“Poof! It is nothing. Come tomorrow, see a fine etching I have. You will love the workmanship. It’s a Durer!”
“I’ll bet it is,” Quayle smiled, taking a glass from Florentina who had re-entered the room with a tray in her hands.
The following morning, Quayle took Holly to meet Eduardo at the shop, the old man fussing around her like a delighted prospective father-in-law. Taking her by the hand, he stood before a large Renaissance period piece.
“You like?”
“It’s wonderful,” she said. “It must be hundreds of years old!”
He leant forward conspiratorially. “Three months old, six hours in the oven and some liberal treatment of dust and oil through an airbrush gun. Presto!”
Holly laughed delightedly, then stood back while Quayle and Pope made arrangements for the range session and talked other business. Quayle was pleased. The boatman had accepted the job. In three days, the papers would be ready – not bad, Quayle thought. But the old man wasn’t finished.
“Titus, a word please,” Eduardo said softly.
Quayle followed him back into the office where Eduardo lifted a newspaper from the desk.
“Bottom left,” he said, handing it over.
Quayle quickly scanned down the page and the headline leapt at him. The bodies had been found, a gruesome find for a charter party of tourists. The story said that a madman was on the loose, and a continent wide manhunt in progress.
And there, in the centre of it all, was Quayle himself: an old photo, one taken after he had escaped from the prison. He had been thin and exhausted and he stared into the camera with sunken, hunted eyes.
“They are onto you, my friend,” Eduardo said.
Quayle just grunted. He read it again, looking for mention of Holly or of Pope – but there was nothing. Now there was no doubt in his mind: this was a set up, designed to flush him out.
He looked up into the mirror on the back of the office door. In their efforts to create drama with the old photo, they had missed the opportunity to get a real likeness. No-one would put his face and the photo together.
He kept the paper and they left immediately, Pope following a few feet behind Quayle and Holly. Once back at the hotel, Quayle showed Pope the paper. The man took it carefully, placing his glasses on his nose before lifting the page. He read it twice and then handed it back, neatly folding his spectacles and putting them back in their case before speaking.
“They want you out running. You have something they want.”
“Holly?”
“Not just Miss Morton. Not any more. They would have emblazoned her picture over every paper in Europe, which they may do yet. No,” Pope said, “it’s something else. I think they link you with the problems in London.”
Quayle looked him in the eye. “And what do you think, Mr Pope?”
Pope looked back, his eyes hard and saurian. He put one hand up and stroked the thin pencil moustache. “It’s possible,” he answered finally.
Quayle wasn’t bothered with the look. He leant forward, close to the gunman. “I could have killed you a dozen times already.”
“I know that. It’s not your way. That is why I think it unlikely that you are part of London’s problem.”
“We have a deal, Mr Pope,” Quayle said menacingly. “Be sure you remember that.”
He was already at the door before Pope spoke again.
“I could have killed you too, you know.”
“You could have tried,” Quayle said. Then, surprisingly, he smiled – and for the first time in his life Pope felt a web of fear.
That night, he sat with Holly and explained the new situation.
“Do you think Pope is right?” she asked.
“He could be. That’s a bit of the service I never saw.”
“Why is he still with us? It can’t just be Adrian Black’s orders? God, that’s almost ‘mine is not to question why’ stuff!”
“Actually, that’s the way it works at Milburn. But there is more. He’s not ready to pack it in yet. He’s one of the old school. A close protection specialist. A gunman. A killer, if you like.”
She shuddered, remembering the bodies.
“Don’t knock it,” he said. “He is a consummate professional, honourable in his own way. You’re an innocent and the old school don’t involve innocents. I would say that he isn’t ready to hang up his gun just yet and this job is staving off that day, but he also believes in what he’s doing.”
“Is he good?” Holly asked.
“In his day he was rated in the top three in Europe... Scares the shit out of me,” he added.
The following evening, a messenger left a package at the desk just as they were about to order food up to the room. The porter walked it up to them, nodding solemnly to Holly as Quayle tipped him. In the thick envelope were the passports and the items he had asked for. As Quayle looked the documents over, he knew why the boatman was reputed to be the best forger in Europe. The documents were perfect, right down to actual entry stamps into places like Turkey, Morocco and Kenya.
They had finished eating, had read for a while and were in bed when the phone rang. Only Eduardo had the number.
“Oui.”
From the mouthpiece came a moan of pain. It wasn’t a human sound, more that of an animal in agony, a deep primordial groan of pain and terror.
“Eduardo!” Quayle shouted, his finger tearing at the sheets, swinging his legs over the bed.
A voice buzzed down the line: Florentina, hysterical.
“Titus, they are killing papa…”
In the background, he heard Eduardo shout, “NO... don’t come Titus, don’t come!” Then the voice ceased and Quayle heard the blow in the background.
Slamming the phone down, he jumped to his feet. Moments later, Pope came through the adjoining door, rolling on the floor with his gun up, looking for a target.
Quayle was pulling trousers on. “Look after Holly. Get packed. The bill is paid. After that call, they know we are here. I’ll meet you at the vaporeta stop by St
