through customs and immigration and told a cab driver to take him to the corner of the street where Prentice’s apartment was located.
A lined page from a notebook stood propped up in the bowl of fruit on the table, back at six. They were becoming like the Odd Couple, Anderson thought. The note should have added: dinner in the oven. Bubble-and-squeak!
Anderson took off his topcoat and glanced at his wrist-watch. 5.30 pm. He had half an hour in which to find out what Prentice had been up to during this three-day absence. Searching Prentice’s possessions was always an intriguing process because they gave nothing away. Nothing.
Anderson selected a skeleton key on his ring and opened the old-fashioned desk in Prentice’s room where he kept his papers. Normally you were assailed by a man’s personality when you broke into a desk; an old passport, a key to a forgotten portmanteau, a group photograph – school or Army, perhaps – with the desk’s owner staring self-consciously from the ranks; a shabby wallet containing a happy snap of a long-forgotten girl; letters, bank accounts, cheque stubs …. A man’s imprisoned past clutching at the sleeve of the experienced investigator.
Not in Prentice’s desk. It contained relics from the past but none of them had a message. It was as though Prentice had sterilised his possessions. Anderson glanced at the contents expertly: nothing had been moved since he last inspected them: as if they were as foreign to Prentice as they were to him. The collected trivia of a stranger.
Prentice, Anderson thought, had nothing except his professionalism and that was beyond doubt, its strength being its deceptiveness. With another key, Anderson opened the rudimentary safe in the wall of the bedroom – coded reports on Danzer and himself, left there no doubt for Anderson to read.
As he slotted a third key into the built-in wardrobe, Anderson heard the elevator stop outside the door of the apartment. He froze. Then the scrape of a key being inserted into the lock of the apartment across the way. He turned his own key and peered into the wardrobe. A minimum of clothes, a few pairs of shoes. He wondered what Prentice would look like in a tuxedo; attractive to women without a doubt – it was his remoteness that would appeal, that and the hint of ruthlessness.
Running his hands along the line of hanging clothes, Anderson momentarily experienced a flicker of … what? Shame? He shook his head. It was, as they said, all in the game. But he wished just for that moment that he was playing the game during a time of war, when the excuses were more flamboyantly obvious. But it’s always war, it never ceases.
He stretched out one hand to the rear of the wardrobe where, behind his shabby suitcases, Prentice kept a Russian rifle in a Dunlop golfing bag. The bag was still there. He was about to peer inside when the elevator stopped again. By the time Prentice opened the door Anderson was in the living-room pouring himself a whisky.
Anderson, who was playing black, moved his knight and said: ‘I’m beginning to agree with you about the girl.’
‘What about the girl?’ Prentice also moved a knight.
‘She’s a stupid bitch. She could be sending guys to their deaths with the information she’s passing on.’ He brooded over the board for a moment before moving his king’s knight’s pawn one square.
Prentice made his next move quickly, and then applied himself to the Daily Telegraph crossword.
Anderson thought: ‘Arrogant bastard,’ and, moving a bishop quickly, too quickly, said: ‘You know, the stuff she comes up with. Nothing spectacular but all part of a pattern. Those patterns spell out death sentences ….’
Prentice shrugged. ‘We’re at war,’ voicing Anderson’s earlier thoughts. ‘We’ve got our Helga Kellers. It all balances out in the end. I’ve moved,’ he added, pointing at a pawn.
Anderson castled. Prentice immediately moved a bishop and returned to the crossword puzzle, filling in the squares as quickly as though he were writing a letter.
Anderson pored over the board. ‘She heard about Bilderberg before him. That shook the bastard.’
‘Did he pass it on to Berne?’
‘Of course. All to the good. We want Moscow to go on thinking he’s on his toes. By the way,’ Anderson said, moving a pawn to queen’s knight three, ‘I picked up the guest list in Washington. Danzer’s on it. You’re not,’ he added with satisfaction.
‘I know. I calculate that I’ll be invited every three years. Any new names?’
‘A few …. Have you nearly finished that goddam crossword?’
‘Nearly. One more clue. No way near my record, though.’
‘Tough,’ Anderson said.
‘What are the new names?’
‘How can I concentrate on chess when you want names?’ Anderson took a photostat of the list from the inside pocket of his jacket and tossed it to Prentice.
Prentice moved a pawn down the rook’s file, completed the crossword with a fairly simple anagram and picked up the list.
Anderson moved a pawn, anticipating the sacrifice Prentice intended to make. Prentice took the pawn, offering the sacrifice, a bishop, and said: ‘I see Mrs Claire Jerome is on the list for the first time.’
Should he accept or decline the sacrifice? All his instincts said: ‘Take it.’ You had to be a hot-shot to keep the upper-hand if you were a bishop down. Prentice was good, but was he that good? Anderson took the proferred bishop.
Immediately Prentice moved the pawn another square down the rook’s file. Anderson took the pawn, and for the first time Prentice deliberated over his next move.
He filled in the time by asking: ‘Why Mrs Jerome?’
Anderson leaned back and said: ‘It was about time. She is one of the richest women in the world and it is the age of sex equality. Have you got much on Mrs Jerome, George?’
‘A fair bit.’ Prentice’s hand hovered over the board, then returned to his lap. ‘We have to keep track of arms manufacturers.’
‘We?’
‘The British Government. Paul Kingdon hasn’t so far shown any interest in her companies.’
‘I’m surprised Kingdon hasn’t been invited,’ Anderson remarked.
‘So is Kingdon.’
Anderson wondered how much Prentice knew about Mrs Claire Jerome’s interests. Did he, for instance, know that she was of great assistance to the CIA? And why doesn’t he take my bishop with his rook?
Prentice took the bishop. This time Anderson moved quickly, his castled king.
‘You play a good game,’ Prentice said reluctantly.
‘We play it every day, George.’ He leaned over the board and tapped the list. ‘As you will see, there is another significant newcomer, Pierre Brossard. A lot of clout there, George. One of the richest men in Europe.’
‘And one of the meanest.’
‘I guess that’s how he got rich.’
‘He became rich helping to rebuild Europe after the war.’ Prentice made his move and relaxed a little, regarding Anderson watchfully. ‘Has Danzer got the list?’
‘Nope. Just the invitation.’
‘How much longer do you reckon before he’s told us everything he knows?’
‘About a month maybe.’ I think I’ve got the bastard now, Anderson thought; but you could never be sure with someone like Prentice; you could never be sure of anything with him. He moved his queen imperiously across the board. It looked an obvious move; perhaps it was too obvious. ‘But that doesn’t mean we’ve finished with him. We’ve got to brief him about Bilderberg.’
‘Of course. But you think the interrogation will be over some time in January?’
Anderson