holding his napkin in his left hand.
'Excuse me,' he said, 'but I'm dining alone. Something I never enjoy. Unless you've someone waiting for you, I'd be delighted if you'd share my table. David Ashley. For dinner, I mean – just dinner.'
She was obviously English and he'd deliberately spoken in that language to reassure her. Being careful not to touch her, he gestured towards his table. 'I'mover there in the corner -you can sit nearest the next table. It's all rather convenient.'
'What is?' she asked, sizing him up, liking what she saw.
'The table. Next to the grille. If you order a steak you can watch, shout 'stop!' if you like it rare and he's overdoing things.'
'I like mine well done.'
She had joined him as he followed her to the table, A considerate man. That little touch about letting her sit in the outside seat – enabling her to leave easily if she wanted to. He reached for a bottle cloth-shrouded in a silver bucket.
'All girls like champers, so I've heard. Care for a drop while you study the menu?'
'Thank you. I'd love some. It will calm me down.' 'Then here's to a pleasant evening. I'm rather good at chatter. Even if at nothing else…'
Klein walked into the bar leading off the lobby of the Hilton. It was dimly lit, which suited him. He sank into an armchair, ordered mineral water, automatically checking the other drinkers.
Lara's outburst was exactly what he had feared. The long wait was telling on nerves. He'd been so taken up with getting her out of the place he hadn't noticed who was dining in the room, a rare oversight.
He sat sipping his Perrier, his mind racing over every aspect of the operation. He'd have moved them all out of Brussels that very night – but he couldn't up-date the operation. It all hinged on the fleet of ships moving towards Europort.
He decided against visiting the cafe Manuel to check on Chabot and Hipper. No one could possibly be aware of his presence in Brussels, but this was the moment not to move about the city.
Klein had no intention of sleeping anywhere tonight. Without a hotel room he didn't exist. He'd get a quick meal at the cafe Henry further up the Boulevard, have a drink while Marler dined in the Sky Room, then spend half the hours of darkness in a night club.
An attractive woman sat in a nearby chair facing him, crossed her legs, and gave him a long look. He smiled briefly, looked away. There'd be plenty of time for that later. He was thinking that the Sikorsky helicopters would at this moment be flying from Frankfurt to Schiphol. An essential element in the enterprise.
The woman signalled her availability, moving one crossed leg up and down. Yes, plenty of time later. When he was safely in Brazil.
**
Marler was puzzled as he ate his steak. What role could Lara Seagrave possibly play in the coming operation? She could be Klein's girl friend, but he didn't think so. He continued to probe gently.
'You have a job? Or is that too personal?'
'Not at all. This steak is perfect. And I love this restaurant. So warm arid comforting.'
The tables were well-spaced, the banquettes at the right height and angle for eating, the coverings a mix of brown and beige. The lighting was indirect, but you could see what you were eating.
'I'm a publisher's scout,' she said, remembering a job a girl friend of hers had.
'What's that?'
'Oh, I represent different publishers – in Denmark, Germany, France and Sweden. My languages got me the job-plus the fact I'm an avid reader. I keep a sharp lookout for books I think might interest one of my employers. It means getting in first – before any of my many rivals.'
'So you travel a lot?' he suggested, watching her over the rim of his glass.
'Yes, I do. It's one of the great attractions of the job. I have just come up from France – Marseilles and Paris.'
'What are you doing, in Brussels?'
'Enjoying myself.' She smiled impishly, flirting openly. 'I fly home soon. I'm waiting for instructions. From London,' she added.
'What firms do you represent?'
She reeled off a list, again bringing back what her friend had told her about the job. Marler nodded, called for the sweet trolley. He didn't believe one damn word she'd told him. So what kind of an operation would call for her services? Klein had better not know they'd met. Fortunate he'd given her a false name. No, prudent. He'd done that after seeing Klein arguing with her. Tension? Was it very close?
**
Marler timed the ending of his dinner with Lara carefully. He insisted on paying. To her relief he made no attempt to arrange another meeting, to find out where she was staying. She left at 8.50 p.m. exactly and went back to the Mayfair.
Marler told the waiter he had another guest joining him, had all traces of Lara's presence cleared off the table. It was 9.15 p.m. when Klein, tight-lipped, walked into the Maison de B?uf, looked round, spotted Marler, walked across and sat beside him.
'Good evening,' said Marler, one hand nursing his glass of cognac.
'I've been looking for you. I left a note. Dinner at nine in the Sky Room.'
'And I got your note,' Marler smiled amiably. 'I prefer this restaurant. I knew you'd find me sooner or later.'
'When I give an order…'
'About the operation,' Marler interjected, 'I listen and carry out your wishes. Which is what I'm paid for. I am not paid to be led around like a dog on a leash, eating where you think I should dine.' His tone had hardened. 'I think we should be clear about that. Now, what is it?'
Klein told the waiter he'd already eaten in the Sky Room, a lie. He ordered coffee and turned to his companion when they were alone.
'Be prepared to leave at a moment's notice. I will phone you. Have you a car?'
'Yes. Hired a fresh one.'
'Parked in the underground garage here?'
'Of course not.' He made no attempt to enlighten Klein further. 'Where shall I be driving to? How close are we?'
'Close. The destination I give you when I call.' He stood up, reached for his coat which he'd brought into the room dumping it on a chair. Leaving it at the garderobe made for delay in case a swift departure was necessary. Tell the waiter when he brings my coffee I had to leave. Later than I thought.'
Marler watched him walk very erect from the room, the coat over his arm. 'Up yours, chum,' he said to himself and drank the rest of the cognac.
37
At Blakeney, the tiny Norfolk port, Pete Nield was proper browned off, as he put it to himself. He'd spent endless days in the pub overlooking the front and the house belonging to Paula Grey where the bomb had been placed on her doorstep.
