Snare was standing up in front of the box, staring down fixedly at a single piece of paper he’d taken from the tray.
‘Any good?’ enquired Johnny.
The other man looked at him unseeingly.
‘Any good?’ repeated the safebreaker.
Snare blinked, like a man awakening.
‘Let’s get out,’ he said.
Johnny stared at him, his own doubts hardening.
‘But we’ve only just begun … there’s dozens more … thousands of pounds …’
‘Finished,’ ruled Snare, abrupt now but completely recovered. ‘We’ve got enough.’
He mirrored Johnny’s look, challengingly.
The safebreaker moved from foot to foot, unsure whether to argue. Finally he spread his hands, overly dismissive.
‘Whatever you say,’ he agreed. Stupid to spoil the arrangement by appearing greedy. They still hadn’t agreed a price with the insurers yet on the Russian stuff and he didn’t want to risk that.
Snare went first through the hole, leading back into the antique shop.
‘You know what?’ said Johnny, trying to reduce the strain and at the same time build up the relationship he was sure he could establish.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know where your information comes from,’ said Johnny. ‘Don’t want to, not necessarily. But I don’t reckon we can ever lose. No way.’
Snare’s apprehensive anger at everything spilled over and he rounded on the safebreaker, face tight so that the scar was etched out vividly.
‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘you piss me off.’
‘What?’ tried Johnny, backing away from the assault.
‘Because you’re full of piss,’ shouted Snare wildly, finding release in the role of the bully. ‘Full of piss.’
‘You’re fucking mad,’ said Johnny, trying to match the obscenity. ‘Absolutely fucking mad.’
Snare stopped the attack, taking the other man’s words.
‘You could be right,’ he said, quietly now. ‘That’s the trouble; you could well be right.’
‘Wanker,’ said Johnny, made miserable by the collapse of yet another relationship.
Charlie, to whom the isolation of detail was automatic, had recognised Snare from his walk the moment the man had left the car and made his way towards the rear of the antique shop. And there he was again, he saw, as Snare left the rear of the building and approached the carefully parked station-wagon. Still the same shoulder-jogging lilt he’d had when he’d strode away in East Berlin, to set the tripwire for the ambush.
‘Like a duck with a frozen bum,’ Charlie told himself, inside the darkened car. The cold had occupied Charlie’s mind for the last two nights. It was going to be a bad winter, he had decided.
Unspeaking, the two men entered Snare’s car. There was a momentary pause and in the darkness Charlie could see Snare putting on his safety belt. Probably too late for that, thought Charlie. Snare’s presence had surprised him.
Snare started the car and moved away slowly and almost immediately Charlie pulled out, holding back until they came out alongside the Playboy Club and two cars had intruded themselves between him and the station-wagon, a barrier of protection.
‘As Wilberforce might say, the hunted becomes the hunter,’ he muttered, trying to mock the man’s speech. ‘Now all you’ve got to do is to catch the bloody fox.’
‘They’ve been very smart,’ said Berenkov, admiringly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘Very smart indeed.’
He smiled across the table at Valentina.
‘After meals like that, I know I’m a fool to have remained a bachelor,’ he praised her.
The plump woman flushed at the compliment and continued clearing the table.
‘What can you do?’
Kalenin jerked his shoulders.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘To make anything more than diplomatic protests would show them we’ve discovered Charlie’s association with one of the insurers and allow the satisfaction of knowing we won’t be laughing at them any more.’
‘They’ll know that anyway,’ argued Berenkov. ‘That’s what it’s all about.’
‘We still can’t admit it,’ said Kalenin.
‘What about Charlie?’
Again the K.G.B. chief moved uncertainly.
‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous if Charlie were to win?’ suggested Berenkov, expansively.
‘Marvellous,’ agreed Kalenin, wondering at the amount of wine his friend had consumed. ‘But quite unlikely.’
TWENTY-TWO
Charlie drove quite relaxed, allowing another vehicle to come between him and the car he was pursuing, so that when it turned unexpectedly to go down Constitution Hill he was able to follow quite naturally, without any sudden braking which might have sounded to attract the attention of Snare.
Only after they had gone around the Victoria monument in front of Buckingham Palace did Charlie close up, not wanting to be left behind at the traffic lights in Parliament Square. The second set were red. Through the glass of the one separating car, Charlie could see Snare and the other man stiffly upright and apparently not talking.
‘Always an unfriendly sod,’ remembered Charlie.
They went across Westminster Bridge and entered the one-way system. The sudden turn beneath the railway arch, to go into Waterloo station, almost took Charlie by surprise. He only just managed to swerve without tyre squeal, continuing slowly up the long approach and trying to keep a taxi between them. He stopped before the corner, for more taxis to overtake and provide a barrier, so that when he drove into the better-lighted part of the concourse, Snare was already moving off.
Charlie didn’t hurry, wanting to see the car to which the second man went. Parked as it was, the vehicle was obviously not stolen but belonged to him. So he could get the man’s name from the registration.
He went slowly by, memorising the number as he passed, finally speeding up to get into position behind Snare again.
Snare was driving very precisely, Charlie saw, giving every signal and keeping within the speed limit. Rules and regulations, recalled Charlie; the dictum of Snare’s life. Without guidelines to keep within and precedents to follow, Snare had always been uncomfortable. Robbing banks, an open criminal activity, would have been difficult for him, even with the back-up and assistance provided by the department. On the occasions when he’d had to do it, he’d rather enjoyed it, thought Charlie. It was like playing roulette and knowing the ball would always fall on your number. But Snare would have hated it. The word stayed in Charlie’s mind; the emotion that would have provided the necessary incentive, he supposed.
‘He really can’t have liked me very much,’ Charlie smiled to himself. The expression left his face. There couldn’t have been anything very amusing about Snare’s Moscow imprisonment, admitted Charlie. Immediately he balanced the self-criticism. Just as there wasn’t anything amusing at being chosen for assassination at a border crossing; he had no reason to feel guilt over the man in front. Snare’s inability to adjust to the unexpected intruded into his mind. It made the outcome of tonight’s journey almost predictable, he thought; Snare was an advantage he hadn’t expected.
They went around Parliament Square but Snare kept to the south side of Buckingham Palace this time, heading into Pimlico. Traffic thinned as they entered the residential area and Charlie pulled back, losing his cover.
He stopped completely when he saw the tail-lights in front disappear to the left, into an enclosed square. He walked unhurriedly to the side road. The car was halfway along, neatly positioned in its residents’ parking area, the permit prominently displayed. Snare was the sort of man to keep a cinema ticket in his pocket, in case he was challenged coming back from a pee during the interval, thought Charlie.