The Assassin (26 page)

He hadn't used violence since his training days. There was no element of scruple or distaste in his reaction. It was simply fear of having messed it up, of being seen leaving the pool, naked and dripping, after blacking Elizabeth Cameron out. He wasn't as young as he thought; age told on the nerves, and not age alone, but soft living and lack of practice. He was due to leave that night and he had driven home at a wild speed to clear everything up and get on his way.

He deserved his reward, and the reward might not be generous by American standards but in terms of life in the Soviet Union he would enjoy the privilege of the new élite. The scientists, the administrators, the politicians, the faithful servants of the K.G.B. He would live in a comfortable flat and have a dacha in the country, and work with the Ministry of the Interior. He poured himself a Bourbon and dropped in two cubes of ice. He wouldn't be there to see his great coup the next morning; the killer would gun down the people's Prince of the Catholic Church and die within minutes himself. King's man had reported back after Keller's visit to the cathedral. He would shoot him dead as he tried to escape. The inevitable process of checking up on the dead man, would nail Huntley Cameron and with him the hopes of a Democrat President of the United States. From the vantage-point of Moscow, King would be able to watch the advent of John Jackson to political supremacy, surveying the chaos which must follow like an observer watching a volcano in eruption. That moment would begin tomorrow, with the death of Martino Regazzi. He looked at his watch; it was still too early to drive to Kennedy. He switched on the TV set and sat down with the Bourbon to take his last sample of the American way of life.

He was in time for the last part of the programme Keller had been watching; unlike Keller he didn't cut out when Regazzi came on. He watched with interest, and reached out to pour himself another drink. That was when the news item about the death of Huntley Cameron's fiancée hit him. He didn't drop the bottle; he went on holding it poised in the air, the sweat coming out cold all over his back and under his collar. Heart failure while swimming in the multimillionaire's luxury pool at Freemont. King inched forward, staring at the set, refusing to accept the words coming out of that photoelectric projection's mouth.

Dallas. Dallas Jay was dead in the pool. Not Elizabeth Cameron, but Dallas. He had killed the wrong woman. And the other one, the one who had gone to her uncle and could have the power to destroy his entire operation—she was still alive. He got up from his chair and punched the set button to ‘off'. He had made a mess of the job; that nervous
crise
on the way back to New York was justified. Huntley might not have talked, but the risk was too great to contemplate even for a moment. He had committed murder to obviate that risk, but he had bungled it. He was so angry he fumbled, getting the phone off the hook. He cursed her as he dialled the Washington number of his emergency contact. He spoke quickly after using his identification name. The plan was set; everything would go through tomorrow. While he was waiting for the number to answer, King's brain had hurtled forward beyond the immediate danger of her contacting the police before the morning, warning them that Jackson was in peril. Even if she didn't, her foreknowledge of the plan, her ability to swear that Regazzi had never been her uncle's target—this alone made it imperative for her to be silenced as soon as possible. He gave her name and apartment address to Washington. Urgent, urgent, he barked down the telephone. If they didn't settle it quickly, it would be their responsibility; in two hours he would have left the country. He had just hung up when the doorbell rang. For a moment he hesitated; he wasn't expecting any caller; nobody even knew he was in New York. The bell sounded again, longer, more determined. He went into the hall, frowning, ready to be rude, and opened the door.

Two men were standing outside; both were plainly dressed and wore hats; the taller took his off.

‘Mr King?'

‘What do you want—I'm just going out,' King said. He was ready to slam the door on them. The same man held out his hand; there was a case with a badge in the palm.

‘We're from the F.B.I. We want you to come with us, please.'

It was Leary's decision to arrest King; having lost Elizabeth and the chance of picking up her companion from Beirut, he felt it was imperative to grab the main suspect and see what could be got out of him. Even if he yielded nothing, and Leary doubted the success of interrogation with an agent of King's calibre, it might scare his associates into abandoning their plan. As Leary had reminded Mathews, the next day was St Patrick's and half the political targets in New York State would be gathered in one place. His error of judgement had probably cost them the assassin himself; at the worst he had been left loose to carry out his job.

When Mathews suggested going back to bring Elizabeth in, Leary actually snarled at him. ‘And what the hell good would that do, you stupid bastard! She's had time to warn the guy off by now! Her only use was to lead us to this man, whoever he is. But you balled that up—you just disregarded my orders and followed your own bloody stupid nose and balled it up!'

For once there was no ready answer from Peter Mathews; he stood in front of Leary's desk and let the Irish invective flow over him. When Leary wanted to point out a mistake he knew how to do it.

‘I'll tell you what you'll do,' he said to Mathews. He had exhausted his anger, and now he was just cold and furious. ‘You'll do what that knuckle-head Ford should have done—losing the girl like that—Christ, it's the oldest trick in the game! You'll keep a tail on her day and night yourself. You'll sit outside her apartment in a car and you'll stay awake, buddy, or else … If she's so involved with this guy that she'd go this far to protect him, then my guess is when he decides to go she'll try to make a run for it with him. Of course …' he paused and refreshed himself with the inevitable cup of coffee, ‘of course, thanks to your mishandling, they may have gotten out already—but only time will show that. If she comes back to her apartment there's some hope. You stick with her, and you'd better draw yourself a gun. If the lover boy shows up, you're going to need it. Now get to hell out of here!'

Mathews hesitated. ‘I'm sorry, sir.'

Leary's eyes flickered towards him with dislike. ‘Screw up anything else and you will be,' he said.

Mathews went out, passed through the outer office where Leary's secretary was typing, and grimaced. She smiled at him in sympathy and shook her head. There were no Sundays as far as her job was concerned. When the decision was made to arrest King the staff had been called back to work through the night. The F.B.I. had delivered him to Leary's building through the back entrance and driven off.

When the C.I.A. were finished with him he would be sent back to them and officially charged. But that might not be for many weeks. Mathews took out one of the cars equipped with two-way radio telephone and drove back up town to East 59th. Elizabeth had given his man the slip. All that afternoon he had been trying to figure out his mistake with her. She wasn't a professional agent, working for anybody. He had staked his career on that, and it seemed he had lost. But he still wouldn't accept it. She had shaken off his tail in a way Leary considered showed some sinister expertise; but though he hadn't dared to say so, Mathews disagreed. He knew less about most things than Leary, but he reckoned on knowing a bookful about women. When it meant protecting a man she loved, a stupid woman could behave very cleverly. And Elizabeth wasn't stupid by any standard. She had discovered she was being followed—maybe the cab driver had noticed—and just lost herself. It showed she was quick and resourceful, but it didn't prove she was a traitor. He wasn't angry with her any more. He didn't even resent her for outwitting him. He respected her for it. It made her into an opponent instead of a pawn; the one he was out to get was the man she was protecting. He stopped outside her apartment and went in.

The hall porter saluted him. ‘'Evening, Mr Mathews. Shall I take you up?'

‘No thanks,' Mathews said. ‘I just came round to see if Miss Cameron had left my brief-case for me.'

‘No, nothing's been left with me, and there's nothing in the office. Miss Cameron's just come in, though.'

‘Then I can't have left it here,' Mathews shrugged. He grinned at the porter. ‘I have a couple of other places to try. Good night.'

He went back and climbed in the front seat of the car. He was over six feet and the space was cramped. The hours ahead would not be comfortable. He phoned in briefly. ‘The fare's still in her apartment. Am waiting as instructed.'

It might be a very long wait indeed, or if there was an early rendezvous it could be very short.

The telephone was ringing when Elizabeth walked in; Huntley was on the other end. He didn't let her speak. He talked at speed, barking the news of Dallas' death, cutting through her exclamation with a fierce injunction to shut up for Christ's sake and listen. Dallas had been murdered in mistake for her, and King had disappeared. He was convinced that Elizabeth's life was in danger. She was to come down to Freemont immediately where she would be safe. Having told her not to answer he then waited; there was silence and he shouted, thinking they had been cut off. ‘You hear me—get hold of Mathews and tell him to drive you down right away!'

The idea of asking Peter Mathews for protection made Elizabeth smile. ‘I can't,' she said quietly. ‘I can't come to Freemont, Uncle, I have an appointment tomorrow morning.'

‘You goddamned fool,' he was yelling through the wire. ‘Don't you realise this guy King knocked off Dallas this morning, thinking it was you? He may be on his way round now, to get you!'

‘Don't worry about me. I'll be all right. I'm going away tomorrow anyway.' Then she hung up. Dallas was dead. She gave in to the shock of it, and shivered. Poor woman. Poor, deluded woman, hoping that a man like Huntley Cameron would prove capable of affection or reward for service. She had wanted to marry him so much. She remembered the ageing face and the voice, pitched on the same pleasing note, with the platitudes tumbling out, and the miserable irony of that useless death made Elizabeth turn away and cry. The greater irony escaped her; hers were the only tears anybody shed for Dallas Jay.

She went through to her bedroom and began to pack a single bag. She didn't want much luggage; she would certainly take her jewellery, because she might need to sell some until sufficient transfer of funds could be arranged. Choosing a few clothes, assembling what she most wanted to take with her to her new life, Elizabeth was able to close her mind to that telephone call, and the threat of a man who might at that moment be on his way up in the lift. She went to her door and bolted it. After a moment she lifted the house telephone and called through to the porter. ‘I don't want to be disturbed tonight,' she said. ‘If anyone calls, I've gone down to Freemont. And don't let anyone come up to the apartment.' That should throw King off the scent. Suddenly she found herself trembling.

She had always feared him; subconsciously she had felt a sinister influence behind the smiling sophisticate; it had taken the form of physical revulsion. Remembering the white roses in Beirut she felt sick; sicker still at the thought of that moment in the orchid house at Freemont when he had pressed her hand against his mouth and she had wrenched it away. Huntley said he had murdered Dallas in mistake for her. But how—and why? He had somehow guessed that she knew of the assassination; he had tried to kill her to stop her betraying it. It must be the cold that made her tremble; but the temperature in the apartment never varied; it was
75°
. She went back to her room and finished packing. She checked on her money and then looked up the number of Eastern Airlines.

The only way to keep her fear under control was to keep occupied, to think of going away with Keller, so that her mind had no time to wonder what Eddi King might be doing at that moment. Nobody, she insisted, could get up to her apartment; with the doors bolted, even if they did slip past the porter, they couldn't get inside. And the twelfth floor had its obvious advantage. He could hardly climb through the window. But even the idea made her swing round, realising the windows were behind her. Eastern Airlines had a midday flight to Mexico City, it was part of the new schedule which was operating from mid March. Elizabeth booked two tickets; she gave her travel agent's number. The airline said they would check through with them and leave her tickets at their desk at the airport.

Eleven would give her and Keller just enough time to catch the plane. She went into the kitchen and made coffee; she hadn't touched food since breakfast and yet she didn't feel like eating. But perhaps if she made herself take something it might stop the persistent trembling of her body. Fatigue and emptiness. That was the cause; Elizabeth said it to herself out loud. She was safe; nobody could get to her. She had nothing to fear. She made herself some eggs and managed to get most of them down. She insisted that she felt better.

Sitting in the breakfast area in the kitchen, drinking coffee, reminded her of that first morning, when she made Keller breakfast. He hadn't liked the waffles. The night before she hadn't been able to sleep; too shaken and confused by what had happened to her, roused by an instinct as accurate as her dread of Eddi King. The moment of truth had come into her life when an angry man kissed her, to insult, not seduce; to punish her arrogance and put the situation in perspective. Her money, her sophistication were no match for a man who really was a man. He had shown her the consequences of trying to treat him as anything less. And he had made her love him from that first moment. Perhaps even before, when they were on the plane together. Long before the night they became lovers.

They had come halfway across the world together to America, and tomorrow they would leave together. Probably for ever. She couldn't imagine what her new life would be like; she could only judge in terms of him and the time they had been together in her flat. That was the only happiness she had ever experienced. Making love was wonderful; it had been wonderful that afternoon, lying together in the shabby bedroom, with the news of death just spoken between them. He had given her freedom in the only sense that mattered. Freedom to be herself, to give herself in love without shame or reservation. This was the true emancipation for her sex. The equality, the bank accounts, the tedious in-fighting of the so-called sex war … they were sham, hers the reality. Love was a coin which society had debased; it meant so much more than the physical act; it was talked about in terms of performance, like an automobile. What she felt for Keller and he for her could never be measured in any known terms or even accurately described. It was unique to them. It gave her the courage to sit in her apartment, knowing that one woman had already been killed in mistake for her and the murderer was still unsatisfied. It gave her the impetus to tear up her roots from the safe soil of America and go into exile with the man she loved.