by any chance?'
'No, nothing like that.'
'I'm afraid I've done you a disservice, Jon. MI-5 is on to you.'
'You told them my name?'
'Of course. Surely you haven't forgotten the code of our line of work: every man for himself.'
'...and fuck the hindmost.'
'You must be thinking of the Greek secret service. Well, tchuss, Jon.'
'Ciao, buddy.'
Jonathan raked his fingers through his hair, and took several deep oral breaths before lying back on the bed.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
He lay there for hours, forcing himself to doze occasionally. Eventually, he swung out of bed and prowled around the house for something to eat. He was not really hungry; he had taken care of that before coming up to his flat, eating a large meal of slow-burning protein; treating his body, as he used to in his mountain-climbing days, as a machine requiring the right fuel, the proper amount of rest, the correct exercise. He had eaten correctly. If there was any action tonight, it would come between midnight and three o'clock. The protein would be in mid-burn by then, and he would have consumed two or three drinks—just the right amount of fast-burning alcohol.
A goddamn machine!
It was only to fill the time and distract his mind that he looked around for food. As usual, wherever he lived, the only food in the place was a chaotic tesserae of exotic bits. He had always had a fascination for rare foods, and he enjoyed wandering about in the gourmet sections of large department stores, picking up whatever struck his fancy. His search of the kitchen produced a small jar of macadamia nuts, a tin of truffles in brine, preserved ginger, and a half bottle of Greek raisin wine. He ate the lot.
As he wandered through his flat, turning off lights behind him, it occurred to him to check the guns he had asked Yank to stash for him. His directions for concealment had been followed exactly. He took one out and examined it. The bulky blue steel .45 revolver felt heavy and cold in his hand as he snapped out the cylinder and checked the load. The slugs were scooped and a deep cross had been cut into the head of each. No range. No accuracy to speak of. The bullet would begin to tumble five yards from the barrel. But when it hit, it would splat as wide and thin as a piece of tinfoil, and a nick in the forearm would slam the victim down as though he had been struck by a train. Good professional job of dumdumming.
He considered taking one of the guns with him to Chelsea. Then he decided against it. It was impossible to conceal a howitzer like this, and a pat down would tip him before he had come within striking distance of The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange. He'd just have to be careful.
He flicked the cylinder back and replaced the gun.
The phone rang.
'What's up, Doc?'
'Why are you calling, Yank?'
'Oh, I got a couple of things up my sleeve. My arm, for one. No laugh? Oh, well. Then tell me this: How did things go with Miss Dyke?'
'I had a pleasant visit.'
'And?'
'And I got a possible lead to The Cloisters.'
'Oh? What was it?'
'I'll tell you about it if it works out.'
'No, you'd better tell me about it now. The Vicar wants to know what you're up to at every moment. He wouldn't want to have to start back at square one if something were to happen to you. Or if you were to do something foolish.'
'Like?'
'Like try to run off. Or sell out. Or something like that. Not that I really think you would. Having met the Vicar, I think you have a pretty good idea of what he would do to anyone who tried to do the dirty on him.'
'Ship me off to the Feeding Station?' Jonathan brought that up on purpose.
After a swallow: 'Something like that. So tell me. What is your lead to The Cloisters?'
'A woman named Grace. Amazing Grace. She runs a place called the Cellar d'Or. Mean anything to you?'
'Are you sure it's a woman?'
'What do you mean?'
'Amazing Grace is a hymn, after all. Get it?'
'Oh, for Christ's sake!'
'Sorry. No, I never heard of the woman. But I'll check through the Loo files for you. Anything else?'
'Yes. Do you have a tail on me?'
'Pardon?'
'A man's been following me all day. Out to Vanessa's and back. Is he one of yours?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Medium build, blue raincoat, one hundred and sixty pounds, glasses, left-handed, rubbers over his shoes. He's probably standing down in the street right now, wondering how to appear to be reading his newspaper in the dark. If he's not yours, he's MI-5's. Too fucking amateur to be anything else.'
'How could he be MI-5? They're not in on this.'
'They are now. I made a mistake.'
'The Vicar's not going to like that.'
'Hard shit. Can you get in contact with MI-5 and pull this guy off? There are probably three of them, the other two out on the flanks. That's normal shadow procedure for your people.'
'It could be they're only trying to help.'
'Help from MI-5 is like military advice from the Egyptian army. If you don't get rid of them, I'll do it myself, and that will hurt them. I don't want them blowing my scant cover. Remember, I'm the only man you've got in the game.'
'Not quite. We've managed to situate Miss Coyne.'
'Oh?'
Yank was instantly aware that he had breached security. 'More about that later, when we get together with the Vicar for a final briefing. Meanwhile, good hunting tonight. See you in the funny papers.'
Jonathan hung up and crossed to the window to look down on the man who had followed him from Vanessa's. Christ, he was getting sick of British espionage. Sick of this whole thing. He indulged his anger for a while, then brought it under control by taking shallow breaths. Calm. Calm. You make mistakes when you're angry. Calm.
Chelsea
As Jonathan stepped from the Underground train at Sloane Square, he was still being followed by the fool in the blue raincoat who had been with him since Vanessa's. Presumably, Yank had not been able to get through to MI-5 and give them the word to discontinue surveillance. Jonathan decided to let him hover out there on his flank. At least he could keep an eye on him until the time came to shake him off, should the shadowing seem to endanger his cover.
Halfway up the tiled exit tunnel he passed an American girl sitting on a parka. Flotsam of the flower tide. She abused a cheap guitar and whined a Guthrie lament, having chosen a spot where the echo would enrich her thin voice with bathroom resonances and allow her to slide off miscalculated notes under the cover of reverberation. She was barefoot, and there was a large rip in the stomach of her tugged and shapeless khaki sweater. The surface of the parka was salted with small coins to invite passersby to contribute to maintenance.
Jonathan dropped no coin, nor did the man following in the blue raincoat.
Once away from the square, he closed into himself as he walked along seeking the address Vanessa had given him. He had no desire to come into contact with the jostling crowds of street people. It had been fifteen years
