‘Then you go,’ said the girl. ‘You are always in the pool. We are not your servants.’
‘Whore,’ shouted the man.
‘Cuckold,’ shouted the girl, but she reached for a towelling coat and put it on. ‘For just one hour,’ said the girl. ‘Then I must go to Rodeo Drive; I have a hair appointment.’
‘Hair appointment,’ said the man, rubbing his hand on his chest and tossing back his head in a gesture of contempt. ‘Do you think this is a goddamn garden party?’
The girl pushed her way past him and flounced into the house. The man sighed and went after her. ‘Now don’t get into one of your moods,’ Stuart heard him say as he disappeared inside. Stuart pushed at the wire fence to bend it open and make a gap large enough for him to get through. Then, with a quick look over his shoulder at the empty streets of Beverly Hills, and a quick scan of the upper windows of Bronwyn, he was through the fence and racing-head down-for the shrubbery.
Boyd Stuart got behind a wooden alcove built as an outdoor dining space. There was a large, glass-topped table there and a dozen metal dining chairs, their bright plastic seat pads piled in the corner. He removed his blue coveralls and put them out of sight. He could hear only his own breathing; the house was quiet. The dining alcove was conveniently near to the one-storey kitchen, with another door leading directly into the main structure of the house. Stuart stepped inside. The air-conditioning was on and the air was cool, and the house shuttered and dark. The oak staircase was wide and elaborate with large carved roses at each landing.
Stuart hurried upstairs to where he could see a light burning, but as he got to the top of the stairs a man’s voice said quietly, ‘Hold it, pal, or I’ll blow you apart.’
Stuart turned to see someone he had not seen before. He was as big as the man he had seen at the pool but ten years older-a muscular man with high cheekbones and wavy grey hair. He was fully dressed in a single-breasted grey flannel suit. In his hand he held a.38 revolver very steady. It was Boyd Stuart’s first confrontation with Edward Parker, the USSR illegal.
‘Who are you?’ Parker said.
‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ said Stuart feigning anger. ‘I’m your bloody landlord, that’s who I am.’ It was a reckless improvisation but it seemed to work. He saw it in Parker’s face. ‘So you can put away that damned gun or I’ll have you thrown out.’ It was Stuart’s British accent that helped the deception-that and Stuart’s confidence and obvious lack of fear.
‘Landlord?’
It was absurd, thought Stuart, that he could be so calm and calculating when men were waving guns at him. It had been like this in the shoot-out in the bus depot in Turin, and when the Hungarians spotlit him climbing through their border wire, to say nothing of going through the police lines in Rostock. ‘Yes, landlord,’ said Stuart. ‘I haven’t signed the agreement, you know-perhaps your lawyer hasn’t told you that… ’
Parker frowned and tried to remember whom he had asked to arrange for the use of this safe house and what the details had been.
Stuart gesticulated angrily, waving his hands and shaking his head. It was all a matter of timing, of course. Stuart was watching the gun out of the corner of his eye. It scarcely wavered but Stuart had moved closer. The closer a man is to such a weapon the safer he is, providing he is adroit and well trained, until, with a gun that actually touches the body, even a first-month trainee should be able to knock it aside more quickly than the trigger can be pulled.
‘Are you listening to me?’ said Stuart, keeping up the pressure and moving ever closer. ‘I’m the landlord, not a burglar. Now put that damned gun away.’ That was probably as much as he would get out of that one, Stuart decided. Any moment now, Parker would stiffen, become more suspicious and he would have lost the momentary advantage.
Stuart chose his moment well. A gesture with the right hand, slightly more frenetic than the previous ones, became a hand chop that landed on Parker’s wrist, while Stuart’s left hand grasped the gun barrel and twisted hard. Parker’s fingers were trapped in the trigger guard and the wrist turned back hard enough to inflict severe pain and torn muscle. Parker screamed. By now Stuart had the pistol in his left hand. While Parker was still gulping air to fuel his screams, Stuart brought the pistol butt down upon his head. It skidded across Parker’s skull and took a small piece of flesh from his ear. This glancing blow would have felled most men, but Parker had exceptional strength. In spite of his pain, he continued to fight. His hand injured, he lowered his head and butted Stuart in the chest. It was like meeting the shovel of a bulldozer. It was Stuart’s turn to grunt with pain but he kept hold of the gun, and still held it in his hand as Parker locked his arms round him in a bear hug that squeezed the air from his lungs.
The two men blundered round the landing like some broken mechanical toy. Stuart felt his strength going and struggled to breathe. He kicked viciously. Now he had lost his cold calm, and his actions were generated by a growing panic as he swung his weight backward and forward, trying to break free from the terrible bear hug that seemed to black out his brain. His strength was almost spent when Parker’s foot missed the edge of the landing and the two of them, still locked in the embrace, crashed down the stairs, rolling over and over, arms and legs thrashing the air, elbows, knees and heads rattling upon the uprights, and bodies bumping down the carpeted steps.
It was Stuart’s good fortune that Parker’s head hit one of the carved roses with enough force to chip the wooden petals from it and render Parker unconscious. Stuart took a moment or two to recover himself and then, with leaden footsteps, he dragged himself back up to the upper landing.
‘Who is it?’ It was Stein’s voice. He had heard the commotion.
‘It’s Stuart-the Brit,’ called Stuart. ‘Stand away from the door.’ He put his foot up and, bracing his hand flat against the wall behind him, kicked at the lock. The door splintered and left the remains of the lock dangling from the frame.
Charles Stein was inside. He was in his underclothes and bound to a chair with a nylon clothes line, but he had managed to loosen the sticky tape from his face and spit out the gag. A low wattage bulb provided meagre light.
Stuart reached into his pocket for the Swiss Army knife that was a part of his normal attire. He sawed at the nylon until it parted. Stein remained in the chair and began rubbing his ankles where the bindings had constricted him.
‘Who are these bastards?’ said Stein.
‘They work for the Russians,’ said Stuart. ‘Can you walk? We’ve got to get out of here, there are more of them.’
Stein was still rubbing his wrists and ankles as the blood gradually resumed its circulation. He looked at the pistol that Stuart was holding. ‘You didn’t shoot any of them?’
‘Not yet,’ said Stuart, helping the fat man to his feet.
‘I can make it,’ said Stein.
‘You go ahead. There’s a car at the front.’ Stuart looked at his watch. ‘At least it will be there two minutes from now; a light green Cadillac. Get inside and wait for me.’
Stein hobbled down the stairs clinging to the baluster rail and flinching with the pain. When he got to the unconscious form of Parker at the foot of the stairs, he stepped over him gingerly.
‘Go ahead,’ called Stuart. One by one he looked into the rooms to check them. They were all empty, until he got to the main hall and opened the door that led to the drawing room and to the kitchen beyond it. Inside the drawing room he found his case officer and the girl, in the beachrobe. She was standing disconsolately in the middle of the room, while the case officer pointed a pistol at her.