The Key to Midnight

him.

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    55
        
        With the descent of night in London, the temperature had dropped ten degrees. It now hovered at the freezing point. The wind had grown stronger, and the rain had become sleet.
        On his way home from the Fielding Athison offices in Soho, Marlowe - previously in charge of all Soviet operations that had used the importing company as a front, now working for post-Soviet forces that still dreamed of a Russian Marxist Utopia - drove slowly and cursed the weather. He kept his head tucked down and his shoulders drawn up in anticipation of a collision. Everywhere he looked, cars slid on the icy pavement, and as far as he could tell, he was the only motorist in all of Greater London who wasn't driving like a suicidal maniac.
        In a line of work that demanded caution, Marlowe was one of the most cautious men he knew. He had committed himself to a life of treason, which was, thank you very much, more than enough risk for any man. Having made that one dangerous decision, he tried thereafter to ensure that espionage would be as thoroughly safe and serene an occupation as floral arrangement or managing a tobacco shop. He abhorred taking any action without first thinking through all the ramifications, and he was always markedly slower to act than any of his associates. He kept four stashes of false passports and getaway cash at various places in England, as well as secret bank accounts in Switzerland and Grand Cayman.
        His aversion to risk extended beyond his working world into his private life. He participated in no leisure sports that were likely to result in broken bones or torn ligaments. He didn't hunt, because occasionally one saw stories in the press about hunting accidents, chaps shooting themselves or one another, either out of carelessness or because they'd mistaken one another for game. He had acquaintances who enjoyed hot-air ballooning, which he considered no safer than bungee jumping off high bridges, so he refused to join them on their mad weekend flights. He faithfully followed a low-fat, low-salt diet. He never drank alcoholic beverages or any beverage containing caffeine. He ate only trace amounts of refined sugar, always bundled up well and wore a hat in cold weather, underwent a complete physical examination twice a year, never had sex without a condom, and drove as sedately as an octogenarian vicar.
        On the roadway ahead, another driver stood on the brakes, and the car fishtailed wildly on the ice-sheathed pavement.
        Marlowe tamped his brakes judiciously and congratulated himself on having left enough room to stop short of a collision.
        Behind him, the brakes of another vehicle squealed horribly.
        Marlowe winced, gritted his teeth, and counted the seconds until impact.
        Miraculously, no crash ensued.
        'Morons,' Marlowe said.
        He cherished life. He intended to die no sooner than his one hundredth birthday - and then in bed with a young woman. A very young woman. Two very young women.
        At the moment his anxiety was exacerbated by his inability to concentrate on his driving to the degree he would have liked. In spite of the constant fear that some lunatic would plow into him, he couldn't prevent his mind from wandering. The past few days had been filled with signs and portents, bad omens - and he couldn't stop mulling them over, trying to decide what they meant.
        First, he had come out of the confrontation with Ignacio Carrera less well than expected. When he'd tried to learn Joanna Rand's real name, he had been operating on his long-held conviction that he and Carrera were equals in the eyes of the masters whom they served. Instead, he'd been slapped down. Hard. Then words had come from Moscow that Marlowe was to back off the Rand situation, obey Carrera, and leave the mysterious woman unharmed even if she blundered into the offices of Fielding Athison and threatened to disrupt the entire operation.
        Marlowe was still smarting from that loss of face when the grotesque Anson Peterson swept in from America and began issuing commands with royal arrogance. Marlowe wasn't permitted to see the Rand woman, not even a photograph of her. He was told not to speak to her if she should call British-Continental again. He was not even supposed to think about her any more. Peterson was in charge of the operation, and Marlowe was instructed to go about his other work as if he knew nothing