Billion-Dollar Brain. Len Deighton

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       5

      I left the office at six that night. Jean’s brother was on one of his rare visits to London and they were going out to dinner, but Dawlish thought I should stay available. So I went back to my flat and cooked bacon and eggs and sat in front of the fire with Vol. 2 of Fuller’s Decisive Battles and read about the siege of Yorktown. It was a pleasant evening until 8.15, when the phone rang.

      The Charlotte Street operator said, ‘Scramble please.’ Before I had a scrambler fitted I had to do stand-by duties at the office. I pressed the button. Dawlish said, ‘The boy has turned up trumps apparently.’

      ‘Why apparently?’ I said.

      ‘The fellow who followed you is down on the river,’ said Dawlish ignoring my question. ‘We shall have to pass your way. We will pick you up in fifteen minutes.’ Dawlish rang off abruptly. I knew he had the same doubts about Chico’s abilities as I had, but he was determined to demonstrate to me the proper loyal attitude to one’s subordinates.

      Dawlish arrived at 8.37. He was in a black Wolseley driven by one of our ex-police drivers. With Dawlish there was Bernard, one of the brighter of the public-school boys we had recruited of late, and a man named Harriman.

      Harriman was a big, hard man who looked more like a doorman than a lieutenant-colonel from Special Field Intelligence. His hair was black and tight against his bony skull. His skin was wrinkled and leather-like, and his teeth were large and uneven. He was intellectual in a way that might be considered suspect in a regular officer. I guessed that the man we were after was going to be taken into custody because Harriman had special authorization from the Home Office to execute a warrant with minimum fuss and paper-work.

      They wouldn’t have a drink so I climbed into a raincoat and we drove off towards the docks.

      Dawlish said, ‘Young Chico has done quite a good job here.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said. Harriman and I exchanged a grimace. I heard the car radio-phone say, ‘OK. Switch to Channel Six for a car-to-car with Thames five.’ Then Bernard in the front seat said, ‘Are you receiving me, Thames five?’ and the police boat said it was receiving us loud and clear. Then we said we were receiving the police boat loud and clear and then Bernard asked them to report their position and they said, ‘Tower Bridge, Pickle Herring Street side.’

      Bernard said, ‘Come up to Wapping Police Station, Thames five, to take on passengers.’

      Thames five said, ‘No one in small boat answering description you gave but we’ll have another dekko at Lavender Wharf on the way back.’

      Information room said, ‘Have you finished your car-to-car?’ in a voice that suggested we had, and added, ‘I’ll show you still dealing Thames five,’ and Dawlish said, ‘What are those chaps doing out there, playing cards?’ He smiled.

      ‘This chap went all round Finchley,’ Dawlish continued imperturbably. ‘Chico kept on his tail, then about six thirty he wound up at the Prospect of Whitby. Chico has him bottled up there, so we’ll take a look at him.’

      ‘With all this entourage? I thought you were going to cordon off the area.’

      Dawlish gave me a twitch of a smile. ‘Bernard here is night duty officer. Harriman is handling a river-traffic job. We all have good reasons for being here,’ Dawlish said.

      I said, ‘And I have some great reasons for staying home but no one will listen to them.’

      As we crossed Tower Bridge I saw the police-boat heading down river through the grey choppy water. We passed the Tower of London, went round the one-way traffic system as far as the Mint, then turned into Thomas More Street: twenty-feet-high walls that twist and turn relentlessly. Each turn of the road fails to reveal the end of the street and the walls seem to get higher and higher; it was like the last reel of Dr Caligari.

      Along Wapping High Street and Wapping Wall the wharves and cranes were high, dirty and silent. The car headlights ignited the green flickering eyes of stray cats and shiny cobblestones. The Wolseley bounced over the tiny bridges of the dock entrances and under the grimy cat-walks. Just behind the fences there were sudden expanses of dark water where passenger boats were twinkling with yellow lights and white-coated waiters, like the Hilton laid on its side, carved into sections and ready to tow out to sea. We dropped Bernard off at Wapping Police Station, where two policemen in waterproofs and waders were waiting for him.

      Chico was standing outside the pub. The Prospect of Whitby is a bow-fronted tourist attraction. In summer they throng here like harbour rats. But this was winter, and the window was opaque with condensation and the door shut tight against the cold. We tumbled out like the Keystone cops. Anxious excitement plastered Chico’s hair against his damp pink forehead.

      ‘Hello, sir,’ he greeted each of us in turn. Chico led the three of us inside the pub and made a big operation of buying us drinks as if he was a sixth-form boy with three house-masters. He got so excited that he was calling the barman sir.

      The interior of the Prospect is dark with artful knick-knacks and inglenooks, and the big kick is that the customers leave thousands of visiting cards, theatre tickets and associated paper pinned to the antlers, so that you feel like a bug in a litter basket. I walked right through the bar and out to the balcony that overlooks the Pool of London. The water was as turbid СКАЧАТЬ