repeat, I don't know what your trouble is, but I do know a godamned lie, a macabre lie at that, when I hear one." Symonds cleared his throat again. "Some of us remember East Berlin. And I was here when you came back from Prague. How dare they... after what you've done? Churlish bastardsl" Scofield took a long, deep breath. "Roger, don't go home." "Yes, you said that before." Symonds was relieved they were back to practicality; it was his voice. "You say someone's there, claiming to be my wife?" "Probably not inside, but nearby, with a clear view. They've tapped into your phone and the equipment's good. No echoes, no static." "My phone7 Tliey're trailing me? In London?" "They're covering you; they're after me. They knew we were friends and thought I might try to reach you." "Godamned cheek! That embassy will get a bolt that'll char the gold feathers off that fucking ridiculous eaglel They go too far!" "It's not the Americans." 'Not the?... Bray, what in God's name are you talking about?" "That's just it. We have to talk. But it's got to be a very complicated route. Two networks are looking for me, and one of them has you under a glass. They're good." "We'll see about that," snapped Symonds, annoyed, challenged and curious.
"I daresay several vehicles, one or two decoys, and a healthy bit of official lying can do the trick. Where are you?" "Soho. Wardour and Shaftsbury." "Good. Head over to Tottenham Court. In about twenty minutes, a gray Mini-rear license plate askew-will enter south from Oxford and stall at the curb. The driver's black, a West Indian chap; he's your contact. Get in with him; the engine will make a remarkable recovery." "Thank you, Roger." "Not at all. But don't expect me to have the two thousand quid. The banks are closed, you know."
Scofield got in the front seat of the Mini, the black driver looking at him closely, courteously, his right hand out of sight. The man had obviously been given a photograph to study. Bray removed the Irish hat.
"Thank you," said the driver, his hand moving swiftly to his jacket pocket, then to the wheel. The engine caught instantly and they sped out of Tottenham Court. "My name is Israel. You are Brandon Scofield-obviously. Good to make your acquaintance." "Israel?" he asked.
"That's it, mon," replied the driver, smiling, a pronounced West Indian lilt to his voice. "I don't think my parents had in mind the cohesiveness of minorities when they gave it to me, but they were avid readers of the Bible. Israel Isles." "It's a nice name." "My wife thinks they blew it, as you Americans say. She keeps telling me that if they had only used Ishmael instead, all my introductions would be memorable." "'Call me Ishmael' Bray laughed. "It's close enough." "This banter covers a slight nervousness on my part, if may say so," said Isles.
"Why?" "We studied a number of your accomplishments in training; it wasn't that long ago. I'm chauffeuring a man we'd all like to emulate." The trace of laughter vanished from Scofield's face. "That's very flattering. I'm sure you will if you want to." And when you get to be my age, I hope you think it's been worth it.
They drove south out of London on the road toward Heathrow, branching off the highway at Redhill, heading West into the countryside. Israel Isles was sufficiently perceptive to curtail the banter. He apparently understood that he was driving either a very preoccupied or exhausted American. Bray was grateful for the silence; he had to reach a difficult decision. The risks were enormous no matter what he decided.
Yet part of that decision had already been forced upon him, which meant he had to tell Symonds that Washington wasn't the immediate issue. He could not permit Roger to vent his misplaced outrage on the American Embassy; it was not the embassy that had placed the intercept on his telephone. It was the Matarese.
Yet to tell the whole truth meant involving Symonds, who would not remain silent. He would go to others and those others to their superiors. It was not the time to speak of conspiracy so massive and contradictory that it would be branded no more than the product of two terminated intelligence officers-both wanted for treason in their respective countries. The time would come, but it was not now. For the truth of the matter was that they did not possess a shred of hard