There was the sound of footsteps on the pavement, the loud leather-against-concrete heel sounds marching along in steady cadence that announced the approach of a London bobby long before the blue uniform and shaped helmet could be seen. Ulanov turned and began reading the bulletin announcements posted before the window of a shuttered tobacconist, not really noting the offers of used cars in excellent condition, or clean rooms for rent by the hour, day, or week, or of photographic models with their own studios for camera buffs (no cameras needed). The even cadence of the footsteps changed as their owner paused not far from him to rattle a doorknob. They then continued evenly, crossing Curzon Street to the north side and continuing along in the direction of Lansdowne Row.
Ulanov watched the stiff back of the policeman a moment and then returned his attention to the restaurant. Newkirk was now eating his meal, a glass of wine at his elbow, not paying the slightest attention to Gregor Kovpak or Ruth McVeigh. He would pause in his eating every now and then to sip his wine or to turn a page, but otherwise his attention was on his food and his book. Suddenly Ulanov smiled. He walked back into the shadows of Shepherd Market until he located a telephone booth illuminated by a dim bulb. He dialed, listened to the phone ring followed by the rapid bip-bip-bip, and dropped his coin; after identifying himself to the person who answered, he gave his instructions and hung up. This chore accomplished he smiled once again, because he was now almost through working for the day. He replaced the cap with the top hat, tucked the scarf into a pocket, and once again the elderly gentleman — although far less under the influence — he marched back to Park Lane and up that avenue, past the Playboy Club, past the Dorchester, to the Gramercy Arms.
Once again he seemed to need rest, for he sat down in the lobby and leaned back, half-closing his eyes. He saw Gregor and Dr. McVeigh enter, speak a moment, and then move toward the lounge. He shrugged a tiny twitch, hoping they did not get too involved, and then bit back a smile as he remembered the imaginary girl who had put lipstick on his face. Let them get involved, he thought, only not too involved. He remained in his pose for a full thirty minutes, after which he came to his feet and made for the elevator, only to have another man, crossing the lobby in a hurry, bump into him and cause him to stumble to the floor. The other man was quick to help him up and brush him off, murmuring profuse apologies as he did so. Ulanov waved the entire matter off as being of no importance, and made his way to the lift. In the lift he smiled at the young operator, as if proud that a bit of air along Hyde Park had prepared him for a good night’s sleep or whatever else might be in store for him. The operator, returning her cab to the lobby, would have wagered it would just be a good night’s sleep.
In the corridor Ulanov now walked with far more control down the main hallway. He nodded somewhat distantly at the floor waiter who was just retreating toward his pantry with a tray and a whiskey bottle, turned into a side corridor, and entered the first room on his right. He quickly closed the door behind him, entered his own room, locking the interconnecting door between his room and Gregor’s, and turned off the tape recorder. From now on he would play himself in making noises to satisfy the curious waiter.
From the pocket of his burberry he withdrew the slim volume the man who had bumped into him had deposited there. From the outside it had all the appearance of one of the newer romances that were being sold at most book stalls. Inside, as Ulanov had strongly suspected, in addition to its few pages it also contained an exceedingly small but clever tape recorder, and a minute amplified pick-up set in the cover which, aimed in the direction of Gregor’s booth, undoubtedly had recorded the conversation without making Newkirk noticeable at all. Ulanov grinned in satisfaction and took the machine into the bathroom; closing the door, and running the water in the tub, he ran the tape back to its beginning and then played it, holding it to his ear to listen. From the sounds that took place before the actual words became intelligible it was apparent that Newkirk had decided to wait until seated in the restaurant before beginning his taping, either because the lounge was too crowded and noisy, or possibly because it would have been inconvenient to pretend to read in its darkened interior.
Ulanov sat down on the toilet seat, reran the tape and played it once again, nodding his head as he listened to Gregor’s argument for Russian possession of the treasure. But nothing he heard gave him any clue at all as to where the treasure was or who was offering it for sale. He wished that Newkirk had been clever enough to tape the conversation Gregor and the girl had had in the lounge. It might have given him a clue. Although he supposed he could get what he wanted from Gregor himself, when he returned, or better yet, in the morning. Gregor was apt to be out late. However, at least he had come into possession of an excellent spy recorder, which was far better than anything the KGB technicians had come up with. Very clever, those Americans. Ulanov only hoped that Newkirk had not been too badly hurt in having his book taken from him.
Now that the tub was almost full, he decided to take a bath, pleased to know the waiter was probably listening to him. He removed his clothes and climbed into the tub, lying back, splashing loudly and humming an old Russian lullaby. His bath completed, he dried himself and put on his pajamas and then climbed noisily into bed. His last thought before he fell asleep was to wonder if the waiter’s tiny microphone could pick up snores...
From a safe telephone in the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, James Newkirk was making his report to Langley, Virginia. He was also nursing a colossal headache.
“They took everything,” he was saying bitterly. “Two thugs. One stopped me and asked for a match, and the other hit me with something. When I came to, a policeman was bending over me; they wanted to take me to a hospital, but I came to the embassy, instead. They got my watch, my wallet, the book—”
“You mean that recorder we flew over to you? That was a prototype; we don’t have another. Its loss will mean a lot of work and trouble! You were told to be careful with it—” Mr. Wilson, in Langley, did not sound pleased.
“I was careful, sir! I mean—” It seemed pointless to argue about it all night, to cry over spilt milk, as it were. How careful can a person be with something beyond holding it tightly in his hands? One would think he had invited the two thugs to knock him unconscious! Or to take his watch and wallet, as well as the recorder. Trying to put the wallet and its contents, or the watch, on his expense account, Newkirk knew, would be a waste of time. Instead of getting sympathy, here he was getting a lecture! It wasn’t right.