“We have to talk fast,” he said to Roger Symonds. “They found me. I’ve got a problem.” “Where are you? We’ll help.” Scofield told him. “Just send in two sirens, regular police will do. Say it’s an Irish incident, possible subjects inside. That’s all I’ll need.” “I’m writing it down. They’re on their way.” “What about WaverlyT’ “Tomorrow night. His house in Belgravia. I’m to escort you, of course.” “Not before then?” “Before then? Good God, man, the only reason it’s so soon is that I managed an open-end memorandum from the Admiralty. From that same mythical conference-I was logged into last night.” Bray was about to speak, but Symonds rushed on. “Incidentally, you were right. An inquiry was made to see if I was there.” “Were you covered?” “The caller was told the conference could not be interrupted, that I would be given the message when it was over.” “Did you return the call?” “Yes. From the Admiralty’s cellars an hour and ten minutes after I left you. I woke up some poor chap in Kensington. An intercept, of course.” “Then if you got back there, they saw you leave the Admiralty building?” “From the welllighted front entrance.” “Good. You didn’t use my name with Waverly, did you?” “I used a name, not yours. Unless your talk is extremely fruitful, I expect I’ll take a lot of gaff for that.” An obvious fact struck Bray. Roger Symonds’ strategy bad been successful.

  The Matarese had him trapped inside the Knightsbridge restaurant, yet Waverly had granted him a confidential interview thirty-six hours away.

  Therefore, no connection had been made between the interview in Belgravia and Beowulf Agate.

  “Roger, what time tomorrow night?” “Eightish. I’m to ring him first. I’ll pick you up around seven. Have you any idea where you’ll be?” Scofield avoided the question. “I’ll call you at this number at four-thirty. Is that convenient?” “So far as I know. If I’m not here, leave an address two blocks north of where you’ll be. I’ll find you.” “You’ll bring the photographs of all those following your decoys yesterday?” “They should be on my desk by noon.” “Good. And one last thing. Think up a very good, very official reason why you can’t bring me to Belgravia Square tomorrow night.” “What?” “That’s what you’ll tell Waverly when you call him just before our meeting. It’s an intelligence decision; you’ll pick him up personally and drive back to MI-Six.” “But you won’t take him there; you’ll bring him to the Connaught. I’ll give you the room number at four-thirty. If you’re not there, I’ll leave a message. Subtract twentytwo from the number I give.,’ “See here, Brandon, you’re asking too much!” “You don’t know that. I may be asking to save his life. And yours.” In the distance, from somewhere outside, Bray could hear the piercing, two-note sound of a London siren; an instant later it was joined by a second. “Your help’s arrived,” said Scofield. “Thanks.” He hung up and started back to the hollow-cheeked Matarese killer, “Who were you talking to?” asked the man, his accent American. The sirens were drawing nearer; they were not lost on him.

  “He didn’t give me his name,” replied Bray. “But he did give me instructions. We’re to get out of here fast.” “Something happened. The police spotted a rifle in one of your cars; it’s being held. There’s been a lot of I.R.A. activity in the stores around here. Let’s go!” The man got out of his chair, nodding to his right. Across the crowded restaurant, Scofield saw a stern-faced, middle-aged woman get up, acknowledge the command by slipping the wide strap of a large purse over her shoulder, and start for the door of the restaurant.

  Bray reached the cashier’s cage, timing his movements, fumbling his money and his check, watching the scene beyond the glass window. Two police cars converged, screeching simultaneously to a stop at the curb. A crowd of curious pedestrians gathered, then dispersed, curiosity replaced by fear as four helmeted London police jumped out of the vehicles and headed for the restaurant.

  Bray judged the distance, then moved quickly. He reached the glass door and yanked it open several seconds before the police had it blocked. The hollow-cheeked man and the middle-aged woman were at his heels, at the last moment side-stepping around him to avoid confronting the police.

  Scofield turned suddenly and lurched to his right, clutching his attache case under his arm, grabbing his would-*be escorts by the shoulders and pulling them down.

  “These are the onesl” he shouted. “Check them for gunsl I heard them say they were going to bomb Scotch Housel” The police fell on the two Matarese, arms and hands and clubs thrashing the air. Bray dropped to his knees, releasing his double-grip, and dove to his left out of the way. He scrambled to his feet, raced through the crowds to the corner and ran into the street, threading his way between the traffic.

  He kept up the frantic race for three blocks, stopping briefly, under canopies and in storefronts to see if anyone followed him. None did, and two minutes later he slowed down and entered the enormous bronzebordered portals of Harrods.

  Once inside, he accelerated his pace as rapidly and as unobtrusively as possible, looking for a telephone. He had to reach Taleniekov at the flat in the rue de Bac before the Russian left for Cap Gris. He had to, for once Taleniekov reached England, he would head for London and a cheap rooming house in Knightsbridge. If the KGB man did that, he would be taken by the Matarese.

  “Mrough the chemists toward the south entry,” said an imperturbable clerk.

  “There’s a bank of phones against the ,wall.” The late morning telephone traffic was light; the call went through without delay.

  “I was leaving in a few minutes,” said Taleniekov, his voice oddly hesitant.

  “Thank Christ you didn’t. What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing. Why?” “You sound strange. Where’s Antonia? Why didn’t she answer the phone?” “She stepped out to the grocer’s. She’ll be back shortly. If I sounded strange, it’s because I don’t like answering this telephone.” The Russian’s voice was normal now, his explanation logical. “What is the matter with you? Why this unscheduled call?” “I’ll tell you when you get here, but forget Knightsbridge.” “Where will you be?” Scofield was about to mention the Connaught, when Taleniekov interrupted.

  “On second thought, when I get to London I’ll phone Tower-Central. You recall that exchange, don’t you?” Tower Central? Bray hadn’t heard the name in years, but he remembered. It was a code name for a KGB drop on the Victoria Embankment, abandoned when Consular Operations discovered it sometime back in the late sixties. The tourist boats that traveled up and down the Thames, that was it. “I remember,” said Scofield, bewildered. “I’ll respond.” “Then I’ll be going—’ “Wait a minute,” interrupted Bray. “Tell Antonia I’ll call in a while.” There was a brief silence before Taleniekov replied. “Actually, she said she might take in the Louvre; it’s so close by. I can get to the Cap Gris district in an hour or so. There’s nothing-I repeat-nothing to worry about.” There was a click and the line to Paris went dead. The Russian had hung up.

  There’s nothing-4 repeat-nothing to worry about. The words cracked with the explosive sounds of nearby thunder; his eyes were blinded by bolts of lightning that carried the message into his brain. There was something to worry about and it concerned Antonia Gravet.

  Actually, she said she might take in the Louvre… can get to the Cap Gris district in an hour or so. Nothing to worry about.

  Three disconnected statements, preceded by an interruption that prohibited disclosure of the contact point in London. Scofield tried to analyze the sequence; if there was meaning it was in the progression. The Louvre was only blocks away from the rue de Bac-across the Seine, but nearby. The Cap Gris district could not be reached in an hour or so; two and a half or three were more logical. Nothing—I repeat—nothing to worry about; then why the interruption? Why the necessity of avoiding any mention of the Victoria Embankment?

  Sequence. Progression. Further back?

  I do not like answering this telephone. Words spoken firmly, almost angrily. That was it. Suddenly, Bray understood and the relief he felt was like cool water sprayed over a sweat-drenched body. Taleniekov had seen something wrong-a face in the street, a chance meeting with a former colleague, a car that remained too long on the rue de Bac-any number of unstabling incidents or observations.

  The Russian had decided to move Toni out of the Rive Gauche, across the river into another flat. She would be settled in an hour or so and he would not leave until she was; that was why there was nothing to worry about. Still, on the assumption that there could be substance to a disturbing incident or observation, the KGB man had operated with extreme caution-always caution, it was their truest shield-and the telephone was an instrument of revelation. Nothing revealing was to be said.

  Sequence, progression… meaning. Or was it? The Serpent had killed his wife. Was Bray finding comfort where none existed? The Russian had been the first to suggest eliminating the girl from the hills of Porto Vecchio-the love that had come into his life at the most inopportune time of his life. Could he?…

  No! Things were different now! There was no Beowulf Agate to stretch to the breaking point, because that breaking point guaranteed the death of the Serpent, the end of the hunt for the Matarese. The best of professionals did not kill unnecessarily.

  Still, he wondered as he picked up the phone in Harrods’ south entranceway, what was necessity but a man convinced of the need? He put the question out of his mind; he had to find sanctuary.

  London’s staid Connaught Hotel not only possessed one of the best kitchens in London but was an ideal choice for quick concealment, as long as one stayed out of the lobby and tested the kitchen from room service.

  Quite simply, it was impossible to get a room at the Connaught unless a reservation was made weeks in advance. The elegant hotel on Carlos Place was one of the last bastions of the Empire, catering in large measure to those who mourned its passing and had the wealth to do so gracefully.

  There were enough to keep it perpetually full; the Connaught rarely had an available room.

  Scofield knew this, and years ago had decided that occasions might arise when the Connaught’s particular ex.

  clusivity could be useful. He had reached and cultivated a director of the financial group that owned the hotel and made his appeal. As all theaters have “house seats,” and most restaurants keep constantly “reserved” tables for those exalted patrons who have to be accommodated, so do hotels retain empty rooms for ae purposes. Bray was convincing; his work was on the side of the angels, the Tory side. A room would be at his disposal whenever he needed it.

  “Room six-twenty-six,” were the director’s first words when Scofield placed his second, confirming call. “Just go right up on the lift as usual. You can sign the. registration in your room-as usual.” - Bray thanked him and turned his thoughts to another problem, an irritating one. He could not return to the rooming house several blocks away, and all his clothes except those on his back were there. In a duffle bag on the unmade bed. There was nothing else of consequence; his money as well as several dozen useful letterheads, identification cards, passports, and bank books, were all in his attach6 case. But outside of the rumpled trousers, the cheap Mackinaw jacket, and the Irish hat, he didn’t have a damn thing to wear. And clothes were not merely coverings for the body, they were intrinsic to the work and had to match the work; they were tools, consistently more effective than weapons and the spoken word. He left the bank of telephones and walked back into the aisles of Harrods. The selections would take an hour; that was fine. It would take his mind off Paris. And the inopportune love of his life.

  It was shortly past midnight when Scofield left his room at the Connaught, dressed in a dark raincoat and a narrow-brimmed black hat. He took the service elevator to the basement of the hotel and emerged on the street through the employees’ entrance. He found a taxi and told the driver to take him to Waterloo Bridge. He settled back in the seat and smoked a cigarette, trying to control his swelling sense of concern. He wondered if Taleniekov understood the change that had taken place, a change so unreasonable, so illogical that he was not sure bow he would react were he the Russian. The core of his excellence, his longevity in his work, had always been his ability to think as the enemy thought; he was incapable of doing so now.

  I’m not your enemyl Taleniekov had shouted that unreasonable, illogical statement over the telephone in Washington. Perhapsillogically-he was right. The Russian was no friend, but he was not the enemy. That enemy was the Matarese And crazily, so unreasonably, through the Matarese he had found Antonia Gravet. The love.

  What had happened?

  He forced the question out of his mind. He would learn soon enough, and what he learned would no doubt bring back the relief he had felt at Harrods, din-dnished by too much time on his hands and too little to do.

  The telephone call to Roger Symonds, made precisely at 4:30, had been routine. Roger was out of the office so he bad given information to the security room operator. The unexplained number that was to be relayed was six-four-three. minus twentytwo… Room 6 1, Connaught.

  The taxi swung out of Trafalgar Square, up the Strand, past Savoy Court, toward the entrance of Waterloo Bridge. Bray leaned forward; there was no point walking any farther than he had to. He would cut through side streets down to the Thames and the Victoria Embankment.

  “This’ll be fine,” he said to the driver, holding out payment, annoyed to see that his hand shook.

  He went down the cobbled lane by the Savoy Hotel, and reached the bottom of the hill. Across the wide, welllighted boulevard was the concrete walk and the high brick wall that fronted the river Thames. Moored permanently as a pub was a huge refurbished barge named Caledonia, closed by the 11:00 o’clock curfew imposed on all England’s drinking halls, the few lights beyond the thick windows signifying the labors of clean-up crews removing the stains and odors of the day. A quarter of a mile south on the tree-lined Embankment were the sturdy, wide-beamed, full-decked river boats that plowed the Thames most of the year round, ferrying tourists up to the Tower of London and back to Lambeth Bridge before returning to the waters of Cleopatra’s Needle.

  Years ago these boats were known as Tower Central, drops for Soviet couriers and KGB agents making contact with informers and deep-cover espionage personnel. Consular Operations had uncovered the drop; in time, the Russians knew it. Tower Central was taken out; a known drop was eliminated for some other that would take months to find.

  Scofield cut through the garden paths of the park behind the Savoy; music from the ballroom floated down from above. He reached a small band amphitheater with its rows of slatted benches. A few couples were scattered around, talking quietly. Bray looked for a single man for he was within the vicinity of Tower Central. The Russian would be somewhere in the area.

  He was not; Scofield walked out of the amphitheater into the widest path that led to the boulevard. He emerged on the pavement; the traffic in the street was constant, bright headlights flashing by in both directions, mottled by the winter mists that rolled off the water. It occurred to Bray that Taleniekov must have hired an automobile. He looked up and down the avenue to see if any were parked on either side; none were. Across the boulevard, in front of the Embankment wall, strollers walked casually in couples, threesomes and several larger groups; there was no man by himself.

  Scofield looked at his watch; it was five minutes to one. The Russian had said he might be as late as two or three o’clock in the morning. Bray swore at his impatience, at the anxiety in his chest whenever he thought about Paris. About Toni.

  There was the sudden flare of a cigarette lighter, the flame steady, then extinguished, only to be relighted, a second later. Diagonally across the wide avenue, to the right of the closed, chained gates of the pier that led to the tourist boats, a white-haired man was holding the flame under a blonde woman’s cigarette; both leaned against the wall, looking at the water. Scofield studied the figure, what he could see of the face, and had to stop himself from breaking into a run. Taleniekov had arrived.

  Bray turned right and walked until he was parallel with the Russian and the blonde decoy. He knew Taleniekov had seen him and wondered why the KGB man did not dismiss the woman, paying her whatever price they had agreed upon to get her out of the way. It was foolish-conceivably dangerous-for a decoy to observe both parties at a contact point. Scofield waited at the curb, seeing now that Taleniekov’s head was fully turned, the Russian staring at him, his arm around the woman’s waist.

  Bray gestured first to his left, then to his right, his meaning clear. Get her out! Walk south; we’ll meet shortly.

  Taleniekov did not move. What was the Soviet doing? It was no time for whores!

  Whores? The courier’s whore? Oh, my God!

  Scofield stepped off the curb, an automobile horn bellowed, as a car swerved toward the center of the boulevard to avoid bitting him. Bray barely heard the sound, was barely aware of the sight; he could only stare at the woman beside Taleniekov.

  The arm around the waist was no gesture of feigned affection, the Russian was holding her up. Taleniekov spoke in the woman’s ear; she tried to spin around; her head fell back on her neck, her mouth open, a scream or a plea about to emerge, but nothing was heard.

  The strained face was the face of his love. Under the blonde wig, it was Toni. All control left him; he raced across the wide avenue, speeding cars braking, spinning wheels, blowing horns. His thoughts converged like stac-cato shots of gunfire, one thought, one observation, more painful than all others.

  Antonia looked more dead than alive.

  “She’s been drugged,” said Taleniekov.

  “Why the hell did you bring her here?” asked Bray. “There are hundreds of places in France, dozens in Paris, where she’d be safe! Where she’d be cared for! You know them as well as I do!” “If I could have been certain, I would have left her,” replied Vasili, his voice calm. “Don’t probe. I considered other alternatives.” Bray understood, his brief silence an expression of grat-414 THE MATARESE CIRCLE itude. Taleniekov could easily have killed Toni, probably would have killed her had it not been for East Berlin. “A doctor?” “Helpful in terms of time, but not essentially necessary.” “What was the chemical?” “Scopolamine.” “When?” “Early yesterday morning. Over eighteen hours.” “Eighteen?…” It was no time for explanations. “Do you have a car?” “I couldn’t take the chance. A lone man with a woman who could not stand up under her own power; the trail would have been obvious. The pilot drove us up from Ashford.” “Can you trust himT’ “No, but he stopped for petrol ten minutes outside of London and went inside to relieve himself. I added a quart of oil to his fuel tank; it should be taking effect on the road back to Ashford.” “Find a taxi.” Scofield’s look conveyed the compliment he would not say.