High Jinx by William F. Buckley Read Free Book Online Page A

essaying nothing. Bolgin calculated that he was safe, and two thoughts brought him great joy. The first was that clearly he was to return quickly to England. The second was that in a matter of moments he would be dismissed, and a very few moments after that happened he would be at his hotel, the Metropole. There, waiting for him, would be his vodka, in the plastic bottles. And at least three books brought from his library. Soon he would be drinking, and reading Chekhov. But he waited, motionless.
    It came a moment or two later. ‘That is all, Bolgin.’ Boris Bolgin shot up. ‘And, oh yes, Boris Andreyvich, you are to be commended for your work with Caruso. And’—Beria smiled omnisciently—‘for controlling your drinking, if only in my presence.’ Bolgin looked down at the little, fleshy man, the odious, sadistic, pulp-faced killer-torturer, and said, ‘You do me great honour, Lavrenti Pavlovich.’ He bowed his head, and left the room.

7
    The Director grumbled when, at eight in the morning, freshly arrived in his office on E Street in downtown Washington, he was presented with the two-hour-old cable from London.
    â€˜You should have got me out of bed on this one, Halsey,’ he said to the duty officer matter-of-factly. And then, into the telephone, ‘Call Rufus and have him come in immediately.’
    Rufus was unbelieving. ‘Esperanto’ had got away less than six hours after we had got on to him?
    Well, at least it was absolutely clear what now needed to be done. The Director listened to Rufus and approved the plan. And yes, he would speak to the President about that part of it that needed to be communicated to the Prime Minister.
    In London, an hour later, Anthony Trust was surprised that the message hadn’t come in through his protected telephone line. No, it had come in the form of a written message, sealed, and handed to him by a clerk who had signed for it at the reception desk. Trust was to repair alone to ‘a telephone you do not frequently use’ and to telephone Rufus, in Washington, at a number Anthony Trust was not familiar with.
    The communication was made within a half hour. Rufus’s voice came in clearly.
    â€˜There is one priority above all others. It is that we learn whether Sergeant Esperanto—you have now his real name and his address—left his apartment in London hurriedly; whether there is reason to expect that he was told he had to leave suddenly. Give this top attention.
    â€˜Now, I do not desire that anyone other than you should know what it is, exactly, that we are trying to find out. We have arranged through diplomatic channels for a police detachment to accompany you to Esperanto’s apartment. The magistrate knows nothing except that the U.S. Government has requested a search warrant on grounds satisfactory to British law to conduct a search for stolen U.S. property. Call Scotland Yard and ask for Superintendent Roberts, give him your name, tell him you have spoken to Washington and are ready to meet the search squad. Then get moving. When you have conducted your search, call me back at this number. Understood?’
    â€˜Understood, Rufus.’
    Number 138 Whitechapel High Street was in the East End of London, a block of six-storey flats in a working-class neighbourhood. The street outside was a heavily used arterial road running into London. The trucks, buses, and other traffic caused, during that hour in the afternoon, what seemed like a continuous dull roar. There were twelve doorbells. Superintendent Roberts pushed the bell designated as ‘Porter.’
    A very large woman in her sixties appeared, wearing an apron, her grey hair untended but held back by a bandanna. On seeing the officer with the two policemen and the American she took the cigarette out of her mouth, made an exaggerated bow, and said, ‘An’ wot may I do for you, gen’lemen?’
    A few minutes later she had opened the