anonymous sender had declared himself pleased when Zavorin – roused from sleep – had responded with the current position of the
‘No more changes of plan, Colonel?’ Bondarev asked.
Zavorin shook his head. ‘No, no more changes. We make for Gibraltar, to arrive no later than Tuesday morning. We have ample time, I think?’
Bondarev nodded agreement. ‘Yes, we have plenty of time. And what then?’
‘We wait,’ Zavorin replied. ‘We wait at Gibraltar until we are instructed to proceed.’ He took another sip of his whisky. ‘I should not really tell you this, Captain, but we have been working well together, and I think, perhaps, that you have earned the right to know.’
He paused, and Bondarev leaned forward expectantly. ‘First, one of the equipment boxes that we loaded at Varna is to be delivered to a small company in Gibraltar which is run by one of our operatives. But the real reason for visiting Gibraltar is that we are to collect a piece of American cryptographic equipment – a cipher machine – which our agents have managed to obtain. This will be delivered, probably by a small boat, whilst we are alongside. As soon as this machine has been loaded we will be able to leave Gibraltar.’
Zavorin smiled pleasantly and Bondarev nodded. It was more or less what he had expected. His ship had effectively been hijacked for use in some spy game that Moscow was playing, and there was nothing he could do about it. At least the end was in sight. Once the cipher machine had been loaded, the
‘Of course.’ When the captain had closed the door behind him, Zavorin drank the last of his Scotch. He was rather pleased with his story of the cipher machine; the idea had come to him whilst re-reading one of the very first James Bond novels. Zavorin smiled to himself, then picked up the bottle and left the cabin.
After an early breakfast of coffee and toast, Richter made himself as presentable as possible by covering the more offensive-looking abrasions on his face with plasters which were more or less skin-coloured. His jeans were a mess and his shirt and sweater had been shoved straight into the dustbin as soon as Bentley had managed to pull them off him. Bentley rummaged around in his bedroom wardrobe and emerged carrying a white shirt and a clean pair of jeans. The jeans were a little big around the waist, but the belt ensured they’d stay up. Richter dressed in his bedroom, assisted by Bentley, and as soon as he’d pulled the jeans on he opened the haversack and extracted the shoulder holster and the Smith and Wesson.
‘Is that going to be necessary?’ Bentley asked, as Richter pulled the holster into place.
‘Christ, I hope not,’ Richter replied, loading the pistol with six shells, ‘but I’m not about to start taking any chances.’
Bentley gave him a hand with the leather jacket, which completely covered the shoulder rig, then unearthed an elderly trilby-type hat and offered it to Richter.
‘Not exactly a picture of sartorial elegance,’ Richter said, looking at his reflection in a mirror, ‘but it does cover some of the damage.’
Bentley grinned at him.
‘What?’ Richter asked.
‘Nothing,’ Bentley said. ‘Just shades of Philip Marlowe.’
‘Before we go,’ Richter said, looking straight at Bentley, ‘I’d feel happier if you were armed, just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’ Bentley demanded. ‘You told me my part of this little escapade would be completely risk-free.’
‘It should be,’ Richter said, ‘but I’d feel happier if I knew you were carrying, that’s all.’
Bentley looked at him for a long moment. ‘OK,’ he said, finally. ‘Hand it over.’
Richter delved into his haversack and pulled out the little Mauser HSc and its shoulder holster. While Bentley pulled on the holster, Richter quickly showed him how to operate the Mauser. The Navy man was used to the Browning 9mm pistol, an altogether bigger weapon, but very similar in operation. He was still somewhat apprehensive about carrying the pistol, and Simpson would throw a fit if he knew. Neither Richter nor Bentley wanted to think about Kate’s reaction if she found out.
Richter had fixed the rendezvous at the service area for ten twenty – only a fool or an amateur ever has a meet on the hour or half hour – and they drove a tortuous route out as far as Reading in Bentley’s red Saab Turbo before turning south to join the M4 at junction eleven. By that time Richter was absolutely certain that there was no one on their tail. It just remained to check that there was nobody on Simpson’s.
Richter had told Simpson to leave London in the Jaguar on the M4, losing any tails if possible, and drive out as far as junction ten, where he was to turn round and head back towards the capital, timing his arrival at junction ten at nine twenty as near as possible. Richter reckoned it was a comfortable forty-five minute drive from junction ten to the Heston service area, beyond Heathrow, which meant that Simpson should arrive there at about five past ten.
With Bentley at the wheel of the Saab – Richter wanted to devote his entire attention to watching, as if his life depended on it, which it did – they turned left onto the eastbound carriageway of the M4 at eight fifteen, and settled down to a relaxing fifty miles per hour cruise. Few cars travel at fifty on a motorway, and those that do tend to be very conspicuous.
Everything Richter spotted as possible opposition passed them, and by the time they approached junction nine he was certain that this final check was also negative. They pulled off the motorway at junction seven, and Richter told Bentley to park on the southbound flyover, above the westbound carriageway, and pretend to look at a map for a few minutes while he watched the westbound traffic.
Richter checked his watch. Eight fifty. Just about right. At five minutes to the hour he saw the dark green XJ6, a shadowy figure at the wheel. For the moment, Richter wasn’t interested in him, but he was in the cars behind him. A grey Rover was overtaking, so he discounted that, but listed seven possibles – two Ford Orions, an old Metro, a light blue Transit van (a favourite vehicle for watchers, because you can park it almost anywhere without too many questions being asked), a Renault Laguna and two BMWs – a three-series and a five-series.
Richter turned to Bentley. ‘Wagons roll, David. And could you wind it up a bit once we get on to the motorway?’
‘No problem. I hate driving at fifty.’
‘I’ve noticed that.’
They closed the gap rapidly, and by the time they reached junction nine Richter had eliminated the BMW 325, because it had overtaken the Jaguar, and the first Orion, because it had expired in a cloud of steam on the hard shoulder. At the junction, the Transit and the five-series BMW turned off, as Bentley and Richter did, and headed north towards the A4, so that just left the second Orion, the Metro and the Renault in trail behind the Jaguar.
Richter told Bentley to pull the same map-reading effort again, and they stopped on the northbound flyover so that he could watch the eastbound traffic, waiting for the Jaguar to show again. It did, at twenty to ten, and Richter waited until he was sure that the three cars he had seen westbound were no longer in company before telling Bentley to start the engine.
They pulled onto the motorway and held position about a mile behind the Jaguar. Richter was still constantly checking cars, both in front of them and behind, but by the time they approached junction four, the Heathrow turn-off, he had only spotted two possibles, a Volkswagen Passat and a Renault Safrane, both of which had appeared on the motorway at junction six and had then held position in front of the Saab and behind the XJ6.
Richter’s mobile phone rang as they passed junction four. ‘Yes?’
‘Simpson. Are you in a red Saab?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right.’
The phone went dead, and Bentley looked enquiringly at Richter. ‘That was the man I’ll be meeting,’ he said.
