Алистер Маклин - Prime Target

‘Interesting,’ Whitlock said.

‘Well, no, actually. It’s dull. These guys are so predictable. And right now they’re lying low, or they think they are, so nothing is happening. Are you going to tell me now why you’re here?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Russ. It’s up to the boss to do that. If he wants to.’

‘Well, why not suggest to him we all three have a drink together tonight,’ Grundy said. ‘I know a couple of really discreet spots. Then Philpott can tell me what you’re doing, if he wants to, and I can remind him I always enjoy getting roped into a tasty caper. That way, my stay in Dallas might turn out interesting after all.’

‘Consider it done. I’ll call the old man now. How do I get back to you?’

‘Try waving from the balcony. I’m sitting by the pool.’

‘I take it your friend doesn’t speak English,’ Mike said, addressing the woman in the duffel coat. He assumed she had come back in response to the phone call.

‘He only has a few words.’ Her German accent was very slight. ‘But he does tend to assume other people speak Russian. I, on the other hand, probably speak English better than you do.’

She was standing in the sitting-room doorway, removing the coat. She was a handsome woman with small, firmly defined features. Her lipstick looked even brighter in artificial light.

‘You’ll be Erika Stramm,’ Mike said.

Pain sliced through his jaw when he moved it. He checked his teeth with his tongue. They were all there. He tried to smile.

‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t feel that way.’

‘I gather your restraints were necessary.’ She came into the room and walked once round the chair, stopping in front of Mike. ‘You don’t look like a fascist.’

‘That’s because I’m not one. My name is Desmond Miles. I’m a US citizen and I’m in the same business you are.’

‘What business is that?’

‘Journalism. I’m a political stringer for three West Coast papers.’

‘You’re not a journalist.’ Erika pointed to the assimilator where it lay on the sideboard with his other belongings. ‘Journalists don’t know about things like that.’

‘You seem to.’

‘I’m different.’ She smiled coldly. ‘Why did you break into my apartment?’

‘I wanted to find out about you.’

‘You’ll have to enlarge on that.’ Erika glanced at the other man. ‘If you don’t, I’ll set Gregor on you again. He’s from Sverdlovsk, you know. They’re savages, if they have to be.’

‘I came here,’ Mike said, ‘because I needed to know about your connection to an outfit that calls itself JZ.’ He watched her face but she didn’t waver. ‘It’s very important. I think it could be a matter of life or death.’

‘Whose death?’

‘Yours,’ Mike said.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You never heard of JZ?’

‘Never. It sounds like another lame made-up yarn.’

‘You never heard of Emily Selby?’

Erika’s smile shrank. ‘What about her?’

‘You admit you know her?’

‘Look…’ Suddenly she was edgy. ‘Say what you have to say. Stop all this screwing around.’

‘Emily Selby is dead. Did you know that?’

She stared at him. ‘You’re a liar!’

He had wondered how much truth leaked through the published facts. Hardly any, it seemed. The English papers reported that an American visitor had been shot. No name was given. By the following day diplomatic pressure had put the story into two inches on an inside page, and into limbo the day after that.

‘Emily was shot dead several days ago in London,’ Mike said. ‘The gunman was Arabic. He killed himself shortly after.’

An interesting thing happened then. For no apparent reason Erika looked across the room; it was only for a moment, but to do it she turned her head at right angles to the spot where she stood. It was an awkward thing to do, yet it appeared involuntary. Mike guessed she was looking at something related to what he had told her. He looked too, but he saw only a compact hi-fi speaker, fixed to the wall, and a plain black chair beneath it.

‘It would be easy to check this,’ Erika said.

‘Go ahead.’

She marched out of the room. Gregor stayed where he was, scowling at Mike. From another room there was the sound of a modem making a connection. After a couple of minutes Erika came back. She looked ill.

‘Emily is dead,’ she said quietly. ‘I hadn’t heard a thing about it.’ She looked at Mike. ‘You said he was an Arab?’

‘Apparently.’

‘How did you make the connection between me and Emily?’

‘Sources. I can’t divulge.’

‘I could make you divulge,’ Erika said, but she sounded too dispirited to try. ‘Why did you ask about the initials thing?’

‘JZ. There was a picture of a group of people in front of a banner with JZ on it. It was in Emily’s bag.’

‘How could you know that?’ she demanded.

‘I just know. How did you come to know her?’

‘We were friends, she and I.’

Erika massaged her temples. She muttered something in Russian to Gregor. He stood away from the couch, gave Mike a hard look, then left the room.

‘So you came here looking for a story,’ Erika said.

‘Your story. I want to know about you, your connections, your possible connection to the fact Emily was murdered.’

Erika stood staring at the floor for a minute. She looked up at Mike. ‘I could have you minced in a garbage truck within the hour. By tonight you’d be gull food.’

‘I believe you.’

She came to the chair and stood before him. ‘There could have been many worse ways for me to learn of Emily’s death.’ She began untying the rope that held Mike’s arms. ‘I don’t forgive you for the break-in, I simply don’t feel vindictive now.’ Her hands paused. ‘Take warning, please – that is not like me. I don’t forgive you for the matter-of-life-and-death bullshit, either.’

‘That could be true,’ Mike said.

‘Whether it is or not, you don’t care. The story is your only concern. I checked your credentials. You have the pedigree of a seasoned vulture.’

For a moment he was puzzled, then it clicked. The modem. She had done an Internet check on his listing. UNACO kept it updated and always in the appropriate place, complete with a photograph. His medical credentials were up there too, so was his accreditation as a lawyer, his status as an inspector with the Department of the Treasury and four other finely detailed aliases.

‘There.’ Erika uncoiled the rope and let him stand up. ‘Count yourself incredibly lucky, Mr Miles.’ She picked up his torch, the key kit and the sound assimilator. ‘I’ve purged my door’s frequency code from your little machine, but I haven’t damaged it. I respect nice technology, even when it’s used against me.’

‘Thanks.’

Erika walked with Mike to the door. ‘There is no story here. Not the one you were hoping to find.’

‘You could still be in danger,’ he said as she opened the door. ‘I know you don’t believe I’m concerned, but I promise you I get very troubled when Arabs with guns arrive on the scene.’

‘Whatever the truth of Emily’s murder, it doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’m sure of that.’ Erika was trying to sound detached, but she still looked pale and shaken. ‘Good luck with your next story, and take serious warning: if you ever interfere in my affairs again, you won’t get off so lightly. In fact, you won’t get off at all.’

Mike went down the steps. At the side of the road he looked back. She was still there. He waved and began walking.