Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

‘I don’t wonder. There are no lions or cobras in Room 203, which is where we are. Charles tells us that Agnelli – it can only be Agnelli – has two other faithful but not very bright henchmen lurking around the place. Why? Surely it only required one stake-out, the one in the lobby, to advise him of our arrival. The other two are guards, parts of his insurance policy – don’t forget Agnelli has no reason to think that we know of their presence. There may even be others that Charles knows nothing about. This is the last place that we would think would be chosen as a meeting point – or so Agnelli must imagine – and so we wouldn’t think of arranging a reception committee here. And when he does call, you can be sure that he will announce that he will be here in a matter of minutes so that we can’t have the time to arrange one.’

Van Effen was right on both points. Agnelli called in person to say that they would meet at the Trianon and that he and his friends would be there in under five minutes.

‘He’s bringing friends, plural,’ van Effen said after he had hung up. ‘I don’t think Romero Agnelli trusts anyone.’

From the cordial, guileless expression Agnelli wore on his arrival, one could see that van Effen was wrong; here, patently, was a man one could trust anywhere. Agnelli had brought three men along with him. His brother Leonardo, looking, if that were possible, an even more genial member of the Mafioso than he had done the last time, and two others whom van Effen had never seen before. One of them, a burly, slightly florid, pleasant-featured character of indeterminate age – somewhere between forty and fifty, van Effen would have guessed, but it was difficult to be sure – was introduced as Liam O’Brien: from his accent, no less than from his name, he had to be Irish. The other, a handsome young man, dark and slightly swarthy, was introduced as Heinrich Daniken: he could have been of any nationality. Agnelli did not see fit to disclose what the function of either man was.

Introductions over, refreshments proffered and accepted, Agnelli said to George: ‘Do I call you George or do you have another name?’

‘Just George.’ He smiled. ‘I’m an anonymous person.’

Agnelli surveyed the vast bulk before him. ‘You, George, are the least anonymous-looking person I’ve ever seen. Don’t you find it rather a drawback in your profession? Whatever that may be, of course.’

‘Drawback? It’s a positive advantage. I’m a peace-loving man who abhors violence but when you’re as big as I am no one ever offers it to you.’ George, van Effen thought admiringly, was as consummate and convincing a liar as he’d ever known. ‘And, of course, everybody, or nearly everybody – I think particularly of those who are sworn to uphold the law – think that everyone who is as big, fat, cheerful and harmless as I am, must be able to get by very well without being able to think. It’s a kind of law of nature. Well, I’m no Einstein, but I’m not yet ready to be locked away in an institution for the retarded. But we haven’t met here to discuss personalities, Mr Agnelli, have we? Five questions. What do you want? How much or how many? When? Where? Price?’

The slipping of Agnelli’s good-humoured smile was so momentary that only the most alert or observant would have noticed it and even then it could have been as much imagined as seen. ‘You do get to the point rather quickly, don’t you, George? No time for the little business niceties, I see. Well, that’s the way I prefer it myself. Like you, I have no time for beating about the bush: like you, I regard myself as a business man.’ He produced a paper from an inside pocket. ‘Here’s my shopping list. Fairly comprehensive, is it not?’

George studied it briefly. ‘Fairly. Well within my limited capacities, I should think. Most of the items are straightforward, especially the explosives. The ground-to-ground wire-guided missiles – these will be anti-tank missiles, although you don’t say so – and the SAM ground-to-air missiles are also easily come by, as are the plastic mines, grenades and smoke-bombs.’ He paused, sipped some brandy and frowned. ‘Something here I don’t quite understand, don’t even like. I’m not talking about the fact that you seem to be preparing to wage a limited war, even although only a defensive one: that’s none of my business.’ He handed the list over to van Effen. ‘Comment?’

Van Effen studied it for no longer a time than it had taken George then returned the list. ‘Specifications.’

‘Exactly.’ George, not smiling, looked at the four men in turn then concentrated his gaze on Agnelli. ‘This is a lethal enough list as it is. But it could be dangerous in other ways, even suicidal, if it got into the hands of whoever prepared this list.’

Agnelli wasn’t smiling either. He looked more than slightly uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘Then I’d better enlighten you. Specifications, as my friend Stephan has said. Explosives – no specifications. Missiles, ditto – and that applies to both types. What kind of primers? What kind of detonators? Fuses – you don’t even say whether wire or chemical, how slow-burning or fast-acting. No explosives expert ever composed this list. Some amateur did, some bungling incompetent. Who?’

Agnelli studied his glass for some time then said: ‘I’m the incompetent. But I did get some bungling help from my three associates here.’

‘God help us all,’ van Effen said. ‘You’re not fit to be let loose with a box of kiddies’ fireworks. I have to ask you, not for the first time, where the hell are your experts?’

Agnelli smiled ruefully and spread out his hands. ‘I’ll be perfectly frank with you.’ Romero Agnelli, van Effen realized, was about to lie in his teeth. ‘We are temporarily embarrassed. The two men on whom we rely have been called away for other duties and won’t be back for a couple of days. But we thought – well, you gentlemen are both explosives experts and –’

‘That’s no problem,’ George said. ‘We know what to get and can give you simple instructions on how to use them without blowing your silly heads off. The missiles are a different matter. Only a trained man can fire one of those.’

‘How long does that take?’

‘A week. Ten days.’ George was vastly exaggerating, van Effen knew, but the four men’s patent ignorance of all things military was so extensive that it was very likely a safe exaggeration. ‘And don’t ask us, we’re no military men, we’re no more skilled in those matters than you are.’

Agnelli was silent for some time then said abruptly:

‘Do you know of anyone who is. Skilled in such matters, I mean?’

‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘I do.’ The way George said ‘I do’, in a tone just one degree short of impatience, made it clear that it was quite inevitable that he should know.

‘Who?’

George gave him a look of pity. ‘He hasn’t got a name.’

‘You must call him something.’

‘The Lieutenant.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he is a lieutenant.’

‘Cashiered, of course.’

‘Certainly not. A cashiered lieutenant is no good to me. I thought you would appreciate that a person like myself can only operate at second or third hand. A middleman, if you like. Or two.’

‘Ah! I see. Your supplier?’

‘Mr Agnelli. You can’t possibly be so naive as to expect me to answer so naive a question. I’ll see what can be done. Where do you want this stuff delivered?’

‘That depends on how soon you can deliver it.’

‘By noon tomorrow.’

‘Good heavens!’ Agnelli looked incredulous then smiled. ‘It looks as if I’ve come to the right shop. How will it be delivered?’