The Matarese Circle (21 page)

“
Sir? Sir?
My God, it’s the crazy one in two-thirteen!” The excited voice of the operator floated up piercingly from the telephone on the rug. “Send up a couple of boys! See what they can do! I’ll call an ambulance. He’s had an attack or something.…”

The words were cut off; the chaos had begun.

Scofield stood by the door, unlatched it and waited. No more than forty seconds passed by when he heard racing footsteps and shouts in the corridor. The door burst open; the bell captain ran in, followed by a younger, larger man, a bellboy.

“Thank Christ it wasn’t locked!
Where?
…”

Bray kicked the door shut, revealing himself to the two men. In his hand was his automatic. “No one’s going to get hurt,” he said calmly. “Just do exactly as I tell you. You,” Bray ordered the younger man. “Take off your jacket and your cap. And you,” he continued, speaking to the bell captain, “get on the phone and tell the operator to send up the manager. You’re scared; you don’t want to touch anything, there may have been trouble up here. You think I’m dead.”

The older man stuttered, his eyes riveted on the gun, then ran to the phone. The performance was convincing, he was frightened out of his wits.

Bray took the maroon and gold-striped jacket held out for him by the large subordinate. He removed his coat and put it on, bunching his own under his arm. “The
cap,
” demanded Scofield. It was given.

The bell captain finished, his eyes staring wildly at Bray, his last plea screamed! “For Christ’s sake,
hurry!
Get someone up here!”

Scofield gestured with his weapon. “Stand by the door next to me,” he said to the frantic man, then addressed the younger. “There’s a closet over there beyond the bed. Get inside.
Now!
”

The large, dense bellboy hesitated, looked at Bray’s face, and retreated quickly into the closet. Scofield, his weapon pointed at the bell captain, took the necessary steps toward the closet and kicked the door shut He picked up the lamp by its stem. “Get over to your right! Do you understand? Answer me!”

“Yeah,” came the muffled reply from inside.

“Knock on the door!”

The tap came from the extreme left, the young man’s right. Bray crashed the base of the lamp down on the knob; it broke off. Then he raised his gun, its silencer attached, and fired one shot into the right side of the door. “That was a bullet!” he said. “No matter what you hear, keep your mouth shut or there’ll be another. I’m right outside this door!”

“Oh, my
God
.…”

The man would stay silent through an earthquake. Scofield went back to the bell captain, picking up his attaché case on the way. “Where’s the staircase?”

“Down the hall to the elevators, turn right. It’s at the end of the corridor.”

“The service elevator?”

“Same thing, the other way, the other end. Turn left at—”

“Listen to me,” interrupted Bray, “and remember what I tell you. In a few seconds we’ll hear the manager and probably others coming down the hall. When I open the door, you step outside and shout—and I mean scream your fucking head off—then start running down the corridor with me.”

“
Christ!
What am I supposed to
say?
”

“That you want to get out of here,” answered Bray. “Say it anyway you like. I don’t think it’ll be difficult for you.”

“Where are we
going?
I got a wife and four kids!”

“That’s nice. Why don’t you go home?”

“
What?
”

“What’s the quickest way to the lobby?”

“Christ,
I
don’t know!”

“Elevators can take a long time.”

“The staircase? The
staircase!”
The panicked bell captain found triumph in his deduction.

“Use the staircase,” said Scofield, his ear at the door.

The voices were muffled, but intense. He could hear the words
police
and
ambulance,
and then
emergency.
There were three or four people.

Bray yanked the door back and pushed the bell captain out into the corridor.
“Now,”
he said.

Taleniekov turned away as the service elevator opened on the second floor. Again the black overcoat and the distinctive gray hat evoked no sounds of recognition, and again he spun, his hand gripping the Graz-Burya in his pocket. There were tray tables of half-eaten food and the odor of coffee—remnants of late breakfasts piling up outside the elevator door—but no Marseilles.

A pair of hinged metal doors opened into the second-floor corridor, round windows in the center of each panel. Vasili approached and peered through the right circle.

There he was. The figure in the heavy tweed suit was edging his way along the wall toward the corner of the intersecting hallway that led to room 213. Taleniekov looked at his watch; it was 12:31. Four minutes until the attack; a lifetime if Scofield kept his head about him. A diversion was needed; fire was the surest. A telephone call, a flaming pillow case stuffed with cloth and paper thrown into the hallway. He wondered if Beowulf Agate had thought of it.

Scofield had thought of
something.
Down the hall the light above one of the two main elevators went on; the door opened, and three men rushed out talking frantically. One was the manager, now close to panic; another carried a black bag: a doctor. The third, was burly, his face set, the hair close-cropped … the hotel’s private police officer.

They raced past the startled Marseilles—who turned abruptly away—and proceeded down the long corridor that led to Scofield’s room. The Frenchman took out a gun.

At the other end of the hallway, below a red
Exit
sign, a heavy door with a crash bar was pulled back. The figure of Prague stepped out, nodding at Marseilles. In his right hand was a long-barreled, heavy-caliber automatic, in his left what looked like … it
was
 … a
grenade.
The thumb was curved, pressing on the lever; the firing pin was out!

And if he had one grenade he had more than one. Prague was an arsenal. He would take whoever was in the area, as long as he took Beowulf Agate. A grenade hurled into a dead-end corridor, a swift race into the carnage before the smoke had cleared to put bullets into the heads of those surviving, making sure Scofield was the first. No matter what the American had thought of, he was cornered. There was no way out through the gauntlet

Unless Prague could be stopped where he was, the grenade exploding beneath him. Vasili pulled the Graz-Burya from his pocket and pushed the swinging door in front of him.

He was about to shoot when he heard the scream … screams from a man in panic.

“
Get out of here!
For Christ’s sake, I’ve got to get
out of here!
”

What followed was madness. Two men in hotel uniforms came running out of the corridor, one turning right, crashing into Prague, who propelled him away, beating him with the barrel of his gun. Prague shouted at Marseilles, ordering him down the corridor.

Marseilles was no fool—any more than Amsterdam was; he saw the grenade in Prague’s hand. The two men screamed at each other.

The elevator door closed.

It
closed.
The light went
off.
It had been on
Hold!

Beowulf Agate had made his escape.

Taleniekov spun back behind the metal doors; in the confusion he had not been spotted. But Prague and Marseilles had seen the elevator; it obviously prodded the immediate recollection of a second man in a dark red jacket, running straight ahead, without panic, knowing what he was doing … and
carrying something under his left arm.
Like Vasili, the two executioners watched the lighted numbers above the elevator door, expecting, as Taleniekov expected, the letter
L
to light up. It did not.

The light reached
3.
It stopped.

What was Scofield
doing?
He could be running in the streets in seconds, finding safety in the crowds, heading for any of a hundred sanctuaries. He was staying at the killing ground! Again,
madness!

Then Vasili understood. Beowulf Agate was coming after
him.

He looked through the circular service window. Prague was talking wildly. Marseilles nodded, holding his finger on the left elevator button, as Prague ran back toward the staircase and disappeared beyond the door.

Taleniekov had to know what had been said. It could save seconds—if he could learn in seconds. He put the Graz-Burya in his pocket, burst through the swinging door, the gray silk scarf bunched high around his neck, the gray hat firmly down on his head, his face obscured. He shouted.

“
Alors—vous avez découvert quelque chose par hazard?
”

In Marseilles’ excitement, the swiftness and the deception had their effect. The black overcoat, the gray blur of silk and fur and the French spoken with a Dutchman’s guttural inflections; they were enough to confuse the image of a man he had met only once, briefly in a coffee shop. He was stunned; he ran toward Taleniekov, shouting in his native tongue, the words so rushed they were barely clear.

“What are you doing
here?
All hell has broken loose! Men are yelling in Beowulf’s room; they break down doors! He got
away.
Prague has.…”

Marseilles stopped. He saw the face in front of him and his stunned expression turned into one of shock. Vasili’s hand shot out, gripping the weapon in the Frenchman’s hand, twisting it with such force that Marseilles screamed aloud. The gun was pried out of his fingers. Taleniekov slammed the man against the wall, hammering his knee into the Frenchman’s groin, his left hand tearing at Marseilles’ right ear.

“Prague has
what?
You have one second to tell me!” He crashed his knee up into the Frenchman’s testicles. “
Now!
”

“We work our way to the roof.…” Marseilles choked the answer, spitting it out between clenched teeth, his head thrown back in pain. “Floor by floor … to the roof.”

“Why?” My God! thought Vasili. There was a metal air-duct connecting the hotel to the adjacent building. Did they know? He rammed his knee again and repeated.
“Why?”

“Prague believes Scofield thinks you have men in the streets … at the hotel doors. He’ll wait until the police come … the confusion. He did something in the room! In the name of God,
stop!
”

Vasili smashed the handle of the Frenchman’s gun into
Marseilles’ skull behind his left temple. The assassin collapsed, as the wound spat blood. Taleniekov propelled the unconscious body along the wall, letting it drop so that it fell across the intersecting corridor. Whoever came out of room 213 would be greeted by another unexpected sight. The panic would mount, precious minutes obtained.

The elevator on the left had responded to the Frenchman’s call. Vasili raced inside and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, as far down the hallway two excited men ran out of room 213. One was the hotel manager; he saw the fallen Frenchman in the center of a blood-soaked carpet. He screamed.

Scofield took off the jacket and the cap, bunching them in a corner, and put on his coat. The elevator stopped at the third floor; he tensed at the sight of a portly maid who walked in carrying towels over her arm. She nodded; he stared at her. The doors closed and they proceeded to the fourth, where the maid got off. Bray reached over quickly and again pressed the button for the sixth floor; there were none above it.

If it were possible, one part of the insanity was going to be over with! He was not going to run away only to start running again, wondering where the next trap would be sprung. Taleniekov was in the hotel and that was all he had to know.

Room five-zero five.
Taleniekov had given the number over the phone; he had said he would be waiting. Bray tried to think back, tried to recall a cipher or a code that matched the digits, but there were none he could remember, and he doubted the KGB man would pinpoint his location.

Five—
Zero
—Five.

Five—
Death
—Five?

I’m waiting for you on the fifth floor. One of us will die.

Was it as simple as that? Was Taleniekov reduced to a challenge? Was his ego so inflamed or his exhaustion so complete, that there was nothing left but spelling out the dueling ground?

For Christ’s sake, let’s get it over with! I’m coming, Taleniekov! You may be good, but you’re no match for the man you call Beowulf Agate!

Ego. So necessary. So tiring.

The elevator reached the sixth floor. Bray held his breath as two well-dressed men entered. They were talking business, last-year’s figures the bothersome topic. Both glanced briefly, disapprovingly at him; he understood. The beard, his bloodshot eyes. He clutched his attaché case and avoided their looks. The door started to close and Bray stepped forward, his hand inside his jacket.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “My floor.”

There was no one in the long corridor directly ahead, four stories above 211 and 213. Far down on the right were two doors with circular windows. The service elevator. One panel had just swung shut; it still trembled. Scofield pulled his automatic partially out of his belt, then held it in place when he heard the rattle of dishes beyond the swinging doors. A service tray was being taken away; a man concealing himself with intent to kill did not make noise.

Down on the left, toward the staircase, a cleaning woman had finished a room. She pulled the door shut and wearily began to roll her cart toward the next.

Five-zero-five.

Five-death-five.

If there was a meeting ground, he was above it, on the high ground. But it was a high ground from which he could not see and time was running out. He thought briefly of approaching the cleaning woman, using her as a point somehow, but his appearance ruled it out. His appearance ruled out a great many things; shaving had been a luxury he could not afford; relieving himself meant precious moments given up, away from the sounds of the trap. The little things became so ominous, so all-important during the waiting. And he was so tired.