The Matarese Circle (59 page)

“Very well,” came the reply, spoken rapidly. “There’s a man with rather sunken cheeks, wearing a gray overcoat.…”

“I see him.” Bray did, five tables away.

“Leave the restaurant; he’ll get up and follow you. He’s your guarantee.”

Thirteen past ten. Two minutes.

“What guarantee does he have? How do I know you won’t take him out with me?”

“Oh, come now, Scofield.…”

“I’m glad to hear you’ve got another name for me. What’s
your
name?”

“I told you, it’s irrelevant.”

“Nothing’s irrelevant.” Bray paused. “I want to know your name.”

“Smith. Accept it.”

Ten-fourteen. One minute.
Time to start.

“I’ll have to think about it. I also want to finish my breakfast.” Abruptly hanging up, he shifted his attaché case to his right hand and walked over to the plain-looking man five tables away.

The man stiffened as Scofield approached; his hand reached under his overcoat.

“The alert’s off,” said Scofield, touching the concealed hand under the cloth of the coat. “I was told to tell you that; you’re to take me out of here. But first, I’m to make a telephone call. He gave me the number; I hope I can remember it.”

The hollow-cheeked killer remained immobile, speechless. Scofield walked back to the telephone on the wall.

Ten-fourteen and fifty-one seconds. Nine seconds to go.
He frowned, as if trying to recall a number, picked up the phone, and dialed. Three seconds past 10:15 he heard the echoing sound that followed the interruption of the bell; the electronic devices were activated. He inserted his coin.

“We have to talk fast,” he said to Roger Symonds. “They found me. I’ve got a problem.”

“Where are you? We’ll help.”

Scofield told him. “Just send in two sirens, regular police will do. Say it’s an Irish incident, possible subjects inside. That’s all I’ll need.”

“I’m writing it down. They’re on their way.”

“What about Waverly?”

“Tomorrow night. His house in Belgravia. I’m to escort you, of course.”

“Not before then?”

“
Before
then? Good God, man, the only reason it’s so soon is that I managed an open-end memorandum from the Admiralty. From that same mythical conference I was logged into last night.” Bray was about to speak, but Symonds rushed on. “Incidentally, you were right. An inquiry was made to see if I was there.”

“Were you covered?”

“The caller was told the conference could not be interrupted, that I would be given the message when it was over.”

“Did you return the call?”

“Yes. From the Admiralty’s cellars an hour and ten minutes after I left you. I woke up some poor chap in Kensington. An intercept, of course.”

“Then if you got back there, they saw you leave the Admiralty building?”

“From the well-lighted front entrance.”

“Good. You didn’t use my name with Waverly, did you?”

“I used a name, not yours. Unless your talk is extremely fruitful, I expect I’ll take a lot of gaff for that.”

An obvious fact struck Bray. Roger Symonds’ strategy had been successful. The Matarese had him trapped inside the Knightsbridge restaurant, yet Waverly had granted him a confidential interview thirty-six hours away. Therefore, no connection had been made between the interview in Belgravia and Beowulf Agate.

“Roger, what time tomorrow night?”

“Eightish. I’m to ring him first. I’ll pick you up around seven. Have you any idea where you’ll be?”

Scofield avoided the question. “I’ll call you at this number at four-thirty. Is that convenient?”

“So far as I know. If I’m not here, leave an address two blocks north of where you’ll be. I’ll find you.”

“You’ll bring the photographs of all those following your decoys yesterday?”

“They should be on my desk by noon.”

“Good. And one last thing. Think up a very good, very
official reason why you can’t bring me to Belgravia Square tomorrow night.”

“What?”

“That’s what you’ll tell Waverly when you call him just before our meeting. It’s an intelligence decision; you’ll pick him up personally and drive back to MI-Six.”

“MI-Six?”

“But you won’t take him there; you’ll bring him to the Connaught. I’ll give you the room number at four-thirty. If you’re not there, I’ll leave a message. Subtract twenty-two from the number I give.”

“See here, Brandon, you’re asking
too
much!”

“You don’t know that. I may be asking to save his life. And yours.” In the distance, from somewhere outside, Bray could hear the piercing, two-note sound of a London siren; an instant later it was joined by a second. “Your help’s arrived,” said Scofield. “Thanks.” He hung up and started back to the hollow-cheeked Matarese killer.

“Who were you talking to?” asked the man, his accent American. The sirens were drawing nearer; they were not lost on him.

“He didn’t give me his name,” replied Bray. “But he did give me instructions. We’re to get out of here fast.”

“Why?”

“Something happened. The police spotted a rifle in one of your cars; it’s being held. There’s been a lot of I.R.A. activity in the stores around here. Let’s go!”

The man got out of his chair, nodding to his right. Across the crowded restaurant, Scofield saw a stern-faced, middle-aged woman get up, acknowledge the command by slipping the wide strap of a large purse over her shoulder, and start for the door of the restaurant.

Bray reached the cashier’s cage, timing his movements, fumbling his money and his check, watching the scene beyond the glass window. Two police cars converged, screeching simultaneously to a stop at the curb. A crowd of curious pedestrians gathered, then dispersed, curiosity replaced by fear as four helmeted London police jumped out of the vehicles and headed for the restaurant.

Bray judged the distance, then moved quickly. He reached the glass door and yanked it open several seconds before the police had it blocked. The hollow-cheeked man and the middle-aged woman were at his heels, at the last
moment side-stepping around him to avoid confronting the police.

Scofield turned suddenly and lurched to his right, clutching his attaché case under his arm, grabbing his would-be escorts by the shoulders and pulling them down.

“These are the ones!” he shouted. “Check them for guns! I heard them say they were going to bomb Scotch House!”

The police fell on the two Matarese, arms and hands and clubs thrashing the air. Bray dropped to his knees, releasing his double-grip, and dove to his left out of the way. He scrambled to his feet, raced through the crowds to the corner and ran into the street, threading his way between the traffic. He kept up the frantic race for three blocks, stopping briefly, under canopies and in store-fronts to see if anyone followed him. None did, and two minutes later he slowed down and entered the enormous bronze-bordered portals of Harrods.

Once inside, he accelerated his pace as rapidly and as unobtrusively as possible, looking for a telephone. He had to reach Taleniekov at the flat in the rue de Bac before the Russian left for Cap Gris. He
had
to, for once Taleniekov reached England, he would head for London and a cheap rooming house in Knightsbridge. If the KGB man did that, he would be taken by the Matarese.

“Through the chemists toward the south entry,” said an imperturbable clerk. “There’s a bank of phones against the wall.”

The late morning telephone traffic was light; the call went through without delay.

“I was leaving in a few minutes,” said Taleniekov, his voice oddly hesitant.

“Thank Christ you didn’t. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“You sound strange. Where’s Antonia? Why didn’t she answer the phone?”

“She stepped out to the grocer’s. She’ll be back shortly. If I sounded strange, it’s because I don’t like answering this telephone.” The Russian’s voice was normal now, his explanation logical. “What is the matter with
you?
Why this unscheduled call?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here, but forget Knightsbridge.”

“Where will you be?”

Scofield was about to mention the Connaught, when Taleniekov interrupted.

“On second thought, when I get to London I’ll phone Tower-Central. You recall that exchange, don’t you?”

Tower Central?
Bray hadn’t heard the name in years, but he remembered. It was a code name for a KGB drop on the Victoria Embankment, abandoned when Consular Operations discovered it sometime back in the late sixties. The tourist boats that traveled up and down the Thames, that was it. “I remember,” said Scofield, bewildered. “I’ll respond.”

“Then I’ll be going—”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Bray. “Tell Antonia I’ll call in a while.”

There was a brief silence before Taleniekov replied. “Actually, she said she might take in the Louvre; it’s so close by. I can get to the Cap Gris district in an hour or so. There’s nothing—I repeat—nothing to worry about.” There was a click and the line to Paris went dead. The Russian had hung up.

There’s nothing—I repeat—nothing to worry about.
The words cracked with the explosive sounds of nearby thunder; his eyes were blinded by bolts of lightning that carried the message into his brain. There
was
something to worry about and it concerned Antonia Gravet.

Actually, she said she might take in the Louvre … I can get to the Cap Gris district in an hour or so.… Nothing to worry about.

Three disconnected statements, preceded by an interruption that prohibited disclosure of the contact point in London. Scofield tried to analyze the sequence; if there was meaning it was in the progression. The
Louvre
was only blocks away from the rue de Bac—across the Seine, but nearby. The
Cap Gris district
could not be reached in an hour or so; two and a half or three were more logical.
Nothing—I repeat—nothing to worry about;
then why the interruption? Why the necessity of avoiding any mention of the Victoria Embankment?

Sequence. Progression. Further
back?

I do not like answering this telephone.
Words spoken firmly, almost angrily. That was
it.
Suddenly, Bray understood
and the relief he felt was like cool water sprayed over a sweat-drenched body. Taleniekov had seen something wrong—a face in the street, a chance meeting with a former colleague, a car that remained too long on the rue de Bac—any number of unstabling incidents or observations. The Russian had decided to move Toni out of the Rive Gauche, across the river into another flat.
She
would be settled in an
hour or so
and he would not leave until she was; that was why there was nothing to worry about. Still, on the assumption that there could be substance to a disturbing incident or observation, the KGB man had operated with extreme caution—always caution, it was their truest shield—and the telephone was an instrument of revelation. Nothing revealing was to be said.

Sequence, progression … meaning. Or was it? The Serpent had killed his wife. Was Bray finding comfort where none existed? The Russian had been the first to suggest eliminating the girl from the hills of Porto Vecchio—the love that had come into his life at the most inopportune time of his life.
Could
he?…

No!
Things were different now! There was no Beowulf Agate to stretch to the breaking point, because that breaking point guaranteed the death of the Serpent, the end of the hunt for the Matarese. The best of professionals did not kill unnecessarily.

Still, he wondered as he picked up the phone in Har-rods’ south entranceway, what was necessity but a man convinced of the need? He put the question out of his mind; he had to find sanctuary.

London’s staid Connaught Hotel not only possessed one of the best kitchens in London but was an ideal choice for quick concealment, as long as one stayed out of the lobby and tested the kitchen from room service. Quite simply, it was impossible to get a room at the Connaught unless a reservation was made weeks in advance. The elegant hotel on Carlos Place was one of the last bastions of the Empire, catering in large measure to those who mourned its passing and had the wealth to do so gracefully. There were enough to keep it perpetually full; the Connaught rarely had an available room.

Scofield knew this, and years ago had decided that occasions might arise when the Connaught’s particular exclusivity
could be useful. He had reached and cultivated a director of the financial group that owned the hotel and made his appeal. As all theaters have “house seats,” and most restaurants keep constantly “reserved” tables for those exalted patrons who have to be accommodated, so do hotels retain empty rooms for like purposes. Bray was convincing; his work was on the side of the angels, the Tory side. A room would be at his disposal whenever he needed it.

“Room six-twenty-six,” were the director’s first words when Scofield placed his second, confirming call. “Just go right up on the lift as usual. You can sign the registration in your room—as usual.”

Bray thanked him and turned his thoughts to another problem, an irritating one. He could not return to the rooming house several blocks away, and all his clothes except those on his back were there. In a duffle bag on the unmade bed. There was nothing else of consequence; his money as well as several dozen useful letterheads, identification cards, passports, and bank books, were all in his attaché case. But outside of the rumpled trousers, the cheap Mackinaw jacket, and the Irish hat, he didn’t have a damn thing to wear. And clothes were not merely coverings for the body, they were intrinsic to the work and had to match the work; they were tools, consistently more effective than weapons and the spoken word. He left the bank of telephones and walked back into the aisles of Harrods. The selections would take an hour; that was fine. It would take his mind off Paris. And the inopportune love of his life.

It was shortly past midnight when Scofield left his room at the Connaught, dressed in a dark raincoat and a narrow-brimmed black hat. He took the service elevator to the basement of the hotel and emerged on the street through the employees’ entrance. He found a taxi and told the driver to take him to Waterloo Bridge. He settled back in the seat and smoked a cigarette, trying to control his swelling sense of concern. He wondered if Taleniekov understood the change that had taken place, a change so unreasonable, so illogical that he was not sure how he would react were he the Russian. The core of his excellence, his
longevity in his work, had always been his ability to think as the enemy thought; he was incapable of doing so now.