“Yes, I think so, but I’ll have to check in the stock room.”
Adam had reached the next streetcorner long before she had returned with “just the thing.”
He managed the next three crossings without incident, and with only two hundred yards to go could already feel his heart thumping as if it were trying to escape from his body. On the final corner there was only one policeman in sight, and he seemed intent on directing traffic. Adam kept his back to the officer. He could now see the garden square that had only shown up on the map as a tiny green blob. On the far side of the road he spotted a Union Jack hanging above a blue door.
Never run the last few yards, especially when it’s open ground, his sergeant had told him many times when on patrol in the Malayan jungle. He crossed the road and stood on the edge of the small park, only fifty yards away from safety. A policeman was patrolling aimlessly up the road, but Adam suspected that was only because there were several consulates standing adjacent to one another. He watched the officer carefully. It took the man two minutes to reach the French consulate before he turned and continued his leisurely walk back. Adam ducked behind a tree in the corner of the little park and selected another tree on the far side of the road only yards from the consulate front door that would shield him from the oncoming policeman. He estimated that by walking at a speed that wouldn’t attract attention he could cover the last thirty yards in under ten seconds. He waited for the policeman to reach his farthest point.
He checked the consulate door again, relieved to see a girl go in and a man carrying a briefcase come out on to the street. There seemed to be no guard in sight as the door remained half open. He looked up at the bay window on the first floor. He could see two men staring out at the park as if waiting expectantly for someone to arrive. Lawrence had succeeded. In moments he would be home. Adam pulled up the collar of his trench coat and set off as the cathedral clock behind him struck eleven. The policeman was now a few paces from reaching his farthest point but still walking in the opposite direction. Adam crossed the road at a measured stride. When he reached the streetcar lines in the center he had to stop suddenly to let a car pass by. The policeman turned to start his journey back.
For several seconds Adam remained motionless between the streetcar lines as he stared at the tree he had selected to shield him if the policeman turned before he could reach the front door. He took a confident pace toward the consulate. A tall man of athletic build, his head covered in a stubble of short fair hair, stepped out to greet him.
Adam would not have recognized him but for the eyes.
PART II
10 DOWNING STREET
LONDON S.W.1
June 16, 1966
CHAPTER TWELVE
10 DOWNING STREET
JUNE 16, 1966
WHEN SIR MORRIS Youngfield left the Prime Minister he still was unable to work out why the possession of any icon could be that important.
Leaving Number Ten behind him, Sir Morris marched quickly into the Foreign Office courtyard and within moments was stepping out of the lift on the seventh floor. When he walked into his office, Tessa, his secretary, was sorting out some papers for him.
“I want a D4 assembled immediately,” he said to the woman who had served him so loyally for fourteen years. “And ask Commander Busch to join the team.”
Tessa raised her eyebrows, but Sir
Morris ignored her silent comment as he knew he couldn’t hope to get to the bottom of this one without the cooperation of the Americans. Once more Sir Morris considered the Prime Minister’s instructions. Harold Wilson hadn’t needed to explain that he didn’t get that many transatlantic calls from Lyndon Johnson seeking his help. But why a Russian icon of an English saint?
As Romanov moved toward him, Adam took a pace backward from the streetcar lines to allow the streetcar to pass between them. When the streetcar had passed Adam was no longer to be seen. Romanov snarled at such an amateur trick, sprinted the twenty yards necessary to catch up with the streetcar, and to the astonishment of the passengers, leaped on. He began checking over the faces row by row.
Adam waited for the streetcar to travel another twenty yards before he emerged from behind a tree on the far side of the road. He felt confident he could reach the safety of the consulate door long before Heidi’s killer could hope to return. He checked the other side of the road and swore under his breath. The policeman patrolling was now only a few paces from the consulate and heading relentlessly toward it. Adam looked back at the streetcar, which had just been passed by another, which was heading toward him. To his dismay, he saw his adversary leap from one platform to the other with the agility of a top-class gymnast. With the policeman only yards from the consulate door Adam was left with no choice but to turn and sprint back up the one-way street. After fifty yards he glanced over his shoulder. The man he knew only as Rosenbaum couldn’t have looked less like a helpless old man as he started running toward him.
Adam jumped between the cars and buses and dodged around the milling pedestrians as he tried to lengthen the fifty yards’ distance between them. At the first crossroad he saw a plump lady coming out of a phone booth a few yards away. He changed direction quickly and leaped into the empty box, crouching into the far corner. The door slowly squelched shut. Rosenbaum came hurtling round the corner and was twenty yards past the booth before he realized that Adam had shot back out and down the road in the opposite direction. Adam knew he had at least five seconds before Rosenbaum could hope to see which direction he had chosen. One, two, three, four, and five he counted as he ran along the road. He then checked right, before mounting three steps and pushing through some swinging doors. He found himself in front of a small counter behind which sat a young woman holding a small wad of tickets.
“Deux francs, monsieur,” said the girl. Adam looked at the little box, quickly took out two francs, and made his way down the long dark passage and through another set of swinging doors. He stood at the back waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. It was the first performance of the day, and the cinema was nearly empty. Adam chose a seat on the end of a row that was an equal distance from both exits.
He stared at the screen, thankful that the movie had just begun, because he needed some time to formulate a plan. Whenever the screen was bright enough he checked the little red road on the map, and then using the top of his thumb as a one-inch ruler, he was able to estimate that the nearest border into France was only eight miles away at Ferney-Voltaire. From there he could travel to Paris via Dijon and be back home almost as quickly as it would take him to sit through Exodus a second time. Having decided on his route, the next problem for Adam was how to travel. He dismissed all forms of public transport and settled on renting a car. He remained in his seat during the interval to double-check the routes. The moment Paul Newman reappeared on the screen, he folded up the map and left the cinema by the exit that had been least used during the past four hours.
When Sir Morris entered the room for the meeting of the Northern Department, he found the rest of the D4 already assembled and familiarizing themselves with the files that had been presented to them only an hour before.
He glanced around the table at the specially selected D4, all handpicked men, but only one of them did he consider his equal. And it wasn’t the old war-horse Alec Snell, who had served at the Foreign Office longer than any of them, and was touching his mustache nervously as he waited for Sir Morris to take his seat. Next to him sat Brian Matthews, known in the department as the “well-balanced man”: a grammar school boy with high honors and a chip on both shoulders. Opposite him was Commander Ralph Busch, the CIA representative with a short fuse, who, after five years attached to the embassy in Grosvenor Square considered himself more British than the British and even imitated the Foreign Office style of dress to prove it. At the far end of the table was Sir Morris’s second in command, who some said was a little too young, although everyone except Tessa had forgotten that Sir Morris had held his job at the same age.
The four members of the committee stopped talking once Sir Morris had settled in his seat at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen,” he began—the only lady present being the long-suffering Tessa, whose existence he rarely acknowledged—“the Prime Minister has given this D4 his full blessing. And, he requires detailed reports to be sent to him every twelve hours, wherever he is, and at any time of the night or day should there be some unexpected development. So, as you can see, there is no time to waste. This particular D4 has co-opted as part of its team a liaison officer from the CIA, Commander Ralph Busch. I have worked with Commander Busch several times over the last five years, and I am delighted that the American embassy has chosen him to represent them.”
The man seated on Sir Morris’s right bowed slightly. At five feet nine inches, with broad, muscular shoulders and a neat black beard, he looked every inch the sailor whom Player’s cigarettes were always trying to please. Indeed, a sailor wouldn’t have been a bad guess because Busch had been a commander of PT boats during the Second World War.
“From the latest reports I have received,” Sir Morris continued, opening the file in front of him, “it appears that Scott never reached the consulate this morning, despite our request for the police to have no more than a token force on duty within two hundred yards of the park.