'Yes, Herr Spuk?' the clerk asked as he approached.
Michael forced a slight accent as he asked, 'Would it be possible for the hotel to obtain entertainment tickets?' “Of course, sir. A show, sir? They recommend-' “The Danzer concert. A box. For this evening.' “Danzer, sir?'
“Erik Danzer. The rock singer.' “Very well, sir.' The man's nose went up. “The young lady, she is fond of Danzer.'
It was a red herring that Michael hoped would produce multiple rewards. The clerk would adjust his present opinion. And in future should report that Herr Spuk had had a female companion when the police came asking their questions. They might waste valuable time trying to find the woman.
'Ah, I see.' The clerk winked.
Michael smiled, then asked the doorman to hail a cab. He tipped generously.
It was Huang's money.
He studied the Hardy identity during a brief journey. And within a half hour was in a second cab, studying again, after having taken a small room as Thomas Hardy.
That afternoon he obtained wigs, theatrical makeup, and new clothing. And surgeon's gloves.
They should have provided the latter with the rifle.
Wigs were a must for the concert hall. His military-style haircut stood out like the sex of a male interloper in the girls' locker room at showertime. He was lucky he was traveling German. The English expected Germans to look like soldiers on leave.
Then he tried pushing his luck, and the calm, talent, and training of the man within him.
'What's the matter, Mr. Hardy?' the rental officer asked.
He had been frantically rehearsing his driving. And had forgotten that the British did everything bass- ackward.
'This is my first trip to England. I forgot all about right-hand steering. On the Continent-'
'I should have realized, sir. I'm sorry. We do have a little left-hand Simca automatic.'
'Fine. Perfect. The Jag really wasn't me anyway.' What had made him choose that beast? This was no time for doing a Walter Mitty-playing-James Bond number.
'On the expense ledger, sir?' The attendant began processing the new papers.
'Yes. You know how it is.'
'I wish I did, sir. I wish I did. I didn't ask before. Not polite, you know. But I wondered… you're from Ottawa…?'
'Yes?' Michael's heart crept toward his throat. He didn't even know where in Canada Ottawa was.
'I wondered if you'd ever heard of a Mr. Charles Allen Underhill, sir. That's me mum's brother. He emigrated after the war.'
'I'm sorry. No.'
'Ah, I expected so. And him always writing Mum what a big name he is over there.'
'That's human nature.'
'Aye, sir, that it is. Just sign and we're ready to go.' Michael slid the Simca into traffic without giving himself away, then spent two hours puttering around like an old man, relearning his driving. He did so in mortal terror of an accident. If the police noticed him now…
He survived. To rent another room and another car-a Volkswagen. He took them under the Spuk name. The room included garage privileges. He moved the Simca there, then drove the Volkswagen back to his original base.
He was leaving tracks, he knew. But time was tight. Corners had to be cut. The important thing was to keep the trail just obscure enough to give him a reasonable chance of reaching Hamburg.
The maid had been in during his absence. He panicked, rushed to the attache case. But it hadn't been disturbed. He sighed.
'Got to get ahold of myself,' he muttered., He began calling travel agents, scattering a dozen Bremer-haven reservations in three names, and air passages to Hamburg, Cologne, and Munich. And made a mental note to get a road map so he could study the approaches to Dover. As a last resort he would try for Calais. He threw himself on the bed.
'Why don't I just tool over to the U.S. Embassy?' he muttered to himself. 'I could turn myself in. They'd take care of me.' He thought of his children, Michael and Tiffany, and one whose name he didn't know, one unborn till after his capture. Little Mike ought to be ready for junior high… so many years. So soon gone.
Then he thought of Ilse, and another son, and the debriefing the Americans would put him through. It would be easier just to go on.
The desk clerk called. His tickets had arrived. He thanked the man and instructed him to obtain the same box for the final performance, then asked not to be disturbed before noon tomorrow.
It was time to commence the evening's adventure. He began by taking two aspirin.
He took his attache case along, after emptying it of all but innocuous papers. He drove the VW to the garage where he had left the Simca, switched, went on to where he had registered as Hardy. There he changed clothing.
Imitative of the era of George III, his outfit was an eye-grabber. He added makeup and a long-haired blond wig.
