The Cilla Rose Affair Read Online Free PDF Page B

Cilla Rose went down.”
    “Damned good fortune on my part,” Darrow maintained.
    “It would make an interesting story, though, wouldn’t it, Simon, if news of this was somehow leaked to the press. Say…the Sunday Mirror ? Or the News of the World ? I don’t imagine your old pals in what’s left of the KGB will be all that amused—but then, all sorts of revelations are creeping out of that corner of the world these days.”
    “I’ll sue you,” Darrow exclaimed, in disbelief.
    “I’m quite certain you will. Your solicitor will undoubtedly advise it, anyway. You’d better be absolutely certain of your innocence, though, Simon—the tabloids revel in a good scandal, especially when the sordid details of a public figure’s personal life are dragged out in court.”
    Darrow glared at him. “What do you want, Harris?”
    “The name of the Soviet agent who was running you. The details of your meetings.”
    “And if I refuse…?”
    Evan let his eyes wander across to a discarded copy of one of that morning’s newspapers, headlined with news from Moscow that was already outdated and changing by the moment.
    “You,” Darrow said, shaking his head, “you are—”
    “A menace?” Evan suggested, pleasantly. “Just doing my job, Simon. Acting isn’t my only occupation, after all.”
    “Does your occupation include blackmail?”
    “I prefer to think of it as professional advice,” Evan said, easily. He jotted his telephone number down in the margin of the obituary. “Give me a ring when you’ve made up your mind, Simon. I’ll arrange a time and a place that’s mutually advantageous to both of us. I look forward to hearing from you.”
    “That’s rattled him,” Ian said, into the small microphone clipped to the inside of his shirt collar. “Stand by—here he comes.”
    He took up his position on the pavement as Simon arrived back at street level and began the long walk down to the narrow lane behind Tower Gateway DLR, where he’d left his Porsche.
    “Anything…?” Evan checked.
    “Negative. He’s going straight to his car. I’ll let you know if he makes any outgoing calls.”
    Ian climbed into the van he’d parked several spots behind the Porsche, started the engine, and waited. While he was waiting, he took off his sunglasses, and pulled on a baseball cap, altering his appearance just enough for Simon not to remember him, should he happen to glimpse into his rearview mirror.
    The Porsche pulled out and, two car-lengths behind, Ian kept an ear tuned to the intercept device he had installed in the van, a computerized bloodhound using software especially written to track the signals of any mobile phone operating within the national network. Simon habitually talked on the phone while he manoeuvred through the London traffic. His routine had been studied, his daily practices duly noted in the preliminary report his father had worked up in the few days prior to their meeting.
    Today he was silent, and Ian was surprised. The plan had been to panic Simon, to put the fear of God into him and then see who he tried to contact for further instructions.
    Simon wasn’t playing the game.
    Yet.
    The darling of British broadcasting maintained two places of residence—a rambling cottage in Epsom and a town flat in Wimpole Mews, W1, next door to Harley Street and not far from what had once been the residence of Stephen Ward and his infamous houseguest, Christine Keeler.
    Turning into Wimpole Mews, Simon disappeared. Ian parked the van on the road a block away, then sprinted back to the flat next door to Simon’s, the owners of which had been persuaded to take a week’s vacation out of the country on very short notice. The flat’s upstairs bedroom had been outfitted as a small listening post: receivers were paired to the transmitters inside Simon’s rooms, voice-activated tape recorders occupied dressing tables and chairs.
    Clipping on a pair of headsets, Ian sat down on the bed to wait, and to listen.
    Still