he’s in Berlin. And Berlin’s the front line of the Cold War, and the world capital of spies, and it’s also where the Third World War is going to start. But now he’s here. So today we’re to follow him around London and see if that throws up anything interesting. If it doesn’t, we might try something else. We’d best look sharpish, if we get down there right away we should catch him before he goes out.’
That was the point of the early start. Of course, you never could tell. A suspect might stay in his bolt hole all day long and never venture out at all. Unlikely in this case; the man must have business of some kind in the capital, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
Outside in Whitehall, McGovern considered Jarrell’s appearance. ‘You need a hat. Your hair is a wee bit conspicuous.’
Sussex Gardens was a seedy avenue running parallel with Praed Street, adjacent to Paddington Station. The whole area was pocked with cheap eateries and tearooms where sad transients stared into nothingness. There were newsagents, and barbers’ shops where you could buy rubbers. One side of Sussex Gardens itself was lined with dingy mansions. Most of the houses on the opposite side had gone, leaving an overgrown bomb site.
The hotel where Harris was staying was simply two of the tall houses knocked into one. The peeling stucco was grey with dirt. The columned portico – its pretentions so at odds with the squalid façade – was chipped and three steps led up to a door from which the paint had worn away. Grimy net curtains veiled the windows. It was only a few rungs up from a dosshouse or the sort of place where you could hire a room for an hour.
The two policemen stood on the opposite side of the road, although there was little cover. McGovern lit a cigarette. Jarrell didn’t smoke.
For half an hour they waited in vain for anyone to emerge. It seemed much longer and every time McGovern looked at his watch he was dismayed to find that only two or three minutes had passed. But at last the hotel door opened. They knew at once the man standing on the steps was Harris. He carried his height well and walked like a soldier. He certainly didn’t fit McGovern’s vague idea of a homosexual as a womanish fop.
Their quarry strode away in the direction of the Edgware Road and entered the underground station. They kept him in sight through the rush-hour crowd, down the stairs and onto the thronged platform. When the train arrived, they entered by separate doors, so that Harris was between them, halfway along the gangway.
By the time they followed him out into Charing Cross Station, McGovern was feeling the familiar tension that this sort of work involved. You had to be so careful and so quick. The concourse was crowded with commuters heading in from the suburbs, but they kept Harris in sight as he bought a ticket and stood looking up at the indicator board.
At the ticket office McGovern flashed his identity card at the man behind the grille. ‘Your last customer – where was he going?’
The clerk stared in surprise, but answered meekly. ‘Deal, sir.’
That was that then. Shortage of resources meant they were strictly forbidden to stray beyond the capital. In any case, it was usually suicidal to follow a target out into the countryside. The train leaving for Deal against the rush hour would be carrying few passengers. Harris would almost certainly realise he was being followed.
‘No use, Jarrell. He’s going to the Kent coast. We can’t follow him out of London. Stay here a minute.’ And Jake left his companion looking crestfallen while he made for a telephone kiosk – there was a line of them along one wall of the ticket hall – to ring Kingdom.
Kingdom took the news quite casually, but McGovern had the feeling he wasn’t pleased.
six
H E WOKE SUDDENLY . Bewildered. A gap in the curtains let in a shaft of dim light from the street, saving the room from total darkness. Then he remembered. It was the first time
That was the point of the early start. Of course, you never could tell. A suspect might stay in his bolt hole all day long and never venture out at all. Unlikely in this case; the man must have business of some kind in the capital, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
Outside in Whitehall, McGovern considered Jarrell’s appearance. ‘You need a hat. Your hair is a wee bit conspicuous.’
Sussex Gardens was a seedy avenue running parallel with Praed Street, adjacent to Paddington Station. The whole area was pocked with cheap eateries and tearooms where sad transients stared into nothingness. There were newsagents, and barbers’ shops where you could buy rubbers. One side of Sussex Gardens itself was lined with dingy mansions. Most of the houses on the opposite side had gone, leaving an overgrown bomb site.
The hotel where Harris was staying was simply two of the tall houses knocked into one. The peeling stucco was grey with dirt. The columned portico – its pretentions so at odds with the squalid façade – was chipped and three steps led up to a door from which the paint had worn away. Grimy net curtains veiled the windows. It was only a few rungs up from a dosshouse or the sort of place where you could hire a room for an hour.
The two policemen stood on the opposite side of the road, although there was little cover. McGovern lit a cigarette. Jarrell didn’t smoke.
For half an hour they waited in vain for anyone to emerge. It seemed much longer and every time McGovern looked at his watch he was dismayed to find that only two or three minutes had passed. But at last the hotel door opened. They knew at once the man standing on the steps was Harris. He carried his height well and walked like a soldier. He certainly didn’t fit McGovern’s vague idea of a homosexual as a womanish fop.
Their quarry strode away in the direction of the Edgware Road and entered the underground station. They kept him in sight through the rush-hour crowd, down the stairs and onto the thronged platform. When the train arrived, they entered by separate doors, so that Harris was between them, halfway along the gangway.
By the time they followed him out into Charing Cross Station, McGovern was feeling the familiar tension that this sort of work involved. You had to be so careful and so quick. The concourse was crowded with commuters heading in from the suburbs, but they kept Harris in sight as he bought a ticket and stood looking up at the indicator board.
At the ticket office McGovern flashed his identity card at the man behind the grille. ‘Your last customer – where was he going?’
The clerk stared in surprise, but answered meekly. ‘Deal, sir.’
That was that then. Shortage of resources meant they were strictly forbidden to stray beyond the capital. In any case, it was usually suicidal to follow a target out into the countryside. The train leaving for Deal against the rush hour would be carrying few passengers. Harris would almost certainly realise he was being followed.
‘No use, Jarrell. He’s going to the Kent coast. We can’t follow him out of London. Stay here a minute.’ And Jake left his companion looking crestfallen while he made for a telephone kiosk – there was a line of them along one wall of the ticket hall – to ring Kingdom.
Kingdom took the news quite casually, but McGovern had the feeling he wasn’t pleased.
six
H E WOKE SUDDENLY . Bewildered. A gap in the curtains let in a shaft of dim light from the street, saving the room from total darkness. Then he remembered. It was the first time
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