off, anxious to ensure privacy for the likely period of the operation, so once Anna left on Saturday evening he was alone in the Hampstead house. At first he tried to stay awake; then, as the hours dragged by, all desire for sleep left him, to be replaced by insomniac terror.
She was supposed to open the safe, bring him Krysalis, wait while he copied it, then take it back. A couple of hours’ work at the most. But of Anna there was no sign.
Where was she? What was holding her up? Had she been caught? Perhaps David had come home unexpectedly….
He dozed fitfully, a prey to lurid dreams. Sunday dawned, still without contact. Gerhard somehow managed to put off calling Anna until eleven. No answer. After that he dialed every fifteen minutes for three hours. Once he got the busy signal, and his heart soared, but next time he dialed, although the line was free, no one picked up the phone. He realized that someone else must have been trying to contact her and felt his legs go weak.
David.
What would Lescombe do when he got no reply from his own home?
Kleist got into his Audi and drove to Islington. He circled the peaceful square several times, noting how the curtains of the Lescombes’ house were closed despitethe hour, then accelerated away back to Hampstead. He let himself into the house and poured himself a large Scotch. While he was still trying to work out which was more dangerous—to alert Barzel or leave him in blissful unawareness of the catastrophe looming—he fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was to discover that the clock read nearly six A.M . Monday already. His stomach felt nauseated. Disgusting gray matter coated his tongue. His skin was clammy, his hands shook. He tried the Islington number again. Same result.
He sat staring at the wall, afraid to imagine what might have befallen Anna.
“How could you?”
he burst out suddenly, shocking himself. “How
could
you …?”
He knew he must go and find out what had gone wrong.
Had Anna set the burglar alarm.
Had she?
When she left on Saturday evening, she had seemed dog-tired. He’d fretted about that at the time. Would she have preserved enough presence of mind to go home and set the alarm before …
Before what? Collapsing? Calling David? Calling the police?
Gerhard tore a piece of cuticle from his thumb and swore. He was shaking. He was also reacting like a fool. Why on earth should she call the police?
There was only one choice now. He had to go and find out for himself.
He prepared carefully, selecting a flashlight, a tight-fitting pair of gloves, and—not without a great deal of hesitation—a gun that he had kept concealed in his house for many years past. Barzel’s idea, that. At last he was ready. He drove to Islington through deserted streets, parking a quarter of a mile from the Lescombes’house and hugging the shadows for the rest of the way. There was no easy means of access from the back, so he was forced to descend to basement level in full view of the square, only at quarter to seven in the morning there was no one about.
Masking the butt of his gun with a corner of his overcoat, he smashed a pane of glass. It made surprisingly little noise. As he lifted the casement window, no bells went off. Gerhard heaved a sigh of relief and swung one leg over the sill. His heart was beating terribly fast. Until this moment, he could have talked his way out of trouble. Now he was a housebreaker.
It was pitch black inside the cellar, but he dared not risk a light. Slowly, he groped his way upstairs. He had never visited this place as a legitimate visitor. He had no idea where Anna slept. Second-long bursts of light from his torch showed him over and over that he was in the wrong place.
Then suddenly he was in the right place, the torch was shining onto Anna’s face, and already it was growing light outside.
“Anna,” he breathed.
No response. Her face was marble-white.
“Anna!”
As Gerhard shook her for the first time, the phone rang.
He
She was supposed to open the safe, bring him Krysalis, wait while he copied it, then take it back. A couple of hours’ work at the most. But of Anna there was no sign.
Where was she? What was holding her up? Had she been caught? Perhaps David had come home unexpectedly….
He dozed fitfully, a prey to lurid dreams. Sunday dawned, still without contact. Gerhard somehow managed to put off calling Anna until eleven. No answer. After that he dialed every fifteen minutes for three hours. Once he got the busy signal, and his heart soared, but next time he dialed, although the line was free, no one picked up the phone. He realized that someone else must have been trying to contact her and felt his legs go weak.
David.
What would Lescombe do when he got no reply from his own home?
Kleist got into his Audi and drove to Islington. He circled the peaceful square several times, noting how the curtains of the Lescombes’ house were closed despitethe hour, then accelerated away back to Hampstead. He let himself into the house and poured himself a large Scotch. While he was still trying to work out which was more dangerous—to alert Barzel or leave him in blissful unawareness of the catastrophe looming—he fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was to discover that the clock read nearly six A.M . Monday already. His stomach felt nauseated. Disgusting gray matter coated his tongue. His skin was clammy, his hands shook. He tried the Islington number again. Same result.
He sat staring at the wall, afraid to imagine what might have befallen Anna.
“How could you?”
he burst out suddenly, shocking himself. “How
could
you …?”
He knew he must go and find out what had gone wrong.
Had Anna set the burglar alarm.
Had she?
When she left on Saturday evening, she had seemed dog-tired. He’d fretted about that at the time. Would she have preserved enough presence of mind to go home and set the alarm before …
Before what? Collapsing? Calling David? Calling the police?
Gerhard tore a piece of cuticle from his thumb and swore. He was shaking. He was also reacting like a fool. Why on earth should she call the police?
There was only one choice now. He had to go and find out for himself.
He prepared carefully, selecting a flashlight, a tight-fitting pair of gloves, and—not without a great deal of hesitation—a gun that he had kept concealed in his house for many years past. Barzel’s idea, that. At last he was ready. He drove to Islington through deserted streets, parking a quarter of a mile from the Lescombes’house and hugging the shadows for the rest of the way. There was no easy means of access from the back, so he was forced to descend to basement level in full view of the square, only at quarter to seven in the morning there was no one about.
Masking the butt of his gun with a corner of his overcoat, he smashed a pane of glass. It made surprisingly little noise. As he lifted the casement window, no bells went off. Gerhard heaved a sigh of relief and swung one leg over the sill. His heart was beating terribly fast. Until this moment, he could have talked his way out of trouble. Now he was a housebreaker.
It was pitch black inside the cellar, but he dared not risk a light. Slowly, he groped his way upstairs. He had never visited this place as a legitimate visitor. He had no idea where Anna slept. Second-long bursts of light from his torch showed him over and over that he was in the wrong place.
Then suddenly he was in the right place, the torch was shining onto Anna’s face, and already it was growing light outside.
“Anna,” he breathed.
No response. Her face was marble-white.
“Anna!”
As Gerhard shook her for the first time, the phone rang.
He
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