The foyer of the St Pancras Hotel was busy with both residents and guests as I walked up to the booking desk. A heavily built American, dressed from head to toe in white tennis gear, was arguing with the booking-in clerk.
I stood back while the young girl made arrangements for the man’s luggage to be collected from a taxi outside. As he gruffly departed, she greeted me with a smile. Truly a professional, she showed not a hint of annoyance.
‘I understand that you have a Mr Yildrim staying with you?’ I returned the smile in the hope that good manners might get me the help I needed.
‘We have sir, would you like me to telephone him? Is Mr Yildrim expecting you?’
‘No. I wonder if you could tell him that Mr James from SIS is here to see him.’
‘One moment, sir.’
The clerk telephoned the Arab’s room. It was answered, much to my relief. After a brief conversation the clerk came back to me.
‘Mr Yildrim says that he doesn’t know you, sir.’
I’d anticipated such a response and had an idea that I hoped would appeal to the Arab’s curiosity. ‘Could you tell him it’s about the white doves?’
The booking clerk did as I asked and after a moment she replaced the telephone. ‘Mr Yildrim says he will speak to you, sir. You can use the telephone on the other side of the foyer.’
She pointed to a small booth. It was discreet and private. I had hoped that Yildrim would come straight down but this was going to have to do. ‘No plan survives,’ I thought.
I thanked the girl and then made my way slowly to the revolving-door exit. Kevin sat at the wheel of a taxi in the rank opposite, the engine running. I looked left and right and went back inside the hotel. It was the signal we’d agreed. The Arab was at home and a meet was on.
After indicating to the clerk to put the call through to the booth, I picked up the telephone.
‘Mr Yildrim?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Stephen James, British Intelligence.’
‘I wondered when you intended making contact, Mr James.’ The accent was heavy and laboured, the speech slow. I remembered that it was a common trick to pretend lack of familiarity with a language when, in fact, you were fluent. You never knew when good understanding of an opponent’s language was going to be useful.
‘I … I’m very sorry sir, I … I’ve been asked to accompany you to see my seniors. I didn’t realise you were expecting me.’ I deliberately stammered. Until Yildrim was in the back of the taxi I wanted him to believe that he was dealing with a simple messenger.
The Arab was curt. The tone he adopted told me that he might be taking the bait. ‘Not really expecting you, Mr James, your people have been watching me. I know this. Today, I see no one. I am wondering why when I receive your call. Now I know why. What do your seniors want with me?’
I kept up the pretence. ‘I … I’m sorry sir, I was just asked to bring you to a meeting. I wasn’t told why. I was told to tell you that, while this is an invitation to a chat, your … your refusal to attend is not an option.’
‘And if I do refuse to accompany you Mr James, what then?’
‘I … I don’t know sir, I would guess there is some means to ensure that you do attend.’
‘Am I a prisoner?’
‘No, sir. I was instructed to tell you not to try and escape, though. There were rather a lot of men sent with me and they are all on the doors and outside. I will be outside your room in a few moments.’
‘It seems I have little choice.’
‘Sir, it was suggested that you may have a weapon. I have been asked to tell you to leave any firearms behind and that they will be taken care of for you.’
I was playing the simple errand boy part quite well and, if I’d played it right, then Yildrim was thinking I was a low-level, expendable operative. British Intelligence wouldn’t risk anyone of any value in case he should be killed. He should have worked out that if the intention was to kill him then that could have already have been done. He should also have realised there was no point in trying to escape. His passive compliance would be the key to just two of us gaining control of him.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor, followed the signs and then knocked at the door of Room 301.
There was a voice from inside. ‘You have a car?’
‘Outside. If you would follow me?’ I answered.
I didn’t have long to wait. Barely a minute passed before the Arab appeared. He was medium height, slim and wore a good-quality, cream, single-breasted suit. I studied the suit outline for any indication of a concealed weapon. There was none.
White Dove, alias Selahattin Yildrim, alias many other names, didn’t even look at me as we walked towards the lift. It was there that I would search him.
The first lift to arrive was occupied. I held the Yildrim’s arm to stop him from taking the ride. ‘We’ll catch the next one.’
For the first time, Yildrim turned to face me. His arrogant expression disappeared to be replaced by one of surprise. It lasted just a fraction of a second before he regained his composure. In that same second I noticed something else. His eyes were blue. In the photographs I’d seen, he’d had brown eyes.
The next lift was empty. Once inside, Yildrim faced the door as I searched him. I worked from behind. There was no weapon that I could find but I’d noticed something else. His hands were now shaking. Yildrim was seriously scared. I wondered if he had realised from how I searched that I knew what I was doing, if he was beginning to realise that I was more than a simple errand boy.
As we reached the foyer and approached the exit, I rested a hand on the Browning in my belt. I only checked it for reassurance but Yildrim saw the movement and once again I saw fear in his blue eyes. He had the look of a man about to run. As we went through the revolving door I made sure we shared a compartment.
The lead cab on the rank opposite pulled out and did a tight U-turn in front of us. Yildrim went to move forward but I checked him. Kevin then swung his cab out from the queue and pulled alongside the first cab. I held the Arab’s arm and gestured him towards our cab. As we passed the front of the first cab, the driver leapt out. He was a fat, balding man in his late fifties. His green taxi-driver’s badge swung on a cord over a sweaty, short-sleeved polo shirt. He looked angry.
‘Oi,’ he shouted at Kevin, as he approached our cab. ‘What the ’ell are you playin’ at pal? That’s my fare you’re nickin’.’
I steered Yildrim away from him and towards where Kevin was standing with our cab door open. But the angry cabby wasn’t finished. He stepped forward and grabbed hold of the door that Kevin was holding.
Next moment, there was a loud bang. I wasn’t sure if it was a shot or a car backfiring. In the same instant Yildrim jumped sideways over the bonnet of the first cab and back towards the hotel entrance. I dived after him. The cabby was still shouting at Kevin. Christ knows what he thought the bang was or if he’d even heard it.
Falling to the ground, I was just in time to see the Arab diving back through the door to the hotel. It was now too late to recapture him.
I yelled to Kevin. ‘Let’s go.’
Kevin jumped back into the driving seat and edged the cab forward a yard, to clear the back door for me to jump in. The angry cabbie seemed to have been stunned into silence. I winked at him through the glass as I slammed the door closed. Kevin gunned the engine and we raced off towards Euston Road.
‘The Arab?’ Kevin shouted back through the glass screen as he expertly negotiated the heavy London traffic.
I turned to check behind us. ‘Gone … into the hotel.’
‘Shit…’