was listed on his tax returns
as an “import consultant” and his business seemed to be almost
exclusively with Eastern European countries.
Under the heading “REMARKS” there were two
compound sentences, set off from each other as separate
paragraphs.
“Hornbeck is an agent for the East German
government, functioning primarily as a courier but sometimes as a
masher or dipperman; he is usually armed when working, preferring
small caliber automatic pistols, and should be considered dangerous
at all times.
“Hornbeck will be leaving for Yorkshire
(precise destination unknown) on the evening of the fifth: he
usually travels by car.”
Guinness could imagine what a masher might
be, but what the hell was a dipperman?
The sixteenth. Today was the morning of the
twelfth, so the sixteenth was the deadline for taking care of
Hornbeck. One could wonder what was going on in Yorkshire that they
were so anxious Hornbeck should never make it there alive. The man
didn’t sound terribly formidable; certainly not formidable enough
that Her Majesty’s government should budget a thousand pounds
toward having his lights turned out.
Well, this wasn’t his line of work. He didn’t
have any idea what its rules and priorities were. Perhaps it was
just policy to deal with smalltime couriers and musclemen as they
became visible and troublesome. Somehow, though, he didn’t really
think so. It didn’t sound very practical.
Yorkshire. The last place God made. What the
hell could be going on in Yorkshire?
There was a photograph stapled to the upper
right hand corner of the instruction sheet, the head and shoulders
of a middle aged man who looked like he had a lot of difficulty
keeping his weight down. It was obviously posed, probably for a
passport.
Hornbeck certainly didn’t look like a spy.
His earlobes stuck out at peculiar angles and his eyebrows were so
bushy they gave the impression that the photo must somehow have
been blurred. Those eyes didn’t look like they had ever registered
fear or cruelty, or much of anything else. They were the sort of
eyes you would expect to find in the man behind the ribbon counter
at Woolworth’s, certainly not staring down at you from behind a
small caliber automatic pistol. “Should be considered dangerous at
all times.” Well, Cruttwell’s people must know what they’re talking
about.
How does one assassinate a ribbon clerk? The
major hadn’t been terribly specific.
“It doesn’t matter, really. As long as you
don’t cut him in half with a shotgun blast in front of the rush
hour crowd at Selfridge’s, we’ll arrange to have the best possible
face put on it—suicide or a stroke or something. It would be nice
if you were able to give us something to work with, however.”
Something to work with, something to work
with. Guinness used the edge of his thumb to fan out the stack of
ten pound notes lying next to him on the bedspread. Now there was
something to work with. Ninety-seven of them, the other three
having gone toward getting him back into his lodging house.
Jesus, he was tired; he could feel himself
sinking into the box springs. The sun would be up in just a few
hours, but friend Hornbeck would just have to wait until after the
troops had had a short siesta. Guinness wrapped his money back up
in the sheet of instructions, slipping that back in lengthways
through the torn open end of its envelope. Without bothering to get
out of his shirt and trousers, he turned off the table lamp beside
his bed and dropped into a profound sleep.
The afternoon found him stepping off the
underground at the Shepherd’s Bush station. He walked west on
Uxbridge Road, turning up on Bloemfontein until he was past the
point where it intersected with Ellerslie. There were some school
buildings on the corner and an enormous athletic field beyond them.
Hornbeck’s house would be across the street.
Ellerslie Road, as it turned out, was only
about three or four blocks long, and Number 23 showed itself
as an “import consultant” and his business seemed to be almost
exclusively with Eastern European countries.
Under the heading “REMARKS” there were two
compound sentences, set off from each other as separate
paragraphs.
“Hornbeck is an agent for the East German
government, functioning primarily as a courier but sometimes as a
masher or dipperman; he is usually armed when working, preferring
small caliber automatic pistols, and should be considered dangerous
at all times.
“Hornbeck will be leaving for Yorkshire
(precise destination unknown) on the evening of the fifth: he
usually travels by car.”
Guinness could imagine what a masher might
be, but what the hell was a dipperman?
The sixteenth. Today was the morning of the
twelfth, so the sixteenth was the deadline for taking care of
Hornbeck. One could wonder what was going on in Yorkshire that they
were so anxious Hornbeck should never make it there alive. The man
didn’t sound terribly formidable; certainly not formidable enough
that Her Majesty’s government should budget a thousand pounds
toward having his lights turned out.
Well, this wasn’t his line of work. He didn’t
have any idea what its rules and priorities were. Perhaps it was
just policy to deal with smalltime couriers and musclemen as they
became visible and troublesome. Somehow, though, he didn’t really
think so. It didn’t sound very practical.
Yorkshire. The last place God made. What the
hell could be going on in Yorkshire?
There was a photograph stapled to the upper
right hand corner of the instruction sheet, the head and shoulders
of a middle aged man who looked like he had a lot of difficulty
keeping his weight down. It was obviously posed, probably for a
passport.
Hornbeck certainly didn’t look like a spy.
His earlobes stuck out at peculiar angles and his eyebrows were so
bushy they gave the impression that the photo must somehow have
been blurred. Those eyes didn’t look like they had ever registered
fear or cruelty, or much of anything else. They were the sort of
eyes you would expect to find in the man behind the ribbon counter
at Woolworth’s, certainly not staring down at you from behind a
small caliber automatic pistol. “Should be considered dangerous at
all times.” Well, Cruttwell’s people must know what they’re talking
about.
How does one assassinate a ribbon clerk? The
major hadn’t been terribly specific.
“It doesn’t matter, really. As long as you
don’t cut him in half with a shotgun blast in front of the rush
hour crowd at Selfridge’s, we’ll arrange to have the best possible
face put on it—suicide or a stroke or something. It would be nice
if you were able to give us something to work with, however.”
Something to work with, something to work
with. Guinness used the edge of his thumb to fan out the stack of
ten pound notes lying next to him on the bedspread. Now there was
something to work with. Ninety-seven of them, the other three
having gone toward getting him back into his lodging house.
Jesus, he was tired; he could feel himself
sinking into the box springs. The sun would be up in just a few
hours, but friend Hornbeck would just have to wait until after the
troops had had a short siesta. Guinness wrapped his money back up
in the sheet of instructions, slipping that back in lengthways
through the torn open end of its envelope. Without bothering to get
out of his shirt and trousers, he turned off the table lamp beside
his bed and dropped into a profound sleep.
The afternoon found him stepping off the
underground at the Shepherd’s Bush station. He walked west on
Uxbridge Road, turning up on Bloemfontein until he was past the
point where it intersected with Ellerslie. There were some school
buildings on the corner and an enormous athletic field beyond them.
Hornbeck’s house would be across the street.
Ellerslie Road, as it turned out, was only
about three or four blocks long, and Number 23 showed itself
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