«I’m one of you,» he said, half-shouting to be heard. «Things all right?»
The agent faced him. «What?» He saw the radio in Tennyson’s hand. «Oh, yes, you were at the morning’s briefing. Things are fine, sir.»
«That doorway!» Tennyson put his hand on the agent’s shoulder. «Across the street. The open doorway. You can see the staircase above the heads of the crowd. That doorway.»
«What about it? The man on the steps? The one running?»
«Yes! It’s the same man.»
«Who? What are you talking about?»
«In the hotel room. A few moments ago. It’s the same man; I know it! He was carrying a briefcase.»
The agent spoke into his radio. «Security check requested. Sector Four, west flank. Doorway adjacent to jewelry shop. Man with briefcase. Up the stairs.»
«In progress,» came the reply.
Across the Strand, Tennyson could see two men racing through the open door and up the dark steps. He looked to the left; the man in the brown raincoat was walking out of the jewelry shop into the crowd. There was a door on the first landing, normally locked—as it was locked now—that connected the two buildings.
A voice came over the radio. «No one with a briefcase on second to fifth floors. Will check roof.»
«Don’t bother,» ordered another voice. «We’re up here, and there’s no sign of anyone.»
Tennyson shrugged apologetically and moved away. He had three more alarms to raise as the motorcade made its stately way down the Strand. The last of these would cause the lead vehicle to stop, clearance required before it continued toward Trafalgar. This final alarm would be raised by him. It would precede the chaos.
The first two happened rapidly, within three minutes of each other. The man in the brown raincoat was adhering to his tight schedule with precision and subtle execution. Not once as he maneuvered his way swiftly into Trafalgar Square was he stopped by a member of British Intelligence. Across his chest were strapped two cameras and a light meter, all dangling precariously as this «tourist» tried to find the best vantage points from which to record his moment in history.
Alarm One. An arm was grabbed; an arm whose hand held a radio.
«That scaffold! Up there!»
«Where?»
The entire side of a building opposite Charing Cross Station was in the middle of reconstruction. People had scaled the pipes; they were cheering and whistling as the international motorcade came into view.
«Up on the right. He went behind the plywood!»
«Who, sir?»
«The man in the hotel, on those steps in the doorway! The briefcase!»
«Security check. Sector Seven. Man on construction scaffold. With a briefcase.»
Static. An eruption of voices.
«We’re all over the scaffolds, mate.»
«No one here with a briefcase!»
«Dozens of cameras. No briefcases, or luggage of any sort.»
«The plywood on the second level!»
«Man was changing film, mate. He’s climbing down. No bird.»
«I’m sorry.»
«You gave us a start, sir.»
«My apologies.»
Alarm Two. Tennyson showed a policeman his temporary MI-Five identification and rushed across the intersection into a packed Trafalgar Square.
«The lions! My God, the lions!»
The agent—one of those Tennyson had spoken to during the morning’s briefing—stared at the base of the Lord Nelson monument. Scores of onlookers were perched on the lions surrounding the towering symbol of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar.
«What, sir?»
«He’s there again! The man on the scaffold!»
«I heard that report just moments ago,» said the agent. «Where is he?»
«He went behind the lion on the right. It’s not a briefcase. It’s a leather bag, but it’s too large for a camera! Can’t you see? It’s too large for a camera!»
The agent did not hesitate; the radio was at his lips. «Security check. Sector Nine. North cat. Man with large leather bag.»
The static crackled; two voices rode over each other.
«Man with two cameras, larger one at his feet…»
«Man checking light meter, corresponds… See no danger; no bird here.»
«Man descending, setting camera focus. No bird.»
The MI-Five agent glanced at Tennyson, then looked away, his eyes scanning the crowds.
The moment had come. The start of the final alarm, the beginning of the end of the Nachrichtendienst.
«You’re wrong!» shouted Tennyson furiously. «You’re all wrong! Every one of you!»
«What?»
The blond man ran as best he could, threading his way through the packed square toward the curbside, the radio next to his ear. He could hear excited voices commenting upon his outburst.
«He’s mad as hell!»
«He says we’re wrong.»
«About what?»
«Have no idea.»
«He ran.»
«Where?»
«I don’t know. I can’t see him.»
Tennyson reached the iron fence that bordered the monument. He could see his colleague—the Tinamou’s apprentice—dashing across the street, toward the arch. The man in the raincoat held a small black plastic case in his hand. The identification card inside was an exact replica of the one in Tennyson’s pocket, except that the photograph was different.
Now!
The blond man pressed the button and shouted into the radio.
«It’s him! I know it!»
«Who’s that?»
«Respond.»
«It’s from Sector Ten.»
«I understand now! I see what it was that didn’t fit.»
«Is that you, Tennyson?» Payton-Jones’s voice.
«Yes!»
«Where are you?»
«That’s it! Now I see it.»
«See what? Tennyson, is that you? What’s the matter! Respond.»
«It’s so clear now! That’s where we made our mistake! It’s not going to happen when we thought it would—where we thought it would.»
«What are you talking about? Where are you?»
«We were wrong; don’t you see? The weapons. The seven locations. They were meant to be found! That’s what didn’t fit!»
«What?… Push the red button, Tennyson. Clear all channels… What didn’t fit?»
«The hiding of the weapons. It wasn’t good enough. We found them too easily.»
«For God’s sake, what are you trying to say?»
«I’m not sure yet,» replied Tennyson, walking toward an opening in the gate. «I just know those weapons were meant to be found. It’s in the progression!»
«What progression? Push the red button. Where are you?»
«Somewhere between Sector Ten and back toward Nine,» intruded another voice. «West flank. In Trafalgar.»
«The progression from one weapon to another!» shouted Tennyson. «Going from east to west! As each position is passed, we eliminate it. We shouldn’t! They’re open limousines!»
«What do you mean?»
«Stop the motorcade! In the name of all that’s holy, stop it!»
«Stop the motorcade!… The command’s been relayed. Now, where are you?»
The blond man crouched; two MI-Five men passed within feet of him. «I think I’ve spotted him! The man on the scaffold! In the doorway. In the hotel window. It’s him! He’s doubling back; he’s running now!»
«Describe him. For God’s sake, describe the man.»
«He’s wearing a jacket. A brown checked jacket.»
«All operatives alert. Pick up man in brown checked jacket. Running north past Sector Nine, Eight, and Seven. West flank.»