'Do you think he'll come here?'
'He may. I'll wait' There were two more agents in the hotel lobby who would alert Anthony if Luke should go in by another entrance. 'The other main possibility is the airport'
'We have four men there.'
'Okay. I think we have all the exits covered.'
Pete nodded. 'I'll get back to the phone,'
Anthony brooded over the scene to come. Luke would be confused and uncertain, wary but keen to question Anthony. Anthony would try to get Luke alone somewhere. Once they were on their own, it would only be a few seconds before Anthony had the chance to draw the silenced gun from the inside pocket of his topcoat Luke would make a last-second bid for life. It was not his nature to accept defeat He would jump at Anthony, or dive at the window, or run for the door. Anthony would be cool, he had killed before, he would keep his nerve; He would hold the gun steady and pull the trigger, aiming for Luke's chest, firing several times, confident of stopping Luke. Luke would fall. Anthony would move close to him, check his pulse, and if necessary administer the coup de grace. And his oldest friend would be dead.
There would be no trouble about it Anthony had the dramatic evidence of Luke's betrayal, the blueprints with Luke's handwriting on them. He could not actually prove that they had been taken from a Soviet agent but his word was good enough for the CIA.
He would dump the body somewhere. It would be found, of course, and there would be an investigation. Sooner or later the police would discover that the CIA had been interested in the victim, and would start asking questions; but the Agency was experienced in fending off inquiries. The police would be told that the Agency's link, with the victim was a matter of national security and therefore top secret but had nothing to do with the murder.
Anyone who questioned that - cop, journalist, politician - would be subjected to a loyalty investigation. Friends, neighbours and relatives would be interviewed by agents who referred darkly to suspected communist affiliations. The investigation would never reach any conclusion, but all the same it would destroy the credibility of the subject.
A secret agency could do anything, he thought with grim confidence.
A taxicab pulled into the hotel's driveway, and Luke got out He was wearing a navy topcoat arid a grey hat that he must have bought or stolen sometime today. Across the street, Ackie Horwitz pulled up on his motorcycle. Anthony got out of his car and strolled toward the hotel entrance.
Luke looked strained, but wore an expression of grim determination. Paying the taxi driver, he glanced at Anthony but did not recognize him. He told the driver to keep the change, then walked into the hotel. Anthony followed.
They were the same age, thirty-seven. They had met at Harvard when they were eighteen, half a lifetime ago.
That it should come to this, Anthony thought bitterly. That it should come to this.
Luke knew he had been followed from Bern's apartment by a man on a motorcycle. Now he was strung taut, all his senses on alert.
The lobby of the Carlton looked like a grand drawing room, full of reproduction French furniture. Opposite the entrance, the reception desk and concierge's desk were set into alcoves so that they did not spoil the regular rectangle of the space. Two women in fur coats chatted with a group of men in tuxedos near the entrance to the bar. Bellhops in livery and desk staff in black tailcoats went about their business with quiet efficiency. It was a luxurious place, designed to soothe the nerves of jangled travelers. It did nothing for Luke.
Scanning the room, he quickly identified two men who had the air of agents. One sat on an elegant sofa reading a newspaper, the other stood near the elevator, smoking a cigarette. Neither looked as if he belonged here. They were dressed for work, in raincoats and business suits, and there was a daytime look to their shirts and ties. They definitely were not out for an evening in expensive restaurants and bars.
He thought of walking right out again - but where would that leave him? He approached the reception desk, gave his name, and asked for the key to his room. As he turned away, a stranger spoke to him. 'Hey, Luke!'
It was the man who had walked into the hotel behind him. He did not look like an agent, but Luke had vaguely noticed his appearance: he was tall, about Luke's height, and might have been distinguished, except that he was carelessly dressed. His expensive camel-hair topcoat was old and worn, his shoes looked as if they had never been shined, and he needed a haircut However, he spoke with authority.
Luke said: I'm afraid I don't know who you are. I've lost my memory.'
'Anthony Carroll. I'm so glad I've caught up with you at last!' He held out his hand to shake.
Luke tensed. He still did not know whether Anthony was enemy or friend. He shook hands and said: 'I have a lot of questions to ask you.'
'And I'm ready to answer them.'
Luke paused, staring at him, wondering where to begin. Anthony did not look- like the kind of man who would betray an old friend. He had an open, intelligent face, not handsome but appealing. In the end Luke said: 'How the hell could you do this to me?'
'I had to do it - for your own good, I was trying to save your life.'
'I'm not a spy.'
'It's not that simple.'
Luke studied Anthony, trying to guess what was in his mind. He could not decide whether he was telling the truth. Anthony looked earnest There was no expression of slyness on his face. All the same, Luke felt sure he was holding something back. 'No one believes your story about my working for Moscow.'
'Who is no one?'
'Neither Bern nor Billie.'
'They don't know everything.'
'They know me.'
'So do I.'
'What do you know that they don't?'
'I'll tell you. But we can't talk here. What I have to say is classified. Shall we go to my office? It's five minutes away.'
Luke was not going to Anthony's office, not before a whole lot of questions had been answered to his satisfaction. But he could see that the lobby was not a good place for a top-secret conversation. 'Let's go to-my suite/ he 'said. That would get him away from the other agents, but leave him in control: Anthony on his own would not be able to overpower him. . Anthony hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind and said: 'Sure.'
They crossed the lobby and entered the elevator. Luke checked the number on his room key: 530. 'Fifth floor,' he said to the operator. The man closed the lift gate and threw the lever.
They did not speak as they went up. Luke looked at Anthony's clothes: the old coat, the rumpled suit, the nondescript tie. Surprisingly, Anthony managed to wear his untidy garments with something of a careless swagger.
Suddenly, Luke saw that the soft material of the coat sagged slightly on the right side. There was a heavy object in the pocket He felt cold with fear. He had made a bad mistake.
He had not thought that Anthony would have a gun.
Trying to keep his face expressionless, Luke thought furiously. Could Anthony shoot him right here in the hotel? If he waited until they were in the suite, no one would see. What about the noise? The gun might have a silencer.
As the elevator stopped at the fifth floor, Anthony unbuttoned his coat.
For a fast draw, Luke thought They stepped out Luke did not know which way to go, but Anthony confidently turned right He must have been to Luke's room already.
Luke was sweating under his topcoat He felt as if this sort of thing had happened to him before, more than once, but a long time ago. He wished he had kept the gun of the cop whose finger he had broken. But he had had no idea, at nine o'clock this morning, what he was involved in - he had thought he had simply lost his memory.
He tried to make himself calm. It was still one man against another. Anthony had the gun, but Luke had guessed Anthony's intentions. It was about even.
Walking along the corridor, his heart racing, Luke looked for something to hit Anthony with: a heavy vase, a
