He turned, desperately trying to jam the two halves of his gun back together. I hit him with the full force of my fist, backed by the full force of my momentum, straight in the solar plexus and then rammed my spare fist into the top of his throat, and with a long gasp followed by a hoarse, rasping croak he crumpled to the ground in a spent heap. I pushed my gun barrel hard against his temple. I was bursting for air, heaving great gulps into my lungs, but he seemed even worse and kept making as though to throw up although nothing actually came out.
‘It would give me,’ I gasped, ‘great pleasure to lose you out here,’ I puffed and inhaled and exhaled, ‘so you’d better answer me straight.’
With his head jammed down onto the damp tarmac by my gun he wasn’t in much of a position to start arguing. For the first time I took a good look at him: He was about 22, with fair, clean-cut hair, and quite handsome features. He was obviously a recent recruit and green to his job. He looked like an all-American football quarterback.
‘Who are you working for?’ I asked.
‘Mickey Mouse.’
‘I’m not joking, my friend; I don’t like you one bit and I hardly even know you yet.’
‘I work for the British Embassy in Washington.’
‘Bit far north of your patch, aren’t you?’
‘Bit west of yours, aren’t you?’
‘Who’s your boss?’ I gave him a none-too-gentle toecap in the groin to aid him with his memory; it seemed to work reasonably well.
‘Unwin,’ he spluttered. Sir Maurice Unwin was the head of MI6, Washington.
I repeated the toecap action. ‘Unwin sent you out here?’
He retched then answered, ‘Yes.’
My toecap swung again. ‘I don’t think Unwin sent you out here.’
‘Okay; it wasn’t Unwin himself.’
‘Then who?’
‘Hicks. Granville Hicks.’
I had discovered the mysterious G; the man who had signed the memorandum to Scatliffe. On the list Martha had brought me there were three people who could have signed themselves G. Granville Hicks was one.
‘Hicks is going to be pleased with you when he finds you in jail on an attempted murder charge. Not going to be too good for your career, my friend. Or maybe you were off duty tonight, wandering around New York taking pot shots at casual passers-by.’
He looked at me curiously.
I removed his wallet and flicked out his driver’s licence and a business card. The names on both tallied: Jules Irving, life insurance salesman. ‘Have you thought about what your friends in Washington are going to tell the police when I’ve handed you in? I don’t think you have: they’re going to tell the police that they’ve never heard of you, that you must be some crank with delusions of grandeur, that’s what they’re going to tell the police. And do you know what the police are going to reckon? They’re going to reckon that you’re one of a million nutters in New York that likes to prowl the streets shooting people. And do you know who the police are going to believe? They’re going to believe the British Embassy in Washington, and the more you try and convince them that you are really an agent working for them, the longer they’re going to put you away. And while you’re in your cell thinking what you’re going to be doing for the next twenty years, someone’ll come along quietly in the middle of the night and bump you off. Think about it; there’s no hurry, we’ve got all evening.’
He thought about it. It didn’t take much persuasion for him to accept the deal I offered him: that he came with me to the nearest telephone booth, called Hicks and told him he’d succeeded with his assignment.
Just to make sure it was Hicks who answered I dialled the number he gave me and waited until I heard the voice at the other end.
‘Hicks here,’ he said.
I handed the receiver over to my new friend. ‘I’m calling you back about the car,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided to buy it. I’ll be round in the morning with the money.’
I listened to Hicks’s enthusiastic reply. ‘Splendid! Thank you so much for letting me know. Good night!’ I replaced the receiver and my friend turned his face towards me.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘You start praying I have a heart attack before tomorrow morning. Good night.’ Holding firmly onto one half of his gun, which I thrust inside my jacket, I sprinted out into the road and grabbed a passing cab. As we drove off I turned and looked at MI6’s dynamite hit man: he was busy scratching his head and trying to think at the same time. I settled back into my seat. It felt okay being dead.
22
I stood outside the front door of Sumpy’s parents’ place, and I realised that the fifteen or so years that now separated me from the first time I’d stood on the doorstep of the parents of a girlfriend had in no way toughened me for such an ordeal. Apart from the fact that my features had now been beaten to hell and back by the ravages of time, booze, late nights, fists, and more than my fair share of grimaces, I didn’t feel that anything much else had changed.
The door opened. She didn’t need to introduce herself: she was Sumpy, albeit thirty years on, but the years had taken very little toll; if anything, the years had made her even more beautiful. Her hair was still fair, doubtless assisted by a careful hairdresser, and her face had all the vitality and sparkle to go with it. As she looked closer at me her expression began to drop alarmingly.
‘Mrs Joffe?’ I said, needlessly, but wanting to break the silence.
‘Mr Flynn?’ Her expression was now not far removed from sheer horror.
I suddenly remembered the blood I had felt earlier running down my chin; I remembered that the clothes I was wearing were ripped and filthy from my recent encounter; I forgot about my two days of stubble. I decided to go for sympathy.
‘I’m afraid I’ve just been mugged.’
‘Oh my God,’ she said, her voice plunging into sympathy. ‘You poor boy, come in, come in.’ She turned her head towards the interior of the apartment: ‘Henry, quickly. Mr Flynn’s been mugged.’
Henry was a 6 foot 2 inch photofit of a successful American businessman; he had a healthy, tanned face, a large frame, open-neck shirt, well-cut dog-tooth sports jacket, elegant grey slacks and the mandatory patent-leather Gucci loafers. In his concern to get me inside quickly he completely blocked the entrance.
I was swept across the floor and seated in a cavernous velvet ocelot-patterned Roche-Bobois chesterfield, a tumbler of Scotch on the rocks was thrust into my hand, and a damp towel started to dab my face. A nervous Puerto Rican maid was doing the dabbing. Among the Persian rugs, the original Canalettos and Fragonards and the Lalique bowls, I must have appeared to her to be a trifle out of place.
‘You poor boy,’ echoed Mrs Joffe. ‘Look at him, Henry, he’s all white and shaking like a leaf.’
I refrained from telling her that this was more due to the cumulative effect of lack of sleep during the last few days than to the events of the past hour. The maid finally stopped wiping my face and went away.
‘Tell us what happened?’ said Mrs Joffe.
I obliged with as lurid and heart-rending a tale of a mugging as I could muster. When I had finished I had to admit to myself that I hadn’t done a bad job at all. My hosts were certainly impressed.
‘I think we must call the police right away,’ said Mrs Joffe.
‘You can call but it’s a waste of time,’ said her husband. ‘They’ll drag you down to the station, mess you around for a couple of hours, take a statement if they can find someone who can read and write, then tell you there’s nothing they can do about it and no way they’re ever going to catch the guys. Better to save your breath and have some more whisky.’