A furtive figure dashed out of the shadows, lumbered across the deserted street, darted into an adjacent alley, then stopped.
Clearly unused to the effort, his panting was the only sound to be heard. After a few moments he resumed his flight, crossed the next intersection, and continued at as fast a pace—something between a hurried walk and a labored jog—as he could manage for two blocks. His loose frame gave every appearance of rebelling against the sustained exertion. Sweat had already matted his hair, which was a little too thin on top, a little too long on the back of his neck, and was dripping from his high forehead and down his heavily jowled cheeks. Under the shabby wool overcoat, his shirt was already drenched under the arms.
Halting again, he tried to still his aching lungs, listening all the time for the footsteps he was sure were following. There were none to be heard, but he knew the man was out there—somewhere . . . waiting . . . for him!
He had to get back to his flat! There he would be safe—at least until he could decide what to do.
As he moved once more out of hiding and down the cobbled street, terror was visible in his eyes. He knew the stakes of this game. When he had given up his tenure for more lucrative pursuits, he’d known there were risks. And though he’d met many shady and dangerous characters along the way, and managed to hold his own with them, inside he was still a scholar at heart. He would never be altogether like the men he did business with. That’s why he’d adopted the practice of protecting himself by always having information on his colleagues at his ready disposal. Know your adversaries—and your allies had long been his code. You never know when they might turn out to be one and the same.
Protect your flank. It was the only way to survive. That’s why he’d hired his old gumshoe friend Stonecroft to watch out for him, keep his eyes on his clients, tail them if necessary, learn what he could of their background, who was working for whom, where was the money coming from, motives. Call it insurance.
Maybe it was too much for an art broker to take upon himself. The thought made him realize anew how bitterly he resented being known as nothing but a common fence by some of his seedier clients. He had left the university in order to involve himself more directly in his true first love—objets d’art. And through the years he had built up a clientele that included some of the richest men in the world. His name would never show up in a National Geographic article. But if people in the know wanted information about what was “available,” what was hot and what was not, or how to acquire a given piece and how much it was likely to run on the black market, they knew he was the man to ask. In fact, he had been interviewed a time or two, though his name had never appeared in print.
At least one Sheik’s gallery in Arabia, a collection of Egyptian relics in Amsterdam, and a truly historic display of priceless firearms in Sweden had been put together almost entirely with his help. He was not adverse to an occasional plebeian assignment of moving a cache of stolen rifles, or perhaps jewels—drug-related jobs, however, he refused to touch. It kept his bank account at the comfortable level of liquidity he liked.
But it was the sophisticated and rare objects of artistic magnificence and even perhaps what he might call historical value, which gave him the greatest satisfaction. It had given him the chance to lay his eyes and hands on beautiful treasures he would otherwise never have been able to see. At the same time, he managed to build up a rather nice collection of his own. And he felt a bit of pride at the fact that a time or two his own former colleagues at the university had contacted him with a thorny historic art puzzler they hadn’t been able to decipher.
He hadn’t acquired the handle Professor only as a nickname designating his one-time profession. He still ran his business, as he chose to think of it, in a studious manner. If he was going to charge his clients the fees he did—he never liked to think of them as crooks on the one side and black market buyers on the other—he had to know everything he could about them, and about the merchandise they brought him to move or asked him to locate. It kept him in the know . . . and out of trouble. No sudden surprises. He liked it that way.
Now all of a sudden Stonecroft was dead. And it wouldn’t be hard to trace him back and link them together. Everyone on the streets of Oxford knew the Professor and Stonecroft were close friends. Though he had been part of this world long enough to know how to blend into the intelligentsia around here, Stonecroft stood out like a sore thumb. There’d never been much reason to hide it before, and their relationship went back fifteen years, before either had gotten involved in this business. But now, suddenly, his connection to Stonecroft had become a lethal liability.
His friend was dead! He could still hardly believe it! No wonder he hadn’t been able to locate him for the past forty-eight hours. Now he was likely to be next! He had to get back home. He had to sit down, behind double-locked doors, and think! Perhaps have one last pleasurable gaze over his treasures.
This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen at Oxford. This was supposed to be a quiet little town. That’s why he’d remained here.
He’d known those two bumbling idiots Tex and Mex were flunky underlings the moment they’d contacted him. “Your contact’s a Mr. Smythe at the Shrewsbury office of Trans Global,” the Texan had said in his annoying drawl. “Anything comes up, Mac, and you need to get in touch with us, you just call them up and ask for Mr. Smythe with a y. You gotta say it like that, ‘Let me talk to Mr. Smythe with a y,’ and they’ll know what you mean. You got that, Mac?”
What a positively irritating chap! Why they’d sent a mismatched pair like that, he could never understand. He couldn’t imagine a respected company like Trans Global employing such nincompoops. Sure, a company of Trans Global’s repute might have a division in its operation financing an archaeological dig someplace. It would be good PR for them. And they might well come to him to evaluate their find. But surely the people involved would be of a higher caliber than those two buffoons!
That’s why he’d put Stonecroft right on them. He had to know who was really behind this thing. If Trans Global, then who in Trans Global . . . and why? It was obvious from the first that the assignment was far bigger than the little tokens they’d brought him to evaluate. But he never dreamed who his friend would turn up.
Stonecroft had called from London two afternoons ago with the startling news that Tex and Mex had turned the goods back over to none other than Pingel.
Pingel! He hadn’t heard of him for years. This truly was turning into an international operation! And if he was involved, unless there had been some dramatic upscale change in Pingel’s loyalties, it meant that none other than the General was behind it all, funding and directing the strings of whatever was going on.
He’d never dealt with the man directly. And he didn’t want to start now. But his reputation in the nefarious circles in which the Professor often had to circulate was vast.
The General connected to Trans Global Enterprises, one of Europe’s most prestigious firms . . . it was incredible! Just last month he had read that the Prime Minister had cited the chairman and directors of Trans Global as particularly to be commended for their valiant fight against pollution, calling Trans Global “a company that sets a standard for integrity in this changing industrial age, of which the nation is proud.” Edward Heath did not dish out such compliments lightly.
This was not only unbelievable . . . it was a dangerous piece of information to possess! If Interpol got wind the General was involved with Trans Global, it would seriously damage the company’s prestige. Especially if—but no, that was too fantastic a notion even to consider . . . that the General was actually running Trans Global behind the scenes!
The General was not the sort of man you tangled with. The minute he’d hung up the phone he’d known what he must do. He had to get out of this transaction altogether. The General was known for dusting off people who crossed him. Pingel was the man who usually enforced that policy.
Even before he’d had the chance to figure out how he was going to do it—a man like the General didn’t like cowards either, or fences who reneged on deals—Stonecroft had called again, this time from Heathrow. He was watching him right now, he said. He’d learned his destination from a ticket agent he’d slipped a few quid. The name of the city confirmed everything! Hardly surprising, said Stonecroft. It’s where all those guys went. He’d see him safely onto the plane, then hustle back to Oxford with a full report.
That was the last time he’d heard from his friend.
Now suddenly, just minutes ago, he’d learned that his body had turned up at the airport, out behind a pile of carts near a deserted hangar.
The moment he’d heard, a cold terror had seized him. The only question that still remained was whether Pingel had gotten on the plane. Probably by now the General himself knew the Professor had put Stonecroft onto his men. The General wouldn’t like that.
He had to get home, and then to safety. Maybe to Dublin, Scotland . . . even the Continent. Pingel had never taken that flight. He was here . . . somewhere. He knew it.
He could feel his presence . . . stalking him!
I’ve got to get out of here . . . away from Oxford! thought the Professor one more time to himself. Then he flew out of his temporary hiding place. He did not stop again until he was safely inside his flat, doors securely locked behind him.
Nervously he made his way to every window to make sure all the shades were pulled. Then he cautiously turned on but one small lamp, and at last, all precautions taken, collapsed on his bed in exhaustion.