The Lure Read Online Free Page A

over the Balliol man’s 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 wasn’t sure what these things meant but the tone had been disparaging. And yet here he was, the humblest creature in the hierarchy, summoned by God, 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?’
    ‘I’m taking a couple of weeks off.’
    Kavanagh stiffened. ‘I don’t think so, young man. You seem to be forgetting the PRTLI bid.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Prof, but you have to write it yourself. Sir John’s instructions.’
    From the back of the taxi, Petrie looked out at the bars, the cafés 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 documentary about Mozart. Vienna was all crinoline-dressed ladies dancing with tailors’ dummies, and prancing horses and elegant cafés.
    But Freud and Turing are dead and the Vienna Circle is history and the real talent left for the States after the war. There’s nobody 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, ‘We’ve 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 assignations, lovers snatching 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 didn’t live in Rock Walk. He’d 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,