It was over in three seconds. The truck accelerated with a skidding howl and turned sharply left into Revolution Square, cut across a taxi which had to brake to a halt, then, with a burst of black exhaust smoke which obscured its rear number-plate, it raced down Petrovska Street and disappeared behind the Bolshoi.
The digital clock above Karl Marx Prospekt flicked to 16.46.
Pol watched the crowd swelling at the corner by the lights. The militiaman was struggling to hold them back; traffic began piling up; more people were swarming across from the Square. A mobile police patrol would arrive any moment; and the ambulance would not be much longer. Where accidents were concerned, Moscow was an efficient city.
He finished his second whisky, waddled into the bathroom and turned the taps on full. He was sweating, and cursed the hotel for not having separate central-heating regulators in all rooms. For a man like Pol, one of the few luxuries of Moscow in winter was that he didn’t have to sweat too much. Until now.
He was lowering himself into the bath when the phone rang again. With surprising agility he sprang out and paddled back, naked and dripping, into the main room where he wiped his hand on a cushion before lifting the receiver. The same man spoke again in French: ‘Monsieur Pol?’ Pol grunted, and the voice said, ‘All is in order, monsieur. Your ticket and reservation have been confirmed.’
‘You are absolutely sure?’
‘Absolutely. Thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Pol, and he hung up smiling. His smile became a cooing chuckle as he poured himself a third whisky, larger this time, and carried it back into the bathroom. He could relax now. There was plenty of time before the car came to collect him.
CHAPTER 12
When Cayle checked out of the Aeroflot Hotel that morning he learnt that his bill had been settled. He did not inquire by whom; that would only attract attention. Instead he asked the girl at Reception to tell anyone who called that he would be back by five o’clock. He lunched at the Foreign Press Club and glancing through yesterday’s Western papers, saw that the only development over the disappearance of Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke had been a question in the Commons, asking the Home Secretary when Sir Roger had last had a security vetting, and what the results had been. The written reply had stated that all Foreign Office personnel were subject to the same Security controls, and that the Home Secretary was satisfied that these controls were perfectly adequate, without being obtrusive. Meanwhile, Sir Roger was still missing.
At four o’clock Cayle went to the travel bureau on the first floor of the Hotel Intourist and collected an envelope with his name typed across the front and containing a first-class sleeper reservation on the Red Arrow Express to Leningrad that night. On his way out he looked into the bar, the two restaurants and the coffee-lounge, to see if there was any sign of Maddox; then took a taxi back to the Aeroflot, where he was told that there had been no messages for him.
He spent the next three hours drinking tea and Russian beer, and reading a free pamphlet entitled ‘Progressive Culture in the German Democratic Republic’ over a dinner of borscht, pirotchki and beetroot. He also checked every half-hour at the desk to see if Maddox had called. He had not.
At 9.00 that evening Cayle left the Aeroflot Hotel for the last time; and half an hour later returned to the Hotel Intourist, where he was half-tempted to call Room 1727; but an instinct warned him not to force the pace. Instead, he went to the Beriozka, the foreign currency shop, where he bought a half-litre bottle of Osoboya vodka for the journey. Next to him a group of young Americans were discussing a road accident near the Bolshoi. Cayle gathered that the victim had been a Westerner, killed outright by a hit-and-run driver. He went out to the lobby and asked one of the girls at Reception about it; she said she’d heard something, but did not know the details.
Ten minutes later, punctually at 9.30, his car arrived. The driver was an old man with a face like broken rock, who drove out into the traffic without looking to left or right. Cayle kept his eyes closed for most of the journey, until they stopped at a low ill-lit building with a damp red slogan draped across the entrance, and a bleak booking-hall littered with cigarette ends and squashed paper cups. A very pretty girl with apple cheeks surrounded by a halo of white fur was licking an ice-cream by the refreshment kiosk. Otherwise there were few people about.
Cayle’s driver insisted on carrying his case through the barrier, despite the fact that he had a bad leg. The platforms were in the open, covered only by well-trampled snow. The train had not yet arrived. The old man had taken charge of Cayle’s ticket, and after pondering over the reservation slip, began limping up the platform, counting his footsteps aloud to himself; then finally stopped and gave Cayle a steel-toothed grin. Cayle tried to pay him, but he shook his head vigorously and asked for an American cigarette. Cayle gave him a cheroot instead, took one for himself, lit them both, and the two of them stood alone on the platform, puffing in silence.
Cayle wanted to return to the booking-hall, for a beer and perhaps another look at the pretty girl in the white fur hat; but when he made a move, the old man grabbed his arm and started a garbled speech in Russian in which the words ‘stally mattoo!’ were repeated several
