He took a step away from the greengrocer’s doorway and then another. But he could no longer control his legs. They began to wobble and his feet were beginning to refuse all commands. Still he managed another step, then yet another, but after that he sank slowly to his knees.
The American got out of the taxi and approached him cautiously. A few people turned to stare. With his eyes fixed on the American, Felix again started groping around inside his briefcase. The American reached down and took it away from him. Felix watched indifferently as the American tucked the briefcase away under an arm.
They stared at each other for several moments, and Felix found himself wondering about the American’s increasingly wavery outline. Perhaps it was the light — the dusk. But there could be no dusk at noon. Reality took another few quick steps away from Felix. Then, from what seemed to be a long way off, he heard the American say in awful border Spanish, “Vamos, amigo.”
Felix closed his eyes, licked his lips, and thought about asking where; but it was simply too much effort. At least it wouldn’t be Israel. At least it wouldn’t be the Jews. He wondered vaguely how the Americans had got onto the informer — and how much she had been paid. But all that could be sorted out later after he had rested. Perhaps even a nap. It would be so pleasant to curl up right there on the walk. He had almost decided to do exactly that when the smallish man in the three-piece brown suit reappeared. The smallish man no longer carried his umbrella.
“May I give you a hand with your friend?” the smallish man said in a sweet British voice that matched his mincing walk.
The American nodded. “I’d be much obliged.”
Together they each got an arm around Felix and lifted him to his feet.
“Likes his nip now and then, does he, poor dear?” the smallish man said.
“Now and then.”
The smallish man opened the taxi’s rear door and they tumbled Felix into the back seat.
“Thanks a million,” the American said as he climbed into the taxi.
“Don’t mention it,” the smallish man said. He watched the taxi pull away, and when it was gone he turned toward the butcher shop. He had almost decided on a plump capon for his supper; but if the lamb chops looked particularly good, he might even treat himself to a pair of those.
2
There were four of them in the dank cellar of the old boarded-up house in the short street in Hammersmith. Two men and two women. The houses on either side were also boarded up and vacant, waiting for the wrecker who was now three weeks past due. The cellar smelled of dead cat.
One of the women had been stripped almost naked and bound with yellow insulation wire to a heavy dining-room chair. Her name was Maria Luisa de la Cova, and she was a thirty-four-year-old Venezuelan. She was also the coughing woman who had sold the man called Felix to the American for twenty thousand dollars in twenty- and fifty-dollar bills.
The money was now stacked neatly on a water-ringed oak dining-room table that matched the chair. The table had only three legs. A substitute fourth leg had been fashioned out of two Cutty Sark whisky crates. Next to the stacked money was the large black leather purse with the silver clasp. The purse had been turned inside out and its lining ripped away. There was no electricity. Light came from six pink candles stuck into beer bottles.
One of the men, a pallid, almost lashless blond with a slab body and a flat solemn face, lit a cigarette with a disposable lighter. He was called Frank by the others, although his real name was Bernt Diringshoffen and he had been born thirty-two years ago in Hamburg. After lighting the cigarette, he puffed on it inexpertly, not inhaling, obviously a non-smoker.
The de la Cova woman watched him. Her eyes were pink and her face was tear-streaked, but she was no longer crying. There were angry red burns on the left side of her neck and on her small breasts. Four burns in all.
“Tell us,” Diringshoffen said and blew on the coal of the cigarette.
“I’ve already told you,” the de la Cova woman said and began to cough harshly. Diringshoffen waited patiently until the coughing at last had ended. “Tell us again,” he said pleasantly.
She began speaking in a rapid monotone so low and indistinct that the others had to bend forward to hear.
“He said his name was Arnold. I don’t know if that was his real name or not. I don’t even know if it was his surname or his given name. I don’t care. I just called him Arnold, if I ever called him anything. We met several times, maybe four, maybe five. Twice in Soho, at least twice there, and again in Islington in a cafe he knew. Maybe three times there. In Islington. Maybe just two. I can’t remember.”
“Did he say he was CIA?” the other woman asked. The other woman also spoke English, but with an almost crippling French accent. Her name was Françhise Leget, and she had been born twenty-nine years ago in Algiers. She had large black eyes that she blinked rapidly and a thin stylish body, and many thought her to be quite pretty.
The de la Cova woman seemed to find Françoise Leget’s question stupid. She sighed wearily and said, “I’ve already explained that.”
The second of the two men was older than the rest, nearly thirty-eight. He was also Japanese. The others called him Nelson, although his real name was Ko Yoshikawa. His English had a hard American edge to it.
“Please explain it again,” he said. “We would appreciate it very much.”
The de la Cova woman sighed. “He didn’t say anything like that — that he was CIA. He didn’t have to. He just sat down at my table that day in Soho and said he knew all about me — that I was thirty-two and sick and needed money for the baby and that Felix was going to dump me anyhow.” She looked at the Japanese. “That part was true, wasn’t it — about Felix?”
Ko frowned and said, “What did you tell him about us?”
“Nothing. He wasn’t interested in any of you. He seemed to know all about you — about all of us. But the only one he wanted was Felix.”
“And you gave him Felix,” Françoise Leget said.
“I gave him Felix. The baby was sick. I was sick. I’m still sick.” As if to prove it, she started coughing again.
After the coughing finally stopped, Diringshoffen said, “When did it happen — exactly?”
“At noon,” she said. “At exactly noon today. I called Felix this morning and told him I’d heard something bad — you know, something I couldn’t say over the phone. We arranged to meet at the Lord Elgin pub in Maida Vale at noon. I was in a taxi with the American — with Arnold. I don’t think it was a real taxi. When Felix came out of the tube station, I pointed him out. The American wanted to know if I was sure. I said yes, I was sure. He had already given me the money. He made me get out of the taxi. I don’t know what happened to Felix.”
She looked up at the Japanese and in a soft plaintive voice said, “Won’t you please kill me now?”
At first, Ko didn’t reply. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard her request because his thoughts were in some distant, more interesting place. But after a moment he nodded in an abstracted way at the German, who dropped the cigarette, ground it out, picked up a length of yellow insulation wire, and stepped behind the bound woman.
The Japanese looked at Maria Luisa de la Cova then. “Well, yes, of course,” he said almost apologetically. “We’ll attend to that right away.”
It was Ko himself who made the call to the Embassy of the Libyan Arab Republic. He made it from a pay phone in the lobby of the Cunard Hotel. The call was taken by Faraj Abedsaid, who was listed on the Embassy roster as Attaché (Cultural Section), a position that left him with considerable free time.