Ruth laughed. “Never in the world.”
“Case closed,” Gregor said with juridical solemnity, and went back to eating. They finished their meal in silence, each with their own thoughts, but in contentment, satisfied they had established a certain rapport, but with each secretly regretting that, in truth, their lives were worlds apart, and that in all likelihood they would never see each other again, once the conference was ended...
Chapter Thirteen
The properly attired waiter looking properly bored and carrying his tray in a properly gloved hand at the proper height with its whiskey bottle and glasses properly balanced, walked in the unhurried pace of floor waiters the world over down the principal corridor of the eleventh floor of the Gramercy Arms Hotel, to pause before the door of Room 1123. Had there been any observer it would simply have appeared that the waiter’s other properly gloved hand had politely tapped on the door and then rested there a moment, as if awaiting permission to enter. The rapping, of course, was a pantomime. The glove held against the door actually contained a tiny microphone that was connected by a thin wire running up the waiter’s sleeve and past his starched wing collar to a small amplifier mounted behind his right ear and made invisible by his stylishly long hair. Had the door opened for any reason — the room’s occupant leaving for dinner, or going to the lobby for cigarettes or a journal — the tray also contained a bar bill made out to the occupant of 1133, and a brief apology for the inexcusable error would have handled the situation. Of course the man in Room 1123 would be suspicious of anything out of the ordinary, such as Room Service at the Gramercy Arms making such a mistake, but there was really nothing the occupant of Room 1123 could do about it. Russians! the waiter thought with disdain. Fortunately, the occupant did not appear, so the waiter was able to pursue his assignment in peace.
Satisfied with what he heard — the sound of a man moving about, the rattle of a newspaper, the creaking of a bed as someone sat on it, which was quite distinct from the creaking of a bed when someone laid down upon it to rest, or rose from it, or any of the other things that people did that caused beds to creak — the waiter turned, looking about him innocuously, pleased that he was still without observers. For a moment he wondered that no radio or television had been turned on in the room, but he then reflected that this was undoubtedly because the occupant probably did not understand English. Satisfied with the logic of this deduction the waiter then returned to the floor-waiter’s pantry, prepared to watch the door of Room 1123 from his position at the end of the long hall until he would repeat his charade with the whiskey bottle and glasses fifteen minutes hence, and at every fifteen minute interval until the occupant went to sleep, or left the room, or until the waiter received a call from James Newkirk advising him his task was complete for the evening.
Occasionally, as he watched, the floor waiter from the tenth floor, doing double duty but pleased to do so for the tip he had earned, and to be of service to the Yard — for this was his impression — would come by with a tray of something for one of the eleventh-floor rooms, giving him a wink as he passed, but at no time was anything delivered to Room 1123. And fifteen minutes later, as our waiter was about to begin his journey once again, he paused. An elderly gentleman with a dark raincoat over his dinner jacket, his gray mustache a trifle mussed, his top hat awry, a silly look on his flushed face, and more than a touch of lipstick on one corner of his mouth, had come out of a side corridor, had staggered to the lift and, eventually, into it. The waiter sighed in envy as he waited for the drunk to disappear. Then, dismissing the lecherous thoughts the man’s lipsticked face had inspired, he walked down the corridor and raised his microphone once again to the door. This time he heard the creak of a bed as someone rose from it — the waiter promised himself that one day he would do a monograph on creaks — followed a short time later by the flushing of a toilet, then a rather extended but distinctly boorish belch, and the return to the bed and the newspaper. Uncouth! the waiter thought, wrinkling his nose, and walked sedately back to the pantry.
He was a young agent, and therefore had no idea he had been listening to a tape loop. It was two hours of the finest sound effects Major Serge Ulanov had been able to conceive for any curious ear...
In the lobby the elderly drunk found himself a comfortable chair that by chance happened to face the lounge and sank into it gratefully; the lipstick had been removed in the elevator under the amused glance of the young and attractive girl who ran the lift. It was evident the old gentleman was tired, for he leaned back and seemed to close his eyes, as if taking a brief rest before continuing his evening. Through his half-slitted eyelids he saw Gregor Kovpak emerge from the lounge with Ruth McVeigh at his side — and with what the watcher was sure were stars in his eyes — and escort the girl through the lobby in the direction of the street. A moment later the elderly gentleman was not greatly surprised to see James Newkirk, a thin book under his arm, turn from his contemplation of the activities-announcement board and casually move in the same direction. With a sigh the elderly man heaved himself a bit unsteadily to his feet and tottered toward the night air, obviously in need of it.
Ahead he could see Newkirk just turning into Curzon Street, but the elderly gentleman did not make the mistake of following him. Instead, he continued along Park Lane, now walking quite a bit more steadily as well as more rapidly, and turned into Pitt’s Head Mews. From here he entered Shepherd Street, coming at last into Shepherd Market. A pause in a darkened store front allowed the top hat to be removed, collapsed, and tucked into his waistband. A simple cap, taken from a pocket and donned, together with a scarf that wrapped around the throat and concealed the dress shirt and black tie, completely changed the man’s appearance. Now, with his gray mustache bristling, he appeared simply to be an elderly pensioner in midtown to see how his betters lived. The truth was that while Major Ulanov often decried the use of disguise in his profession, he secretly enjoyed nothing quite as much as putting on false beards or mustaches, or pretending the effects of drunkenness — a difficult act for him, since his capacity was legendary.
He moved easily through Shepherd Market, deserted at that late hour, and eventually found himself in the passage that fronted on Curzon Street, across the narrow pavement from the restaurant to which he had directed Gregor Kovpak. He had selected the restaurant for the reason that it was easily observed from the shadows in which he found himself, and also because the low curtains of the establishment permitted a view of the interior and the occupants there. To enjoy the same anonymity in watching Newkirk and attempting to discover what he was up to would have been impossible in the crowded dining room of the Gramercy Arms. Never having eaten in the restaurant, though, he only hoped the food was decent, since he had no inclination to hear complaints when Gregor eventually returned to their rooms.
Through the window of the restaurant the major could see Gregor and Ruth McVeigh sitting in a booth, sipping their drinks, and apparently discussing something of interest to them both. The Schliemann treasure, Ulanov sincerely hoped, and not, as he feared, their personal problems. As he watched he saw Newkirk come out of the gloom where he obviously had been waiting, saw the reporter pause at the restaurant entrance to glance back along the deserted Curzon Street, making sure he had not been followed, and then open the restaurant door and enter. Ulanov smiled slightly as he saw the waiter offer Newkirk a table quite close to Kovpak’s booth, but his smile turned to a frown as he saw Newkirk shake his head, say something and gesture, after which the waiter led the reporter to a table across the room and quite out of earshot of the two in the booth. Newkirk seated himself in a chair that placed him at right angles to the other two, spoke to the waiter, obviously ordering something, and immediately fell to reading his book. Ulanov shook his head. Was it possible that Newkirk was eating in this restaurant purely by coincidence? Or that he had followed the others in the hope that they would lead him to a decent eating place? The thought was so ridiculous that Ulanov was forced to smile. It certainly did not explain Newkirk’s waiting so long for the others to enter before following them.