Dick was very much the man’s name, reflected Charlie. ‘Richard,’ he said. ‘One of the best.’
‘I thought you said “fucking Harkness” that day at the embassy,’ accused Cummings.
‘Joke!’ said Charlie. ‘You don’t really think I’d call the Deputy Director that, do you?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Cummings. ‘You will be careful of it, won’t you?’
‘Look after it like it was my own,’ assured Charlie.
He escorted Cummings up to the room at the Beau-Rivage and actually ordered a bottle of whisky, taking a quick nip himself, and said: ‘OK. Just wait for my call.’
‘How long?’ asked Cummings.
There was no way he could make the assessment because he had no idea what was going to happen, Charlie accepted. ‘The formal session starts at noon tomorrow,’ said Charlie. ‘If you haven’t heard from me by eleven-thirty, press every button you can find.’
‘I should know where you’re going to be.’
‘The hotel where the Palestinians are staying, off the Barthelemy-Menn.’
‘How do you know you’ll get a room!’ said Cummings, clerk-like.
‘One of their guests is in hospital, with his balls in a bandage,’ said Charlie, confidently.
It was almost midnight when Charlie approached the night desk. As he signed in Charlie said casually: ‘Too late to call Miss Nabulsi tonight, I suppose? Two-oh-eight, isn’t it?’
‘Three forty-nine,’ corrected the night clerk, turning to check the key on the hook. ‘She appears to be in her room.’
‘I’ll wait until tomorrow,’ said Charlie. ‘What time does she usually leave?’
‘Depends,’ said the man, consulting a ledger. ‘But tomorrow she’s booked a call for six.’
‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, surprised how easy it often was with just a little bit of knowledge. And then thinking in immediate contradiction that it was about time things became easier. Charlie didn’t bother to undress, just to remove his Hush Puppies to stretch his feet out before him on top of the bed, his back supported against the headboard. Should he have told the others, instead of trying to go it alone? he wondered, in rare second thoughts. No, he decided, in immediate reply. Time enough to bring them in if there were no contact and he was wasting his time: the fail-safe was established with Cummings, after all.
Charlie left the hotel at five-thirty, using the fire exit on the ground floor to avoid the informative clerk of the previous night, shivering in the early morning mist that spilled over from the lake to cloak everything in wet, clinging greyness. To have started the engine to get the heater working would have created tell-tale steam from the exhaust so he remained hunched in the front seat, arms wrapped around himself, occasionally leaning forward to clear the condensation from the window so that his observation of the hotel was unobstructed.
‘Hurry up, my love,’ Charlie said in the empty car. ‘It’s bloody freezing!’
It was as if she had heard him. Sulafeh Nabulsi left the hotel precisely at six-thirty, hurrying down the step and setting off in the direction of the Avenue de la Roseraire with her head deep into the collar of a yellow topcoat, which Charlie isolated immediately as a marker. He waited until she had almost reached the junction before starting the car and edging forward, switching the heater on to full before the engine was really warm enough.
He reached the connection just in time to see her entering an early morning taxi, which took off towards the l’Arve river, and Charlie let the distance increase between them because the roads were practically deserted, making him too obvious. The taxi made a right turn on to the Rue de l’Aubepine, heading into the centre of the town, and Charlie let a newspaper delivery van intervene between them, head craned to his left to keep her vehicle in view around the obstruction.
Charlie was alerted to its stopping just before the sweep of the Carrefour Pont d’Arve by the sudden glare of brake lights and managed to halt with Cummings’s car still hidden by the van. As he hurried forward Charlie passed a sign warning that parking was prohibited at all times and said softly: ‘Sorry, mate.’
Charlie paced himself about one hundred yards behind the woman, grateful that the city was gradually awakening around them and that the streets were becoming fuller. The yellow coat was very visible and in the better, growing light he saw that she carried a large, briefcase-type bag slung from her shoulder by a looped strap.
He had to close up when he saw the size of the junction, nervous of losing her at the controlled crossings of the converging streets, able to let the gap grow again when she regained the Avenue Henri Dunant. Sulafeh started obviously to try to clear her trail when she reached the cluster of cross streets. It was amateurish and caused Charlie no problems whatsoever. Rather, it pleased him because he immediately saw it as the confirmation that he’d got it right and that she was heading for some encounter that should not be taking place. Always, despite the dodging, she continued north, either on the Dunant avenue or the parallel Rue Defour. Charlie felt the first twinge of protest from his feet and winced, knowing it would get worse: it always did.
She did something clever that he did not expect when they reached the river, going down the Quai Motrices but then suddenly doubling back upon herself. Had he not been one hundred yards behind, sure of her from the coat, they would have come practically face to face and he would have had to continue on, risking her getting away. As it was, he was able to pull into a news-stand on the corner and study the selection until she unknowingly passed him. She seemed to stop bothering after the manoeuvre, striding across the Coulouvreniere bridge and going immediately right, when she reached the quai.
Charlie guessed at the Rhône Hotel before she entered it, hurrying so that he was only twenty yards behind when she went through the doors. It meant he was too late to see Zenin place the package containing the Browning into her briefcase.
‘Any change?’ said the Russian.
‘No.’
From the perfect concealment of the telephone box into which he had pulled Charlie made the immediate identification from the Primrose Hill photograph. Got you, you bastard, he thought. Charlie was reaching out for the receiver to alert Cummings when he realized the man was making his way out of the hotel. It would have to be later, Charlie decided.
They had made love before Giles got up and Barbara lay languorously in bed, still warm from it, watching him dress. She said: ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with the boat trip after all. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘They’re televizing part of the ceremony live,’ said Giles. ‘Why don’t you watch?’
‘I might,’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-five
Charlie thought many things, all too quickly, the immediate predominant reaction being that the bastard had beaten him; then came the realization that he was up against an absolute professional, which he supposed he’d always known but which had been put out of his mind by the euphoria of actually finding the Russian.
From the Rhône Hotel Zenin strode directly across the quai to where the lake cruise boats were assembled, like bustling ducks at feeding time. Charlie, as far behind as he felt it safe to risk, saw the man appear to study the posters setting out the various trips and then board the leading cruiser, a shiny blue double decker. At the top of the steps he turned at once, leaning on the rail and gazing back on to the quayside.
‘Shit,’ muttered Charlie, in reluctant admiration. The position meant the Russian had a complete view of everyone boarding – and possibly following – behind him. And he was studying everyone, Charlie saw. And who studied back, in return, covering himself as best he could by pretending to read a restaurant menu displayed in a glass case, about twenty yards away. The physical description that the experts had created from those snatched photographs was very accurate. So, too, was the impression of the immigration official at London airport: the Russian appeared to hold himself in readiness, a very fit man, tensed always to move. The face, which Charlie could see for the first time, was dark skinned – like the picture had recorded – but lean and narrow, which it hadn’t. The skin seemed stretched over high cheekbones beneath the jet black hair he’d known about.