The Loo Sanction by Trevanian

That would be the suits. Jonathan strolled across the street and stood against the facade of the hotel. No sunglasses, no Aloha Shirt, no Bentley. He waited until a taxi stopped to discharge passengers, then approached the driver.
    â€œWait for me here, will you? Five minutes.”
    â€œCan’t do that, mate. Rush hour, you know.”
    Jonathan took a ten-pound note from his pocket and ripped it in half. “Here. The other half when I get back in five minutes.”
    The driver was undecided for a second. “Right.” He glanced through the rearview mirror at the growing queue of taxis behind. “Make it quick.”
    Jonathan entered the lobby through the restaurant and glanced around before picking up a house phone.
    â€œThis is Charles Crosley in 536. There will be some parcels for me. Would you ask the porter to have them sent up?”
    Through the glass of the telephone cabinet he watched the receptionist, hoping she would not check to see if his key had been picked up. In the rush of guests and inquiries at this hour, she did not. A bellboy responded to a summons and went to the parcels room, where he collected a small and a large box. As he carried them toward the lifts, Jonathan stepped out from the telephone booth and fell in behind him. Just as the lift doors closed, Jonathan caught the bustle of two men entering the main lobby hurriedly. Aloha Shirt and Bullet Head.
    So they had thought to check with his tailor after all. But just a little too late, if everything worked out well.
    â€œYou must be bringing those to me.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œCrosley? Room 536?”
    â€œOh, yes, sir.”
    Jonathan pushed the fourth-floor button. “Here, I’ll take them.” He passed the bellboy a pound note.
    â€œBut you’re on five, sir.”
    â€œThat’s true. But my secretary is on four.” He winked, and the lad winked back.
    Waiting for the elevator car to bring him back to the lobby, he watched the indicator for the next car count its way to five, then stop. He had a minute on them. Time enough, provided his taxi driver had been able to resist the anger and impatience of men behind him in the rank.
    The Bentley was parked at the entrance, and the driver, a beefy lad with longish hair, recognized Jonathan as he passed. He clambered out of the car and took a step or two toward Jonathan, changed his mind and turned toward the hotel entrance to alert his comrades, then thought better of it and decided that he must not lose sight of Jonathan. He ran back to the Bentley and, not knowing what to do, leaned in the driver’s window and pressed his horn. Startled taxi drivers in the rank sounded their horns in retribution. Confused by the blare of horns, a car stopped at the intersection, and a lorry behind him slammed on its brakes and barked irritation with its two-toned air horn. Passing cars swerved aside and blasted their horns angrily. Bus drivers slammed their fists onto their horn buttons. Traffic around the Circus joined in.
    Jonathan shouted to his taxi driver over the din, “Charing Cross Underground!”
    â€œBut that’s only a block away, mate!”
    Jonathan passed forward the other half of the torn note. “Then you’ve made out, haven’t you?”
    The driver added his horn to the cacophony and pulled away from the curb. “Bleeding Americans,” he muttered. “Bloody well mental they are.”
    Just as the taxi turned the corner, Aloha Shirt and Bullet Head burst through the revolving doors, flinging out before them a bewildered old woman who spun around twice before sitting on the steps, dizzy. The Bentley was only half a block behind as Jonathan jumped out at the Underground entrance. Holding his bulky packages over his head, he ran down the long double escalator, passing those who obediently kept to the right. The passageways were crowded with commuters, and the parcels were both a burden and a weapon. Instantly