Desmond Bagley - The Freedom Trap

Mackintosh’s office was, unexpectedly, in the City. I had difficulty in finding it because it was in that warren of streets between Holborn and Fleet Street which is a maze to one accustomed to the grid-iron pattern of Johannesburg. I found it at last in a dingy building; a well-worn brass plate announcing innocuously that this Dickensian structure held the registered office of Anglo-Scottish Holdings, Ltd.

I smiled as I touched the polished plate, leaving a smudged fingerprint. It seemed that Mackintosh knew his business; this plate, apparently polished by generations of office boys, was a sign of careful planning that augured well for the future — the professional touch. I’m a professional and I don’t like working with amateurs — they’re unpredictable, careless and too dangerous for my taste. I had wondered about Mackintosh because England is the spiritual home of amateurism, but Mackintosh was a Scot and I suppose that makes a difference.

There was no lift, of course, so I trudged up four flights of stairs — poor lighting and marmalade-coloured walls badly in need of a repaint — and found the Anglo-Scottish office at the end of a dark corridor. It was all so normal that I wondered if I had the right address but I stepped forward to the desk and said, ‘Rearden — to see Mr Mackintosh.’

The red-headed girl behind the desk favoured me with a warm smile and put down the tea-cup she was holding. ‘He’s expecting you,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if he’s free.’ She went into the inner office, closing the door carefully behind her. She had good legs.

I looked at the scratched and battered filing cabinets and wondered what was in them and found I could not possibly guess. Perhaps they were stuffed full of Angles and Scots. There were two eighteenth-century prints on the wall — Windsor Castle and the Thames at Richmond. There was a Victorian steel engraving of Princes Street, Edinburgh. All very Anglic and Scottish. I admired Mackintosh more and more — this was going to be a good careful job; but I did wonder how he’d done it — did he call in an interior decorator or did he have a pal who was a set dresser in a film studio?

The girl came back. ‘Mr Mackintosh will see you now — you can go right through.’

I liked her smile so I returned it and walked past her into Mackintosh’s sanctum. He hadn’t changed. I hadn’t expected him to change — not in two months — but sometimes a man looks different on his home ground where he has a sense of security, a sense of knowing what’s what. I was pleased Mackintosh hadn’t changed in that way because it meant he would be sure of himself anywhere and at any time. I like people I can depend on.

He was a sand-coloured man with light gingery hair and invisible eyebrows and eyelashes which gave his face a naked look. If he didn’t shave for a week probably no one would notice. He was slight in build and I wondered how he would use himself in a rough-house; flyweights usually invent nasty tricks to make up for lack of brawn. But then Mackintosh would never get into a brawl in the first place; there are all sorts of different ways of using your brains.

He put his hands flat on the desk. ‘So you are,’ he paused, holding his breath, and then spoke my name in a gasp, ‘Rearden. And how was the flight, Mr Rearden?’

‘Not bad.’

‘That’s fine. Sit down, Mr Rearden. Would you like some tea?’ He smiled slightly. ‘People who work in offices like this drink tea all the time.’

‘All right,’ I said, and sat down.

He went to the door. ‘Could you rustle up another pot of tea, Mrs Smith?’

The door clicked gently as he closed it and I cocked my head in that direction. ‘Does she know?’

‘Of course,’ he said calmly. ‘I couldn’t do without Mrs Smith. She’s a very capable secretary, too.’

‘Smith?’ I asked ironically.

‘Oh, it’s her real name. Not too incredible — there are plenty of Smiths. She’ll be joining us in a moment so I suggest we delay any serious discussion.’ He peered at me. ‘That’s a rather lightweight suit for our English weather. You mustn’t catch pneumonia.’

I grinned at him. ‘Perhaps you’ll recommend a tailor.’

‘Indeed I will; you must go to my man. He’s a bit expensive but I think we can manage that.’ He opened a drawer and took out a fat bundle of currency. ‘You’ll need something for expenses.’

I watched unbelievingly as he began to count out the fivers. He parted with thirty of them, then paused. ‘We’d better make it two hundred,’ he decided, added another ten notes, then pushed the wad across to me. ‘You don’t mind cash, I trust? In my business cheques are rather looked down upon.’

I stuffed the money into my wallet before he changed his mind. ‘Isn’t this a little unusual? I didn’t expect you to be so free and easy.’

‘I daresay the expense account will stand it,’ he said tolerantly. ‘You are going to earn it, you know.’ He offered a cigarette. ‘And how was Johannesburg when you left?’

‘Still the same in a changing sort of way,’ I said. ‘Since you were there they’ve built another hundred-and-sixty-foot office block in the city.’

‘In two months? Not bad!’

‘They put it up in twelve days,’ I said drily.

‘Go-ahead chaps, you South Africans. Ah, here’s the tea.’

Mrs Smith put the tea tray on to the desk and drew up a chair. I looked at her with interest because anyone Mackintosh trusted was sure to be out of the ordinary. Not that she looked it, but perhaps that was because she was disguised as a secretary in a regulation twin-set — just another office girl with a nice smile. Yet in other circumstances I thought I could get on very well with Mrs Smith — in the absence of Mr Smith, of course.

Mackintosh waved his hand. ‘Will you be Mother, Mrs Smith?’ She busied herself with the cups, and Mackintosh said, ‘There’s no real need for further introductions, is there? You won’t be around long enough for anything but the job, Rearden. I think we can get down to cases now.’

I winked at Mrs Smith. ‘A pity.’

She looked at me unsmilingly. ‘Sugar?’ was all she asked.

He tented his fingers. ‘Did you know that London is the world centre of the diamond business?’

‘No, I didn’t. I thought it was Amsterdam.’

‘That’s where the cutting is done. London is where diamonds are bought and sold in all stages of manufacture from uncut stones to finished pieces of jewellery.’ He smiled. ‘Last week I was in a place where packets of diamonds are sold like packets of butter in a grocer’s shop.’

I accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Smith. ‘I bet they have bags of security.’

‘Indeed they have,’ said Mackintosh. He held his arms wide like a fisherman describing the one that got away. ‘The safe doors are that thick and the place is wired up with so many electronic gimmicks that if you blink an eyelash in the wrong place at the wrong time half the metropolitan police begin to move in.’

I sipped the tea, then put down the cup. ‘I’m not a safe cracker,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t know where to begin — you need a peterman for that. Besides, it would have to be a team job.’

‘Rest easy,’ said Mackintosh. ‘It was the South African angle that set me thinking about diamonds. Diamonds have all the virtues; they’re relatively anonymous, portable and easily sold. Just the thing a South African would go for, don’t you think? Do you know anything about the IDB racket?’

I shook my head. ‘Not my line of country — so far.’