Krysalis: Krysalis (35 page)
If he couldn’t persuade them now, the game was lost.
They were coming back. Albert drew a deep breath and held it.
“All right,” Shorrocks said. “We’ll make you a onetime offer.”
Albert released his pent-up breath, but his heart still pounded. “Go on.”
“Forget tracking Lescombe, leave that to the pros. Get Kleist’s case notes on Anna,
quietly.
No traces, mind.”
Albert nodded.
“Then you’re cleared for Greece.”
Done it!
“At liberty to act with full discretion?”
Shorrocks hesitated. “Yes.”
“At the price agreed?”
“As agreed.
But …
there is one very important but.” Albert swallowed his elation. “Which is?”
“You’re to make it look like an accident. If you can’t
guarantee that …” Shorrocks made a chopping movement with his hands.
“When have I ever failed?” Albert murmured.
A military policeman was holding the front door open. The last, gritty words Albert heard Shorrocks say as he passed through it were, “There’s always a first time, colonel.”
27
Robyn Melkiovicz. Strange name, the kind that existed only in the fantasy land of films, among those credits at the end, the ones that strained your eyesight: best boys, gaffers, they were the Melkioviczes of this world. They, and New York lady lawyers …
For the hundredth time, David looked at the photograph he had taken from Anna’s desk in chambers, willing its subject to assume life enough to talk. Anna’s head of chambers had supplied Robyn’s missing surname, along with her New York address. David wanted to talk to her. But … ever the same nagging question. Would they let him go?
His phone was tapped. He was being followed. He had given up trying to trace Anna through their shared network of friends, afraid he might contaminate them. For the Lescombes, it seemed, had begun to stink. The security services suspected he was in league with Anna, that here was a plot to betray the Western alliance in which both of them were participants. This
knowledge generated a knot of hard, bilious rage just below David’s stomach. For the first time he understood the true meaning of the word “depressed.” You were pushed down, hard, against a rock. Crushed.
He had to do something or go under. But if he tried to see Robyn,
would they let him?
He had a plan. Once he was in the States he could make it work. But leaving England, that was the problem. At Heathrow and all the other U.K. airports, the authorities kept a list of those who weren’t allowed out. Was his name on it? If so, he could not flee the country, for, like most people, he possessed only one passport. Perhaps they would arrest him at the gate, with hundreds of curious travelers looking on and a press photographer ready to immortalize his downfall. Or perhaps the man in the black Audi would get to him first….
He wanted to telephone, or even visit, his mother, but that might mean trouble for her, and David couldn’t risk it. She was not a well woman, emphysema … father had died some years before, he could have taken this to him. Or Natalie, but she was in Australia, with Bob, she hadn’t done so badly for herself, not with that latest photo of the pool, and the kids, the eldest was nine now …
David realized he’d allowed his thoughts to stray as a means of putting off what had to be done. His bag was packed, one of those foldover suit carriers you took away for a weekend, nothing elaborate that might signal long-term absence to the watchers. He had spent the best part of a day in the local library’s reference section, mapping his route. Then a single purchase at an electrical hardware shop and he was ready.
He looked at his watch. Time to go.
He was locking the front door when a voice behind him said, “David Lescombe?”
He made himself straighten slowly, so they wouldn’t think he had anything to hide. So the man from the Audi would have no excuse to open fire. Did Special Branch need a warrant, or could they—
“We haven’t met. I’m Eddy. Anna’s ex. How d’ye do.”
For a moment David stared at him while his brain caught up. “I’m in a hurry,” was all he could think of to say.
“Going somewhere? Give you a lift?”
Over his shoulder David could see a black Porsche double-parked. “This isn’t really—”
“A quiet word in your ear and you might, as they say, learn something to your advantage.”
“We’ve got nothing to say to each other.”
“We’ve got Albert.”
David had been pushing past, on his way down the steps to the pavement, but Eddy’s words brought him up short. “Who?”
“In his thirties. Glasses he doesn’t really need. Intent type. Taut.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Oh, yes. Not from choice. Give you a lift, can I?” David hesitated. “I’m catching a plane, I—”
“Thiefrow?”
David nodded.
“Come on, then.”
He drove the car in much the same way, David suspected, that he powered through life, at great speed, with reckless disregard for the safety and interests of other people. “Look,” Eddy said. “I know this isn’t the greatest introduction in the world.”
“It isn’t,” David agreed bitterly.
“But she’s in trouble, and I mean a lot of trouble. You don’t have to talk to me. But it would help.”
“Help who?”
“Anna.” Eddy took his eyes off the road and gazed at David for what seemed like a perilously long time. “We got divorced. But we’re still married here.” He tapped first his forehead, then his chest.
“You think she feels the same way, is that it?”
“No. Oh no.”
“Then I don’t—”
“Albert’s visit set me thinking. I want to help. I told him a few things.” Again that unroadworthy glance at David, supercilious and a trifle mocking. “But not all the things he needs to know if he’s to function.”
“Did he tell you what his job was?” David hadn’t meant to sound so eager, but the words were out.
“No. He didn’t have to.”
“What is it?”
Eddy drove in silence for a long way. When he spoke again he did not address himself to David’s question at all.
“Juliet and I meet up, now and again.”
“I know. What—”
“It was she who told me about Kleist.”
“Who?” Then David guessed, “The psychoanalyst?”
“Psycho-whatever, yeah. Him. She had his address and phone number.”
Juliet had said she did not know the name of Anna’s analyst, and that was a lie. She did not trust her stepfather but she trusted Eddy, a depressing thought.
“Did you tell Albert about Anna seeing a shrink?” Eddy asked.
“No.”
“Great. Don’t.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
When Eddy did not answer, David’s resentment boiled over.
“Why?”
“Because he’s not all there. Not quite out to lunch, but not exactly eating his sandwiches at the desk either, know what I mean?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Which terminal do you want?”
“I’m asking you a question!”
“So am I. Do you want to fly today or not? Which bloody terminal?”
David spat out air through his teeth. “Four.”
“Right. No need to get ratty. You mustn’t tell Albert any more about Anna, understand?”
“I’m damned if I’m taking orders from you.”
“Your privilege, David. But I’m assuming you care about Anna.” He hesitated, suddenly less sure of himself. “Care more than I ever did.”
“I love her, yes.” David looked down at his hands. His eyes prickled, he felt a bit of a fool … but then the momentary embarrassment passed and he said in a firm voice, meaning it, “I love her more than I ever realized.”
“I understand that. If things had been different …” Eddy shrugged. “All I gave a toss for in those days was bed. I never had any truck with frigid women, until Anna came along. I’m more tolerant now. I’d have given her more time….”
“Now
look.
If all you’ve got for me is maudlin sentimentality about your failure as a lover—”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
“Just tell me what Albert’s job is. Just that.”
“You really don’t know? Here we are … which entrance?”
Eddy was slowing for the last turn, David felt desperate,
he had no time.
“What does Albert do?”
“If you don’t already know …” Eddy squealed to a halt … “I’m in no position to tell you, old man. Too scared. Sorry.”
“Scared?”
While David was still struggling to find words, Eddy leaned across him to open the door. David looked at his watch, he could stay and argue or he could make his plane. He hesitated a second longer, then raced into the terminal.
He drew a lot of money out of a cash dispenser before buying himself a stand-by ticket to Washington, grateful that the department had obliged him to keep his American visa up to date. They let him through into the departures area, although that didn’t even amount to the first hurdle; it was what happened next that mattered. Pick a line, the shortest, get it over with, know the worst. His passport officer was a middle-aged woman wearing thick glasses. Did she know this passenger had deliberately chosen her? Was it part of their training to detect such things?
Three steps. His heart was beating at a furious rate, his breath came and went, his stomach tied itself in that familiar knot. “Good morning.” The woman nodded unconcernedly.
Great!
She glanced at something beneath the lip of her desk. Then she closed his passport with a snap and handed it back, her near-sighted eyes already focusing on the person behind him. David Lescombe did not interest her.
He made himself walk on, don’t look back, bag onto the rollers, pass through the arch,
beep!,
“Turn out
your pockets, would you, sir? Thank you …” Then he was in the neon-lit hangar of Terminal Four airside. By now his legs were wobbling so that he half walked, half ran to the nearest bank of seats and flopped just before his knees gave way, and he was still in England; this was the easy bit.
On the plane he felt a great desire to drink. The harder he fought the worse it became, but he managed to content himself with two scotches. If they did little to raise his spirits, at least they took away some of the anger he felt toward Juliet. In the end he convinced himself of the truth: by not revealing Kleist’s name she had been trying to protect Anna.
Something else that Eddy had said worried him a lot more. “A frigid woman”—were those the words he’d used? David could not come up with a less-appropriate adjective to describe Anna. So what had changed between the divorce and her meeting David?
Who had brought about the change?
Kleist?
What sort of therapist was he?
David turned to look out the window. It was a sunny day, he could see the polar snows, only another couple of hours to go …
Entering the States proved as easy as leaving England. David told the cab driver to take him to a hotel on Dupont Circle in the northwest of the city. He knew nothing about this place except that, according to the street map, it was right by a subway station. As the cab pulled in to the curb David caught sight of the brown four-sided pylon with an
M
for Metro on top, and he felt a tickle of excitement. He could make this work.
The moment the door closed behind him he placed an order with room service, then opened his bag and
scattered its contents over one of the two double beds. The waiter arrived with hamburger and french fries to see a guest who plainly intended to stay a while; he was on the phone, inquiring about a tour of the Hillwood Museum in two days’ time. The waiter, who had received certain instructions unconnected with room service, did not think this looked like someone with a deep-seated interest in Russian art, but maybe, as he told the two CIA agents who were waiting for him downstairs, the guy just wanted to take in the gardens.
David counted to fifty after the man had taken his tip and left. He went to his bag, pulled out the tape recorder he had bought at Dixon’s and switched it on. Then he grabbed a pale green cagoule very different from the gray suit in which he’d arrived, before silently letting himself out.
As he ran down the fire-exit stairs two at a time he went over the calculations again, persuading himself that it would work. Contrary to popular belief, fueled by contemporary fiction, the CIA and FBI do not have limitless resources or manpower, they had no idea where he intended to stay in Washington, because he didn’t make an advance reservation, it would take time to put men in place, he had been in this hotel for less than twenty minutes,
run!
At the bottom of the flight he paused for long enough to throw the cagoule across his shoulders and put on a pair of sunglasses. He raced through the shopping area to Connecticut Avenue, then he was in the Circle and pounding down the subway steps.
He bought a farecard and boarded the first Red Line train to come along. He played all the tricks he’d absorbed in cinemas over the years: waiting for the last moment before the doors closed, then jumping in, retracing
steps, crossing from one set of tracks to another. At the interchange station on
1
2 and G streets he took the Blue Line out to Arlington Cemetery. There he let several cabs go by before hailing one.