«Thirteen? Specify. Madrid?…»
Tennyson pushed himself off the sill and back into the deserted office. It would be only seconds now. Seconds until the connection was made by Payton-Jones.
Tennyson placed the radio on the floor and knelt by the dead man. He edged the dead arm and weapon up into the open window. He listened to the excited voices over the radio.
«Sector Thirteen. East flank. Beyond the Arch to the left, heading south.»
«All agents concentrate on Sector Thirteen. East flank. Converge.»
«All personnel converging, sir. Sector—»
«Madrid!… The Government Building. It’s the Government Building.»
Now.
The blond man yanked at the dead finger four times, firing indiscriminately into the crowds near the motorcade. He could hear the screams, see the bodies fall.
«Get out. All vehicles move out. Alert One. Move out.»
The engines of the limousines roared; the cars lurched forward. The sounds of sirens filled Saint James’s Park.
Tennyson let the dead man fall back to the floor and sprang toward the doorway, the pistol in his hand. He pulled the trigger repeatedly until there were no more shells left in the chamber. The body of the dead man jerked as each new bullet hit.
The voices on the radio were now indistinguishable, He could hear the sounds of racing footsteps in the corridor.
Johann von Tiebolt walked to the wall and sank to the floor, his face drawn in exhaustion. It was the end of his performance. The Tinamou had been caught.
By the Tinamou.
33
Their final meeting took place twenty-seven and a half hours after the death of the unknown man presumed to be the Tinamou.
Since the first account of the momentous event—initially reported by the Guardian and subsequently confirmed by Downing Street—the news had electrified the world. And British Intelligence, which refused all comment on the operation other than to express gratitude to sources it would not reveal, regained the supremacy it has lost through years of defections and ineptitude.
Payton-Jones took two envelopes from his pocket and handed them to Tennyson. «These seem such inadequate compensation. The British government owes you a debt it can never repay.»
«I never sought payment,» said Tennyson, accepting the envelopes. «It’s enough that the Tinamou is gone. I assume one of these is the letter from MI Five, and the other the names pulled from the Nachrichtendienst file?»
«They are.»
«And my name has been removed from the operation?»
«It was never there. In the reports you are referred to as ‘Source Able.’ The letter, a copy of which remains in the files, states that your dossier is unblemished.»
«What about those who heard my name used over the radios?»
«Indictable under the Official Secrets Act should they reveal it. Not that it makes much difference; they heard only the name ‘Tennyson.’ There must be a dozen Tennysons under deep cover in British Intelligence, tiny one of which can be mocked up in the event it’s necessary.»
«Then I’d say our business is concluded.»
«I imagine so,» agreed Payton-Jones. «What will you do now?»
«Do? My job, of course. I’m a newspaperman. I might request a short leave of absence, however. My older sister’s effects, sadly, must be taken care of, and then I’d like a brief holiday. Switzerland, perhaps. I like to ski.»
«It’s the season for it.»
«Yes.» Tennyson paused. «I hope it won’t be necessary to have me followed any longer.»
«Of course not. Only if you request it.»
«Request it?»
«For protection.» Payton-Jones gave Tennyson a photocopy of a note. «The Tinamou was professional to the end; he tried to get rid of this, tried to swallow it. And you were right. It’s the Nachrichtendienst.»
Tennyson picked up the copy. The words were blurred but legible.
NACHRICHT. 1360.78 K. AU 23°.22°.
«What does it mean?» he asked.
«Actually, it’s rather simple,» replied the agent. «The Nachncht is obviously the Nachrichtendienst. The figure ‘1360.78 K’ is the metric equivalent of three thousand pounds, or one and a half tons. ‘Au’ is the chemical symbol for gold. The ‘23°.22°’ we believe are the map coordinates of Johannesburg. The Tinamou was being paid out of Johannesburg in gold for his work yesterday. Something in the neighborhood of three million, six hundred thousand pounds sterling, or more than seven million American dollars.»
«It’s frightening to think the Nachrichtendienst has that kind of money.»
«More frightening when one considers how it was being used.»
«You’re not going to release the information? Or the note?»
«We’d rather not. However, we realize we have no right to prevent you—especially you—from revealing it. In your Guardian story, you alluded to an unknown group of men who might have been responsible for the assassination attempt.»
«I speculated on the possibility,» corrected Tennyson, «insofar as it was the Tinamou’s pattern. He was a hired assassin, not an avenger. Did you learn anything about the man himself?»
«Virtually nothing. The only identification on him, unfortunately, was an excellent forgery of an MI-Five authorization card. His fingerprints aren’t in any files anywhere—from Washington to Moscow. His suit was off a rack; we doubt it’s English. There were no laundry marks on his underclothing, and even his raincoat, which we traced to a shop in Old Bond Street, was paid for in cash.»
«But he traveled continuously. He must have had papers.»
«We don’t know where to look. We don’t even know his nationality. The laboratories have worked around the clock for something to go on: dental work, evidence of surgery, physical marks that a computer might pick up somewhere. Anything. So far, nothing.»
«Then maybe he wasn’t the Tinamou. The only evidence is the tattoo on the back of his hand and a similar caliber of weapons. Will it be enough?»
«It is now; you can add it to your story tomorrow. The ballistics tests are irrefutable. Two of the concealed rifles that were removed, plus the one on his person, match three guns used in previous assassinations.»
Tennyson nodded. «There’s a certain comfort in that, isn’t there?»
«There certainly is.» Payton-Jones gestured at the copy of the note. «What’s your answer?»
«About what? The note?»
«The Nachrichtendienst. You brought it to us, and now it’s confirmed. It’s an extraordinary story. You unearthed it; you have every right to print it.»
«But you don’t want me to.»
«We can’t stop you.»
«On the other hand,» said the blond man, «there’s nothing to prevent you from including my name in your reports, and that’s one thing I don’t want.»
The MI-Five man cleared his throat. «Well, actually, there is something. I gave you my word, Mr. Tennyson. I’d like to think it’s good.»
«I’m sure it is, but I’m equally sure your giving it could be reappraised should the situation warrant it. If not by you, then by someone else.»
«I see no likelihood of that. You’ve dealt only with me; that was our understanding.»
«So ‘Source Able’ is anonymous. He has no identity.»
«Right. Nor is it unusual at the levels in which I negotiate. I’ve spent my life in the service. My word’s not questioned when it’s given.»
«I see.» Tennyson stood. «Why don’t you want the Nachrichtendienst identified?»
«I want time. A month or two. Time to get closer without alarming it.»
«Do you think you’ll be able to?» Tennyson pointed to one of the envelopes on the table. «Will those names help?»