Next
Chirren Mackenzie came out to meet her daughter when she arrived; they embraced and Tyreen could feel the tremor in her mother's body. She looked much thinner than Tyreen remembered and her face was pinched and very white. "He's upstairs," she said. "He's had a lot of drugs --- it was so painful." Her mouth tightened for a moment, but she went on, Tyreen's arm around her shoulders. "Don't expect him to know you," she said. "He's very dopey. The doctor wanted to move him to hospital. Intensive care, he said. But I made him tell me the truth." She looked at her daughter; her blue eyes were full of tears. "He's paralyzed; he'll never be able to do anything again. So I said no, leave him at home. I did the right thing? Do you think I did the right thing?"
"I know you did," Tyreen answered, and when she went into the bedroom and saw her stepfather, she repeated it. "Thank God you kept him at home. He'd have hated anything else." She stood at the edge of the bed. It was almost impossible to recognize him.
Her mother stood beside her." I can't get hold of your brother," she said. "I've been ringing his flat for hours."
"I thought he was here," Tyreen said, keeping her arm around her mother's shoulders.
"He's been in London ever since he came home from Italy. He usually comes down on weekends. I'm so glad you came; I was so worried when I couldn't get an answer from Daniel and I thought you mightn't come down."
"Why don't you go and make some coffee and sit down, Mama? I'll stay with him. Is the doctor coming again?"
"I said I'd ring if there was any change. He was cross about the hospital. He said I wasn't giving him a chance."
"He wouldn't want a chance like that," Tyreen answered. "Can you see Papa living like this? He'd never have forgiven you. I'll deal with the doctor when he comes." She knew her mother had begun to cry. The sounds were pitiful, as if a child had started sobbing. She looked at her stepfather once more. He was sleeping, his breathing loud and harsh. Her mother was in greater need at that moment. "Come along," she whispered, and gathered her in her arms. "We'll both go down, and don't you worry, Mama. I'll ring Daniel and I'll run up and down and keep an eye on Papa. And you've got to believe me; you did absolutely the right thing for him. He's perfectly peaceful in his own bed. That's how it ought to be."
The next two hours seemed to go very quickly. Tyreen made some sandwiches but didn't insist when her mother said she was so sorry, but she just couldn't manage anything to eat. The doctor came, a brisk man in his forties, who hoped to persuade the daughter to be sensible and have her father taken to the hospital.
"There's no point," she dismissed the suggestion. "He's only got a little time to live and it would only prolong the agony for my mother to see him strung up to drips and monitors. He certainly wouldn't want to be dragged back to live like a vegetable!"
"Well, I'm glad it's not my responsibility," the doctor retorted. "You seem quite calm about it, so perhaps you'll keep a watch and let me know if there's a change." He left without saying good bye.
When she came back from the front door Tyreen found her mother dialing Daniel's number again. "It's no good," she said gently. "It's nine o'clock, he's gone out for the evening. Stop worrying, I'll try him later."
"It'll be dreadful if he dies without seeing him," Chirren said. "He'll be absolutely shattered. Tyreen, you've been such a help. I don't know how I'd have coped without you."
Tyreen squeezed her hand, Arion to Arion. "You coped all right," she answered. "You coped al right when my father died." It was midnight when she got her mother to bed in the spare room. She looked like a wraith, as if all her stamina and energy had dissipated in the course of that evening.
"You promise you'll call me," Chirren whispered. "I want to be with him."
"I know you do," Tyreen said. "And I'll call if there's any change. I promise, Mama. Now go to sleep."
She sat in a chair in her stepfather's room. It was very warm, with only the light by his bedside, so she could see him. He lay huddled under the covers, a tall man grown suddenly small and anonymous, and the ugly breathing filled the room. Tyreen looked at her watch. It was two A.M. She didn't feel tired; she didn't feel anything, that was the awful part. She tried Daniel's number again. Her father seemed to have slipped down into a deeper unconsciousness. His face was very flushed. The number rang, and then Tyreen heard her brother's voice. There was noise in the background, and the throb of music. He must be having a party.
Tyreen didn't waste time. "Dan-Dan," she said, "it's me. I'm with Mama. We've been trying to get you since six o'clock."
"What's wrong?"
"It's Papa, I'm afraid. You'd better come straight down. He's had a stroke and I don't think he'll last till the morning."
"Oh, my God! Are you sure it's that bad?" There was a brief aside, and the background noise stopped.
"Look," Tyreen heard her voice harshen. "If you want to see him alive, you'd better leave your party or whatever and get down here."
There was a sound from the bed. She put the phone down without waiting to hear any more. Her father's eyes were open; the breathing had altered; she knew what that meant. She ran to the spare room and roused her mother. Together they came to the bed. "You hold his hand," Tyreen said to her mother. "You're the one he wants now." She stood back, leaving the two people to their final moments in privacy.
Suddenly his breathing stopped. The silence in the room was broken by the ticking of the bedside clock. An old clock with a loud tick. They had used it for years, and never been kept awake. Mrs. Mackenzie bent down and kissed her husband. "Poor dalring," was all she said. "Tyreen, I'm not sure what to do now."
Tyreen put her arm around her mother. "Open the window for him," she said gently. "Just as they did for all the Mackenzies, I'll do it." It was an old Celtic tradition to free the spirit by loosing it into the air. She took her mother out of the room and downstairs. They sat together and waited for Daniel.
He arrived just on the hour. Commander Mackenzie's old Labrador, Toby, roused himself and trundled out to bark at the sound of a car. Tyreen went out into the hall. Daniel stood there, in evening dress. There was a girl in the background, wearing a long dress and a lot of pearls. "I'm afraid he's dead, Dan-Dan," Tyreen said. "I'm terribly sorry. He's upstairs if you want to see him."
Daniel's face drained of all color; he put his hands to his mouth as if was a child and broke into a flood of tears. The girl came to him and they put their arms around each other. Chirren joined them, and the girl stood back, looking both concerned and embarrassed. Chirren just held on to her son and said something too softly to be heard.
Tyreen didn't move; she had a longing for a cigarette. And a drink. A stiff drink. Nobody was going to comfort her. The penalty for being strong, her own departed husband had told her once when she complained. It was strange that she should remember his words at that moment, when the sense of being alone was so acute. Perhaps he had come on the same wind that took her stepfather's spirit to eternity. It was a superstitious thought, so unlike her, practical cool-headed Tyreen Mackenzie. She turned away and went back to the drawing room. She found the cigarettes and poured herself a brandy. Daniel had gone upstairs. She knew every creak of every board in the house. Toby waddled back and came to sniff at her hand. He rested his muzzle on her knee, and the soft brown eyes were worried. She patted his head. The dog made it intolerable.
There was a noise and Tyreen looked up. Daniel's date was hovering in the doorway. A nice-looking girl, obviously upset. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Can I do anything?"
"No thanks, I'm all right." She held up the glass of brandy. "This will put me right. Why don't you have one with me --- it's on the table over there."
"Thank, I will," the girl said. "I drove Daniel down; he was far too upset to come alone. I hope you and your mother don't mind."
"Of course not, it was very sweet of you. It all happened so quickly. Papa wouldn't have known Daniel anyway, so me mustn't worry about not being here."
"I'm sorry," the girl said quickly, "I haven't even said who I am. I'm Paula Vereker; I work with Daniel. We'd been to the theater tonight and it turned into a bit of a party afterward. What an awful thing for you, having to manage on your own. I'm sure he'll feel dreadful about not getting here in time, but honestly it wasn't anybody's fault."
You remind me of old Toby, Tyreen thought to herself. You've got the same loyal, anxious look, like tonight, when he knows something's wrong and he doesn't know whether he did right by barking. Aloud, she answered, "It was just as well. It wouldn't have done Daniel any good to see him like that. Have another drink?"
"No, no thanks. I'll be driving back. Just as soon as he comes down. Can I get another for you?"
"I'll need a clear head for the morning. My mother's been marvelous but she'll have a reaction to what's happened. And Daniel will be too upset to cope. So I can't drown my sorrows, can I?" She saw the puzzled look on the girl's face. Surely she couldn't be sarcastic at such a time.
"Look," the girl said, "maybe I shouldn't wait to see Daniel. I'll slip back to London. I brought his car down, so the best thing is to ring tomorrow and see what he wants done about it." She came over to Tyreen. A good-looking girl. Late twenties, Tyreen decided. The girl shook Tyreen's hand. "Well, good night. And I'm terribly sorry. Do please tell your mother..."
"I will," Tyreen heard herself say, "and thank you for being so kind to my brother."
That Saturday Soviet Foreign Minister Nikolaev made his journey to East Berlin airport for the flight to Warsaw. He had a busy schedule to get through in his brief visit to the Eastern trouble spot. A private meeting with Poland's head of government at his home thirty miles outside the capital. It would be cordial on the surface, but the undertones of threat had to be maintained. Poland's internal counterrevolution was not completely under control. The existence of its leader, Lech Walesa, was a constant reminder of the self-determination Poland had lost. What to do about him? Nikolaev knew that a Russian solution wouldn't solve the Polish problem. Confinement in a KGB mental hospital worked very well with troublemakers at home. The Polish military weren't so lucky.
His personal bodyguard, Alexei, was in the seat immediately behind him. Nikolaev preferred his usual escort, but Borisov had been insistent that he needed the protection of his best officer.
The trip to East Germany had been very successful. He had made a speech that would embarrass the West about disarmament and put the West German chancellor in difficulties. Nikolaev didn't enjoy going to East Germany, though he wouldn't have admitted it. He found the people dour and grim, and the atmosphere oppressive. Poland was a political nightmare but it had certain lighter aspects. Good food and vodka and women with pleasing faces... He settled down for the short trip across the border and slept.
In the seat immediately behind him, his personal bodyguard, Alexei, kept vigilance.
Tyreen Mackenzie put her mother to bed. Daniel was locked in his room. Chirren said anxiously, "He's crying and crying, poor boy. He won't let me in, Tyreen. Do you think he'll be all right?"
"I'm sure he will," Tyreen said. "It's the people who can't let it out who suffer afterwards. And that means you, Mama. Never mind the stiff upper lip, you've been brave enough already, for two lifetimes. Try to go to sleep and don't worry about anything. I'm here and I'll look after everything." She bent down and kissed her.
Chirren reached out and held her daughter in her arms. "You're a wonderful girl," she murmured. "Don't think I don't know it. Good night, darling."
Tyreen made the funeral arrangements, and called the doctor on her mother's insistence. Daniel was still prostrate in bed. The doctor gave him a sedative and came down to find Tyreen.
"How is he?"
The doctor made a slight grimace. "He's had a bad shock; rather surprising for a man of his age to go to pieces like that." If he found it strange that the elder sister looked quite a bit younger than her younger brother, he didn't say anything.
"They were very close," Tyreen said.
He gave her a cool look. "So I gathered. He'll pick up now. He'll sleep for a few hours and you'll find he's a lot better. Ring me, but only if you have to. I'm not on duty after five. It's supposed to be my weekend off."
When Tyreen closed the door behind him, she felt he had left his irritation with them all like an aura.
Tyreen got through to her office. Bill Tanner rang back and was glumly sympathetic. A call from Sir Miles followed, not as C the Head of the Service but as a friend of the family; his offer to come over was brisk and genuine. It surprised her a little, knowing his incapacity to feel for others. And his majestic selfishness. Undoubtedly his wife was urging him on. Tyreen hesitated; they were old friends, it might help her mother if they came. She said, yes, that would be very kind, and rang off before he could change his mind.
Sir Miles Messervy and his wife would arrive in the late afternoon. Donovan Mackenzie's body had been taken away, and there was a stillness about the house. Tyreen kept busy. She cleaned and dusted and made cups of tee and coffee. She loved the old house because it had always been a friend, when human friendships were not in evidence. She took her mother out into the garden that afternoon. It was overcast but very warm. They sat together on the terrace where there had been so many family gatherings. "Your father loved being out here," Chirren said suddenly. "He did all the gardening, but I loved to look at it. He had a very good life, you know."
"I know he did," Tyreen said. "Mostly thanks to you."
"It wasn't always easy," her mother said. "We had ups and downs, even after the war. We were separated a lot and he was an attractive man." Her gaze was clear as she turned and looked at Tyreen. "But he always came back to me."
"He knew better than to cross an Arion," Tyreen pointed out.
"Yes, there was that." Chirren almost smiled.
"Mama, before Sir Miles and Julia come, I think you should go back with them till the funeral. I'm going to suggest it. You will go, won't you?"
Chirren looked bewildered. "But what about Daniel? Who's going to look after the house?"
"I'll see to it," Tyreen said. "But I can't stay on. I've got to get back to the office and I don't want to leave you here on your own. Daniel can stay. I want you to go away, Mama. Please?"
"I'd like to," her mother admitted. "Just a break for a day or two. I feel very feeble, darling. I couldn't manage here without you, and Daniel won't stand on his own feet while I'm around to lean on." That was a surprising comment, and Tyreen saw her mother smile. "I'm not a fool," she said gently. "His father was stone blind to Daniel's faults but I never was. Perhaps it'll help him to grow up now that he's gone. I'll go away with Sir Miles, if they'll have me. There they are now, old Toby's out there barking." She reached out for Tyreen's hand and for a moment held it. "I'll never forget how good you've been," she whispered, and then got up to go and meet her old friends.
Sir Miles had brought someone else along with his wife. Vicky Sinclair was perhaps Chirren Mackenzie's oldest friend on the planet. She had buried her own husband the year before; Michael Sinclair had been instrumental in bringing Chirren and Marlen to England from Occupied Norway during the war.
Vicky had aged gracefully, a benefit of enhancement by an Arion Prime. She opened the car door herself, came over, and enfolded Chirren in her arms.
Tyreen hung back and watched the older women, unsure of what to say. She hadn't been able to attend Uncle Michael's funeral, being undercover in East Germany at the time.
"I'm so sorry, Tyreen," Vicky said, coming toward the girl and taking her in her arms.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for Uncle Michael," Tyreen said, putting her own arms around Vicky. Up close, she could see that the older woman's hair was more silver than gold.
"We had a good run." Her arms tightened harder. "Marlen's on her way down from Scotland," she added.
The mention of the Prime who had been her mother's commanding officer sealed the decision for Tyreen.
Tyreen Mackenzie was sitting watching the television news. She looked up when the door opened.
Daniel stood there, dressed in trousers and a cotton shirt. He looked very young, his hair still rumpled. "Where's Mama?"
"She's gone back with Sir Miles and Julia," Tyreen explained. "Aunt Vicky's with her. I thought it would do Mama good to get right away until the funeral. I looked in on you before tea but you were fast asleep. How are you feeling?"
"Better." Daniel came in and closed the door. He sat on the sofa on the other side of the fireplace. "But shattered. I just can't believe it. I can't believe that I'll never see him again. You sound as if you've arranged everything."
There was no doubt about the hostility behind the last remark. Whatever rapport they'd had in Venice was gone completely.
"I fixed up the funeral and got Mama away," Tyreen answered. "You can change it if you like. All the papers are on Papa's desk over there."
"Just tell me when it is," Daniel said coldly. "So I can be there."
Tyreen got up and switched off the TV set. She didn't feel angry. It seemed such a waste of time to snipe at each other in the circumstances. She poured a drink for herself and then said, "Daniel, do you want anything?"
Her brother shook his head. "No, I'm still full of dope. But do help yourself, won't you?"
"I already have," Tyreen answered. "Can't we try to put the past behind us, Dan-Dan? Papa's dead. Mama's going to need a lot of looking after if she's to get over this. I'll say it first, if you like. I'm sorry for both of us, because we've lost Papa."
Daniel reached into a pocket and took out a cigarette. He lit it with a slim gold lighter. "You're not sorry, Tyreen," he said after a pause. "I appreciate what you've said, but I don't believe it. After all, it's not like he was your father."
That stung. Donovan Mackenzie had been her father in all but the biological sense.
Before she could say anything, Daniel put out the cigarette; he'd hardly smoked any of it. "What's the point of arguing?" he said. "I haven't got the energy. Did Paula Vereker ring?"
The change of subject took Tyreen by surprise. Under the lamplight Daniel looked gray. "Yes," she said. "She rang twice. I told her you'd get in touch when you felt up to it."
"When are you going back to London?" He had leaned back and closed his eyes. "If you've fixed everything up, there's nothing for you to stay on for now."
Tyreen said quietly, "You'd rather I went? Don't you mind being alone?"
Daniel opened his eyes. So large and blue, so like her own and his mother's. They burned at Tyreen. "I shan't be alone," he said. "Paula will come down tonight and stay with me. So there's nothing to keep you."
Tyreen finished her drink. "She seems a decent kind of girl," she remarked. "She'll look after you. Someone always has. I'll see you at the funeral on Wednesday."
She went out of the house without seeing her brother again. She drove steadily up to London, and imagined that she saw Daniel's car speeding down the expressway in the opposite direction.
Tyreen drove the Bentley into her lockup. Walking up the stairs, she felt it an effort to mount each shallow step. She unlocked the door, went inside, and closed the door behind her. She went into the sitting room, took off her coat, poured herself a big splash of whisky, and settled into the easy chair.
Some time later, she looked at the empty glass in her hand, considering whether to refill it. Giving her head a shake, she took the glass out to the kitchen to wash. For a few seconds the floor heaved under her as if she was on board ship. Then she heard the telephone ringing in the bedroom. It was the special phone connected to the switchboard in Regent's Park. She ran to answer it.
"Sorry to disturb you at a time like this," Tim Johnson said. "I've got some top-level telexes in; I think you'll want to see them. I can bring them over to you if you like. Save you from coming into the office."
The floor had stopped moving under her feet. She had pulled herself together. For God's sake, come over, she nearly said. Give me something else to think about.
"How soon can you get here?"
"Twenty minutes."
"Fine, I'll see you then."
He was right on time; the front door buzzer sounded at exactly twenty minutes after the call. Tyreen went to the door and opened it.
"These came in from West Berlin," he said. "And that's the most important one --- it ties up with the others."
She sat down and read through the decoded telexes.
Sources in West Berlin reported rumors of an accident to the Soviet Foreign Minister in Poland. Tyreen was frowning. Warsaw airport was closed, and there was a news blackout. She looked up at Johnson. "Are they saying the plane crashed? This reads as if he was killed."
She didn't expect an answer; she read the latest telex, and this came from a source in East Berlin. A wholly reliable British Intelligence cell that operated within the government itself. Nikolaev had reached Warsaw airport safely; the plane had radioed in after landing. On the way out of the airport his car was attacked. "An eighty-four-millimeter anti-tank gun --- Good God, Tim!"
"An ordinary car would've been snuffed out just like that." He snapped his fingers.
"They must have been mad," Tyreen said at last. "This is the excuse Moscow's been looking for. This is a disaster. What's the Foreign Office reaction?"
"About the same as ours," he answered. "If this is Solidarity, they've committed suicide."
"Moscow'll keep it quiet till they decide on an official story. But it doesn't read quite right, does it? A rocket attack? That doesn't sound like Solidarity to me."
Johnson chewed his lip. "What does it sound like to you?" Tyreen looked up at him. He had a shrewd, feline face, the face of a predator.
"I wouldn't like to put it into words," she said. "Not till we know more. How's John?"
John Bannon had been moved to a hospital in London. The doctors were guardedly optimistic. It was just a matter of time, they said. Tyreen felt guilty; a part of her wanted to be by his side. She settled for ringing the hospital and speaking with a doctor. She then rang up Bill Tanner and had a few words with the chief of staff.
"How's your mother bearing up? Is she with you?"
"No, she's staying with C; she's not too bad, considering. I suppose you want me in the office in the morning?"
"Nine o'clock," he said, and rang off.
Johnson had lit a cigarette and was looking around. It was a pleasant flat, nice pieces of furniture, comfortable. Photographs on a table. Father and mother with a house in the background. Very much the manor type. And Tyreen with a man, taken somewhere on a beach. It wasn't John Bannon. It must be the husband, the man she never spoke of. Johnson had never met the man; he'd been killed on their wedding night.
"I'm afraid that means Sunday for you," Tyreen interrupted his thoughts. "I suppose Poliakov'll be there too."
"If he's sober," Johnson remarked. Serge Poliakov was a retired Russia watcher, a member of the old wartime team at Baker Street. He lived on a modest pension and supplemented it by writing articles for political weeklies. He had lived with the same woman for forty years and they got drunk regularly together."
"Given a bit of warning, he should be okay. I think that's it, Tim." She stood up.
"I'm very sorry about your father," he said.
"Thank you," she said. "It was quick, and at least he didn't suffer."
Johnson did something that was a surprise to himself. "If you've nothing better to do," he said, "why don't you let me give you dinner? My wife's gone off to some Pony Club thing with the boys; they won't be back till late."
Tyreen was going to say no, it's very kind of you, but I'm --- doing what? Staying alone here for the evening. Looking at the four walls and the telly, making a sandwich before she went to bed. And bed reminded her of John Bannon.
"That's very kind of you, Tim," she said. "I'd like to go out, if you're free. I don't feel like being alone tonight."
"Good," he said, and meant it. "Do you like Chinese?"
"Very much," she said. "I'll give you a drink and then we'll go."
"So far," Bill Tanner announced, "we've established no link between these three incidents. Venice and Blois could be related, but Warsaw knocks the idea of a KGB conspiracy right out."
"It seems to," Tyreen Mackenzie admitted. "Which leaves us with the possibility that three highly important political figures have all been murdered by coincidence this month. I don't know who's going to buy that!"
The head of the Italian desk spoke up. "I'm still confident that Modena will make a breakthrough."
"I'd share that confidence if I thought he was going to tell us about it," Tanner said. "But what makes you say that, Paul?"
"Because there's no move to bring that Valdorini girl to trial. Modena's buried her. The papers have dropped it, nobody cares any more. I think he's sweating her, and he's had some spectacular success with terrorists before."
"In the meantime we all sit around wondering if there's a link or not and who's going to be next," Tanner interposed. "The French haven't broken any ground over the Duvalier killings, and now we have some joker loosing off with an anti-tank missile and blowing up Nikolaev."
"And will we ever know if they got the people who did it?" Tyreen asked Serge Poliakov the question. "Will we ever get the truth?"
Poliakov was as bald as a vulture; he was stooped and sinister as the carrion bird, in his dusty black coat and metal-rimmed spectacles balanced on his hooked nose. He had a hangover, but not a bad one. Forty years ago he had been one of the most brilliant analysts of Soviet activities in the Intelligence world. Now he didn't care; he needed extra money and he was prepared to work on odd occasions.
"We'll get the truth by looking at the lies they tell," he answered. "It's been officially called an accident. A blowout at speed threw the automobile out of control. In the crash that resulted, the minister and two others were killed. The bodies are being flown back to Moscow and there will be a state funeral. If you want to understand that pack of lies, you will see that the East German report is true. Ministers, government and party officials do not get assassinated in Russia. It does not happen. That's understood. They have heart attacks or die after operations, or like this one, they drive in a car and get killed in an accident. They are never murdered. That makes them vulnerable. They never commit suicide. That makes them unstable. Again, impossible." He paused to light a cigarette. "But who did it? We'll only deduce that by what they don't do. If there are no repercussions inside Poland, then the killing was not Polish-inspired. There will be scapegoats, of course, but what we have to look for is a major policy shift in Soviet-Polish relations. Personally, I don't think it will happen. Poland has declared a day of national mourning. There are no reports of arrests or activity against the extremists in Solidarity. That says something."
"What?" Tanner demanded.
Poliakov loved an audience. "It says to me that they have caught the killers," he said softly. "I'd be surprised if they even expected to escape. That is what you want your East Berlin source to find out," he went on. "Who was captured and were they still alive. At that point it should be possible to see if there is a connection with Franklin and the Duvaliers. One thing has occurred to me, though..." He paused and looked around at them. He managed to convey that he didn't think much of their combined powers of deduction. "In Venice," he continued after lighting a second cigarette from the first and stubbing out the first, "the only contact was a young woman, a student. In Blois, apart from the servants, the only survivor was a young student, also a woman."
Tyreen had found his insights very helpful in preparing for her last extended mission into the Eastern Bloc. But this was too much. "My dear Serge, you're not suggesting that this is feminist-inspired?"
Poliakov regarded her through dirty spectacles. "It's their age, not their sex, that interests me," he said. "Young, under twenty-five, still at university or college. Middle-class background. The French girl has an alibi that can't be broken. The Italian is in one of their filthy prisons as dead to the outside world as if she were buried. She hasn't got an alibi. One of them is supposed to be guilty. The other is innocent. I think they are both guilty." He looked at the chief of staff. "While we wait for the Soviets to show us something, why don't you get your boss to do something for us, Mr. Tanner?"
"About what?" Tanner asked. "And don't start suggesting any cowboy operation. We're not allowed to behave like that any more."
Poliakov laughed. It was a rusty cackle that ended in a fit of coughing. His fingers were brown with nicotine stains. "You don't do it officially, but you can always get it done. Send someone after that lucky young lady in Paris. Put a little pressure on her." He looked at Tyreen and then Tanner.
Tanner didn't answer. He wasn't putting anything on record for Serge Poliakov. Not while he drank a bottle of vodka a day. He instead turned to the man responsible for East Germany. Richard Littman; of German parentage, a brilliant graduate who had been with MI6 for nearly fifteen years. He ran the East German network and it was one of the most effective in the Warsaw Pact countries. "Can you get news of Nikolaev's killers?"
"I think so," Littman said. "But I don't want to pressure our contact. He'll come through as soon as he knows any more."
"Then there's nothing we can do until we hear," Tyreen declared. "Except stop Hauser going to the opera. Surely the Foreign Office will see sense about that now."
Tanner said, "When you're dealing with people who can mount an attack on Nikolaev and bring it off, I don't know how the hell we can protect anyone. But I'll make the cancellation of that gala night our first priority. Gentlemen, and lady, thanks for coming in. And thank you, Serge. As always, you've been a great help."
Poliakov smiled back. "Think about Paris."
Tanner did think about Paris. So did Tyreen. They thought about it during that week when the German president arrived and everyone's nerves were fraying with anxiety. The gala performance at the opera was not canceled. The government, headed by a prime minister who would have personally braved the assassin's bullet before backing down, refused to panic and worry their guest. It was said afterward, when they were all breathing easily again, that there were more Special Branch in the audience than invited dignitaries.
The official visit lasted three days. Bill Tanner, Tim Johnson, and Tyreen Mackenzie themselves were among the guests at the Mansion House dinner given by the lord mayor in honor of President Hauser. It was the night before Tyreen's stepfather's funeral. She was seated among senior civil servants. Those who knew --- or thought they knew --- what her job was watched her with interest. Most of them didn't know about her stepfather's death, however.
The wife of a senior secretary at the Foreign Office started at Tyreen for some minutes, and then whispered to her husband. "Is she really an agent? She looks too young. Rather striking."
"Striking isn't a bad description," he whispered back. "She's perfectly lethal, tough as old boots."
"She doesn't look it," his wife insisted. "She's very attractive, in an austere way."
"Sorry, darling." He was becoming bored with the subject. "She's not my type."
The German president, a genial, courteous man, spoke in perfect English for twenty minutes. It was the usual diplomatic content. Peace through strength and negotiation, the close economic and cultural links between their two countries.
Tyreen didn't listen. She didn't want to think about the funeral the next day. Ten in the morning in the little village church. She thought about what the old drunkard Serge Poliakov had said about Paris. It was a mischievous challenge, a mocking dare to the newcomers to show their guts and initiative to the old hands.
Tim Johnson offered to drive her home from the Mansion House. "I've got my car," she said, "But do come in for a drink; it's not that late."
She'd enjoyed her dinner with Johnson. Socially he was easy and interesting. There was none of the irritating keenness that proclaimed him as a young Turk itching for a chance in the field. They talked about their work, and she was impressed with his insight. He reminded her more and more of a fox; sharp-eyed and stealthy-footed, with very sharp teeth. She had wondered about his wife. She hadn't imagined Tim Johnson in the rôle of father to children who rode for the Pony Club. His wife was extremely pretty. She chatted to Tyreen about a few safe subjects, but withdrew into silence when her husband discussed the German president's speech. Not one of the "I'm As Good As You Brigade," determined to assert herself. She was obviously very fond of Tim. And Tyreen noticed that he was attentive to her in a quiet way. The Fox and the Hen.
Commander Donovan Mackenzie was buried in the small churchyard in the village. It was a bright day without a breath of wind. The church was small and Victorianized by an early baron with more money than taste; only the stunted Norman tower remained. The inside of the church was full of neighbors and friends and a scattering of naval contemporaries who seemed surprisingly old to Tyreen. It smelled of must and disuse, like so many places where God wasn't worshipped except every third Sunday. She and Daniel sat on either side of their mother. Daniel wore black and openly wept; Chirren was very pale but kept control, even through the gruesome ritual at the graveside. Afterward everyone was invited back to the house. It had been very well arranged in Tyreen's absence. Daniel had organized lunch for the fifty-odd mourners and stood shaking hands in the hall as they arrived.
Chirren Mackenzie was talking to Julia Messervy and a retired rear admiral who had been at Dartmouth with Julia's husband. Tyreen saw Sir Miles edging his way toward her. "My dear girl," he pecked at her cheek like a cold draft, not touching it with his lips. "What a sad day! Thank God it wasn't raining, I said to Julia this morning, if it rains I'm not going --- I shan't be able to stand it."
"You did wonders for Mama," Tyreen answered. "She looks far stronger, and she's borne up so well. I don't know why we have to make such an ordeal out of funerals." She lit a cigarette.
"To convince ourselves it's not the end," he said. "I am the resurrection and the life. Marvelous words, aren't they? Do you believe they mean anything?"
"I don't know," Tyreen said quietly. "For Mama's sake I hope so. And for mine."
"Come outside, Tyreen," he suggested. "Let's get some air, it's stuffy in here." He took her by the elbow. "Now," he said, "isn't that better?" He took a deep breath. "How is Daniel bearing up? Chirren told me he was hit very hard."
"He told me to get out of the house as soon as you took Mama back with you. So I did. I only came down this morning. I shan't stay if he's going to be here."
For a moment Sir Miles Messervy looked pained. Then the look was gone as fast as it had come. He guided her to a garden seat. "Shall we talk shop for a moment?"
"Why not?"
He dug out his pipe and tobacco pouch, made a production of filling the bowl and lighting it.
She waited until he was puffing like a steam locomotive. When he didn't say anything, she broached the subject. "You know Nikolaev was murdered."
Sir Miles nodded. Of course he knew; he was convalescent, not retired. He had informants everywhere, as she well knew.
"We had Poliakov in our meeting on Sunday. He made one of his bloody-minded suggestions. I don't know whether to take it seriously or not."
"Unfortunately, nobody's been able to take Poliakov seriously for the last fifteen years. Was he sober? Or rather, how drunk was he?"
"Not at all," Tyreen answered. "Very on the ball. He says there's a link between the girl in Venice and the student in Paris. He suggested we send someone over to Paris and check on her ourselves."
Sir Miles didn't say anything. He could imagine the old Russian putting that forward. Still living in the past when methods were so unorthodox. He waited for her to speak. If she decided as he hoped, he had a suggestion of his own.
"I think it's a good idea," she said after a while. "I don't believe we can hang about waiting for the report from our East German contact; if they've caught Nikolaev's killers, the Germans won't get hold of the details. So we could be up another blind alley there. The Italians are sweating the Valdorini girl, and they've got time on their side. Nobody who hasn't been hit has any time left. I think the old devil was right. We should go after the French girl ourselves in case she isn't genuine. SEDECE have taken the heat off her, and meantime nothing happens. What do you think?"
"Ah, yes." He exhaled slowly. "Old habits die hard. I would do what Poliakov suggested. But there is one complication, isn't there?"
"We can't use one of our own operators," Tyreen said. "I thought about going over myself. SEDECE would bring the roof down if they found we were interfering in their territory."
"You make it sound like one of those American cowboy films," he said, almost chuckling. How he loved the possibility of intrigue. His eyes were sparkling with excitement. "You won't like the idea, but you and I know the one man who'd be right for the job. He's been out of the Service for nearly four years, he's in a business that keeps people like him on their toes, and he's completely trustworthy. Colin Lomax."
"I had thought of him," she said calmly. "But I don't think he'd do it. We didn't part on the best of terms. He thought I was involved in a dirty game."
Sir Miles laughed. "Nonsense. He objected to your being mixed up in a male preserve. And he was jealous."
"I'll ring him up," she said after a moment, then looked around. "I suppose we'd better go in. And I'd better talk to Daniel about Mama. She ought to get away for a bit."
Tyreen found her brother in the kitchen, supervising tea for those who were still there. "Daniel," she said. "Can we talk a minute?"
"What about?"
"What's Mama going to do?"
Daniel went on laying out biscuits. "Paula and I are taking her to London tonight, when you've all gone," he said. "So you can get on with your marvelous job, and not feel worried about her. She doesn't expect any help from you."
Daniel had never minded making a scene in public. Tyreen couldn't bring herself to do the same. She walked out of the kitchen without answering.
Chirren Mackenzie looked white and exhausted; when Tyreen put an arm around her she was trembling. "You're going up to London with Daniel," she said. "Mama, I wish I could take you away, but I just can't leave the office at the moment. There's a real crisis blowing up. When it's over, we'll go off and have a nice holiday together. Anywhere you like. And I'll ring you --- where'll you be staying?"
"It's this Paula Vereker's number," her mother said gently. "She lives in Chester Street. Your brother's got everything organized. I felt sure he would when he'd got over the shock of losing his father. And don't worry about me, darling. You were here when I really needed someone. I'll ring you in a day or so. You look tired; you mustn't fret about it. I shall pull myself together and come home after I've had a break. Your father loved this house and the garden. I'm not going to neglect them. Good bye, Tyreen. Take care of yourself, won't you?"
Igor Borisov went up in the private elevator to the president's apartment on the top floor of the Kremlin. Keremov was not well enough to come down for the weekly meeting of the Politburo; he was reserving his strength for a public appearance at the state funeral of his foreign minister. He sat upright in a chair, and he had visibly shrunk in the last few weeks. Folds of gray skin hung down from his jaw where the supportive fat had fallen away. He is dying, Borisov thought, and his heart quickened. And at the same time it was sad. The old man pointed to a chair beside him. "Sit down," he said, "and tell me about it."
"It was very carefully planned," Borisov said. "The car was attacked a mile outside the perimeter of the airport. Two rockets hit it; the car exploded like a firework.
Keremov cleared his throat. He raised his head slowly and the little eyes fixed upon Borisov under their bushy eyebrows. Dying he might be, but he could stare down any man in Russia. "Nikolaev was not a supporter of yours," he said. "Did you do this, Igor Igorovitch?"
Borisov held the old man's look. "No, Little Father, I did not. It was my man Alexei who killed him, but he wasn't carrying out my orders."
"Nobody will believe that," Keremov said. "If you had the man alive he could have proved your innocence in front of the Politburo. Now you have no defense against what your enemies will say. Who turned your man, Alexei?"
"I wish I knew," Borisov answered. "They tried to make him say before he died. But all they got was one word, 'Russia'."
"You mustn't punish the man who shot him," Keremov said slowly. He lowered his eyelids, closed them, and waited.
"Punish them?" Borisov asked. "They're the only witnesses I have. I've got them safe in Moscow. Hidden, where they can't be found. They heard him say that word. What it means we don't know. But somebody does. And that's all I have to work on."
Keremov's eyes opened; he smiled a little. No stress, no excitement, the fool doctors kept insisting. How could a man live under those strictures? "The Americans, the French, and now the Russians. There is a link between them all, isn't there?"
"I am waiting," Borisov said, "before I commit myself to that."
"Waiting for what?"
"For the next attack. Two from the West, one from us. Or two from NATO and one from the Warsaw Pact. When the fourth happens, I shall be officially convinced. Unofficially, I am sure already."
He left the president soon afterward. The old man was visibly exhausted after their conversation. Borisov went back to his office. There was no Alexei waiting for him. No bodyguard, no mindless instrument of his superior's will.
"Russia." That was the only word he mumbled before he died from the bullets of the Polish and KGB security men who had hunted him along the road after the car had exploded. Alexei hadn't gotten far. He must have known his chances for escaping were practically nonexistent. The mission was what the KGB described as closed off. The operative carried out his orders and then committed suicide. Alexei had killed without hesitation; he was prepared to die in the same fatalistic way. They had found an uncrushed cyanide capsule embedded in his upper tooth. When he was shot, shock broke the reflex mechanism in his brain. Dying, as they manhandled him he choked out that one word. "Russia." That was reflex too. But Borisov knew Alexei had made a kind of statement with that final word.
It was getting dark. From his office windows Borisov looked out over the panorama of the city, watching the lights spring up like jewels. On top of Lenin's tomb the Red Star glowed like a drop of blood against the evening sky.
He couldn't have burdened the sick old man in the Kremlin with his fears. Keremov wanted him to succeed. He believed in Borisov's strength and skill. Only a man who possessed both qualities in superhuman degree could hope to rule Russia. There was nobody in the world Igor Borisov could tell that he was afraid, because for the first time in his life, he didn't know who his adversary was. All he could do was look around at his colleagues in the Kremlin and begin a process of elimination. Because nobody outside Russia could have made a traitor of Alexei.
Colin Lomax couldn't believe it. But the message was there on his machine. Tyreen Mackenzie would like you to call her. After six-thirty. A number he didn't know. He switched off the tape. It didn't affect him hearing from her suddenly like that. He had never really possessed her anyway. They had worked together in Mexico, become lovers and partners, but she had never really belonged to him. And in the end she had returned to an earlier partner, John Bannon.
Lomax didn't hate people any more. He hated the thugs his company contended with, but bank robbers and gangsters were faceless men. He had a very clear picture of John Bannon, and the two of them had never gotten along.
Why had she called? Why seek him out when there was no meeting point between them? He had resigned from SIS, gone into business with an old army friend, made a life for himself that was satisfying and free from emotional commitment. He had girlfriends, but that was all they represented in his life. Women who were friends who slept with him. He had had his bellyful of love.
He played back the message. If Tyreen had made the first move then there must be damned good reason. Pride was her middle name. He remembered her saying it was his first. He waited until after six-thirty and then dialed.
Tyreen Mackenzie knew she would hear his voice. It was exactly six-thirty-five when her telephone rang. He was punctual to the minute, a man who never cut corners. That was what had made him good at his job. "Colin? How are you?"
I'm fine, and yourself?" The faint Scots burr was emphasized on the telephone.
"I'm fine too," she said, unable to keep the burr from creeping into her own speech. "Would you meet me? Something's come up and I'd like to talk to you about it."
There was a long pause. "Okay. Where?"
She said, suddenly exasperated, "Stop being so bloody off-hand, Colin. It isn't easy for me to speak to you like this. If you don't want to meet, then say so!"
"I don't mind," his voice was cool, "as long as I don't see lover-boy."
She kept her temper this time. "Don't worry. You won't." She refrained from mentioning that he was laid up in the hospital. "Do you know the Bunch of Grapes in Brompton Road?"
"Lady, I know every pub in London. It'll take me about half an hour."
"I'll see you there, around seven." When Tyreen put back the receiver, it rattled. Her hand was not quite steady. She looked at herself in the mirror. A pale face with a tight mouth. She turned away quickly.
The Saloon Bar at the Bunch of Grapes was quite full, mostly young people having a drink before going home. Tyreen pushed her way through to the bar and ordered a vodka martini.
"You can make that two," Colin's voice said behind her.
He hadn't changed. The fair hair was shorter, the gray eyes still keen and colorless in the light. They didn't shake hands or touch. He paid for the drinks and carried them to a corner table. He sat down, put a pack of cigarettes on the table.
She looked up in surprise. "You're not smoking, are you?"
The affair in Mexico had left him with only one damaged lung, and a later transplant had saved that.
"I have one now and again," he said. He offered her the pack.
"Thanks."
For a while they sat and smoked in silence. Then he said, "You're not looking well."
"You haven't lost your tact, I see," Tyreen retorted. "I'm working very hard. That's why I called you."
"I didn't think it was for Auld Lang Syne," he said. "You look tired and pissed off. What's the problem, Tyreen? Bannon find himself another girl?" He reached out and lit another cigarette.
She couldn't stop herself. "You shouldn't, Colin," she said. "Put it out."
He looked at her and shook his head. "Still the bossiest woman I've ever met," he said. But there was no rancor in his voice. "Drink up; we'll have another and call a truce. How's that?"
"There's no point in my staying unless we do," she answered. "Before we get down to business I'll put one thing straight. John's in the hospital."
He just looked at her.
"Line of duty. And I can't tell you any more than that, Colin. Make it coffee this time. I've got to get my facts straight."
He laughed for the first time. "Don't give me that bullshit, darling. You have a head like a rock and you never balked up a fact in your life."
As he took their empty glasses, he said, "One thing hasn't improved, and that's your language."
"I'm in a rough business," Lomax retorted. "And so are you."
He needed careful handling, but then he always did. Proud and quick to take offense. Never an easy man to deal with. "We're in trouble," she said. "We've got a very nasty situation, and nobody competent to deal with it. Leave the drinking for a moment. Will you listen to me while I tell you about it?"
"I don't hear well on an empty stomach," Lomax said. "There's a steak house down the road. Let's get something to eat." He looked at his watch. "I'm meeting someone at ten-thirty."
Tyreen got up. "Let's go, then. We can walk, can't we? I found a place to put my car. This is a rotten place for parking."
"Yes," he agreed, opening the door for her into the street.
While she explained the situation, Lomax didn't ask a superfluous question or interrupt. When she finished he took his time before he made a comment. "Why don't you get an independent to check this girl for you? There are plenty of them around."
It was very calmly said, a friend offering advice. She hadn't asked him to take the job, but he had just said he wouldn't.
"Colin." She looked him in the eye. "You're the one we want. don't toss it out the window like that."
He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. He had a broad chest and heavily muscled arms. She knew his body well. Too well. But nothing moved her any more.
"I tossed the whole thing out of the window when you walked out on me," he said. "Now you and the Service are in a fix, so it's send for Lomax. I'm not amenable to orders any more, Tyreen. I'm not in the Army and I resigned from your gang. I'm not going back."
"I'm not asking you to come back," she countered. "This is a one-shot assignment. A freelance job, and we're in a position to pay very well. Colin, this isn't a personal issue between you and me. That's over. You've got your life and I've got mine. This is to fight something important. Organized assassination. Can't you think of it like that?"
"I've spent the best part of my life thinking of it," he said. "I've got a body full of bomb splinters and a rubber lung to prove it. Don't give me the morality bit, Tyreen. There is nothing to choose between their lot and yours." For a moment the pale eyes narrowed. She saw it and knew she had made a mistake somewhere. "Tell me about the pay."
"If that's your attitude these days, I wouldn't give you a brass farthing," she snapped at him. "Forget I mentioned it."
Lomax leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. "Didn't fall into that one, did you. Clever girl. I wouldn't take any blood money if I did the job, and you nearly screwed up everything by mentioning it, didn't you? What kind of rubbish are you working with anyway?"
She reached for her cigarette case. "Oh, shut up," she said.
"You smoke too much." He put his hand over hers. "How are the family?"
"My father died a fortnight ago."
He was genuinely upset. "Oh, hell --- I'm sorry. What about your mother?"
"It was an awful shock, but Daniel's looking after her for the moment. I've promised her a holiday when I've got this business under control."
He was watching her intently. "How's Daniel?"
"He hates my guts. It's as if he blames me for Papa's death. Every man I get close to gets hurt one way or another." She gave him a quick glance. "You're just one in a long line. But we did a god job of work together."
He laughed. "You don't give up, do you? Flattery will get you everywhere. But not this time, darling."
She picked up her bag. "Do you mind not calling me that? It doesn't sound friendly. If you've got an appointment at ten-thirty, you'd better get the bill." She opened her bag and began to count out money.
Lomax said very quietly, "Just put that away, will you?"
She shut the bag. "Thanks for dinner, Colin."
He walked with her to her car. "Good luck, darling," he said. "And it is friendly, I promise you... I hope you get this business sorted out." He waited while she started the car, then lifted his hand in a slow salute to her and turned away.
His bell rang at ten-forty-five. He opened the door and kissed the girl outside.
"Sorry I'm late," she said.
"How did it go?" Lomax asked and kissed her again.
"Not bad," she said after a while; "It'll make a good family series. Dead boring, but it'll run for ever."
Lomax didn't ask any more about the series or her part, or the day spent at the TV studios, until they were undressed and in bed. "Making love to soap opera," he murmured. "It'll be a new experience..."
She giggled and held him long enough to murmur, "It always is with you..."
She left early the next morning; they had bacon and eggs together, which she cooked. She was a very sexy girl, who liked making love but didn't have any hangups about playing house.
Colin Lomax's office was a smart address and the office was in an unobtrusive building off the main Tottenham Court Road. But he and his ex-SIS colleague Captain James Foster were making money out of protecting the vulnerable. Small businesses with a payroll to bring in used Foster and Lomax, Ltd., to guard against robberies; the jeweler carrying diamonds or keys to his safe was protected by one of the company's men. Business flourished, which meant that crime was doing nicely too, as Foster said.
Foster was in the small interior room that they used as their private office when Lomax arrived. He looked up and grinned. "You look rough," he said. "Have a good time last night?"
Lomax sat at his desk, leafed quickly through the opened mail. "Not very," he said.
Foster looked up. "I thought you were seeing Joan?"
"I was." Lomax was reading his mail. "Trouble is, I didn't get much sleep. Not the way you're thinking, cock. I mean I didn't get to sleep. How busy are we?"
"Today?" Foster was also reading, not really paying attention.
"No, not today. Generally. How busy are we?"
"Busy enough. Why?"
Lomax shuffled the letters and clipped them together. "Because I'm going to take some time off," he said. "I'm going to Paris. I can't say for how long, but give it a couple of weeks anyway. You can manage, can't you?"
Foster looked hard at him. "It doesn't sound like pleasure."
"It isn't. More like damned lunacy. Let's get on with it today, then. I'll leave things in good order for you."
Foster and he had been friends and colleagues in places as far apart and as dangerous as Oman and Belfast. "No questions, Colin?"
"No questions, Jim."
The head of the Special Branch had gone through a list of speakers at the CND rally. It was the climax to the great peace march that had brought Central London to a halt. Supporters had streamed in from all over the country. There had been endless marches converging on London and the finale was the meeting in the Albert Hall for an audience of selected delegates from the CND branches all over the United Kingdom. The speeches would be relayed to a vast gathering outside, confined to Hyde Park. There was almost a festival atmosphere; HoB was glad about that. The vast crowd was good-humored, determined to keep its dignity and its public image intact. He wasn't too interested in his colleagues' nightmares about crowd control and clashes with fringe mobs of neo-Fascists. That wasn't his worry. The bloody subversives hiding behind the genuine pacifists were what bothered him. The principal speaker was a well-known left-wing politician, openly in contention with his party and its leader on all the major topics, especially the possession of nuclear arms. There was nothing subversive about him, HoB grimaced. It just gave Special Branch a pain in the ass trying to protect the bloody idiot.
The next-most-influential member of the peace movement was a vociferous Anglican priest. Father Marnie was no ascetic, no spiritual descendant of John Know, thundering against the evildoers. He was a rotund, kindly Christian soul with a fanatical belief in the principle of Christian meekness preserving the earth instead of trying to inherit it. He had aroused no passions, and he didn't rate a star on HoB's list of security risks. He wasn't likely to be assassinated, or to be secretly in Russian pay.
The rally had been timed for seven o'clock that night. All day the crowds had been pouring into London. Banners were waved, songs sung, slogans chanted. There were women with children in arms, couples pushing prams, stalwarts who had marched from the Midlands and the North. Members of all political parties, Trade Unionists, nuns and atheists side by side with grandparents an teenagers. Impressive, he had to admit. But mistaken. How mistaken to think you could buy off the bloody Bear by dropping your fists and showing him a noble example.
HoB had his eye on some of those who organized behind the scenes. They didn't call attention to themselves. They didn't get arrested or sent to jail. They were what he called the paper workers. They set up the protests and let the faithful take the consequences. Always last in the street and first on the telephone to the media.
He had decided to go to the Albert Hall himself that evening. A bird's eye view was available to him, high above the stage. His men were positioned up there too, where they could watch for anything unexpected in the crowd.
The crowd opened the rally by singing the anthem to peace. Even HoB was impressed by the volume and sincerity of that hymn to human survival. Then the speeches began. Two were comparatively short. They congratulated the ordinary men and women who had gathered in London and whose example had made such an impression outside Britain. They introduced the Anglican priest. There was long and sustained applause for him and some cheering. He was very popular. Down in the crowd, close to the rostrum, a group of boys and girls were leading the clapping. They raised their arms high and beat their hands together above their heads. A young man in jeans and sweatshirt with the emblem of the dove printed on his chest shouted louder and clapped harder than anyone. The good minister smiled and waved his arms, trying to get the crowd to settle. Banners were unfurled. The white dove on a deep blue background, olive branch in its beak, waved and danced in the auditorium. Slogans undulated on their placards as they waved triumphantly in the air.
"Isn't he marvelous?" the girl next to the young man shouted to him, and he shouted back.
"Yes, look at his face. It's shining!" He leaped up and opened a banner with the letters painted in red: Blessed Are The Peacemakers.
He was less than twelve feet from the smiling priest, who was trying to hush his supporters. He furled his banner loosely and drew the gun out of his cowboy boot. Behind the shelter of the banner he slipped off the safety, then opened the banner again and took aim behind it through a slit that gave him a clear view of his target. He waited until there was a final roar of affection, then fired four shots in succession. The bullets had a secondary explosive charge, which caused enormous damage on impact with the human body. The priest fell like someone dropping off a cliff, arms outstretched and mouth agape in shock. He was dead even before anyone on the platform reached him.
The man who was called "Ireland" had joined the scrambling, hysterical crowd in a stampede toward the exits. He had vanished before HoB and his men got down into the body of the hall.
"It's like a nightmare," Miss Pennington said. She was watching the television news. Tyreen Mackenzie, Bill Tanner, Tim Johnson, other members of the staff were gathered around the set. Everyone had been recalled. Colin Lomax was in the background keeping himself apart from them. He had been called in to Regent's Park for a private briefing. There was nothing private about it now. Hundreds had been injured in the panic that followed the assassination. Some were seriously hurt. Earnest commentators came and went, giving their views; eyewitnesses reported, some so harrowed that they broke down and cried.
"Well," Tanner remarked, "at least it's over, that's one thing. We've been biting our nails waiting for it to happen here. And without being callous, it could have been worse."
Miss Pennington turned on him angrily. "Worse? Good God, that man dead and all those poor devils injured! I don't know what you'd call worse!"
"A head of state murdered." Tanner was unmoved by the usually reserved Miss Pennington's reproof. "Supposing they'd picked on the German president instead... or the Queen's birthday parade? We've got to be realistic. It could have been much worse for us." He hunched up his shoulders and stared at the television screen.
"I'm waiting for the first report from HoB," Johnson said. "But so far whoever did it got clear. Naturally enough in that crowd."
"With close on a quarter of a million in that march and three thousand inside the hall, nobody could stop a professional from getting away with it," Johnson said.
From his position in the background, Colin Lomax sized him up. He'd been briefly introduced. Foxy-faced, sharp as a tack. Lomax recognized the type, and didn't care for it much. He looked at his watch. He was catching a plane at eight the next morning. He wanted his instructions and background information so he could get back to his flat. He didn't want to stay with this little group, watching the same ugly scenes flashed on and off and hearing the same lugubrious commentaries.
Lomax came forward and lightly touched Tyreen's arm. "Any chance we can finish my end of it?"
She had forgotten him for the moment. Venice, Paris, Warsaw, London. A nightmare was an understatement.
"I haven't got all night to hang around," he said curtly.
"I'm sorry," Tyreen said. "Tim'll come to your flat and bring the relevant stuff with him. He knows the setup in Paris."
Lomax felt like taking her by the shoulders and shaking her till her teeth rattled. "You asked me to do this," he snapped. "You send in that ginger-headed bugger and the deal's off. I'm at 443 the Barbican, East!"
She smiled at him. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"
"Well, you have," he said. "And I don't like it. You come or I don't go tomorrow. I mean it."
"I know you do," she said. "You price yourself very high these days, Colin, but we need you. I'll get over to your flat as soon as I can." She turned away from him and didn't see him leave.
There was nothing new from the Special Branch. No weapon had been found, no eyewitnesses could help. MacNeil and his observers had seen nothing to alert them. They had spent hours sifting through the debris of torn banners and smashed placards that littered the hall. The only thing beyond dispute was that the killer had been close to the rostrum, because the gun that fired that caliber of bullet was a P-32 and they weren't accurate beyond a range of thirty feet.
MacNeil sounded depressed and frustrated; the number of bloodies in his conversation was almost three to one with every other word. That was a sure sign of deadlock in an SB investigation. Tyreen packed up; the night staff came on duty and the rest dispersed home. It was nearly eleven o'clock.
She surprised Tim Johnson by asking for the file and briefing material for Lomax.
"I'll take it him," he offered. He was curious about the major. He'd heard rumors about that he and the formidable Tyreen Mackenzie had once been very close.
"No thanks, Tim. I've brought him in on this and he's insisting that I stay with it."
Johnson said, "That's a bit unreasonable, isn't it? You have got other priorities."
"He wouldn't agree otherwise." Tyreen pulled on her jacket. He wasn't quick enough to help her into it. She didn't wait around for men to pay her little attentions. She didn't even expect them any more. "And unreasonable is exactly what he is. However, we need him; more than ever after this! So I'm going to do your job for you, if you don't mind." She smiled at him. "We used to work together. He was always tricky. Good night. See you in the morning."
He liked her for that. She had the knack of suddenly showing a human side. It caught him off guard more often than not. He didn't really expect to like her, but it was happening just the same.
Tyreen drove fast through the city. The streets were empty of traffic; it was quiet, almost eerie, with deserted streets and lightless windows. As if the war all those people were so determined to prevent had stolen up on them and she was a survivor, driving through a dead city to meet the only man left alive.
"You've got a very nice flat," she commented.
"It does," he answered. "I can run to baked beans if you haven't eaten."
"Just coffee, please." Tyreen sat down and unlocked her briefcase. He went out and she heard a distant clatter from the kitchen. He always made a noise when he did the simplest domestic task. And a mess. Making a cup of coffee left more debris than when she cooked them dinner. Funny to remember how happy they had been for a time. And then not happy. This was a homey place. She wondered if he had a woman living with him. There was a big bowl of roses on the table. That surely answered the question.
"The one thing that strikes me about these killings," Lomax said after he'd read through the reports, "is that there's no connection between the victims. Franklin, okay. American, hard-liner. Some anti-nuclear freak might take a pot at him. But he wouldn't have the know-how to blow up that launch and get himself out of the way, with a safe house lined up for him. That sounds like a pro." He turned the page. "The next on the list is the exact opposite of Franklin. Isabelle Duvalier; French Socialist minister, women's rights, gay rights, the whole left-liberal bandwagon. A massacre there, taking out the whole family. Again, a cold professional killing. No trace. Only possible witness left besides the staff is a student friend of the daughter, crashed out upstairs on sleeping pills." Next page. "Then we have Nikolaev. He's a Soviet hard-liner at heart, not too popular in the Kremlin, but a career man who's known to trim to the winds. He gets blown to bits by an anti-tank rocket. That, my dear, is Professional with a capital P. They seem to have gotten the killer that time, if these reports are right. But nobody's passing any details." Next page. "Next we have, immediately after the Soviet Hawk, the Christian Dove. One victim supports nuclear threat, the next is one of the founders of the peace movement. Those bullets are shit; you haven't got a chance if one hits you. A competent marksman gets four of them in and disappears in the panic. So what the hell is anyone to make of it? Where's the link between these four people that a very well organized group have set out to kill them, one by one? Nobody's claimed responsibility. No political advantage has accrued to anyone by these deaths. It doesn't make sense. It might, except that Nikolaev got it. That's blown the obvious answer to hell and gone."
Tyreen's coffee was cold. She pushed the cup aside. "I was sure the KGB was behind it," she said. "Even now I'm not quite prepared to give that up. Nikolaev wasn't a friend of theirs; they might just have used the other killings to cover an assassination of their own."
Lomax gave her a mocking grin; he shook his head. "That's not good enough," he said. "Not up to your old standard. If Borisov wanted to get rid of a party enemy, he'd do it nice and quietly. This was a bloody public murder, and they haven't even tried to pretend that the Poles were responsible. You'll have to sharpen up. That's sloppy thinking."
Tyreen said curtly, "Maybe if you were as tired as I am.." She stopped, angry because she had defended herself. He was right; it was sloppy thinking. Ignoring the obvious. The KGB had disposed of public men in Russia with a pinprick in the arm. They didn't need to fire a rocket at them. And yet...
He watched the expressions changing on her face. She'd lost that guarded "I'm here on a professional basis" look. Tired, yes. Unhappy; depressed wasn't a word Lomax liked, but it seemed to fit her as she sat there, frowning, thinking in that incisive and unorthodox way he knew so well. He had needled her, which was unnecessary. But the urge to bring her down a notch was stronger than he reckoned. He hated her coolness and the efficient field operative aura that she wasn't even aware of now. He shouldn't have resented it, but he did. He'd goaded her into the sharp exchanges. They were a relief, and a reminder. He lit a cigarette and passed it to her. "If we could get to the girl in Italy," he said.
Tyreen dismissed the suggestion. "We can't, Colin. Modena has got her sealed up. And she hasn't broken, or this last murder wouldn't have happened. Modena would've given us a lead once he knew it was more than Italian terrorists; that's what they're so cagey about. The Red Brigade and what happened to Moro have left a real scar."
"This student," Lomax said after a minute, looking back over the file, "there's nothing to connect her with what happened. Except being lucky enough to get a sick headache on that night."
"I don't believe in that kind of luck," Tyreen answered. "I said as much to SEDECE. The colonel disagreed. They've checked and double-checked, but she's absolutely clean."
He went on, "It says she's living with her aunt and attending school. No regular boyfriends, normal social contacts. No medial treatment after the first few days on sedatives after the murders. A lot of girls take Valium if they have a row with the boyfriend." He put the file aside. "But not this one. She wakes up in a house where her best friend and the rest of the family have been gunned down and within a fortnight she's back at her studies and going on as if nothing had happened."
"What's your plan of campaign?" Tyreen asked.
"I'll know more when I've made contact with her."
Tyreen looked up in surprise. "You're going to try a direct approach?"
"Why not? Investigating her hasn't turned up anything. And SEDECE are damned good. I'll see what the personal approach digs up." He pulled the identifying photograph out of its cellophane slip. "Not bad-looking, but why do girls have that awful butch haircut? She'd be quite pretty if she let it grow. I'm glad you haven't cropped yours."
"I don't have time to worry about hairstyles these days."
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. He no longer wore the faded jeans that had been his usual attire when they'd worked together. But then he was out of the Service. He was a respectable director of a security firm. Somehow he looked odd in the dark suit.
"Are you going to tell me what happened to Bannon?" he said.
"No."
"The sex wasn't good enough?"
Tyreen stood up. "I'm going," she said. "I know you when you're like this. You want to pick a fight, and I'm not playing. I'll wait to hear from you in Paris. Where's my coat?"
"I hung it up outside," Lomax said. He didn't move to get it for her. "I'll have to work fast," he remarked. "I can't leave my outfit for more than a fortnight."
Tyreen topped by the door. "Don't be ridiculous!" she said. "You can't put a time limit on something like this!"
"I have," he remarked. "Two week, darling. That's all. I'll be in touch. You can see yourself out, unless you want to sit down and be civilized."
"With you," she snapped, "I'm afraid it's just not possible. I haven't even started sniping at your private life. And whoever arranged thoe roses should go and take a course!"
"She's not very good at it," Lomax agreed. "But she's a simple girl; not much for action. You wouldn't have much in common."
Suddenly Tyreen's anger drained away. "No," she said, "I don't suppose we would." She opened the door and let herself out.
Colin Lomax flew into Charles de Gaulle Airport the next morning. He had booked himself into a modest pensione on the Left Bank; he carried a minimum of luggage and a draft for a thousand pounds drawn on Crédit Lyonnais. All expenses paid. He spent the afternoon wandering about the city, getting his bearings. He didn't feel comfortable in Paris; it was too artificial, too cold-hearted in its symmetrical beauty to appeal to him. London was shabby and meandering and unplanned. He preferred it. He preferred the highlands of his native Scotland or the rain-swept bleakness of Northern Ireland to any city.
He located the lycée where Helene Blondin studied; walked past it several times, noted the students coming out at the end of the day. He didn't attempt to identify the girl. He had to fix the timetable in his mind first. She could have been among the throng of young men and women who streamed out into the evening sunlight and made their way home. He took the metro to the unfashionable suburb where the girl's aunt lived.
He cruised past the apartment block, and then told the cab to return to the center of Paris. he treated himself to dinner at a restaurant recommended by Foster. Superb food, French prices, and no tourists. He sat on drinking coffee and ordered an Armagnac. The Service was paying.
Tyreen Mackenzie kept coming into his mind. He sipped at his brandy and let the memories flicker back. He had disliked her at first. An uppity, bossy woman, oversure of herself in a professional capacity. Easy to needle, quick to rise when goaded. A brave lassie, but oversharp, his father would have described her. God, thought Lomax, finishing his drink, how much I loved her. We started out in the worst way, and ended up in the best. Or so it seemed until that last assignment.
He sighed. Hitting out at her was futile, and even unfair. But human. He didn't love her any more. He had remade his life, formed his relationships, and kept the whole thing under control. Now here he was in Paris, getting involved in the squalid world of SIS, which he had grown to despise. Because she'd asked him.
He paid the bill and walked back slowly to his pensione. He fell asleep wondering what kind of girl Helene Blondin would turn out to be. The next day he'd make his first move toward finding out.
The wardress made a lot of noise when she unlocked the cell. The prisoner sat on the edge of the hard chair and waited. She saw the wardress on duty when her breakfast was pushed inside on a metal tray, and again when she was taken for half an hour's exercise around the deserted inner yard, the silent guardian a few paces behind her. She had begun by refusing to walk to walk at the prescribed pace. She didn't defy authority any more. She exercised as she was told, ate the food, cleaned the spartan cell to their satisfaction, and lay through the endless nights on the iron-hard bed, sometimes sleeping, often awake in her despair. Nothing had happened for so long. She had no watch, no radios, no books, no newspapers. Nobody was cruel; if the rules were broken she didn't get her food and the lights were left on, glaring down on her all night, with constant supervision through the observation hole in the door. Her nerves frayed but nobody took any notice when she screamed abuse and obscenities. If they were listening, there was no reaction. She might as well have been an animal, snarling defiance at captors who didn't understand and didn't care.
The sense of deprivation, of monotony without end was the worst. She was prepared for interrogation, for conflict. But there was nobody to challenge her. Just a system that ordered her life and went on regardless if she chose to disobey. She had lost track of time. She had stopped wondering whether her parents were trying to help her, get a lawyer, or insist on a trial. She had hated the thought of them, despised them for so long; but for a long time now she had hoped they might help her. That hope had withered too. She cried a lot, sniffling and weeping, denied even the comfort of a handkerchief, so that her sleeves were wet and slimed from wiping her running nose. She had no mirror, no makeup. Only a blunt-edged comb, a cake of harsh soap, and a towel. She had forgotten how she used to look.
When the door to her cell opened she was suddenly shaking with fear. The routine had been broken.
Alfredo Modena stood looking at her. The big uniformed figure of the woman guard loomed behind him, making him look shorter and slighter than he really was. He advanced a few steps inside. "How are you, Elsa?"
Elsa Valdorini paused for a moment, focusing on him. She had a tiger's heart and it came to her rescue then. "What the fuck do you want?" Suddenly she felt better; energy returned and her sallow face flooded with color.
Modena said mildly, "I've come to take you out of here. We're going to take a trip." He spoke softly to the woman behind him.
She came in with Elsa's jacket in her hand. "Put this on," she said.
The girl didn't argue. She struggled into the coat, which hung loosely on her.
"Come on."
Obediently, Elsa followed the guard outside. Fear and hope competed. A trip... to court? A trial? No. No, an interrogation. She didn't mind that. She didn't mind being asked questions. It would be a relief if they hit her or hurt her.
She thought suddenly, They've got him! They've got that arrogant shit who did the killing and wouldn't sleep with me.
"Hurry up," the wardress said and gave her a slight push in the small of her back.
They traveled in a car. She could see out the windows. Normal life bustling past her, people jaywalking through the Rome traffic, the sun beating down, dust, smells of food and refuse in the air, the glimpse of landmarks that mocked her, reminding her of freedom.
"It's not Venice," Modena remarked. "But Rome is just as beautiful. Have you been here before?"
"Yes," she muttered, not meaning to answer. "Twice."
"With your family?"
She nodded. The word was emotive. She hated her parents. She hated everything they stood for. But the word "family" made her eyes sting.
They had been driving for almost an hour. She could tell, because she could see the watch on his wrist. They were leaving the city behind them, traveling along the sweep of the Appian Way. No trial. No interrogation either. Out into the countryside. But where? What was at the end of it for her? She said, "Open the window, I feel sick."
The wardress was on the other side of her. She looked at Modena. He said, "You're only sick because you're afraid. We're nearly there."
They had left the main highway. The road was bumpy, the countryside flat and desolate, with a few sparse vineyards that looked untended. And then she saw the place. There was a road leading up to it. It had been built a long time ago, when the thickness of the walls could withstand the siege engines of the Middle Ages.
As the car approached, a massive gate opened and they were inside the fortress. Modena got out. Elsa Valdorini stayed huddled tightly into her seat, her body refusing to move.
"You've got to get out here," he said. The powerful woman gripped her and she was lifted out and set down on the ground. The walls rose around her like a cliff. There was no sign of life. Modena said, "You don't know about this place, do you, Elsa?"
She didn't answer, but continued to stare around her.
"It was built by the Sforza in 1480. They controlled the countryside around here for hundreds of miles. This was their headquarters when they went campaigning against the Borgias."
"Thanks for the history lesson," she managed to jeer, but it wasn't convincing.
"It was the place they held their hostages," Modena continued. "And their important prisoners. Nobody ever came out alive when they were shut up here. And now it's been put to use again. This way."
She followed him with the woman behind her. They went in through a side entrance. It was an amazing transformation. The inside of the shell had been made into a honeycomb of stairs leading to one landing of cells after another. The stairwells were heavily protected by steel mesh; fierce lights played overhead, and uniformed guards patrolled the landings.
Modena paused, spoke gently to her, "We'll go to the women's section. There are only half a dozen women in here."
They climbed down a flight of steps. An official joined them, and gave the girl a searching look. A look so coldly calculating that she shivered. And she heard him say in a quiet voice to Modena, "Is she coming to us, Signore?"
She didn't hear the answer. They were still going down. Down into the bowels of the dreadful place, with its reinforced walls painted a steely gray and the unblinking lights overhead. Alfredo Modena stopped in front of a row of metal doors. The upper part was a square of unbreakable glass. "Prisoners are observed all the time here," he remarked. "The cameras are never switched off. And the guards keep a watch through the glass. They aren't allowed to speak to the prisoners or have any contact. They serve the food through the flap. Open the door, please."
The man in uniform stepped forward, pressed an unseen mechanism, and the door swung open. Modena put his hand on Elsa's arm. "I want you to take a good look inside," he said. "I want you to see for yourself."
There was a canvas cot and a canvas chair. A small table was bolted to the floor. There was no window, only an extractor fan and ventilator. The light glared overhead in a protective steel cage. The walls were padded.
Elsa Valdorini couldn't move. Her limbs felt paralyzed, and a scream was welling up and threatening to tear her to pieces. She felt his hand on her arm again, urging her to cross the threshold into the cell. "No! No!" she thought she was shouting but it was a whimpering cry.
Modena drew her away from the open door. "Calm yourself," he said quietly. "You're not going in there."
She needed the woman's support to get her up the stairs and back onto the main floor. Modena showed her into a room that was simply furnished, with a table, several chairs, and a religious print on the wall. "Sit down, Elsa." He stretched a little, and wandered around the room. She sat watching him, hands clenched on her shaking knees. The wardress stood with her back leaning against the door. He lit a cigarette, hesitated, and then offered her one.
"Stuff yourself!" Elsa said through lips stiff with terror.
Modena shrugged. He put the cigarette back in the packet and away in his pocket. "You're a brave woman," he said. "I have to admit that. That's why I brought you here. I knew that telling you about this place wouldn't frighten you. You had to see it with your own eyes."
"I haven't been tried!" she cried out. "You can't hold me forever."
"Not forever," he agreed. "But for a year or two. And by the time you do come to a court, you won't be fit to plead. You saw the room, didn't you? You know why it's fitted up like that? Women go mad in this place. You will go mad like the others." He spoke to the impassive woman at the door. "You can wait outside." The wardress glanced toward the girl. Modena shook his head. "I can manage. If I need you, I'll call." She went outside and closed the door. Then he sat down. "If you don't talk to me, you will be sent here by the end of the week. Everything is prepared for you. Nobody cares, Valdorini, what happens to you now. Your family have abandoned you. You realized they haven't even tried to help you. You're not news any more. The world has forgotten you. Your friends, the ones who recruited you and let you take the blame for something you didn't do --- they've forgotten you too."
Elsa didn't answer. He sat patiently, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. Her head sank, and her hands came up and covered her face.
He listened to her crying. After a while he said, "Are you going to condemn yourself to this, for the rest of your life? You didn't throw the bomb, Elsa. But you sheltered the person who did. Think of yourself now, while you have the chance. And it's the last chance. If you refuse me, I shall forget you. Like all the rest. Then you'll really be lost. Buried alive, in that cell I showed you. Talk to me, Elsa." He waited.
Very slowly she lifted her head, wiped her blotched face with her hand and then the hand on her skirt.
"It was a man," she said. "He stayed for two nights."
Colin Lomax spent the next three days following Helene Blondin. He followed her from her aunt's flat to the lycée every morning. He noticed that she frequented a small café two streets away for lunch. He also noticed that she seemed to avoid her fellow students.
Lomax, hiding behind a newspaper and dark glasses, watched her carefully, and judged that she was definitely not part of any group. She didn't talk or laugh with the others. Her companions were typical of their age; cheerful, disputatious, or conspicuously in love and holding hands. Helene Blondin didn't fit in anywhere. Perhaps the ordeal she had gone through had made her withdrawn. Perhaps she didn't feel at ease among her contemporaries any more, after the deaths of her friends the Duvaliers. Her best friend had been the daughter. But there was no obvious sign of nerves. She seemed to have a good appetite. She was a very cool young woman, Lomax decided. Aloof and self-sufficient.
After the third day he made himself noticeable. He followed her from the lycée to the café, took a seat quite close, and let her catch him watching her. He did this for two days until the weekend. Then he shadowed her home. He parked on the other side of the road in his hired car with the window down, and made a clumsy job of pretending to read a newspaper when she came out. He followed her on foot when she went shopping with her aunt. She knew he was there; he saw her glance behind her, scowl, and hurry on. She didn't lose him; she wouldn't until he decided to step out of sight. He passed the house three times during the Sunday morning, and glanced up at the windows. He saw the curtains move. On Monday, her aunt drove her to school. He wondered what excuse Helene had given.
By Wednesday she knew he was there and she was rattled. She actually went white when she saw him come through the door into the café and sit down. He didn't look at her. He ordered something to eat, and while he waited, pretended to read a paperback. She didn't finish her lunch. She paid her bill and hurried out. Lomax put his book down and caught her eye. He looked away. He didn't get up and go after her. But he was parked outside the lycée when she came out.
Helene dived down into the metro; she was nearly running by this time. She bought her ticket, jumped in the train, and settled back out of breath. Who was the man shadowing her? He didn't look French. He wasn't even very skillful about it. She wished her heart would stop jumping up and down. She wasn't afraid; she had faced the police and the professional inquisitors of the SEDECE, and kept her head. Rather enjoyed the challenge.
But then she was prepared. Geared up for the game of wits on which her life depended. She wasn't expecting this. She cursed under her breath. Her language was vile by any standard. Her aunt wouldn't have believed she even knew such words. She never used them aloud. What did he want, this clumsy shadower? Should she report it? No; the publicity had died away, The police weren't interested in her any more. She was out of the limelight and safe. Perhaps she should challenge him. Maybe he was some kind of crank, picking on her because of her involvement in a mass murder? She didn't like to think that. It made her nervous.
When she left the metro station and came up into the street, she paused, looking this way and that. Lomax saw her, but she didn't see him. He saw the furtive look, and the relief on her face.
By the time she reached her front door, he was well ahead of her, and standing with a map in his hand only a few yards away. He actually heard her gasp when she saw him. He didn't move. He didn't look up. She opened the door and he heard it bang as she slammed it shut. The way a woman shuts a door when she's afraid, not angry.
The next day he didn't go near the house, the lycée, or the café. He spent the day in Paris, enjoying himself, wandering around the Tuileries and the Louvre. He thought how surprised Tyreen Mackenzie would be if she could see him. Art collections and museums used not to be high on his list of activities. But he had changed since they parted. His life had slowed down from his old hectic momentum. He had set out to enlarge his horizons. After all, he should have been dead on at least two occasions. Once in Ulster and again in Mexico. Medical science and old-fashioned luck had given him a second chance each time. He made up his mind not to waste it.
By seven o'clock the next morning he was outside Helene's metro station, and this time he followed her down and onto the train. She jumped out at an early stop, but he didn't attempt to follow. It was an old trick to suspend the harassment and give the victim a brief feeling of security. When it started again, the impact was doubled. He wondered how long she would go before she either faced him or did what he hoped. Made a contact and asked for help. If she went to the police, then she would be quite a way to establishing her innocence. Lomax felt instinctively that she wouldn't.
She didn't leave the lycée that lunchtime. That meant she was getting really jumpy. At the end of the day Helene Blondin was not among the crowd that flowed into the street. Lomax drove away, parked his car, and slipped back to watch. She came out an hour after everyone else had gone. She hurried down the road, not looking to right or left; she thought she had given him the slip. He was well satisfied to let her think so.
Until she arrived home. He'd decided to take it one stage further, to precipitate a move on her part. There were areaways to each house; he got there ahead of her and went down the basement steps of the house two doors away. From there he could see her approach.
She was at the front door, taking out her key, when he came up behind her. She gave a cry and swung around; the keys clattered to the ground. Lomax picked them up. He held them out to her. For a moment her eyes blazed at him, fierce with terror and defiance. It was a look he'd seen before, and it had nothing to do with an innocent girl afraid of being molested. In that second, Lomax knew that Tyreen Mackenzie had been right again. The key to the Duvaliers' massacre was standing in front of him.
"You dropped your keys, Mademoiselle," he said.
"Get away from me! Stop following me or I'll call the police!"
"I want to warn you," he said carefully, speaking his slow precise French. "The others have been killed. You will be next."
The words meant nothing to Lomax. But they did to her. He could see by the instant contraction of the pupils in her eyes. He'd made a meaningless threat and it had worked. He turned away before she could say anything and hurried off down the street.
From now on, he would be watching but she wouldn't see him.