The Man from St. Petersburg by Ken Follett Page B

chatting with his colleagues, examining a nearby Rolls-Royce car, playing some kind of game with halfpennies and polishing the carriage windows. It might have been sensible to abandon the plan and kill Orlov another day.
    But Feliks hated that idea. For one thing, there was no certainty that another good opportunity would arise. For another, Feliks wanted to kill him now. He had been anticipating the bang of the gun, the way the prince would fall; he had composed the coded cable which would go to Ulrich in Geneva; he had pictured the excitement in the little printing shop, and then the headlines in the world’s newspapers, and then the final wave of revolution sweeping through Russia. I can’t postpone this any longer, he thought; I want it now.
    As he watched, a young man in green livery approached the Walden coachman and said: “What ho, William.”
    So the coachman’s name is William, Feliks thought.
    William said: “Mustn’t grumble, John.”
    Feliks did not understand that.
    “Anything in the news?” said John.
    “Yeah, revolution. The King says that next year all the coachmen can go in the palace for supper and the toffs will wait in The Mall.”
    “A likely tale.”
    “You’re telling me.”
    John moved on.
    I can get rid of William, Feliks thought, but what about the footman?
    In his mind he ran over the probable sequence of events. Walden and Orlov would come to the palace door. The doorman would alert Walden’s footman, who would run from the palace to the carriage—a distance of about a quarter of a mile. The footman would see Feliks dressed in the coachman’s clothes, and would sound the alarm.
    Suppose the footman arrived at the parking place to find that the carriage was no longer there?
    That was a thought!
    The footman would wonder whether he had misremembered the spot. He would look up and down. In something of a panic he would search for the coach. Finally he would admit defeat and return to the palace to tell his master that he could not find the coach. By which time Feliks would be driving the coach and its owner through the park.
    It could still be done!
    It was more risky than before, but it could still be done.
    There was no more time for reflection. The first two or three footmen were already running down The Mall. The Rolls-Royce car in front of the Walden coach was summoned. William put on his top hat in readiness.
    Feliks emerged from the bushes and walked a little way toward him, calling: “Hey! Hey, William!”
    The coachman looked toward him, frowning.
    Feliks beckoned urgently. “Come here, quick!”
    William folded his newspaper, hesitated, then walked slowly toward Feliks.
    Feliks allowed his own tension to put a note of panic into his voice. “Look at this!” he said, pointing to the bushes. “Do you know anything about this?”
    “What?” William said, mystified. He drew level and peered the way Feliks was pointing.
    “This.” Feliks showed him the gun. “If you make a noise I’ll shoot you.”
    William was terrified. Feliks could see the whites of his eyes in the half dark. He was a heavily built man, but he was older than Feliks. If he does something foolish and messes this up I’ll kill him, Feliks thought savagely.
    “Walk on,” Feliks said.
    The man hesitated.
    I’ve got to get him out of the light . “Walk, you bastard!”
    William walked into the bushes.
    Feliks followed him. When they were about fifty yards away from The Mall Feliks said: “Stop.”
    William stopped and turned around.
    Feliks thought: If he’s going to fight, this is where he will do it. He said: “Take off your clothes.”
    “What?”
    “Undress!”
    “You’re mad,” William whispered.
    “You’re right—I’m mad! Take off your clothes!”
    William hesitated.
    If I shoot him, will people come running? Will the bushes muffle the sound? Could I kill him without making a hole in his uniform? Could I take his coat off and run away before anyone arrived?
    Feliks cocked the