The Holcroft Covenant (48 page)

The operations room at the Savoy was tense, each man there an expert. Computer screens showed every yard of the gauntlet, graphs and grid marks signifying blocks and sidewalks. The screens were connected to radios outside; they showed as tiny moving dots that lit up when activated. The time was near. The motorcade was in progress.

“I’m going back down on the street,” said Tennyson, pulling out the small radio from his pocket. “I set the green arrow on the receiving position, is that correct?”

“Yes, but don’t send any messages unless you feel they’re vital,” said Payton-Jones. “Once the motorcade reaches Waterloo Bridge, everything is on five-second report intervals each fifty yards—except for emergencies, of course. Keep the channels clear.”

An agent sitting by a computer panel spoke in a loud voice. “Within five hundred feet of Waterloo, sir. Spread holding at eight
MPH.
”

The blond man hurried from the room. It was time to put into motion the swift moves that would destroy the Nachrichtendienst once and for all and cement the Wolfs-schanze covenant.

He walked out into the Strand and looked at his watch. Within thirty seconds the man in the brown raincoat would appear in a window on the second floor of the Strand Palace Hotel. The room was 206, directly beneath the room with the weapon concealed in the mattress. It was the first move.

Tennyson glanced around for one of Payton-Jones’s specialists. They were not difficult to spot; they carried
small radios identical to his. He approached an agent trying to keep his position by a storefront against the jostling crowds, a man he had purposely spoken with; he had spoken to a number of them.

“Hello, there. How are things going?”

“I beg your pardon? Oh, it’s you, sir.” The agent was watching the people within the borders of his station. He had no time for idle conversation.

An eruption of noise came from the Strand, near Waterloo Bridge. The motorcade was approaching. The crowds pushed nearer the curb, waving miniature flags. The two lines of police in the street beyond the stanchions seemed to close ranks, as if anticipating a stampede.

“Over there!” yelled Tennyson, grabbing the agent’s arm. “Up
there!
”

“What?
Where
?”

“That window! It was closed a few seconds ago!”

They could not see the man in the brown raincoat clearly, but it was obvious that a figure stood in the shadows of the room.

The agent raised his radio. “Suspect possibility. Sector One, Strand Palace Hotel, second floor, third window from south corner.”

Static preceded the reply. “That’s beneath three-zero-six. Security check immediately.”

The man in the window disappeared.

“He’s gone,” said the agent quickly.

Five seconds later another voice came over the radio. “There’s no one here. Room’s empty.”

“Sorry,” said the blond man.

“Better safe than that, sir,” said the agent.

Tennyson moved away, walking south through the crowds. He checked his watch again: twenty seconds to go. He approached another man holding a radio in his hand; he produced his own to establish the relationship.

“I’m one of you,” he said, half-shouting to be heard. “Things all right?”

The agent faced him. “What?” He saw the radio in Tennyson’s hand. “Oh, yes, you were at the morning’s briefing. Things are fine, sir.”

“That
doorway!
” Tennyson put his hand on the agent’s shoulder. “Across the street. The open doorway. You can see the staircase above the heads of the crowd. That
doorway
.”

“What about it? The man on the steps? The one running?”

“Yes! It’s the same man.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“In the hotel room. A few moments ago. It’s the same man; I
know
it! He was carrying a briefcase.”

The agent spoke into his radio. “Security check requested. Sector Four, west flank. Doorway adjacent to jewelry shop. Man with briefcase. Up the stairs.”

“In progress,” came the reply.

Across the Strand, Tennyson could see two men racing through the open door and up the dark steps. He looked to the left; the man in the brown raincoat was walking out of the jewelry shop into the crowd. There was a door on the first landing, normally locked—as it was locked now—that connected the two buildings.

A voice came over the radio. “No one with a briefcase on second to fifth floors. Will check roof.”

“Don’t bother,” ordered another voice. “We’re up here, and there’s no sign of anyone.”

Tennyson shrugged apologetically and moved away. He had three more alarms to raise as the motorcade made its stately way down the Strand. The last of these would cause the lead vehicle to stop, clearance required before it continued toward Trafalgar. This final alarm would be raised by him. It would precede the chaos.

The first two happened rapidly, within three minutes of each other. The man in the brown raincoat was adhering to lm tight schedule with precision and subtle execution. Not once as he maneuvered his way swiftly into Trafalgar Square was he stopped by a member of British Intelligence. Across his chest were strapped two cameras and a light meter, all dangling precariously as this “tourist” tried to find the best vantage points from which to record his moment in history.

Alarm One
. An arm was grabbed; an arm whose hand held a radio.

“That scaffold! Up there!”

“Where?”

The entire side of a building opposite Charing Cross Station was in the middle of reconstruction. People had scaled the pipes; they were cheering and whistling as the international motorcade came into view.

“Up on the right. He went behind the plywood!”

“
Who
, sir?”

“The man in the hotel, on those steps in the doorway! The briefcase!”

“Security check. Sector Seven. Man on construction scaffold. With a briefcase.”

Static. An eruption of voices.

“We’re all
over
the scaffolds, mate.”

“No one here with a briefcase!”

“Dozens of cameras. No briefcases, or luggage of any sort.”

“The plywood on the second level!”

“Man was changing film, mate. He’s climbing down. No bird.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You gave us a start, sir.”

“My apologies.”

Alarm Two
. Tennyson showed a policeman his temporary MI-Five identification and rushed across the intersection into a packed Trafalgar Square.

“The lions! My
God
, the lions!”

The agent—one of those Tennyson had spoken to during the morning’s briefing—stared at the base of the Lord Nelson monument. Scores of onlookers were perched on the lions surrounding the towering symbol of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar.

“What, sir?”

“He’s there again! The man on the scaffold!”

“I heard that report just moments ago,” said the agent. “Where is he?”

“He went behind the lion on the right. It’s not a briefcase. It’s a leather bag, but it’s too large for a camera! Can’t you
see?
It’s too large for a camera!”

The agent did not hesitate; the radio was at his lips. “Security check. Sector Nine. North cat. Man with large leather bag.”

The static crackled; two voices rode over each other.

“Man with two cameras, larger one at his feet.…”

“Man checking light meter, corresponds.… See no danger; no bird here.”

“Man descending, setting camera focus. No bird.”

The MI-Five agent glanced at Tennyson, then looked away, his eyes scanning the crowds.

The moment had come. The start of the final alarm, the beginning of the end of the Nachrichtendienst.

“You’re
wrong!
” shouted Tennyson furiously. “You’re
all
wrong! Every one of you!”

“What?”

The blond man ran as best he could, threading his way through the packed square toward the curbside, the radio next to his ear. He could hear excited voices commenting upon his outburst.

“He’s mad as hell!”

“He says we’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“Have no idea.”

“He ran.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see him.”

Tennyson reached the iron fence that bordered the monmument. He could see his colleague—the Tinamou’s apprentice—dashing across the street, toward the arch. The man in the raincoat held a small black plastic case in his hand. The identification card inside was an exact replica of the one in Tennyson’s pocket, except that the photograph was different.

Now!

The blond man pressed the button and shouted into the radio.

“It’s him! I know it!”

“Who’s that?”

“Respond.”

“It’s from Sector Ten.”

“I understand now! I see what it was that didn’t fit.”

“Is that you, Tennyson?”
Payton-Jones’s voice.

“Yes!”

“Where are you?”

“That’s it! Now I see it.”

“See what? Tennyson, is that you? What’s the matter! Respond.”

“It’s so clear now! That’s where we made our mistake! It’s not going to happen when we thought it would—
where
we thought it would.”

“What are you talking about? Where are you?”

“We were wrong; don’t you see? The weapons. The
seven locations. They were
meant
to be found! That’s what didn’t fit!”

“
What?… Push the red button, Tennyson. Clear all channels.… What didn’t fit?
”

“The hiding of the weapons. It wasn’t good enough. We found them too easily.”

“For God’s sake, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m not sure yet,” replied Tennyson, walking toward an opening in the gate. “I just know those weapons were meant to be found. It’s in the progression!”

“What progression? Push the red button. Where are you?”

“
Somewhere between Sector Ten and back toward Nine
,” intruded another voice. “
West flank. In Trafalgar
.”

“The progression from one weapon to another!” shouted Tennyson. “Going from east to west! As each position is passed, we eliminate it. We shouldn’t! They’re open limousines!”

“What do you mean?”

“Stop the motorcade! In the name of all that’s holy, stop it!”

“Stop the motorcade!… The command’s been relayed. Now, where are you?”

The blond man crouched; two MI-Five men passed within feet of him. “I think I’ve spotted him! The man on the scaffold! In the doorway. In the hotel window. It’s him! He’s doubling back; he’s running now!”

“Describe him. For God’s sake, describe the man.”

“He’s wearing a jacket. A brown checked jacket.”

“All operatives alert. Pick up man in brown checked jacket. Running north past Sector Nine, Eight, and Seven. West flank.”

“It has to be another weapon! A weapon we never found. He’s going to fire from behind! Distance is nothing to him. He’ll hit the back of a neck from a thousand yards! Start the motorcade up again! Quickly!”

“Vehicle One, proceed. Operatives mount trunks of all cars. Protect targets from rear fire.”

“He’s stopped!”

“Tennyson, where are you? Give us your location.”

“Still between Sectors Nine and Ten, sir,”
a voice intruded.

“He’s not wearing the jacket now, but it’s the same man! He’s running across the Strand!”

“Where?”

“There’s no one crossing in Sector Eight.”

“Sector Nine?”

“No one, sir.”

“Back farther! Behind the motorcade!”

“Sector Five reporting. Police have relaxed the lines.…”

“Tighten them. Get everyone out of the street. Tennyson, what’s he wearing? Describe him.”

The blond man was silent; he walked through the square for a distance of twenty yards, then brought the radio to his lips again. “He’s in a brown raincoat. He’s heading back toward Trafalgar Square.”

“Sector Eight, sir. Transmission in Sector Eight.”

Tennyson switched off the radio, shoved it into his pocket, and ran back to the iron fence. The motorcade had reached Charing Cross, perhaps four hundred yards away. The timing was perfect. The Tinamou’s timing was always perfect.

The man in the brown raincoat positioned himself in a deserted office of the Government Building beyond Admiralty Park, a room commandeered by the bogus MI-Five identification card. The card was a license; no one argued with it, not today. The line of fire from that room to the motorcade was difficult, but it was no problem for one trained by the Tinamou.

Tennyson leaped over the iron fence and raced diagonally across Trafalgar Square toward Admiralty Arch. Two police officers stopped him, their clubs raised in unison; the motorcade was three hundred yards away.

“This is an emergency!” shouted the blond man, showing his identification. “Check your radios! MI-Five frequency, Savoy operations. I’ve got to get to the Government Building!”

The police were confused. “Sorry, sir. We don’t have radios.”

“Then get them!” yelled Tennyson, rushing past.

At the Arch, he activated his radio. “It’s the Mall! Once the motorcade’s through the Arch, stop all vehicles. He’s in the trees!”

“Tennyson, where are you?”

“Sector Twelve, sir. He’s in Sector Twelve. East flank.”

“Relay his instructions. Quickly, for God’s sake.”

Tennyson switched off the radio, put it in his pocket, and continued through the crowds. He entered the Mall and turned left, racing across the path to the first doorway of the Government Building. Two uniformed guards blocked him; he produced the MI-Five card.

“Oh yes, sir,” said the guard on the left “Your team’s on the second floor. I’m not sure which office.”

“I am,” said the blond man as he ran toward the staircase. The cheers in Trafalgar Square mounted; the motorcade approached Admiralty Arch.

He took the steps three at a time, crashing the corridor door open on the second floor, pausing in the hallway to shift his gun from his pocket to his belt. He walked swiftly to the second door on the left. There was no point in trying to open it; it was locked. Yet to break it down without warning was to ask for a bullet in his head.