Herman stood on the path, trying to maintain his cool urbane composure. Inside, he was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and feelings. He had reported the contact as standing orders said – and suddenly the situation had been ripped from under him. He hadn’t really believed the rumours about Titus Quayle and, when the Metro order had come through in the daily coded material, he had read it with disbelief.
Quayle certainly didn’t sound crazy on the phone – but then, they said, the madmen never did. Besides, now it was out of his control. The heavy mob were getting stuck in, with the senior Fairy on station talking directly to London, enjoying his brief moment of power over the head of Station. The chances of something drastic happening were very good indeed. If the Fairies got a shot at Quayle, they would take it, guns and everything. That would be all they needed, to have the humourless Swiss police involved and a public spectacle.
He watched a woman walk past pushing a little girl in a stroller, and a kid on roller skates doing lazy figure of eights while licking an ice-cream. A park worker with a stiff leg was pushing a wheelbarrow full of grass cuttings and an elderly couple were out strolling together, the man hatted and scarved even in the warm Autumn sun.
Herman was pleased that the senior Fairy knew what Quayle looked like because that might absolve him the responsibility of pointing him out. It was bad enough standing here like a Judas goat, he thought. Then he thought again. Such a bad choice of phrase. Judas. Bloody Quayle! What have you done, you stupid bastard? You saved me more than once and here I stand, drawing you into a trap. What a shitty fucking world this is!
There were eight Fairies scattered about: four full timers and four that they had found somewhere else. They blended with the public quite well, Herman noticed, but not well enough to fool Quayle. Keep your eyes open sport. He looked at his watch. It was three minutes to two. Quayle was never late. It was rule number one. Late is a signal to get the hell out.
I’m so sorry Titus, that it had to end this way. Maybe you are crazy. Maybe that’s good because maybe you’ll never know what happened.
He took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it, something he rarely did. A young man on a racing bike freewheeled past, his wheels humming softly on the wide path. The man with the wheelbarrow had dumped his grass and was walking back, a harsh cough rattling in his throat. Two children giggled, chasing a ball, and a man pushed a wheeled Bratwurst stand slowly along the path towards the stadium exit, its striped canopy bright and cheerful in the sunlight.
The day Titus Quayle was meant to die.
Quayle had been watching him for the last twenty minutes.
Herman stood tall and alone on the path, smoking a cigarette nervously, like a man waiting for his new lover. You were never very good under stress, Jack. When you smoke, it’s a bad sign.
He thought he had flagged three possible players amongst the people walking the path and lounging on the grass. If Jack’s smoking, he thought, there are more and, if there are more, then it’s no welcome home parade. There on the grass two men lounged on their backs, a portable cassette playing rock music. There would be a mirror somewhere, so they could see the path, maybe in the cassette window. The figure on the bench reading a paper was too obvious, but the man pushing the Bratwurst stand was a possible. The two walking the dog were a certainty; one even had his hand up to his ear to listen in on his earpiece radio. Somewhere there was a controller, someone with a handheld radio. He would be the boss. There was a man painting at an easel further down and another man of similar age walking the path with a woman, talking into a portable phone. Clever, Quayle thought. Never look at the obvious.
Then he recognised one of them and he smiled bleakly to himself. The game was on.
It was time to disappear. Allowing a direct confrontation at a place of your opponents choosing was only for amateurs. They would have the exits covered to some extent and his picture would have done the rounds of silent men. He took the cigarette from his mouth, coughed loudly, took the wheel barrow and limped away toward the main administration area and the staff entrance.
Holly sat in the car, picking listlessly at a small cardboard tub of French fries. Her chicken, cold and claggy, lay uneaten on the dashboard. Beside her, Pope had finished his without comment and now wiped his hands on a paper napkin.
“Can’t we go back now?” she asked. “Please, Mr Pope?”
“No. We’ll just be in his way. We are to wait.”
“But what if something happens?” she argued, turning to face him and pushing her hair back up off her face.
“That’s precisely why you’re not there,” he replied, his eyes scanning the parked cars and the walkers around the lake shore.
Pope didn’t notice the man with the motorcycle who had just thrown a drink carton into a rubbish bin or the quizzical look on his face as he re-mounted his machine. He was a junior attachment to the Geneva station and had been left out of the Park duty. The face of which he had just caught sight – he had seen it recently, and now he scrabbled to place it. Whatever it was, it was important. He wracked his memory, trying to place the image, while he busied himself fiddling with his helmet. He wasn’t going anywhere until his current lady friend arrived, but he suddenly felt very conspicuous, so when he
