«That sounds suspiciously pat to me. They’re covering themselves.» Alison’s eyebrows furrowed, her expression one of disbelief.
«They may be,» answered Alex casually, sincerely. «But they can’t tie him to Sam Tucker, and that’s my only concern.»
«He is tied. He told me.»
«And I told them. They’ve sent men to Carrick Foyle, that’s where Piersall lived. In Trelawny. Others are going over his things at the Sheraton. If they find anything, they’ll call me.» McAuliff felt that he was carrying off the lie. He was, after all, only bending the truth. The arthritic Westmore Tallon was doing these things.
«And you’re satisfied with that? You’re just going to take their word for it? You were awfully troubled with Mr. Tucker a few hours ago.»
«I still am,» said Alex, putting down his glass and looking at her. He had no need to lie now. «If I don’t hear from Sam by late tonight … or tomorrow morning, I’m going to go to the American Embassy and yell like hell.»
«Oh … all right. Did you mention the little buggers this morning? You never told me.»
«The what?»
«Those bugs in your luggage. You said you were supposed to report them.»
Again McAuliff felt a wave of inadequacy; it irked him that he wasn’t keeping track of things. Of course, he hadn’t seen Tallon earlier, had not received his instructions, but that was no explanation. «I should have listened to you last night. I can just get rid of them; step on them, I guess.»
«There’s a better way.»
«What’s that?»
«Put them someplace else.»
«For instance?»
«Oh, somewhere harmless but with lots of traffic. It keeps the tapes rolling and people occupied.»
McAuliff laughed; it was not a false laugh. «That’s very funny. And very practical. Where would they be, listening, I mean?»
Alison brought her hands to her chin; a mischievous little girl thinking mischievously. «It should be within a hundred yards or so—that’s usually the range tolerance between bugs and the receivers. And where there’s a great deal of activity … Let’s see. I complimented the headwaiter on the red snapper. I’ll bet he’d bring me to the chef for the recipe.»
«They love that sort of thing,» added Alex. «It’s perfect. Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.»
Alison Booth, former liaison to Interpol, reported that two electronic devices were securely attached to the permanent laundry hamper under the salad table in the Courtleigh Manor kitchen. She had slipped them inside—and pushed them down—along with a soiled napkin, as an enthusiastic chef described the ingredients of his Jamaican red snapper sauce.
«The hamper was long, not deep,» she explained as McAuliff finished the last of his dinner. «I pressed rather hard; the adhesive will hold quite well, I think.»
«You’re incredible,» said Alex, meaning it.
«No, just experienced,» she replied, without much humor. «You were only taught one side of the game, my darling.»
«It doesn’t sound much like tennis.»
«Oh, there are compensations. For example, do you have any idea how limitless the possibilities are? In that kitchen, for the next three hours or so, until it’s tracked?»
«I’m not sure I know what you mean.»
«Depending upon who’s on the tapes, there’ll be a mad scramble writing down words and phrases. Kitchen talk has its own contractions, its own language, really. It will be assumed you’ve taken your suitcase to a scheduled destination, for reasons of departure, naturally. There’ll be quite a bit of confusion.» Alison smiled, her eyes again mischievous, as they had been before he had gone upstairs to pry loose the bugs.
«You mean, ‘Sauce béarnaise’ is really a code for submachine gun? ‘B.L.T.’ stands for ‘hit the beaches’?»
«Something like that. It’s quite possible, you know.»
«I thought that sort of thing only happened in World War Two movies. With Nazis screaming at each other, sending Panzer divisions in the wrong directions.» McAuliff looked at his watch. It was 9:15. «I have a phone call to make, and I want to go over a list of supplies with Ferguson. He’s going to—»
He stopped. Alison had reached over, her hand suddenly on his arm. «Don’t turn your head,» she commanded softly, «but I think your little buggers provoked a reaction. A man just came through the dining room entrance very rapidly, obviously looking for someone.»
«For us?»
«For you, to be precise, I’d say.»
«The kitchen codes didn’t fool them very long.»
«Perhaps not. On the other hand, it’s quite possible they’ve been keeping loose tabs on you and were double-checking. It’s too small a hotel for round-the-clock—»
«Describe him,» interrupted McAuliff. «As completely as you can. Is he still facing this way?»
«He saw you and stopped. He’s apologizing to the man on the reservations book, I think. He’s white; he’s dressed in light trousers, a dark jacket, and a white—no, a yellow shirt. He’s shorter than you by a bit, fairly chunky—»
«What?»
«You know, bulky. And middle-young, thirties, I’d say. His hair is long, not extreme, but long. It’s dark blond or light brown; it’s hard to tell in this candlelight.»
«You’ve done fine. Now I’ve got to get to a telephone.»
«Wait till he leaves; he’s looking over again,» said Alison, feigning interested, intimate laughter. «Why don’t you leer a little and signal for the check. Very casually, my darling.»
«I feel like I’m in some kind of nursery school. With the prettiest teacher in town.» Alex held up his hand, spotted the waiter, and made the customary scribble in the air. «I’ll take you to your room, then come back downstairs and call.»
«Why? Use the phone in the room. The buggers aren’t there.»
Damn! Goddamn! It had happened again; he wasn’t prepared. The little things, always the little things. They were the traps. Hammond said it over and over again … Hammond. The Savoy. Don’t make calls on the Savoy phone.
«I was told to use a pay telephone. They must have their reasons.»
«Who?»
«The Ministry. Latham … the police, of course.»
«Of course. The police.» Alison withdrew her hand from his arm as the waiter presented the bill for Alex to sign. She didn’t believe him; she made no pretense of believing him. Why should she? He was a rotten actor; he was caught… But it was preferable to an ill-phrased statement or an awkward response to Westmore Tallon over the phone while Alison watched him. And listened. He had to feel free in his conversation with the arthritic liaison; he could not have one eye, one ear on Alison as he talked. He could not take the chance that the name Chatellerault, or even a hint of the man, was heard. Alison was too quick.
«Has he left yet?»
«As you signed the check. He saw we were leaving.» Her reply was neither angry nor warm, merely neutral.
They walked out of the candlelit dining room, past the cascading arcs of green foliage into the lobby, toward the bank of elevators. Neither spoke. The ride up to their floor continued in silence, made bearable by other guests in the small enclosure.
He opened the door and repeated the precautions he had taken the previous evening—minus the scanner. He was in a hurry now; if he remembered, he would bless the room with electronic benediction later. He checked his own room and locked the connecting door from her side. He looked out on the balcony and in the bathroom. Alison stood in the corridor doorway, watching him.
He approached her. «Will you stay here until I get back?»
«Yes,» she answered simply.
He kissed her on the lips, staying close to her, he knew, longer than she expected him to; it was his message to her. «You are a lovely lady.»