The Holcroft Covenant (47 page)

Payton-Jones sat forward, his hands on the table. “That complicates things. Standard protective measures concentrate on a single location. Which of half a hundred possibilities is the most likely? The assumption is that the killer will have stationed himself in one location. The strategy you describe adds another dimension: instant mobility. Not a single preset hiding place, but several, selected at any given moment.”

“Within a given time span,” finished the blond-haired man. “But as I mentioned, we have an advantage. We know he’s there. There’s also a second advantage, and it’s one we should use immediately.” Tennyson stopped.

“What is it?”

“I’ll qualify that statement. We should use it only if we agree that the capture of the Tinamou is almost as vital as the ultimate safety of his targets.”

The Englishman frowned. “That’s a rather dangerous thing to say. There can be no risks—calculated or otherwise—where those men are concerned. Not on British soil.”

“Hear me out, please. He’s killed political leaders before, spreading suspicion, arousing hostilities between governments. And always steadier heads have prevailed; they’ve cooled things off. But the Tinamou must be stopped, on the outside chance that one day the
steadier heads will not be swift enough. I think we can stop him now, if all consent.”

“Consent to what?”

“To adhering to published schedules. Bring the leaders of the delegations together; tell them what you know. Tell them that extraordinary precautions will be mounted, but by keeping to schedules, there’s a good chance that the Tinamou will at last be caught.” Tennyson paused and leaned over the chair, his hands on the rim. “I think if you’re honest, no one will disagree. After all, it’s not much more than what political leaders face every day.”

The frown on the MI-Five man’s face disappeared. “And no one will want to be called a coward. Now, what’s this second advantage?”

“The Tinamou’s technique requires him to preset concealed weapons in a number of locations. To do that, he must begin days, perhaps weeks, before the designated assassination. He’s no doubt begun already here in London. I suggest we start a very quiet but thorough search, staking out those areas that conform to the published reports of the summit’s schedule.”

Payton-Jones brought his hands together in a gesture of agreement. “Of course. We need only find one and we have not only the general location but the time span.”

“Exactly. We’ll know that within a given number of minutes, during a specific event at a precise area, the assassination will be attempted.” Again the blond man paused. “I’d like to help in that search. I know what to look for, and, perhaps more important, where not to look. We haven’t much time.”

“Your offer’s appreciated, sir,” said the Englishman. “MI Five is grateful. Shall we begin tonight?”

“Let’s give him one more day to set his guns. It’ll increase our chances of finding something. Also, I’ll need an innocuous sort of uniform and a permit that identifies me as ‘building inspector,’ or some such title.”

“Very good,” said Payton-Jones. “I’m embarrassed to say we have a photograph of you on file; we’ll use it for the permit I’d guess you are a size forty-four, trousers long, waist thirty-three or -four.”

“Close enough. A civil-service uniform should hardly be tailored.”

“Quite so. We’ll take care of both items in the
morning.” Payton-Jones got up. “You said you had one more request.”

“I do. Since I left Brazil, I’ve not owned a weapon. I’m not even sure it’s permitted, but I should like to have one now. Only for the duration of the summit, of course.”

“I’ll have one issued to you.”

“That would need my signature, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me, but I meant what I said before. As I want no credit for what I’ve brought you, I feel equally strongly about having my name listed anywhere as an associate of MI Five. I wouldn’t want anyone to know the nature of my contributions. My name on a weapon’s file card could lead a curious person to the truth. Someone, perhaps, connected to the Nachrichtendienst.”

“I see.” The Englishman unbuttoned the jacket of his suit coat and reached inside. “This is highly irregular, but so are the circumstances.” He withdrew a small, short-barreled revolver and handed it to Tennyson. “Since we both know the source, take mine. I’ll list it out for overhaul and have it replaced.”

“Thank you,” said the blond man, holding the weapon as if it were an unfamiliar object.

Tennyson entered a crowded pub off Soho Square. He scanned the room through the heavy layers of smoke and saw what he was looking for: a hand raised by a man at a table in the far corner. The man, as always, wore a brown raincoat made specifically for him. It looked like any other raincoat; the difference was found in the additional pockets and straps that often contained various handguns, silencers, and explosives. He had been trained by the Tinamou, trained so well that he often performed services contracted by the assassin when the Tinamou was unavailable.

His last assignment had been at Kennedy Airport during a rainswept night when a cordon of police surrounded the glistening fuselage of a British Airways 747. He had found his quarry in a fuel truck. He had done his job.

John Tennyson carried his pint to the table and joined the man in the brown raincoat. The table was round and small; the chairs were so close together that their heads were only inches apart, allowing both men to keep their voices low.

“Is everything placed?” asked the blond man.

“Yes,” replied his companion. “The motorcade goes west on the Strand, around Trafalgar Square, through the gates of Admiralty Arch, and into the Mall toward the palace. There are seven locations.”

“Give me the sequence.”

“From east to west, in order of progression, we start at the Strand Palace Hotel, opposite Savoy Court. Third floor, room three-zero-six. Automatic repeating rifle and scope are sewn into the mattress of the bed nearest the window. A block west, east side, fourth floor, the men’s room of an accounting firm. The weapon is in the ceiling, above the tile to the left of the fluorescent light. Directly across the street, again on the fourth floor —there’s a penny arcade on the first—the offices of a typing service. Rule and scope are strapped to the undercarriage of a photocopier. Moving on toward Trafalgar …”

The man in the brown raincoat went through the locations of the remaining caches of weapons. They were within a stretch of approximately half a mile, from Savoy Court to Admiralty Arch.

“Excellent choices,” said Tennyson, pushing the untouched pint of beer away. “You understand your moves fully?”

“I know what they are; I can’t say I understand them.”

“That’s not really necessary, is it?” asked the blond man.

“Of course not; but I’m thinking of you. If you’re hemmed in, or blocked, I could do the job. From any of the locations. Why not give me one?”

“Even you’re not qualified for this. There can be no room whatsoever for the slightest error. A single misplaced bullet would be disastrous.”

“May I remind you, I was trained by the best there is.”

Tennyson smiled. “You’re right. Very well. Make the moves I gave you and position yourself in an eighth location. Choose a room in the Government Building, beyond Admiralty Arch, and let me know which. Can you do that?”

“Ducks in a gallery,” replied the man, lifting his pint
of beer to his lips. Tennyson could see the tattoo of a red rose on the back of his right hand.

“May I make a suggestion?” asked John Tennyson.

“Of course, what is it?”

“Wear gloves,” said the Tinamou.

The blond man opened the door and reached for the light switch on the wall; two table lamps went on in the hotel room marked 306. He motioned for his middle-aged companion to follow him inside.

“It’s all right,” said Tennyson. “Even if the room is being watched, the curtains are drawn, and the hour corresponds to the time the maids turn down the beds. Over here.”

Payton-Jones kept pace as Tennyson took a miniature metal-detector from his overcoat pocket. He touched the button, holding the device over the bed. The tiny hum grew louder; the needle on the dial jumped to the right.

Carefully, he folded back the covers and undid the sheets. “It’s there. You can feel the outlines,” he said, pressing his fingers into the mattress.

“Remarkable,” said Payton-Jones. “And the room has been leased for ten days?”

“By telegraph and postal money order, originating in Paris. The name is Le Fèvre, a meaningless pseudonym. No one’s been here.”

“It’s there all right.” Payton-Jones removed his hands from the bed.

“I can make out the rifle,” said Tennyson, “but what’s the other object?”

“A telescopic sight,” replied the Englishman. “We’ll leave everything intact and post men in the corridor.”

“The next location is down the street, in the lavatory of an accounting firm on the fourth floor. The gun’s in the ceiling, wired to a suspension rod above a fluorescent light.”

“Let’s go,” said Payton-Jones.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, the two men were on the roof of a building overlooking Trafalgar Square. Both knelt by the short wall that bordered the
edge. Below was the route the summit motorcade would take on its way through Admiralty Arch and into the Mall.

“The fact that the Tinamou would put a weapon here,” said Tennyson, his hand on the tar paper that bulged slightly next to the wall, “makes me think he’ll be wearing a police uniform.”

“I see what you mean,” said Payton-Jones. “A policeman walking onto a roof where we’ve stationed a man wouldn’t cause any great alarm.”

“Exactly. He could kill your man and take up his position.”

“But then he isolates himself. He has no way out.”

“I’m not sure the Tinamou needs one, in the conventional sense. A taut rope into a back alley, hysterical crowds below, stairwells jammed, general pandemonium. He’s escaped under less dramatic conditions. Remember, he has more identities than a telephone directory. In Madrid I’m convinced he was one of the interrogators on the scene.”

“We’ll have two men up here, one out of sight. And four sharpshooters on adjacent rooftops.” Payton-Jones crawled away from the wall; the blond man followed. “You’ve done extraordinary work, Tennyson,” said the MI-Five agent. “You’ve unearthed five locations in something over thirty-six hours. Are you satisfied these are all?”

“Not yet. However, I’m satisfied that we’ve established the parameters. From the Savoy Court to the end of Trafalgar—somewhere in those half-dozen blocks he’ll make his move. Once the motorcade’s through the arch and into the Mall, we can breathe again. Until that moment, I’m not sure I will. Have the delegations been told?”

“Yes. Each head of state will be outfitted with chest, groin, and leg plate, as well as crowns of bulletproof plastic in their hats. The president of the United States, naturally, objected to any hat at all, and the Russian wants the plastic fitted into his fur, but otherwise we’re in good shape. The risk is minimal.”

Tennyson looked at Payton-Jones. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I think you’re wrong. The Tinamou is no mere
marksman. He’s capable of rapid-fire accuracy that would spin a shilling into figure eights at five hundred yards. An expanse of flesh beneath a hat brim is no challenge for him. He’d go for the eyes, and he wouldn’t miss.”

The Englishman glanced briefly at Tennyson. “I said the risk was minimal, not nonexistent. At the first sign of disturbance, each head of state will be covered by human shields. You’ve found five locations, so far; say there’s another five. If you find no others, we’ve still reduced his efficiency by fifty percent, and it’s a good chance—at least fifty percent—that hell show up at one of those uncovered. The odds are decidedly against the Tinamou. We’ll catch him. We’ve
got
to.”

“His capture means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”

“As much as it does to you, Mr. Tennyson. More than any single objective in more than thirty years of service.”

The blond man nodded. “I understand. I owe this country a great deal, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. But I’ll also be profoundly relieved when that motorcade reaches Admiralty Arch.”

By three in the morning on Tuesday, Tennyson had “uncovered” two additional weapons. There were now seven in all, forming a straight line down the Strand from the Savoy Court to the rooftop at the corner of Whitehall and Trafalgar. Every location was covered by a minimum of five agents, hidden in corridors and on rooftops, rifles and handguns poised, prepared to fire at anyone who even approached the hidden weapons.

Still, Tennyson was not satisfied. “There’s something
wrong
,” he kept repeating to Payton-Jones. “I don’t know what it is, but something doesn’t fit.”

“You’re overworked,” said the agent in the room at the Savoy that was their base of operations. “And overwrought. You’ve done a splendid job.”

“Not splendid enough. There’s
something
, and I can’t put my finger on it!”

“Calm down. Look at what you
have
put your finger on: seven weapons. In all likelihood, that’s all there are. He’s bound to get near one of those guns, bound to betray the fact that he knows it’s there. He’s ours. Relax. We’ve got scores of men out there.”

“But something’s
wrong
.”

*  *  *

The crowds lined the Strand, the sidewalks jammed from curb to storefronts. Stanchions were placed on both sides of the street, linked by thick steel cables. The London police stood in opposing rows in front of the cables, their eyes darting continuously in every direction, their clubs unsheathed at their sides.

Beyond the police and intermingling with the crowds were over a hundred operatives of British Intelligence, many flown back from posts overseas. They were the experts Payton-Jones had insisted upon, his insurance against the master assassin who could spin a shilling into figure eights at five hundred yards. They were linked by miniature radios on an ultrahigh frequency that could neither be interfered with nor intercepted.