He stood waiting anxiously for another two minutes before he spotted the colonel puffing up the slope leading to the hotel entrance.
He was clinging onto a small carrier bag.
“I’ve done it, Captain Scott, sir, I’ve done it,” said the colonel, before he had reached Adam’s side. “But I must return immediately or he’s bound to notice it’s gone.”
He passed the carrier bag quickly to Adam, who opened the top and stared down at the o
bject inside.
“You’re a man of your word,” said Adam, “and as promised you’ll) find everything you need in there.” He passed over his own package along with the car keys without speaking. He pointed to the hire car.
The colonel ran to it, jumped in, and drove quickly down the ramp of the Royal Garden Hotel before turning left into Kensington Palace Gardens.
Adam checked his watch: nine thirty-five.
“Could you call me a taxi?” he asked the doorman.
The driver pulled the window down and gave Adam an inquiring look.
“The Wood Workshop, Kings Road.”
Adam spent twenty minutes looking around the shop while the craftsman carried out his unusual request. Adam studied the result with satisfaction, paid him two half crowns, and then walked back on to Kings Road to hail another taxi.
“Where to, guv’nor?”
“The Tower of London.”
Everyone was in his place for the D4 meeting at nine-thirty, and Busch had gone on the attack even before Lawrence had had the chance to sit down.
“How in hell did you manage to lose him this time?”
“I must take the blame myself,” said Lawrence. “We had every port from Newhaven to Harwich covered, but the moment my man saw Romanov and his henchman leave the quayside at Dover and chase off down the motorway after the coach he assumed he must have seen Scott. I had already instructed the senior immigration officer at the port,” he continued, “to allow Scott to disembark without a fuss. It had been my intention to take over once he passed through customs. There seemed no reason to change that plan while we had Romanov under close surveillance. Scott then proceeded to fool both Romanov and our man at Dover.”
“But we were given a second chance when Scott got on the train,” persisted Busch. Lawrence stared at the American waiting to see if he would admit that his two CIA agents had also lost Scott at Dover.
“My man was on the train,” said Lawrence emphatically, “but had only the one opportunity to make contact with Scott while he was on his own, and at just that moment he was grabbed and badly beaten up by a bunch of drunken louts—teenagers, apparently—who were on their way back from a day trip to the seaside.”
“Perhaps we’re recruiting our agents from the wrong class of person,” said Matthews, staring down at his briefing papers.
Lawrence made no attempt to reply.
“So, as far as we can tell, Scott, the Czar’s icon, and Romanov are still holed up somewhere in London?” said Snell.
“It looks that way,” admitted Lawrence,
“Perhaps all is not lost then,” suggested Snell. “Scott may still try to get in touch with you again.”
“I think not,” said Lawrence quietly.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Busch.
“Because Scott knows that one of us in this room is a traitor and he thinks it’s me.”
“Good morning. Soviet embassy.”
“My name is Adam Scott, and I need to get in contact with a Major Romanov.”
“Good morning, Mr. Scott. We do not have a Major Romanov working at the embassy,” came back the polite reply.