«It has to be another weapon! A weapon we never found. He’s going to fire from behind! Distance is nothing to him. He’ll hit the back of a neck from a thousand yards! Start the motorcade up again! Quickly!»
«Vehicle One, proceed. Operatives mount trunks of all cars. Protect targets from rear fire.»
«He’s stopped!»
«Tennyson, where are you? Give us your location.»
«Still between Sectors Nine and Ten, sir,» a voice intruded.
«He’s not wearing the jacket now, but it’s the same man! He’s running across the Strand!»
«Where?»
«There’s no one crossing in Sector Eight.»
«Sector Nine?»
«No one, sir.»
«Back farther! Behind the motorcade!»
«Sector Five reporting. Police have relaxed the lines…»
«Tighten them. Get everyone out of the street. Tennyson, what’s he wearing? Describe him.»
The blond man was silent; he walked through the square for a distance of twenty yards, then brought the radio to his lips again. «He’s in a brown raincoat. He’s heading back toward Trafalgar Square.»
«Sector Eight, sir. Transmission in Sector Eight.»
Tennyson switched off the radio, shoved it into his pocket, and ran back to the iron fence. The motorcade had reached Charing Cross, perhaps four hundred yards away. The timing was perfect. The Tinamou’s timing was always perfect.
The man in the brown raincoat positioned himself in a deserted office of the Government Building beyond Admiralty Park, a room commandeered by the bogus MI-Five identification card. The card was a license; no one argued with it, not today. The line of fire from that room to the motorcade was difficult, but it was no problem for one trained by the Tinamou.
Tennyson leaped over the iron fence and raced diagonally across Trafalgar Square toward Admiralty Arch. Two police officers stopped him, their clubs raised in unison; the motorcade was three hundred yards away.
«This is an emergency!» shouted the blond man, showing his identification. «Check your radios! MI-Five frequency, Savoy operations. I’ve got to get to the Government Building!»
The police were confused. «Sorry, sir. We don’t have radios.»
«Then get them!» yelled Tennyson, rushing past.
At the Arch, he activated his radio. «It’s the Mall! Once the motorcade’s through the Arch, stop all vehicles. He’s in the trees!»
«Tennyson, where are you?»
«Sector Twelve, sir. He’s in Sector Twelve. East flank.»
«Relay his instructions. Quickly, for God’s sake.»
Tennyson switched off the radio, put it in his pocket, and continued through the crowds. He entered the Mall and turned left, racing across the path to the first doorway of the Government Building. Two uniformed guards blocked him; he produced the MI-Five card.
«Oh yes, sir,» said the guard on the left. «Your team’s on the second floor. I’m not sure which office.»
«I am,» said the blond man as he ran toward the staircase. The cheers in Trafalgar Square mounted; the motorcade approached Admiralty Arch.
He took the steps three at a time, crashing the corridor door open on the second floor, pausing in the hallway to shift his gun from his pocket to his belt. He walked swiftly to the second door on the left. There was no point in trying to open it; it was locked. Yet to break it down without warning was to ask for a bullet in his head.
«Es ist Von Tiebolt!» he shouted. «Bleib beim Fenster!»
«Herein!» was the reply.
Tennyson angled his shoulder, rushed forward, and slammed his body against the fragile door; the door flew open, revealing the man in the raincoat, crouched in front of the window, a long-barreled rifle in his hands. His hands were encased in sheer, flesh-colored gloves.
«Johann?»
«They found everything,» said the blond man. «Every weapon, every location!»
«Impossible!» yelled the man in the raincoat. «One or two, perhaps. Not all!»
«Every one,» said Tennyson, kneeling behind the man in front of the window. The advance-security car had passed through Admiralty Arch; they would see the first limousine in seconds. The cheers from the crowds lining the Mall swelled like a mammoth chorus. «Give me the rifle!» Tennyson said. «Is the sight calibrated?»
«Of course,» said the man, handing over the weapon.
Tennyson thrust his left hand through the strap, lashing it taut, then raised the rifle to his shoulder, the telescopic sight to his eye. The first limousine moved into the light-green circle, the prime minister of Great Britain in the cross hairs. Tennyson moved the rifle slightly; the smiling face of the president of the United States was now in the gunsight, the cross hairs bisecting the American’s left temple. Tennyson shifted the weapon back and forth. It was important for him to know that with two squeezes of the trigger he could eliminate them both.
A third limousine came slowly into the green circle. The chairman of the People’s Republic of China was in the gunsight, the cross hairs centered below the visor of his peasant’s cap. A slight pressure against the trigger would blow the man’s head apart.
«What are you waiting for?» asked the Tinamou’s apprentice.
«I’m making my decision,» replied Tennyson. «Time is relative. Half seconds become half hours.» The fourth limousine was there now, the premier of the Soviet Union in the lethal green circle.
The exercise was over. In his mind he had done it. The transition between desire and the reality was minor. It would have been so simple to pull the trigger.
But this was not the way to destroy the Nachrichtendienst. The killing would come later; it would commence in a matter of weeks and continue for a matter of weeks. It was part of the Wolfsschanze covenant, an intrinsic part. So many of the leaders would die. But not now, not this afternoon.
The motorcade stopped; Payton-Jones had relayed Tennyson’s instructions. No limousine entered the Mall. Dozens of agents began fanning out over the grass, guns drawn but held unobtrusively as they raced through the foliage, their eyes on the trees.
Tennyson held the rifle in the grip of his left hand, the strap taut from barrel to shoulder. He removed his finger from the trigger housing and lowered his right hand to his wrist, pulling the revolver from his belt.
«Now, Johann! They’ve stopped,» whispered the apprentice. «Now, or they’ll start up again. You’ll lose them!»
«Yes, now,» said Tennyson softly, turning to the man crouched beside him. «And I lose nothing.»
He fired the gun, the explosion echoing through the deserted office. The man spun wildly off his feet, blood erupting from his forehead. He fell to the floor, his eyes wide and staring.
It was doubtful that the gunshot was heard for any distance over the noise of the outside crowds, but it didn’t really matter. In seconds there’d be gunfire no one would miss. Tennyson sprang to his feet, removed the rifle from his arm, and took a folded slip of paper from his pocket. He knelt beside the dead man and shoved the paper into the bloodied, lifeless mouth, pushing it as far as he could down the throat.
Strapping the weapon back on its owner’s arm, he dragged the body over to the window. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped the rifle clean and forced the dead fingers into the trigger housing, tearing the fabric of the right-hand glove so he could see the tattoo.
Now.
He took out the radio and leaned out the window.
«I think I’ve spotted him! It’s the same as Madrid. That’s it! Madrid!»
«Madrid? Tennyson, where—»
«Sector Thirteen, sir. East flank.»