Today was the day I was going to set in motion a chain of reactions which, if I was right, would bring everything out into the daylight. It was a chain of events in which I would get my revenge for the attempts on my life and on Fifeshire’s life, in which I would get to the bottom of Sumpy’s disappearance, the Pink Envelope’s identity and solve the riddle of Orchnev’s suicide. In short, it was a chain of events in which I would find out just what the hell had been going on. I sincerely hoped I was right.
Staring at the cold grey New York morning did nothing to reassure me that I was right; nothing at all. The cold grey New York morning told me to be sensible, go back to England, make out the report to Scatliffe and let him make the decisions on what should be done. Or, more sensible still, go to Fifeshire, tell him the latest news, and let him deal with it. But no, I didn’t believe that would work. Instinct told me either of those could be disastrous. This whole damn thing was too big, too complex to be solved by any normal remedy that was open to me. Scatliffe was in this up to his neck, I was absolutely certain. Fifeshire was innocent, I was equally certain. I didn’t know how big Scatliffe’s web might be and unless I took the course of action I had in mind I was certain I wouldn’t have the chance to live long enough to find out. I had somehow stumbled into this and now I had to see it through. The consequences would be ghastly but in all probability a lot less ghastly than if I didn’t go ahead with my plans, and at least this way gave me a sporting chance of increasing my immediate life expectancy. I started to wash quite enthusiastically.
I checked my face for tell-tale black strands of hair around the edges of the moustache and beard, but couldn’t see any in the badly lit mirror. The glued-on fungus wasn’t comfortable but I was going to have to live with it for a while longer. I hoped to hell Boris Karavenoff could be trusted, that Jules Irving, life insurance salesman and second-rate hit man, hadn’t been lying, and that I wasn’t gravely mistaken about Fifeshire.
I was worried about Sumpy, worried for her safety, and yet… somehow there was something distinctly odd rather than worrying about the whole thing. I was certain that she had not come to any harm and yet her disappearance made no sense at all, none whatever. Perhaps she was wound up in this whole business; but if so I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how.
It was 8.15, Friday morning in downtown Manhattan. A traffic-reporter helicopter clattered overhead, and the cab drivers had started their daily cacophony of hooting as the morning traffic was building to a peak. I walked briskly through the tart cold of the morning gloom and entered a glaringly lit cafe, where I ordered a hefty plate of scrambled eggs and some coffee.
I looked at my watch. It would be 1.21 in the afternoon in London: allowing enough time for things to sink in, a brief discussion and sufficient leeway for basic delays, but not allowing enough time for any complex plot to be hatched. I was happy that my choice of Sunday was right. With the weekend looming up people would be hard to get hold of, harder still to assemble together. The only course of action was likely to be hastily thought out and ill-conceived. Perfect.
I finished my breakfast and read the New York Times; if there was anything much happening in England it hadn’t rated news in this paper. The only article on England stated that there were more strikes brewing. That was news? My watch showed five past nine. I left the cafe and made my way to the nearest call box.
The girl on the switchboard at the British Embassy in Washington put me through to Sir Maurice Unwin’s secretary. I told her I was calling on a confidential matter and it was imperative she put me through. There was a pause then she came back to me: Britain’s top spook in the US of A was busy, could he call me back?
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s an SIA priority.’ The SIA was a code that members of the Secret Intelligence Service were permitted to use in dire emergencies.
Within seconds a voice said, ‘Unwin here. Who’s speaking?’
‘I have information about a British double agent who is known as the Pink Envelope and unless you pay me 100,000 dollars in cash I intend making this information known to a major American newspaper.’
‘Can you elaborate?’
‘I can elaborate plenty when we meet. I want you to come to New York on Sunday morning to a telephone booth at the junction of 10th Street and Greenwich Avenue. I will telephone at exactly twelve o’clock. You are to answer with the words: ‘‘Good morning, Digger,’’ and I will then give you the address of where we are to meet. My lawyer, who is somewhere in America, has a letter in his possession which contains the same facts that I shall tell you: this letter is addressed to the newspaper. If he is not telexed by a certain bank at 9.15 on Monday morning to state that the sum of 100,000 dollars has been deposited into his client account then he will immediately deliver this letter to the editor of the newspaper.’
‘Just wait a moment,’ he said.
‘I will repeat the instructions once and then I have to go.’ I repeated it all clearly, once, then hung up and left the call box. It was one of five booths in a row — a precaution I took against the particular one I had chosen becoming out of order.
I had started.
I took a cab and got out several blocks away and went into another call box. I telephoned the Intercontinental offices and asked for Charlie Harrison.
‘This is Harrison here,’ said Karavenoff.
‘I’m confirming our drink this evening.’
‘Grand,’ he said. ‘Seven o’clock?’
‘Make it five past, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘See you.’
I left the booth. In our brief and innocuous-sounding exchange I had given him the go-ahead to send a message down the 14B wires that was going to ruin a number of people’s whole day for them. However, the rendezvous we had made for later was genuine; Karavenoff was going to hand me a transcript of all the day’s communications. I had a feeling it would make interesting reading.
I had a small amount of shopping to do and then several hours to kill. I went first to a stationer’s and then to an electrician. After that I wondered if there was any further point in trying to trace Sumpy; my nerves could have done with a soft, warm companion for the next couple of days. But I didn’t feel I would get very far. I thought about Martha but I couldn’t do anything about her right now — it would have been far too big a risk to take. I went off and whiled away the day at the Frick Gallery, the Metropolitan and the Museum of Modern Art. I enjoyed myself. After all, even a spy’s entitled to a bit of culture now and then.
Karavenoff was already at the bar when I got there, a bourbon on the rocks cupped in his hands as he sat on a stool, elbows on the table, looking nervous and pensive. Neither of us acknowledged the other as I took up the stool next to him, not that there appeared to be anyone around to take any notice of us.
It was a barn of a place with a long bar at one end and an extraordinarily good jazz band playing at the far end, with everyone’s attentions on them. I ordered a bourbon on the rocks also; the barman gave it to me quickly then went back to watching the band. It seemed safe enough to talk.
‘You’ve earned yourself a colour,’ said Harrison suddenly. ‘Mark of extreme importance. You’ll see when you read it. Been a busy day. Seems to be a lot of interest in your message.’
‘Good man,’ I said.
‘I’m scared.’
‘There’s nothing to connect you with any of it,’ I said.