Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

“The Jews!” Rivelles said. “The Israelis must know who and where the escaped Nazis are. They could identify them. But how do we contact them? You can’t just walk into the Israeli Embassy and ask for help.”

“Why not?” Diaz said, putting the photographs back into the envelope. “If we have information they want, they’ll talk to us. And we have nothing to lose by trying.”

“It sounds a wild idea — but it might work. But for God’s sake call a taxi so I can take it too and go home and fall into bed. And get ready to face my uncle in the morning.”

“Did you tell him you were ill?”

“No, he wouldn’t believe a simple story like that. He’s a most suspicious man — he would want a letter from the doctor. I’m going to keep it simple. I’ll tell him I’m in love and went away with the woman to Brighton.”

“Why should he believe that?”

“I’ll tell him it’s a married woman. He’s so afraid of scandal that he’ll worry about that and not my taking off the time. I can also use the idea again if there is an emergency and I need the time.”

“I’ll get the taxi. Someone look in the phone book and get me the address of the Israeli Embassy.”

Diaz got out of the taxi on Bayswater Road and walked down Kensington Palace Gardens. One of the last private roads in London — with a guard at both ends. Discreet, quiet, a good place for the Israelis. The Arab terrorists wouldn’t find it easy to get in here. A policeman at the front door looked him over closely as he went in and a very solid young man stopped him as he stepped inside.

“Would you mind opening your coat please, just a formality.” He frisked Diaz quickly and efficiently, then moved away. “Thank you. Reception is right through there, please.”

Diaz had difficulties at once with the steely-eyed young lady behind the desk.

“Just who would you like to see?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps your military attache.”

“Would you state your business, please?”

“I would like to tell him.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a military attache. If you would tell me what you wanted I am sure I could find someone to help.”

Diaz was aware of the people sitting around the room behind him, could almost feel their ears twitch in his direction. He was beginning to feel slightly foolish.

“I’ll be happy to tell someone when they help me.”

She gave him a withering look that would have burned a hole in sheet steel. “The Vice-Consul is free now. Perhaps he will be able to understand your problem.”

“You’re very kind,” he said, trying to sound as though he meant it. She was not convinced. Nor was the Vice-Consul.

“Mr. Diaz, I can understand what you are saying, but I’m afraid that I cannot help you.” He was as young and soberly determined as the girl.

“If I could talk to someone in your military — or your intelligence service…. “

“Mr. Diaz! Do you realize what you are saying? We are the official representatives of our nation in Great Britain. A friendly country. You don’t think for a moment we would have an intelligence service operating here?” +

Diaz, knowing the ways of international politics, was certain that they had intelligence people here. As did every other embassy in London. But, of course, this man could not admit it. Diaz could be anyone as far as they were concerned; spy, provocateur, anything. He made his mind up. He dropped the envelope with the photographs on the desk then scribbled his phone number on it.

“You’re right, of course, and I’m sorry to bother you. I have some photographs here that I was hoping your intelligence people might have been able to identify. We think at least one of them is a German. The photographs were taken just a day ago. No — please don’t say anything. I’m going to leave these photographs with you and pick them up at this time tomorrow. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to get in touch with me I can be reached at this number. Thank you for your time.”

“I’m afraid that we cannot help you,” the Vice-Consul said as Diaz left. “This is most irregular and there is nothing that we can do.”

Yet even as he said this he did not touch the photographs or insist that Diaz take them away with him.

Outside, the sky had clouded over and there was the smell of rain in the air. Diaz walked to the bus stop, taxis were a luxury they could not normally afford, and stood at the end of the queue. And by taking a bus he would know if he was being followed or not. Security becomes a reflex when most of your friends are dead.

It was an hour before he reached the apartment and let himself in.

“What have you been doing?” Alvaro asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The phone. It has been ringing steadily for the past thirty minutes. Always the same voice, asking for you. Hangs up at once when he finds out you’re not here.”

He was cut off by the strident ringing of the telephone bell.

“It must be him again. You take it this time,” Alvaro said.

“Leandro Diaz speaking,” he said into the phone.

“Are you the gentleman who recently left some photographs with your name and phone number on the envelope?” a man asked. A neutral, mid-Atlantic voice with no trace of a recognizable accent.

“I left the photographs, yes.”

“Would you please tell me where they were taken.”

“No. I want to meet someone and then I will be happy to supply all the details about the photographs. Understood?”

“I understand. Can you be in Oxford Street within the hour?”

“Yes.”

“Go to the Centrepoint building at the corner of Charing Cross Road. You want the twenty-first floor, room 20135. Understood?”

“Of course.”

The line went dead as he spoke the words and the dial tone hummed in his ear. Diaz dropped the receiver back into the cradle and smiled. “They’re interested, very interested. Alvaro, get the cash box — and no complaints this time, if you please. With the car being repaired again I’ll need a taxi to get there in time.”

Outside the Centrepoint building, the splatter of the ornamental fountains was half drowned in the continuous roar of traffic. But once inside the doors the air-conditioned silence was broken only by the ubiquitous sound of muzak. The lulling music played in the elevator as well and all the way down the corridor of the twenty-first floor. The entrance to 20135 was suitably impressive with its two large mahogany doors. On one of them, conservatively spelled out in small bronze letters, was the legend Cabot, Lowell, Smith & Green-stein. Diaz went into an equally impressive waiting room where the receptionist, blonde and very attractive, gave him a toothpaste commercial smile.

“May I help you, sir?” she said in accents of purest Roedean.

“Yes, please. My name is Diaz and…. “

“Thank you, Mr. Diaz, you are expected. If you will go down the hallway to your right, it is the third doorway on the left, if you please.”

The hall had subtle indirect lighting and soft carpeting underfoot. One wall was covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves and Diaz glanced at one of the titles on a ponderous tome as he passed. Yearbook of Revisions In Riparian Rights—1957 it read. A law firm, at least he knew that much now. He knocked lightly on the door, opened it and entered.

“Mr. Diaz,” the man said, rising from behind the large desk. “I’m Hank Greenstein.”

They sized each other up as they shook hands. Green-stein was in his mid-twenties, tanned, over six feet tall, with pale blue eyes peering through the dark-rimmed spectacles. He was either an athlete, or had been one so recently that the muscle had not yet turned to fat.

“Please take that chair,” he said, pointing. “It’s the most comfortable.” He dropped into his own chair, resting comfortably on the end of his spine and hooking one foot over the corner of the desk. “Now, before we have our discussion, I want to tell you a few things. Firstly, this business is just what it looks like, a respectable international law firm with branches around the world. It has no connection whatsoever with the Israeli government. In fact if my father — or any of his partners — found out what I was doing they would skin me alive. I’m helping the Israelis in a strictly private capacity.”