The Matarese Circle (18 page)

Scofield walked over to his open suitcase on the luggage rack and took out a fresh shirt. Starched, not soft; a crisp, starched shirt was like a cold room, a benign irritant; it kept one alert.

He put it on, and crossed to the bedside table where he had placed his gun, a Browning Magnum, Grade 4, with a custom-made silencer drilled to his specifications.

Bray spun around at an unexpected sound. There was a hesitant tapping at his door. Why? He had paid for total isolation. The front desk had made it clear to those few employees who might have reason to enter room 213 that the sign on the knob was to be respected.

Do Not Disturb.

Yet someone was now disregarding that order, bypassing a guest’s request that had been re-enforced with several hundred dollars. Whoever it was was either deaf or illiterate or.…

It was the maid. Taleniekov’s bird, still in the air. Scofield peered through the tiny circle of glass that magnified the aged features of the face only inches away. The tired eyes, encased in wrinkled flesh swollen by lack of sleep, looked to the left, then the right, then dropped to the lower part of the door. The old woman had to be aware of the
Do Not Disturb
sign, but it had no meaning for her. Beyond the contradictory behavior, there was something odd about the face … but Bray had no time to study it further. Under these new circumstances, the negotiations had to begin quickly. He shoved the gun into his shirt, the stiff cloth keeping the bulge to a minimum.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Maid service, sir,” was the reply, spoken in an indeterminate brogue, more guttural than definable. “The management has asked that all rooms be checked for supplies, sir.”

It was a poor lie, the bird too flawed to think of a better one.

“Come in,” said Scofield, reaching for the latch.

“There’s no answer in suite two-eleven,” said the switchboard operator, annoyed by the persistence of the caller.

“Try it
again,
” replied Taleniekov, his eyes on the entrance of the coffee shop across the street. “They may
have stepped out for a moment, but they’ll be right back, I
know
it. Keep ringing, I’ll stay on the line.”

“As you wish, sir,” snapped the operator.

Madness! Nine minutes had passed since the old woman had begun the search, nine minutes to check four doors in the hallway. Even assuming all the rooms were occupied, and a maid had to give explanations to the occupants, nine minutes was far longer than she needed. A fourth conversation would be brief and blunt.
Go away. I am not to be disturbed.
Unless.…

A match flared in the sunlight, its reflection sharp in the dark glass of the coffee shop window. Vasili blinked and stared; from one of the unseen tables inside there was a corresponding signal, extinguished quickly.

Amsterdam had arrived; the execution team was complete. Taleniekov studied the figure walking toward the small restaurant. He was tall and dressed in a black overcoat, a gray silk muffler around his throat. His hat, too, was gray, and obscured his profile.

The ringing on the telephone was now abrasive. Long sudden bursts resulting from a furious operator punching a switchboard button. There was no answer and Vasili began to think the unthinkable: Beowulf Agate had intercepted his bait. If so, the American was in greater danger than he could imagine. Three men had flown in from Europe to be his executioners, and—no less lethal—a gentle-appearing old woman whom he might try to compromise would kill him the instant she felt cornered. He would never know where the shot came from, nor that she even had a weapon.

“I’m sorry, sir!” said the operator angrily. “There’s still no pickup in suite two-eleven. I suggest you call again.” She did not wait for a reply; the switchboard line was disconnected.

The
switchboard?
The
operator?

It was a desperate tactic, one he would never condone except as a last-extremity measure; the risk of exposure was too great. But it
was
the last extremity and if there were alternatives he was too exhausted to think of them. Again, he knew only that he had to act, each decision an instinctive reflex, the shaping of those instincts trusted. He reached into his pocket for his money and removed five one-hundred dollar bills. Then he took out his passport
case, and extracted a letter he had written on an English-language typewriter five days ago in Moscow. The letterhead was that of a brokerage house in Bern; it identified the bearer as one of the firm’s partners. One never knew.…

He walked out of the telephone booth and entered the flow of pedestrians until he was directly opposite the entrance of the hotel. He waited for a break in the traffic, then walked rapidly across Nebraska Avenue.

Two minutes later a solicitous day manager introduced a Monsieur Blanchard to the operator of the hotel switchboard. This same manager—as impressed with Monsieur Blanchard’s credentials as he was with the two hundred dollars the Swiss financier had casually insisted he take for his troubles—dutifully provided a relief operator while the woman talked alone with the generous Monsieur Blanchard.

“I ask you to forgive a worried man’s rudeness over the telephone,” said Taleniekov, as he pressed three one-hundred-dollar bills into her nervous hand. “The ways of international finance can be appalling in these times. It is a bloodless war, a constant struggle to prevent unscrupulous men from taking advantage of honest brokers and legitimate institutions. My company has just such a problem. There’s someone in this hotel.…”

A minute later, Vasili was reading a master list of telephone charges, recorded by a mindless computer. He concentrated on the calls made from the second floor; there were two corridors, suites 211 and 212 opposite three double rooms in the west wing, four single rooms on the other side. He studied all charges billed to telephones 211 through 215. Names would mean nothing; local calls were not identified by number; long distance charges were the only items that might provide information. Beowulf Agate had to build a cover and it would not be in Washington. He had killed a man in Washington.

The hotel was, as Taleniekov knew, an expensive one. This was further confirmed by the range of calls made by guests who thought nothing of picking up a telephone and calling London as easily as a nearby restaurant. He scanned the sheets, concentrating on the
O.O.T.
areas listed.

Where was the pattern? Suite 212 had made frequent calls to Europe, but that was too obvious, too dangerous. Scofield would not place such traceable calls. Room 214 was centered in the Midwest, Room 215 in the south. There
was
something but he could not pinpoint it.
Something
that triggered a memory.

Then he saw it and the memory was activated, clarified. The one room without a pattern. Room 213. Two calls to Easton, Maryland, one to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Vasili could see the words in the dossier as if he were reading them. Brandon Scofield had a sister in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Taleniekov memorized both numbers in case it was necessary to use them, if there was
time
to use them, to confirm them. He turned to the operator. “I don’t know what to say. You’ve been most helpful but I don’t think there’s anything here that will help.”

The switchboard operator had entered into the minor conspiracy, and was enjoying her prominence with the impressive Swiss. “If you’ll note, Monsieur Blanchard, suite two-twelve placed a number of overseas calls.”

“Yes, I see that. Unfortunately, no one in those cities would have anything to do with the present crisis. Strange, though. Room two-thirteen telephoned Easton and Minneapolis. An odd coincidence, but I have friends in both places. However, nothing relevant.…” Vasili let his words drift off, inviting comment.

“Just between the two of us, Monsieur Blanchard, I don’t think the gentleman in room two-thirteen is all there, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh?”

The woman explained. The
DND
on 213 was a standing order; no one was to disturb the man’s privacy. Even room service was instructed to leave the tray tables in the hallway, and maid service was to be suspended until specifically requested. To the best of the operator’s knowledge, there had been no such request in three days. Who could live like that?

“Of course, we get people like him all the time. Men who reserve a room so they can stay drunk for hours on end, or get away from their wives or meet other women. But three days without maid service, I think is
sick.
”

“It’s hardly fastidious.”

“You see it more and more,” said the woman confidentially. “Especially in the government; everyone’s so harried. But when you think our taxes are
paying
for it—I don’t mean
yours,
Monsieur.…”

“He’s in the government?” interrupted Taleniekov.

“Oh, we think so. The night manager wasn’t supposed to say anything to
anybody,
but we’ve been here for years, if you know what I mean.”

“Old friends, of course. What happened?”

“Well, a man came by last evening—actually it was this morning, around five
A.M.
—and showed the manager a photograph.”

“A picture of the man in two-thirteen?”

The operator glanced around briefly; the door of the office was open, but she could not be overheard. “Yes. Apparently he’s
really
sick. An alcoholic or something, a psychiatric case. No one’s to say anything; they don’t want to alarm him. A doctor will be coming for him sometime today.”

“Sometime today? And, of course, the man who showed the photograph identified himself as someone from the government, didn’t he? I mean, that’s how you learned the guest upstairs was
in
the government?”

“When you’ve spent as many years in Washington as we have, Monsieur Blanchard, you don’t have to ask for identification. It’s all over their faces.”

“Yes, I imagine it is. Thank you so much. You’ve been a great help.”

Vasili left the room quickly and rushed out into the lobby. He had his confirmation. He had found Beowulf Agate.

But others had found him, too. Scofield’s executioners were only a few hundred feet away, preparing to close in on the condemned man.

To break into the American’s room to warn him would be to invite an exchange of gunfire; one or both would die. To reach him on the telephone would provoke only disbelief; where was the credibility in such an alarm delivered by an enemy one loathed about a
new
enemy one did not know existed?

There had to be a way and it had to be found quickly. If there was only time to send another, with something on his person that would explain the truth to Scofield. Something Beowulf Agate would accept.…

There was no time. Vasili saw the man in the black overcoat walk through the entrance of the hotel.

Scofield knew the instant the maid walked through the door what disturbed him about the elderly face. It was the eyes. There was an intelligence behind them beyond that of a plain-spoken domestic who spent her nights cleaning up the soils of pampered hotel guests. She was frightened—or perhaps merely curious—but whichever, neither was born of a blunt mind.

An actress, perhaps?

“Forgive my disturbin’ you sir,” said the woman, noticing his unshaven face and the cold room and heading for the open bathroom door. “I’ll not be a minute.”

An actress. The brogue was an affectation, no roots in Ireland. Too, the walk was light; she did not have the leg muscles of an old woman used to the drudgery of carrying linens and bending over beds. And the hands were white and soft, not those of someone used to abrasive cleansers.

Bray found himself pitying her even while faulting Taleniekov’s choice again. A real maid would have made a better bird.

“You’ve a fresh supply of towels, sir,” said the old woman coming out of the bathroom and heading for the door. “I’ll be on my way. Sorry for disturbin’ you.”

Scofield stopped her with a gesture.

“Sir?” asked the woman, her eyes alert.

“Tell me, what part of Ireland do you come from? I can’t place the dialect. County Wicklow, I think.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The south country?”

“Yes, sir; very good, sir,” she said rapidly, her left hand on the doorknob.

“Would you mind leaving me an extra towel? Just put it on the bed.”

“Oh?” The old woman turned, the perplexed expression again on her face. “Yes, sir, of course.” She started toward the bed.

Bray went to the door and pushed the bolt into place. He spoke as he did so, but gently; there was nothing to be gained by alarming Taleniekov’s frightened bird. “I’d like to talk to you. You see, I watched you last night, at four o’clock this morning to be precise—”

A rush of air, the scratching of fabric. Sounds he was familiar with.
Behind him in the room.

He spun, but not in time. He heard the muted spit and felt a razorlike cut across the skin of his neck. An eruption of blood, spread over his left shoulder. He lunged to his right; a second shot followed, the bullet imbedding itself in the wall above him. He swung his arm in a violent arc, sending a lamp off a table toward the
impossible
sight six feet away, in the center of the room.

The old woman had dropped the towels and in her hand was a gun. Gone was her soft, gentle bewilderment, in its place the calm, determined face of an experienced killer.
He should have known!

He dove to the floor, his fingers gripping the base of the table; he spun again to his right, then twisted to his left, lifting the table by its legs like a small battering ram. He rose, crashing forward; two more shots were fired, splintering the wood inches above his head.