He walked on past the turning, still moving slowly, as if on an evening’s saunter with no particular destination in mind. Behind him, the tail came, square, solid — like a cow. That tail had to be shaken off — no easy job for anyone without intimate knowledge of Moscow’s streets, but a job Shaw was going to do. He couldn’t risk the KGB catching up with Wicks before he’d got all he wanted out of him. He went on along Tavda Street and turned down the next opening to the left. He found himself in a similarly sordid street to the one in which Gregor’s was situated. He went down this street, still looking about him with apparent interest — and taking in the layout. Near the end was a narrow alley, leading off again to the left, an alley that would almost certainly lead into the street where Wicks had been seen. After one quick glance along it, Shaw walked on past, then hesitated as if uncertain of where he was going, turned, and strolled back up in the direction of Tavda Street. As he did so, he saw the tail walking down towards him on the opposite side. Shaw kept his gaze boldly on the girl as they approached one another; she would know now that she’d been rumbled and that would upset her. She avoided his eyes and moved on, passing Shaw. Just before he reached the entry to the side alley, Shaw stopped and looked back along the road. The tail, aware of his scrutiny, continued ahead, not looking round. Then Shaw moved suddenly into the shadows, into the alley. Out of sight from the road, he ran swiftly ahead along the narrow way and round a bend. It was an alley of tall old houses, houses that had come down in the world — many of them derelict, a seamy Moscow backwater close to the heart of the city.
Emerging into the slightly wider alley, he’d passed earlier he saw Gregor’s some way ahead — and then heard the running footsteps behind him. He failed to notice the shadow a little way behind Gregor’s, a shadow which glided backwards into deeper shadow behind him. He was thinking only of the tail, who would soon come round the corner. A little farther on he found a door — it was next to Gregor’s — standing ajar. It was a risk, but he took it. He pushed the door open, stepped into a pitch-dark passage, and shut the door gently behind him.
There was total silence.
Only seconds later, the silence was broken by those rapid footsteps running past the door, and on along the street. Then, as the tap-tap faded, Shaw heard the sound of a door opening along the passage and a moment after that, light streamed out from a room and illuminated the walls. In the lighted doorway, a girl was standing, a girl who was smiling at Shaw provocatively and moving her hips slowly. She was wearing only a pair of high-heeled, western-style shoes and scanty briefs that clung to her figure.
“Who is it?” she asked.
Shaw answered in her own language, “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m not going to harm you.”
“Oh — that!” she shrugged expressively. “I do not fear you, Comrade! But… you did not knock.” Her voice was faintly puzzled “I heard only the door close. Who sent you, Comrade? Who gave you this address?”
“No one,” he told her. “I’ve come to the wrong house — that’s all. I ask your pardon, Comrade. I shall go now and leave you in peace.”
Again, the girl shrugged. “As you like,” she said indifferently.
Shaw frowned; there was an off-beat quality about the girl, something that told him she wasn’t an ordinary tart… something, if fact, that spelled danger. He was about to speak again when there was a slight sound behind him. He turned on his heel as the street door opened.
A man came in… a man who seemed familiar in his outline. Shaw stiffened and drew his breath sharply through his teeth as the figure, carrying a revolver, moved into the yellow glare from the girl’s room. There were differences in the man’s appearance since they’d last met, facial differences which would fool anyone who had not previously known the man, but there was no doubt in Shaw’s mind: this was Gerald Fawcett!
Shaw’s fingers itched for the gun he no longer possessed. He said quietly, “Well met, Fawcett. Or perhaps this isn’t entirely a chance meeting?”
Fawcett laughed coarsely. “Not entirely, old man, no! You see… I was watching Gregor’s when I saw you dodge in here—”
“How did you know I would come to Gregor’s — and how did you get to Moscow anyway?”
Again, Fawcett laughed, a cynical sound. “How I got to Moscow is my business… as to the rest, well — our futile friend Henderson took quite a bit of tailing before we had him in just the right place to spot Charlie Wicks… quite by chance, naturally! It wasn’t easy — but we did it. Once he’d seen either of us, we knew it wouldn’t be long before you came nosing around. It so happens, you see, that we’d like to have you somewhere nice and safe for a while, Commander Esmonde Shaw — oh yes, I know your identity, you see!” He smiled unpleasantly. “And the fact you went into this doorway, my dear chap, made no difference whatever. This is all part of Gregor’s… the unclad comrade over there is a waitress in the restaurant, but she finds it necessary to supplement her wages from time to time — and Gregor doesn’t mind so long as he gets his cut.” There was a leer in Fawcett’s voice now. “She’s quite fond of me, believe it or not. I may be a good deal older than you, my dear fellow, but I’m still a fast worker, y’know…” He broke off. “Well — there’s no more time for pleasantries now.”
While he had been speaking Fawcett, who had transferred the revolver to his left hand, had been moving slowly along the passage. Now, very suddenly, he moved fast. Shaw was ready; he dodged aside and, though he scarcely even saw the blow coming, he was just able to jerk his head away in time. Fawcett’s fist crashed into the wall and blood spurted from his knuckles on to Shaw’s neck and face. He gave a grunt of pain. Shaw jabbed a fist hard into his guts and the man doubled up momentarily, then straightened and jumped backward. The almost naked girl screamed once and then backed away, fast. A moment later, Shaw was across the passage with his arms wrapped around Fawcett’s legs. Fawcett was a tough customer and was now maddened with pain and rage; he had the build of a wrestler and massive muscles. He squirmed round, striking at Shaw’s head with his gun-butt, and missing; but after a few moments he had got his hands around Shaw’s windpipe and was squeezing hard. Then, letting go suddenly and leaning his weight on Shaw’s chest, he smashed his right fist into the agent’s jaw, then crashed the back of his head on the floor again and again until Shaw lost consciousness.
When he came round, Shaw found he was stinking of liquor and his head was like a lump of lead. There were spots before his eyes; he retched violently. He was quite unable to lift his eyelids, and when he tried to move he found that his hands were roped behind his back and his ankles were drawn tightly together with cord that cut into his skin. Oddly, his one coherent thought was that Hartley Henderson was definitely in the clear now; Fawcett’s remark seemed to clinch that…
He could hear voices but couldn’t make out what was being said. He tried to lick his dry, swollen lips but his tongue was as puffed and dry and useless as they were, like a flour-sack in his mouth. Then he heard a girl’s voice — and recognized it, to his horrified surprise, as that of Virginia MacKinlay.
“He’s coming round,” she was saying. “Aren’t you going to do anything for him?” There was a catch in her voice.
The next voice was Fawcett’s, cool and assured. “He’ll live without my help, you needn’t worry about that. There’s just one query, that’s all…”
“Yes?”
“How long he’s going to go on living,” There was the same coarse laugh that Shaw had heard in the passage of the house behind Tavda Street. “You too — the same applies.”