Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [8]
“You’re a careful man,” he said to Boris.
“You, too. What is your phone number?”
Ellis told him. Boris wrote the number on the message pad by the phone, then began to dial.
The others waited in silence.
Boris said: “Hello? I am calling on behalf of Ellis.”
Perhaps the unknown voice would not throw her, Ellis thought: she had been expecting a somewhat wacky call anyway. Ignore everything except the address, he had told her.
“What?” Boris said irritably, and Ellis thought: Oh, shit, what is she saying now? “Yes, I am, but never mind that,” Boris said. “Ellis wants you to bring the mechanism to Room Forty-one at the Hôtel Lancaster in the rue de Berri.”
There was another pause.
Play the game, Jane, thought Ellis.
“Yes, it’s a very nice hotel.”
Stop kidding around! Just tell the man you’ll do it—please!
“Thank you,” Boris said, and he added sarcastically: “You are most kind.” Then he hung up.
Ellis tried to look as if he had expected all along there would be no problem.
Boris said: “She knew I was Russian. How did she find out?”
Ellis was puzzled for a moment, then realized. “She’s a linguist,” he said. “She knows accents.”
Pepe spoke for the first time. “While we’re waiting for this cunt to arrive, let’s see the money.”
“All right.” Boris went into the bedroom.
While he was out, Rahmi spoke to Ellis in a low hiss. “I didn’t know you were going to pull that trick!”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Ellis in a feigned tone of boredom. “If you had known what I was going to do, it wouldn’t have worked as a safeguard, would it?”
Boris came back in with a large brown envelope and handed it to Pepe. Pepe opened it and began counting one-hundred-franc notes.
Boris unwrapped the carton of Marlboros and lit a cigarette.
Ellis thought: I hope Jane doesn’t wait before making the call to “Mustafa.” I should have told her it was important to pass the message on immediately.
After a while Pepe said: “It’s all there.” He put the money back into the envelope, licked the flap, sealed it and put it on a side table.
The four men sat in silence for several minutes.
Boris asked Ellis: “How far away is your place?”
“Fifteen minutes on a motor scooter.”
There was a knock at the door. Ellis tensed.
“She drove fast,” Boris said. He opened the door. “Coffee,” he said disgustedly, and returned to his seat.
Two white-jacketed waiters wheeled a trolley into the room. They straightened up and turned around, each holding in his hand a Model “D” MAB pistol, standard issue for French detectives. One of them said: “Nobody move.”
Ellis felt Boris gather himself to spring. Why were there only two detectives? If Rahmi were to do something foolish, and get himself shot, it would create enough of a diversion for Pepe and Boris together to overpower the armed men—
The bedroom door flew open, and two more men in waiters’ uniforms stood there, armed like their colleagues.
Boris relaxed, and a look of resignation came over his face.
Ellis realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh.
It was all over.
A uniformed police officer walked into the room.
“A trap!” Rahmi burst out. “This is a trap!”
“Shut up,” said Boris, and once again his harsh voice silenced Rahmi. He addressed the police officer. “I object most strongly to this outrage,” he began. “Please take note that—”
The policeman punched him in the mouth with a leather-gloved fist.
Boris touched his lips, then looked at the smear of blood on his hand. His manner changed completely as he realized this was far too serious for him to bluff his way out. “Remember my face,” he told the police officer in a voice as cold as the grave. “You will see it again.”
“But who is the traitor?” cried Rahmi. “Who betrayed us?”
“Him,” said Boris, pointing at Ellis.
“Ellis?” Rahmi said incredulously.
“The phone call,” said Boris. “The address.”
Rahmi stared at Ellis. He looked wounded to the quick.
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