talk is extremely fruitful, I expect I'll take a lot of gaff for that." An obvious fact struck Bray. Roger Symonds' strategy bad 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." "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 twentytwo 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." "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 attache case under his arm, grabbing his would-*be escorts by the shoulders and pulling them down.
"These are the onesl" he shouted. "Check them for gunsl I heard them say they were going to bomb Scotch Housel" 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 bronzebordered 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.
"Mrough 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