Jack Higgins: Midnight Never Comes

'No need to come down, Paul.' She kissed him briefly. 'You'll call me?'

'Of course.'

But he wouldn't, not again. He knew that suddenly and she knew it too, he could tell by the way she paused before getting into the taxi, turning to look up at him as if she was aware that it was for the last time, one hand raised in a brief little gesture that carried its own finality.

He was in the shower when the door-bell rang. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist and padded across to the front door, leaving damp footprints on the parquet floor.

When he opened the door a maid stood there wearing a blue nylon overall that was obligatory for all female staff. She was young and rather pretty with dark brown hair and hazel eyes.

'Mr. Chavasse, sir?' she said enquiringly, 'I've come to change the bed linen.'

'It's a hell of a funny time for that, isn't it?' Chavasse said.

'It should have been taken care of this afternoon, sir, but I believe you left word that you weren't to be disturbed.'

He grinned suddenly. 'I was forgetting. You're new, aren't you?'

She moved past him into the flat and nodded. 'That's right, sir.'

Chavasse closed the door. 'And what might your name be?'

'Peggy, sir.'

She had a faint Irish accent and smiled, colour staining her cheeks. Chavasse was suddenly aware of his nakedness and grinned. 'Sony, but you caught me in the shower. I'll leave you to it.'

He returned to the bathroom and stepped back into the shower. His stomach was aching for food and he faced the rest of the evening with pleasant anticipation, wondering where to eat, going over the possible choices one after the other in his mind.

He turned off the shower, stepped out of the stall and was at once aware of a strange sound in the living-room. He paused, frowning, then wrapped a towel about his waist and went through quickly.

Peggy was in the act of closing the front door and in the centre of the room stood a large laundry basket on rubber wheels. She turned and catching sight of Chavasse, smiled.

'Oh, there you are, sir.'

Chavasse nodded at the basket. 'What on earth's that thing doing in here?'

'The basket, sir?' She smiled and put a hand on it. 'Oh, the basket's for you, sir.'

The man who stepped in from the bedroom was of medium height and at least fifty with a kindly, wrinkled face. He wore white overalls and carried a Webley with a silencer fitted to the end of the barrel.

'Just lie down on the couch, hands behind your head, sir,' he said briskly.

'For God's sake,' Chavasse said. 'What is this?'

Peggy produced a flat black case from one pocket of her overalls. She opened it, took out a hypodermic and primed it briskly.

'Much better to do as he says, Mr. Chavasse.'

Chavasse took another look at the Webley and lay down on the couch. She came close, bending over him so close that for a moment he was aware of her perfume and then she pulled the towel away with a quick gesture and he felt the needle enter his right buttock.

Whatever it was, it was good, he had to give them that. It had roughly the effect of a rather soft blow from a hammer and he dived into dark waters.

He drifted up from a well of darkness and something exploded inside his head as a hand slapped him across the face. He felt no pain, that was the extraordinary thing. It was as if his body no longer belonged to him. Each sound seemed to come from somewhere in the middle distance and yet he could hear everything with the most astonishing clarity.

He opened his eyes slowly. The room was festooned with giant grey cobwebs that stretched from one wall to the other, and undulated slowly. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, fighting back the panic that rose inside him. When he opened them again, the cobwebs had almost disappeared.

He was lying on a single bed against one wall of a large, square room. A shaded light hung down from the ceiling and curtains were drawn across the window. The only other furniture was a small table and a single chair which stood in the centre of the room.

Peggy, the Irish girl, was deep in conversation with a large man in an ill-fitting blue suit whose snow-white hair was close-cropped to the skull. They were speaking in Russian, and the girl's accent, while not wholly perfect to the trained ear, was still extremely good. The man was obviously Russian born, Georgian from the sound of him. Another man stood at the open door. He was of medium height, but heavily built with fair hair and an impassive face. He wore a neat white jacket of the type affected by medical orderlies in hospitals.

'You're sure he's all right?' the man in the blue suit said. 'Eight hours is a long time.'

'There's nothing to worry about,' the girl said. 'The dose was an exact one. There are individual variations in response, that's all. He could be out for another hour or two.'

'He must receive further sedation for the flight. We don't want any trouble.'

She nodded. 'It'll be taken care of. When will the plane leave?'

'I'm not sure. This damned fog might make things difficult and the pilot can't leave the airport without an official clearance. Whatever happens, his touchdown here can't last for longer than five minutes. We should be ready to go at any time during the next three hours.'

'I'll see to it,' she said.

He went out and she turned and walked across to the bed, immediately aware of Chavasse's fixed stare. She looked down at him calmly. 'So you're awake at last, are you? How do you feel?'

He moistened dry lips and managed a smile. 'Terrible.'

'A little coffee will soon fix that.' She spoke to the man at the door. 'See to it, Karl.'

He went out and the girl sat on the edge of the table and crossed one slim leg over the other. She was wearing a hip-length suede jacket and a neat skirt in Donegal tweed and, in any other circumstances, would have struck him as being extremely attractive.

Chavasse pushed himself up, discovering in the same moment that he was wearing his old tracksuit. Peggy immediately produced a Walther.32 from her pocket and held it in her lap. 'Just relax, Mr. Chavasse.'

'You know, you're good,' Chavasse said. 'Very good. A Dublin accent, suspiciously good Russian and legs to thank God for.'

She grinned. 'Flattery will get you nowhere.'

'One thing does puzzle me. What's a County Cork girl doing mixed up in a thing like this?'

'Wexford,' she said. 'And if you're interested, my father served ten years in an English prison for daring to fight for what he believed in.'

'Oh, no,' Chavasse groaned. 'Not that again.'

At that moment, an unearthly scream sounded from some lower floor and someone started to kick a door repeatedly.

He smiled brightly. 'What is this, a zoo?'

'It depends on your point of view,' she said. 'Most people come here for a rest cure.'

'Who for, their relatives?'

'Something like that. You could scream the place down and nobody would take the slightest notice.'

'Isn't that nice? This plane we're waiting for? Where's it taking me?'

'To visit some old friends of yours. They seem to think you may be able to help them in your retirement.'

'So from your point of view this is a strictly commercial proposition?'

'Exactly.' She got to her feet as Karl came back into the room with a tray. 'I must say I'm glad I was paid in advance. You don't strike me as being much of a bargain, Mr. Chavasse.'

Karl moved back to the door and she poured coffee into a blue mug. 'Would you like cream?'

'No, better make it black.'

She handed the mug to him and turned to Karl. 'You can take the tray away.'

In that single brief moment in which neither of them was looking at him, Chavasse poured his coffee into the space between the edge of the bed and the wall. When the girl turned to face him again, he was holding the empty mug to his mouth.