From the outside, it didn’t look particularly inviting: it could have used some paint and polish. If that was its method of discouraging tourists in their search for quaint old London pubs, it was highly successful. It had its own clientele, some regular, some—like Renwick—occasional. And that was another point to remember: his visits here had no fixed routine, formed no pattern. Even constant surveillance—and he hadn’t seen or sensed any such thing—wouldn’t have marked the Red Lion as a special meeting place. No, that information had come from someone who had been here with Renwick. A mole in our group, a real professional sent to infiltrate? Or someone greedy for money, or open to blackmail? Or just a blabbermouth, overflown with wine and insolence?
Renwick resisted a searching look around the long room, seemed to be paying all attention to shaking out his raincoat and the old, narrow-brimmed felt hat he kept for bad weather. As yet, the place was only half filled—it opened at five thirty— but that would soon be remedied, and the smell of tobacco smoke would be added to the smell of ale that impregnated the dark woodwork of walls and tables. Casually, he noted two groups of men standing near the bar—no high stools here, no chrome or neon lighting, either—and three more groups at the central tables. He chose a high-backed wooden booth, one of a row on the opposite side of the room from the stretch of highly polished counter, hung coat and hat on a nearby hook, and sat down to face the back of the room. It was from somewhere there that the man must come in order to pass this table on his way to the door. I’ll make sure of a good look at his face, Renwick thought as he ordered a beer and tried to look totally relaxed, but he felt a tightening in his diaphragm, an expectation of something unexpected, something over which he would have no control. Not a pleasant prospect.
Even before his beer was brought by a pink-cheeked, red-haired barmaid, the room was beginning to fill: journalists in tweeds, conservatively clothed civil servants interspersed with exactingly dressed barristers, music students in leather jackets, and business-men in three-piece suits. Renwick smoked a cigarette, seemed normally interested in the growing crowd, wondered if his man was in the group gathered around a dartboard at the far end of the bar.
“Sorry,” Ronald Gilman said, ridding himself of coat and umbrella, taking a seat opposite Renwick. “I’m late—this weather.” He smoothed down his hair, asked, “Seen any likely prospect?”
“No. But he’s here.” Renwick could feel he had been observed and studied for the last few minutes. “Where did you park your car?” Gilman hadn’t walked—his raincoat was dry, his umbrella rolled.
“I didn’t. Claudel dropped me at the door and then drove on.”
“Oh?”
Gilman only nodded and ordered a double whisky with water, no ice. “I’m more nervous than you are, Bob. You know, you needn’t follow this blighter out. If you have the least doubt—”
“Here’s someone now,” Renwick warned. The man didn’t pause to light a cigarette. “False alarm,” Renwick said with a small laugh.
“Have you managed to place his voice?”
“I’ve heard it before. I think. I could be wrong.” But a telephone did accentuate the characteristics of a voice—its tone, its inflections.
“Strange that he didn’t disguise it. Muffle it. He didn’t?”
“No. He wants to be identified, I guess. Hence the double play. There was no need to meet twice, first here and then at Paddington.” Another man, could be a student from the school of music near Magpie Alley, passed their table. This one was lighting a cigarette. But no red lighter.
“One meeting with proper signals would be enough,” Gilman agreed. “An odd bird. Perhaps—” He heard footsteps slowing down behind his left shoulder, barely turned his head to glimpse the man who was about to light a cigarette, went on speaking. “Perhaps this foul weather will be over before the Wimbledon finals.”
“Did you get tickets?” Renwick looked down at his watch. The man continued towards the door. A red lighter, a heavy signet ring... And a face that was deeply tanned, fine wrinkles at the side of the brown eyes glancing briefly in Renwick’s direction; hard features, thick black hair. His suit was well cut, fitted his broad shoulders, but its fabric was too light in weight for London. Passing through? Certainly the opaque plastic raincoat over one arm was easily packable.
Gilman, with a good view of the man’s departure, dropped his voice. “Straight spine, strong back, about six feet tall. Did you get a full view of his face?”
Renwick’s voice was now at a murmur, too. “His name is Moore. Albert, Alfred—no, Alvin Moore. He was one of the drivers at NATO—his second enlistment. First one was in Vietnam, saw a lot of action, good record. But in Belgium he got involved with a couple of sergeants who were caught selling stolen supplies to a dealer in Brussels—they drew seven years each. There was no real evidence against Moore. They used his car, that was all. He had a mania for automobiles and speeds of ninety miles an hour.” Renwick kept an eye on his watch.
“Did he drive for you?” That couldn’t have been very often. Renwick liked to drive himself.
“Occasionally—when I had a meeting and had to be in uniform. Staff car, driver, that kind of thing.”
“Then how did you remember him?”
“When he was brought up on charges, he needed me as a character witness.”
“And you appeared?”
“He was honest—as far as I knew. One time I carried a briefcase, some sealed folders, an armful of maps. I had a clip of dollars—emergency cash—in my trouser pocket. Belgian francs were in my wallet. The dollar bills slipped out. I didn’t notice, didn’t even remember where I had lost them. Corporal Moore was my driver that day. He returned the bills intact. Found them slipped down in the back seat of the car.”
“Did your testimony clear him?”
“Every little bit helps, doesn’t it? But he was transferred stateside, discharged. Joined something more to his taste—the Green Berets, I heard.” Renwick glanced at his watch once more. “That was about seven years ago.”
“He’s the type who needs action, I think.”
Renwick agreed. “His trouble at NATO was boredom.” Then his voice changed. “On the phone he addressed me as colonel. Just once. Yet I was a captain when he knew me.”
“Where did he get that information?” Gilman asked quickly. Renwick’s promotion had been kept very quiet indeed; he never used his rank, just as the others in the Interintell group didn’t use theirs. Civilians for the duration and the preservation of peace, it was to be hoped.
“That,” said Renwick, “needs finding out.” There were too many damned questions needing answers. His eyes left his watch. “Time to start trying. It’s five minutes to the second.” He rose, unhooked his coat and hat. In a voice back to a normal level, he said, “Sorry I have to leave. Be seeing you.”
“See you, old boy.” Gilman’s eyes were troubled, but he gave one of his rare smiles, warm and real. Just hope that Bob has been keeping up his karate sessions, he thought as he watched Renwick pull on his Burberry and jam his rain hat well down on his brow before he stepped out into the cold world of Bridle Lane.
***
For a moment, Renwick hesitated on the sidewalk. Walk to Fleet Street, try to find a cab there? Or would that taxi parked outside the café still be waiting? He started down Bridle Lane toward the square, then halted. Luck was with him: the driver had finished his sausages and mash, or was it hot peas and vinegar? The taxi was coming this way. He signalled, and it stopped. He opened the door. A man raised himself from the back seat, held out an arm covered with a thin raincoat. Renwick saw the business-like nose of a revolver just showing from under the coat’s folds. “Hop in. I’ll give you a lift,” said Alvin Moore.
Renwick got in. “Unnecessary,” he said, looking at the pistol. The driver hadn’t even noticed; he had had his instructions, for the cab started forward with not a minute lost. A red-necked man, well fed, too, he was only intent on entering Fleet Street and gauging the tr
affic flow. “And much too noisy,” Renwick went on, controlling his anger. Moore was looking back at Bridle Lane.
“Not so noisy.” Moore lifted the raincoat’s fold to show a silencer was attached. “And not unnecessary. What guarantee did I have that you wouldn’t use a gun to make me redirect the cabbie to your office?” He kept looking back.
“No one was there to follow us. As promised.” Renwick was watching the direction the taxi was taking. So far, it seemed normal—allowing for one-way streets. They were now out of Fleet Street, driving north and then swinging west. They could be heading for Paddington Station.
Moore took the rebuke with a shrug. He was tense, though.
Preserve me from a jumpy man holding a pistol, Renwick thought. If he releases the safety catch, I’ll grasp his wrist, twist it up. I could draw the Biretta in that split second, but I won’t: a shoot-out in a cab is faintly ridiculous—would upset my British friends, too. Renwick eased his voice and kept a careful eye on Moore’s right hand. “You’ve got some strange ideas about the way we carry on our business at the office. Forcing people inside is not the way we work.”
“You sure don’t consult or engineer.”
“No?”
Moore stared. “You an engineer?” he asked, unbelieving.
“I was.”
“Before the army?”
“And for the first two years of my service.”
“As I heard it, you engineer more than dams and bridges now.”
“You’ve heard a lot of things, it seems.” Renwick looked pointedly at the driver’s red neck. “A friend of yours? Then we can start talking about what you’ve heard and where you heard it.”
Moore shook his head. “Don’t know him. Just doing his job. And we’ll need more time than we’ll have in this cab. There’s a lot to talk about.” He was no longer on edge.
So Renwick kept the conversation innocuous, nothing to stir up any more tension in Moore. “How did you produce a taxi at the right moment? Quite a triumph.”
“Easy. I took a cab to Bridle Lane, found it couldn’t park there, so I settled for the square. All thirty feet of it. Some district, this.”
“And you paid double the fare, promised double again if it waited for you?”
A grin broke over Moore’s face. “With the cost of a hot supper thrown in. Easy.” He was back to normal, more like the corporal Renwick remembered from seven years ago. There were interesting changes, though: he carried more weight, but that was muscle, not fat. The deep tan, the leather skin with its creases at the eyes, and the furrows on either side of the tight mouth indicated much time out of doors in strong sun and tropical heat. His suit spelled city, however, some place like New York, where summer needed thin clothing. It looked fairly new, expensive but not custom-made. Not enough time for a tailor to measure and fit? A quick visit to America? The crisp white shirt had a buttoned-down collar, the tie was recognisably from Brooks Brothers. A nice picture of an affluent man. Except for the raincoat—definitely incongruous, probably bought in an emergency this morning when the rain had set in.
Moore noticed the quiet scrutiny. “Well?” he demanded, his eyes defensive.
“Pretty smooth. But you always did like a smart uniform.” Renwick touched the sleeve of the plastic coat. “Bought today, thrown away tomorrow. Heading for a drier climate?”
Moore’s eyes widened for a moment. Then he laughed. “I came to the right man, that’s for sure.” He looked long at Renwick. “Engineer!” he said, shook his head. “Never met one yet who noticed anything except stress and strain on a pontoon.” He settled back, began watching the streets.
Again, Renwick checked the direction they were taking. It could indeed be Paddington. Fleet Street and the Strand area were well behind them. Piccadilly Circus, as bright and garish as Times Square, lights at full glitter even in daylight, had led them to the curve of Regent Street. But not for long. A quick left turn took them into quieter streets, rich and restrained, where people didn’t stand on pavements waiting for double-decker buses. The taxi driver knew his London: a left turn, a right turn, travelling west, then north, then west and north again, through an area of exclusive shops, imposing houses, and most correct hotels. This part of London always seemed to Renwick to be floating on its own cloud nine, far above the dreams of ordinary mortals. But soon the cab would be nearing Oxford Street and touching reality again. Still a long way to travel. Renwick glanced covertly at his watch. Pierre Claudel should be already at Paddington, waiting to track him into the station. “We may miss that train,” Renwick said.
It didn’t seem to worry Moore. With an eye on a corner sign reading Park Street, he stopped lounging. “Nearly forgot about this.” With quick, expert touch, he removed the silencer from the revolver, slipped them into separate pockets of the raincoat. “When we leave the cab, you walk ahead. I follow.”
“And if I don’t walk ahead? Will you reassemble that piece of artillery, use it in front of a hundred people?” Renwick’s voice was soft, his eyes hard.
“I can put it together in three seconds flat. But I don’t need to use it now.”
“Why the reprieve?”
“It did its job. Got you into this cab damn quick.”
Renwick remembered Moore’s anxiety as they had left Bridle Lane. “You weren’t nervous only about one of my friends following us, were you?”
No answer to that. Moore watched the street ahead. “Just do as I say. If you took off, you mightn’t live to regret it.”
Renwick looked at him sharply, wondering if that negative had crept in by mistake.
“You might not live,” Moore repeated. He saw Renwick’s glance at the bulge in his plastic raincoat’s pocket. “No, not that. I’m no assassin. I’m doing you a favour. I owe you one.” Then he looked at the street ahead, raised his voice for the driver. “Is this it? Okay, okay. Stop at the corner. How much?” His wallet was in his hand.
Good God, thought Renwick, we’re at Marble Arch. Moore frowned at the wad of English pound notes, made a guess, began counting them. He spoke to Renwick from the side of his mouth. “Buy a ticket for Tottenham Court Road. We’re taking the subway.”
“Tube,” Renwick corrected quietly as he opened the taxi door.
Moore halted him with another half-whispered command. “When we reach there, reverse positions. I lead. You follow. Room 412.”
Renwick nodded and left Moore handing over a clutch of notes; more than enough, judging by the driver’s sudden geniality. Marble Arch, he thought again, Marble Arch! Damn me for an idiot. He fooled me. I fell for Paddington. And Claudel hanging around there, watching, worrying? Pierre Claudel would do more than raise a fine French eyebrow when he waited and waited... The French could produce a flow of curses that would outdo anything an Anglo-Saxon tried.
Can’t even dodge into a telephone booth and warn Gilman— if I could reach him. Moore would take that as a breach of faith; he’d walk away and leave me flat, and I’d learn nothing in Room 412, wherever it was. In some hotel, obviously. In the neighbourhood, again obviously, of Tottenham Court Road: no mention of another tube, or a bus, or a taxi. In Soho, perish the thought? Or in Bloomsbury? Let’s hope it’s a short distance. Tonight, I’m in no mood for a walk in the rain.
3
The distance was short, a two-minute walk up Tottenham Court Road, which looked even worse than usual by the grey light of a wet evening. Moore set a sharp pace, plunging through the clots of pedestrians seemingly paralyzed by weather and traffic. Although he walked at a quick march through the crowd, Renwick managed to keep Moore’s black hair in sight. He almost lost him when a left turn was made into a quiet, narrow street but reached the corner in time to see Moore disappear into the Coronet’s doorway. It was one of the new hotels, rising high, a flat-faced block of building with innumerable windows that was attempting to uplift the neighbourhood and edge in on the tourist trade of Bloomsbury.
Its lobby was crowded, people discouraged by the weather sitting on fat co
uches or standing in talkative groups. A plumbers’ convention, Renwick noted from the outsize announcement propped on a gilded easel. He crossed the soft mile of carpet—no expense spared—without anyone paying him the least attention and went up to the fifth floor in an elevator filled with jovial Birmingham accents and the smell of wet wool. Then he walked down one flight and in the rear of the building found Room 412.
The door was ajar. Moore turned from pouring Scotch at a table, gave his first real smile. “Take the load off. Have a drink.” The atmosphere has changed, thought Renwick. He’s still giving orders, but perhaps that’s become natural: certainly, Moore hasn’t been following them for a long time.
“Later,” Renwick said and went into the bathroom, pulling off his raincoat and hat, hung them up where they could drip themselves slightly dry. He glanced around—nothing unpacked here, just gleaming surfaces, cramped but clean; only the two-inch cake of soap and hand towel used, and the two glasses missing from their holders.