“OK, from here we go down to the café, collect the bullets and head straight to the airport. Milano.”
He had chosen Milan because, from there, they could drive to Venice where he knew a forger and could get the passports done. It was also an excellent jumping off point into Europe, with the Brenner Pass into Austria only a few hours away.
“What are you going to do with your gun?” he asked Pope.
The bodyguard was now looking much more respectable, bathed, shaved and in clean clothing. He had even trimmed the thin grey pencil moustache. His eyes had lost the grainy look and were back to their familiar selves.
“What do you mean?”
“At the airport.”
“I’ll try my Diplomatic Warrant.”
Quayle nodded in agreement. It was worth the try. The warrant normally quoted a flight number and an airline, but on occasions and in some airports they barely looked at them. A warrant issued by Her Majesty’s Government was distinctive and almost unforgeable. Besides, they would have logged Pope on his way in and would be expecting him out. A small detail like a ticketing mistake would be understandable.
“Don’t forget to buy Ouzo at the airport,” he said to Holly.
“Why?”
“Every tourist takes some home. You are a tourist. Mr Pope and I will check in separately. We will all be travelling as individuals. We’ll never be more than ten feet from you, but you must pretend you don’t know either of us. Let’s go.”
Chloe Bowie sat straight-backed in front of the Case Officer, having taken an instant dislike to the man. He was not only sexist but a chauvinist with it.
“What have you got?” he asked, without looking up from his work.
“Holly Clement went to stay with people in Greece...”
“I know that,” he interrupted.
“I have a name,” Chloe said stiffly. “The name of the person she went so stay with.”
“I should hope so,” he said. “Look, you said you had something important?”
“The name... it rings a bell. Quayle.”
It was only now that the case officer looked up. “What did you say?”
“Quayle. That was the name.”
“Initial?”
“T, sir. Possibly Timothy or Thomas or…”
“Titus! Titus bloody Quayle. Ring a bell. It bloody should do, girl. He’s ex-service. Retired a couple of years ago. Booted out on a section eight.” He laughed then, short and hard. “Good girl! Now, get your bum upstairs and get your report written. This will set the cat amongst ‘em. Three Fairies on red two and who should turn up? Titus Quayle,” he wondered, “what have you done?”
He laughed again – but now it had a nervous, jagged edge, and as Chloe walked away she felt pleased. She had never met this Quayle man, but if he could drive the normally taciturn case officer to nervous chatter with just the mention of his name he was her kind of guy.
CHAPTER FIVE
Burmeister was angry.
As he paced his office, his secretary waved the visitor in without announcement. He was the senior psychiatrist used by the service, a distinguished man in his field. Dr Phelps specialised in nervous disorders brought about by extreme or prolonged stress, and he had treated several chronically ill Secret Intelligence Service people over the years.
Burmeister came straight to the point, standing over his desk, his suit coat buttoned formally. “I have problem with a diagnosis you made. Doctor Phelps.”
“Presumably you are talking about Titus Quayle.”
“I am,” Burmeister snapped.
Phelps had been expecting the conversation to be about Quayle but had not expected Burmeister’s hostility.
“There are no hard and fast rules in psychiatry, Mr Burmeister. My assessment of the patient was after two years interment in a prison which reputedly people never leave. He was systematically beaten, he was crucified, he was alternately starved of both water and food. He was the subject of sleep deprivation and physical torture. Furthermore, nobody lifted a finger to help him. He was ignored by the service and his country when he needed their help most and had to finally effect his own escape. My best judgement was that he would never again be fit for duty. There is only so much the human body or mind can take and, in this instance, the limit was reached.” Phelps held up the file.
“Doctor Phelps, I have three men missing. I believe Titus Quayle is involved. Now your report suggests that the man’s nerve is shot. It suggests that he would avoid involvement. It suggests he would end up a recluse, shunning the world and its problems, angry, bitter, beaten?”
“Yes, that is a view to take. I would say you have a strong chance that is how it would be two years on. Superficially, he would appear normal. Angry yes, bitter, yes… but beaten? No.”
“I have reason to believe he is involved with the disappearance of my men.”
“I doubt it,” said the doctor. “He felt deserted, betrayed, forgotten. He felt he was expedient...”
“All operatives know that they are on their own sometimes!”
“Not for two years in a prison like that, they don’t. Titus Quayle has every reason to hate the lot of you. But, in spite of that, I consider his involvement in these incidents unlikely. He was a romantic, a loyalist – essentially a patriot. These are very deep convictions and, while he may harbour resentment for the way he was treated, he is still essentially a decent man. I re-read the file before coming over, not that I
