“Hear me out, please. He’s killed political leaders before, spreading suspicion, arousing hostilities between governments. And always steadier heads have prevailed; they’ve cooled things off. But the Tinamou must be stopped, on the outside chance that one day the steadier heads will not be swift enough. I think we can stop him now, if all consent.”
“Consent to what?”
“To adhering to published schedules. Bring the leaders of the delegations together; tell them what you know. Tell them that extraordinary precautions will be mounted, but by keeping to schedules, there’s a good chance that the Tinamou will at last be caught.” Tennyson paused and leaned over the chair, his hands on the rim. “I think if you’re honest, no one will disagree. After all, it’s not much more than what political leaders face every day.”
The frown on the MI-Five man’s face disappeared. “And no one will want to be called a coward. Now, what’s this second advantage?”
“The Tinamou’s technique requires him to preset concealed weapons in a number of locations. To do that, he must begin days, perhaps weeks, before the designated assassination. He’s no doubt begun already here in London. I suggest we start a very quiet but thorough search, staking out those areas that conform to the published reports of the summit’s schedule.”
Payton-Jones brought his hands together in a gesture of agreement. “Of course. We need only find one and we have not only the general location but the time span.”
“Exactly. We’ll know that within a given number of minutes, during a specific event at a precise area, the assassination will be attempted.” Again the blond man paused. “I’d like to help in that search. I know what to look for, and, perhaps more important, where not to look. We haven’t much time.”
“Your offer’s appreciated, sir,” said the Englishman. “MI Five is grateful. Shall we begin tonight?”
“Let’s give him one more day to set his guns. It’ll increase our chances of finding something. Also, I’ll need an innocuous sort of uniform and a permit that identifies me as ‘building inspector,’ or some such title.”
“Very good,” said Payton-Jones. “I’m embarrassed to say we have a photograph of you on file; we’ll use it for the permit I’d guess you are a size forty-four, trousers long, waist thirty-three or -four.”
“Close enough. A civil-service uniform should hardly be tailored.”
“Quite so. We’ll take care of both items in the morning.” Payton-Jones got up. “You said you had one more request.”
“I do. Since I left Brazil, I’ve not owned a weapon. I’m not even sure it’s permitted, but I should like to have one now. Only for the duration of the summit, of course.”
“I’ll have one issued to you.”
“That would need my signature, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me, but I meant what I said before. As I want no credit for what I’ve brought you, I feel equally strongly about having my name listed anywhere as an associate of MI Five. I wouldn’t want anyone to know the nature of my contributions. My name on a weapon’s file card could lead a curious person to the truth. Someone, perhaps, connected to the Nachrichtendienst.”
“I see.” The Englishman unbuttoned the jacket of his suit coat and reached inside. “This is highly irregular, but so are the circumstances.” He withdrew a small, short-barreled revolver and handed it to Tennyson. “Since we both know the source, take mine. I’ll list it out for overhaul and have it replaced.”
“Thank you,” said the blond man, holding the weapon as if it were an unfamiliar object.
Tennyson entered a crowded pub off Soho Square. He scanned the room through the heavy layers of smoke and saw what he was looking for: a hand raised by a man at a table in the far corner. The man, as always, wore a brown raincoat made specifically for him. It looked like any other raincoat; the difference was found in the additional pockets and straps that often contained various handguns, silencers, and explosives. He had been trained by the Tinamou, trained so well that he often performed services contracted by the assassin when the Tinamou was unavailable.
His last assignment had been at Kennedy Airport during a rainswept night when a cordon of police surrounded the glistening fuselage of a British Airways 747. He had found his quarry in a fuel truck. He had done his job.
John Tennyson carried his pint to the table and joined the man in the brown raincoat. The table was round and small; the chairs were so close together that their heads were only inches apart, allowing both men to keep their voices low.
“Is everything placed?” asked the blond man.
“Yes,” replied his companion. “The motorcade goes west on the Strand, around Trafalgar Square, through the gates of Admiralty Arch, and into the Mall toward the palace. There are seven locations.”
“Give me the sequence.”
“From east to west, in order of progression, we start at the Strand Palace Hotel, opposite Savoy Court. Third floor, room three-zero-six. Automatic repeating rifle and scope are sewn into the mattress of the bed nearest the window. A block west, east side, fourth floor, the men’s room of an accounting firm. The weapon is in the ceiling, above the tile to the left of the fluorescent light. Directly across the street, again on the fourth floor —there’s a penny arcade on the first—the offices of a typing service. Rule and scope are strapped to the undercarriage of a photocopier. Moving on toward Trafalgar …”
The man in the brown raincoat went through the locations of the remaining caches of weapons. They were within a stretch of approximately half a mile, from Savoy Court to Admiralty Arch.
“Excellent choices,” said Tennyson, pushing the untouched pint of beer away. “You understand your moves fully?”
“I know what they are; I can’t say I understand them.”
“That’s not really necessary, is it?” asked the blond man.
“Of course not; but I’m thinking of you. If you’re hemmed in, or blocked, I could do the job. From any of the locations. Why not give me one?”
“Even you’re not qualified for this. There can be no room whatsoever for the slightest error. A single misplaced bullet would be disastrous.”
“May I remind you, I was trained by the best there is.”
Tennyson smiled. “You’re right. Very well. Make the moves I gave you and position yourself in an eighth location. Choose a room in the Government Building, beyond Admiralty Arch, and let me know which. Can you do that?”
“Ducks in a gallery,” replied the man, lifting his pint of beer to his lips. Tennyson could see the tattoo of a red rose on the back of his right hand.
“May I make a suggestion?” asked John Tennyson.
“Of course, what is it?”
“Wear gloves,” said the Tinamou.
32
The blond man opened the door and reached for the light switch on the wall; two table lamps went on in the hotel room marked 306. He motioned for his middle-aged companion to follow him inside.
“It’s all right,” said Tennyson. “Even if the room is being watched, the curtains are drawn, and the hour corresponds to the time the maids turn down the beds. Over here.”
Payton-Jones kept pace as Tennyson took a miniature metal-detector from his overcoat pocket. He touched the button, holding the device over the bed. The tiny hum grew louder; the needle on the dial jumped to the right.
Carefully, he folded back the covers and undid the sheets. “It’s there. You can feel the outlines,” he said, pressing his fingers into the mattress.
“Remarkable,” said Payton-Jones. “And the room has been leased for ten days?”
“By telegraph and postal money order, originating in Paris. The name is Le Fèvre, a meaningless pseudonym. No one’s been here.”
“It’s there all right.” Payton-Jones removed his hands from the bed.
“I can make out the rifle,” said Tennyson, “but what’s the other object?”
“A telescopic sight,” replied the Englishman. “We’ll l
eave everything intact and post men in the corridor.”
“The next location is down the street, in the lavatory of an accounting firm on the fourth floor. The gun’s in the ceiling, wired to a suspension rod above a fluorescent light.”
“Let’s go,” said Payton-Jones.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, the two men were on the roof of a building overlooking Trafalgar Square. Both knelt by the short wall that bordered the edge. Below was the route the summit motorcade would take on its way through Admiralty Arch and into the Mall.
“The fact that the Tinamou would put a weapon here,” said Tennyson, his hand on the tar paper that bulged slightly next to the wall, “makes me think he’ll be wearing a police uniform.”
“I see what you mean,” said Payton-Jones. “A policeman walking onto a roof where we’ve stationed a man wouldn’t cause any great alarm.”
“Exactly. He could kill your man and take up his position.”
“But then he isolates himself. He has no way out.”
“I’m not sure the Tinamou needs one, in the conventional sense. A taut rope into a back alley, hysterical crowds below, stairwells jammed, general pandemonium. He’s escaped under less dramatic conditions. Remember, he has more identities than a telephone directory. In Madrid I’m convinced he was one of the interrogators on the scene.”
“We’ll have two men up here, one out of sight. And four sharpshooters on adjacent rooftops.” Payton-Jones crawled away from the wall; the blond man followed. “You’ve done extraordinary work, Tennyson,” said the MI-Five agent. “You’ve unearthed five locations in something over thirty-six hours. Are you satisfied these are all?”
“Not yet. However, I’m satisfied that we’ve established the parameters. From the Savoy Court to the end of Trafalgar—somewhere in those half-dozen blocks he’ll make his move. Once the motorcade’s through the arch and into the Mall, we can breathe again. Until that moment, I’m not sure I will. Have the delegations been told?”
“Yes. Each head of state will be outfitted with chest, groin, and leg plate, as well as crowns of bulletproof plastic in their hats. The president of the United States, naturally, objected to any hat at all, and the Russian wants the plastic fitted into his fur, but otherwise we’re in good shape. The risk is minimal.”
Tennyson looked at Payton-Jones. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I think you’re wrong. The Tinamou is no mere marksman. He’s capable of rapid-fire accuracy that would spin a shilling into figure eights at five hundred yards. An expanse of flesh beneath a hat brim is no challenge for him. He’d go for the eyes, and he wouldn’t miss.”
The Englishman glanced briefly at Tennyson. “I said the risk was minimal, not nonexistent. At the first sign of disturbance, each head of state will be covered by human shields. You’ve found five locations, so far; say there’s another five. If you find no others, we’ve still reduced his efficiency by fifty percent, and it’s a good chance—at least fifty percent—that hell show up at one of those uncovered. The odds are decidedly against the Tinamou. We’ll catch him. We’ve got to.”
“His capture means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”
“As much as it does to you, Mr. Tennyson. More than any single objective in more than thirty years of service.”
The blond man nodded. “I understand. I owe this country a great deal, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. But I’ll also be profoundly relieved when that motorcade reaches Admiralty Arch.”
By three in the morning on Tuesday, Tennyson had “uncovered” two additional weapons. There were now seven in all, forming a straight line down the Strand from the Savoy Court to the rooftop at the corner of Whitehall and Trafalgar. Every location was covered by a minimum of five agents, hidden in corridors and on rooftops, rifles and handguns poised, prepared to fire at anyone who even approached the hidden weapons.
Still, Tennyson was not satisfied. “There’s something wrong,” he kept repeating to Payton-Jones. “I don’t know what it is, but something doesn’t fit.”
“You’re overworked,” said the agent in the room at the Savoy that was their base of operations. “And overwrought. You’ve done a splendid job.”
“Not splendid enough. There’s something, and I can’t put my finger on it!”
“Calm down. Look at what you have put your finger on: seven weapons. In all likelihood, that’s all there are. He’s bound to get near one of those guns, bound to betray the fact that he knows it’s there. He’s ours. Relax. We’ve got scores of men out there.”
“But something’s wrong.”
* * *
The crowds lined the Strand, the sidewalks jammed from curb to storefronts. Stanchions were placed on both sides of the street, linked by thick steel cables. The London police stood in opposing rows in front of the cables, their eyes darting continuously in every direction, their clubs unsheathed at their sides.
Beyond the police and intermingling with the crowds were over a hundred operatives of British Intelligence, many flown back from posts overseas. They were the experts Payton-Jones had insisted upon, his insurance against the master assassin who could spin a shilling into figure eights at five hundred yards. They were linked by miniature radios on an ultrahigh frequency that could neither be interfered with nor intercepted.
The operations room at the Savoy was tense, each man there an expert. Computer screens showed every yard of the gauntlet, graphs and grid marks signifying blocks and sidewalks. The screens were connected to radios outside; they showed as tiny moving dots that lit up when activated. The time was near. The motorcade was in progress.
“I’m going back down on the street,” said Tennyson, pulling out the small radio from his pocket. “I set the green arrow on the receiving position, is that correct?”
“Yes, but don’t send any messages unless you feel they’re vital,” said Payton-Jones. “Once the motorcade reaches Waterloo Bridge, everything is on five-second report intervals each fifty yards—except for emergencies, of course. Keep the channels clear.”
An agent sitting by a computer panel spoke in a loud voice. “Within five hundred feet of Waterloo, sir. Spread holding at eight MPH.”
The blond man hurried from the room. It was time to put into motion the swift moves that would destroy the Nachrichtendienst once and for all and cement the Wolfs-schanze covenant.
He walked out into the Strand and looked at his watch. Within thirty seconds the man in the brown raincoat would appear in a window on the second floor of the Strand Palace Hotel. The room was 206, directly beneath the room with the weapon concealed in the mattress. It was the first move.
Tennyson glanced around for one of Payton-Jones’s specialists. They were not difficult to spot; they carried small radios identical to his. He approached an agent trying to keep his position by a storefront against the jostling crowds, a man he had purposely spoken with; he had spoken to a number of them.
“Hello, there. How are things going?”
“I beg your pardon? Oh, it’s you, sir.” The agent was watching the people within the borders of his station. He had no time for idle conversation.
An eruption of noise came from the Strand, near Waterloo Bridge. The motorcade was approaching. The crowds pushed nearer the curb, waving miniature flags. The two lines of police in the street beyond the stanchions seemed to close ranks, as if anticipating a stampede.
“Over there!” yelled Tennyson, grabbing the agent’s arm. “Up there!”
“What? Where?”
“That window! It was closed a few seconds ago!”
They could not see the man in the brown raincoat clearly, but it was obvious that a figure stood in the shadows of the room.
The agent raised his radio. “Suspect possibility. Sector One, Strand Palace Hotel, second floor, third window from south corner.”
Static preceded the reply. “That’s beneath three-zero-six. Security check immediately.”
The man in the w
indow disappeared.
“He’s gone,” said the agent quickly.
Five seconds later another voice came over the radio. “There’s no one here. Room’s empty.”
“Sorry,” said the blond man.
“Better safe than that, sir,” said the agent.
Tennyson moved away, walking south through the crowds. He checked his watch again: twenty seconds to go. He approached another man holding a radio in his hand; he produced his own to establish the relationship.
“I’m one of you,” he said, half-shouting to be heard. “Things all right?”
The agent faced him. “What?” He saw the radio in Tennyson’s hand. “Oh, yes, you were at the morning’s briefing. Things are fine, sir.”
“That doorway!” Tennyson put his hand on the agent’s shoulder. “Across the street. The open doorway. You can see the staircase above the heads of the crowd. That doorway.”
“What about it? The man on the steps? The one running?”
“Yes! It’s the same man.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“In the hotel room. A few moments ago. It’s the same man; I know it! He was carrying a briefcase.”
The agent spoke into his radio. “Security check requested. Sector Four, west flank. Doorway adjacent to jewelry shop. Man with briefcase. Up the stairs.”
“In progress,” came the reply.
Across the Strand, Tennyson could see two men racing through the open door and up the dark steps. He looked to the left; the man in the brown raincoat was walking out of the jewelry shop into the crowd. There was a door on the first landing, normally locked—as it was locked now—that connected the two buildings.
A voice came over the radio. “No one with a briefcase on second to fifth floors. Will check roof.”
“Don’t bother,” ordered another voice. “We’re up here, and there’s no sign of anyone.”
Tennyson shrugged apologetically and moved away. He had three more alarms to raise as the motorcade made its stately way down the Strand. The last of these would cause the lead vehicle to stop, clearance required before it continued toward Trafalgar. This final alarm would be raised by him. It would precede the chaos.