Sidney Sheldon 3-Book Collection: If Tomorrow Comes, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Best Laid Plans

‘The plans for the Soviet atomic submarine.’

‘You must be crazy. What do I know about Soviet submarines?’

‘That’s what we intend to find out. Who were your secret meetings with?’

‘What secret meetings? I have no secrets.’

‘Good. Then you can tell us who Boris is.’

‘Boris, who?’

‘The man who deposited money in your Swiss account.’

‘What Swiss account?’

They were furious. ‘You’re a stubborn fool,’ they told him. ‘We’re going to make an example of you and all the other American spies trying to undermine our great motherland.’

By the time the American ambassador was permitted to visit him, Judge Henry Lawrence had lost fifteen pounds. He could not remember the last time his captors had allowed him to sleep, and he was a trembling wreck of a man.

‘Why are they doing this to me?’ the judge croaked. ‘I’m an American citizen. I’m a judge. For God’s sake, get me out of here!’

‘I’m doing everything I can,’ the ambassador assured him. He was shocked by Lawrence’s appearance. The ambassador had greeted Judge Lawrence and the other members of the Judiciary Committee when they had arrived two weeks earlier. The man the ambassador met then bore no resemblance to the cringing, terrified creature who grovelled before him now.

What the hell are the Russians up to this time? the ambassador wondered. The judge is no more a spy than I am. Then he thought wryly, I suppose I could have chosen a better example.

The ambassador demanded to see the president of the Politburo, and when the request was refused, he settled for one of the ministers.

‘I must make a formal protest,’ the ambassador angrily declared. ‘Your country’s behaviour in the treatment of Judge Henry Lawrence is inexcusable. To call a man of his stature a spy is ridiculous.’

‘If you’re quite finished,’ the minister said coldly, ‘you will please take a look at these.’

He handed copies of the cables to the ambassador.

The ambassador read them and looked up, bewildered. ‘What’s wrong with them? They’re perfectly innocent.’

‘Really? Perhaps you had better read them again. Decoded.’ He handed the ambassador another copy of the cables. Every fourth word had been underlined.

NEXT JUDICIARY COUNCIL MEETING CAN NOW BE ARRANGED. CONFIRM CONVENIENT DATE AS SPACE MUST BE REQUESTED.

BORIS

ADVISE PROBLEM TRAVEL PLANS. YOUR SISTER’S PLANE ARRIVED LATE BUT LANDED SAFELY. LOST PASSPORT AND MONEY. SHE WILL BE PLACED IN FIRST-CLASS SWISS HOTEL. WILL SETTLE ACCOUNT LATER.

BORIS

YOUR SISTER WILL TRY AMERICAN EMBASSY TO OBTAIN TEMPORARY PASSPORT. NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE YET ON NEW VISA. SWISS MAKE RUSSIANS SEEM SAINTS. WILL SHIP SISTER TO YOU SOONEST.

BORIS

I’ll be a son of a bitch, the ambassador thought.

The press and public were barred from the trial. The prisoner remained stubborn to the last, continuing to deny he was in the Soviet Union on a spying mission. The prosecution promised him leniency if he would divulge who his bosses were, and Judge Lawrence would have given his soul to have been able to do so, but alas, he could not.

The day after the trial there was a brief mention in Pravda that the notorious American spy Judge Henry Lawrence had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to Siberia for fourteen years of hard labour.

The American intelligence community was baffled by the Lawrence case. Rumours buzzed among the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service and the Treasury Department.

‘He’s not one of ours,’ the CIA said. ‘He probably belongs to Treasury.’

The Treasury Department disclaimed any knowledge of the case. ‘No, sir. Lawrence isn’t our baby. Probably the fucking FBI butting into our territory again.’

‘Never heard of him,’ the FBI said. ‘He was probably run by State, or the Defence Intelligence Agency.’

The Defence Intelligence Agency, as much in the dark as the others, cannily said, ‘No comment.’

Each agency was sure that Judge Henry Lawrence had been sent abroad by one of the others.

‘Well, you’ve got to admire his guts,’ the head of the CIA said. ‘He’s tough. He hasn’t confessed and he hasn’t named names. To tell you the truth, I wish we had a lot more like him.’

Things were not going well for Anthony Orsatti, and the capo was unable to figure out why. For the first time in his life, his luck was going bad. It had started with Joe Romano’s defection, then Perry Pope, and now the judge was gone, mixed up in some crazy spy deal. They had all been an intrinsic part of Orsatti’s machine – people he had relied on.

Joe Romano had been the linchpin in the Family organization, and Orsatti had not found anyone to take his place. The business was being run sloppily, and complaints were coming in from people who had never dared complain before. The word was out that Tony Orsatti was getting old, that he couldn’t keep his men in line, that his organization was coming apart.

The final straw was a telephone call from New Jersey.

‘We hear you’re in a little trouble back there. Tony. We’d like to help you out.’

‘I ain’t in no trouble,’ Orsatti bristled. ‘Sure, I’ve had a couple of problems lately, but they’re all straightened out.’

‘That’s not what we hear, Tony. The word’s out that your town’s goin’ a little wild; there’s no one controlling it.’

‘I’m controlling it.’

‘Maybe it’s too much for you. Could be you’re working too hard. Maybe you need a little rest.’

‘This is my town. No one’s takin’ it away from me.’

‘Hey, Tony, who said anything about taking it away from you? We just want to help. The Families back east got together and decided to send a few of our people down there to give you a little hand. There’s nothing wrong with that between old friends, is there?’

Anthony Orsatti felt a deep chill go through him. There was only one thing wrong with it: the little hand was going to become a big hand, and it was going to snowball.

Ernestine had prepared shrimp gumbo for dinner, and it was simmering on the stove while she and Tracy waited for Al to arrive. The September heat wave had burned itself deeply into everyone’s nerves, and when Al finally walked into the small flat, Ernestine screamed, ‘Where the hell you been? The fuckin’ dinner’s burnin’, and so am I.’

But Al’s spirits were too euphoric to be affected. ‘I been busy diggin’ the scam, woman. An’ wait’ll you hear what I got.’ He turned to Tracy. ‘The mob’s puttin’ the arm on Tony Orsatti. The Family from New Jersey’s comin’ in to take over.’ His face split into a broad grin. ‘You got the son of a bitch!’ He looked into Tracy’s eyes, and his smile died. ‘Ain’t you happy, Tracy?’

What a strange word, Tracy thought. Happy. She had forgotten what it meant. She wondered whether she would ever be happy again, whether she would ever feel any normal emotions again. For so long now, her every waking thought had been to avenge what had been done to her mother and herself. And now that it was almost finished, there was only an emptiness inside her.

The following morning Tracy stopped at a florist. ‘I want some flowers delivered to Anthony Orsatti. A funeral wreath of white carnations on a stand, with a wide ribbon. I want the ribbon to read: “REST IN PEACE”.’ She wrote out a card. It said, FROM DORIS WHITNEY’S DAUGHTER.