My thoughts turned to Sumpy; the fact that she would be there was about the only thing to look forward to when I got back to New York. Her temper had now had over a week to subside and I spent much of the flight thinking up a suitable explanation to give her for what had happened.
We landed at half one in the afternoon New York time. I took a cab straight to the Intercontinental building and took the lift up to my floor. Martha was sitting typing. She looked up and smiled at me as I entered the reception area. ‘Is your cold better?’ she asked.
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘Is the world still going round?’
‘If someone moved my desk to a window I’d be able to tell you. All your messages are on your desk and your mail too.’
‘Is Hagget in?’
‘No, he’s been away on a trip for the last few days.’
I was relieved by that. Hagget was the president of Intercontinental, and the only person who could carry out any of Scatliffe’s orders other than myself. I went into my office, which was considerably more spacious than the one in Whitehall.
I sat down, pushed the post to one side, buzzed Martha for a coffee, then attacked the pile of pink message slips. There wasn’t a single one from Sumpy, which puzzled me — I thought there would have been half a dozen by now; there were more than half a dozen from Scatliffe, which didn’t surprise me, although there were none from him today — as yet he didn’t know where I was. There were three messages from a life insurance salesman; he evidently didn’t know my profession; I could imagine his face when it came to putting my occupation down on the form: spy. That would go down a treat at Sun Life.
There was a mass of genuine business matters to be dealt with: I had to maintain my front and to do that I did from time to time actually have to do some proper work for Intercontinental. Right now, however, I wasn’t in any mood for it and I didn’t have any time to spare.
I picked up the telephone and stabbed out Sumpy’s number. It rang on without being answered. I was worried, very worried, although at this hour in the afternoon she would almost certainly be out. I rang Werner, her boss at Parke Bernet but he hadn’t seen her in over a week. I rang Sumpy’s number again then I bashed the desk a few times with my hand; it didn’t make Sumpy answer the phone and it didn’t make the pile of work go away.
Outside the window it began to sleet. It was just over a week to Christmas; I wondered if I’d make it that far and where I’d be spending it if I did. Once upon a time I’d been excited by Christmas; I wondered how long ago that was.
Martha appeared with the coffee.
‘I want a staff list of the British Embassy in Washington — any ideas where you could lay your hands on one?’
‘Planning a party?’ she asked.
‘You could call it that.’
‘Hope I get an invite.’ There was a smile in her eye; it had the effect on me of half a dozen valium combined with a giant shot of adrenalin. I actually felt cheerful.
‘It could be arranged,’ I said.
She grinned. ‘I’ve a friend in the consulate here — I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I need it right away.’
‘It’s a good friend,’ she said and she swept out of the room. She was not the sort of girl one could call unattractive, not by a long stretch.
I allowed myself the luxury of a few glorious moments of contemplation of Martha and then returned to more serious thoughts. It couldn’t be long before Scatliffe discovered that I had completely disregarded his orders and I was in no doubt that the moment he did, the proverbial shit would hit the fan in no uncertain terms. I intended to be well out of the range long before that happened. I picked up the Yellow Pages and turned to real estate agents.
A while later I went down to the computer room to find my friend Charlie Harrison, née Boris Karavenoff. I was relieved to see him sitting down — at least I hadn’t done him any lasting damage in that direction.
He was alone and looked pleased to see me although he greeted me nervously. He opened a cupboard and unearthed a brown folder, which he handed to me. We didn’t talk much and I made my way back to my office as quickly as I could.
It only took me a short while to be convinced that Boris Karavenoff had delivered the goods: inside the folder were print-outs of all messages that had passed through his hands during the past few days, both to and from Moscow. There was a confused flurry of reporting on the death of Orchnev, on the deaths of the gorillas who had hijacked me, on the deaths of the men in the basement of Sumpy’s apartment. The Russians were very worried about a possible leak in the communications system. The mysterious G in Washington, who had sent the memo to Scatliffe about Battanga, was there affirming that there had been absolutely no leak that end. I was more than fascinated to read the report from the Pink Envelope in London that the situation was ‘contained’.
I put the package through the office shredder. As I was feeding the last page in, Martha came up behind me. ‘That last year’s guest list?’
‘Something like that,’ I said.
She handed me a manila envelope. ‘Here’s this year’s.’
‘You must have friends in high places,’ I said.
‘Yes, and she’d like to come to the party too.’
At five I left Intercontinental and took a cab to East 56th and 1st, getting out the customary couple of blocks from Sumpy’s apartment. I made myself a promise that one day I would be in a respectable job, one that would enable me to take a cab all the way up to someone’s doorstep, a job that wouldn’t require me to have to case every building I entered. A cab moves too quickly down the street, walking gives you a chance to take in what’s going on; there wasn’t much going on, right now, down 58th Street.
I rang the entry-phone buzzer but there was no reply; a couple of women walked out, and I grabbed the door before it could shut and went in. The two security men hardly looked up from their game of cards. I walked over to the elevators, went in and pushed the button for the forty-second floor. Sumpy could have been anywhere: out at work, out shopping, out copulating with a boat-load of Norwegian matelots; but I had a feeling she wasn’t doing any of those, and I had a horrible feeling of apprehension as I left the elevator that I was going to find a very grim solution to her silence.
I stood outside her apartment door, braced myself, then slipped the catch and marched in.
A quarter of the way into the living room I stopped dead in my tracks. What I found wasn’t what I was expecting at all; from the looks on their faces, they hadn’t been expecting me either. They were quite an elderly couple: the man in his late sixties, with a huge pot-belly, the woman, not much younger, very long and skinny — both stretched out stark naked on a mink coat that was draped on the bare floorboards. In unison they both rammed their free hands over the most private of their parts and half sat up, blinking at me with expressions that seemed to be a mixture of embarrassment, guilt and sheer amazement.
I knew I wasn’t in the wrong apartment; and yet the entire room had changed. There were no curtains, no carpets and not a trace of any of Sumpy’s belongings. Apart from this couple, all that was in the room was a pile of packing cases, some sealed, some with their lids prised up. The man opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. This action gave him the appearance of a particularly ugly breed of fish in an aquarium tank. I broke the silence: ‘I’m looking for Mary-Ellen Joffe’ — that was Sumpy’s real name.