The Doll’s House by Evelyn Anthony

surface; he mustn’t forget what Jan had suffered.
    â€˜Let’s start off in the cocktail bar,’ he suggested.
    It was an established nightly routine to go round, greeting the guests, making new arrivals feel at home. He rather enjoyed it, and surprisingly, so did Jan. Jan had perfected a little bow when he said good-evening. It was very dignified. But as they crossed the hall, one of the receptionists came after them. It was the pretty girl who blushed. Harry had a soft spot for her.
    â€˜Excuse me, Mr Oakham, there’s a call for you. A Mr Harris.’
    He stopped.
    He said to Jan, ‘You do the rounds. I’ll follow on.’
    Mr Harris. Alias Hakim, his Lebanese contact. He went into his office, closed the door. There was a scrambler fitted to his private telephone. He lifted the receiver.
    â€˜Put Mr Harris through please, Jane.’
    He pressed the switch and the line was safe from eavesdroppers.
    â€˜Oakham,’ he said. ‘Is that you, Hakim?’
    They didn’t bother much with small talk.
    â€˜I’ve got a proposition for you.’
    Oakham lit a cigarette.
    â€˜What kind?’
    â€˜I want to meet with you.’
    â€˜You’ll have to come up here. There’s a pub at Dedham, the Old Mill. How urgent is it?’
    â€˜Very urgent. Tomorrow.’
    â€˜All right, twelve o’clock in the bar.’
    There was a pause.
    â€˜It’s a secure place? I prefer London.’
    â€˜I prefer the Old Mill. Don’t worry, hang a camera round your neck and look like a tourist. Whatever the proposition is, you know it’s going to cost you.’
    â€˜We know,’ was the answer.
    â€˜And I want half the fee in advance,’ Harry stated.
    Always get your money first with the Lebanese.
    â€˜OK, OK. Tomorrow. Twelve o’clock.’
    The line cleared.
    Oakham sat still. Then he drew an elaborate doodle on the pad in front of him. He had known Hakim for a long time. He negotiated – for murder, kidnapping, blackmail, any act of terrorism for a number of organizations. He only used the best.
    Harry had made sure he was approached as a potential customer. A proposition. Whoever was employing Hakim wanted to hire him and his associates for something nasty. And dangerous.
    He tapped the pen lightly, screwed up the paper, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. He never wrote anything down. He didn’t need to. Years of committing things to memory had produced a computer in his head. Rilke had clients booked in at the beginning of the month. Three choice specimens from Ulster. Eager to sit at the master’s feet and learn how to torture another human being into submission. But this would mean action. Something for him, maybe. Excitement stirred his blood. It always sent the adrenalin running, and it was never tinged with fear.
    He went out, locking the office door and went to look for Jan. He’d been a sod, goading him over the doll’s house. Harry gave himself a mental kick for being such an insensitive fool. He loved Jan, as Jan loved him. He’d tell him about Hakim. That would lift his spirits. He’d give him dinner and a few drinks. They’d speculate on what tomorrow would bring. Just like old times. He found the Pole coming out of the main dining room.
    He said, ‘Everything all right? Happy customers?’
    â€˜Fine, no complaints.’
    He was still looking strained.
    â€˜Then come back with me. I’ve got some good news. Things have started moving.’
    Rosa arrived at the ladies’ annexe of Boodle’s in St James’s at exactly two minutes past one. Peter Jefford was waiting for her in the bar. A man was sitting with him. He had said one o’clock; they had drinks on the table; they had been there for some time.
    â€˜Rosa, this is Jim Parker. Mrs Bennet.’
    He was a nondescript type, medium height, bland features, hair growing back into premature baldness. He had shrewd grey