“You see,” he said, “you see? I just knew if I left you alone you’d get lost again.”
“I’m not lost,” replied Witch crisply. “I was checking the time of Wednesday’s meeting.” Then she bit her lip. Risk, risk, risk.
Folded-arms looked both delighted and amazed. “What? The four-fifteen? But I’m going to that. Are you going to be there, too?”
She shook her head. “The ten o’clock.”
“Pity,” he said. “Still, we must have coffee afterwards. What do you say?”
“Great.”
“My name’s Jack by the way. Jack Blishen.”
“Christine,” she said. She shook the proffered hand. Afterwards, he held on to her hand just a little too long, his eyes wolfing her. She managed a smile throughout.
“Room two-twenty-six,” he said.
“Two-twenty-six,” she repeated, nodding.
“Have you time for a drink just now? Canteen’s —”
“No, really. I’ve got to get back. There are some papers I forgot to bring.”
“Dear, oh dear, not very bright today, are we?”
“Monday morning,” she explained.
“You don’t need to tell me, love,” he said, grinning with wolf’s teeth. Witch had an image of herself ramming the heel of her hand into his nose, thrusting upwards, of bone and cartilage piercing the brain. It took no more than a second. She blinked the image away. Or slice his fat gut open. She blinked again.
“You haven’t seen Madam yet, then?” he was saying.
“Madam?”
“Spurrier.”
“No, not yet.”
“I shouldn’t bother if I were you. Not unless you’re bringing her good news. She’s brutal, Christine, believe me. Have you met her before?”
“No.”
He sucked in his breath. “Careful how you go, then. She’ll tear your throat out. I’ve seen her do it.”
“Look, sorry, Jack, but I really must...”
“Sure, don’t mind me. Spurrier’s not so bad really. I was exaggerating. Didn’t mean to... here, I’ll walk you back to the lift.”
“Thank you,” she said. Then he put his hand on her shoulder, and she felt a fresh wave of revulsion. Fight it, she thought to herself. Fight it. She had to be strong for her meeting with the Dutchman. She had to look strong, more than strong — invincible. She had to keep him fooled. By Wednesday at the latest, nothing would matter anymore. She clung to that thought, pulled it to her, embraced it the way the secretaries had embraced their cardboard files. Two more days at most. She would last. She would.
She had to.
There were times when the Dutchman subscribed to the notion that “public was private.” In London, he certainly subscribed to it. What was suspicious about two people having a lunchtime drink in a Covent Garden pub, crammed with other people doing exactly the same thing? Answer: nothing. What was suspicious about two people meeting clandestinely in some locked room or on some tract of wasteland? Answer: everything.
So it was that he had arranged the meeting in Covent Garden, just outside the tube station entrance in James Street. So it was that he took her into the heart of Covent Garden itself, past the piazza with its jugglers and musicians, past the racks and the stalls with their glittering clothes and jewelry, and down some stairs to a wine bar. Witch eventually balked when he suggested they sit at a table outside. People on the level above could lean on the guardrails and watch them, as they were watching the other people at the tables.
“I’d feel like an animal in a zoo,” she spat.
“And which animal would you be?” the Dutchman asked wryly.
She considered this, thinking of Jack Blishen, but did not answer. The Dutchman patted her back as he ushered her through the doors of the bar and into cool gloom. They found a table in a quiet corner.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked, expecting her to say orange juice or mineral water or...
“Chablis or Meursault, very cold.”
“Sure,” he said. “Just the glass, or a whole bottle?”
“Are you having some?”
“It sounds good.”
“Better make it a bottle, then.”
The Dutchman went off to the bar. “Yes, sir?” asked the barman.
“A bottle of Chablis, please. Chilled.”
“Of course, sir.” The barman stared at him as though he had taken “chilled” as a snub of sorts. The Dutchman took a twenty-pound note from his wallet. He was in a mood of nervous excitement. He knew the feeling well, and loved it. The feeling got even better afterwards, after a successful operation. So far this was a successful operation, but it was all out of his hands now, or nearly so. The initial planning, the various and copious briefings, all but one of them by mail, the heaping up of necessary and unnecessary detail, the contact with Crane... Ah, the contact with Crane. That had been sublime, almost as though fate were in charge. He’d seen the advert in a newspaper, advertising the boat Cassandra Christa for sale. He’d made inquiries of the boat’s owner. He’d found in Crane the perfect fool. These were his successes. These were what he was being paid for. Not even he knew who was actually doing the paying. Anonymity all round. What did the British say? No names, no pack drill.
“Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you.” He handed over the note, then, when the barman’s back was turned, touched the side of the bottle with his palm. It was cold. He ran a finger down the condensation.
“Your change, sir. And how many glasses?”
The Dutchman accepted the change. “Two glasses,” he said. At that moment the waiter who was managing the outside tables came into the bar. He leaned his elbows on the bartop, as though wilting with exhaustion.
“With you in a second, Terry,” said the barman, reaching into the rack above him for two long-stemmed glasses.
“Hectic?” the Dutchman asked the waiter.
“As usual,” he replied.
“There you go, sir, two glasses.”
“Many thanks.”
The Dutchman headed off with his bottle and his glasses. When he’d rounded the corner of a stone wall, the barman and waiter stopped staring at him and looked at one another instead.
“Looks like him,” said the barman.
The waiter nodded. “Foreign, too, just like Charlie said.”
The barman lifted a telephone from beneath the bar, picked up the receiver, took a scrap of paper from his back trousers pocket, and started to dial, reading the number from the note.
“Can’t you do that after?” complained the waiter. “I’ve a big order here. Look like good tippers.”
“Don’t worry, Terry. I’ll give you a tip personally if this comes good.” The barman listened to the dialing tone. “Nobody at home,” he muttered. “Trust Char— Hello? Who’s that? What? Christ! Hello, Chris. Where you working? Yeah, I know it, up Charing Cross Road. Used to be a good pub.” He listened, laughed. “All right, all right, still is a good pub, especially now you’re there. Listen, is Charlie Giltrap there?” His face darkened. “Oh, that’s a pity. He wanted me to look out for — Oh, great, can I have a word?” The barman put his hand over the mouthpiece. “He’s just walked in,” he told the waiter. “Talk about luck.”
“Yeah, and my customers’ll be walking out at this rate.”
The barman held up his hand for silence. The waiter turned as three new customers came in through the front door. “Hello, Charlie? Andy here. Fine, listen, got to make this quick. You know I was to keep a lookout for a likely lad? Got one here.” He stared towards the corner around which the Dutchman had disappeared. “Yeah, fits the bill, Charlie. He’s here just now. Right, cheers.” He put down the receiver and tucked the phone back beneath the bar. “Now then, Terry, what’s the order?”