Bagley, Desmond - The Freedom Trap Read online

  As I mused, a little rhyme came into my head:

  Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house And stole a side of beef.

  I had learned that one at my mother's knee. Apart from being libellous to Welshmen did it mean that I was somewhere in Wales -- still in the United Kingdom?

  I sighed and splashed water. Time would tell, but time was something I hadn't much of.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They looked after us like an international hotel looks after a couple of Greek shipping magnates. Nothing was too good for Mr Slade and Mr Rearden -- nothing except immediate freedom. We asked for newspapers and we got newspapers; I asked for South African brandy and I got it -- Oude Meester, too -- something I had found unobtainable during my few days in London. Slade looked askance at my South African brandy; his tipple was 15-year-old Glenlivet which was also hospitably provided.

  But when we asked for a television set or a radio we drew a blank. I said to Slade, 'Now why is that?'

  He turned his heavy face towards me, his lips twisted with contempt for my minuscule intelligence. 'Because the programmes would tell us where we are,' he said patiently.

  I acted dumb. 'But we get the newspapers regularly.'

  'Oh, God!' he said, and stooped to pick up The Times. 'This is dated the fifth,' he said. 'Yesterday we had the issue of the fourth, and tomorrow we'll have the issue of the sixth. But it doesn't follow that today is the fifth. We could be in France, for example, and these newspapers are airmail editions.'

  'Do you think we are in France?'

  He looked from the window. 'It doesn't look like France, and neither does it ..." He twitched his nose. "... smell like France.' He shrugged. 'I don't know where we are.'

  'And I don't suppose you care very much,' I said.

  He smiled. 'Not really. All I know is that I'm going home.'

  'Your people must think you're important,' I said.

  "Moderately so,' he said modestly. 'I'll be glad to get home. I haven't seen Russia for twenty-eight years.'

  'You must be bloody important if my help in getting you out was worth ten thousand quid.' I turned to him and said seriously, 'As a sort of professional what do you think of this mob?'

  He was affronted. 'A sort of professional! I'm good in my work.'

  'You were caught,' I said coldly.

  'After twenty-eight years,' he said. 'And then by sheer chance. I doubt if anyone could have done better.'

  'Okay, you're good,' I said. 'Answer my question. What do you think of this crowd?'

  'They're good,' he said judiciously. They're very good. Their security is first class and their organization impeccable.' He frowned. 'I didn't think ordinary criminals could retain that kind of cohesion."

  That thought had occurred to me and I didn't like it. 'You think they're in your line of work?'

  'It's unlikely but just barely possible,' he said. 'To run a network takes a lot of money. The West Germans had the Gehlen Apparat just after the war-that was more-or-less private enterprise but it was supported by American money.'

  'Who would support this kind of outfit?' I asked.

  He grinned at me. 'My people might.'

  True enough. It seemed as though Slade was home and dry; instead of growing his beard in the nick he'd be knocking back vodka in the Kremlin with the boss of the KGB before very long, and dictating his memoirs as a highly placed member of British Intelligence'. That much had come out at his trial; he'd infiltrated the British Intelligence Service and got himself into quite a high position.

  He said, 'What do you think of me?"

  'What am I supposed to think?'

  'I spied on your country ...'

  'Not my country,' I said. 'I'm from the Republic of South Africa,' I grinned at him. 'And I come of Irish stock."

  'Ah, I had forgotten,' he said.

  Taafe looked after us like Bunter looked after Lord Peter Wimsey. The meals .were on time and excellently cooked and the room kept immaculately tidy, but never a word could I get out of Taafe. He would obey instructions but when I sought to draw him into conversation he would look at me with his big blue eyes and keep his mouth tightly shut. I didn't hear him say one word the whole time I was imprisoned in that room, and I came to the conclusion he was dumb.

  There was always another man outside the bedroom door. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of him as Taafe came into the room, a dim and shadowy figure in the corridor. I never saw his face. I thought hard about him and came to a swift conclusion. It would be impossible for one man to keep up a twenty-four hour guard duty, so there would be three of them, at least. That meant at least five in the house, and maybe more.

  I didn't see any women; it was a purely masculine establishment.

  I checked on the bars of the windows, both in the bathroom and the bedroom, and Slade watched me with a sardonic amusement which I ignored. It seemed that to get out that way was impossible; it was the double-barred arrangement, inside and out, that was the trouble. Besides, Taafe checked them, too. I came out of the bathroom once to find him on a tour of inspection, making very thoroughly sure they hadn't been tampered with.

  Fatface came to see us from time to time. He was affability itself and spent time by the hour discoursing on world affairs, the situation in Red China and the prospects for South Africa in Test Cricket. He would join us in a drink but took care not to take too much.

  That gave me an idea. I took care to appear to drink a lot, both in his presence and out of it. He watched me swig the brandy and made no comment when I became maudlin. Luckily I have a hard head, harder than I allowed to appear, and I took damned good care not to drink too much in Fat-face's absence, although I contrived to fool Slade as well. I didn't know that I could trust Slade very much if things came to the crunch. It was with regret that I poured many a half-bottle of good hooch into the lavatory pan before pulling the chain for the night.

  I've always found it good policy to appear to be what I'm not, and if Fatface and his mob thought I was a drunk then that might give me a slight edge when I needed it. There was certainly no attempt to stop me drinking. Taafe would take away the dead soldiers every morning and replace them with full bottles, and not a smile would crack his iron features. Slade, however, came to treat me with unreserved contempt.

  Slade didn't play chess, but all the same I asked Fatface if he could rustle up a set of chessmen and a board as I wanted to work out chess problems. 'So you play chess,' he said interestedly. 'I'll give a game, if you like. I'm not a bad player."

  He wasn't a bad player at all, though not as good as Cossie; but Cossie had more time to practise. He was certainly better than me, and after the first couple of games, he gave me two pawns' advantage and I still had to battle to beat him.

  Once, as we finished a game, he said, 'Alcohol and the type of concentration needed in chess don't mix, Rearden.'

  I poured another slug of Oude Meester. 'I don't intend to take it up professionally,' I said indifferently. 'Here's to you ... er ... what the hell is your name, anyway?' He kept a blank face. 'I don't think that matters.' I giggled drunkenly. 'I think of you as Fatface.' He was miffed at that and inclined to take umbrage. 'Well, I have to call you something,' I pointed out reasonably. 'What do you expect me to do? Whistle or shout "Hey, you!"' But that crack lost me a chess partner.

  The Zurich Ausfuhren Handelsbank cheque came a week after I had woken up in that room, and it was long enough for Slade and I to get on each other's nerves. I thought of the Swiss numbered account, of Mackintosh and of the slim chances of escape. What Slade thought about I don't know but he also became increasingly restless.

  Once he was taken out of the room under guard, and when he returned an hour later, I said, 'What was that about?'

  'A business conference,' he said enigmatically, and lapsed into silence.

  My turn came the next day. I was taken downstairs and into a pleasant room which had just one fault -- the curtains were drawn. The Scarperers were too bloody effi
cient for my own good; even here they were taking no chances of me finding out where I was.

  Fatface came in and laid a cheque on the table. He unscrewed the cap of a fountain pen and put the pen down next to the cheque. 'The account number,' he said briefly.

  I sat down and picked up the pen -- and hesitated. Numbered accounts are funny things, and the number is something you guard as jealously as the combination of your safe.

  I had to make this look good because he would be expecting it. I put down the pen, and said, 'Look, Fatface; any jiggery-pokery with this account and you'll wish you'd never been born. You take out of the account exactly the amount set out on this cheque -- 200,000 Swiss francs and not a centime more. If you clean out this account I'll find you and break your back.'

  'Finding me might prove impossible,' he said suavely.

  'Don't bank on it, buster; don't bank on it.' I stared at him. 'You've had me checked pretty thoroughly so you know my record. People have tried things on before, you know; and I have a reputation which you ought to know about by now. The word has got about that it's unprofitable to cross Rearden.' I put a lot of finality m my voice. 'You'd get found.'

  If he was nervous, he didn't show it, except t hat he swallowed before speaking. 'We have a reputation to keep up, too. There'll be no tampering with your account.'

  'All right,' I said gruffly, and picked up the pen again. 'Just so we understand each other.' Carefully I wrote the number -that long sequence of digits and letters which I had memorized at Mrs Smith's insistence -- and put a stroke on the uprights of the sevens in the continental manner. 'How long will it take?'

  He picked up the cheque and peered at it, then flapped it in the air to dry the ink. 'Another week.'

  I watched the cheque fluttering in his hand and suddenly felt cold. Now I was totally committed.

  II Three days later they took Slade away and he didn't come back. I missed him. He had become an irritant but once he had gone I felt lonely and oddly apprehensive. I did not like at all the idea of us being separated and I had assumed that we would be going along the escape route together.

  Fatface had taken a dislike to me and had stopped his social visits so I spent long hours at the window, screening my face behind the pot plants, and watched the courtyard through rain and sunshine. There wasn't much to see; just the unused gravel drive to the house and the trim lawn, much blackbird-pecked.

  There was one peculiar thing that happened every morning at about the same time. I would hear the clip-clip of hooves; not the heavy clip-clop of a horse, but the lighter sound as of a pony, and accompanied by a musical clinking • noise. It would stop and there would be more clinks and clanks and sometimes the faint piping whistle of a man pleased with himself. Then the clip-clip would begin again and fade away into the distance. And once, at this time, I saw the shadow of a man fall athwart the entrance to the courtyard, although I did not see him.

  On an occasion when Fatface made a rare appearance I tried to talk my way out. 'Christ, I wish I could get some exercise,' I said. 'What about letting me stretch my legs in the courtyard?'

  He shook his head.

  'You can have a couple of your goons watching me,' I said, but then gave up as I saw I was making no impression. 'I should have stayed in the nick," I grumbled. 'At least there was an exercise yard.'

  Fatface laughed. 'And look what happened when you used it,' he pointed out. 'You got away. No, Rearden; if you want exercise do some physical jerks in this room.'

  I shrugged and poured another drink. Fatface looked at me contemptuously. 'You'll rot your liver, Rearden. You'd better do some exercise if only to sweat the booze out of your system.'

  'There's damn-all to do except drink,' I said sullenly, and took a swallow of brandy. I was glad he'd fallen for the line I was feeding him, even though it was becoming a strain to keep up. Reckoning by the dead soldiers Fatface would think I was getting through a bottle and a half a day, and when he was in the room I had to drink heavily in order to keep up the pretense. On this occasion I had drunk a quarter of a bottle in under an hour, I'm a fair drinker but my head was beginning to spin.

  'What's the matter?' he asked. 'Getting edgy?' He smiled mirthlessly. 'Could it be there's nothing in that bank account? Could it be there is no bank account at all?' He stretched out his legs and looked at me thoughtfully. 'We know you were shopped, Rearden; and the story is that it was your partner who shopped you. I know you deny it, but it won't do you any good at all if your partner has skipped with all the loot leaving you holding the bag. I had my doubts about you when I heard Cosgrove's report.'

  'You'll get your money," I said. 'My mate will have seen me right.'

  'I sincerely hope so," he said. 'For your sake.'

  But Fatface was right -1 was getting edgy. I snapped at Taafe irritably when he brought my meals. It made no difference; he just looked at me with those baby blue eyes set in that battered face, said nothing and went about his business leaving me to pace the room and ignore the food.

  The hours and days slipped by. Every morning I heard the clip-clip of the pony and the pleasantly fluting whistle; every day my chances became slimmer.

  At last it happened.

  Fatface came into the room. 'Well,' he said in an unusually jovial voice. 'You've surprised me, Rearden.'

  'I have?'

  'Yes. I rather think you've been playing fast and loose. We cashed your cheque.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' I said. 'I hope there was enough in the account to cover it.'

  'Quite enough,' he said. 'You've been trying to lead me up the garden path, haven't you?'

  'My God!' I said, 'I told you the money would be there.' I laughed a little uncertainly. 'You're like the man in Moscow who said, "Schmuel, you told me you were going to Minsk so I would think you were going to Pinsk, and you fooled me by going to Minsk, anyway. I can't believe a thing you say."'

  'A very interesting illustration,' said Fatface drily. 'Anyway, the money was there -- all we needed.'

  'Good!' I said. 'When do I leave?'

  He gestured. 'Sit down. There's something we have to discuss.'

  I walked around him to the liquor cabinet and poured a drink. This time I really needed it -1 never had been absolutely sure of Mackintosh. I splashed water into the glass and sat down at the table. 'I'll be bloody glad to get out of this room.'

  'I daresay you will,' said Fatface, He regarded me in silence for a long time, then said at last, 'There's just one snag. It's only a small detail, but it may prove to be an insuperable obstacle. Still, if you can explain it satisfactorily -- and I don't mean explain it away -1 see no reason why we can't carry on as planned.'

  'I don't know what in hell you're talking about,' I said bluntly.

  He lifted his eyebrows. 'Don't you? I'm sure you do. Think hard.'

  'Don't play games, Fatface. If you've got anything to say, then spit it out.'

  'All right,' he said. 'But I'm not playing games.' He leaned forward. 'Now, I know you're not Rearden but, for the record, I would like to know who the devil you are.'

  It was as though a giant had gripped me hard and squeezed me in the belly, but I think I kept my face straight. 'Are you crazy?' I said.

  'You know I'm not.!

  I took a deep breath. 'Well, I think you are. What is this? Are you trying to welsh now you've got the loot?' I stuck my finger under his nose. 'I wouldn't try that, my friend; you'll come unstuck so bloody fast.'

  'You're at a disadvantage,' said Fatface calmly. 'You're in no position to threaten anyone about anything. And I'd stop playing the innocent if I were you. You're not Rearden and we know it.'

  'I'd like to see you prove it,' I said tightly.

  'Don't be a damned fool -- we have proved it.' He leaned back in his chair. 'You surely didn't think we pass a man on the escape line without checking him thoroughly -- turning him inside out? We had you checked in South Africa and you failed the test. No police force is incorruptible -- not the British police and not the Sout
h African police. If you are Rearden you must know John Vorster Square -- you've been bounced in and out of there often enough.'

  'But they never could prove anything,' I said.

  'Yes, it's police headquarters in Johannesburg, isn't it?' He waved his hand. 'Oh, I'm sure you know the geography of Johannesburg well enough -- but that doesn't prove that you are Rearden.'

  'You haven't proved otherwise yet.'

  'We have a friend in John Vorster Square, a brave policeman who does occasional odd jobs for us. He checked the files on Rearden and sent us a copy of Rearden's fingerprints. You've had it, chum, because they certainly don't match your dabs -- and don't think we haven't tried over and over again, just to make sure.' He pointed to the glass I was holding. 'We've had plenty of chances to get your prints, you know.'

  I stared at him for a long time. 'I know what a John Vorster Square dab-sheet looks like,' I said. 'I ought to -- I've seen enough of them. You bring yours to me and I'll put my dabs anywhere you like for comparison.'

  A veiled look filmed his eyes. 'All right,' he said abruptly.

  'We'll do that. But I'll tell you something -- you'll not leave this house alive until we know exactly who you are and what the hell you're doing here.'

  'You know what I'm doing here," I said tiredly. 'You bloody well brought me here. You've got your boodle, now keep your side of the bargain.'

  He stood up. 'I'll be back tomorrow bright and early. That will give you plenty time to think up a good story." He pressed the service button. 'It had better be a true story.'

  The door clicked unlocked and he stalked out.

  I sat and looked at the amber liquid in the glass before me. Fatface was full of good ideas. Perhaps it would be better to think up not one story but two -- the true story and a plausible false one. It would be difficult; I'm a pretty good liar when the need arises, but I never was much good at sustained fiction.