One of the cards advertised a car for sale. Tom Clay, a local delinquent, denied any involvement in the liquor store heist the previous week and informed them that the Colt 45 in the drawer was being held for a friend. However he readily admitted to selling the Pierce-Arrow to a weirdo with more money than sense.
By the time an APB had been issued, the spy could have been anywhere within a hundred and fifty mile radius, which encompassed such conurbations as New York City, Boston and Philadelphia. Common sense dictated that he would by now have ditched such a conspicuous car and be on a Pullman or a Greyhound to anywhere. It was therefore a wonderful piece of good fortune that a routine tap on his controller, Rosenblum, turned up a brief conversation with Petrosian. The trace told them that he was in all probability heading for Boston.
Except that the spy knew the call was being traced. Therefore unless he was really stupid — and the agents had to assume that an atomic scientist wasn't — he would be heading in some other direction. This being the north-east of the United States, he had somewhat limited options. He might head for Portland, Concord or Albany, or of course he could be trying for Canada, across the border to Montreal. The St Lawrence River was a barrier which could only be crossed at a handful of places, such as Sherbrooke or Niagara Falls.
There was one further piece of information: he had a rendezvous at a lake. In that case he would be heading west, towards one of the Great Lakes. He would then be on the 1-90 which, being a toll road, meant that he would easily be picked up, say at Syracuse or Buffalo.
As the hours passed and no news came in, it became increasingly likely that he had slipped the net. But the information about the lake was so clear that it had to be assumed he was by now on one of the towns or villages bordering Lakes Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie or Ontario.
'A lake where you once thought the planet would overheat.' It might be weird, but it had a vaguely nuclear sound about it. Maybe somebody in the AEC or Army Intelligence could shed some light, maybe even some of his longhair colleagues would help assuming they weren't all bleeding-hearted commies.
They had until ten o'clock tomorrow to catch this guy.
The briefcase was like a lead weight, no matter which hand he held it in. He wandered along the main street, keeping an eye out for police and attracting the occasional curious glance from passers-by. The door of a neon-lit bar opened as he passed, and he was enveloped in a wonderful stream of hot, beery air. A spicy food smell reminded him that he hadn't eaten all day. Further along the street he passed a hotel. He caught a glimpse of the dining room. A couple of blond children were watching delightedly as a waiter poured flames over their steaks. Then the door had swung shut and he was tramping on through the snow. He had the money, US dollars. He too could eat a steak diane flambe; he too could spend the night in a warm, comfortable bed.
It was much too dangerous. The FBI could be checking hotels in the area. Even by walking on the main street, with suit and briefcase at this time of night, he was taking a terrible risk. But to stay out overnight, in some park, was to risk death by exposure. Already the bitter cold seemed to be numbing his spine.
Near the edge of the town, the shops and bars petered out. There was a dark lake, reflecting lights from the far shore. An esplanade ran alongside it, and on the side away from the lake was a scattering of terraced houses and waterfront hotels. A couple of hundred yards ahead, a pier projected out. A cluster of motor boats and yachts was moored alongside the pier, the masts of the yachts swaying gently.
The oldest urge of all — the urge to survive — brought a desperate thought to Petrosian's mind.
This far from town, the road was deserted. He crossed to the waterfront, climbed over a rail and walked along the pebbled shore, to be invisible from the houses. At the pier he climbed up slippery stone steps and walked along it, looking down at the moored vessels.
Petrosian knew nothing about boats. He guessed that the motor boats would be started by ignition keys and that the owners would keep these at home. His eye was drawn to one of the yachts; in the dark it seemed blue. 'The Overdraft was written on its side. Suddenly the cold and exhaustion were just too much to bear and Petrosian went down the smooth, treacherous steps, gripping the rusty handrail to keep balance, and then he was on the yacht.
There was nobody in sight. There was a little trapdoor and a steep flight of stairs. Down these, he groped around, adjusting his eyes to the dark. There was a strong smell of diesel. He could make out, from the little frost-covered portholes which lined the walls, that the cabin curved inwards. As his eyes adapted to the dark he could make out a sofa, cupboards, a galley, and the door to another little room which he assumed was a toilet.
A galley meant a stove and heat. He scrabbled through drawers and found a near-empty box of matches. Experimenting, he soon had propane gas hissing on a ring. He struck the first match. It promptly fizzled out. Suddenly realising there were only two matches left, he took great care with the second only to find the phosphorus head splitting off with a fizzle.
The last match was now the most important thing in Petrosian's universe. He struck it carefully, firmly but not too harshly. It lit, flickered, started to die. He tilted it, cupping his hands round it, brought it to the hissing gas. There was a pop and the gas lit, throwing a blue light around the little cabin. Petrosian was too weary to laugh or cry.
At the front of the cabin were two bunks, built into the side. There were folded sheets, and wooden planks, and cushions. In a minute Petrosian had made them into a bed. He flopped on the edge of it, watching the gas flame as if it hypnotized him.
In a minute the cabin had warmed. He threw off his suit, just had the presence of mind to turn off the gas, slid between icy sheets and in moments fell into the sleep of utter exhaustion.
27
DNA
Past the passport control, Findhorn looked warily at the humanity in transit around him. He steered Romella towards a quite corner. She looked at him in surprise but said nothing.
Findhorn licked dry lips. He said, 'Ten men on the berg. Then Hansen. And now Petrosian's brother. Twelve dead and I'm on Matsumo's hit list. Maybe even the CIA's, if they kill people. I don't see any way out of this. What's my survival time, Romella?'
'Fred, don't crack up now.'
'Somebody has Petrosian's secret, and we haven't a clue about it. Where does that leave us?'
Romella stayed silent, and Findhorn continued, his stomach knotted. 'And where do you come into this, Romella? Have you made an alliance with someone?'
'It's not the way it looks,' Romella said. She added, 'Fred, you have to trust me.'
'Why?'
He found the coolness in her voice disturbing: 'You have no other choice.'
Two armed policemen were strolling at the far end of the terminal. Findhorn found reassurance in the sight. 'There may be people here who want to do me harm.' She put her arm in his. 'We can lose them.'
Three taxis and an hour later, they found themselves a small table in the Black Swan near Egham, overlooking the Thames. Findhorn came back with coffees. 'We've lost the game, right?' It was his first remark since the airport.
Her face was grim. 'How can I put this gently? If we have, you're dead.'
Findhorn stared.
She poured the coffee. 'How can Matsumo be sure you haven't worked out the Petrosian secret from the diaries, enough to put a patent together? He almost has to erase you some time in the next day or two. What choice does he have, Fred? Believe me, you're being intensively hunted.' She scanned his face closely. 'By the way, have you worked out the secret?'