he had booked up in advance.
He suddenly realized that Fragonard had not joined the Yuri the next day, in fact. He had come aboard at Copenhagen, two days later! His intuition about the voluble Swiss flooded back in force.
But why had Kramer been done away with? Simon mulled this one over again, getting almost masochistic delight in frightening himself mortal.
âThey knew what Kramer wanted and who he was sending to get it â but perhaps they didnât know the local arrangements in Moscow ⦠all this guff about the German chap, Pabst, and the place Iâm supposed to make contact. What if they wrung the truth out of Kramer and killed him in the process â or disposed of him afterwards to keep his mouth shut?â
It seemed an extreme way to go about getting a few grammes of steel, but there it was ⦠worth millions to an industrial consortium, who would not want to know the details of how it was obtained, as long as they got the precious end product.
The same old thoughts tramped in a heavy-footed circle through Simonâs mind as he sat morosely in his chair. He always came back to the same starting point â who was trying to eliminate him and what could he do about it?
Too late, he bemoaned his stupidity and stubbornness in not cutting his losses in Helsinki and flying home from there ⦠especially as heâd had another chance after the attack, when he could have stayed in hospital and salved his pride as the ship sailed without him â his shocked state must have turned his brain, he thought, looking back.
Now he was stuck for ten days in a hostile country, virtually imprisoned with someone bent on murdering him.
There was no way out; he could hardly go and pour out his heart to Gilbert and ask for an air flight straight home from Moscow. Gilbert Bynge? ⦠in his present suspicious mood, he began to wonder about Gilbert. A courier for years on the Russian route, every opportunity to go to and fro across the frontiers. He spoke perfect Russian, had been at the game for years ⦠what about Gilbert? Far from trusting him to get Simon out of this jam, should he put him well up the list of suspects?
Bynge certainly had the physique to have done that nasty bit of work on the Helsinki quayside â thin but tall, and with youth on his side. Apart from Fragonard, there were no other likely candidates, apart from the dipsomaniac Irishman, Michael Shaw, the vicar and the old ladies. And of course, Liz ⦠she was a big girl, but â¦
Simon shrugged off the thought as soon as it entered his mind â apart from his emotions, hadnât she been the one who had helped drag him out of the water?
âAh, to blazes with it!â he snarled suddenly and jumped up, wincing at the pain in his neck. He went to the window and threw open the double-layered casement, a protection against the Moscow winters. He had to lean well out over the wide sill to see anything.
Immediately below him was the cliff-like wall of the hotel, falling four storeys to the ground below. His room was at the back of the Metropol almost at the northern corner. To his left was a busy shopping street leading away from Sverdlov Square. The rumble of traffic, the crowded pavements, the ice cream stalls and the shops could have been almost any city in Europe.
Below and to his right was a high curved wall of ancient red brick, with a curious Oriental battlement along the top. From previous readings of his guidebook, he recognized this as part of the Chinese Wall, a remnant of the old city fortifications. It ran now from some stable-like buildings a few yards away to meet the hotel wall just below Liz Treasureâs room, separating the street from the rough ground that formed the Metropolâs backyard.
His inspection of the outer world complete, he pulled his head in and closed the windows. The next half-hour passed in unpacking his two cases into the cavernous wardrobe and in risking life and
He suddenly realized that Fragonard had not joined the Yuri the next day, in fact. He had come aboard at Copenhagen, two days later! His intuition about the voluble Swiss flooded back in force.
But why had Kramer been done away with? Simon mulled this one over again, getting almost masochistic delight in frightening himself mortal.
âThey knew what Kramer wanted and who he was sending to get it â but perhaps they didnât know the local arrangements in Moscow ⦠all this guff about the German chap, Pabst, and the place Iâm supposed to make contact. What if they wrung the truth out of Kramer and killed him in the process â or disposed of him afterwards to keep his mouth shut?â
It seemed an extreme way to go about getting a few grammes of steel, but there it was ⦠worth millions to an industrial consortium, who would not want to know the details of how it was obtained, as long as they got the precious end product.
The same old thoughts tramped in a heavy-footed circle through Simonâs mind as he sat morosely in his chair. He always came back to the same starting point â who was trying to eliminate him and what could he do about it?
Too late, he bemoaned his stupidity and stubbornness in not cutting his losses in Helsinki and flying home from there ⦠especially as heâd had another chance after the attack, when he could have stayed in hospital and salved his pride as the ship sailed without him â his shocked state must have turned his brain, he thought, looking back.
Now he was stuck for ten days in a hostile country, virtually imprisoned with someone bent on murdering him.
There was no way out; he could hardly go and pour out his heart to Gilbert and ask for an air flight straight home from Moscow. Gilbert Bynge? ⦠in his present suspicious mood, he began to wonder about Gilbert. A courier for years on the Russian route, every opportunity to go to and fro across the frontiers. He spoke perfect Russian, had been at the game for years ⦠what about Gilbert? Far from trusting him to get Simon out of this jam, should he put him well up the list of suspects?
Bynge certainly had the physique to have done that nasty bit of work on the Helsinki quayside â thin but tall, and with youth on his side. Apart from Fragonard, there were no other likely candidates, apart from the dipsomaniac Irishman, Michael Shaw, the vicar and the old ladies. And of course, Liz ⦠she was a big girl, but â¦
Simon shrugged off the thought as soon as it entered his mind â apart from his emotions, hadnât she been the one who had helped drag him out of the water?
âAh, to blazes with it!â he snarled suddenly and jumped up, wincing at the pain in his neck. He went to the window and threw open the double-layered casement, a protection against the Moscow winters. He had to lean well out over the wide sill to see anything.
Immediately below him was the cliff-like wall of the hotel, falling four storeys to the ground below. His room was at the back of the Metropol almost at the northern corner. To his left was a busy shopping street leading away from Sverdlov Square. The rumble of traffic, the crowded pavements, the ice cream stalls and the shops could have been almost any city in Europe.
Below and to his right was a high curved wall of ancient red brick, with a curious Oriental battlement along the top. From previous readings of his guidebook, he recognized this as part of the Chinese Wall, a remnant of the old city fortifications. It ran now from some stable-like buildings a few yards away to meet the hotel wall just below Liz Treasureâs room, separating the street from the rough ground that formed the Metropolâs backyard.
His inspection of the outer world complete, he pulled his head in and closed the windows. The next half-hour passed in unpacking his two cases into the cavernous wardrobe and in risking life and
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