Now all she had to do was sleep, eat and stay at large. Without money.
‘May I speak English?’
The voice was female, Midwest. It said, ‘Sure.’ To Petrie, it summoned up a movie-inspired vision of log cabins and feisty homesteaders.
‘My name is Petrie. I’m British and I need help.’
‘This is the American Embassy, Mr Petrie. Your people are on Panskà Ulice, just round the corner from us.’
‘I have information which may affect the interests of the United States.’
Silence.
Petrie, heart still thudding in his chest, turned the screw: ‘I’m talking vital interests, national security, major league.’ Petrie didn’t know a thing about leagues, major or minor; just so long as it impressed.
Another long silence. Then: ‘Hold the line a moment, Mr Petrie.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Brenda. Why?’
‘I’ll call you back, Brenda, I don’t want you tracing me. Make sure I’m put straight through to someone relevant.’
Petrie put the receiver down and stepped out of the Pizza Hut. He wandered round a corner and was met by a forty-foot woman, dressed in white and carrying a packet of Persil. Water from the verandah above had created a streak of discolour down the side of the tenement mural but it had apparently been stopped by her hat. The broad streets were busy and there were queues for the trams and trolley buses. He hovered around a little street market for some minutes. There were no security cameras but he felt increasingly exposed. He took off past a taxi stance into an enormous Tesco — a sure sign that capitalism was here to stay — and lost himself amongst the cheeses and baked beans and strange meats for half an hour. Then he went back to the busy pizzeria.
Brenda, her voice a little cautious. ‘Yes?’
‘This is Petrie.’
A momentary silence, a faint click which could have been anything, and then a deep male voice came on the line, vowels drawling slightly. ‘Dr Petrie. We need to meet.’
Dr Petrie. How did he know? ‘You’ve been sold some story about me.’
‘Yeah, it’s a beauty. Want to hear it?’
‘No, you might trace me.’ A dark-skinned waiter shouted something. Petrie recognised the word ‘peperoni’.
‘Okay, Tom, but we can’t assume this line is secure. Just imagine we’re shouting at each other from the treetops, okay?’ The man’s drawl was suspiciously slow.
Petrie was having to raise his voice above the buzz of the restaurant. ‘You’re trying to trace me.’
‘Hell no, Tom, I know exactly where you are. That was Darko. They’re doing an eat-all-you-can promotion just now. Stay put, I’ll be along in a few minutes.’
‘How will I recognise you?’
‘I’ll be wearing a grey Cossack hat and I look mean.’
40
Kamensky
The first call reached Colonel Jan Boroviška in the early morning. A couple answering the description of the criminals — the blonde hair was an especially strong indicator — had been seen in Bratislava. Enquiries in local Tatras hotels had also revealed that a young couple behaving oddly had boarded a coach for Vienna, but had jumped it in Bratislava.
With this observation, the search area, fifty thousand square kilometres of Slovakia, shrank to the fifty or so square kilometres of Bratislava.
Boroviška felt reasonably satisfied with the morning’s progress.
The face under the grey Cossack hat was podgy, American, and alert rather than mean. A grey scarf was tucked under a double chin. The man wore a long brown coat the likes of which Petrie had last seen in a movie about Wyatt Earp, and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. From a doorway across the road Petrie watched him look around the tables, exchanging a brief comment with Darko. The waiter shook his head. Then the American disappeared briefly into the men’s toilet before reappearing and heading out on to the freezing street. Petrie judged that the man really was alone; he dodged across the busy street and intercepted him on the pavement.
The American had a strong, sincere handshake, as if he’d just read an article on What Your Handshake Tells About You. ‘Dr Petrie, I presume.’
‘Mr CIA?’
The man scowled and Petrie thought yes, he did look mean after all. ‘Actually, Joe Callaghan. Phone lines aren’t too secure and the first thing is to get you the hell away from here. The way you’re blundering around you won’t last the day.’
Callaghan turned and walked smartly along the broad street. He took Petrie across a broad square criss-crossed by trams.
‘This isn’t a hostile city like Moscow was fifteen years ago. I’ve no reason to expect we’re under surveillance.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ Petrie said. ‘You mean I’m safe for the moment?’
Callaghan ignored the anxious question. They walked past a little row of market stalls. An old woman, dressed for the Arctic, tried to sell them a bag of hot chestnuts. Callaghan turned into the Tesco, still walking smartly. A security man watched them incuriously. Petrie followed the American through to a café and out a side door; they turned left on a quiet street, walked about fifty yards and then stopped. The American looked around. Then: ‘You’re on your own.’
‘What?’
‘At least for the next few hours. I’m waiting for instructions about you from Washington.’
‘A few hours? Look at me. I won’t last that long.’
‘By rights I should hand you over to the Slovak authorities, Dr Petrie.’
‘Why?’
Callaghan put a world of meaning into a sniff. ‘Spoken as if you didn’t know. You’re wanted for murder.’
Petrie took a second, aware of the American’s eyes assessing his reaction. Then he said, ‘I’ve been set up. They want to kill me.’
Callaghan said, ‘Uhuh?’ in a neutral tone of voice.
And by the way, I’ve landed from a flying saucer.
‘I won’t last a few hours,’ Petrie repeated desperately.
‘Sure you will. Look, take in a movie. And call the Embassy at seven o’clock. Hey, this is like the good old days.’ The man turned back towards the Tesco.
Petrie, feeling exposed, walked off in the opposite direction. He gave serious thought to clearing out of Bratislava altogether, finding his way across the Austrian border only a few miles away. But what then? Would he be any safer there? Wandering the exposed streets at random, he came across a cash machine. Money! In his present situation, it was water in the desert. He inserted Vashislav’s card. After an uncomfortably long delay a message came back: refer to your bank.
He visualised a warning message coming up on some terminal somewhere: card belonging to wanted criminal being used at the General Credit Bank, Gorkého 7; the terse message going out to the nearest police car; the swift U-turn in the street; the arrest.
Get a grip. They can’t have anticipated I’d have Vashislav’s card and pin number. He tried Svetlana’s card, inserting it wrongly twice in his haste. Again the delay; this time agonisingly long. And again the message: refer to your bank.
Petrie cleared off smartly.