The voices were very distinct now. I straightened up as high as the window ledge and took a quick glance inside. There were three men in the cottage: a tall, thin man with light brown hair and a bony face — Novosty apparently — was striding around the room speaking to two other men who looked British. I ducked back down and listened.
"When we return to London there will be no further contact except by prearranged dead-drop message," Novosty was saying. "Above all, none of us must be seen at the Defence Ministry prior to our target date. Is that understood?"
There was a mumbling of assent from the others.
"Good. On the target date, there will be a heavy guard at the Ministry. Our timing must be very nearly perfect. Our subject will be exposed to us for only seconds. We must make our move swiftly and efficiently."
"Don't worry about us, mate," one of the Englishmen said coolly.
"We'll give them a bleeding good show," his companion agreed.
Novosty lowered his voice. I leaned forward to get in a better position to hear him when there was a sound at the back of the cottage. Heather's whisper reached me almost simultaneously.
"Nick! Look out!"
It was too late. A stocky man came around the side of the cottage from the rear, carrying a pail of water. He had apparently been to the well out back. When he saw me, he swore in Russian and dropped the pail. He fit the description I had been given of a resident KGB operator for southern England. Spotting Wilhelmina, he reached desperately into his hip pocket for his own gun.
I aimed and fired the Luger in one motion; the shot echoed loudly in the quiet morning. The Russian grabbed at his chest and the gun he had pulled out went flying against the wall of the cottage. The KGB man stumbled backwards, landed spread-legged in the gorse, his hands clutching at empty air.
"Run for the tall grass!" I shouted at Heather. Then, without waiting for an acknowledgment, I ran headlong for the back of the cottage, hoping there was a door there.
I almost stumbled over the dropped pail as I rounded the corner. I saw the door, closed. I kicked out at it savagely and it crashed inward.
As I moved into the cottage, into a room behind the one where Novosty and the others had been talking, one of the Englishmen came through an open doorway, holding a Webley 455 Mark IV, and ran into me without breaking stride. His face reflected surprise as we hit. He was knocked back against the door jamb, time enough for me to aim Wilhelmina and open a hole in his gut. He slumped to the floor, eyes open, the surprised look still on his face.
I moved on into the front room of the cottage but it was empty. Then I heard shots from out front. Novosty and the other man were outside, exchanging fire with Heather. She was apparently keeping them away from the blue sedan with her small pistol. I started toward the front door, planning to come up behind them, when the second Briton came charging back into the cottage.
He fired first but the shot was wild. My Luger exploded twice and both shots scored. I didn't stop to watch him fall. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire outside and then I heard a car door slam. A second later, the engine roared. As I stepped out of the cottage, the Sunbeam skidded off across the open ground, heading for the road.
I could just barely see the top of Novosty's head as he crouched low over the wheel to avoid Heather's fire. Resting Wilhelmina on my forearm, I sighted along the barrel and aimed for the right rear tire. But just as I fired, the sedan bounced in and out of a rut, veering crazily. The shot missed the tire and dug up dirt instead. Then the car was gone down the road, hidden by high grass.
I dropped Wilhelmina to my side and sighed. The one man we really wanted had gotten away. He could find other agents within days, maybe even hours. And if Novosty was the assassin, we probably hadn't even slowed him down.
I remembered Heather then and turned toward the high brush. I found her reloading the Sterling PPL.
"Sorry he got past me," she apologized.
"Couldn't be helped," I said.
"I suppose there's little point in trying to follow him in my car."
He's got too big a start on us," I said.
"Yes." She sounded depressed.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm all right. And your?"
"The best of health," I told her. "I can't say the same for those two in there." I motioned toward the cottage.
We searched the two Britons and the cottage but found nothing. Then I went through the pockets of the dead KGB man. Nothing. Novosty was a real pro — with the pro's aversion to writing anything down.
"They were talking about the Defence Ministry," I told Heather. 'They were definitely planning something there.
"Novosty talked about 'our subject' and 'target date' and said they had to 'make their move swiftly. Novosty could be our man. We'd better presume that he is, and that he plans to kill again soon. If it's part of a grand plan, he'll just change time, date and method of operation for the next attempt."
"The Defence Ministry," Heather mused. "With Dumbarton already assassinated, who does that leave? His second in command?"
"Maybe, or maybe a general. Who knows?" I said. I was going through one of the dead men's wallet for the second time. I noticed a secret compartment I had missed the first time. Inside was a slip of paper. I pulled it out "Hey! What's this?"
Heather looked over my shoulder. "It's a telephone number."
"What's that written under it?"
She took it from me. "Lower Slaughter."
"Lower… What in the world is that?"
She looked up at me, her blue eyes smiling. "It's a town, a small village in the Cotswolds. This must be a number in the village."
"Well," I said thoughtfully, "maybe one of Novosty's boys made a small mistake."
Four
"And the second note?" I asked, the phone cradled to my ear, photostatic copies of the assassination notes Brutus had made up for me spread out on the bed beside me. "Were there any differences?"
I was speaking to the graphoanalyst Brutus had given the assassination notes to. I listened intently to his reply.
"Well," I said as he finished, "I appreciate your help."
I hung up and turned to Heather, who sat on the other of the twin beds. We had registered at this Stratford hotel as husband and wife — at her suggestion.
"That's interesting," I said.
"What?" she asked.
I studied the photostats pensively. I had circled certain letters as I listened to the handwriting expert.
"Take a look at this," I told Heather. "Notice how the letters all slant at a sharp angle to the right side of the paper. The graphologist feels it means the writer is a very emotional person, possibly a disturbed personality."
"But our dossier on Novosty shows him to be a cool, systematic and efficient agent," Heather protested. "His records at Gaczyna all tell the same story." She was referring to stolen records from the Soviet spy school.
"Exactly. Now, look at the open A's and O's in this first note. A careful, precise man like Novosty would close those letters at the top.
"Secretive persons always close their O's," I continued "And there's more. See how the T is crossed in 'Britain? A strong, firm crossing line through the body of the letter, indicating a strength bordering on stubbornness and undue aggressiveness. Again, Novosty doesn't fit the pattern. Then, there's the hurried style of writing, suggesting irritability and impatience. Can you see the Soviets picking an impatient man for a master spy?"
Heather smiled. "I rather wish they would."
I returned the smile. 'That's not our luck, I'm afraid." I looked back down at the photostats and stopped smiling as I compared them. "Last but not least there's a pronounced slant downward to the lines in these notes. It's most evident in the second note. That shows the writer is seething with emotion, full of depressions and anxieties."