Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”
Alison Booth, former liaison to Interpol, reported that two electronic
devices were securely attached to the permanent laundry hamper under the
salad table in the Courtleigh Manor kitchen. She had slipped them
inside-and pushed them down-along with a soiled napkin, as an
enthusiastic chef described the ingredients of his Jamaican red snapper
sauce.
“The hamper was long, not deep,” she explained as McAuliff finished the
last of his dinner. “I pressed rather hard; the adhesive will hold
quite well, I think.”
“You’re incredible,” said Alex, meaning it.
“No, just experienced,” she replied, without much humor.
“You were only taught one side of the game, my darling.”
“it doesn’t sound much like tennis.”
“Oh, there are compensations. For example, d . o you have any idea how
limitless the possibilities are? In that kitchen, for the next three
hours or so, until it’s tracked?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Depending upon who’s on the tapes, there’ll be a mad scramble writing
down words and phrases. Kitchen talk has its own contractions, its own
language, really. it will be assumed you’ve taken your suitcase to a
scheduled destination, for reasons of departure, naturally. There’ll be
quite a bit of confusion.” Alison smiled, her eyes again mischievous, as
they had been before he had gone upstairs to pry loose the bugs.
“You mean, ‘Sauce b6amaise’ is really a code for submachine gun?
“B.L.T.” stands for ‘hit the beaches’?”
“Something like that. it’s quite possible, you know.”
“I thought that sort of thing only happened in World War Two movies.
With Nazis screaming at each other, sending Panzer divisions in the
wrong directions.” McAuliff looked at his watch. It was 9:15. “I have
a phone call to make, and I want to go over a list of supplies with
Ferguson. He’s going to–” be stopped. Alison had reached over, her
hand suddenly on his arm. “Don’t turn your head,” she commanded softly,
“but I think your little buggers provoked a reaction. A man just came
through the dining room entrance very rapidly, obviously looking for
someone.”
:’For us?”
“For you, to be precise, I’d say.”
“The kitchen codes didn’t fool them very long.”
“Perhaps not. On the other hand, it’s quite possible they’ve been
keeping loose tabs on you and were double checking. It’s too small a
hotel for round-the-clock-”
“Describe him,” interrupted McAuliff. “As completely as you can. Is he
still facing this way?”
“He saw you and stopped. He’s apologizing to the man on the
reservations book, I think. He’s white; he’s dressed in light trousers,
a dark jacket, and a white-no, a yellow shirt. He’s shorter than you by
a bit, fairly chunky-”
“What?”
“You know, bulky. And middle-young, thirties, I’d say.
His hair is long, not extreme, but long. It’s dark blond or light
brown; it’s hard to tell in this candlelight.”
“You’ve done fine. Now I’ve got to get to a telephone.”
” Wait till he leaves; he’s looking over again,” said Alison, feigning
interested, intimate laughter. “Why don’t you leer a little and signal
for the check. Very casually, my darling.”
“I feel like I’m in some kind of nursery school. With the prettiest
teacher in town.” Alex held up his hand, spotted the waiter, and made
the customary scribble in the air. “I’ll take you to your room, then
come back downstairs and call.”
” Why? Use the phone in the room. The buggers aren’t there. , Damn!
Goddamn! It had happened again; he wasn’t prepared. The little things,
always the little things. They were the traps. Hammond said it over
and over again … Hammond. The Savoy. Don’t make calls on the Savoy
phone.
“I was told to use a pay telephone. They must have their reasons.”
“Who?”
“The Ministry. Latham … the police, of course.”
“Of course. The police.” Alison withdrew her hand from his arm as the
waiter presented the bill for Alex to sign. She didn’t believe him; she
made no pretense of believing him.
Why should she? He was a rotten actor; he was caught….
But it was preferable to an in-phrased statement or an awkward response
to Westmore Tallon over the phone while Alison watched him. And
listened. He had to feel free in his conversation with the arthritic
liaison; he could not have one eye, one ear on Alison as he talked. He
could not take the chance that the name Chatellerault, or even a hint of
the man, was heard. Alison was too quick.
“Has he left yet?”
“As you signed the check. He saw we were leaving.” Her reply was
neither angry nor warm, merely neutral They walked out of the candlelit
dining room, past the cascading arcs of green foliage into the lobby,
toward the bank of elevators. Neither spoke. The ride up to their
floor continued in silence, made bearable by other guests in the small
enclosure.
He opened the door and repeated the precautions he had taken the
previous evening-minus the scanner. He was in a hurry now; if he
remembered, he would bless the room with electronic benediction later.
He checked his own room and locked the connecting door from her side. He
looked out on the balcony and in the bathroom. Alison stood in the
corridor doorway, watching him.
He approached her. “Will you stay here until I get back?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
He kissed her on the lips, staying close to her, he knew, longer than
she expected him to; it was his message to her.
“You are a lovely lady.”
“Alex?” She placed her hands carefully on his arms and looked up at him.
“I know the symptoms. Believe me, I do.
They’re not easy to forget…. There are things you’re not telling me
and I won’t ask. I’ll wait.”
“You’re overdramatizing, Alison.”
“That’s funny.”
“What is?”
“What you just said. I used those words with David. In Malaga. He was
nervous, frightened. He was so unsure of himself. And of me. And I
said to him: David, you’re being overly dramatic…. I know now that it
was at that moment he knew.”
McAuliff held her eyes with his own. “You’re not David and I’m not you.
That’s as straight as I can put it. Now, I have to get to a telephone.
I’ll see you later. Use the latch.”
He kissed her again, went out the door, and closed it behind him. He
waited until he heard the metallic sounds of the inserted bolt, then
turned toward the elevators.
The doors closed; the elevator descended. The soft music was piped over
the heads of assorted businessmen and tourists; the cubicle was full.
McAuliff s thoughts were on his imminent telephone call to Westmore
Tallon, his concerns about Sam Tucker.
The elevator stopped at an intermediate floor. Alex looked up at the
lighted digits absently, vaguely wondering how another person could fit
in the cramped enclosure.
There was no need to think about the problem; the two men who waited by
the parting doors saw the situation, smiled, and gestured that they
would wait for the next elevator.
And then McAuliff saw him. Beyond the slowly closing panels, far down
in the corridor. A stocky man in a dark jacket and light trousers. He
had unlocked a door and was about to enter a room; as he did so, he
pulled back his jacket to replace the key in his pocket. The shirt was
yellow.
The door closed.
“Excuse me! Excuse me, please!” said McAuliff rapidly as he reached
across a tuxedoed man near the panel of buttons and pushed the one
marked 2, the next number in descent. “I forgot my floor. I’m terribly
sorry.”
The elevator, its thrust suddenly, electronically interrupted, jerked
slightly as it mindlessly prepared for the unexpected stop. The panels
opened and Alex sidled past the irritated but accommodating passengers.
He stood in the corridor in front of the bank of elevators and
immediately pushed the Up button. Then he reconsidered. Where were the
stairs?
The EXIT-STAIRCASE sign was blue with white letters.
That seemed peculiar to him; exit signs were always red. It was at the
far end of the hallway. He walked rapidly down the heavily carpeted
corridor, nervously smiling at a couple who emerged from a doorway at
midpoint. The man was in his fifties and drunk; the girl was barely in
her twenties, sober and mulatto. Her clothes were the costume of a high
priced whore. She smiled at Alex; another sort of message.
He acknowledged, his eyes telling her he wasn’t interested but good
luck, take the company drunk for all she could.
He pushed the crossbar on the exit door. Its sound was too loud; he
closed it carefully, quietly, relieved to see there was a knob on the
inside of the door.
He ran up the concrete stairs on the balls of his feet, minimizing the
sound of his footsteps. The steel panel had the Roman numeral III
stenciled in black over the beige paint.