It seemed obvious that the same would be true of the ferry terminals at Calais and Boulogne. But the people in London had indicated another way, one which might possibly be overlooked. There was a train service from Paris to Rennes, changing there for St Malo on the Brittany coast. From there, a hydrofoil service to Jersey in the Channel Islands. And from Jersey, there were several planes a day to London.
She got up quietly, tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door. Then she lifted the receiver on the wall telephone and called Reception. They were extremely efficient. Yes, there was a night train to Rennes, leaving the Gare du Nord at eleven. In Rennes, there would be a delay, but she could be in St Malo for breakfast. Ample time to catch the hydrofoil.
She flushed the toilet and went back in the bedroom, rather pleased with herself for she hadn’t quoted a room number or given her name. The enquiry could have come from any one of hundreds of guests.
‘They’re turning you into a jungle animal, Tanya,’ she told herself softly.
She got her holdall bag from the wardrobe, the one she used to take all her bits and pieces to the concerts. She couldn’t secrete much in there. It would show. She thought about it for a while, then took out a pair of soft suede boots and rolled them up so they fitted neatly in the bottom of the bag. She next took a black cotton jumpsuit from its hanger, folded it and laid it in the case. She placed the concerto score and the orchestra parts she had been studying on top.
So, nothing more to be done. She went to the window and
peered out. It was raining again and she shivered, suddenly lonely, and remembered Devlin and his strength. For a moment she thought of phoning him, but that was no good. Not from here. They would trace the call in minutes the moment they started checking. She went back to bed and switched off the lamp. If only she could sleep for an hour or two. The face surfaced in her consciousness: Cuchulain’s bone-white face and dark eyes made sleep impossible.
She wore a gown in black velvet for the concert. It was by Balmain and very striking with a matching jacket. The pearls at her neck and the earrings were supposed to be lucky, a gift by the Maslovskys before the finals of the Tchaikovsky competition, her greatest triumph.
Natasha came in and stood behind her at the dressing table. ‘Are you ready? Time’s getting short.’ She put her hands on Tanya’s shoulders. ‘You look lovely.’
Thank you. I’ve packed my case.’
Natasha picked it up. ‘Have you put a towel in? You always forget.’ She zipped it open before Tanya could protest, then froze. She looked at the girl, eyes wide.
‘Please?’ Tanya said softly. ‘If I ever meant anything to you.’
The older woman took a deep breath, went into the bathroom and returned with a towel. She folded it and placed it in the case and zipped it up. ‘So,’ she said. ‘We are ready.’
‘Is it still raining?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I shan’t wear the velvet cape. The trenchcoat, I think.’
Natasha took it from the wardrobe and draped it over her shoulders. Tanya felt her hands tighten for a moment. ‘Now we must go.’
Tanya picked up the case and opened the door and went into the other room where Shepilov and Turkin waited. They both wore dinner jackets because of the reception after the performance.
‘If I may be permitted the observation, you look superb, Comrade,’ Turkin told her. ‘A credit to our country.’
‘Spare me the compliments, Captain,’ she said frostily. ‘If you wish to be of use, you can carry my case,’ and she handed it to him and walked out.
The Conservatoire concert hall was packed for this occasion and when she walked on stage, the orchestra stood to greet her and there was a storm of applause, the audience standing also, following President Mitterand’s example.
She sat down, all noise faded. There was complete silence as the conductor waited, baton ready and then it descended and as the orchestra started to play, Tanya Voroninova’s hands rippled over the keyboard.