“Piss off,” the clerk muttered under her breath, watching him go. She took the knife and slit open another envelope with a flick of her pudgy wrist.
Like many London phone booths, the one on Preston’s Road had a royal crown embossed above the entrance and a list of international tariffs and dialing codes on the wall. Shepherd’s heart pounded with anticipation as he lifted the receiver and thumbed a one pound coin into the slot. He hesitated momentarily, then sent the second after it with a flick of his thumb and dialed.
Thirty-five hundred miles away, in the telephone switching center at Andrews Air Force Base, the device that CIA had wired into international board 044 kicked in. It intercepted the incoming signal and diverted it to a computer that, prior to the connection being made, screened the number against a list: Shepherd’s home and the homes and offices of his friends, military associates, and minister. It took just several hundredths of a second to screen each call. Those that weren’t on the list were put through; those that were, were handled differently.
Shepherd leaned against the wall of the crimson booth, listening to the hollow hum of the line. The first ring sent a surge of adrenaline through him.
Steph, it’s me, he would say the instant she answered. I’m alive, I love you, I need your help. So what if the phone was tapped? What could they do once he had said it? They couldn’t stop him; he would just blurt it out and take his chances.
The phone rang again; and then again and again.
No one answered.
Shepherd had no way of knowing Stephanie was at home; no way of knowing CIA hadn’t used a listening device, but one that shunted the call to a phantom extension that would ring forever. Indeed, despite the advantages of eavesdropping, Bill Kiley’s foremost priority was to prevent Shepherd from making contact, from revealing he was alive, especially to his wife. Others Shepherd might somehow contact could be manipulated, could be convinced it was a hoax or a crackpot, could somehow be kept at bay until Shepherd could be terminated. That was CIA’s strong suit. But not a wife who knew her husband was being screwed by his government; not a military wife. No, Kiley had learned from experience they were the most dangerous because their outrage was driven by monumental feelings of betrayal; and whether by lover or bureaucrat, hell, indeed, hath no fury like a woman scorned.
The phone rang more than a dozen times.
Shepherd finally hung up and stood there for a long moment, coping with the crushing disappointment. The thick brass coins clunked into the return cup. He scooped them into his palm, glanced about cautiously, and left the booth.
Not far away on Mile End Road, the street market on the traffic median opposite The London Hospital was in full swing, an international mix of housewives milling about them in search of bargains.
Applegate and the Special Forces agents, dressed in casual civilian clothes, stood among the white canvas kiosks. The M11 motorway from Mildenhall had been backed up and the drive to London had taken somewhat longer than anticipated.
“You sure that’s it?” Applegate asked, pointing to the wrought-iron staircase next to the ambulance ramp.
“Positive,” one of the agents replied. “He couldn’t get to any of the other exits without passing us.”
“He took the bus,” Applegate said flatly, as his eyes came to rest on a shelter across the street.
“Or a taxi.”
“Taxi…” Applegate echoed skeptically. “In this neighborhood? At that hour? No way.” He stepped off the median without waiting for an answer, snaked between the vehicles that were slowing for the traffic signal on the corner of Turner, and crossed to the shelter where the bus schedule was posted.
The London Hospital was the oldest in the city and served many communities: Whitechapel, Hackney, Deptford, Stepney, Bromley-by-Bow, Millwall, and countless others, which meant this stop functioned as a major hub.
“He could be anywhere,” one of the agents announced, catching up.
“What time last night?” Applegate asked.
“Ten fifty-two,” the agent replied, referring to a copy of the patient transfer form.
“He must’ve caught the ten fifty-five,” Applegate ventured, giving the bus schedule a quick glance.
They returned to their car and drove a few miles to the London Transport Depot just east of Blackwall Tunnel, where Mile End Road turns into High Street.
Applegate showed his military identification to the dispatcher, and explained he was an intelligence officer, trying to find a man involved in thefts of classified data from RAF bases. He was seen boarding an East End bus the previous evening.
The dispatcher pointed out the conductor who had worked the bus in question, an elderly fellow hunched over a counter, tallying the previous night’s fares.
“It’s hard to be sure,” the conductor said, studying the photo of Shepherd. “But it might’ve been him. Yes, yes, I think he could be the one.”
“The one?” Applegate echoed, gently. “The one who what?”
“Who paid his fare with this,” the conductor complained, holding up an American dollar he had set aside. “And he was bloody pissed too, if you ask me.”
“You remember where he got off?”
The conductor’s face tightened with uncertainty. “There was a time I’d have had it just like that,” he replied, dismayed. “My wife says our Yorkie has a keener…” He paused, his eyes coming to life, and said, “Isle of Dogs. Yes, Isle of Dogs, it was. Preston’s Road.”
Applegate went to a phone booth outside the bus depot, removed the yellow pages from the hanger, tucked it under his arm, and returned to the sedan. One of the Special Forces agents compiled a list of hotels and rooming houses while they drove to the Isle of Dogs.
They began with the one nearest the bus stop on Preston’s Road, a seedy rooming house on the street that ran along the Isle’s western perimeter.
“One of your guests?” Applegate asked, showing the clerk Shepherd’s picture. “Checked in last night maybe?”
The weathered fellow shook his head no without taking his eyes off the racing form that was spread across the desk in front of him.
“It might help to look at the picture,” Applegate prodded, his patience worn thin by fatigue.
“There’s no need,” the clerk explained matter-of-factly. “We’re bloody empty, save for me and the owner; have been for three days.”
Applegate and the agents made stops at two more hotels with similar results. Next on their list was the Wolsey.
Shepherd returned to the hotel, hurrying through the lobby to the lift. Dumb; dumb to have chanced calling, he thought as the gate slammed shut and the lift began its rickety ascent. He knew better; knew the tape was his best shot; his safest shot. What had come over him? Why had he weakened? He was entering his room when he realized that the bizarre sequence of events, which had transformed him from cocky, high-tech pilot to vulnerable, survive-by-your-wits fugitive, had shaken his confidence and sense of identity; and that even just listening to Stephanie’s voice — to one of the children — would have provided sustenance and the contact with reality he so desperately craved.
He settled in the chair next to the window, set the envelope on the sill, and addressed it to Stephanie. Then he wrapped several lengths of bathroom tissue around the cassette to protect it and also prevent it from puncturing the envelope. The soft padding filled it neatly. Shepherd moistened the flap and was running a fingertip across it when he heard several car doors slam in rapid succession and glanced out the window to the street.