Monday 8:05 P.M.
She checked her watch, then took a last look around the spacious
room. It was time. Her bag lay on the bed, packed and waiting to be
sent later. The part of her luggage that mattered was the vinyl flight
bag by the door, containing the Zenith.
With a sigh she rose, threw on her light tan raincoat, and grabbed the
bag. This was the part she'd been dreading, and she'd done her best to
try and look inconspicuous--a dressy beige outfit and a few silver
accessories. She'd also washed her hair, which always made her feel
better.
The carpeted hallway was clear as she closed the door, tugged to be
certain it was secure, then took a deep breath, turned, and headed
toward the elevator. She hadn't been outside the room for almost
twenty-four hours. This, she told herself, must be what house arrest
feels like.
It was about to be over. All she had to do now was make her way through
the Savoy lobby, walk diagonally across the Strand, then through
another lobby, another elevator, and she'd be with Michael.
The more she allowed herself to think about the whole situation, the
angrier she got, at all the bean-counters at NSA who wouldn't listen to
her, at the entire American intelligence establishment. How could
everybody have missed what was happening?
Maybe, she thought, the air outside would help cool her off. She
definitely needed to get out of the Savoy, if only to counter the
claustrophobia. Stretch your legs, sweetheart, and think.
The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The crisp, shiny,
expensive fashions greeted her, the iridescence of diamonds; the night
people of London were headed out for dinner and the clubs. A cross
section of the jet set and the bored rich. Nobody seemed to be having
fun.
She looked at them as she stepped in, wondering what they would think
if they knew what was in her vinyl bag. Michael used to say the only
thing people like these were interested in was impressing headwaiters.
He was probably dead right.
The LOBBY light flashed above the doors, and they slid open to reveal
muted wood paneling, English antiques, and sparkling mirrors. Gray-
suited bellboys carrying baggage and opening elevator doors mingled
with the bustling evening throng. It was a world unto itself.
Not pausing, she strode past the pink marble columns and glowing
chandeliers, then headed for the glassed entrance. Outside, the traffic
on the Strand, the glitter of London at night, all of it beckoned.
Being in Crete again had really made her think, about a lot of things.
Mostly though, she'd thought about Michael Vance, Jr. Ex-archaeologist,
ex-spook, ex- . . . God knew what. Still, she'd seen plenty worse . . .
the paunchy assistant-this and vice-that, all divorced and paying
alimony and whining. But in this man-short time, with hungry divorcees
flocking the bars, they didn't have to bother keeping up appearances.
Middle-aged decay was their inalienable right. Mike, whatever else you
said about him, still looked as good as he had a decade ago. He was
showing some mileage, sure, but on him it didn't look half bad. Maybe
it was the tequila.
Could they start over again, that new beginning he'd hinted about?
Maybe it was at least worth a try.
She moved on through the milling mob in the lobby, trying to be casual,
to blend. He'd said she should get out of the Savoy as soon as
possible, just send her things and move in with him. But why didn't he
come over and stay with her? she'd asked. The Savoy was more romantic,
more like the old days. That's when he'd abruptly switched the subject,
saying they couldn't discuss it on the phone.
Probably he had something working. Well, she had a few surprises too.
She'd spent the day hacking away at the protocol, and she'd learned a
lot more. It was even worse than she'd imagined.
As she pushed through the revolving doors and into the driveway, the
clack-clack of London taxi motors and the rush of cold air brought back
all the adrenaline of that moment in Iraklion when she had first seen
Alex.
She grasped the flight bag more firmly and moved on down the left-hand
sidewalk, past the National Westminster Bank at the corner and toward
the street. Almost there. Just across waited the Strand Palace and
safety.
In her rush, she'd missed an important event. Mingled in among the
lobby crowd was a couple she'd failed to notice. They'd been over on
her left, by the desk. The man, in a rumpled brown jacket, was haggard,
with bloodshot eyes. His beard was untrimmed, but it did disguise the
bruises on his face. Unseen by Eva he'd suddenly raised his hand and
pointed at her. Nor did she see the woman with him-- dark coiffure,
elegant makeup, Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress--though she wouldn't
have recognized her in any case.
Only moments after Eva Borodin walked up the Savoy driveway, the woman
was speaking into the radio she'd had in her shiny evening purse.
Monday 8:08 P.M.
He glanced at his watch, then looked out his smudgy hotel window and
down at the Strand. Two more minutes and there should be a knock on the
door.
Would she believe him? That he'd set up the play? Maybe he couldn't
quite believe it himself, but still, they had the biggest share of
poker chips now. They were about to take control of the game.
It was almost, almost time to relax.
Then he saw her, moving briskly across the Strand while furtively
looking left and right. Good. After he watched her disappear into the
lobby down below, he turned back from the window and walked to the bar.
Time to crack open the Sauza Tres Generaciones, Tequila Anejo--Mexico's
well-aged contribution to the well-being of all humankind. Hard enough
to come by anywhere, it was virtually unobtainable here in London, but
his search had succeeded. He lifted it out of its tan box, admiring the
coal black bottle, then gave the cork a twist and sniffed the
fragrance, fresh as nectar, before settling it back on the bar. Next he
removed a bottle of rare Stolichnaya Starka vodka from the freezer and
stationed it beside the Sauza. This, he knew, was Eva's favorite, made
with water from the Niva River and flavored with pear leaves and
Crimean apples as well as a touch of brandy and a dash of port.
A few moments later he heard a light knock on the door, and with a
feeling of relief he stepped over.
"Michael," the voice was a muted whisper, "hurry."
He swung it inward and there she was. Without a word she moved into his
arms.
"Are you okay?" He touched her face, then lifted her lips to his. They
were cold, tight.
"Yes. I . . . I think so. God, what a day. I kept wanting to call you,
darling."
"I was out."
"I assumed that. I can't wait to show you my translation."
"Hey, slow down." He kissed her again. "Let's have a celebration drink
first. Just you and me."
"Michael, don't talk nonsense. We've got to think."
"I got a bottle of your native wine, a little Tequila Anejo for me.
Never hurt the mental processes. Come on, what do you say?" He turned
and headed for the bar.
She was unzipping the vinyl flight bag. "How can you . . .?" Then she
caught herself and laughed. "It better be frozen, Like ice-cold syrup."
"Cold as Siberia. It should go down well with the latest news item.
We've now got a deal on the table with Tokyo."
"What kind of deal?" She glanced over.
"I told them if they'll call off the gorillas, I'll see about
lightening up their money problems. The Alex Novosty imbroglio."
"You're not really going to do it?"