The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [84]
Webster read the list and frowned. “You want weapons?” he said.
“Yes.”
“All that stuff in Saigon must have shaken you up,” Webster said.
“Parts of it did. Can you do all that?”
Webster ran his finger down the list. He said, “I think so. Rome will get credit for Klimenko—they won’t be in a mood to deny you anything.”
“You don’t have to say the villa and the weapons are for me. Find out how to turn off the microphones.”
Webster put on his coat. He opened his attaché case and held up a nine-millimeter Walther pistol. “Do you want this until I get back?”
“No. I’m going to stay inside.”
Webster balanced the flat automatic on his palm, then put it in his pocket. “Look for me about ten,” he said. “I may want to sleep here—Molly and I can get an early start in the morning.”
Webster started to close the briefcase, then snapped his fingers and reached inside it for a copy of France-Soir, folded to the crime page. He handed Christopher the newspaper, tapping a small item with his forefinger. “I almost forgot to show you this,” he said.
Christopher read the item:
DEATH OF A CRIMINAL
About eleven o’clock last night, police were summoned to the public lavatories near the place Clemenceau to provide assistance to a man who had been found unconscious inside.
The attendant, Mile. R. Calamier, told the guardians of the peace that the man entered a compartment about 10:15. Shortly thereafter, Mile. Calamier, who was cleaning the women’s portion of the public facility, heard sounds of a struggle through the partition.
It was a few moments later that Mile. Calamier found the unconscious man, or the man she believed to be unconscious, in the compartment and summoned policemen on duty nearby.
The investigating officers found that the man was, in fact, dead. He had been struck a hard blow on the nape, judo-style. Police suspected at first that it was an affair of perverts.
However, medical examination revealed that the victim had died from a massive overdose of heroin. A portion of the hypodermic needle used to administer the fatal dosage was found in his arm, perhaps broken in the struggle that preceded his death. The police physician was not of the opinion that the deceased was a heroin addict: his body bore none of the usual signs of that habit, apart from the single fresh puncture in the forearm.
The victim was said to be Jean-Claude Gaboni, a Corsican born in Algeria. Gaboni was known to the police as a criminal type involved in the traffic in drugs. An investigation is in progress.
“You see?” Webster said. “Sometimes poetic justice triumphs.”
Christopher handed back the newspaper. It had been six days since he had told the Truong toe about Gaboni, three days since the Truong toe had given him Molly’s photograph. They were moving no more quickly than he’d thought they could.
“Do you still have Kim’s place bugged?” Christopher asked.
“Yes.”
“You may hear something about Gaboni on those tapes. If you hear anything about me, or about Molly, I hope you’ll let me know.”
“We’re always a week behind on the logs because of the translation problem. They talk Vietnamese all the time.”
“That’s terrific,” Christopher said.
“Wait a minute,” Webster said. “How would Kim know about Gaboni?”
“I told them in Saigon about that mistake with young Khoi in Divonne-les-Bains.”
“You told them? Why, for Christ’s sake?”
“You have to give something to get something,” Christopher said. “I wondered if they’d kill on foreign soil and how quickly. Now I know.”
Molly packed her suitcases without speaking. She laid Christopher’s ski clothes on top of her own in an extra bag. “I suppose there’s some remote chance we’ll both be alive on New Year’s Eve,” she said. “If you come to the mountains you’ll be properly dressed.”
“The worst thing you can do is dramatize,” Christopher said. “I have to go away at least twice in the next few days and I can’t leave you alone. You’ll be all right with Tom and Sybille. They’re used to this kind of situation.