The Old Vengeful

'Well, Mitchell? What is your pleasure, then?'

Paul thought for a moment. 'What sort of a tail?'

'Ah . . . now as to origin, I cannot tell you, except that it is undoubtedly professional, as one would expect— never right behind us, in clear view . . . But as to content, that's easier, because they had to turn off after passing us when I stopped, and pick us up again when we continued . . . and then one had to overtake us—he's in front now—just to make sure we hadn't switched cars, or anything tricky like that.' He paused, and then half-turned towards Elizabeth. 'I had this feeling, you see, Miss Loftus, not long after we left Laon . . .

this pricking in the back of the neck . . . that we were not altogether alone. But I couldn't be sure, not until now.'

'What sort of tail?' repeated Paul. 'What vehicles?'

'One Renault 20 saloon, blue, with driver and passenger.

And one unmarked Citroen van, grey, with driver only.

Though what's behind the driver—what wealth of ingenious gadgetry—I also cannot tell, of course . . . Hence the disgusting French equivalent of the Top of the Pops, Miss Loftus—just in case.'

Paul leaned closer to Elizabeth. 'He means we could be bugged— with a voice pick-up as well as a directional indicator . . . Damn!' He turned back to Aske. 'Didn't you check out the bloody car?'

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Aske sighed. 'Don't be silly, old boy. If these are pros I could strip it down, and still not find anything—you know that.'

'Damn!' murmured Paul. 'Damn, damn, damn!'

'I admit I maybe didn't take things quite seriously enough,'

conceded Aske. ''But then we haven't been doing anything terribly serious, have we?'

'Damn!' said Paul again.

'Don't fret, old boy. This is what I'm here for—to keep you safe and sound. So long as they don't try anything crude we're in no danger . . . and with all this traffic around us I can't think that they have that in mind. And I'm sure I'm a much better driver than either of them . . . There's a passenger seat-belt in the back, Miss Loftus—put it on, please . . . Just in case . . . though one should always wear one's belt, in any case, of course.'

'Can you lose them?' asked Paul.

'Yes.' Askc leaned forward again. 'I think we'll have a leetle more background noise . . . Yes . . . But not here.'

'Where then?'

'Oh, Paris is the place. Lots of nice fast traffic, lots of different lanes . . . They have us boxed in, so I shall lose them on the peripherique—the one in front at the Saint Ouen intersection, or at Clignancourt. . . and then I'll get the one behind into the wrong lane just before Clichy, and I'll slip out there. We'll need a little luck, but not a lot.'

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Elizabeth began to feel almost reassured.

'I can only give you a few minutes, though,' went on Aske smoothly. 'Because if they know their business—if there's a directional bug on this car, which I assume there is—they'll be on to us again quick enough . . . and if they've got more back-up waiting for us, that could be awkward . . . You can never be absolutely sure of losing a well-organised tail—I know, because I've outsmarted my Bulgarian friends more than once . . . But I can put you down round a corner near the Avenue de Wagram, and then I can ditch the car further on ...

So not to worry, eh?' Aske checked his mirror. 'Here he comes now, tucking himself nicely behind that Saab . . .'

Elizabeth fought the desire to look over her shoulder. 'Who are they, Paul?'

'Ah . . . now that's the interesting question, Miss Loftus,'

said Aske. 'But it can hardly be the French just watching over us, I'm afraid.'

'Why not?'

'What have we done to annoy them?' Aske's shoulders lifted.

'Nothing, so far as I am aware—certainly nothing to justify this VIP treatment . . . even if our Dr Mitchell has something of a record . . . No—if they didn't like us they'd simply pick us up and boot us out, without much ceremony. That's more their style, you see.'

'It could be the French, Elizabeth,' said Paul.

Aske snuffled. 'You're making pretty pictures, Mitchell.

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Pretty pictures to suit yourself—what they tell us never to do!'

'Pretty pictures, Mr Aske?'

'That's right.' Aske nodded at the road. 'To be spotted by the French—that's just bad luck . . . But to be picked up by the KGB . . .' He shook his head sadly '. . . that's both good and bad, I suppose.'

Elizabeth couldn't for the life of her see how being pursued by the KGB could be good.

'Shut up, Aske!' snapped Paul.

'She has a right to know, old boy. It's bad, Miss Loftus, because it means our security is bad—or because theirs is too damn good, alternatively . . . But it's also good, because it means that we've got the swine worried enough to take all this trouble—which means that Audley knows what he's doing, however odd it may seem to us.' He turned to Paul.