The Spoilers / Juggernaut Read online

  ‘About as Middle as you can get,’ said Tozier. ‘Still, it’s March and we’re nearly five thousand feet above sea level.’

  Follet turned up his collar and pulled the lapels close about his throat. ‘Where the hell is Warren?’

  ‘He’s clearing the vehicles and the gear through customs.’ He smiled grimly. The modifications he had made to the Land-Rovers were such that if they were discovered then all hell would break loose in the customs shed, and Warren and Bryan would find themselves tossed into jail without a quibble. But he had not told Warren what the modifications were, which was all to the good. True innocence is better than bluff when faced with the X-ray eye of the experienced customs official.

  All the same he breathed more easily when Follet touched him on the shoulder and pointed. ‘Here they come,’ he said, and Tozier saw with relief a Land-Rover bearing down upon them. On its side it bore the neat legend: Regent Film Company. Advance Unit. The tension left him.

  Warren poked his head through the side window. ‘Ben’s just behind me,’ he said. ‘One of you jump in.’

  ‘Did you have any trouble?’ asked Tozier.

  Warren looked surprised. ‘No trouble at all.’

  Tozier smiled and said nothing. He walked around to the back of the vehicle and stroked one of the metal struts which held up the canopy. Follet said, ‘Let me get in and out of this goddam wind. Where are we going?’

  ‘We’re booked in at the Royal Tehran Hilton. I don’t know where it is but it shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’ He pointed to a minibus filling up with passengers, which had the name of the hotel on its side. ‘We just follow that.’

  Follet got in and slammed the door. He looked broodingly at the alien scene, and said abruptly, ‘Just what in hell are we doing here, Warren?’

  Warren glanced at the rear view mirror and saw that the other Land-Rover had arrived. ‘Following a man.’

  ‘Jeeze, you’re as close-mouthed as that strongarm man of yours. Or are you keeping him in the dark, too?’

  ‘You just do as you’re told, Johnny, and you’ll be all right,’ advised Warren.

  ‘I’d feel a hell of a lot better if I knew what I was supposed to do,’ grumbled Follet.

  ‘Your turn will come.’

  Follet laughed unexpectedly. ‘You’re a funny one, Warren. Let me tell you something; I like you—I really do. You had me over a barrel; you offered me a thousand when you knew I’d take peanuts. Then you raised the bonus to five thousand when you didn’t have to. Why did you do that?’

  Warren smiled. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire. You’ll earn it.’

  ‘Maybe I will, but I don’t see how right now. Anyway, I just wanted to say I appreciated the gesture. You can depend on me—for anything reasonable, that is,’ he added hastily. ‘Tozier was talking about unreasonable things—like being shot at.’

  ‘You ought to have got used to that in Korea.’

  ‘You know,’ said Follet. ‘I never did. Funny the things a man can never get used to, isn’t it?’

  The Royal Tehran Hilton was on the outskirts of the city, a caravanserai designed specifically for the oilmen and businessmen flocking into Iran under the impetus of the booming economy underwritten by the reforming regime of Mohammad Rezi Pahlevi, King of Kings and Light of the Aryans. It had not been an easy drive from the airport because of the propensity of the local inhabitants to regard a road as a race track. Several times Warren had been within an ace of serious trouble and when they reached the hotel he was sweating in spite of the cold.

  They registered, and Warren found a message awaiting him. He waited until he was in his room before ripping open the envelope, and found but a single inscrutable line of writing: Your room—7.30 p.m. Lane. He looked at his watch and decided he had just time to unpack.

  At 7.29 there was a discreet knock. He opened the door and a man said, ‘Mr Warren? I believe you’re expecting me. My name is Lane.’

  ‘Come in, Mr Lane,’ said Warren, and held open the door wider. He studied Lane as he took off his coat; there was not much to the man—he could have been anybody—a virtue in a private detective.

  Lane sat down. ‘Your man is staying here at the Hilton—his reservation is for a week. He’s here right now, if you want him.’

  ‘Not alone, I trust,’ said Warren.

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Warren; there are two of us on the job. He’s being watched.’ Lane shrugged. ‘But he won’t move—he likes to stay close to where the bottles are.’

  ‘He drinks a lot?’

  ‘He may not be an alcoholic, but he’s pushing it. He lives in the bar until it closes, then has a bottle sent to his room.’

  Warren nodded. ‘What else can you tell me about Mr Speering?’

  Lane took a notebook from his pocket. ‘He’s been getting around. I have a list of all this stuff written up which I’ll let you have, but I can tell it to you in five minutes.’ He flipped open the notebook. ‘He was met at the airport by one of the locals—an Iranian, I think—and brought here to the hotel. I wasn’t able to nail down the Iranian; we’d just arrived and we weren’t equipped,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Anyway, we haven’t seen the Iranian since. Speering went out next day to a place on Mowlavi, near the railway station. I have the address here. He came out of there with a car or, rather, an American jeep. It isn’t a hire car, either—I’ve been trying to check on the registration, but that’s a bit difficult in a strange city like this one.’

  ‘Yes, it must be,’ said Warren.

  ‘He went from there to a firm of wholesale pharmaceutical chemists—name and address supplied—where he spent an hour and a half. Then back to the Hilton where he spent the rest of the day. That was yesterday. This morning he had a visitor—an American called John Eastman; that was up in his room. Eastman stayed all morning—three hours—then they had lunch in the Hilton dining-room.’

  ‘Any line on Eastman?’

  Lane shook his head. ‘A full-time check on a man really takes four operatives—there are only two of us. We couldn’t do anything about Eastman without the risk of losing Speering. Our instructions were to stick to Speering.’ Lane consulted his notebook again. ‘Eastman left soon after lunch today, and Speering hasn’t moved since. He’s down in the bar right now. That’s the lot, Mr Warren.’

  ‘I think you’ve done well under the circumstances,’ said Warren. ‘I have some friends here; I’d like to let them get a look at Speering for future reference. Can that be arranged?’

  ‘Nothing easier,’ said Lane. ‘All you have to do is have a drink.’ He took out an envelope which he gave to Warren. ‘That’s all we have on Speering; registration number of his jeep, names and addresses of the places he’s been to in Tehran.’ He paused. ‘I understand that finishes our job—after I’ve pointed the man out.’

  ‘That’s right. That’s all you were asked to do.’

  Lane seemed relieved. ‘This one’s been tricky,’ he confided. ‘I don’t have any trouble in London, and I’ve done jobs in Paris and Rome. But a Westerner here stands out like a sore thumb in some parts of the city and that makes following a man difficult. When do you want to see Speering?’

  ‘Why not now?’ said Warren. ‘I’ll collect my chaps.’

  Before going into the bar Warren paused and said, ‘We’re here on business. Mr Lane will indicate unobtrusively the man we’ve come to see—and the operative word is see. Take a good look at him so that you’ll recognize him again anywhere—but don’t make it obvious. The idea is to see and not be seen. I suggest we split up.’

  They crossed the foyer and went into the bar. Warren spotted Speering immediately and veered away from him. He had seen Speering on several occasions in London and, although he did not think he was known to Speering, it was best to make sure he was not observed. He turned his back on the room, leaned on the bar counter and ordered a drink.

  The man next to him turned. ‘Hi, th
ere!’

  Warren nodded politely. ‘Good evening.’

  ‘You with IMEG?’ The man was American.

  ‘IMEG?’

  The man laughed. ‘I guess not. I saw you were British and I guessed you might be with IMEG.’

  ‘I don’t even know what IMEG is,’ said Warren. He looked into the mirror at the back of the bar and saw Tozier sitting at a table and ordering a drink.

  ‘It’s just about the biggest thing to hit this rathole of a country,’ said the American. He was slightly drunk. ‘We’re reaming a forty-inch gas line right up the middle—Abadan right to the Russian border. Over six hundred million bucks’ worth. Money’s flowing like…like money.’ He laughed.

  ‘Indeed!’ said Warren. He was not very interested.

  ‘IMEG’s bossing the show—that’s you British. Me—I’m with Williams Brothers, who are doing the goddam work. Call that a fair division of labour?’

  ‘It sounds like a big job,’ said Warren evasively. He shifted his position and saw Follet at the other end of the bar.

  ‘The biggest.’ The American swallowed his drink. ‘But the guys who are going to take the cream are the Russkis. Christ, what a set-up! They’ll take Iranian gas at under two cents a therm, and they’ve pushed a line through to Trieste so they can sell Russian gas to the Italians at over three cents a therm. Don’t tell me those Bolshevik bastards aren’t good capitalists.’ He nudged Warren. ‘Have a drink.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Warren. ‘I’m expecting a friend.’

  ‘Aw, hell!’ The American looked at his watch. ‘I guess I’ve gotta eat, anyway. See you around.’

  As he left, Tozier came up to the bar with his drink in his hand. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘A lonely drunk.’

  ‘I’ve seen your man,’ said Tozier. ‘He looks like another drunk. What now?’

  ‘Now we don’t lose him.’

  ‘And then?’

  Warren shrugged. ‘Then we find out what we find out.’ Tozier was silent for a while. He pulled out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘It’s not good enough, Nick. I don’t like acting in the dark.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’

  ‘You’ll be even sorrier when I pull out tomorrow.’ Warren turned his head sharply, and Tozier said, ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you can’t run this operation by keeping everything under wraps. How the hell can I do a job if I don’t know what I’m doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way about it, Andy. Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Oh, I trust you. The trouble is that you don’t trust me. So I’m pulling out, Nick—I’ll be back in London tomorrow night. You’ve got something on Johnny Follet, and you might have something on Ben Bryan for all I know. But I’m clean, Nick; I’m in this for honest reasons—just for the money.’

  ‘So stay and earn it.’

  Tozier shook his head gently. ‘Not without knowing what I’m getting into—and why. I told you once that I like to have something to shoot back with if someone shoots at me. I also like to know why he’s shooting at me. Hell, I might approve of his reasons—I might even be on his side if I knew the score.’

  Warren’s hand tightened on his glass. He was being pushed into a decision. ‘Andy, you do jobs for money. Would you smuggle dope for money?’

  ‘The problem has never come up,’ said Tozier reflectively. ‘Nobody has ever made the proposition. Are you asking me, Nick?’

  ‘Do I look like a dope smuggler?’ said Warren in disgust.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tozier. ‘I don’t know how a dope smuggler behaves. I do know that the straightest people get bent under pressure. You’ve been under pressure for quite some time, Nick; I’ve watched you struggling against it.’ He drained his glass. ‘Now that the question has arisen,’ he said, ‘the answer is no. I wouldn’t smuggle dope for money. And I think you’ve turned into a right son of a bitch, Nick; you’ve tried to con me into this thing and it hasn’t worked, has it?’

  Warren blew out his cheeks and let the air escape in a long sigh. Internally he was cheering to the sound of trumpets. He grinned at Tozier. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Andy. Let me tell you about it—around the corner out of the sight of Speering.’

  He took Tozier by the arm and steered him to a table and in five minutes had given him the gist of it. Tozier listened and a slightly stupefied expression appeared on his face. He said, ‘And that’s all you have to go on? Have you gone out of your mind?’

  ‘It’s not much,’ admitted Warren. ‘But it’s all we have.’

  Suddenly, Tozier chuckled. ‘It’s just mad enough to be interesting. I’m sorry if I got things wrong just now, Nick; but you were being so bloody mysterious.’ He nodded ruefully. ‘I can see the position you were in—you can’t trust anyone in this racket. Okay, I’m with you.’

  ‘Thanks, Andy,’ said Warren quietly.

  Tozier called up a waiter and ordered drinks. ‘Let’s get practical,’ he said. ‘You were right in one thing—I wouldn’t let a breath of this leak out to Johnny Follet. If there’s any money in it Johnny will want to cut his share, and he won’t be too particular how he does it. But all the same, he’s a good man to have along, and we can use him as long as you keep that stranglehold tight. What have you got on him, anyway?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Tozier shrugged. ‘I suppose not. Now, what are your ideas on Speering?’

  ‘He’s come here to extract morphine from opium, I’m fairly sure of that,’ said Warren. ‘That’s why he went to a wholesale pharmaceutical firm yesterday. He was ordering supplies.’

  ‘What would he need?’

  ‘Pharmaceutical quality lime, methylene chloride, benzene, amyl alcohol and hydrochloric acid, plus a quantity of glassware.’ Warren paused. ‘I don’t know if he intends transforming the morphine into heroin here. If he does he’ll need acetic acid as well.’

  Tozier frowned. ‘I don’t quite understand this. What’s the difference between morphine and heroin?’

  The drinks arrived and Warren did not reply until the waiter had gone. ‘Morphine is an alkaloid extracted from opium by a relatively simple chemical process. Heroin is morphine with its molecular structure altered by an even simpler process.’ He grimaced. ‘That job could be done in a well-equipped kitchen.’

  ‘But what’s the difference?’

  ‘Well, heroin is the acetylated form of morphine. It’s soluble in water, which morphine is not, and since the human body mostly consists of water it gets to the spot faster. Various properties are accentuated and it’s a damned sight more addictive than morphine.’

  Tozier leaned back. ‘So Speering is going to extract the morphine. But where? Here in Iran? And how is the morphine—or heroin—going to get to the coast? South to the Persian Gulf? Or across Iraq and Syria to the Mediterranean? We have to find out one hell of a lot of things, Nick.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Warren gloomily. ‘And there’s one big problem I can’t see past at all. It’s something I haven’t even discussed with Hellier.’

  ‘Oh! Well, you’d better spit it out.’

  Warren said flatly, ‘There’s no opium in Iran.’

  Tozier stared at him. ‘I thought all these Middle East countries were rotten with the stuff.’

  ‘They are—and so was Iran under the old Shah. But this new boy is a reformer.’ Warren leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Under the old Shah things went to hell in a bucket. He was running Iran on the lines of the old Roman Empire—in order to keep in sweet with the populace he kept the price of grain down to an artificial low level. That was a self-defeating policy because the farmers found they couldn’t make a living growing grain, so they planted poppies instead—a much more profitable crop. So there was less and less grain and more and more opium.’ He grimaced. ‘The old Shah didn’t mind because he created the Opium Monopoly; there was a government tax and he got a rake-off from every pound collected.’
/>   ‘A sweet story,’ said Tozier.

  ‘You haven’t heard the half of it. In 1936 Iranian opium production was 1,350 metric tons. World requirements of medicinal opium were 400 tons.’

  Tozier jerked. ‘You mean the old bastard was smuggling the stuff.’

  ‘He didn’t need to,’ said Warren. ‘It wasn’t illegal. He was the law in Iran. He just sold the stuff to anyone who had the money to pay for it. He was on to a good thing, but all good things come to an end. He pushed his luck too far and was forced to abdicate. There was a provisional government for a while, and then the present Shah took over. Now, he was a really bright boy. He wanted to drag this woebegone country into the twentieth century by the scruff of its neck, but he found that you can’t have industrialism in a country where seventy-five per cent of the population are opium addicts. So he clamped down hard and fast, and I doubt if you can find an ounce of illegal opium in the country today.’

  Tozier looked baffled. ‘Then what is Speering doing here?’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Warren blandly. ‘But I don’t propose asking him outright.’

  ‘No,’ said Tozier pensively. ‘But we stick to him closer than his shirt.’

  A waiter came and and said enquiringly, ‘Mistair Warren?’

  ‘I’m Warren.’

  ‘A message for you, sair.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Warren raised his eyebrows at Tozier as he tipped the waiter. A minute later he said, ‘It’s from Lane. Speering has given up his reservation—he’s leaving tomorrow. Lane doesn’t know where he’s going, but his jeep has been serviced and there are water cans in the back. What do you suppose that means?’

  ‘He’s leaving Tehran,’ said Tozier with conviction. ‘I’d better get back to check on the trucks; I’d like to see if the radios are still in working order. We’ll leave separately—give me five minutes.’

  Warren waited impatiently for the time to elapse, then got up and walked out of the bar. As he passed Speering he almost stopped out of sheer surprise. Speering was sitting with Johnny Follet and they were both tossing coins.