Western trade shows. But there was no trade show in London now, no new
high-tech toys to be dangled before the wondering eyes of
Techmashimport, which routinely arranged to try and obtain restricted
computers, surveillance gear, weapons-systems blueprints.
So why's Comrade Karanova on this flight? Off to buy a designer dress
at a Sloane Street boutique? Catch the latest West End musical?
How about the simplest answer of all: She's going to help them track
Alex Novosty to earth. Or grab Eva. Or both. They're about to tighten
the noose.
So the nightmare was still on. The KGB must have had the airport under
surveillance, and somebody spotted Novosty--or was it Eva?--getting on
the British Air flight to London. Now they were closing in.
Does she know me? Vance wondered. My photo's in their files somewhere,
surely.
But she'd betrayed no hint of recognition. So maybe not. He'd always
worked away from the limelight as much as possible. Once more it had
paid off.
As the plane dipped and shuddered from the turbulence, he watched out
of the corner of his eye as she lifted the fake French passport out of
her open leather handbag, now nestled in the empty seat by the window,
and began copying the number onto her landing card.
Very unprofessional, he thought. You always memorize the numbers on a
forgery. First rule. T-Directorate's getting sloppy these days.
He waited till she'd finished, then leaned over and ran his hand
roughly down the arm of her blue silk blouse.
"_Etes-vous aller a Londres pour du commerce_?" He deliberately made
his French as American-accented as possible.
"_Comment_?" She glanced up, annoyed, and removed his hand. "_Excusez
moi, que dites-vous_?"
"_D'affaires_?" He grinned and craned to look at the front of her open
neckline. "Business?"
"_Oui_ . . . yes." She switched quickly to English, her relief almost
too obvious.
"Get over there often?" He pushed.
"From time to time."
No fooling, lady. You've been in London four times since '88, by actual
count, setting up phony third-party pass-through deals.
"Just business, huh?" He grinned again, then looked up at the liquor
service being unveiled in the galley. The turbulence had subsided
slightly and the attendants were trying to restore normality, at least
in first class. "What do you say to a drink?"
She beckoned the approaching steward, hoping to outflank this obnoxious
American across the aisle. "Vodka and tonic, please."
"Same as the lady's having, pal." He gave the young Englishman a wink
and a thumbs-up sign, then turned back. "By the way, I'm booked in at
the Holiday Inn over by Marble Arch. Great room service. Almost like
home. You staying around there?"
"No." She watched the steward pour her drink.
"Sorry to hear that. I was wondering, maybe we . . . Do these
'business' trips of yours include taking some time off? Let you in on a
secret, just between you and me. I know this little club in Soho where
they have live--" he winked, "I got a membership. Tell you one thing,
there's nothing like it in Chicago."
"I'm afraid I'll be busy."
"Too bad." He drew on his drink, then continued. "Long stay this trip?"
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. --"
"Warner. William J. Warner. Friends call me Bill."
"Mr. Warner, I've had a very trying day. So, if you don't mind, I'd
like to attempt to get some rest."
"Sure. You make yourself comfortable, now."
He watched as she shifted to the window seat, as far as possible from
him, and stationed her leather handbag onto the aisle side. Just then
the plane hit another air pocket, rattling the liquor bottles in the
galley.
"Maybe we'll catch up with each other in London," he yelled.
"Most unlikely." She glared as she gulped the last of her drink, then
carefully rotated to the window and adjusted her seat to full recline.
Her face disappeared.
Good riddance.
After that the flight went smoothly for a few minutes, and Michael
Vance began to worry. But then the turbulence resumed, shutting down
drink service as their puny airplane again became a toy rattle in the
hands of the gods, thirty thousand feet over the Mediterranean,
buffeted by the powerful, unseen gusts of a spring storm. For a moment
he found himself envying Zeno, who had only the churning sea to face.
Almost hesitantly he unbuckled his seat belt and pulled himself up,
balancing with one hand as he reached in the air to grapple drunkenly
with the overhead baggage compartment.
"Sir," the steward yelled down the aisle, "I'm sorry, but you really
must remain--"
"Take it easy, chum. I just need to--"
Another burst of turbulence slammed the wings, tossing the cabin in a
sickening lurch to the left.
Now.
He lunged backward, flinging his hand around to catch the leather purse
and sweep it, upended, onto the floor. With a clatter the contents
sprayed down the aisle. Comrade Karanova popped alert, reaching out too
late to try and grab it. Her eyes were shooting daggers.
"Ho, sorry about that. Damned thing just . . . Here, let me try and . .
." He bent over, blocking her view as he began sweeping up the contents
off the carpeted aisle-- cosmetics, keys, and documents.
The name in the passport was Helena Alsace. Inside the boarding packet
was a hotel reservation slip issued by an Athens travel agent. The
Savoy.
Well, well, well. Looks like T-Directorate travels first class
everywhere these days. Learning the ways of the capitalist West.
"Here you go. Never understood why women carry so much junk in their
purse." He was settling the bag back onto the seat. "Sure am sorry
about that. Maybe I can buy you dinner to make amends. Or how about
trying out that room service I told you about?"
"That will not be necessary, Mr. Warner." She reached for the bag.
"Well, just in case I'm in the neighborhood, what hotel you staying
at?"
"The Connaught," she answered without a blink.
"Great. I'll try and make an excuse to catch you there."
"Please, just let me . . ." She leaned back again, arms wrapped around
her purse, and firmly closed her eyes.
The Savoy, he thought again. Just my luck. That's where / always stay.
Monday 9:43 A.M.
"Michael, I can't tell you how happy I am to hear from you, old man. We
must have lunch today." The voice emerged from the receiver in the
crisp diction of London's financial district, the City, even though the
speaker had been born on the opposite side of the globe. Vance noticed
it betrayed a hint of unease. "Are you by any chance free around noon?
We could do with a chat."
"I think I can make it." He took a sip of coffee from the Strand
Palace's cheap porcelain cup on the breakfast cart and leaned back.
He'd known the London financial scene long enough to understand what
the invitation meant. Lunch, in the private upstairs dining rooms of
the City's ruling merchant banks, was the deepest gesture of personal
confidence. It was a ritual believed to have the magical power to
engender trust and cooperation--cementing a deal, stroking an overly
inquisitive journalist, soothing a recalcitrant Labor politician. "We
had him to lunch" often substituted for a character reference in the
City, a confirmation that the individual in question had passed muster.
"Superb." Kenji Nogami was trying hard to sound British. "What say you
pop round about one-ish? I'll make sure my table is ready."
"Ken, can we meet somewhere outside today? Anywhere but at the bank."
"Pleasure not business, Michael? But that's how business works in this
town, remember? It masquerades as pleasure. We 'new boys' have to have
our perks these days, just like the 'old boys.'" He laughed. "Well
then, how about that ghastly pub full of public-school jobbers down by
the new Leadenhall Market. Know it? We could pop in for a pint. Nobody
you or I know would be caught dead drinking there."
"Across from that brokers club, right?"
"That's the one. It's bloody loud at lunch, but we can still talk."
Another laugh. "Matter of fact, I might even be asking a trifling favor
of you, old man. So you'd best be warned."
"What's a small favor between enemies. See you at one."
"On the dot."
As he cradled the receiver and poured the last dregs of caffeine into
his cup, he listened to the blare of horns on the Strand and wondered
what was wrong with the conversation that had just ended. Simple: Kenji
Nogami was too quick and chipper. Which meant he was worried. Why?
These days he should be on top of the world. He'd just acquired a
controlling interest in the Westminster Union Bank, one of the top ten
merchant banks in the City, after an unprecedented hostile takeover.
Was the new venture suddenly in trouble?
Not likely. Nogami had brought in a crackerjack Japanese team and
dragged the bank kicking and screaming into the lucrative Eurobond
business, the issuing of corporate debentures in currencies other than
that of a company's home country. Eurocurrencies and Eurobonds now
moved in wholesale amounts between governments, central banks, and
large multinational firms. The trading of Eurobonds was centered in
London, global leader in foreign exchange dealing, and they represented
the world's largest debt market. In addition, Nogami had aggressively
stepped up Westminster Union's traditional merchant bank operations by
financing foreign trade, structuring corporate finance deals, and
underwriting new issues of shares and bonds. He also excelled in the
new game of corporate takeovers. None of the major London merchant
bankers--the Rothschilds, Schroders, Hambros, Barings-- had originally
been British, so maybe Kenji was merely following in the footsteps of
the greats. Vance did know he was a first-class manager, a paragon of
Japanese prudence here in the new booming, go-go London financial
scene.
This town used to be one of Michael Vance's sentimental favorites, a
living monument to British dignity, reserve, fair play. But today it
was changing fast. After the Big Bang, London had become a prisoner of
the paper prosperity of its money changers, who'd been loosed in the
Temple. Thanks to them the City, that square mile comprising London's
old financial center, would never again be the same. After the Big
Bang, the City had become a bustling beehive of brash, ambitious young
men and women whose emblem, fittingly, seemed to be the outrageous new
headquarters Lloyds had built for itself, a monstrous spaceship dropped
remorselessly into the middle of Greek Revival facades and Victorian
respectability. It was, to his mind, like watching the new money give
the finger to the old. The staid headquarters of the Bank of England up
the way, that grand Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, now seemed a
doddering dowager at a rock concert.
All the same, he liked to stay near the City, close to the action. The
Savoy, a brisk ten-minute walk from the financial district, was his
usual spot, but since that was out of the question this time, he'd
checked into the refurbished Strand Palace, just across the street.
Today he had work to do. He had to get word to the _Mino-gumi _to back
off. And he was tired of dealing with lieutenants and enforcers,
_kobun_. The time had come to go to the top, the Tokyo _oyabun_. The
game of cat and mouse had to stop. Tokyo knew how to make deals. It was
time to make one.
Kenji Nogami, he figured, was just the man. Nogami, a wiry executive
with appropriately graying hair and a smile of granite, was a
consummate tactician who'd survived in the global financial jungle for
almost three decades. When the Japanese finally got tired of the
British financial club playing school tie and bowler hats and "old boy"
with them, shutting them out, they'd picked Nogami to handle the
hostile takeover of one of the pillars of London's merchant banking
community. Japan might still be afraid to go that route with the
Americans, who loved to rattle protectionist sabers, but England didn't
scare them a whit.
In years gone by, such attempts to violate British class privilege were
squelched by a few of the Eton grads of the City chipping in to
undermine the hostile bid. These days, however, nobody had the money to
scare off Japan. The game was up. And after the deregulation of Big
Bang, wholesale pursuit of profit had become the City's guiding
principle. Unfortunately, that turned out to be a game Kenji Nogami and
his Shokin Gaigoku Bank could play better than anybody in the world.
Nogami saw himself as an advance man for the eventual Japanese
domination of the globe's financial landscape. Maybe he was.
Michael Vance knew him from a wholly different direction, now almost
another life. In years gone by, Nogami had traveled with equal ease in
two worlds--that of straight money and that of "hot" money. He'd always
maintained the cover of a legitimate banker, but insiders knew he'd
made his real fortune laundering Yakuza amphetamine receipts and
importing small-caliber weapons. It was that second career that now
made him the perfect pipeline for a message that needed to be delivered
fast.
Vance finished off the last of the coffee in his cup, then rose and
strolled to the window to gaze down on the bustling Strand. The weather
looked murky, typical for London.
Where was Eva now? he wondered. What was she doing? Maybe she'd managed
to lose Novosty and get back to thinking about the protocol.
Well, he had some pressing business of his own, but the first thing was
to try and find her.
Maybe she was wondering right now how to get in touch with him. What
places here had they been together, back in the old days? Maybe there
was some location . . . the V&A? St. Pauls? or how about a restaurant?
What was that one she'd loved so much? The place the IRA shot up a few
years back?
At that moment the white phone beside his bed interrupted his thoughts
with its insistent British double chirp. He whirled around, startled.
Who knew he was here? If it was the KGB, or the Japanese mob, they
wouldn't bother ringing for an appointment.
Finally, after the fifth burst, he decided to reach for it. Probably
just the desk, calling about the breakfast things.
The voice was the last one he expected.
"Hello, darling."
"Eva!" He almost shouted. "Where the hell are you?"
"You really must stop shooting people, you know," she lectured. "You're
getting to be a horrible menace to society."
"What--?"
"Michael." The voice hardened. "Christ, what a mess."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I think so." She paused to inhale. "But I'm literally afraid to
move. I think KGB got Alex, there in Terminal Four at Heathrow. He was
trying to bluff them, though, so maybe he pulled it off. Anyway, they
were so tied up I just slipped past."
"The hell with him. Where are--?"
"I don't dare take a step outside this room now. Let's meet tonight.
Besides, I want to work on translating . . . you know. I rang a
scholarly bookshop I used to order from and they're delivering one of
Ventris's books. Maybe I can make some headway."
"I already did a bit of it."
"I saw that in the files. A whole page." She laughed.
"Congratulations."
"Give me a break. It's been ten years."
"Well, it looks like you're still able to fake the scholar bit. But
just barely."
"Thanks. What do you think of it so far?"
"Scary. Very scary. But we have to do more. Enough so we can go
public."
"Exactly. Look, I've got to do a couple of things today. Can you--?"
"That's fine, because I want to work on this." She sounded businesslike
again, her old self. "Something to while away the empty hours. The saga
inside my little Zenith has got to be the ticket out of this madness."
"Maybe, but we need to put some more spin on the scenario. Just to be
safe."
"What?"
"Not on the phone. Can you just sit tight? Play your game and let me
take a shot at mine?"
"It better be good."
"That remains to be seen." Who knew how it would go? But if it
proceeded as planned, the whole thing could be turned around. "Now
where the hell are you?"
"The place we always stayed, of course. Figuring you'd come here. But
you stood me up, naturally. Same old Michael. So this morning I started
calling around."
"You mean you're--?"
"At the Savoy, sweetie, our love nest of happy times past. Right across
the street."