Run, Spy, Run

Nick eyed her and took a long, slow swallow.

"Julie, we had some luck last night. But tonight may be for the money."

"I know it."

"We're up against a monster. God knows what he's got lined up for us. Boiling oil, buzz saws or bombs — whatever it is, it'll be rough."

"Well, I can't very well stay home," she said lightly. 'Think how he'll miss me. At least Braille won't be around to lurk in the shadows." He smiled at her. "You did beautifully last night. I'm proud of you." Nick gently squeezed a lovely knee. "Why did you choose this business, anyway?"

"Why does anyone? I don't like spies, so I became one. Isn't that funny? I lost my family a long time ago because some maniac wanted to change a government with bombs. Don't ask me the details — I don't even care about them any more. The moral is, of course," she went on lightly, "don't expose your children to bombings at an early age if you want them to follow a respectable career."

"That's a very funny moral," said Nick. "I think you need another drink."

They talked of such irrelevant things as autumn weather and the colors of Vermont and Maine, of Chinese junks on shining seas and sailboats off Bermuda, of ski slopes in Switzerland and the beaches of Tahiti.

At last she put down her glass and sighed. "How much time do we have left?"

"Enough," he said. He rose to his feet and pulled her to him, folding her in his arms. She yielded to his kiss.

Without being aware of moving they found themselves on his bed, bare, supple bodies touching.

This time their lovemaking was as lingering and tender as a farewell kiss.

* * *

Piccadilly Circus at nine o'clock was a Times Square of bright lights and bustle: the same streams of cars emitting irritable toots, the same gaudy neon splashes and the same murmuring tide of voices, whistles, wheels and muffled music.

They waited on the northeastern corner, an attractive American couple seeing the sights. A friendly bobby, strolling by, touched his helmet in a warm salute. Nick nodded and Julie unleashed a devastating smile. Nick tightened his grip on her arm. "Not so goddamn friendly. He'll fall down at your feet, and then we've had it."

Julie turned it off.

Piccadilly throbbed with noise and movement.

Nick was the first to see the car, a long, foreign one that was new to him. The chauffeur was the same man who had driven them to and from the Consulate.

The car purred to a stop. The man waited quietly, staring straight ahead. Nick strolled over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"We don't want to miss the sights tonight, Mac. So just behave, won't you? We will, if you do."

The man nodded.

Nick handed Julie in and closed the door.

The car surged forward and clawed its way through Piccadilly and turned sharply down an avenue. Julie leaned back and scrutinized the chauffeur's head and hands. Nick's right hand found Wilhelmina's friendly butt and stayed with it.

The trip was without incident, a succession of bright streets and dim ones, then the cobblestones of Limehouse once again. A fine light fog hung over the street lamps.

The car slowed and Nick tensed. They had found a quiet block, lined with low houses bordered with hedges and white picket fences. It was odd to find so very nearly a suburban touch in a neighborhood like Limehouse.

The motor stopped. The driver turned and motioned toward one of the houses. It lay back from the sidewalk, separated from it by twenty feet or so of pebbled path leading to a door framed by clinging ivy. The air was fragrant with wet flowers and grass.

"Here you are. Number Thirty-three."

They got out. Nick stared down into the chauffeur's face, itching to take that scrawny neck between his hands and squeeze. Better leave him alone. "One false note, one ruse from you — and Harcourt dies," the odd voice said inside his head.

"Don't try to take me, friend," the chauffeur grunted. "You'll blow it if you do. And don't bother about the license plates. We just borrowed this heap. And you won't see me again after tonight."

He changed gear noisily.

"Tch," said Nick. "And just when we had learned to love you."

The car shot away from the curb and roared off down the block.

Silence hung over the street. Most of the houses showed at least a gleam of light. But not Number Thirty-three.

Nick guided Julie through a gate that needed oiling. They scrunched up the path. No sound or sign of life came from the shadowed house.

He found a bell, pushed it, and waited. Nothing. Julie shivered suddenly. Nick tried the door. It opened inward. He pulled Julie to one side and pushed it in.

The gloom of the interior was as enveloping as a shroud.

They entered cautiously, moving swiftly away from the direct line of the door. And waited.

A thin, vertical sliver of light sliced the darkness at the end of what appeared to be a length of hallway. Nick's pencil flashlight revealed a wide, carpeted passage. He flicked off the beam and replaced the pencil-light with Wilhelmina. They moved slowly toward the slightly open door.