Prime Target by Hugh Miller Read Free Book Online

guest’s name Sabrina wrote
Louise Reverdy,
the maiden name of her maternal grandmother. She put her address as
28 Rue de la Grand Armée, Paris 75017, France.
    The receptionist came back with a small, thin, green-uniformed man who took up a protective stance beside Sabrina’s suitcase. He smiled and bowed.
    Sabrina pushed back the registration card and took the key from the receptionist.
    â€˜Thank you so much,’ she said, revelling in the way she could impersonate her mother’s accent, ‘and let me say again, although you insist it is notrouble, I am deeply grateful for the way you have accommodated me at such short notice.’
    â€˜Not at all, Madame. I hope everything is to your satisfaction.’
    The porter took Sabrina up in the lift to the third floor. He led the way along a passage carpeted in deep green Wilton. Outside her room he made a flourish with the key, turned it smoothly in the lock and pushed the door open.
    â€˜Après vous, Madame,’
he said.
    Sabrina looked surprised.
‘Vous-êtes Français, m’sieur?’
    â€˜No,’ he said, following her into the room, “fraid not. But I was good at French at school, and now and again I can’t help trying it out. Sounded authentic, did it?’
    â€˜Absolument!
Top marks.’
    He beamed with pleasure. Sabrina handed him a five-pound note and watched one small pleasure overlap another. Priming him had been easier than she imagined.
    â€˜Tell me,’ she said as he turned to go, ‘yesterday a friend passed this way in a taxi, and she tells me she saw police officers. Has there been trouble?’
    The little man’s features seemed to clench as he came back, head tilted confidentially. ‘One of the guests,’ he said, pointing upward. ‘An American lady. She was the victim of a shooting. Nasty business.’
    â€˜She was shot here?’ Sabrina managed a note of alarm without having to screech. ‘In this hotel?’
    â€˜Oh no, no, ma’am, it happened over in Mayfair. But she was a guest here at the time.’
    â€˜Oh, how terrible. There will not be police marching about the place all night, I hope? I am such a light sleeper…’
    â€˜Not to worry,’ the porter said, ‘they’ve sealed the room and for the time being everything’s quiet.’ He made his little bow again. ‘Have a peaceful night.’
    â€˜Thank you so much.’
    When he had gone she kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. She checked her watch: 10.28.
    The minibar looked tempting, but she decided to wait until work was over.
    Getting here had been a struggle. Nobody had warned her the last operational day at Hounslow could run into the evening. She had come out of a hostage-taking scenario at eight o’clock and got back to her room at the hostel a few minutes before nine. Since then it had been breakneck all the way. First she had transformed herself from tousled squalor to the simulation of a chic Frenchwoman visiting London. In the circumstances a disguise had not been strictly necessary, but she enjoyed changes of personality, and tried always to conduct herself according to Philpott’s Rule One of Subterfuge, which he confided to her one tipsy evening at a UN reception: ‘Be somebody else whenever you can, my dear, and always tell a lie even if the truth would sound better.’
    Transformed to her own liking, she drove acrosstown, put the car in an all-night car park, hailed a cab and presented herself at the hotel, looking as if the most strenuous thing she had done all day was sign Amex slips.
    She looked around her. This was a nice place. And it should be, since the tariff for one night was the same as a week’s rent for a cottage in the Cotswolds. She had called the hotel before leaving Hounslow - delayed flight, staying one more night - and the receptionist promised to hold the one remaining room until eleven at the latest.