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-4 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... 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 under- stood 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 Harrods' 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