The brotherhood, p.10
The Brotherhood, page 10
‘Then what is worrying you?’
‘I know I can’t prove anything — you made damn certain of that! But I’m not fool enough to think we all found ourselves in that dump of a hotel last week just by chance. We were put there.’
Cane said nothing.
‘All right, let me spell it out for you, John. I was put into the hotel last week for a purpose. You wanted to test me — find out if I fell for your little plot, then see how I reacted. You’d probably nobbled the big hotels and made sure Scammell’s party didn’t get any rooms, then when you found out where they were finally booked in, you got that upstanding lad Meredith to apply for the job of night porter. The rest was plain sailing. I’m going into court next week to say my piece — say I saw Chuck Ortiz assault Meredith, and that Meredith hit back in self-defence — and then confirm his story about finding the ashtray full of smoked reefers. There’s no problem of conscience — I’ll be telling the truth.’
‘So what is worrying you?’ Cane said again.
‘The person who booked me into the hotel. Hugh Rissell.’
‘Rissell?’ Cane frowned.
‘The News Editor of The Paper?’
‘The Paper?’ he repeated woodenly.
Magnus nodded. ‘The booking was done through his secretary, at the last moment. That’s why they couldn’t get me into one of the decent hotels — or so they told me. And that’s why I’m worried.’ For a moment he thought he saw a look of fear in Cane’s face. ‘I’m not quite with you, Magnus.’
‘I’m talking about The Paper. I’ve got a good job with them, they pay me good money, and if in some way The Paper’s involved in all this, I want to know how and why.’
Cane’s hand jerked up as though warding off a blow. ‘Just a moment.’
‘Not just a moment, Mr Cane. This is important to me. I want to know how Hugh Rissell knew about the Bute Hotel.’
‘I don’t know anything about this Mr Rissell. And that’s the truth, Magnus.’ His voice was still low and steady, but he was clearly troubled; and for the first time since they had met, Magnus felt a curious psychological superiority. Cane had admitted nothing; and while their talks together had been suggestive, they have never been compromising. But now, with the mention of The Paper, all that had changed.
Magnus knew that Cane had now reached the moment of decision: he must either bring their dialogue to a close, denying all knowledge of what Magnus was trying to insinuate; or he must take a dangerous gamble and confide in him entirely.
For a long time he sat gazing down into the pool where the young men were competing with swift breast-strokes. These were his legions, part of a voluntary regiment of healthy-minded citizens dedicated to cleaning up Britain and the world.
When he spoke again, his words had a slow solemnity as though delivering a prepared speech: ‘When you were in the Army, Magnus, did you ever try to query the orders of your superior officers?’
‘Never. I was a blind obedient conscript.’
‘But you would agree there are moments in the life of any soldier, especially in combat, when he must expect to receive orders which he does not understand, or with which he disagrees?’
Magnus sat very still, feeling his heart begin to race. ‘It never happened to me.’
Cane nodded gravely. ‘That is why I asked you, Magnus. Because in the next few weeks you may find yourself under combat orders, and when you do, don’t try to seek an explanation.’
So this was it. Cane had decided to commit himself. The effort of decision showed clearly in his face: his eyes deep and weary, his breathing slow.
‘I’m not suggesting that I don’t trust you, my boy, but honesty is not an absolute virtue. We are a small organisation fighting terrible odds — against a huge amorphous enemy to whom honesty and fair play mean nothing.
‘The sewer that flows under our public life — which for centuries, except for a few brief and miserable interludes, has succeeded in flowing underground — is now bursting out and swamping the decent life of our nation. This week that sewer was flowing broad and swift through Cardiff — though, God forbid, Cardiff didn’t deserve it! We, as an organisation, weren’t able to shut down the floodgates completely — all we could do, and did do, was drop in a few nets and pull up some of the sewer rats. You, Magnus, had the honour to be there when it was done.’
He was leaning out of his chair now, his face still gaunt, but his eyes smiling with a feverish inner light. ‘I know what you’re going to ask me. What about the law? Well, Magnus, the law is like honesty. Both have qualified values, and they must command qualified respect. We are at war. And in order to win that war, we cannot afford to be sentimental. We must be ruthless and steel ourselves to duties which may often be distasteful, even dangerous. For this is not a clean front-line war. The enemy have seen to that — they’ve called the type of fight it is to be. A dirty subversive guerrilla war. So we too must be guerrillas. Our tactics must be their tactics, our weapons their weapons — but turned against them, with a vengeance!’
He settled into his chair, and for a moment the tension seemed to leave him. The swimmers had gone, the rest of the spectators were drifting away. The baths were quiet now.
‘You will be familiar,’ Cane went on, ‘with the elementary precautions that any secret organisation must take to protect itself against infiltration and exposure? Well, I have to admit that you find yourself in a somewhat privileged position. Entirely on my own authority, and at my own discretion, I have allowed you to know more of our organisation than is normal at this stage. I have done this because I believe in you, Magnus. I believe that with a measure of restraint and guidance you would come to serve us — serve your country, indeed the whole of western civilisation — to an extent which you cannot at the moment fully appreciate. I have great hopes for you, and I would be a fool to pass you up out of some faint-hearted doubt.’ He paused.
‘There is one last thing, Magnus. If you want to opt out, it’s not too late. If you have any doubts, any fears — tell me now.’
For a moment Magnus almost laughed in his face. He realised now that the man was not only mad, he was also dangerous. Yet in his madness there was a certain consistency. He had decided to trust Magnus, and nothing would now shake that decision. Whatever his other sins, Cane did not suffer from self-doubt.
Magnus, however, enjoyed no such serenity. As they walked back round the swimming pool, up the concrete stairs to the street, he felt a heaviness in his belly. Until now it had all been a game, an intriguing puzzle which had begun only lately to have sinister undertones. Magnus had played along out of idle curiosity; but in the last hour all that had changed.
By making him his confidant, Cane also made him an accomplice. Magnus was not sure what the crime would be — conspiracy? perjury? But worst of all, he was no longer sure which side he was on. Certainly not the Nesbitts and Scammells and Berliners. But that didn’t mean he was on Cane’s side either, along with Pym and Sir Lionel Hilder and clean young thugs like Meredith. Of only one thing he was sure — that he had gone this far, and it was his duty, moral duty now, to see the thing through.
They walked out into the square near Regent’s Park. Cane stopped beside him, watching him closely. ‘Well, any last questions?’
‘Yes — the girl. Who is she, John?’
Cane shook his head. ‘No, Magnus. There are some things…’
‘And Steiner?’ He felt a nerve jerk in his bad leg, and as though to support him Cane gripped his arm, squeezing slightly.
‘I’m sorry, Magnus. I’ve told you enough already. To tell you too much at this point would not only be foolish, but dangerous for yourself, as much as for us.’ He started down the street, still holding him by the arm. ‘You’re a fine journalist, Magnus, but for goodness sake, do watch that demon drink!’
Magnus stopped short. ‘Drink?’ he muttered.
Cane nodded gravely. ‘It’s the little weaknesses, my boy. From small failings grow great failures.’
For the second time that afternoon Magnus almost burst out laughing. To switch from criminal conspiracy to the language of a Victorian temperance play was a thing not to be taken seriously; yet Cane was serious.
‘You may not think it any of my business, but your weaknesses are now our weaknesses. And don’t tell me you haven’t been drinking. Down in Cardiff — I’ve been hearing stories, you know.’ Magnus walked on, nodding slowly. They had spied on him once before — a shabby little fellow who had passed himself off as the gas man. At least the second time he had enjoyed more sophisticated attention. He took a deep breath. ‘So it was the girl?’
Cane said nothing.
‘I don’t like snoopers, John.’
‘That’s our privilege.’ He waved at a cruising taxi. ‘Want a lift?’ But suddenly Magnus wished to be rid of him. ‘I’ll walk.’
Cane paused as the taxi drew up. ‘Remember what I told you. When there’s something for you to know, you’ll be told in good time. You must trust us, Magnus. We trust you.’ He climbed in, and Magnus heard him give the address of Albany.
He waited till the taxi was out of sight, then headed for the nearest pub.
PART 2: FRAME-UP
CHAPTER 1
The Air France Caravelle boomed down through the dusk, its jets sweeping up drifts of rain as it taxied round the apron to where the bus came crawling out from the Europa terminal.
The first-class passengers were released from a door close to the nose, descending past the toothpaste smile of the air hostess. The last of them emerged some moments later. He was a tall young man with a shelf of dark blond hair that flopped over his eyes, his jaw rough with several days’ stubble. He wore skin-tight jeans, faded almost white round the buttocks and knees, scuffed leather boots and an open-necked checkered shirt.
The steward came out behind him, holding his LOT overnight bag, helping him on with a lumber jacket, as they began to manoeuvre their way down the steps. The young man seemed to be having difficulty articulating his legs. By the time they reached the tarmac the air hostess from the first-class compartment had retreated to join her companion, who was seeing the tourist passengers out of the tail of the plane.
The young man splashed through the puddles to the bus, steadied himself against the door, then very deliberately spat on to the tarmac below the steps. The steward came up quickly behind him and pushed him aboard, hurrying him into a seat against the window.
A girl in uniform got on, holding up a grey card. ‘Will all passengers not holding a British passport please complete this form for Immigration.’
The young man looked at her and grinned. He had a long slack mouth and thick eyebrows that were startlingly dark under his blond hair. His eyes were grey and fierce, spoilt only by an orange glare at the corners. The steward, who had taken special charge of him on the plane, had filled in his Immigration card, as well as holding his passport for him.
For most of the fifty-five minutes’ flight from Orly, passenger Krok had been reasonably well behaved. It was only when the signal flashed up for fastening seat belts before the descent over Heathrow, that he had begun to grow troublesome. He would not fasten his belt, insisting that the stewardess did it for him; then, as she bent down to do so, had pressed a wet kiss on to the nape of her neck. (The steward had already noted, with some misgiving, that passenger Krok had taken liberal advantage of the free champagne offered to first-class passengers, making up a fair portion of the difference in price between a tourist ticket and his own — which he had not had to pay for in the first place.)
The bus doors closed and they began to move. For a time the young man peered through the misty window, then rested his head on the back of the seat and began to sing. He had a rich bass and the song he sang was a tragic Slavonic love song, bellowed through the packed silence, his eyes closed, his neck muscles bulging and quivering, while the steward sat poker-faced beside him, waiting anxiously for the bus to stop.
They were again the last to leave. It was 6.45 when passenger Krok climbed the ramp to the two segregated entrances marked ‘British Passports Only’ and ‘Foreign and Commonwealth Passports’. It was here that the steward’s responsibility ended and he gratefully handed over his charge to an airport official who would accompany the young man through Immigration and Customs, then on to the V.I.P. press lounge.
The official looked him uneasily up and down, then smiled timidly, deciding at the last moment not to offer him his hand. The young man was flexing his fingers in rather an odd manner, and his mouth was stretched back in a grimace of mock pain. ‘Mr Krok? Hope you had a good journey.’
Krok hung his head and belched.
‘Is something wrong?’ the official asked.
‘I am non-British,’ Krok said. ‘Does that mean a non-person? An un-person?’ He looked up and glared dangerously. ‘And if I had a British wife? She would go through a different door — she would be segregated, I think?’ His voice was surprisingly steady, but with a heavy accent.
The last of the foreign passengers had passed through Immigration, and it was now Krok’s turn to move up to the desk. The airport official simpered nervously: ‘No, no! It’s just a formality, Mr Krok — it hurries things up, you see.’
Krok seemed mollified by this explanation, and passed obediently up to the Immigration Officer, a young man in a blazer who examined the Polish passport with some interest, noting the details of Pan Bogdan Krok, born in Warsaw 1936, Profession Author and Film Director. His visa was in order, and he did not ask any questions; arrangements had been made to hurry Bogdan Krok through as smoothly as possible.
He stamped the passport, and Krok and his escort passed into the lounge to wait for the baggage to come up. Krok sat down in morose silence, swinging his hands between his knees. The airport official kept his distance until they were called through into the Customs hall.
Here the formalities proved less pliable. The Customs men, disguised as naval officers, moved down the benches performing their polite inquisition, warning of the penalties for smuggling, opening suitcases, feeling through clothes, lifting out books and bottles. By the time Bogdan Krok was approached he was showing impatience.
The officer was a sallow man with a clipped moustache. The airport official handed him Krok’s passport, and he took his time leafing through it, while Krok began kicking his boot noisily against the bench. After a moment the airport official murmured: ‘Mr Krok is being met outside in the V.I.P. lounge.’
The Customs man seemed unimpressed. He closed the passport at last, handed it back to Krok and said, ‘Is this all your luggage, sir?’ On the bench in front of him stood a battered leather holdall and the LOT overnight bag. Bogdan Krok nodded and went on kicking the bench.
‘Have you read this?’
Krok looked at the plastic notice behind the man’s shoulder, and shrugged. ‘No, I haven’t got anything.’
‘Will you read this notice, please.’
Bogdan shrugged again, without looking at the notice.
‘Please read it,’ said the man.
Bogdan Krok squinted at it for a moment, drew in his breath, and began to read it, aloud, in his ringing bass: ‘H.M.’s Customs and Excise…!’ He had stepped back, his left arm flung out in the pose of a Victorian actor declaiming: ‘All articles purchased abroad…!’
‘That’s enough, sir!’ the Customs man snapped, his cheeks reddening.
Bogdan Krok’s audience consisted of perhaps a hundred other passengers — all now looking in his direction — as his Slavonic bass bellowed on: ‘Tobacco, spirits, perfume…!’ He swung round, pausing dramatically; and as he did so, the Customs man noticed his right hand — a thumb and single forefinger tapering from his wrist into a fleshy prong.
‘The penalties for smuggling are severe!’ Krok roared, oblivious of the hubbub of voices round him; then saw the Customs man looking at his hand. He stopped and gave a bellow of laughter.
The man bent his head and began busily opening the holdall. It was stuffed with old clothes, a half-empty bottle of Rémy Martin, piles of paperbacks in Polish and French, a loose razor and a hot-water bottle. While the Customs man was looking through the books, Krok lifted out the bottle, uncorked it and drank greedily. The officer looked very angry, but said nothing.
People were still staring as Krok was finally shown through to the main hall, stumbling head and shoulders above most of the crowd, into the V.I.P. reception lounge.
A thickset balding man advanced towards him, smiling: ‘Dobry wieczór, Panie Krok!’ He turned to a glossy little man in a pearl-grey tie: ‘This is Mr Loman, who is responsible for the publicity of Satellite Films, Pan Krok.’ His accent was faint, but familiar. ‘I am Jan Steiner — East-West Cultural Association. We are honoured to be at your service during your stay in Britain, Pan Krok.’ He held out his hand, and Krok took it with his left, showing ill-concealed distaste.
He had lived for more than two decades under Communist rule, and he recognised the type — probably of German extraction from the Western Territories, stolid and impersonal, with that flat Teutonic accent.
‘Mr Loman has made all the arrangements,’ Steiner explained, and Loman added: ‘I hope you’re not too tired after your journey, Mr Krok, but we’ve arranged a press conference for you. It’s to catch the morning papers. Then afterwards we’ll take you on to dinner. Will that be all right?’
‘I’m drunk,’ Krok said.
There was a moment’s silence. Loman cleared his throat and chuckled: ‘Well never mind, we’ll get you some coffee.’
‘Get me some cognac. Good French cognac!’ Steiner murmured something in Polish, and Krok glared. The airport official took advantage of this exchange to withdraw; he did not envy the task ahead for either Mr Steiner or Mr Loman.
Loman, meanwhile, had slipped away to the bar, and now returned with a moderate measure of brandy which Krok disposed of in one swallow. The three then made their way through the lounge, into a bright stuffy room with perforated walls and rows of steel-tubed chairs. There were about a dozen journalists present, already equipped with a handout listing Krok’s achievements, prepared by Loman’s publicity department.
