The Spoilers / Juggernaut

‘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, there!’

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?’