The check-in girl immediately ordered him a wheel chair and he was taken through a ‘routine security alert’ by airport handling staff, then seated on an electric trolley for the long ride to the departure gate. An hour and a half later, they checked into the Frankfurt Hilton as delegates attending the Medical Convention, the canes and breast padding now in suitcases, and all their other items in a rubbish skip outside the loading area at the rear of a department store.
Quayle passed Holly a large brandy.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Here, drink this.”
She took the drink and sat with her legs folded under her on the room’s small sofa. He was concerned about her silence. If she was going to get over the events of the morning. he wanted her to talk about it, and soon. The longer she remained silent, the more difficult it would become.
“This morning you went through an experience that hardened professionals fear. You saw five men die in the most horrible circumstances, one of them a friend who died saving you. It’s tough...” He put his hand out to stroke her cheek. “Not for nothing is it called ‘baptism of fire’ by soldiers. In the old days, people spoke of seeing the elephant. That means they saw death, they saw fear, real fear, gut-wrenching, puking fear – and they say that you’re never the same again. It’s a humbling experience, one that takes some men to God and some to a bottle.” He tilted her head up to look into her big hazel eyes in time to see the first tear beginning. “So don’t bottle it up now. Cry. Cry for your lost innocence. Cry for Mr Pope. Cry for everything, and remember that I love you and that I will always be here.”
An hour later, he made her take two sleeping pills, tucked her up, kissed her cheek – and then, redressing in his old man outfit and carrying his canes, let himself out of the room, moving straight down to the lobby and hailing a cab.
He sat in the dark in a big leather chair and waited. The lock had been easy, almost too easy, but then the man who owned the apartment had always been casual about that kind of thing, making up the difference with small signs that would reveal he had been broken into: a hair in the door that would drop, deliberately dusty surfaces that would show finger marks, a match that would be misplaced by an opened drawer. Quayle had searched well and found them all; now all that was left to do was sit and wait for the man to come home.
It was after midnight when he heard the tinkle of a woman’s laughter in the corridor and the deeper murmurs of her companion.
The key was harsh in the lock. The pause told Quayle that the homeowner was looking for the hair he’d left in the door, and this made him smile. On the other side of the door, the woman gave a giggled plea to hurry up and get inside, and moments later there was the flick of a switch and the lights went bright in the hall.
There was silence. He must have seen the note, thought Quayle, the five franc note folded under the edge of the vase. It wouldn’t be long now.
Quayle watched as he pushed the giggling woman into the bedroom, closed the door and entered the lounge. He was tall and blonde, sharp featured and undeniably Aryan, with crisp blue eyes and clear youthful skin.
“Hello Kurt,” Quayle said. “Still bringing them home, I see.”
“God! You… you have more nerve than a bad tooth. Half of Europe is hunting you, my friend.”
“Really?” Quayle said sarcastically. “I wouldn’t have known.”
Kurt Eicheman looked at him and his brows softened. “I will get rid of the girl. Then we can talk.”
They had known of each other a long time, contemporaries when Quayle arrived in Romania to find and bring out a dissident. In the following days, he and Eicheman had competed for the prize and had finally joined forces when Quayle had broken Eicheman out of a Securitate holding facility, along with the man they we both looking for. Eicheman had been larger than life, a drinking, carousing, whoring buccaneer of a man who found something to laugh about in every situation. The pair had nearly driven Hugh Cockburn insane with their competitive efforts and their friendship had endured even after Quayle left Romania with more traded information than was normal between the BND and MI6.
In the apartment, Quayle heard the girl’s complaints and she was ushered without ceremony to the door. Moments later, Eicheman was back with two full brandy balloons.
“So, my friend, every player in Europe after you and the girl. The word is you are a homicidal maniac. Are you?”
“When did the word go out?” Quayle asked.
“After the incident on Serifos, as best we can tell. We didn’t get involved until two nights ago.”
“Who’s in Bonn who would have put a couple of freelancers onto me in Venice before that?”
Eicheman was surprised. “Before? You are sure?”
Quayle nodded, the brandy untouched on the table beside him.
“No-one. These requests are rare and treated with sufficient authority. I saw the first notices. They were the night before last. You are positive of the facts?”
“I am,” Quayle replied.
“Then it wasn’t BND,” Eicheman replied with fervor. “This morning was, however. Your man was very good. He killed three of the better talents around... and a loyal service man.”
“They came up the fucking stairs, shooting at my woman! If Pope hadn’t killed them I would have. Your loyal service man is dead. So is Jerry Pope. We are quits!” he snarled, daring Eicheman to bring the topic up again.
The other nodded quickly. The fact that Quayle was personally involved with the woman explained so much.
“How did they get onto us?” he asked.
“You should know that your man is still alive. Barely, of course. The doctors say he won’t
