The office were surprisingly unhelpful. Mr Herman was still at the park with the others, but they would try and get a message to him. In the end he gave up and said that he would phone in later. He was about to hang up when the operator, who rather liked the young Englishman, offered to put him through to Major Phillips, the Military Attaché who was visiting from Bern. He had met the Major on two or three occasions and remembered him as a gruff, greying individual who ran ten miles every day.
Better than nothing, he thought, and said thanks.
“Phillips here.”
“Hello Major. My name is Rogers, sir...”
“You’re one of Herman’s people aren’t, you?”
“Yes. I have a problem, sir.”
“Speak,” Phillips snapped.
“I’m calling from a cafe by the lake. I think I’ve just seen a woman that my people in London are very interested in interviewing. They want her very badly... if you know what I mean.”
“Don’t dither boy,” Phillips growled. “Give me the full sitrep.”
“Major, Jack Herman is out. So are the rest of the team. I need instructions and help.” He quickly told the Major where he was calling from.
“Right. Is she in the cafe?”
“No, sir. She’s in a car.”
“On her own?”
“No, sir, she’s with a man,” he replied, adding as an afterthought, “An oldish type.”
“Got the make, year and reg number of the vehicle?”
Rogers turned in horror and looked at it across the car park. He saw it was still there and his heart started beating again. Christ, how bloody stupid! he thought. Any bloody school boy knows to do that!
“Yes, sir,” he lied. “If they leave should I follow them?”
“On your own? Don’t think Herman would like that. Just try and anticipate their direction. Leave the rest to him. Understand?”
“Yes, sir”
“Rogers?”
“Sir”
“That’s all you do. Nothing heroic, understood? Stay there and I’ll get someone over to you as soon as they’re back in.”
Phillips hung up and walked back to his motorcycle trying to seem nonchalant, committing the registration number to memory as he did so.
Twenty minutes later, he saw a third person arrive and get into the car. He recognised the man’s face instantly from the photographs at the lunch time briefing.
“Oh shit,” he said out loud, and then breathed a sigh of relief as he recognised another car that drew into the car park.
It was one of the vehicles used by the Fairies.
Quayle sat in the driver’s seat, quickly rubbing the make-up off his face with a tissue. Stopping only to take three or four of the cold French fries and popping them into his mouth, he wiped again with the tissue as he spoke.
“You were right. The place was crawling with them. Three or four Fairies and a few local hires. Jack Herman’s twitchy, very twitchy indeed. At one stage I was only fifteen feet from him.” He grinned quickly. This was the old Titus Quayle, the buckets of pure nerve still there. “He’s losing his edge.”
Rolling and throwing the last tissue on the floor, he turned and winked at Holly, who was now in the back seat. She made a sad little smile, pleased he was back but unhappy with the news.
Starting the engine, he took another handful of the French fries and pulled out onto the road. There was silence for three or four minutes before Holly spoke.
“There’s a piece of chicken there if you want it, and some napkins in the glove box.”
Quayle didn’t reply but gently eased the speed up. As the road widened around the lake, his eye flickered to the mirror every three or four seconds.
Pope sensed the change instantly. Glancing at Quayle, he pulled his gun clear and onto his lap. He was too professional to look rearward.
“What have we got?” he asked conversationally.
“White Audi, four back. Looks like three people inside. It hasn’t overtaken the car pulling the boat.”
“How long?”
“Since the restaurant.”
As he said, it Quayle was quickly working the odds. The rules said that, if you were with the smaller or disadvantaged force, you should always to engage first. Pull the initiative back with an offensive action. If there was one car to the rear then there could be another, and there could be yet another to the front. The further they travelled, the more time they gave their opponents to muster strength and plan their deaths.
Quayle had never liked the rules – he always found a way around them – but this road was a trap, the lake on one side and the mountains on the other. There was no leaving it, except for the short steep turnings up its side valleys. On his own, he could have simply disappeared. But not with Holly or Pope.
“We have to take them,” he said to Pope. “Soon. Do you...”
Pope nodded, pulled the magazine clear, flicked eight solid nose bullets out into his lap, and rapidly replaced them alternating with Teflon rounds. Then he reached into his breast pocket and took a small roll of Elastoplast. Tearing two strips off, he carefully taped his spectacles hard to the skin behind each ear. Lastly, he scooped the spare four bullets into his pocket, took a roll of peppermints out and slipped one between his dry lips.
“I’m ready,” he said.
“I’ll take the next turn off,” Quayle said softly.
“Go round a bend. Pull up fast. I’ll be out on my side. You keep moving about twenty yards. I want them stopped under my sights.” He turned to Holly. “Miss Morton, in my bag beside you there is an
