The Assassin (5 page)

Keller saw her come down the hotel steps. He noticed her because she was beautiful, even by the exacting standards of a resort like Beirut. She stood at the top of the steps waiting, her yellow hair shining in the winter sunlight, one hand holding the collar of a beige mink coat close under her chin. When one of the porters opened the door for her, Keller sat back quickly. He had brought the taxi as instructed. He hadn't known who was going to meet him. The last person in the world he had expected was a woman. She tried not to look at him as she got in. The door banged shut, and the driver turned to them over his shoulder. ‘To the airport now?'

Keller answered. He had his instructions from Fuad. Pick up the contact, go on to the airport, ask for a package at the American Express counter addressed to Nahum. It would contain his passport and more money.

‘Yes. And hurry.'

He took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and turned to the girl. ‘Do you smoke?'

‘Yes, thank you.' She bent down to the match he lit for her, and he saw that she was as pretty in profile as she was full face.

What the hell, Keller said to himself, blowing the match out, what the hell was a woman like that doing in his kind of business? What sort of a cover was this supposed to be? He frowned, and broke the match in two. He didn't like it; he didn't like the way things kept turning out differently to the way they should have done. It was as sinister in its way as the Mercedes, with its smoked windows and unknown watcher, giving two blasts on the horn. They had no right to send a woman with him.

‘If the traffic builds up,' he said suddenly, ‘we'll miss the plane.'

He felt her looking at him and he turned to face her. He felt she was going to ask him something and he nodded towards the driver. The taxis were all automobiles; there was no partition between the man in front and his passengers. And all Lebanese listened; they couldn't help it.

She understood him, and she settled back in the corner of the cab. They made the twenty-five-minute journey in silence. He spent most of the time looking through the side window, and smoking. Elizabeth watched him when she was sure he wouldn't notice. He was very still; he never made an unnecessary movement. His age was difficult to judge. Somewhere between thirty and forty, his nationality was as indeterminate as his accent. If she could guess from the few words that had passed between them he was probably French.

He felt her eyes on him and turned round. His own were blue, set deep in a face tanned and hardened by extremes of climate. He didn't look as if he knew how to smile. ‘We're almost there,' he said. He wished she wouldn't stare at him and then glance down, as if he were some kind of animal. It made him feel like an animal; hostile and on guard.

Until he opened the package in the airport he didn't even know where he was going. And a lifetime of living by his wits had honed his intelligence into a weapon of glittering sensibility. He didn't know what was ahead of him and he swore the bewildered girl who was escorting him didn't know either. It made the situation bizarre as well as dangerous. He decided to try her out a little when they were embarked for wherever they were going. He tried to judge by her clothes, but failed. The mink coat was no indication. Most of the Middle East was cold at this time of year, excepting only the baking desert sheikdoms. The more he thought about it, the less likely any of the early possibilities became. Jordan was still probable, but his instinct was rejecting that too. He got out and paid the cab. A porter unloaded their luggage and wheeled it into the airport building. For a moment they stood side by side, and then Elizabeth said, ‘I guess you have your ticket?'

‘It's waiting inside for me,' Keller said. ‘You have yours?'

‘Oh yes. It's right here in my purse.'

‘Then you go through. I will meet you in the departure lounge.' The man behind the American Express counter gave him an envelope, and he signed D. Nahum on the receipt form. Nahum was a Lebanese name; it had the same significance as Smith in Beirut. He slit the envelope open and there was the flat green passport with the American eagle stamped on the cover of it. He opened it and looked at the name inside. Teller. Andrew James Teller. Age thirty-eight, height five eleven, hair colour fair, eyes blue. No distinguishing marks. They were wrong there, he thought. There were some ugly scars on his upper body, relics of two Viet Minh bullets and a couple of drunken fights in Algiers. Teller. Very clever of them. It was near enough to his own name to make sure he'd answer to it automatically. Whoever had been in that Mercedes knew his business. There were a thousand dollars in a clip, and his ticket. It was booked through to New York. Keller put the money and the passport away in his hip pocket. New York. And he'd been thinking in terms of a little local assignment. What a fool he was; the amount of money, the currency involved, should have told him that whatever it was, this was right out of his class. He was just a stateless drifter, a man with no talent except one. He could kill accurately from a distance. He presented his ticket at the Pan Am office and went through to the departure lounge. The American girl was sitting reading a newspaper; he went past her to the bar and bought himself a double Scotch. He knew she was beside him by the way the two barmen looked up.

‘I'd like one too,' she said. ‘I hate flying. Can I have a whisky-and-soda?'

Keller put the money on the bar. ‘You'll have to hurry. We'll be called soon.' He wasn't used to flying; his experience was limited to French army transports.

‘It's all right,' the girl smiled at him for the first time. ‘It's not like a big international airport here. They're much more casual. We can finish our drinks and then go on board.'

‘You know the Lebanon well,' Keller said.

‘No, but I've travelled a bit in these sort of places. They're pretty much alike. I think Beirut is nicer than most. The people are nicer, anyway.'

‘Yes,' he said. He finished his drink. ‘So long as you have money. It buys most people.'

‘Including you?' She hadn't meant to say it, but his contemptuous attitude seemed directed at her personally. He pushed his glass forward and snapped his fingers for a refill.

‘Of course. You ought to know that.'

‘I don't know anything about you,' Elizabeth said. ‘I only know we're travelling together to New York.'

‘And you're not getting anything out of it?' He turned towards her. The first whisky was making a little fire in his stomach. He sent the second down to join in. There was a slight, angry colour in her face. It amused him. She wasn't used to being spoken to as he had done; men like him hadn't come into her experience before.

‘Only the pleasure of your company,' she said coldly.

‘I shouldn't rely on that. As it happens, I am being paid. Another whisky!'

‘We have a long flight ahead of us,' Elizabeth said quietly. ‘I'd rather you didn't get drunk.'

She had guts; Keller gave her that. He kept seeing Souha's face, with the big brown eyes full of misery. He could have taken the American woman by her yellow hair and slapped her, just to see her cry instead.

‘I never get drunk, mademoiselle. I'm not an American. That's the first call for our flight. Finish your drink and come on.' He took her by the arm; he had a grip like a vice.

They took their seats in the first class; for a moment Elizabeth was tempted to try and separate from him and take a single seat, but he was close behind her and she found herself being edged into the row where there were two seats vacant. He let her struggle out of her coat without helping her; he stood waiting, letting the hostess take the coat to hang it up, and when Elizabeth sat down he did the same. He buckled his safety belt, took out the packet of cigarettes and after a moment offered her one.

‘It's no smoking,' she said. ‘The lights are on.'

‘I'm not an experienced traveller like you,' Keller said. ‘I don't usually travel first class. It's very comfortable.' She didn't answer. She wished he hadn't sat beside her. His physical presence was too positive to ignore. His body filled the seat; he smelt of the strong cigarettes he smoked. His hand on the chair arm was veined and powerful; she had to sit carefully so as not to touch him. She remembered her remark to King: ‘I wouldn't want to go down a dark alley with him.' She didn't want to go anywhere at all with him beside her, but it was too late now. The Boeing began to nose forward, turning towards the main runway. The roar of its four turbo-jet engines reached a splitting crescendo as it began to taxi at increasing speed. Elizabeth closed her eyes, and clenched both her hands in her lap.

‘You really are frightened.'

She opened her eyes and found him looking at her. He had a face which could be as cold as a mask. There was no smile, no alteration in the pale blue eyes.

‘I'm all right now. It's just the take-off.'

The plane was airborne, climbing without effort into the azure sky. Already the winter clouds above Beirut were below them.

She took a copy of
Life
magazine from the hostess and tried to read. The man had his head back and his eyes closed; he seemed to be asleep. Elizabeth read the same two paragraphs of an article twice and then gave up. She couldn't concentrate on anything; there were too many questions she wanted to ask, and no one to answer them. It was all very well for Eddi King to say ignore her companion, but you couldn't sit with someone for twelve hours and just pretend they weren't there. Especially this man. Even when he slept she was aware of him.

Who was he—what was he—why did her uncle want him to come to the States? There were so many contradictions in the whole affair. He didn't fit in with her theory of a publicity stunt; he had a personality which wasn't exactly Joe Soaks. And the more she thought of him the more she believed he must have a purpose. He was coming for a specific reason; her trouble was that she couldn't think of one which could account for him. He was not asleep. His eyes had opened and they were watching her. The look made her uncomfortable. Men didn't look at her like that, as if they were taking the wings off a butterfly to see how it flew.

‘I don't know your name,' Elizabeth said. ‘What do I call you?'

He wasn't expecting that question, and he had no answer ready.

‘Some people call me Bruno. And what do I call you?'

‘Elizabeth Cameron is my name,' she said. ‘I suppose I shouldn't ask you questions but I would like to know one thing. Why are you coming to the States?'

For the first time she saw him smile.

‘I was hoping you could tell me that.'

‘You mean you don't know?'

‘I'm not being paid to ask questions.' Keller said. ‘Or to answer them. Don't you think it would be wiser if you took me on trust?'

‘I haven't got much choice,' Elizabeth said. ‘But I'm beginning to wish I'd asked a few more questions early on!' King had put it so simply to her; he had made it sound a trivial thing to do to please her uncle. Just come out to the Lebanon for a week and then come back, joining up with someone on the way. Just walk through Kennedy with them and then say goodbye at the terminal. It's all perfectly legal, he had promised her that. He too had asked her to take it on trust, like the man in the seat at her side. But without cynicism, without the subtle mockery which was in everything the stranger said or did. King had been charming and persuasive. She wished he were there now, he would have needed all his charm.

Keller saw the hostesses bringing the menus; the trolley with drinks was slowly approaching them. One way of stopping the girl asking him about himself was to cross-question her.

‘Do you usually pick up strangers in a foreign country and take them home with you? Doesn't your husband object?'

‘I haven't got a husband.'

‘That's surprising. Most American ladies marry several times.'

‘Not this American lady,' Elizabeth said. She took some champagne and watched him swallow down a double Scotch.

‘Don't worry,' Keller said. ‘I have a good head. Tell me about yourself. You have no husband. You are American and you have money.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘I can smell it,' Keller said. ‘Money has a certain smell which a poor man never forgets when it's been up his nostrils. I smelt it on you when you got in the taxi. Where do you live?'

‘In New York. I have a small apartment in the city.'

‘You have no parents?' He didn't really care. He went on talking without listening to her answers. He didn't want to know about her. He had his own woman in Beirut, who loved him. He was sorry he had taken the seat alongside her. Twelve hours and two stops was a long time.

‘I haven't any parents,' Elizabeth answered him. They were killed two years ago in an air crash.'

‘Is that why you don't like flying?'

‘Maybe. Their plane just exploded, over Mexico. What about you—do you have a family?'

‘Not that I know of,' Keller said. ‘I never knew either of them.'

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘You're French, aren't you?'

‘According to my passport,' he said, ‘I'm an American. You mustn't forget that. Tell me some more about yourself.'

‘There's nothing to tell,' she said. ‘I visit quite a lot with my uncle, outside New York, and the rest of the time I live in my apartment.' She smiled a little, more at herself than at him. ‘And I pick up the odd man here and there, as you said.'

‘Just for the fun of it,' Keller remarked. ‘Nobody pays you anything.'

‘Nobody pays me. I'm just doing it for laughs. Actually as a favour to my uncle.'

Keller was listening to her now.

‘Was he with you?' Whoever had been in the Mercedes while he used the gun, it certainly wasn't the girl. She must have a nice uncle to mix her up in this.