She shrugged. “It was nothing. Who’s ‘we’ by the way?”
“I work for the CIA, honey. We sometimes have problems about confidential material. You helped us solve one of our problems.”
“Sounds very exciting and hush-hush.”
“Would you help us again?”
“It depends what you want.”
“I’ve got a small package I want delivered personally to New York. We’d pay you, honey.”
“I couldn’t spare the time, Bill.”
“We’d fly you Concorde both ways. There and back in a day. Could be a Saturday or a Sunday if that’s easier.”
She pursed her lips. “Sounds interesting. How much do I get?”
“A hundred and fifty dollars in cash.”
“When do you want this done?”
“As soon as you can make it.”
“OK. I’ll do it on Saturday and I can sleep on Sunday.”
The colonel smiled. “I’ll fix for you to meet an old admirer of yours while you’re in New York.”
“Who’s that?”
“Remember the doctor, the guy who played piano for you that night in the mess after your act?”
“Yes.”
“He’d just love to say hello again.”
“Me too. I’ll look forward to that.”
He offered to take her on to a nightclub but instead she took him to a pub near Piccadilly Circus where they sang old music-hall songs and then he taxied her back to her flat off Buckingham Palace Road. She didn’t invite him in but she didn’t object when his hands explored her breasts as he kissed her good-night.
Symons was waiting for her at Kennedy, standing by the immigration desk and waving her past the immigration officer. It was then that she realized that he must be CIA too. She wondered for a moment what a doctor was doing in an intelligence agency.
She handed over the packet and he reached for her canvas holdall, taking her arm as he led her to a side door and a waiting car. He sat in the driver’s seat looking at her face.
“You know, you’re even prettier than you were way back, honey. You really are.”
She smiled. “And you’re a lot smoother than you used to be.”
He laughed and started the car. “You’ve got six hours in New York and I’m not going to tire you out. First we’re going to Saks and you’re going to buy a nice dress on the company’s account. Then we eat in a nice suite overlooking Central Park. After that we’ll see how the time has gone and maybe go down to the Village for a drink.”
“Sounds nice … doctor?”
He laughed. “I’m not your doctor now, so you can call me … what shall you call me? How about Joe Spellman?”
He glanced at her face and he saw the momentary frown and then she smiled. “OK Joe. You’re the boss.”
She chose an Italian dress, black, formal and elegant. He drove her up to the park, past the lake, and then he turned off half-way up the park to cross over the avenue and swing into the basement carpark of a residential apartment block.
A waiter served the meal in the elegant suite. Israeli melon, smoked salmon, a T-bone steak and a trolley of tempting patisserie. The only drink she was offered was orange juice and tomato juice.
When the waiter had cleared away, she sat back in the comfortable arm-chair. Symons leaned forward and put his hand gently on her knee, saying softly, “Nancy. Nancy Rawlins … Nancy Rawlins.” And he held his breath until her eyes closed and her mouth opened as she breathed deeply and steadily.
“Can you hear me, Nancy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told anyone about this trip, Nancy?”
“No.”
“Not even your boy-friend?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you have a steady boy-friend?”
“No.”
“Tell me about when you were a little girl.”
She sighed. “I didn’t like it. I hated them both … he was always touching me and she knew. She beat me. Said I was a whore …”
“How old were you when she said that?”
“Ten, maybe eleven. She was always saying it.”
“Go on.”
“I was unhappy all the time … it’s making me cry. I never think about it now.”
“Is there anyone you really trust in your life?”
“I trust you.”
“Good girl. Do you like Bill Mortensen?”
“He’s OK.”
“Listen very carefully, Nancy. When Bill tells you to do something I want you to do it. Whatever it is I want you to drop everything and do what he asks. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me your name.”
“Nancy Rawlins.”
“What other girl’s name do you like?”
“Lara.”
“That’s a nice name. Why do you like that?”
“Dr. Zhivago. I liked that film. Her name was Lara. There were daffodils in front of the house. But they came and took her away.”
“I’m going to count to ten and then you’ll be Lara. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“One, two … go to sleep … three, four … deeper and deeper … that’s right … five, six … seven, eight … you’re feeling great … nine, ten. And now you’re Lara. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lara.”
“What’s my name?”
“Joe Spellman.”
“Do you like me, Lara?”
“Yes. I like you a lot.”
“And you’ll always do what I tell you to do?”
“Yes.”
“Would you kill someone if I told you to? Somebody evil.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Do you like being Lara?”
“Yes.”
“When I want you to be Lara I shall say a special number to you. Eight nine zero. When I say eight nine zero you’ll be Lara. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Say the number to me.”
“Eight nine zero.”
“Now I’m going to wake you up. I’m going to count from ten to one and when you hear me say one you’ll be awake and you’ll be Nancy again.”
He put her through the ritual, checked that she said that her name was Nancy. Put her back again to Lara to check that it had held, then brought her back twice until she was Debbie Shaw again. As her eyes fluttered open she yawned and stretched. “It was a lovely meal, Joe. Really lovely.”
He bought her a couple of magazines at Kennedy and waited until Concorde took off. He boarded the scheduled flight to Prestwick two hours later. Grabowski and Mortensen had reckoned it was worth the risk of him being in New York for a couple of days
