The Doll’s House by Evelyn Anthony Read Free Book Online Page B

protection was coming to an end.
    A rich diversity of talents, nationalities, ages, loyalties – all very different. But they all had one thing in common with Harry Oakham and each other. Which was why they were coming to Geneva to meet him.
    Jan had brought Rilke up to the conference room early. Harry came to shake hands with him. He’d never met the man, but he’d seen photographs. And he’d debriefed some of his handiwork. What was left of them. Rilke was short and wiry, with dark, angry eyes set deep in his head. His forehead bulged outward. He had a sallow skin, pockmarked with old acne scars, and a thin moustache above narrow lips. He had what Harry described as a wet-fish handshake, which surprised him.
    He said, in excellent English, almost without accent, ‘Good morning. I’ve followed your career with admiration, Mr Oakham. It’s nice to meet you face to face.’
    â€˜It’s nice to meet you too,’ Harry answered. ‘I’ve been following your career too; trying to catch up, but not very successfully. You were too good for us.’
    He was a vain little skunk; Jan was right. He smirked at the compliment.
    â€˜From a professional of your standing, that’s high praise.’
    â€˜Take a seat,’ Harry suggested.
    He must have learned his English at the Potsdam special language school.
    He didn’t waste time on small talk. Rilke had only been given fifteen minutes before the others were expected.
    â€˜Jan has briefed you on the general idea. I’d like your comments.’
    Rilke poured a glass of water. He did it deliberately. The message was clear. I’m not committed to anything. I’m not going to ask any questions till you’ve given me more information.
    â€˜Ploekewski discussed a general principle,’ he said. ‘But it was very loose. No specifics. Just enough to interest me. But I want to know much more before I stay for any meeting.’
    Oakham had expected him to make conditions. But he wasn’t going to have the time.
    â€˜I have my own position to consider.’
    Harry changed tactics.
    â€˜And what position is that?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘I understand that you have been honourably retired. Or dishonourably, I should say. After all your years of brilliant service, you’ve been kicked out. And nobody’s been anxious to employ you. You’ve taken quite a drop in living standards.’
    That stung. Rilke’s cheeks reddened.
    â€˜I chose retirement,’ he snapped back. ‘I couldn’t work under the new system.’
    He stubbed out his cigarette. Jan flashed a warning look and Harry laid a hand on Rilke’s arm as he began to push his chair back.
    â€˜Don’t walk out till you see what’s on offer. I can promise you, you won’t regret it.’
    Rilke looked at him. ‘I’m not committed. Or compromised in any way?’
    â€˜No more than any of us,’ was the answer. ‘Damn,’ he protested, as the telephone rang. ‘We’ve wasted time.’
    Jan answered the call.
    â€˜They’re here,’ he said to Oakham.
    There was a man ahead of Georg Werner at the reception desk in the Hotel d’Angleterre. He heard him ask for the same contact name, the D.H. Company, and Werner drew back.
    He was younger than Werner. Very spare in his ill-cut suit, tall and dark with broad cheeks and black eyes that hinted at Eastern blood. Armenian probably. He’d spoken with a Russian accent.
    Werner followed him across the lobby and stood waiting for the lift. He felt nervous; he kept pulling at his jacket as if it didn’t fit properly. The lift came level with them and the doors slid open. The tall Russian got in, Werner on his heels. Just before the doors closed a woman came hurrying up, followed by a small swarthy man who caught Werner’s eye because he wore a bilious tie in greens and yellows. The lift was closed and Werner pressed