Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

‘By Army truck, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Agnelli looked slightly dazed. ‘This makes things a bit difficult. I thought it would be at least the day after tomorrow. Could I call up tomorrow to finalize time and place? And could you hold up delivery for at least a few hours?’

‘That can be arranged.’ George looked at van Effen. ‘Mr Agnelli can call here? 10 a.m., say?’ Van Effen nodded and George smiled at Agnelli. ‘Can’t say yet, but somewhere between ten and twelve thousand dollars. We offer the best discount rates in Europe. Dollars, guilders or deutschmarks. More, of course, if our – ah – services are required.’

Agnelli stood up and smiled, his old relaxed and genial self again. ‘Of course. The price, I must say, doesn’t seem too exorbitant.’

‘One thing,’ van Effen said pleasantly. ‘You are aware, aren’t you, Mr Agnelli, that if I moved to another hotel and registered there under another name, that the chances of your ever finding either of us again would be remote?’

‘Remote? They wouldn’t exist.’ Agnelli was frowning. ‘Why ever should you mention such a thing?’

‘Well, a state of mutual trust does exist between us, doesn’t it?’

‘Naturally.’ The puzzlement still there.

‘Well, if it does, call off the watchdogs in the lobby, in the dining-room and outside.’

‘My watchdogs?’ From the expression on Agnelli’s face one could see that, far from being baffled, he was stalling for time.

‘If you don’t, we’ll throw them into the canal – suitably trussed of course – and then move on.’

Agnelli looked at him, his face for once expressionless. ‘You do play for keeps, don’t you? I really believe you would.’ He smiled and put out his hand. ‘Shame. Very well, watchdogs retired. Shame. But they really weren’t up to it.’

When they had gone, van Effen said to George: ‘You really should have taken up a life of crime. Too late now. Anyway, you’d have given Colonel de Graaf apoplexy years ago. I’ll bet Annelise has no idea quite how splendid a liar you are. You have Agnelli hooked, outfoxed, outgunned and demoralized, not to say dependent: at least, let’s hope so. Will you talk to Vasco later this evening and tell him that you’ve got an offer of employment for him in the capacity of an army lieutenant – after, of course, he’s made suitable alterations to his appearance? We mustn’t forget that Agnelli has had the opportunity of studying Vasco at close range.’

‘There’ll be no problem.’ George handed over Agnelli’s shopping list. ‘I’d give a great deal to see the Colonel’s face when he sees what he’s got to go shopping for in the morning. You’ll be seeing him, I take it, in an hour or so. Has it occurred to you that Agnelli might very well be there along with Riordan and this fellow Samuelson?’

‘It’s an intriguing thought and, yes, it has occurred.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’

‘Well, what, he asks. We know that Agnelli is Annecy.’

‘We’re ninety-nine per cent certain. Don’t forget that I never saw either of the two Annecy brothers that we didn’t manage to catch and put away.’

‘The fact that you don’t know him doesn’t mean he doesn’t know you, of course he does – he must have seen your picture in the papers many times during the period of the arrest and trial. How do you think he’s going to react when he sees before him not only the dreaded Lieutenant van Effen but the dreaded lieutenant whose sister he’s got tucked away in some dungeon, the sister who, for all you know, he spends his leisure time with, testing out the latest model in thumbscrews?’

‘Should be interesting.’

‘Colonel de Graaf was right,’ George muttered. ‘You belong a hundred fathoms down. Just a cold-blooded fish.’

‘ “Your ten cents will help to kill a British soldier. It’s a bargain at the price – the best bargain you’ll ever get.” That’s what the collectors say when they go around rattling their damn tin cans in the Irish bars in the United States. Especially in the Irish bars in the north-east states. Especially in New York. Most especially of all in the borough of Queens where the Irish are thickest on the ground. Ten cents. That’s all they ask, just ten cents. And, of course, they rattle their cans whenever they hold Irish nights, Irish dances, Irish raffles, Irish whatever you like.

‘If you’ve never heard that there are charitable organizations – charitable they call themselves – which collect for arms, then you live in another century or with your head in the sands. They claim that the millions of dollars that they’ve collected over the years have gone to support the widows and orphans of the IRA members foully slain by the murderous British. Support widows and orphans! The founder of one such evil organization once made the mistake of telling the truth when he said: “The more British soldiers that are sent back from Ulster in their coffins, the better.” Jack Lynch, a former Irish premier, has gone on record as saying that the money is intended for one purpose only – to make widows and orphans. British widows and orphans.’

Riordan, an abnormally tall, abnormally thin man, black-haired, deeply tanned and dressed in a near-ankle-length black raincoat which served only to heighten the looming angularity of the man, was literally shaking with rage as he stood facing his audience, his fists ivory-knuckled on the table before him. His sincerity and outrage were unquestionable, his intensity almost terrifying.

‘God knows it’s bad enough that the contributions to these infamous organizations should come from honest, God-fearing, intensely religious Catholics who are duped into thinking they are contributing to a worthy cause instead of some damnable crew who make Murder Incorporated look like innocent children playing in a kindergarten. The money goes directly to dedicated IRA operatives. Some of it is used to buy guns at black-market sales in New York itself, auctions usually held in razed areas or empty car parks, always by night, nearly always in the Bronx, Queens or Brooklyn. Guns, gentlemen, are rather easily come by in the fair city of New York.’ In the depth of his bitterness, Riordan almost spat the words out. ‘The rest of the money is used by other operatives who openly travel to the southern and midwestern states where gun permits do not exist. Wherever the guns come from, they all end up in the New York area from where they are shipped out, almost always from New Jersey or Brooklyn, with the warm encouragement and complicity of the stevedore unions and the upright US customs, many of whom are first- or second-generation Irish and feel blood-brothers to the murderous IRA. As the Customs Service is controlled by the US Treasury Department, it is logical to suppose that those dealers in death operate with the cognisance if not the connivance of the US Government. The Irish influence in Congress is as well known as it is remarkably powerful.’

‘A moment, Mr Riordan, if you would.’ The interruption came from Aaron Wieringa, the Minister of Defence, a big, florid, blue-eyed and very calm man, a man immensely respected throughout the country and one who would very likely have become premier quite some years ago if he had not been cursed with the unfortunate and crippling handicap, for a politician, of total incorruptibility. ‘One appreciates – one can hardly fail to appreciate – that you are a very angry man. We are not, I assure you, nineteenth-century ostriches and I think it would be true to say that there is not a man in this room who does not understand that your fury is totally justifiable. I would not go so far as to concur in your condemnation of Washington and Congress, but that, in the current and particular circumstances, is by the by. Your opinion, as distinct from your recital of verifiable facts, is not of immediate concern.