«I see what you mean,» said Payton-Jones. «A policeman walking onto a roof where we’ve stationed a man wouldn’t cause any great alarm.»
«Exactly. He could kill your man and take up his position.»
«But then he isolates himself. He has no way out.»
«I’m not sure the Tinamou needs one, in the conventional sense. A taut rope into a back alley, hysterical crowds below, stairwells jammed, general pandemonium. He’s escaped under less dramatic conditions. Remember, he has more identities than a telephone directory. In Madrid I’m convinced he was one of the interrogators on the scene.»
«We’ll have two men up here, one out of sight. And four sharpshooters on adjacent rooftops.» Payton-Jones crawled away from the wall; the blond man followed. «You’ve done extraordinary work, Tennyson,» said the MI-Five agent. «You’ve unearthed five locations in something over thirty-six hours. Are you satisfied these are all?»
«Not yet. However, I’m satisfied that we’ve established the parameters. From the Savoy Court to the end of Trafalgar—somewhere in those half-dozen blocks he’ll make his move. Once the motorcade’s through the arch and into the Mall, we can breathe again. Until that moment, I’m not sure I will. Have the delegations been told?»
«Yes. Each head of state will be outfitted with chest, groin, and leg plate, as well as crowns of bulletproof plastic in their hats. The president of the United States, naturally, objected to any hat at all, and the Russian wants the plastic fitted into his fur, but otherwise we’re in good shape. The risk is minimal.»
Tennyson looked at Payton-Jones. «Do you really believe that?»
«Yes. Why?»
«I think you’re wrong. The Tinamou is no mere marksman. He’s capable of rapid-fire accuracy that would spin a shilling into figure eights at five hundred yards. An expanse of flesh beneath a hat brim is no challenge for him. He’d go for the eyes, and he wouldn’t miss.»
The Englishman glanced briefly at Tennyson. «I said the risk was minimal, not nonexistent. At the first sign of disturbance, each head of state will be covered by human shields. You’ve found five locations, so far; say there’s another five. If you find no others, we’ve still reduced his efficiency by fifty percent, and it’s a good chance—at least fifty percent—that he’ll show up at one of those uncovered. The odds are decidedly against the Tinamou. We’ll catch him. We’ve got to.»
«His capture means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?»
«As much as it does to you, Mr. Tennyson. More than any single objective in more than thirty years of service.»
The blond man nodded. «I understand. I owe this country a great deal, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. But I’ll also be profoundly relieved when that motorcade reaches Admiralty Arch.»
By three in the morning on Tuesday, Tennyson had «uncovered» two additional weapons. There were now seven in all, forming a straight line down the Strand from the Savoy Court to the rooftop at the corner of Whitehall and Trafalgar. Every location was covered by a minimum of five agents, hidden in corridors and on rooftops, rifles and handguns poised, prepared to fire at anyone who even approached the hidden weapons.
Still, Tennyson was not satisfied. «There’s something wrong,» he kept repeating to Payton-Jones. «I don’t know what it is, but something doesn’t fit.»
«You’re overworked,» said the agent in the room at the Savoy that was their base of operations. «And overwrought. You’ve done a splendid job.»
«Not splendid enough. There’s something, and I can’t put my finger on it!»
«Calm down. Look at what you have put your finger on: seven weapons. In all likelihood, that’s all there are. He’s bound to get near one of those guns, bound to betray the fact that he knows it’s there. He’s ours. Relax. We’ve got scores of men out there.»
«But something’s wrong.»
The crowds lined the Strand, the sidewalks jammed from curb to storefronts. Stanchions were placed on both sides of the street, linked by thick steel cables. The London police stood in opposing rows in front of the cables, their eyes darting continuously in every direction, their clubs unsheathed at their sides.
Beyond the police and intermingling with the crowds were over a hundred operatives of British Intelligence, many flown back from posts overseas. They were the experts Payton-Jones had insisted upon, his insurance against the master assassin who could spin a shilling into figure eights at five hundred yards. They were linked by miniature radios on an ultrahigh frequency that could neither be interfered with nor intercepted.
The operations room at the Savoy was tense, each man there an expert. Computer screens showed every yard of the gauntlet, graphs and grid marks signifying blocks and sidewalks. The screens were connected to radios outside; they showed as tiny moving dots that lit up when activated. The time was near. The motorcade was in progress.
«I’m going back down on the street,» said Tennyson, pulling out the small radio from his pocket. «I set the green arrow on the receiving position, is that correct?»
«Yes, but don’t send any messages unless you feel they’re vital,» said Payton-Jones. «Once the motorcade reaches Waterloo Bridge, everything is on five-second report intervals each fifty yards—except for emergencies, of course. Keep the channels clear.»
An agent sitting by a computer panel spoke in a loud voice. «Within five hundred feet of Waterloo, sir. Spread holding at eight MPH.»
The blond man hurried from the room. It was time to put into motion the swift moves that would destroy the Nachrichtendienst once and for all and cement the Wolfsschanze covenant.
He walked out into the Strand and looked at his watch. Within thirty seconds the man in the brown raincoat would appear in a window on the second floor of the Strand Palace Hotel. The room was 206, directly beneath the room with the weapon concealed in the mattress. It was the first move.
Tennyson glanced around for one of Payton-Jones’s specialists. They were not difficult to spot; they carried small radios identical to his. He approached an agent trying to keep his position by a storefront against the jostling crowds, a man he had purposely spoken with; he had spoken to a number of them.
«Hello, there. How are things going?»
«I beg your pardon? Oh, it’s you, sir.» The agent was watching the people within the borders of his station. He had no time for idle conversation.
An eruption of noise came from the Strand, near Waterloo Bridge. The motorcade was approaching. The crowds pushed nearer the curb, waving miniature flags. The two lines of police in the street beyond the stanchions seemed to close ranks, as if anticipating a stampede.
«Over there!» yelled Tennyson, grabbing the agent’s arm. «Up there!»
«What? Where?»
«That window! It was closed a few seconds ago!»
They could not see the man in the brown raincoat clearly, but it was obvious that a figure stood in the shadows of the room.
The agent raised his radio. «Suspect possibility. Sector One, Strand Palace Hotel, second floor, third window from south corner.»
Static preceded the reply. «That’s beneath three-zero-six. Security check immediately.»
The man in the window disappeared.
«He’s gone,» said the agent quickly.
Five seconds later another voice came over the radio. «There’s no one here. Room’s empty.»
«Sorry,» said the blond man.
«Better safe than that, sir,» said the agent.
Tennyson moved away, walking south through the crowds. He checked his watch again: twenty seconds to go. He approached another man holding a radio in his hand; he produced his own to establish the relationship.