frightening. No part of it touched the wall. Instead, it was in the center of the room, isolated.His bureau stood in front of a window; a small writing desk was dwarfed against the expanse of the right wall. As had happened minutes ago, when first he’d seen the living room, the images of what his bedroom looked like three days ago kept flashing before him, replaced by the strangeness of what he now observed.
Then he saw it and gasped. Hanging down from the ceiling, strapped together with dull black tape, was his second telephone, the extension cord snaking up the wall and across the ceiling to the hook that held it.
It was spinning slowly.
The pain shifted from his stomach to his chest; his eyes were transfixed on the sight, on the suspended instrument revolving slowly in midair. He was afraid to look beyond, but he knew he had to; he had to understand.
And when he did, his breath came back to him. The phone was in the direct path of his bathroom door and the door was open. He saw the curtains billowing in the window above the basin. The steady stream of cold wind was making the telephone spin.
He walked quickly into the bathroom to shut the window. As he was about to pull the curtains, he saw a brief flash of illumination outside; a match had been struck in another window across the courtyard, the flare startling in the darkness. He looked out.
There was the woman again! The blond-haired woman, her upper body silhouetted beyond another set of sheer curtains. He stared at the figure, mesmerized by it.
She turned as she had turned before, and walked away as she had walked away minutes ago. Out of sight. And the dim light in the window went out.
What
was
happening? What did it mean? Things were being orchestrated to frighten him. But by whom and for what purpose? And what had happened to Peter Baldwin, Esq., he of the intense voice and the command to cancel Geneva? Was Baldwin a part of the terror, or was he a victim of it?
Victim …
victim?
It was an odd word to use, he thought. Why should there be any victims? And what did Baldwin mean when he said he had “spent twenty years with MI Six”?
MI Six? A branch of British intelligence. If he remembered correctly, MI
Five
was the section that dealtwith domestic matters;
Six
concerned itself with problems outside the country. The English CIA, as it were.
Good God! Did the British know about the Geneva document? Was British intelligence aware of the massive theft of thirty years ago? On the surface, it would appear so.… Yet that was not what Peter Baldwin had implied.
You have no idea what you’re doing. No one does but me
.
And then there was silence, and the line went dead.
Holcroft walked out of the bathroom and paused beneath the suspended telephone; it was barely moving now, but it had not stopped. It was an ugly sight, made macabre by the profusion of dull black tape that held the instrument together. As if the phone had been mummified, never to be used again.
He continued toward the bedroom door, then instinctively stopped and turned. Something had caught his eye, something he had not noticed before. The center drawer of the small writing desk was open. He looked closer. Inside the drawer was a sheet of paper.
His breathing stopped as he stared at the page below.
It couldn’t
be
. It was
insane
. The single sheet of paper was brownish yellow. With
age
. It was identical to the page that had been kept in a vault in Geneva for thirty years. The letter filled with threats written by fanatics who revered a martyr named Heinrich Clausen. The writing was the same; the odd Germanic printing of English words, the ink that was faded but still legible.
And what was legible was astonishing. For it had been written more than thirty years ago.
NOEL CLAUSEN-HOLCROFT NOTHING IS AS IT WAS FOR YOU. NOTHING CAN EVER BE THE SAME .…
Before he read further, Noel picked up an edge of the page. It crumbled under his touch.
Oh, God! It
was
written thirty years
Then he saw it and gasped. Hanging down from the ceiling, strapped together with dull black tape, was his second telephone, the extension cord snaking up the wall and across the ceiling to the hook that held it.
It was spinning slowly.
The pain shifted from his stomach to his chest; his eyes were transfixed on the sight, on the suspended instrument revolving slowly in midair. He was afraid to look beyond, but he knew he had to; he had to understand.
And when he did, his breath came back to him. The phone was in the direct path of his bathroom door and the door was open. He saw the curtains billowing in the window above the basin. The steady stream of cold wind was making the telephone spin.
He walked quickly into the bathroom to shut the window. As he was about to pull the curtains, he saw a brief flash of illumination outside; a match had been struck in another window across the courtyard, the flare startling in the darkness. He looked out.
There was the woman again! The blond-haired woman, her upper body silhouetted beyond another set of sheer curtains. He stared at the figure, mesmerized by it.
She turned as she had turned before, and walked away as she had walked away minutes ago. Out of sight. And the dim light in the window went out.
What
was
happening? What did it mean? Things were being orchestrated to frighten him. But by whom and for what purpose? And what had happened to Peter Baldwin, Esq., he of the intense voice and the command to cancel Geneva? Was Baldwin a part of the terror, or was he a victim of it?
Victim …
victim?
It was an odd word to use, he thought. Why should there be any victims? And what did Baldwin mean when he said he had “spent twenty years with MI Six”?
MI Six? A branch of British intelligence. If he remembered correctly, MI
Five
was the section that dealtwith domestic matters;
Six
concerned itself with problems outside the country. The English CIA, as it were.
Good God! Did the British know about the Geneva document? Was British intelligence aware of the massive theft of thirty years ago? On the surface, it would appear so.… Yet that was not what Peter Baldwin had implied.
You have no idea what you’re doing. No one does but me
.
And then there was silence, and the line went dead.
Holcroft walked out of the bathroom and paused beneath the suspended telephone; it was barely moving now, but it had not stopped. It was an ugly sight, made macabre by the profusion of dull black tape that held the instrument together. As if the phone had been mummified, never to be used again.
He continued toward the bedroom door, then instinctively stopped and turned. Something had caught his eye, something he had not noticed before. The center drawer of the small writing desk was open. He looked closer. Inside the drawer was a sheet of paper.
His breathing stopped as he stared at the page below.
It couldn’t
be
. It was
insane
. The single sheet of paper was brownish yellow. With
age
. It was identical to the page that had been kept in a vault in Geneva for thirty years. The letter filled with threats written by fanatics who revered a martyr named Heinrich Clausen. The writing was the same; the odd Germanic printing of English words, the ink that was faded but still legible.
And what was legible was astonishing. For it had been written more than thirty years ago.
NOEL CLAUSEN-HOLCROFT NOTHING IS AS IT WAS FOR YOU. NOTHING CAN EVER BE THE SAME .…
Before he read further, Noel picked up an edge of the page. It crumbled under his touch.
Oh, God! It
was
written thirty years
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