8. A reply to this proposition can be made through the bearer of this communication. Or, if it is considered politic that he should have no further part in this proceeding, then an advertisement should be inserted in the Personal Column of The Times to read: ‘Saraband Two: Come Home’—followed by a telephone number. The party of this side will establish bona fides when answering by announcing himself as Mr Wakefield.
(That gave me a dry laugh. Wakefield was the prison in which Peter Kroger was being held.)
9. In the event of these exchange proposals being rejected out of hand, the party of this side—on receipt of such positive refusal—will allow a grace period of ten days before the regrettable elimination of William Freemantle Dawson. On the other hand, in the event of agreement being reached for an exchange, it is stipulated that all arrangements shall be completed for the necessary hand-overs within thirty days of final agreement of details.
And that was it. And I was sweating. Lots of side-issues had occurred to me as I read it through—and they were all unpleasant so far as Wilkins and myself were concerned. And Sutcliffe! He’d go up in smoke. The party of this side had him on toast . . . unless the Prime Minister was prepared to sacrifice his son. Well, he might be a tough cookie as a politician—how else can you be one unless you are?—but, as a father, he would feel the same as any other father. Why, just to get Wilkins back I would have handed over the whole of M.I.6 and the C.I.A. if I could.
I rolled off the bed and stuffed the letter into my pocket. It was still early but a drink was essential.
Before I could get to a drink the telephone rang. It was a telegram for me from Letta. She was going to be in Paris the next week and looking forward to a happy reunion. The telegram gave the address of the apartment where she would be staying, and finished ‘Love from Lilith too’.
I went gloomily to the decanter. I couldn’t see happy reunions being part of my lot for a while.
I was putting soda in the whisky when there was a knock at the flat door. I finished the soda job, took a deep swig, and then went to the door and jerked it open with a touch of bad temper, the kind that comes from having that little-boy-lost feeling and knowing that all the world is against you.
Standing outside was Jane Judd, looking full of the joys of spring, dark-haired, dark-eyed, wearing a black tailor-made and a daffodil-yellow blouse.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘To see you—even if you are going to be damned bad-tempered about it.’
She moved past me into the room. She moved nicely and dispensed a passing whiff of perfume, but neither did anything for me.
‘How did you know I was back?’
‘I rang your office.’
‘All right—let’s have it.’
‘I want to know what your cable about belly scars was all about.’ I picked up the whisky glass and gave her a pugnacious, Churchillian scowl over the top.
‘Has anybody been asking you questions about Freeman?’
‘No. Like who? What are you so bad-tempered about?’
‘I’ve just been elected patsy of the year.’
‘Good. You shouldn’t have any difficultly holding the title for quite a while. Why the cable?’
‘Because your precious Martin Freeman—whatever he was or is up to—tried to fake his death. As usual it was a pretty poor effort. So no need for tears. You’re not a widow—yet. When did you hear from him?’
‘How do you know I’ve heard from him?’
‘Inspired guess. Also, you’ve got an enquiring mind. You’re trying to figure him out. You want to know what he’s up to. You want to know what you might be getting into. You’re uncertain. You don’t want trouble. You just want marriage and security. You’ve got my sympathy and—come to think of it—I’ll add a little good advice. Get unmarried and forget him.’
As I finished speaking I reached out and took the long slim, black patent handbag from under her arm. She made a move but I waved her back.
I opened the bag. Inside was a coloured picture postcard. There was other stuff as well, but I didn’t bother with that. It was dated the day I had left the Villa La Sunata. It had a Bizerta postmark, and showed a nice view of a mountain called the Jebel Something-or-Other. It was addressed to her at the Mountjoy Hotel and an unsigned message read: ‘From July 1, book one week Dore Hotel, Barcelona. Will contact you there.’
‘How do you know it’s from Freeman?’ I asked.
‘I know his handwriting.’
‘My advice to you is to. ignore it. It’s a pretty ordinary hotel, anyway. No bridal suite. Not even a restaurant of its own.’
‘God, you are in a mood.’
‘I am. You sure no one’s been asking you questions about him?’
‘Absolutely.’
I handed her back the bag but kept the postcard.
‘What are you going to do with that?’
‘Burn it,’ I said, and got out my lighter.
‘But it’s mine!’
‘You can remember it. July i, one week, Dore Hotel, Barcelona. Take my advice, don’t go.’
I lit the edge of the card and carried it to the fireplace. I dropped it in and watched it flame away. One thing I was pretty certain about was that Saraband Two and company were never going to let Freeman reach Barcelona. Or Pelegrina reach wherever he wanted to reach.
They might be jollied along for a while: but in the end they would be eliminated. No publicity, no leaks . . . these were the essentials of the exchange deal. The professionals involved had to be trusted, but
