the tiny, blunt sound of metal slapping against metal, then the twisting of a knob. Outside in the hallway a door was being opened.
Scofield went to the window and closed it, then walked quickly to another window, his minute lookout on a narrow world that soon would be the site of his reverse trap. It had to be soon; he was not sure how much longer he could go on.
Across the way, the pleasant-looking elderly maid had come out of the suite, towels and sheets still draped over her arm. From the expression on her face, she was perplexed but resigned. Undoubtedly, from her point of view, an unheard-of sum of money had been offered by a foreigner who only wished her to remain in a grand suite of rooms and stay awake to receive a series of very strange telephone calls.
And someone else had stayed awake to make those calls. Someone Bray owed a great deal to; he would repay her one day. But right now he concentrated on Taleniekov's bird. She was leaving; she was not capable of staying in the air any longer.
She had abandoned the drop. It was only a question of time now and very little time at that. The hunter would be forced to examine his trap. And be caught in it.
Scofield walked over to his open suitcase on the luggage rack and took Gut a fresh shirt. Starched, not soft; a crisp, starched shirt was like a cold room, a benign irritant; it kept one alert.
He put it on, and crossed to the bedside table where he had placed his gun, a Browning Magnum, Grade 4, with custom-made silencer drilled to his specifications.
Bray spun around at an unexpected sound. There was hesitant tapping at his door. Why? He had paid for total isolation. The front desk had made it clear to those few employees who might have reason to enter room 13 that the sign on the knob was to be respected.
Do Not Disturb.
Yet someone was now disregarding that order, bypassing a guest's request that had been re-enforced with several hundred dollars. Whoever it was was either deaf or illiterate or.
It was the maid. Taleniekov's bird, still in the air. Scofield peered through the tiny circle of glass that magnified the aged features of the face only inches away. The tired eyes, encased in wrinkled flesh swollen by lack of sleep, looked to the left, then the right, then dropped to the lower part of the door. The old woman had to be aware of the Do Not Disturb sign, but it had no meaning for her. Beyond the contradictory behavior, there was something odd about the face... but Bray had no time to study it further. Under these new circumstances, the negotiations had to begin quickly. He shoved the gun into his shirt, the stiff cloth keeping the bulge to a minimum.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Maid service, sir," was the reply, spoken in an indeterminate brogue, more guttural than definable. "The management has asked that all rooms be checked for supplies, sir." It was a poor lie, the bird too flawed to think of a better one.
"Come in," said Scofield, reaching for the latch.
"There's no answer in suite two-eleven," said the switchboard operator, annoyed by the persistence of the caller.
"Try it again," replied Taleniekov, his eyes on the entrance of the coffee shop across the street. "They may have stepped out for a moment, but they'11 be right back. I know it. Keep ringing, I'll stay on the line." "As you wish, sir," snapped the operator.
Madness! Nine minutes had passed since the old woman had begun the search, nine minutes to check four doors in the hallway, Even assuming all the rooms were occupied, and a maid had to give explanations to the occupants, nine minutes was far longer than she needed. A fourth conversation would be brief and blunt. Go away. I am not to be disturbed.
Unless..
A match flared in the sun4iit, its reflection sharp in the dark glass of the coffee shop window. Vasili blinked and stared; from one of the unseen tables inside there was a corresponding signal, extinguished quickly.
Amsterdam had arrived; the execution team was complete. Taleniekov studied the figure walking toward the small restaurant. He was tall and dressed in a black overcoat, a gray silk muffler around his throat. His hat, too, was gray, and obscured his profile.
The ringing on the telephone was now abrasive. Long sudden bursts resulting from a furious operator punching a switchboard button. There