Another hour in the gallery study rooms and he had another identity on his credit card, matched to a proper British address lifted from the Birmingham directory. That should slow them down, he thought grimly.
From the gallery he worked his way up to Oxford Street, where he purchased a new set of clothes, rain gear, and a proper brolly. Down a public dispos-all chute went his Nueva York suit, and thence to a public information booth.
The Newlin Building was located halfway between the Tower and Greenwich, on the Thames, in an area of high-rise office buildings.
The robocab deposited him up the street, after circling the block several times in search of clumps of large men trying to appear inconspicuous. If the news of his escape had been disseminated, it hadn’t resulted in any unusual security measures being taken in this area.
Thirty stories of gray metal and glass, the Newlin Building rose above the murky waters of the old river. London looked much like Nueva York, but somehow everything smelled differently.
Was Lisa here? Or would he have to wring her location out of Tarragon’s English associates?
The building did not have an automatic receptionist. Instead there was a round desk marked “Information.” An elderly guard hovered nearby. He spent his time concentrating on his watch instead of the businessmen who came and went in the lobby. Most of them were leaving. It was evening and close to quitting time.
As he approached, the pleasant young lady seated at the desk looked up at him. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m trying to locate a friend.”
“Does she work here?”
“I think so.” Now was not the time to hesitate. “Her name’s Lisa Tambor.”
The woman checked her directory, frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. No one using the name Lisa Tambor works in the Newlin.”
That would’ve been too easy, he told himself. “What about a man named Kemal Tarragon?”
She checked her file. “Sorry, sir. Neither of those names rings a bell.”
He started to describe Tarragon, switched instead to a more memorable image.
“The woman, Tambor, is a little taller than you. Extremely beautiful, dark skin, very exotic look. Blue eyes.” In this country of largely pallid citizens, Lisa would stand out sharply. “Very large eyes, petite figure but not skinny.”
“I still don’t recognize the name.” The receptionist hesitated, “But I think I may have seen the young lady you refer to.”
Eric’s hands tightened on the edge of the desk, bending the hard plastic. Fortunately the woman didn’t look down;
“She went upstairs with a Mr. Brostow. That would be Canal Imports, I think.” She consulted her list. “Yes. You might inquire about her there.”
“How do I find Canal Imports?”
“Twenty-eighth floor, suites sixteen through thirty.”
“Mr. Brostow. Thank you very much, you’ve been a big help.”
“You’re welcome, sir. No trouble at all.”
Eric moved toward the elevators, at the last instant thought better of it and searched until he’d located the fire stairs. His brain worked feverishly as he climbed. It was too much to hope that Lisa might be here, too much to think he might get a break after everything that had happened. He’d expected to have to find the man who’d eyed him in the hospital, then Tarragon or some highly placed assistant, then Lisa.
But if she’d been brought to England, why not here? Why not this building? He remembered how she’d obeyed Tarragon’s order back in her codo in Nueva York. Would she do the same if the confrontation was repeated? How could he be certain of her reactions?
Then he was at the twenty-eighth floor and peering down a heavily carpeted corridor. One or two severely clad business types crossed from one door to another. From his position by the stairwell he could see the elevator access clearly. There were no signs of any guards.
As casually as possible, he stepped out into the corridor and began scanning suite numbers. As soon as he reached sixteen he began querying receptionists. None had heard of Lisa Tambor, but what had worked below worked equally well on the twenty-eighth floor.
“I think I saw someone of that description, yes,” said the young man behind the narrow desk. “I was coming back from my lunch break and—”
“Which suite?" Eric spoke more sharply than he intended, tried to soften it with a smile.
“It’s strange, you know. At the end of the hall there are two doors, one on the left side, one on the right, and they’re not marked. I think that’s where I saw her, coming out of one of those doors. I say it's strange because I always assumed they led to storage rooms. You know, for janitorial equipment and like that. They’re certainly not connected to any of Canal Imports’ offices.”
“Thank you,” said Eric.
“I don’t think you’ll be able to get inside,” the youth hastened to add. “They’re always locked." He smiled apologeticaly. “I know. I’ve tried myself, out of curiosity.”
“It’s all right,” Eric told him. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Be careful,” the man told him. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”
“I know, but I have nine lives.” He hurried to the end of the hallway.
As the receptionist had indicated, there were the two opposing, unmarked doors. There was no sign of a buzzer or ringer, and the handgrip was set flush with the surface of the plastic. No twist-proof door was going to stop him, not now. He pushed and pulled sideways simultaneously. Metal protested loudly, then gave with a snap.
He stepped inside, found himself in a narrow hall. As he walked he found himself peering into empty offices. Once or twice individuals emerged, glanced indifferently at him and vanished behind soundproofed doors.
He started trying the doors. When he intruded he excused himself with a quick smile and a few words. As he was beginning to despair, he opened a door which did not admit him to an office. Instead, he found himself staring into a large, comfortably furnished room. Sitting on a couch facing a window overlooking the Thames was a slim figure. The sight sent a shiver through him from toes to fingertips. He closed the door softly behind him.
She likes to look at rivers, he told himself. We’ll have to find someplace that overlooks a river.
She sensed his presence before he could say anything, turned slowly. Recognition sent one hand to her mouth, and those magnificent wide eyes grew wider still.
