“How long?” she whispered finally.
“For what?” he whispered, crossing to her and sitting on the bed.
“You know.”
“We’ll have a better idea soon. It’s been two days since Venice. Things will have died down a bit. Tomorrow I go to see a man.”
“Here in Sollonge?”
“Geneva,” he said.
“A friend?”
He shrugged, non committal. “He was once. Now? I don’t know.”
The running was over for the moment. Now he would have to go on the offensive to establish if Pope’s Metro theory was true. If it was, then he would have no friends amongst the players, and no way of finding out who in Geneva had issued the kill orders to the freelancers.
“Can’t we just go to New Zealand or something?” she asked in a little voice.
“They’d find us there eventually. I have got to find out what the situation is. Tomorrow night we will know.”
“But it’s foolish showing ourselves. Ti, we’ve only just got away…”
Quayle shrugged. “There’s only so much you can do that is reactive. Then you must take the initiative.”
“That is macho bullshit!” she replied, sitting up.
Smiling at her, he did a credible John Wayne impression. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
It seemed to do the trick. Returning his smile, she pulled him back into the bed and there they lay in silence, Quayle’s hand running through her hair.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” Holly finally said. “It’s me they want. You’ll have to find out what they want me for.”
“They started with you, but now it’s me too.”
She sat up. “But what have we got in common? It’s not as if we are witnesses or something...” She thought about it for a second or two, and then put her hand to her mouth in realisation. “It’s Dad,” she said softly. “My God, it’s something to do with Dad.”
Quayle nodded in the dark beside her.
Just before ten the next morning, they stopped and Quayle made his way off the petrol station forecourt to a public phone. There he dialled the number from memory, let it ring three times and hung up, then dialled again a second time. This time, it was answered on the fourth ring.
“I want to order some peaches please,” Quayle said
There was a pause before a woman’s voice spoke. “I’m sorry, we haven’t had those in stock for some time – but if you will hold for a second...” Quayle could hear the flurry in the background. The peaches trigger obviously hadn’t been used in a while, but the woman certainly knew about it. She would be trying for instructions from someone. At last, she came on the line again. “Sorry about that. Could I ask a representative to call on you?”
“I’m afraid not,” Quayle answered. “Tell your sales manager I shall call again in an hour.” He hung up and walked back to the car.
He’d done what he needed to do. Now, there would a mad dash to find the man they called Jack Herman, to tell him that one of his people had surfaced. Only seven or eight people had ever had the peaches trigger – and, if nothing else, Quayle knew that it guaranteed them a clean line later.
He smiled as he climbed back into the car. Jack Herman, Head Of Station in Switzerland, never knew that anyone other than him knew about the Prague cell’s reporting codes.
But then there was a lot that Jack Herman didn’t know.
At that exact moment, Jack Herman was eyeing up the legs of one of the three girls in the Consular and Trade typing pool. She was the rather ordinary looking daughter of a British businessman resident in Geneva and worked in the passport section. Knowing that Mr Herman was something hush hush, she found him terribly exciting and enjoyed his flirting over coffee – so, when the phone call came through from his office, she was disappointed to see him hurtle from the room.
“Is that the sales manager?” Quayle asked, on the other end of the line.
“It is. Can I help you?” Herman answered.
“Can we get together?”
“Who is this?” Herman asked. It certainly didn’t sound like one of his people. The accent was familiar but all wrong.
“I got you out of jail in Berlin one night. You and an Egyptian dancer.”
There was a stunned silence on the end of the line for several seconds.
“Jesus Christ...you! What… what a pleasant surprise,” he said smoothly.
“Cut the social pleasantries, Jack. I just need to know what’s going on.”
“I see. Where?”
“Parc de la Grange. The Stadium entrance and round the path on the right.”
“I know it... Let’s meet after lunch, say two?”
Quayle agreed, a thin smile on his lips, and hung up.
Back in the car, Pope was gazing frostily out of the windscreen, unhappy with the developments. His gun was out, sitting in his lap under his hat.
Holly smiled uneasily at him as Quayle climbed into the driver’s seat. After he had told them what he had organised, Pope snapped his verdict.
“You’ve given him three hours to line up some players. You’ll be a sitting duck.”
“That’s if there is this Metro thing,” Quayle argued. “I’m yet to be convinced.”
“But why not somewhere crowded? Why pick a park? It’s a killing ground!”
“Because I can see them,” Quayle replied.
When they reached the destination, he looked down at his watch. If they were going to try and take him then they would be arriving soon, wanting to be in place well before he arrived. Pope had insisted he take a few precautions and, delving into his small hold-all, had produced a rolled bundle the size of a small towel. “Wear this,” he had said. “It’s Kevlar weave. It will stop anything but Titanium.”
He dug into the bag again and produced a Browning Hi-Power pistol, its heavy rubber combat grip matt black against his hand. “It’s heavy but you can handle it.”
Quayle shook his head and took the armoured vest, if only to humour him. The other preparations had
