Wolfram Schrade had reservations for two at eight-thirty that evening at Ma Micheline, a trendy and expensive French restaurant near Park Lane. He would surely be driven. Strand called back and made reservations for one at the same hour. Schrade’s reservation for two was interesting.
Strand looked at his watch. He had one other thing to do before Mara returned. He went down to the entry hall closet and retrieved the paper sack with the pistol he had gotten from Hodge. He took the pistol and went up to the bathroom in one of the empty bedrooms and turned on the faucet in the bathtub. The lever that closed the drain in the tub was above the faucet, so he wouldn’t have to reach into the water to drain it.
When the tub was full, Strand turned off the water and stepped back. He removed the clip from the pistol, looked at it, and then slowly pushed it back into the handle. He raised his hand, extended his arm, and then, taking special note of the tension in the trigger, slowly squeezed it and fired into the water.
The slap was not as loud as he had expected, the recoil nonexistent. It took a moment before he located the small plastic pellet at the bottom, ruptured. The clear saxitoxin was dispersed into the clear water. He reached down and flipped the drain toggle.
After removing the clip from the handle, he smelled the end of the barrel. Very little odor from the firing mechanism. If people gathered around the slumping Schrade, there would be no suspicious whiff of cordite in the air.
When the water had drained out of the tub, the ruptured pellet was stuck in the drain. Using a tissue, he picked it up and examined it closely. Then he put the tissue and pellet into the toilet and flushed it.
He left the pistol and clip in his coat pocket and hung the coat in the closet with his other clothes. He walked to the windows and looked out at the rain. This time the next day it would be done. He was tempted to imagine what it would be like for him and Mara after it was all over, but he knew better than to indulge himself in bright hopes. It was too easy to slip into an unjustified optimism, deceiving oneself into believing that the nearest evil was the only evil between oneself and happiness. There was even more of an inclination to do that with an evil like Schrade’s, because it so thoroughly dominated the present moment to the exclusion of all others that it was tempting to discount the more subtle demons waiting their turn behind him.
The rain was falling steadily again, running down Chesterfield Hill toward the gutters of Mayfair, on its way to the storm sewers and the Thames.
Strand’s thoughts drifted away, distracted by the random pace of the rain as it alternately surged and slacked. He lost track of time until he saw a black cab pull up and stop in front of the town house. The driver got out with an umbrella and opened the back door for Mara, holding the umbrella for her as she gathered up her things.
While they ate the sandwiches that Mara had brought back with her, she laid out on the scaffolding table the items she had purchased for his disguise. She explained why she had bought each item: the three styles of mustaches were of a certain kind of bristle; the wigs were actual human hair, specially woven to more accurately approximate the real thing. This wig could be custom colored, grayed at the temples, or streaked—she had a kit of colors—all colorfast. This adhesive would withstand rain; that adhesive did not require a special solvent to remove. This face latex would remain pliable and would withstand the rain. That face latex was less comfortable, but it had a more accurate color scale and could be shaded. A prosthesis for the mouth changed the shape of his jaw. This sheet of padding could be cut to fit and worn under his clothes to change the shape of his shoulders or to thicken his chest.
“I thought maybe comfort was a big factor,” she said after explaining the pros and cons of each item and the possibilities in which each might be used to best effect. As always, she was thorough, never doing anything by halves. “You don’t want to have to think about it, about something going wrong. You put it on, it stays on. The better stuff takes longer to apply.”
She was trying to cover up her anxiety by being well informed and businesslike. Again, thorough, she turned a natural tendency to her advantage.
“I found him,” Strand said.
Mara stopped talking, her eyes remaining on the plastic packet of latex she was holding in her lap. “Where?”
“Claridge’s.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything, still looking at the packet, her fingers kneading it.
“How long will it take to do this?” he asked, gesturing at the items scattered on the table.
“I don’t know. A couple of hours.”
“Schrade has reservations at a restaurant at eight-thirty. It’s a place near his hotel. I’d like to be ready by six o’clock at the very latest.”
Mara nodded again.
“If I don’t get a chance at him tonight, I won’t be coming back here. I’ll have to get ready for another chance in the morning, on his way to Carrington’s.”
“You’ll call me tonight.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“If I don’t hear from you, what about tomorrow morning?”
“You’re going to have to go to Carrington’s tomorrow morning no matter what happens, whether I get Schrade tonight or in the morning. Be there at nine o’clock as you agreed, with the documentation you promised. The timing won’t be crucial because Schrade will never make his appointment. Still, it’s important that you show up.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Two reasons. When this is all over, after the investigation into Schrade’s death begins, they’re going to question Carrington, because that’s where Schrade was going when he was killed. They’ll be looking for a setup, something out of the ordinary, something unusual. It won’t be so much of a red flag if you simply show up for your appointment as arranged, an everyday occurrence for Carrington. But if you make an appointment and don’t show up for it, it’s going to stand out. He’s going to make note of it.”
He wadded up a napkin and tossed it into a paper bag. “And, just as important, you’ve got to get those drawings out of there.”
“Okay.” Mara was still kneading the face latex.
“I won’t leave you hanging,” Strand said. “I’ll keep you informed. But don’t panic if you don’t hear from me. I’m not going to be in any danger. I’ll probably just be in a position that won’t allow me to communicate.”
“What do I do in the meantime?”
“Clean up this place.”
“Anything that can identify us.”
“That’s right. Don’t worry about the mess. Just put anything that might point to us into plastic bags. We’ll get rid of them later. After I leave here this afternoon just get ready to go, and stay ready. I might call you from somewhere and tell you to meet me in another country. Be flexible. Don’t be surprised at any message from me. Whatever I ask of you will have to do with maintaining our anonymity, not with any dire circumstances. Don’t worry about that.”
“Fine.”
“Don’t use the Jaguar again. Take a cab to Carrington’s in the morning.”
“Right.”
“If you don’t hear from me at all, leave London. Go back to Bellagio, get a room at the same hotel, and wait for me. Watch your e-mail. That’s how I’ll get in touch with you.”
“Fine.”
He looked at her. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’ve got it.”
“I’m comfortable with this. How about you?”
“Yes, it’s good. It’s clear. I’m okay with it.”
They were lying to each other. They both knew it. Neither of them knew how to deal with it any other way.
CHAPTER 55
It took Mara nearly three hours to make Strand into someone else. Monitoring the process in a hand mirror, he watched as his features disappeared one by one until, slowly, a stranger’s face emerged and he no longer recognized himself. It was oddly like being invisible. He watched the man in the mirror as though he were seeing him on a small movie screen. The sens
ations he felt in his own body did not belong to the man he saw. His thoughts did not belong to the man he saw. There was nothing in that man’s eyes that Strand recognized, and there was nothing in that man’s eyes that he could read.
Mara had had the unfailing good sense to make Strand’s new self unremarkable; he was neither handsome nor striking in any sense. He had no identifying mole or coloring or manner of grooming. He was not interesting to look at, and it was highly unlikely that anyone would remember him or be able to describe him after having shared an elevator with him. He had become every man and no man. Harry Strand had disappeared.
“Okay,” she said, sitting back, looking at him as though he were a drawing she had just finished. She smiled softly, leaned toward him, and whispered, “I liked the other guy a lot better, mister. A hell of a lot better.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “No offense.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Strand said. He looked at his watch: it was nearly four-thirty. “I’m going to forget the padding. I don’t want to fool with it, don’t want to have to worry about it.”
He checked the mirror one more time. She had done a remarkable job. Not too much latex. It wasn’t like a mask, but his nose was broader, brow heavier, jaws rounder, neck thicker. The stuff was sticking to him like a second skin. He did not have to be apprehensive about it coming off accidentally. In fact, he was just a little concerned that it might not come off at all.
“How does it feel? Any problems?”
“No, not at all,” he said. “It’s good. It looks great.” He stood and removed the paper from around his collar.
Mara didn’t say anything. She busied herself with cleaning up and putting away the cosmetics and little bottles and tubes and aerosol cans that were scattered out on the scaffolding table.
Strand walked over to the windows and looked out. A misty fog had rolled in, and the evening was growing dim and gloomy. He stretched his neck, twisted his head. Again he took a deep breath, couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs. Turning, he looked at Mara. She had stopped what she was doing and was sitting there, a tube of something in her hands, watching him. The expression on her face told him volumes about the complex of emotions that churned within her.
Strand came over to her, and she put down the tube of makeup and stood. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. He kissed her palms and folded her fingers and kissed them. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, brimming with tears.
“I love you,” he said. “Thank you for everything. For everything from the first moment.”
He kissed her eyes softly, first one, then the other. He felt the moist salt of her fear and affection against his lips, tasted it on his tongue. This one tender moment was all he would allow. It was all he dared allow.
Turning away from her, he went to the closet and put on his coat. He took out his raincoat and pulled it on, too, and then reached in and got his umbrella and closed the door. When he turned to look at her she had wiped her eyes and was standing with her arms crossed, one hip cocked. She managed a smile.
“Take care of yourself, Harry,” she said.
He nodded at her and walked out the room.
At the front door he stepped outside and paused to put up the umbrella. Then he pulled the door closed behind him. It was quiet outside except for the light rain. He went down the steps, through the wrought-iron grille, and across the street. At the corner of Charles Street he turned and looked back. She had turned out the lights. He knew she was standing at the window in the darkness, watching him. He turned again and started down the street toward Berkeley Square.
The light rain had slackened to a mizzle by the time Strand got to Berkeley Square, where he had intended to hail a cab. Now he changed his mind. The weather was not so bad that he couldn’t walk, and the walking helped him think. The street lamps came on as he turned north on the west side of the square. The plane trees in the park sagged under the moisture of the last several days, and the pathways that traversed the lawn were empty and dreary. The wet summer evening had settled over the city like a soughing breath that was at one moment too warm and then almost chill.
He tried to stop thinking about Mara. He knew his lack of concentration was dangerous, but he could hardly get the image of the darkened windows of their rooms out of his mind. Gradually over the last month, everything he was and did had become wrapped up in that woman. She had become his rationale for everything. When he planned and when he dreamed, he had their future in mind. He did not think of himself; he thought of them.
He peered ahead, through the mist, up the hill toward Davies Street. He listened to his footsteps on the wet cement and to the footsteps of the people he passed: the long strides and plodding steps of men; the quick, rapid-fire steps of young women in smart clothes hurrying to their futures. All of them, shrouded beneath their umbrellas, moved along in the late day gloaming, microcosms of human hopes and disappointments.
Never, throughout the years of this deception, had it seemed more like an outrageous adventure than it did now. What had changed? Quite a lot, actually, not the least of which was the objective. Up until the last few days he’d had nothing more in mind than stealing stolen money, taking something that didn’t belong to the person who had it and returning it, not to those from whom it had been taken originally—which would be an impossibility, like trying to return a cup of water dipped out of the sea to the exact same place from which it was taken—but to others in need, to the kind of people from whom it had been stolen in the first place. The method had been complex, the scheme convoluted, the technology sophisticated, but at bottom he was only running away with a gangster’s ill-gotten profits. Stealing stolen money.
Now he was only hours away from killing a man. Did he really believe that Schrade would kill Mara—and himself—if he didn’t kill Schrade first? Yes… he knew Schrade would do that. Did he call it self-defense? Yes. Had he argued it ad nauseam in his own mind? Yes. Then why did he still agonize over it?
He didn’t know. But he did know that if he didn’t gain control of his thoughts right now, he might as well turn around this very moment, go back and get Mara… and start running.
He had stopped at the upper end of Berkeley Square. There was a spattering of cars careening off Mount Street and tilting into the turn that would take them down on the other side of the park, while traffic from behind him came up the near side of the square and headed into Davies Street. When the light changed he followed the dribbling traffic upward in the direction of Grosvenor.
In another ten minutes he was passing the lighted windows of Claridge’s dining room, which looked out onto Davies Street toward the Italian embassy. A few more steps and he turned into Brook Street and walked under the inviting awning of Claridge’s.
Accepting the doorman’s assistance, he folded his umbrella and entered the vestibule, removed his raincoat, and proceeded to the front hall, where he approached the reception desk.
“Good evening.” The reception clerk was quick and smiling.
“Good evening,” Strand said. “I just came in from Paris early this morning for a business meeting, thinking I would be returning to Paris this evening. Unfortunately my business is carrying over to tomorrow. Might you possibly have something available for me on such short notice?”
“Let me see, sir.” The clerk tipped his head and immediately consulted his computer, typing quietly in quick bursts, studying the screen. While he waited Strand allowed his eyes to follow the extension of the front hall toward three tall arches through which one passed to the more formal foyer famous for Claridge’s afternoon teas. A good number of people still lingered around the small tables, chatting quietly, the epitome of decorum in the most decorous of places.
“Nothing available, sir,” the clerk said, and Strand turned around.
“Not anything?”
“No singles or doubles, sir. We have only suites.”
“One of those will be fine.”
The clerk accepted this quiet
extravagance with smooth alacrity.
Strand quickly produced one of his forged passports and credit cards, and the clerk got busy putting together the necessary paperwork for the accommodation.
CHAPTER 56
Claude Corsier had an extended argument with the murderous Skerlic that was immensely frustrating and even, at times, comical in its absurdity, over Corsier’s insistence that he buy a proper suit and go to a barber. There were surveillance cameras, for God’s sake, Corsier had argued—he had no idea if there were—and if the Serb did not want to be conspicuous, he would bloody well dress like everyone else whether he liked it or not. He could not go into the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair looking like a refugee and expect not to be noticed. Skerlic was insulted, and as Corsier argued with him, he actually turned his head away like a child refusing another spoon of green peas.
In the end he relented, and when he arrived at the Connaught carrying an oxblood leather satchel that Corsier had bought for him at Asprey, he did not turn a head. Corsier knew because he was watching from an armchair in the lobby.
He waited nearly ten minutes before folding his London Times and following Skerlic up to his rooms. When he got there the Serb had peeled off his suit coat and had thrown it, turned inside out, onto one of the sofas in the reception area. He was standing at the windows, looking at the tripods and the binoculars.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I don’t want to depend on the audio alone. I want to see who’s there, and I want to know what they’re doing.”
Skerlic looked across Carlos Place. “He leaves the curtains open?”
“In the second-floor room, yes. It’s a library, a space for viewing paintings and drawings. There’s good natural light.”
“You can see everything over there?”
“Very nearly.”
“No privacy.”
“It’s a place of business, and it’s far enough away that, without something like these”—he gestured to the binoculars—“you really can’t see much of anything.”
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