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And then Sir Geoffrey Waters began to understand, and it was as if he had been shot in the stomach. Was he the reason for the blowfish?
Although his picture never appeared in the newspapers, among the government-oriented, he was known as the powerful MI-5 chief of Internal Security. What better connection for the Matarese? And the outrageous assumption-or was it merely a presumption?-did answer a few questions that had been lurking in the shadows of Sir Geoffrey's mind. Clive and Amanda had within recent months become so damned friendly with Gwyneth and him, inviting them to dinner parties that Waters found both irrelevant and annoying, although he said nothing because he knew his wife adored her brother. However, in a fit of irritation, he did pose a question.
"My dear Gwyn, why this sudden rush of affection? Are there rumors of our sudden demise? Good God, they'll inherit your money what you haven't already given him-and I'm small stakes in that department. It seems they're on the phone or our doorstep several times a week. Please, old girl, I still have to work for a living."
"Not if you'd let me pay the bills, dear heart."
"Wouldn't hear of it. Also, I'm rather good at what I do."
"Please, Geof, Clive worships you, you know that, and Amanda dotes on you. She always insists on sitting next to you. Don't tell me any man, even one approaching sixty, isn't thrilled to sit next to one of the most beautiful women in the world. If you did, I wouldn't believe you."
"She asks too many foolish questions. She thinks I'm an overage James Bond, which I definitely am not-and neither was the original Bond. He was a stringer, more interested in his bloody gardens than in his work for us."
Yet, damn it, Amanda Bentley-Smythe had asked too many questions. Nothing Waters could not handle with a wave of his hand, but still-he wondered. As several of those awful dinner parties went on, his glass constantly filled by the glamorous, seductive Amanda, had he unconsciously revealed something, or someone, he should not have?
He did not think so; he was too experienced for that, but anything was possible insofar as he had always considered his seatmate to have an IQ in double digits. Had she learned something she should not have, something he mentioned innocently, something that was common knowledge, but that she zeroed in on? Was her unknown contact in Amsterdam really part of the Matarese? Geoffrey Waters had to confront his own personal doubts.
His red intercom buzzed softly, it never rang. It was his sterile link to the all-powerful director of Operations.
"Waters here," he said.
"I'm afraid it's rotten news, Geof. Prepare yourself."
"My wife?"
"No, the subject you've been researching, your sister-in-law, Amanda Bentley-Smythe."
"She's disappeared, right?"
"Hardly, she's dead. She was garroted, her body thrown into the Thames. It was recovered an hour ago by a river patrol."
"Oh, my God!"
"There's more, old boy. Three major executives of banks in Scot land, Liverpool, and West London have been shot, all through the head.
None survived. Underworld-style executions."
"It's a purge!" exclaimed Waters.
"Seal off all of their offices!"
"There's nothing to seal. Everything's been removed."
"You must think, Clive," pressed Geoffrey Waters, staring into the tear-stained eyes of his shattered brother-in-law.
"God knows I feel for you, but this terrible thing that's happened has implications far beyond anything you can imagine. Now, these past few days-" "I can't think, Geof! Every time I try, I hear her voice and realize she's gone. That's all I can think about!"
"Where do you keep your brandy, old boy?" asked Waters, glancing about the Bentley-Smythe library that led through French doors to a bright sunlit garden in Surrey.
"Oh, yes, the cabinet over there. I believe a drink will help."
"I'm not sure," said Clive, wiping his eyes and cheeks.
"I'm not good with the stuff, and the phone keeps ringing off the hook-" "It hasn't for quite some time now," interrupted Sir Geoffrey, "because in a way it is off the hook."
"What?"
"I've had all your calls switched to an answering machine in my office. When you like, if you like, you may hear the messages yourself."
"You can do that?"
"Yes, chap, I can, I have." Waters pulled a bottle out of the cabinet, poured a short glass of brandy, and carried it to his stricken brother-inlaw.
"Here, drink this."
"What about the reporters outside in the street? They're surrounding the house and sooner or later I've got to face them."
"They're not surrounding anything. The police have dispersed them."
"You can? ... Of course you can. You have." Bentley-Smythe drank, wincing as he did so, a man not comfortable with alcohol.
"Have you heard the terrible things they've been saying on the radio and the telly? How Amanda was suspected of having lovers, affairs too many to count? They're painting her as an upper-class tramp.. ..
She wasn't, Geof! She loved me and I loved her!"
"I'm sorry, Clive, but Amanda wasn't a candidate for Sunnybrook Farm."
"Good God, you think I didn't know that? I'm not blind! My wife was a vibrant, exciting, and very beautiful woman. Unfortunately, she was married to a passably handsome dullard from an illustrious family who possessed very little talent. I know that, too, because it's me and she needed more than me!"
"Then you turned a blind eye to her .. . shall we say, her indulgences?"
"Of course I did! I was her anchor, her calm between the storms of publicity and celebrity, the steady refuge when she was hurt and exhausted."
"You're a most remarkable husband," observed Sir Geoffrey.
"What else could I do?" pleaded the remarkable husband.
"I loved her more than life itself. I couldn't let her leave me over irrelevant social moralities. She was above all that to me!"
"All right, Clive, all right," sai
d Waters.
"But you must permit me to do my job, old man."
"She was murdered, for Christ's sake! Why aren't the police or Scotland Yard questioning me? Why you?"
"I hope to make that clear to you. The fact that I am questioning you should provide an answer. Mi-Five supersedes any police or Scotland Yard investigations. We all work together, naturally, but in circumstances like this, we're the forerunners."
"What are you saying?" Bentley-Smythe, his mouth parted in bewilderment, glared at his brother-in-law.
"You're like the Secret Service; you catch spies and traitors, that sort of thing. What has Amanda got to do with you? She was killed, damn it! Catching the killer is police work."
"May I ask a few questions?" said Waters, gently overlooking Clive's protestations.
"Why not?" replied a confused, disconsolate Bentley-Smythe.
"You've shut down the phone, chased away the reporters; you couldn't do those things unless you were serious. Ask away."
"These past few days, even weeks, did Amanda show any signs of strain or stress? What I mean to say is, did her behavior change? Was she abnormally upset, or touchy?"
"No more than usual. She was furious at the photographer over her last shoot, claiming he was dressing her in 'matronly' clothing. She acknowledged that she was no longer a twentyish model but she wasn't ready for 'dotty granny outfits' was the way she put it. She did have a rather fierce ego, you know."
"I mean beyond that, Clive, beyond the ego. Did she receive any phone calls that obviously disturbed her, or visitors that she didn't care to see?"
"I wouldn't know. I'm at the office during the day and she was usually out. She kept a flat in town for when her schedule was too full to make the trek out here."
