her chair. On the coffee table next to it there was an Asahi Pentax with a telephoto lens, and a pair of binoculars.
A tangerine Volvo had stopped outside the premises opposite, notwithstanding the double yellow lines which ran the whole length of the narrow thoroughfare. Leaving the engine running, the driver jumped out, ran across to 39, rapped on the windows, got back into the car. A man and woman came out. She thrust the shopping bag she wascarrying through the Volvo’s open near-side front window. After that she and the man chatted to the driver and walked round the car, apparently admiring it.
Ascher aimed the Asahi Pentax, clicked the shutter, pulled the rapid wind lever, and clicked again. He did this several times, hoping there was enough light. ‘Got the registration number, Ruth?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And the make – Volvo 244. Tangerine sedan.’
‘Zeid’s the driver,’ said Ascher. ‘Wearing his silk scarf as usual. Hanna put a shopping bag in the front seat. Not much in it. Now they’re admiring the car.’ He put down the camera and picked up the binoculars. ‘She looks tired.’
‘Must have been last night. It was a Marks and Spencer bag.’
‘You’ve a nasty mind, Ruth. It was light. She flicked it in with her wrist.’
‘Not nasty. Just realistic. Yes, I agree. Nothing heavy in it.’
The man and the woman on the pavement were waving and laughing.
‘Zeid’s off,’ said Ruth. ‘If it was a film we’d follow.’
‘Yes. With a car dropped by helicopter into Spender Street. Slap on his tail. Laser beams at the ready.’
‘Wouldn’t that be great. The Volvo’s an automatic,’ she said. ‘He never took his hands off the wheel.’
‘Right. Get on to the Embassy. Check that registration number.’
Ruth Meyer picked up the phone, dialled the Israeli Embassy.
The man and the girl outside 39 stood talking for some moments before going back into the premises.
Normally Zeid was a fast driver but he took no chances with the Volvo. On the contrary he observed speed limits scrupulously , driving in a manner which would have earned the approbation of the Police Driving School at Hendon.
He crossed the Thames by Putney Bridge, threaded his way gingerly down the High Street and up Putney Hill to the junction with the A3. The drizzle became more opaque as he reached the Kingston by-pass and he switched on the Volvo’s lights.
There was a good deal of traffic but for most of the time he stayed in the slow lane. He could not afford an accident. At the Marquis of Granby he turned left following the Portsmouth Road into Esher. Opposite The Bear he picked up the A244 and went on through Hersham towards Weybridge. Leaving Walton-on-Thames, he switched to the A3050 and drove down into Weybridge. He parked the Volvo near The Ship ,put on leather gloves, raincoat and trilby, took the shopping bag from the front seat and locked the car.
He walked down the High Street to the letter-boxes outside the post office. From the shopping bag he took five large envelopes of the sort used by solicitors for legal documents . Having examined the addresses and checked the stamps, he posted them. On his way back to the Volvo he screwed the shopping bag into a ball and put it in a refuse basket.
It took him the best part of an hour to get back to the West End. He travelled down Piccadilly towards Leicester Square, turned into Whitcomb Street and left the Volvo in the car park at its lower end. Walking towards the Haymarket he looked at his watch. ‘Eight minutes to six, Saturday, the sixth of November,’ he muttered, his mind full of many things.
It was a cold night and rain fell indiscriminately on the never-ending streams of traffic and people. Zeid turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down the trilby and made for the Piccadilly tube station.
At the top of the Haymarket he had to wait at the traffic lights. Worried and fearful at first, he slowly relaxed, his emotions heightened by the
A tangerine Volvo had stopped outside the premises opposite, notwithstanding the double yellow lines which ran the whole length of the narrow thoroughfare. Leaving the engine running, the driver jumped out, ran across to 39, rapped on the windows, got back into the car. A man and woman came out. She thrust the shopping bag she wascarrying through the Volvo’s open near-side front window. After that she and the man chatted to the driver and walked round the car, apparently admiring it.
Ascher aimed the Asahi Pentax, clicked the shutter, pulled the rapid wind lever, and clicked again. He did this several times, hoping there was enough light. ‘Got the registration number, Ruth?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And the make – Volvo 244. Tangerine sedan.’
‘Zeid’s the driver,’ said Ascher. ‘Wearing his silk scarf as usual. Hanna put a shopping bag in the front seat. Not much in it. Now they’re admiring the car.’ He put down the camera and picked up the binoculars. ‘She looks tired.’
‘Must have been last night. It was a Marks and Spencer bag.’
‘You’ve a nasty mind, Ruth. It was light. She flicked it in with her wrist.’
‘Not nasty. Just realistic. Yes, I agree. Nothing heavy in it.’
The man and the woman on the pavement were waving and laughing.
‘Zeid’s off,’ said Ruth. ‘If it was a film we’d follow.’
‘Yes. With a car dropped by helicopter into Spender Street. Slap on his tail. Laser beams at the ready.’
‘Wouldn’t that be great. The Volvo’s an automatic,’ she said. ‘He never took his hands off the wheel.’
‘Right. Get on to the Embassy. Check that registration number.’
Ruth Meyer picked up the phone, dialled the Israeli Embassy.
The man and the girl outside 39 stood talking for some moments before going back into the premises.
Normally Zeid was a fast driver but he took no chances with the Volvo. On the contrary he observed speed limits scrupulously , driving in a manner which would have earned the approbation of the Police Driving School at Hendon.
He crossed the Thames by Putney Bridge, threaded his way gingerly down the High Street and up Putney Hill to the junction with the A3. The drizzle became more opaque as he reached the Kingston by-pass and he switched on the Volvo’s lights.
There was a good deal of traffic but for most of the time he stayed in the slow lane. He could not afford an accident. At the Marquis of Granby he turned left following the Portsmouth Road into Esher. Opposite The Bear he picked up the A244 and went on through Hersham towards Weybridge. Leaving Walton-on-Thames, he switched to the A3050 and drove down into Weybridge. He parked the Volvo near The Ship ,put on leather gloves, raincoat and trilby, took the shopping bag from the front seat and locked the car.
He walked down the High Street to the letter-boxes outside the post office. From the shopping bag he took five large envelopes of the sort used by solicitors for legal documents . Having examined the addresses and checked the stamps, he posted them. On his way back to the Volvo he screwed the shopping bag into a ball and put it in a refuse basket.
It took him the best part of an hour to get back to the West End. He travelled down Piccadilly towards Leicester Square, turned into Whitcomb Street and left the Volvo in the car park at its lower end. Walking towards the Haymarket he looked at his watch. ‘Eight minutes to six, Saturday, the sixth of November,’ he muttered, his mind full of many things.
It was a cold night and rain fell indiscriminately on the never-ending streams of traffic and people. Zeid turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down the trilby and made for the Piccadilly tube station.
At the top of the Haymarket he had to wait at the traffic lights. Worried and fearful at first, he slowly relaxed, his emotions heightened by the
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