes, then at Girland. She became visibly less hostile.
'I'm sure you are busy,' Girland went on. 'Of course, I expect to pay for your time.' He took his fingers off the notes. 'I've already been to the fourth floor. I am told Mr Rosnold is away. I need to see him urgently. Do you happen to know where he is?'
'Didn't you ask his secretary, monsieur?' the concierge asked, eyeing the notes that lay between them.
'I did, but she was evasive. You see, madame, Mr Rosnold owes me a sum of money. If I don't find him quickly and persuade him to pay me, I shall be in trouble.' Girland turned on his boyish smile. 'But perhaps you can't help me.' He extended his finger, but the concierge got there first. She drew the two notes out of Girland's reach and palmed them.
I know where he is,' she said, lowering her voice. 'His secretary had a letter from him yesterday. I know his handwriting and the stamp interested me. The Alpenhoff Hotel, Garmisch... that's where he is. When he left, he told me he would be away a month.' 'When did he leave, madame?' 'Last Monday.'
'You are very kind... thank you, madame.' T hope you get your money, monsieur,' she said. 'He is not a nice gentleman.'
Her old fat face crinkled into a grimace. 'He is mean.'
Girland again thanked her and walked out onto the busy street. He glanced at his watch. It was 16.20 hrs. He decided to visit Sammy's Bar and talk to Jack Dodge, the second lead Benny had given him.
