Angel of Destruction Read online

  *

  She had a bath, put on a dressing gown, and ordered a light early supper. ‘I am expecting a car to pick me up at eight o’clock,’ she told the floor waiter. ‘Will you ask the desk to call me when it arrives? I shall be in my room.’

  ‘Of course, Senorita O’Brien.’ The Irish beauty had now been resident in the hotel for a week, and he felt he knew her quite well . . . even if he would dearly have liked to know her better.

  ‘Thank you.’ She ate, sparingly – even her stomach could be tense before a hit – and had a single glass of wine, while going over in her mind what might lie ahead. Her plans were all made and already part implemented. After leaving Jaquetta, she had returned here, transferred her remaining money to her evening bag, and repacked a complete change of clothing in her shoulder bag. These had been carefully selected before she began the assignment, and would assist in transforming her from a beautiful and glamorous woman into an itinerant hippie. To these she had added her spare passports, retaining only her Irish one, which she also placed in her evening bag, and her three pairs of sunglasses; she had learned from experience that things like sun glasses and jewellery were what people noticed as much as facial features.

  Then she had taken a taxi to the railway station, hired a left luggage box – for this service a section of the station was open all night – and left the bag there. Thus her escape route was under way, and as she would leave the hotel that night without either of her suitcases they could have no doubt that she was coming back and not doing a runner. The rest of her clothes, regrettably, would have to be written off . . . but she had had to do this often enough in the past, and their cost would go on her expenses: she might be a multi-millionairess, but nowadays she believed in being paid for her services, handsomely. When she remembered the years she had worked for the Nazi SD and British MI without being paid at all, simply because for the one she had had no choice and for the other she wanted to, she had to smile.

  But the immediate situation was more dangerous than usual because she had been unable properly to reconnoitre her ground and the probable conditions in which she would be operating. Over the past week she had surveyed, from the street, the hotel in which Capillano maintained his suite, but had not risked actually entering the building, as she wished no one to recognize her when she appeared tonight.

  And although, once she had accepted her money, Jaquetta had given her a briefing as to what to expect, she had not wanted to ask any probing and thus possibly suspicious questions. Thus she only knew that the suite was on the third floor, that there were always at least three guards in attendance as well as a secretary, and that she would be searched before being admitted to the great man’s presence.

  When she remembered the elaborate security with which both Hitler and Himmler had been surrounded, this was less than par for the course. But what she did not know was the exact lay-out of the suite, how many, if any, suites were on the same floor, the situation of the elevators, or how many hotel staff were allotted to each floor, or how inquisitive they were. But she had long ago realized that nothing in life, or for that matter, death, was ever perfect. She would have to play it by ear; that too she had had to do often enough before.

  Seven o’clock. She pushed the trolley into the hall, locked the door, and dressed. She rolled on her stockings and fastened her suspender belt, added her knickers. Then she checked the magazine of her Walther. This tiny pistol – it fitted neatly into her hand – contained only five bullets, and there were likely to be at least five people in the apartment. Thus she might need a spare magazine. This she usually carried in her shoulder bag, but lacking that and in evening dress – as apparently was required by Capillano – and knowing that her handbag was liable to be opened, there was not a lot of easily accessible space available.

  She strapped on the thin, narrow belt, which fitted snugly round her waist, resting on her hips, settled the holster into her groin. The belt had a pocket for a silencer, but as she did not think she was going to have the time to screw it into place she had stowed this also in her shoulder bag; the point two-two made very little noise in any event. Then she opened her first-aid pack – this also would have to be written off – took out a roll of plaster, placed the spare magazine on the inside of her left thigh, under the knickers and where the thigh joined the groin, and taped it into place. This involved trapping several wisps of her somewhat luxuriant pale pubic hair – which she had always been too proud to trim – which meant that removing the magazine in haste was going to be painful, but if that was the worst she would have to suffer tonight she would be laughing.

  From the wardrobe she selected a high-necked green sheath dress with an elaborate sash; she wasn’t planning on doing any running. This buttoned up the back, but as with all her working clothes there was also a vent, fastened with a zip, on the right side of her waist, large enough for her to slip her hand in and draw the pistol or even to reach the spare magazine.. She worked the zip several times to make sure it was absolutely free, then stood in front of the full-length mirror to smooth the gown and make sure there was no unsightly and suspicious bulge. But the pistol always fitted perfectly between her hip and her groin, and was in any event partly shrouded by the sash, the tail of which she now made sure hung in exactly the right place. She smiled as she recalled that she had worn a gown almost exactly matching this to go out to dinner with the Nazi colony in Brazil, in 1946 . . . and had wound up rolling in the mud while fighting for her life. She could only hope that tonight was not going to be as dramatic.

  Satisfied, she sat before her dressing mirror, applied make-up, and put her hair up, remembering the meticulous care with which her German maid, Birgit, had done this. Poor Birgit, she thought. The foolish woman had elected to remain in Germany instead of fleeing with her mistress in March 1945; Anna had no idea if she had survived, and if she had, what were her present circumstances.

  She added her jewellery, surveyed herself in the mirror, and grimaced; as she lacked Birgit’s talents as a hairdresser, it was by no means perfect. But actually the slight suggestion of untidiness, the odd escaping wisps of hair, went perfectly with the face and the expression, which even after ten years of murder and mayhem remained that of a slightly bewildered angel.

  *

  Satisfied, she sat in an armchair and waited, keeping absolutely still, hands resting on the arms of the chair, fingers spread and motionless, always aware of the pistol resting against her groin and the magazine on the inside of her thigh. This was a routine she had practised for all of those ten years, and which had never let her down. She was concentrating, at once turning her nerves and emotions into a solid block of ice, and at the same time preparing her brain and her muscles for instant, irrevocable, and absolutely ruthless violence when the time came.

  The phone rang. ‘Your car is here, Senorita O’Brien.’

  ‘Thank you. I will be right down.’

  She picked up her evening handbag, looked round the room. She had spent a very comfortable week here. But from this moment it, Mexico City, the entire country, was barred to her. There were an increasing number of countries to which that applied.

  There was no need for a cape on a warm night. She went down in the lift, smiled at the clerk behind the desk as she handed him her key, and then at the uniformed driver, who touched his cap. ‘Senorita! It is a great pleasure.’

  ‘And for me, I hope.’

  She got into the back of the car. It was only a short drive, through crowded, brilliantly lit streets, and then they were stopping outside another hotel, this one somewhat more imposing than her own modest establishment.

  The chauffeur opened the door for her and she got out. ‘Tell me . . . ah . . . I’m terribly sorry, but I do not know your name.’

  ‘It is Rodrigo, senorita.’

  ‘What a nice name. What happens when I am ready to leave, Rodrigo? Do you wait for me?’

  ‘Well, no. I would very much like to do that, senorita. But it is impossible to say ho
w long you will be.’

  ‘I will be back within an hour.’

  ‘An hour? That cannot be possible.’

  ‘Why cannot it be possible?’

  ‘Well, senorita, the patron has paid a great deal of money for your company. He will not be satisfied with an hour.’

  ‘Rodrigo, do you not think that I can completely satisfy any man in an hour?’

  He gulped, and she rested her hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘And when I return, well, the whole night is there in front of us, is it not. And Rodrigo, it will not cost you a centimo.’

  ‘Oh, senorita.’

  ‘Wait for me over there,’ Anna said, and entered the foyer.

  *

  She went to the reception desk. ‘I am to see Senor Capillano.’

  The clerk surveyed her with glowing eyes. ‘Oh, yes, senorita.’ He looked at his pad. ‘Senorita O’Brien.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘You are from Senora Jaquetta.’

  ‘That is also correct.’

  ‘Forgive me, senorita. Security, you understand. Use elevator number three; it goes directly to the third floor.’

  ‘And does it return the same way?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How terribly convenient.’

  ‘I will just telephone to let them know you are coming. It is the door opposite the elevator.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Anna went to the lift, rode up. The time for thinking, planning, was past. Now there could only be execution.

  The corridor was empty. The entire set-up might have been created especially for her convenience. Although as she stepped from the lift the door opposite opened and a man emerged. He wore a dinner jacket, looked ordinary enough, and not in the least hostile, but the slight fullness of the left shoulder of his jacket indicated to Anna’s practised eye that he was armed. ‘Senorita O’Brien?’

  ‘That is my name.’

  ‘Well! I think you will please the patron.’

  He indicated the doorway, and she stepped into a comfortable lobby beyond which there was a sitting room. It was reminiscent of so many hotel suites in her past, most of them associated with violence.

  There were two more men in there, also wearing tuxedos, and also, she saw at a glance, armed. The man who had greeted her closed the doors behind her. ‘Senors,’ he said proudly. ‘Senorita O’Brien.’

  Anna smiled at them, and they walked around her, as if she were a thoroughbred horse at an auction. Well, compared with these, she supposed she was.

  ‘You understand that you must be searched, senorita?’

  Anna shrugged. ‘If that is what you are required to do.’

  ‘So we must ask you to stand still.’

  ‘Am I not doing that?’ She wondered if she going to have to go into action immediately. She hoped not. She liked symmetry, the carrying out of her assignment in its proper order, just as she also liked to make absolutely sure her objective deserved to die. And a normal, routine search, a passing of the hands over the body, would not reveal either what lay against her groin or between her legs.

  One of the men stood in front of her, the other two behind her. She gazed into the eyes of the first man. You may have less than half an hour to live, she thought, and smiled at him.

  She felt fingers on her back, unbuttoning her gown. As she had supposed would be the case, the ‘search’ was actually a means of satisfying their desire, even if hardly all of it. The man at her buttons grunted as he realized she was wearing no visible underclothes. Then she felt his fingers on her flesh. As she had anticipated, with her gown loose from her shoulders, they immediately moved to either side, sliding under her armpits to come in front and cup her breasts; if he had noticed the side vent it did not appear to interest him. Behaviour like this made it easier to kill him, but she asked, in her most dulcet tone, ‘If you will tell me what you are looking for, senor, I may be able to tell you where it is.’

  He kissed her ear while plucking at her nipples. ‘You have sophistication. The patron will like that.’

  The crunch was approaching. If he intended to go lower . . . but at that moment the inner door opened. ‘Up to your tricks, as usual, eh, Carlos?’

  The hands fell away, while Anna surveyed the newcomer. He was a little man, bald but with a pencil moustache, and like the others, impeccably dressed in a dinner suit; she reckoned that, unlike them, he was not carrying a gun – at least in a shoulder holster. ‘I am Esteban,’ he explained. ‘And I must ask you to forgive Carlos. He is a great gatherer of crumbs from the table.’

  ‘He has cold fingers,’ Anna complained.

  ‘You hear that, Carlos? You are a failure, even with your hands. The patron is waiting, Senorita O’Brien.’

  ‘Do you think Carlos could do me up?’

  ‘Do you think that is necessary?’

  ‘I like to be properly dressed,’ she explained. ‘At least for an introduction.’

  ‘Of course. You heard the lady, Carlos.’

  The fingers were back, this time nervously scrabbling from button to button.

  ‘Thank you,’ Anna said, and went forward. ‘And you are?’

  ‘I am the patron’s private secretary,’ Esteban said.

  ‘Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’ She held out her hand.

  He squeezed the gloved fingers, raised them to his lips. ‘You are a singularly self-possessed young lady.’

  ‘I have been in this business a very long time,’ Anna said, with absolute truthfulness.

  ‘And yet you look as if you were born yesterday. You are enchanting.’

  Anna made a moue. The last man who had described her as enchanting had been Adolf Hitler. She rather liked this little fellow. But her motto had always been, business before pleasure . . . or friendship.

  He was holding the door for her. She stepped into a large bedroom, on two levels. The rear, upper level, reached by a single step of the floor, was nearly all bed. The lower contained a group of armchairs around a low glass-topped table, with a well-stocked sideboard against one wall and a large desk against the other.

  Roberto Capillano stood in front of this, also wearing evening dress. He was not very tall, but very heavily built. His hair was thick and black, brushed straight back from his forehead, with a carefully delineated centre parting. His features were pronounced, and strong, but there was no immediate evidence of either excessive dissipation or viciousness. His eyes were black, his smile pleasant. If Anna had not been told of what he was guilty, and would undoubtedly be again if given the opportunity, she thought she might even have liked him as well. But like his bodyguards, there was that fullness at the left shoulder. She was relieved at that; she hated having to kill unarmed targets.

  He advanced with outstretched arms, held her shoulders ‘Do you know,’ he said. ‘Jaquetta told me she had something very special for me, to replace Martina, and I did not believe her. But you . . .’ His hands slipped down her arms to hold her gloves, rather, she remembered, as the Fuehrer had liked to do.

  ‘You say the sweetest things, senor,’ she said.

  ‘Now tell me what that boor Carlos was up to?’

  ‘He said he was searching me. But he was actually feeling my tits.’

  ‘And you do not like having your tits felt?’

  ‘I enjoy it. If they are felt by the right person.’

  ‘You are delightful. Thank you, Esteban. I shall not need you again.’

  ‘Senor. Senorita.’ The secretary withdrew through the door, and closed it.

  ‘Now we shall not be disturbed,’ Capillano said.

  ‘Not even if I scream for help?’

  ‘Not even if I scream for help,’ he assured her. ‘Are you going to scream for help?’

  ‘Am I going to need to?’

  His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he smiled. ‘You have a quick wit as well as a beautiful face, and I am sure, a beautiful body. Let me see your hair.’

  Anna reached
up and pulled out the pins, laying them on the coffee table. Her hair fell past her ears and tumbled down her back, assisted to lie straight by a quick shake of her head.

  ‘What perfection,’ Capillano remarked. ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She sat in one of the chairs, crossed her right leg over her left to leave the pistol fully accessible, and laid her handbag on the table. Then she took off her gloves, and while he was preoccupied, slipped the zip on her vent down, covering it with her arm.

  The champagne was already open, and waiting in its ice bucket. Capillano filled two glasses, gave her one, and sat opposite her. ‘How is it that I have not seen you before?’

  ‘I am new.’

  ‘All the way from Ireland?’

  ‘I found it convenient to leave Great Britain. But I need to earn a living.’

  ‘I would have thought someone like you could do better than Jaquetta’s. Your health.’ He drank. ‘That is a very unusual watch. I have never seen one like it before. Is it Irish?’

  ‘It is German.’

  ‘German? It looks like solid gold.’

  ‘It is solid gold. It is a Junghans.’

  ‘You have been to Germany?’

  ‘I lived there for some years. During the war.’ He stared at her, so she added, ‘The watch was a gift from my lover, Reinhard Heydrich. Have you heard of him? At one time he was quite well known.’

  This time the stare was hostile, as he began to suspect that she was teasing him, as of course she was . . . while sticking strictly to the truth. At last he said, ‘Carlos was pretending to search you. Did he look into your bag?’

  ‘He preferred my tits.’

  ‘The man is a lecherous cretin. Do you mind if I look into the bag?’

  ‘Of course I do not mind. But . . . you may not like what you find.’

  Again he regarded her for some seconds, then leaned forward, picked up the bag, and opened it. Anna slipped her hand inside her gown. Capillano took out first her lipstick and compact, her comb, then her small vial of perfume, sniffed it. ‘This is very nice.’

  ‘It is Adoration.’