Time to Kill by Brian Freemantle Read Free Book Online Page A

Sluzhba Bezopasnosti , would have as many photographs of him, albeit twenty years old, as the CIA. ‘Describe how you’re dressed: the colour of your suit, shirt and tie.’
    There was yet another hesitation. ‘A sport coat. Brown. Blue jeans. A polo shirt. Blue again. No tie.’
    â€˜Age?’
    â€˜Twenty-eight.’
    â€˜Hair?’
    â€˜Brown.’
    â€˜Height?’
    â€˜Six one.’
    â€˜Glasses?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Describe them. Heavy, light, what?’
    â€˜Heavy. Black framed. Whereabouts in the Mayflower?’
    â€˜Just be there. I’ll find you.’
    â€˜Jesus!’ exclaimed John Peebles. ‘It was Sobell or Slater or whatever he’s called. You wouldn’t have believed the conversation!’
    â€˜I probably would, if you’d recorded it,’ said Barry Bourne.
    â€˜Shit!’ said Peebles, looking down at the telephone and its connected but unactivated apparatus.
    When Peebles finished recalling the conversation his partner said, ‘You going to go?’
    â€˜I guess I’ve got to.’
    â€˜The regulations are that you get permission from Langley. And send them the recording, to verify the voiceprint,’ Bourne reminded his colleague.
    â€˜Shit!’ moaned Peebles again. ‘He said he still had numbers he could complain to.’
    â€˜This isn’t looking good.’
    â€˜I know. Fuck it!’
    â€˜What’s he want?’ asked Bourne.
    â€˜He wouldn’t say, on an open line.’
    â€˜Proves he’s professional.’
    â€˜I reminded him first,’ insisted Peebles, defensively.
    â€˜You gotta go.’
    â€˜I know. But what about Langley? Oh fuck!’
    â€˜You disconnect the plug of the recording machine, disconnect one of the internal wires and then plug it back into the mains. That’s why the tape didn’t run. It’s not your fault – the equipment is faulty.’
    â€˜That’s good,’ accepted Peebles.
    â€˜What about permission?’
    â€˜I don’t go, he complains to whatever numbers he’s got. I’m fucked either way.’
    â€˜Better you go, try to keep a lid on everything.’
    â€˜Fucking son of a bitch defector!’
    â€˜Be careful,’ advised Bourne, unsympathetically.
    â€˜You wanna come along?’ invited Peebles, hopefully.
    â€˜We both can’t be out of the office at the same time.’
    Peebles went to speak but changed his mind. Instead he thought, Asshole.
    Slater went completely around the Mayflower Hotel block, finally establishing a vantage point bench on Connecticut Avenue that gave him a view of the main entrance as well as one to the side. He held up the one retained newspaper, USA Today, sufficiently to shield him but not high enough to obscure his observation as he looked out for a flurried group arrival of the snatch squad, his confidence growing as the time passed without his identifying one. It grew further when he identified the man he assumed to be Peebles, not emerging from the Metro, upon which he was concentrating, but coming up the avenue itself on foot from the direction of Lafayette Square. There were no telltale body movements or quick head shifting to indicate anyone else was with him. He went by the side door, hesitated at the main entrance without looking around to establish whether he might be under surveillance and then pushed inside. The man was precisely on time. Slater remained where he was, with no intention of going into the hotel, still alert for a group arrival once he had been recognized and identified by the entering man. There was nothing that aroused his suspicion.
    It was forty-five minutes before the man emerged, again through the main entrance. This time he did pause to look around, the intention obvious before he did so, enabling Slater more fully to raise his protective newspaper. Slater was on his feet, hurrying in pursuit, the moment the man turned to