At least someone had bothered to do a preliminary study. There were freehand drawings of the hall layout, and confirmation of earlier reports on the habits of the Danzer group.
They could not be reached outside the hall. The group traveled in dense security, which existed entirely to hype their reputation.
It wasn't working. They hadn't yet played to a sellout audience.
The moment of maximum vulnerability would come while they were on stage. Therefore, the rifle.
Michael sprawled across his bed, eyes closed, for ten minutes.
This could get rough. He wouldn't have a friend in the whole damned country.
Above all else, he concluded, he had to secure his line of retreat.
Thoughts of Ilse and the baby intruded. God, what a woman… He didn't understand her. How could she love him so much?
He had had a dozen lovers before Ilse, but not a one had he needed the way he needed her. Maybe it was a response to his total expatriation. And the little guy… He was such a quiet baby, almost spooky with those big, blue, intelligent eyes. Ilse insisted that he was going to be a great man someday.
He tried forcing them from his mind. That only created a vacuum into which Nancy and his first brood stole.
Nerve was the key, he reminded himself. He had to start getting himself up for it now. He could not be the old Michael. He couldn't let fear make him do something that would get him killed or caught.
Damn! There just wasn't time to do it right. They wanted Snake dead quick. Did Sung have an observer on his tail? Probably.
He rose, turned to the rifle. Why this weapon? With its flat trajectory it was superb for small game at extended ranges, but… For this job Michael would have preferred something heavier, something with a lower muzzle velocity. The slower projectile had more time to break up inside its target. Nor was he familiar with the weapon. He assembled it and broke it down twice, feeling for economy of motion. Speed practice would have to wait. He had things to do, alternatives to establish, before the shops closed for the day.
Cash checked the Canadian papers again. They might do.
He selected a vanity case, descended to the lobby.
"Yes, Herr Spuk?" the clerk asked as he approached.
Michael forced a slight accent as he asked, "Would it be possible for the hotel to obtain entertainment tickets?" “Of course, sir. A show, sir? They recommend-" “The Danzer concert. A box. For this evening." “Danzer, sir?"
“Erik Danzer. The rock singer." “Very well, sir." The man's nose went up. “The young lady, she is fond of Danzer."
It was a red herring that Michael hoped would produce multiple rewards. The clerk would adjust his present opinion. And in future should report that Herr Spuk had had a female companion when the police came asking their questions. They might waste valuable time trying to find the woman.
"Ah, I see." The clerk winked.
Michael smiled, then asked the doorman to hail a cab. He tipped generously.
It was Huang's money.
He studied the Hardy identity during a brief journey. And within a half hour was in a second cab, studying again, after having taken a small room as Thomas Hardy.
That afternoon he obtained wigs, theatrical makeup, and new clothing. And surgeon's gloves.
They should have provided the latter with the rifle.
Wigs were a must for the concert hall. His military-style haircut stood out like the sex of a male interloper in the girls' locker room at showertime. He was lucky he was traveling German. The English expected Germans to look like soldiers on leave.
Then he tried pushing his luck, and the calm, talent, and training of the man within him.
"What's the matter, Mr. Hardy?" the rental officer asked.
He had been frantically rehearsing his driving. And had forgotten that the British did everything bass-ackward.
"This is my first trip to England. I forgot all about right-hand steering. On the Continent-"
"I should have realized, sir. I'm sorry. We do have a little left-hand Simca automatic."
"Fine. Perfect. The Jag really wasn't me anyway." What had made him choose that beast? This was no time for doing a Walter Mitty-playing-James Bond number.
"On the expense ledger, sir?" The attendant began processing the new papers.
"Yes. You know how it is."
"I wish I did, sir. I wish I did. I didn't ask before. Not polite, you know. But I wondered… you're from Ottawa…?"
"Yes?" Michael's heart crept toward his throat. He didn't even know where in Canada Ottawa was.
"I wondered if you'd ever heard of a Mr. Charles Allen Underhill, sir. That's me mum's brother. He emigrated after the war."
"I'm sorry. No."
"Ah, I expected so. And him always writing Mum what a big name he is over there."
"That's human nature."
"Aye, sir, that it is. Just sign and we're ready to go." Michael slid the Simca into traffic without giving himself away, then spent two hours puttering around like an old man, relearning his driving. He did so in mortal terror of an accident. If the police noticed him now…
He survived. To rent another room and another car-a Volkswagen. He took them under the Spuk name. The room included garage privileges. He moved the Simca there, then drove the Volkswagen back to his original base.
He was leaving tracks, he knew. But time was tight. Corners had to be cut. The important thing was to keep the trail just obscure enough to give him a reasonable chance of reaching Hamburg.
The maid had been in during his absence. He panicked, rushed to the attache case. But it hadn't been disturbed. He sighed.
"Got to get ahold of myself," he muttered., He began calling travel agents, scattering a dozen Bremer-haven reservations in three names, and air passages to Hamburg, Cologne, and Munich. And made a mental note to get a road map so he could study the approaches to Dover. As a last resort he would try for Calais. He threw himself on the bed.
"Why don't I just tool over to the U.S. Embassy?" he muttered to himself. "I could turn myself in. They'd take care of me." He thought of his children, Michael and Tiffany, and one whose name he didn't know, one unborn till after his capture. Little Mike ought to be ready for junior high… so many years. So soon gone.