The truck, returning empty, was waved through the border with minimal checks. In the cab, Quayle sat chatting with the customs men about AC Milan, his black beret pulled down like a cloth cap. An hour later he was dropped off in the square, the driver, an effusive Lancashire man, refusing to drop him on the fast bypass.
Holly and Pope were already there, having passed through very quickly.
“What were the checks like?” Quayle asked.
“Good,” Pope said. “They are onto us.”
That didn’t bother Quayle. He was feeling confident. It was the second time Pope had the opportunity to try and slip away and didn’t. They were also developing the kind of routine close protections needed. When Holly wanted to go to the toilet, she looked at Pope. He looked about for a few seconds, at the other people nearby; then he nodded and walked the twenty steps, Pope’s eyes on her the whole way.
“Mr Pope,” Quayle said.
“Mmm?” he murmured, not taking his eyes of the ladies toilet door.
“Thanks.”
Pope shrugged. He was just doing his job and keeping his word.
*
That same day, Jonno Smith arrived back from leave and, within minutes of being in the building at Milburn, he was being briefed by the man who had stood in for him.
“So we got a red one on the Greek job. I tell ya, I don’t like getting Oberon out of bed.”
It had been a fast brief and Jonno was still putting his thoughts in gear and looking up at the deployment board. By the look of it, things were going crazy. There were teams everywhere, and in the bottom left corner a red square. He felt a cold shiver up his spine.
“Hang on cock, what Greek job?”
“Burmeister’s three. Went to pick up some tart on Serifos and got themselves shot.”
“What was her name?” he asked, praying no, please, no.
“I dunno.”
“FIND IT, you cunt!” Smith snapped angrily.
“All right, all right, don’ get shirty,” the other said, slightly hurt.
“Get everything on this fuck up! Right now!”
Smith turned to the computer keyboard and slid awkwardly into the chair, his twisted back hurting at the sudden move. Tapping in his access code, he went into the system and looked for his entry, advising Oberon of the off-the-board-deployment he had made. It wasn’t there. He scrolled back into the history files, watching the green figures roll over before his eyes, but couldn’t find it.
Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus. It’s gone. Oberon never knew about Mr Pope. They sent in three snotnoses against the old man himself. No wonder they’re fucking dead!
His replacement shambled back and handed over a set of hard copy documents and bulletin records. Snatching the pile, he dropped straight to the objective brief and then, slowly putting the pages down, dropped his face into his hands.
Titus Quayle. It gets worse.
“Whatsa matter, Jonno?” the other asked.
Oberon sat in his chair, listening to the tale, his face like thunder.
“When did Black ask for the job?” he ventured. He was in on his day off, but he had forgotten that already.
“A couple of days before he was hit.”
“And you put it on the screen?”
“As God is my witness, I don’t make mistakes like that. You know it too.”
“What are you saying Jonno? That someone got at your report?”
“Yes I am,” Smith replied. “And Quayle isn’t your man.”
“What?”
“Come one Reg, you remember Quayle! You know the stories! It was him who beat the crap out of two of the Acton instructors in the mess that night. He doesn’t like guns. Doesn’t need them. Count the number of times he ever used one? Twice, three times in twenty years?”
Oberon thought about that. Smith was right. The stories said that, if Quayle ever said he wanted a gun, World War Three was going to start.
“Then who did it?” he asked, fighting the logic.
“Pope did it, for fuck’s sake!”
“What? Gunned his own players?”
“He wouldn’t know, would he? Quayle is such a difficult prick he probably wouldn’t let Pope near the girl. The old bugger was probably trying to do his job hidden in a bush or something. Three geezers turn up, things get nasty, someone pulls a shooter and it’s old man Pope on the scoreboard!”
“Quayle could have done it. He’s cuckoo, remember.”
“That’s crap. So cuckoo he’s gone underground and with every player in Europe after him, and we still can’t find him? He’s as crazy as you and me!”
“Someone found him. A couple of freelancers in Italy came off second best in the contact…”
“Pope?”
“Nothing. He would be on the job. Wherever the girl is. Jesu, the two of them teamed up! Pope going out in blaze of glory. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
“I rest my case,” said Smith, holding up his hands.
Oberon’s face was like stone, the anger solid and real and terrible. “My boys killing my boys.” He paused then and looked at Smith, “If you’re lying about that computer entry, I will find out and I will cut your guts out, boyo...”
“I’ll cut my own out!” Smith snapped. “We’ve been got at, Reg, well and truly got at! You and me, the three dead boys, Pope and Mr Black, even bloody Titus Quayle…”
“Keep this schtum. Not a whisper. Get your opo in here. Anyone else know about this?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way. Just us three and Sir Martin until we find out what gives. OK?”
Sir Martin Callows stood glowering, his back to the ornamental fireplace, his big craggy head lowered like a bull.
“He wasn’t to become a factor in this,” Burmeister said.
“I should hope not! So now we don’t have a madman on the loose at all. We have a professional bodyguard and a trained intelligence agent hiding the woman we need. Bloody clever! I just hope to Christ the House doesn’t get to learn of this. Those liberal idiots would hang the service out to dry.”
“Quayle is still dangerous,” Burmeister said. “He is unstable.”
“Is he?” Callows snapped. “Is he really? What did the shrink say? That he may
