Read Online Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) by Jack Higgins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Higgins
Ads: Link
the music on the radio was interrupted for a newsflash. Mr Maxwell Cohen, victim of an unknown assassin earlier that evening, had been operated on successfully. He was now in intensive care under heavy police guard. There was every prospect that he would make a full recovery.
Foreign news sources reported that responsibility for the attack had been claimed by Black September, Al Fatah's vengeance group, formed during 1971 to eliminate all enemies of the Palestine revolution. They gave, as their excuse, Maxwell Cohen's considerable support for Zionism.
Mikali closed his eyes momentarily, was aware of the burning truck, the four fellagha walking round, drifting towards him, the smile on the face of the leader, the one with the knife in his hand. And then the image changed to the tunnel darkness, the white, terrified face of the girl, briefly glimpsed.
He opened his eyes, switched off the radio and toasted himself in the glass. 'Less than perfection, old buddy, Less than perfection and that won't do at all.'
There was a knock at the door. When he opened it the corridor seemed crowded with young women, mainly students to judge by their university scarves.
'Can we come in, Mr Mikali?'
'Why not?' John Mikali smiled, the insolent charm firmly back in place. 'All life is here with the great Mikali. Enter and beware.'
Baker stood in the foyer of the mortuary with Francis Wood. There was nothing particularly clerical-looking about him. Baker judged him to be about sixty, a tall, kindly man with a greying beard that badly needed trimming. He wore a dark car coat and a blue polo-neck sweater.
'Your wife, sir?' Baker nodded to where Helen Wood stood at the door talking to Mrs Carter. 'She's taking all this remarkably well.'
'A lady of considerable character, Superintendent. She paints, you know. Water colours mostly. She had quite a reputation, under her previous name.'
'Morgan, sir? Yes, I was wondering about that. Mrs Wood was widowed, I presume?'
'No, Superintendent - divorced.' Francis Wood smiled faintly. 'That would surprise you, the Church of England holding the views it does. The explanation is simple enough. To use an old-fashioned term, I happen to have private means. I can afford to steer my own boat. There was a gap of a year or two when we first got married when I was out of a job and then my present bishop wrote to me about Steeple Durham. Hardly the hub of the universe, but the people there had been without a rector for six years and were willing to have me. And my bishop, I might add, is a man of notoriously liberal views.'
'And the child's father? Where could we contact him? He'll need to be notified.'
Before Wood could answer, Mrs Carter left and his wife turned and came towards them. She was thirty-seven, Baker knew that from the information supplied by Stewart, and looked ten years younger. She had ash blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck, pulled back from a face of extraordinary beauty and the calmest eyes he had ever seen in his life. She wore an old military trenchcoat which had once carried a captain's three pips in the epaulets, his policeman's sharp eyes noticed the holes.
'I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but it's time for formal identification, Mrs Wood.'
'If you'd be good enough to lead the way, Superintendent,' she said in a low, sweet voice.
Doctor Evans, the pathologist, waited in the postmortem room, flanked by two male technicians, already wearing white overalls and boots and long pale-green rubber gloves.
The room was lit by fluorescent lighting so bright that it hurt the eyes and there was a row of half a dozen stainless-steel operating tables.
The child lay on her back on the one nearest the door, covered by a white sheet, her head raised on a wooden block. Helen Wood and her husband approached, followed by Baker and Stewart.
Baker said, 'This isn't going to be nice, Mrs Wood, but it has to be done.'
'Please,' she said.
He nodded to Evans who raised the sheet, exposing the
Foreign news sources reported that responsibility for the attack had been claimed by Black September, Al Fatah's vengeance group, formed during 1971 to eliminate all enemies of the Palestine revolution. They gave, as their excuse, Maxwell Cohen's considerable support for Zionism.
Mikali closed his eyes momentarily, was aware of the burning truck, the four fellagha walking round, drifting towards him, the smile on the face of the leader, the one with the knife in his hand. And then the image changed to the tunnel darkness, the white, terrified face of the girl, briefly glimpsed.
He opened his eyes, switched off the radio and toasted himself in the glass. 'Less than perfection, old buddy, Less than perfection and that won't do at all.'
There was a knock at the door. When he opened it the corridor seemed crowded with young women, mainly students to judge by their university scarves.
'Can we come in, Mr Mikali?'
'Why not?' John Mikali smiled, the insolent charm firmly back in place. 'All life is here with the great Mikali. Enter and beware.'
Baker stood in the foyer of the mortuary with Francis Wood. There was nothing particularly clerical-looking about him. Baker judged him to be about sixty, a tall, kindly man with a greying beard that badly needed trimming. He wore a dark car coat and a blue polo-neck sweater.
'Your wife, sir?' Baker nodded to where Helen Wood stood at the door talking to Mrs Carter. 'She's taking all this remarkably well.'
'A lady of considerable character, Superintendent. She paints, you know. Water colours mostly. She had quite a reputation, under her previous name.'
'Morgan, sir? Yes, I was wondering about that. Mrs Wood was widowed, I presume?'
'No, Superintendent - divorced.' Francis Wood smiled faintly. 'That would surprise you, the Church of England holding the views it does. The explanation is simple enough. To use an old-fashioned term, I happen to have private means. I can afford to steer my own boat. There was a gap of a year or two when we first got married when I was out of a job and then my present bishop wrote to me about Steeple Durham. Hardly the hub of the universe, but the people there had been without a rector for six years and were willing to have me. And my bishop, I might add, is a man of notoriously liberal views.'
'And the child's father? Where could we contact him? He'll need to be notified.'
Before Wood could answer, Mrs Carter left and his wife turned and came towards them. She was thirty-seven, Baker knew that from the information supplied by Stewart, and looked ten years younger. She had ash blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck, pulled back from a face of extraordinary beauty and the calmest eyes he had ever seen in his life. She wore an old military trenchcoat which had once carried a captain's three pips in the epaulets, his policeman's sharp eyes noticed the holes.
'I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but it's time for formal identification, Mrs Wood.'
'If you'd be good enough to lead the way, Superintendent,' she said in a low, sweet voice.
Doctor Evans, the pathologist, waited in the postmortem room, flanked by two male technicians, already wearing white overalls and boots and long pale-green rubber gloves.
The room was lit by fluorescent lighting so bright that it hurt the eyes and there was a row of half a dozen stainless-steel operating tables.
The child lay on her back on the one nearest the door, covered by a white sheet, her head raised on a wooden block. Helen Wood and her husband approached, followed by Baker and Stewart.
Baker said, 'This isn't going to be nice, Mrs Wood, but it has to be done.'
'Please,' she said.
He nodded to Evans who raised the sheet, exposing the
Similar Books
