Stan Mason - Stopping World War Three

‘I’m not kidding. She was going into your house! I released him to ring my number at home but there was no reply. ‘She may have left the house by now,’ he bleated. ‘Perhaps there’s a not. You ought to find out.’ I stood up and made for the door but he leapt from the chair to catch my arm. ‘Is our deal still on?’

I felt in my pocket to remove the envelope with the false microfilm of the plans given to my by Menel. ‘Here!’ I shouted loudly. ‘Take the damned plans and leave me in peace! And for your sake, Jan had better be fit and well!’

He took the envelope, stuffed it in his pocket, bit deeper on the matchstick and left without another word. I went into the outer office to face my secretary.

‘I’m going home,’ I told her. ‘Primar tells me that Jan went to the house this morning. I have to check it out.’

It took me over half-an-hour to get home. I rushed inside shouting out Jan’s name but there was no answer. A note in her handwriting rested on the mantelshelf indicating that she had home but anyone could have entered and placed it there. I merely told me that she had returned to collect some of her clothes and she would be in touch with me in a few days’ time. The situation was infuriating! I had never chased a woman so much in all my life!

The pundits who classify themselves as health experts claim that hot showers are refreshing while cold showers cool the blood. I tried both of them but their effects on my were practically negative. When I dried myself off and dressed, I lay on the settee in the lounge nursing a stiff whisky as I cogitated the fast moving affairs of the past twenty-four hours. Gradually, my blood pressure subsided and I began to think clearly and logically again. Someone wanted me to believe that Jan was moving itinerantly from place to place as though she was being deliberately elusive. The other woman in my life, Penny Smith, was becoming even more enigmatic. I believed that she had killed Tomar Duran as I grappled with him on the ground, shooting him in the temple with his own revolver. I saw that incident with my own eyes. So how could he still be alive and well working in the weaponry division of Dandy Advanced Electronics as a research assistant? It beggared belief. Number Five! It suddenly occurred to me that Penny may have shot the wrong man by accident. After all, we were both writhing on the ground. Now there was a thought! I picked up my mobile telephone and rang her.

‘Penny,’ I began, trying to control the level of my voice. ‘I saw Tomar Duran at the weaponry division this morning. The last time I saw him you had shot him dead in Crete. There’s no doubt about it because I spoke to him and he admitted he was in Crete. Can you explain that to me please?’

There was a long pause at the other end of the line before she spoke. ‘Classified information!’ she retorted curtly. ‘I can’t talk about it at present. And definitely not over the telephone.’

‘What do you mean ‘classified information’? I saw the man’s body laying there after you’d shot him.’

‘I can’t talk about it now. I have to leave the office right away.

I shan’t be available tonight. Let’s meet tomorrow evening at seven-thirty at our usual restaurant.’

I began to lose my temper at her indifferent attitude. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Penny! I want an answer! Why can’t you talk about it now? I don’t want to wait until tomorrow evening!’

‘You’ll find out then,’ she replied. ‘Goodbye!’

The line went dead and I turned off the mobile. Goodbye? What was she talking about? Was she operating on her own account in the scheme of things instead of running in tandem with me? I went back to the settee, picked up my drink, and dwelt deeply on the matter. Eventually, my mind moved to the answering machine on the side table. I pressed the start button on the instrument to listen to the recorded messages. The first one was from Schmuel Musaphia.

‘I’ve flow to London especially to see you,’ he communicated in a shrill wavering tone. ‘Meet me at the Dorchester Hotel at eight o’clock this evening. I would prefer you to come alone… without your secretary.’

Schmuel Musaphia! The old man had come all the way to England especially to talk to me. What was that all about? The next message followed swiftly. My back stiffened as I recognised Jan’s voice.

‘Jason! Sorry about the letter, darling. It wasn’t my doing. They made me write it. I know you’re worried about me but I’m all right. These people tell me they want certain things from you. They say they’ll let me go if you help them. I don’t know what will happen if you refuse. I’m all right at the moment. Keep bidding those grand slams in hearts in bridge especially with the one club system. I understand about you and your secretary. I love you, darling!’

I felt choked with emotion before anger started to rage through me again. The bastards! Who was keeping my wife against her will? She said she was all right but was that the truth or did her captors force her to say so? Suddenly, I became sanguine feeling a surge of romanticism towards her… ,..one that had been absent for some time but then I became overcome with frustration at being unable to help her. I desperately wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her… to have her by my side… to enjoy life just as it had been in the past. I replayed her message on the tape, listening carefully to every word. What did she mean when she said ‘keep bidding those grand slams in hearts’? And why mention the one club system? She knew very little about the game except for a few odd phrases which had cropped up in my conversations. Then the jet lag began to overcome me and my thoughts turned into a jumble as I dozed off where I lay.

It was over an hour later when I awoke. I felt dull, dozy and depressed. Life had painted me into a corner and I had no idea how to set myself free. A change of condition was required so I went to the local barber to get a haircut and a shave, hoping that the effect of a shampoo would bring me back to life. As the hot towels were placed over my face, I lay back with the warmth spreading uniformly through every pore, feeling totally relaxed. I thought about Jan’s recorded message. There was something in it that I couldn’t fathom. If only I could clear my mind sufficiently to work it out it would be to my advantage because she was definitely trying to communicate something to me. Then the penny dropped. Of course… she was telling me there was a grand slam in hearts! She had been abducted to Herts… Hertfordshire! The one club system was one I rarely used with my partner. She was either being held in a club or very close to one. What else did she say? ‘Keep bidding those grand slams in hearts in bridge.’ Why did she need to say ‘in bridge’? That was my game and she knew it but she had mentioned it for a reason. The club was in Herfordshire and it was close to a bridge. Well done, Jan! My problem now was whether to contact the police or undertake the research on my own account. I went back home and pulled a map of England from the shelf seeking out Hertfordshire and poring over the county towns. It was then I realised that I might be thwarted from finding the right club. What kind of club was she talking about? A golf club, a football club, a night club, a bingo club, a scout club, or what?

At eight o’clock that evening, I put on my smartest suit and drove to the West End of London to meet Schmuel Musaphia. I had been to the Dorchester Hotel on only one occasion for the reception of a wedding of a friend many years earlier. The prices then matched those of the King David Hotel in Tel Aviv. They were certainly out of my league. Musaphia was already there, He sat at one of the tables in the dining-room with the large Havana cigar still in his mouth. He greeted me amiably, his eyes scanning the space behind me to make certain I had come alone.