The Lure Part 2

'No, sir, Im just thinking. My field is a bit off the beaten track.

The Provost opened a buff folder in front of him. 'Yes, it does seem rather abstruse. He peered at a sheet of paper. 'What does it say here? Non-periodic tiling algorithms and unbreakable codes. The tone wasnt altogether approving and Petrie wondered what Kavanagh had written in the annual confidential report.

Petrie looked across at the Provosts mysterious companion. 'Does Her Majestys Government want some decryption done? And if so, why dont they just get GCHQ on the job?

The question caught the Balliol College man by surprise. 'It does seem odd.

Sir John was strumming his fingers on Petries file. 'The request is that you be released from your university duties for the next two weeks. I have agreed to this.

'But Professor Kavanagh needs the research a.s.sessment report by this afternoon.

The Provost frowned. 'What? Youre writing it?

'Yes.

The Provost scribbled on a memo. 'Ill drop Professor Kavanagh a note. He should perhaps be doing that himself.

'In that case, I guess Im out of excuses.

Mr Balliol handed over a sealed envelope. 'Present yourself at the BA desk in two hours time and give them this reference number. Have your pa.s.sport and travel things with you. Give your name as Mr Craig. Treat the matter in the strictest confidence. My telephone numbers, office and home, are therein but they mustnt get into any other hands but yours.

Petrie tore the envelope open, glanced at the numbers and returned the paper. 'Why should I want to contact you?

The man raised his hands and adopted a mystified look.

Nervously: 'Are you asking me to get involved in espionage?

'Espionage? Oh my goodness no, how absurd! The civil servant quickly improvised a smile to emphasise this absurdity. 'Youll probably be back by the weekend, at which time Ill contact you. However, you should keep yourself to yourself. If anyone speaks to you en route, be noncommittal. Beware of inappropriate behaviour abroad. Always act as if there is a hidden camera. Be especially wary of any, aah... he squirmed slightly in the chair 'approaches from strange women.

Petries eyes widened.

The Provost cleared his throat. 'Of course this is only a request, Petrie. Youre free to turn it down.

'I cant wait. Petrie stood up. He turned at the door, hand on the handle and a worried expression on his face. 'Forgive me, but this is pretty bizarre. Sir John, could this be some sort of elaborate hoax?

A pink blush began to spread over the Balliol mans face. The Provost seemed amused. 'My colleague here is the genuine article. I was telephoned about him from London this morning.

'But was the call genuine?

'Oh, I should think so, Petrie. I know the caller well. The Prime Minister and I go back a long way.

Petrie returned dizzily to his office.

Priscilla was sniffling in the corridor.

She looked at the young man with wonder. Dr Petrie was unimportant, lower even than her in the departmental food chain. In her own hearing he had heard the Professor call his research arcane and esoteric. She wasnt sure what these things meant but the tone had been disparaging. And yet here he was, the humblest creature in the hierarchy, summoned by G.o.d, or at least His earthly equivalent, the Provost. She could contain herself no longer. She blew her nose with a used tissue and asked, 'Dr Petrie, what on earth is going on here?

Kavanagh walked into the office, trying to make it look like a casual encounter. 'Ah, Petrie. How did it go with the Provost?

Petrie helped himself to a biscuit from a red tin on the filing cabinet. 'Very well, thank you, Professor.

There was a pause. 'And?

'Im taking a couple of weeks off.

Kavanagh stiffened. 'I dont think so, young man. You seem to be forgetting the PRTLI bid.

'Im sorry, Prof, but you have to write it yourself. Sir Johns instructions.

From the back of the taxi, Petrie looked out at the bars, the cafes and the bookshops lining the congested streets, but he saw none of them. His mind was elsewhere, grappling with questions.

And his stomach was churning.

4.

Bratislava Vienna!

Petrie had seen Vienna on TV. Some doc.u.mentary about Mozart. Vienna was all crinoline-dressed ladies dancing with tailors dummies, and prancing horses and elegant cafes.

But Freud and Turing are dead and the Vienna Circle is history and the real talent left for the States after the war. Theres n.o.body in Vienna.

The mystery consumed Petrie all the way over the Irish Sea. Why Vienna? The place is a desert!

In Terminal Four at Heathrow, he was astonished to hear his name being called over the tannoy: 'Would Dr Petrie, on the British Airways flight from Dublin, please come to the information desk?

At the desk a small fat woman in traditional Indian sari said, 'Weve been asked to give you this. The envelope she handed him was addressed to: Dr Thomas Petrie, 158 Rock Walk, Dublin.

'Who sent this?

'The caller left no name, sir. She delivered it about ten minutes ago.

'She?

'It was a female, very English. The woman was trying not to give Petrie a knowing smile; she was seeing secret a.s.signations, lovers s.n.a.t.c.hing time in exotic places.

'Okay, thank you.

Petrie opened the envelope. It was empty. At a departures screen he checked his Vienna flight. He had a couple of hours. Back to the information desk. The sari lady directed him out of the airport, along a road near the bus stances and into a small, plain building: the airport chapel.

Petrie didnt live in Rock Walk. Hed never heard of a Rock Walk in Dublin. For all he knew, Rock Walk was the name of a pop group. But more likely the Rock was pietro, petra, Peter.

Down spiral stairs. A man in a long green gown was standing at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth and candles, engaged in some ceremony which had no meaning for Petrie. A handful of people stood around the pews. Petrie was in luck: there was a lectern at the back of the chapel, and on it was a large Bible. He turned the pages to the First Epistle General of Saint Peter, chapter five, verse eight.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour Some sort of warning. Petrie felt a slight tingling in his spine, like a mild electric current.

He made his way to the departure lounge and sat with his back to a wall, surveying his fellow pa.s.sengers with deep suspicion, at the same time feeling vaguely ridiculous. None of them showed the least awareness of his presence.

Beware of strange women. Petrie looked for unattached females. Maybe the blonde girl, in her early twenties, with the golden Scandinavian hair and long skirt and boots. Petrie knew the type: Miss Lonely Planet, uncommitted and free as the wind, doing Europe and beyond on a shoestring. But she was too conspicuous, apparently attracting the attention of half the males in the lounge. Maybe the mousy little creature sipping from a paper cup and reading a paperback. She was so inconspicuous that she had to be a candidate. Or maybe it was the plump Hausfrau with the heavy-framed spectacles, the sandwich and the Cosmopolitan opened on her knee. She caught Petries eye and smiled; Petrie looked away in alarm.

It was cloud all the way until, over Germany, he glimpsed forested hills, covered with white.

Through the Customs at Vienna airport, not knowing what to expect. In the public area a lean, thin-faced man was holding up a white card with Herr Craig printed on it in red crayon. Petrie followed him to a silver top-of-the-range BMW with an Austrian registration. There was no conversation. The man took him along a motorway lined with high-rise flats and sprawling pharmaceutical factories, and on to a quiet, straight road leading away from town. The car was silent, its suspension smooth, and Petries imagination was becoming steadily wilder.

In an hour another city appeared on the skyline. There was a border. The policeman at the Kontrolla scarcely glanced at Petries pa.s.sport. A long bridge took them over the Dunaj, which Petrie took to be the Danube. A sign said Bratislava. He looked out on tall grey buildings, buses and trams, cobbled roads, churches with an Eastern look. Not Vienna, then, he thought. Bratislava.

The driver stopped in front of a large grey-fronted hotel and opened Petries door without a word. By the time Petrie had reached the foyer, driver and BMW had gone.

Sir was expected.

His room was plain, wooden-floored with an embroidered rug. He tossed his holdall on a chair and left. On the first floor he navigated a crowded bar, its air thick with Turkish cigarette smoke, and reached a restauracia. It was pure Belle epoque, with oil paintings of Old Bratislava lining its walls and cl.u.s.ters of lights hanging like chrome and gla.s.s snowdrops from its high curved ceiling. Wooden part.i.tions separated the tables, ensuring privacy for husband and wife, husband and mistress, businessmen making deals in the post-Communist market. Behind the nearest one, he heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation between a man and woman, in an unfamiliar tongue. The clatter of trams came through the window, and dark shapes like Lowry figures were crossing a slushy cobbled square. Wisps of the heavy tobacco smoke were drifting through from the bar.

By now Petrie was strung up like a cat. He felt somehow surreal, as if he was inside a dream; if a crocodile had slithered into the room it would hardly have seemed out of place.

A little waiter appeared. He had a dinner suit, bow tie, moustache and pa.s.sable Slavic-tinted English.

'Id like some fish, Petrie said.

'What kind of fish?

'What do you have?

A shrug. 'Much fish.

'Whats local?

'tika. From the Danube this morning. It has sharp teeth.

'Ill have that.

'With cheeps?

'Potatoes.

'And to drink?

'A white wine. Petrie paused, and added: 'A carafe.

'You can have zee house wine.

'Fine.

A borovika and a coffee later, he signed a chit and made his way, bloated, back to his room. He made sure his door was locked. He lay on the narrow bed and tried to a.n.a.lyse the sense of unease, anxiety even, which was now was.h.i.+ng over him.

There was the sudden transplantation from the routine to the weird, from the familiar to the alien. There was the bizarre warning: Be sober, be vigilant. Beware of what? Roaring lions? Strange women? Slithering crocodiles?

But most of all, he realised, his tension was being driven by something else, by the conundrum still defeating his restless mind: What am I getting myself into? And what happens next?

Petrie wakened with a start. The telephone, its ringing tone unfamiliar. Disoriented, it was a second before he remembered he wasnt in his Dublin flat. He fumbled for a light switch, knocking over a tumbler. His watch said 5.30 a.m. 'Dr Petrie? Your car is waiting.

5.

The Castle The icy air had a freshening effect on Petrie, even at twenty to six in the morning. It was the same silver BMW and the same wrinkled driver. The cavernous boot swallowed up Petries rucksack like a whale devouring a minnow. He kept a canvas bag with papers beside him, and settled into the back seat.

The car drove a few hundred yards along the road and turned into the front of the Hotel Europa.

Miss Lonely Planet.

The driver heaved her rucksack into the boot as if it was full of rocks. As she settled into the car beside him, Petrie saw that she was lightly made up. He caught a whiff of scent. She had an open, almost naive smile.

'I do planets. Her voice was soft and curiously graceful. She wasnt a native English speaker.

The car took off, the driver muttering something under his breath.

Petrie said, 'I saw you at Heathrow.

'I saw you too. I spotted you at Vienna airport and then on the streets here, last night. It was too much of a coincidence.

'Ive been warned not to speak to strange women.

She gave a wicked smile, stuck her legs out and wiggled her feet. She was wearing walking boots and her slender ankles made them seem over-large.

'And then I got another warning. It was vague but I took it to mean I might be followed.

She asked, 'How do you know Im not a strange woman following you?

'You werent trying to look inconspicuous. She was in fact extremely conspicuous but Petrie didnt want to mention that.

She gave a worried little nod. 'Should we be trusting each other? Her voice had a slightly sing-song quality Scandinavian, he thought. It fitted with the pure blonde hair.

'Who says I trust you?

'This is like something out of a spy movie. Any idea what its about? She tilted her head slightly.