Lang's hands once he relinquished his death grip on the arm rests.
As anticipated, there were neither customs nor immigration facilities. Within minutes, Lang and Gurt were handing their bags to a smiling cabby for storage in the boot of his shiny black Austin Motors taxi. Lang gave him the destination, thankful London cab drivers were not only required to speak English but also to possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the city.
It might have been April in Italy, but winter was reluctant to release its hold on England. The sky was the color of the bottom of a cookie sheet, with burned spots for clouds. The cab's wiper moaned across wet glass as they headed for the West End.
London had not been a favorite of Dawn's. That had been largely Lang's fault. He had brought her there for Christmas with visions of a Dickensesque holiday, complete with fresh snow, plum pudding and yule logs. Instead they got fog, darkness at three-thirty in the afternoon, and runny noses from a cold induced by their hotel's archaic heating system.
Even the Victorian opulence of one of the Savoy's River Suites, exquisitely furnished and oval shaped, could not compensate for the gloom that met every morning's glance from the window. Lang and his wife spent an afternoon at the Tower, watched the changing of the guard, and endured overcooked beef at Simpson's, all the tourist activities he thought she would enjoy.
The weather was a blanket that smothered any enthusiasm she could muster.
The couple had dinner with Lang's friends from MI6 at their clubs, evenings of drinks and war stories; they spent an afternoon of extravagance at Harrods. Neither lifted Dawn's mood, as dark as the view from the window.
Lang had been frustrated. London had been one of his favorite cities in the world. He and Dawn had their first and only fight. They went home early, on Boxing Day, notwithstanding Ben Jonson's observation that he who tires of London has tired of life. According to Dawn, Dr. Jonson obviously enjoyed beastly weather and worse food.
The day they left, the weather was as bad as the day they arrived.
Lang remembered that trip with particular pain, for it had been only a week later that Dawn experienced menstrual cramps that curled her into a fetal position. Another week and she was under the doctors' death sentence.
Lang had never returned to London until now.
Changes in the city were obvious. Every vista included building cranes. New office space, new dwellings for the City's new e-millionaires. Lang had recently read that London was outstripping the rest of Great Britain combined in construction, prosperity and expansion.
He watched the West End from the moisture-streaked windows of the cab until Buckingham Palace flashed by. On the other side of the car, the Victoria Monument was alive with rain slickers and umbrellas, tourists seeking a vantage point for the changing of the guard. A quick left onto St. James Street and the area of the same name. They were only blocks from Piccadilly Circus, the entrance to Soho, the shopping, restaurant and theater district. Just past the crenellated twin Tudor towers of St. James's Palace, the cab turned into a small mew, made a right and stopped in front of an unimpressive brick building, identified only by a brass plaque announcing it to be the Stafford Hotel.
Small, cheap accommodations hadn't helped Lang evade Them in Rome. He was certain he had been followed from the pensione to Orvieto. This time he· was choosing an upbeat hotel, a place Herr Schneller might stay with his wife, what the guidebooks called 'moderateto expensive,' well located. The deciding factor had been its location in a cul-de-sac, a short street that hosted one private club, two small hotels and a few businesses. No shops, no restaurants. Anyone loitering there would be obvious.
A doorman who could have stolen his uniform from the set of A Christmas Carol took their baggage from the cabby. While Gurt dispensed tips and checked in, Lang inspected the lobby. It was as he remembered. Past the reception area, the parlor of a Victorian manor house was set for tea. Behind it was someone's idea of an American sports bar-cum-men's club. Helmets from each NFL team were placed around the top of the bar, which faced stuffed chairs far more comfortable than anything to be found in a North American counterpart. Neckties, each displaying school or regimental colors, hung from the ceiling like striped stalactites. Photos of European athletes adorned the walls along with a single print of a 8017 landing on a snow-lined runway, presumably a British aerodrome of World War II. French doors opened onto a small courtyard. Since Lang's last visit, apartments above a garage had been built on the other side.
He wasn't happy that the only exits from the hotel were through the front door or those units. There's safety in numbers and nowhere is that more true than when it comes to ways to get out.
By the time he had completed his tour, Gurt was waiting at the elevator. Their room was small, neat, clean and well furnished. Once Gurt had hung a couple of dresses in the closet, she lit a Marlboro and headed for the bathroom.
'I'm going to change before I go to Grosvenor Square,' she announced over her shoulder.
The U.S. Embassy and,· therefore, the Agency Chief of Station were in Grosvenor Square; Even on their own time, Agency employees had to check in upon arrival in a country other than that in which stationed. Conventional wisdom was that the requirement discouraged operatives from launching projects of their own just as Gurt was doing by accompanying Lang.
'Take a cab or you'll get drenched,' he advised the closed bathroom door. 'The nearest tube station is almost as far away as the embassy.'
The door cracked open and Gurt's disembodied head appeared along with a cloud of tobacco smoke. 'You know this or are you reading from a guidebook?'
'Where the nearest subway station is? I know. I used to spend a fair amount of time here.' She nodded, seeming to evaluate the information.
'Thanks for the point.'
'Tip.'
'Whatever. It does me happy you care.'
The door closed, leaving him to reflect that in English, people were happy. Or were made happy. Only in German were they done happy. The difference said something about the nationality. Someday he might take the time to figure out what.
2
London, St. James
Half an hour later, Lang stepped out of Fortnum and Mason, opened his new umbrella and thanked the top- hatted doorman who was holding the door open for him. His acquisition would not only shelter him from the persistent drizzle but it would also blend into the umbrella-toting crowd lining the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic.
To Lang's right, the neon of Piccadilly Circus bled into the wet pavement, making the black asphalt dance with color. A double-decker bus blocked then revealed the stature of Eros, the Greek god of love, who had presided over the circle for over a century.
Horns hooted as busses, trucks and cars came to a stop.
Not quite used to having to check his right, rather than his left, Lang stepped in front of a bright red Mini Cooper. The driver's hair was cut Beatles fashion, a cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he shouted into a cell phone. Lang picked his way around the rear of a Rover and two Japanese motorcycles before he got to the opposite sidewalk.
Half a block to his left was Old Bond Street. He saw the sign before number 12: Mike Jenson, Dealer in Curios, Antiquities, Etcetera. He pushed open the door and went in.
3
