her prominence with the impressive Swiss. "If you'll note, Monsieur Blanchard, suite two-twelve placed a number of overseas calls." "Yes, I see that. Unfortunately, no one in those cities would have anything to do with the present crisis. Strange, though. Room two-thirteen telephoned Easton and Minneapolis. An odd coincidence, but I have friends in both places. However, nothing relevant.. Vasili let his words drift off, inviting comment.
"Just between the two of us, Monsieur Blanchard, I don't think the gentleman in room two-thirteen is all there, if you know what I mean." "Oh?" The woman explained. The DND on 13 was a standing order; no one was to disturb the man's privacy. Even room service was instructed to leave the tray tables in the hallway, and maid service was to be suspended until specifically requested. To the best of the operatoes knowledge, there had been no such request in three days. Who could live like that?
"Of course, we get people like him all the time. Men who reserve a room so they can stay drunk for hours on end, or get away from their wives or meet other women. But three days without maid service, I think is sick." "It's hardly fastidious." "You see it more and more," said the woman confidentially. "Especially in the government; everyone's so harried. But when you think our taxes are paying for it-I don't mean yours, Monsieur...." "He's in the government?" interrupted Taleniekov.
"Oh, we think so. The night manager wasn't supposed to say anything to anybody, but we've been here for years, if you know what I mean." "Old friends, of course. What happened?" "Well, a man came by last evening-actually it was this morning, around five A.m.-and showed the manager a photograph." "A picture of the man in two-thirteenT' The operator glanced around briefly; the door of the office was open, but she could not be overheard. "Yes. Apparently he's really sick. An alcoholic or something, a psychiatric case. No one's to say anything; they don't want to alarm him. A doctor will be coming for him sometime today." "Sometime today? And, of course, the man who showed the photograph identified himself as someone from the government, didn't he? I mean, that's how you learned the guest upstairs was in the government?" "When you've spent as many years in Washington as we have, Monsieur Blanchard, you don't have to ask for identification. It's all over their faces." "Yes, I imagine it is. Thank you so much. You've been a great help." Vasili left the room quickly and rushed out into the lobby. He had his confirmation. He had found Beowulf Agate.
But others had found him, too. Scofield's executioners were only a few hundred feet away, preparing to close in on the condemned man.
To break into the American's room to warn him would be to invite an exchange of gunfire; one or both would die. To reach him on the telephone would provoke only disbelief; where was the credibility in such an alarm delivered by an enemy one loathed about a new enemy one did not know existed?
There had to be a way and it had to be found quickly. If there was only time to send another, with something on his person that would explain the truth to Scofield. Something Beowulf Agate would accept.
There was no time. Vasili saw the man in the black overcoat walk through the entrance of the hotel.
Scofield knew the instant the maid walked through the door what disturbed him about the elderly face. It was the eyes. There was an intelligence behind them beyond that of a plain-spoken domestic who spent her nights cleaning up the soils of pampered hotel guests. She was frightened-or perhaps merely curious-but whichever, neither was born of a blunt mind.
An actress, perhaps?
"Forgive my disturbin' you sir," said the woman, noticing his unshaven face and the cold room and heading for the open bathroom door. "I'll not be a minute." An actress. The brogue was an affectation, no roots in Ireland. Too, the walk was light; she did not have the leg muscles of an old woman used to the drudgery of carrying linens and bending over beds. And the hands were white and soft, not those of someone used to abrasive cleansers.
Bray found himself pitying her even while faulting Taleniekov's choice again. A real maid would have made a better bird.
"You've a fresh supply of towels, sir," said the old woman coming out of the bathroom and heading for the door. "I'll be on