Floodgate. Alistair MacLean

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СКАЧАТЬ she’s a woman. Living so close to you she’s bound to notice things that others wouldn’t. Clothes, jewellery, personal possessions—things the average working girl wouldn’t have. Even the way you speak. Fine by me if Julie knows, she’d never tell anyone, I’ll bet she’s never even told her brother. You like living there?’

      ‘Very much. And Julie, also very much. I think she likes me, too. I have the honour to sleep in the bedroom that used to be Peter’s. I believe he left about six years ago.’ She frowned. ‘I asked her why he’d left, it couldn’t have been an argument, they’re obviously terribly fond of each other, but she wouldn’t tell me, just said I’d have to ask Peter.’

      ‘Did you ask him?’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head very firmly. ‘One doesn’t ask the Lieutenant personal questions.’

      ‘I agree that he does rather give that impression. He’s quite approachable really. No secret about his departure—he left to get married. Marianne. Loveliest girl in Amsterdam, even although I do say it about my own niece.’

      ‘She’s your niece?’

      ‘Was.’ De Graaf’s voice was sombre. ‘Even in those days Peter was the best, most able cop in the city; far better than I am but for God’s sake don’t tell him so. He broke up a particularly vicious gang of people who specialized in a nice mixture of blackmail and torture. Four brothers, they were, the Annecys. God knows where they got their name from. Peter put two of them away for fifteen years. The other two just vanished. Shortly after the conviction of the two brothers, someone, almost certainly one or both of the two brothers that had not been brought to justice, placed in Peter’s weekend canal boat a huge bomb wired up to the ignition switch—same technique as was used by the murderers who assassinated Lord Mountbatten. As it happened, Peter wasn’t aboard his boat that weekend. But Marianne and their two children were.’

      ‘Dear God!’ The girl’s hands were clenched. ‘How awful. How—how dreadful!’

      ‘And every three months or so since that time he receives a postcard from one of the two surviving Annecy brothers. Never any message. Just a drawing of a noose and a coffin, a reminder that he’s living on borrowed time. Charming, isn’t it?’

      ‘Horrible! Just horrible! He must be worried to death. I know I would. Wondering every night when I go to sleep—if I could sleep—whether I would wake up in the morning.’

      ‘I don’t think he worries much—if he did he’d never show it—and I know he sleeps very well. But that’s the reason—although he never mentions it—why he doesn’t return to live with Julie. He doesn’t want her to be around when the bomb comes through his window.’

      ‘What a way to live! Why doesn’t he emigrate somewhere, live under an assumed name?’

      ‘If you ever get to know Peter van Effen—really know him, I mean—you’ll wonder why you ever asked that question. Anne, you have an enchanting smile. Let me see it again.’

      She gave a puzzled half-smile. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘He’s coming back. Let me see how good an actress you are.’

      And, indeed, when van Effen returned to the table she was smiling, a person at ease with the world. When she looked up and saw the expression—more accurately, the total lack of expression—on his face she stopped smiling.

      ‘About to ruin our dinner, are you, Peter?’ de Graaf shook his head. ‘And such a splendid meal we’ve ordered.’

      ‘Not quite.’ Van Effen smiled faintly. ‘Might put us off our third bottle of Bordeaux or Burgundy or whatever. Perhaps even the second bottle? First, let me put you briefly in the picture as to what happened earlier today. Yes, sir, I’ll have some wine, I feel I could do with a mild restorative. I’ve been offered a job—at, I’m sure, a far higher salary plus than I’m ever likely to get in this police force—to blow something up. What, I don’t know. Could be the Amsterdam—Rotterdam bank for all I know. Maybe a boat, bridge, barge, barracks, maybe anything. Haven’t been told yet.

      ‘As you know, Vasco had brought those two characters to the Hunter’s Horn this afternoon. Prosperous and respectable citizens, but, then, no successful criminal ever looks like one. We were all very cagey and crafty, toing-and-froing, sparring and giving nothing away for most of the time. Then they made me this definite offer of a job and I accepted. They said they would have to report back to their superiors but would definitely contact me tomorrow and give me details of the job to be done and what my rewards would be for this. Vasco was to be the courier. So we shook hands like gentlemen and parted with expressions of goodwill and mutual trust.

      ‘I had two sets of tails waiting at a discreet distance from the Hunter’s Horn. I’ve had a report—’

      ‘Goodwill and mutual trust?’ Annemarie said.

      De Graaf waved a hand. ‘We tend to use figurative terms in our profession. Proceed, Peter.’

      ‘I’ve had news of both sets of tails. The first say that they lost Agnelli and Paderiwski—that’s what they called themselves—’

      ‘Good God!’ de Graaf said. ‘Agnelli and Paderiwski. A famous industrialist and a famous pianist. Aren’t they original?’

      ‘That’s what I thought. Lost them in a traffic jam, they say. Claimed that they hadn’t been spotted. Pure accident. The report about the other two makes me wonder, to say the least.’

      ‘ “About” the other two?’ de Graaf said. ‘Not “from”?’

      ‘About. They were found in a darkened alley. Barely able to call for help, barely conscious. Unable to move and both in agony. Both men had had both kneecaps smashed. A sign used in Sicily and certain American cities that some people don’t like being followed and that those who were doing the following won’t be doing it again for some time to come. They weren’t knee-capped—no guns. Iron bars. They’re under surgery. Neither man will be able to walk for months, neither will ever be able to walk properly again. Nice, isn’t it, sir. And a new development in our fair city. Another instance, one supposes, of the steady advance of American culture.’

      ‘Crippled?’ Annemarie’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. ‘Crippled for life. How can you—how can you joke about such things.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Van Effen looked at her, saw that some colour had gone from her face, and pushed her glass closer to her. ‘Take some. I’ll join you. Joking? I can assure you I never felt less funny in my life. And it’s not just an American practice, sir: it’s become a very popular pastime in Northern Ireland in the past two or three years.’

      ‘So your other tails were almost certainly given the slip and nothing accidental about it.’ De Graaf sampled his Bordeaux and the distressing news didn’t appear to have upset him unduly for he smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Excellent. Our friends seem to have a considerable expertise in both evasive and direct action. Professionals. And gone to ground. Ah. All is not lost. The Chateaubriand. You said you would share this with me, my dear.’

      She appeared to give a tiny shudder. ‘I know it’s trite, silly, but I don’t think I could eat a thing.’

      ‘Maybe the moles will come out of their burrows tomorrow,’ van Effen said. ‘I’m still hoping that they will keep their promise and make contact СКАЧАТЬ