Time to Kill by Brian Freemantle Read Free Book Online

guessed.’
    Slater was glad that in the early months of his new identity and relocation he’d instinctively taken various precautions to thoroughly orientate himself to the geography and transportation routes of Maryland, and even into the surrounding states, although today’s journey into DC scarcely needed such rehearsal. It enabled him, though, to turn off and on the interstate to avoid its traffic bottlenecks and get into the capital well before noon. He made sure to head for the car park near Union Station, not for the appropriate irony of it being where he’d often held his clandestine, document-exchanging meetings with Mason, but to be sure, in the age of cell phones, of finding coin-operated kiosks within the railway terminal itself. It only took him a further ten minutes, traversing the concourse and the upper level, buying all but one instantly discarded newspapers, as well as magazines, to obtain coins from notes for his hopefully untraceable call to the unknown J Peebles, despite that morning’s letter having been delivered to his known address. Once more Slater refused to contemplate the spectral upheaval of his having, at a moment’s unexplained notice, to drag Ann and David into escaping flight if he developed the slightest doubt about what was to happen.
    Slater separately stacked his nickels and dimes on the convenient shelf, knowingly overpaid for the first call and then dialled the number on the letter, quickly pocketing the incriminating document.
    The telephone rang twice before a voice said, ‘Yes?’
    Slater didn’t detect the slightest blur of an accent other than American, although one word wasn’t sufficient to be sure. ‘I received a letter today.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Are you J Peebles?’
    â€˜Who are you?’
    Definitely no hint of a recognizable Russian accent but that meant nothing. ‘The letter said I was to call this number, if I had any questions about its contents …’ Fifteen years ago the conservative estimate had been that it took three minutes electronically to get a traceable, cross-grid reference for an incoming telephone call. From the security consultancy business he now ran Slater knew the gap had technologically narrowed to a minute and thirty seconds. A recording of the conversation would be automatic if he were connected to a CIA facility. He’d been on the phone for forty-five seconds.
    â€˜Who are you?’
    â€˜How many people would have this morning received a letter from J Peebles that might have prompted this call?’
    â€˜If you are calling from a public telephone, this conversation is not secure.’
    â€˜I know. Which is why I am going to terminate it in another sixty seconds.’
    â€˜What do you want?’
    â€˜Answers.’
    â€˜Ask your questions.’
    â€˜This conversation is not secure.’
    There was a discernible sigh. ‘I’ll ask you again, what do you want?’
    â€˜A meeting.’
    Now there was a pause. ‘What for?’
    â€˜The answers.’
    â€˜I’ll set one up.’
    â€˜I’ll set one up,’ insisted Slater.
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜Now.’
    â€˜That’s not possible.’
    It would take a minimum of twenty-four hours to put in place a snatch squad with any chance of success. ‘Why not?’
    â€˜It … it isn’t.’
    â€˜That’s not acceptable. I still have numbers I can call, to complain.’ Slater was glad he’d retrieved the ancient contact procedures from his safe before he’d left the Frederick office. From the sweep hand of his watch Slater knew he had been on the telephone for one minute, ten seconds.
    â€˜Where?’
    The Mayflower Hotel.’
    â€˜An hour then?’
    â€˜How will you recognize me?’
    â€˜I have your photograph, of course.’
    Hardly the necessary reassurance that the approach was genuine. The KGB successor, the Federalnaya