Purpose of Evasion (14 page)

19

“I LOVE YOU, BABE.
I love you with all my heart,” Shepherd said, feeling the words more than he ever had in his entire life.

He clicked off the recorder, rewound the tape, and played back the entire message he had dictated. Satisfied, he rewound the cassette again and removed it from the recorder. That was the easy part. The rest, the things he usually took for granted—a pen, an envelope, postage—were another matter.

He sat in his shabby hotel room, staring out the window at the bustling waterfront streets below until the screech of a boat whistle pulled him out of it; then he slipped the cassette into a pocket of the unfamiliar shirt and went downstairs to the front desk.

The clerk was a rotund woman whose huge bottom hung over the sides of her stool. She was opening mail with an old paring knife she kept handy for the task.

“Excuse me?” Shepherd said. “Would you have an envelope and a pen I could borrow?”

The clerk slit open an envelope and removed the contents. “Know what I always say? Not a borrower or lender be. Now,
leasing
on the other hand . . .”

Shepherd grimaced and reached into his pocket.

“A pound would do nicely,” the clerk said, plucking the coin from Shepherd’s palm. She handed him a worn ballpoint and resumed slitting open the mail.

“Excuse me, but I think you forgot the envelope.”

“Right you are, sir,” she said, offering him one of those she had just opened.

“I’m afraid that’s already been used,” Shepherd said, forcing a smile.

“Oh, right you are again, sir,” she said, as if she hadn’t noticed. She opened a drawer and removed one of those sickly blue air mail envelopes Europeans favor and handed it to him.

“I’d prefer a more substantial one,” Shepherd said, fingering the tissue-thin paper with concern.

“You’re a bloody picky one, aren’t you?” she whined. “This isn’t the Hilton, you know.”

“I’ve noticed,” Shepherd retorted, unable to resist. He took the envelope and walked toward the lift, intending to return to his room; but his eyes were drawn to a pay phone on the opposite wall. An overwhelming compulsion surfaced and took hold of him. He knew better, knew it would be a mistake to give in to it, but the temptation grew until he found himself striding boldly toward the phone, sorting through his pocket change; then he paused suddenly, glanced over his shoulder at the desk clerk and changed direction, charging through the lobby and out into the street.

“Piss off,” the clerk muttered under her breath, watching him go. She took the knife and slit open another envelope with a flick of her pudgy wrist.

Like many London phone booths, the one on Preston’s Road had a royal crown embossed above the entrance and a list of international tariffs and dialing codes on the wall. Shepherd’s heart pounded with anticipation as he lifted the receiver and thumbed a one pound coin into the slot. He hesitated momentarily, then sent the second after it with a flick of his thumb and dialed.

Thirty-five hundred miles away, in the telephone switching center at Andrews Air Force Base, the device that CIA had wired into international board 044 kicked in. It intercepted the incoming signal and diverted it to a computer that, prior to the connection being made, screened the number against a list: Shepherd’s home and the homes and offices of his friends, military associates, and minister. It took just several hundredths of a second to screen each call. Those that weren’t on the list were put through; those that were, were handled differently.

Shepherd leaned against the wall of the crimson booth, listening to the hollow hum of the line. The first ring sent a surge of adrenaline through him.

Steph, it’s me, he would say the instant she answered. I’m alive, I love you, I need your help. So what if the phone was tapped? What could they do once he had said it? They couldn’t stop him; he would just blurt it out and take his chances.

The phone rang again; and then again and again.

No one answered.

Shepherd had no way of knowing Stephanie was at home; no way of knowing CIA hadn’t used a listening device, but one that shunted the call to a phantom extension that would ring forever. Indeed, despite the advantages of eavesdropping, Bill Kiley’s foremost priority was to prevent Shepherd from making contact, from revealing he was alive, especially to his wife. Others Shepherd might somehow contact could be manipulated, could be convinced it was a hoax or a crackpot, could somehow be kept at bay until Shepherd could be terminated. That was CIA’s strong suit. But not a wife who knew her husband was being screwed by his government; not a
military
wife. No, Kiley had learned from experience they were the most dangerous because their outrage was driven by monumental feelings of betrayal; and whether by lover or bureaucrat, hell, indeed, hath no fury like a woman scorned.

The phone rang more than a dozen times.

Shepherd finally hung up and stood there for a long moment, coping with the crushing disappointment. The thick brass coins clunked into the return cup. He scooped them into his palm, glanced about cautiously, and left the booth.

NOT FAR AWAY
on Mile End Road, the street market on the traffic median opposite The London Hospital was in full swing, an international mix of housewives milling about them in search of bargains.

Applegate and the Special Forces agents, dressed in casual civilian clothes, stood among the white canvas kiosks. The M11 motorway from Mildenhall had been backed up and the drive to London had taken somewhat longer than anticipated.

“You sure that’s it?” Applegate asked, pointing to the wrought-iron staircase next to the ambulance ramp.

“Positive,” one of the agents replied. “He couldn’t get to any of the other exits without passing us.”

“He took the bus,” Applegate said flatly, as his eyes came to rest on a shelter across the street.

“Or a taxi.”

“Taxi . . .” Applegate echoed skeptically. “In this neighborhood? At that hour? No way.” He stepped off the median without waiting for an answer, snaked between the vehicles that were
slowing for the traffic signal on the corner of Turner, and crossed to the shelter where the bus schedule was posted.

The London Hospital was the oldest in the city and served many communities: Whitechapel, Hackney, Deptford, Stepney, Bromley-by-Bow, Millwall, and countless others, which meant this stop functioned as a major hub.

“He could be anywhere,” one of the agents announced, catching up.

“What time last night?” Applegate asked.

“Ten fifty-two,” the agent replied, referring to a copy of the patient transfer form.

“He must’ve caught the ten fifty-five,” Applegate ventured, giving the bus schedule a quick glance.

They returned to their car and drove a few miles to the London Transport Depot just east of Blackwall Tunnel, where Mile End Road turns into High Street.

Applegate showed his military identification to the dispatcher, and explained he was an intelligence officer, trying to find a man involved in thefts of classified data from RAF bases. He was seen boarding an East End bus the previous evening.

The dispatcher pointed out the conductor who had worked the bus in question, an elderly fellow hunched over a counter, tallying the previous night’s fares.

“It’s hard to be sure,” the conductor said, studying the photo of Shepherd. “But it might’ve been him. Yes, yes, I think he could be the one.”

“The one?” Applegate echoed, gently. “The one who what?”

“Who paid his fare with this,” the conductor complained, holding up an American dollar he had set aside. “And he was bloody pissed too, if you ask me.”

“You remember where he got off?”

The conductor’s face tightened with uncertainty. “There was a time I’d have had it just like that,” he replied, dismayed. “My wife says our Yorkie has a keener . . .” He paused, his eyes coming to life, and said, “Isle of Dogs. Yes, Isle of Dogs, it was. Preston’s Road.”

Applegate went to a phone booth outside the bus depot, removed the yellow pages from the hanger, tucked it under his arm, and returned to the sedan. One of the Special Forces agents compiled a list of hotels and rooming houses while they drove to the Isle of Dogs.

They began with the one nearest the bus stop on Preston’s Road, a seedy rooming house on the street that ran along the Isle’s western perimeter.

“One of your guests?” Applegate asked, showing the clerk Shepherd’s picture. “Checked in last night maybe?”

The weathered fellow shook his head no without taking his eyes off the racing form that was spread across the desk in front of him.

“It might help to look at the picture,” Applegate prodded, his patience worn thin by fatigue.

“There’s no need,” the clerk explained matter-of-factly. “We’re bloody empty, save for me and the owner; have been for three days.”

Applegate and the agents made stops at two more hotels with similar results. Next on their list was the Wolsey.

SHEPHERD
returned to the hotel, hurrying through the lobby to the lift. Dumb; dumb to have chanced calling, he thought as the gate slammed shut and the lift began its rickety ascent. He knew better; knew the tape was his best shot; his safest shot. What had come over him? Why had he weakened? He was entering his room when he realized that the bizarre sequence of events, which had transformed him from cocky, high-tech pilot to vulnerable, survive-by-your-wits fugitive, had shaken his confidence and sense of identity; and that even just listening to Stephanie’s voice—to one of the children—would have provided sustenance and the contact with reality he so desperately craved.

He settled in the chair next to the window, set the envelope on the sill, and addressed it to Stephanie. Then he wrapped several lengths of bathroom tissue around the cassette to protect it and also prevent it from puncturing the envelope. The soft padding filled it neatly. Shepherd moistened the flap and was running a fingertip across it when he heard several car doors slam in rapid succession and glanced out the window to the street.

Applegate was walking swiftly from a gray sedan toward the hotel entrance, the two agents at his heels. In the lobby Applegate showed the photograph of Shepherd to the desk clerk.

“Familiar?”

The clerk put her elbows on the counter, her flabby underarms hanging in a catenary to the worn Formica. “Nothing real distinctive about him, is there?” she wondered, solicitously.

Applegate took a ten pound note from his pocket and snapped
it between his thumbs and forefingers. “Yes or no?” he demanded impatiently.

“Room two oh six,” the clerk said, snatching the note from Applegate’s hand. “Oh, he’s here all right,” she offered, anticipating the next question.

“How many ways out of here?”

“Main and service,” she replied, indicating a second door at the base of the staircase.

The agents remained in the lobby, covering the exits. Applegate took the lift to the second floor.

It groaned to a jerky stop. He slid the gate back just enough to exit, guiding it closed to keep it from slamming. Shepherd’s room was at the end of the hallway beyond the stair landing. Applegate drew his pistol, walked to the room, and leaned to the scarred door, listening; then he turned the knob slowly. The latch withdrew with a soft clack and the door opened slightly. Applegate sent it smashing back into the wall in the event Shepherd was behind it. The knob bashed a hole in the plaster.

The room appeared empty.

Applegate entered, glancing about cautiously, peered beneath the bed, then advanced toward a closet. He threw open the door, ready to fire.

Shepherd was outside in the hallway, concealed in the angular space beneath the staircase. As soon as Applegate entered the room, he slipped from his hiding place and hurried to the lift.

Applegate was staring into the empty closet when the gate slammed. He whirled at the sound and ran into the hallway in time to glimpse the lift rising behind the decorative grillework. He stepped quickly to the stairwell, leaned over the rail, and shouted. “Hey! Hey, he’s heading for the roof!”

Applegate took off up the staircase, both agents following after him from the lobby below.

Shepherd had sent the lift on its way and returned to the space beneath the staircase. He crouched in the darkened cranny listening to the footsteps approaching; soon they were thundering directly overhead, sending a cascade of dust atop him. He waited until they made the turn on the third floor landing, then he started down the stairs.

The desk clerk was keeping a vigil at the base of the staircase. Shepherd came rocketing past her and made a beeline for her counter.

“Hey! Hey, what the bloody hell are you doing?” she shouted, waddling after him.

He leaned over the counter and snatched the paring knife she used as a letter opener, then charged past her to the street. She lumbered across the lobby to the staircase. “He’s down here!” she bellowed through cupped hands. “The bloody creep’s down here!”

Applegate and the agents had already realized they’d been duped and reversed direction. They came clambering down the staircase and through the lobby to the street, the clerk padding after them.

Shepherd was at the corner, getting into one of the black taxis that patrolled London’s streets like convoys of teeming ants.

Applegate and the agents ran to their car. He opened the door, then paused and slammed it in disgust without getting in. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted, sending a frustrated kick into the front tire, which had been slashed.

The taxi turned the corner and drove off.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

“A post office—a busy one,” Shepherd replied, slipping the paring knife into his sock.

“That would be the main off Trafalgar Square,” the driver said, selecting not only a busy but also a distant post office. “Tough morning?” he prompted. “I mean it’s not every day a chap runs from a hotel and slashes a tire.”

“Pardon?” Shepherd said, stiffening. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about that.”

“I saw you right here, I did.” The driver tapped his rearview mirror.