Spy Story Read Online Free PDF

discourage further interruption.
    â€˜I never had that Albert figured for a reader,’ said the taller man.
    â€˜On the telly, he means,’ said the other one. ‘So –’ he turned to me, ‘you’d better come and identify yourself properly.’
    â€˜That’s not the caretaker,’ I said.
    â€˜I’m afraid you’re wrong, sir.’
    â€˜I’m not wrong.’
    â€˜It won’t take more than ten minutes, sir.’
    I walked down the flight of stairs that led to the street. Outside there was my taxi. Screw them all. I opened the cab door and had one foot on the ledge when I saw the third man. He was sitting well back in the far corner of the rear seat. I froze. ‘Do get in, sir,’ he said. It should have been a mini-cab, this was a taxi. I didn’t like it at all.
    One of my hands was in my pocket. I stood upright and pointed a finger through my coat. ‘Come out,’ I said with a suitable hint of menace. ‘Come out
very
slowly.’ He didn’t move.
    â€˜Don’t be silly, sir. We know you are not armed.’
    I extended my free hand and flipped the fingers up to beckon him. The seated man sighed. ‘There are three of us, sir. Either we all get in as we are, or we all get in bruised, but either way we all get in.’
    I glanced to one side. There was another man standing beside the doorway. The driver hadn’t moved.
    â€˜We won’t delay you long, sir,’ said the seated man.
    I got into the cab. ‘What is this?’ I asked.
    â€˜You know that flat is no longer yours, sir.’ He shook his head. The driver checked that the door was closed and drove off with us, along Cromwell Road. The man said, ‘Whatever made you trespass there, at this time of night? It’s brought all three of us out of a bridge game.’ The taller man was sitting on the jump seat. He unbuttoned his sheepskin coat.
    â€˜That really reassures me,’ I told them. ‘Cops playing poker might frame you. Cops playing pontoon might beat you to death. But who could get worried about cops who play bridge?’
    â€˜You should know better,’ said the tall man mildly. ‘You know how security has tightened since last year.’
    â€˜You people talk to me like we are all related. I’ve never seen you before. You don’t work with me. Who the hell are you, dial-a-cop?’
    â€˜You can’t be that naïve, sir.’
    â€˜You mean the phone has always been tapped?’
    â€˜Monitored.’
    â€˜Every call?’
    â€˜That’s an empty flat, sir.’
    â€˜You mean – “Anyone do a Gloucester Road to Fulham with fifty pence on the clock” was your people?’
    â€˜Barry was so near to winning the rubber,’ said the second man.
    â€˜I just went in to use the phone.’
    â€˜And I believe you,’ said the cop.
    The cab stopped. It was dark. We had driven across Hammersmith Bridge and were in some godforsaken hole in Barnes. On the left there was a large piece of open common, and the wind howled through the trees and buffeted the cab so that it rocked gently. There was very little traffic, but in the distance lights, and sometimes a double-decker bus, moved through the trees. I guessed that that might be Upper Richmond Road.
    â€˜What are we waiting for?’
    â€˜We won’t delay you long, sir. Cigarette?’
    â€˜No, thanks,’ I said.
    A black Ford Executive came past, drew in and parked ahead of us. Two men got out and walked back. The man with the sheepskin coat wound down the window. A man from the other car put a flashlight beam on my face. ‘Yes, that’s him.’
    â€˜Is that you, Mason?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Mason was the one who did the weather print-outs and got himself photographed with strangers wearing my clothes.
    â€˜Are you in on this, then?’ I said.
    â€˜In on what?’ said Mason.
    â€˜Don’t bullshit