Quayle nodded. He had thought as much and cursed his own stupidity. He hadn’t taken them seriously enough. “So, who is in Bonn who hires guns? Who has that kind of money and those kinds of contacts?”
Eicheman held up his hands in a rather Italian gesture. “What else have you got to go on?”
“Not much. A man. From Bonn. Square ring.”
“What?”
“A ring. A square ring on his finger.”
“That’s all?”
Quayle nodded.
“It’s not much,” Eicheman said. “What’s going on, Quayle? You’re not a maniac. A kill order, for Christ’s sake? Now this Bonn thing. Two teams after you?”
“You tell me,” Quayle replied without sarcasm.
He looked at Quayle’s hands. Even in the soft light the round scars were apparent. “They do that in that Libyan prison?”
Quayle nodded again.
“Jesus. They are animals, those people. I wanted to help. They owe us favours.” He paused awkwardly, feeling inadequate. “But I was unable to... Look, let me see what I can get on Bonn.”
Quayle stood and began to button his coat. “I’ll be in touch in a couple of days. Thanks Kurt, and be discreet. You are being watched. There’s a man down on the street. They’ve obviously gone through the files.”
Kurt didn’t doubt Quayle for a second, but even so he went white in the face. Then he tapped his ear and pointed a finger at the walls.
Quayle shook his head. “Not yet, anyway. I checked.”
“Jesus, who are these people?” Eicheman said in awe, standing up. “I am head of station in Frankfurt. Verschtun? They are powerful enough to put me under suspicion with my own organisation. That means orders from...”
Quayle pointed upward with one extended forefinger. “The bloody top.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Black sat in the back of the hospital car, his face and hands still heavily bandaged, the overnight case of pyjamas, toilet articles and the clothing he had arrived in beside him on the seat. They had thrown away the shirt and overcoat, the acid having eaten right through the collars on both, but had cheerfully explained that the laundry had managed to save the blazer as if it mattered. The nurses had carefully ignored all of his questions about his eyes, and the specialist had mumbled how the eye was a wonderful thing and not to worry unduly – but the brutal truth was that, until they managed to clear away the burnt flesh that were his eyelids, they wouldn’t know a thing.
For now, he was blind.
The thought terrified him. He tried to beat it with positive thoughts about returning to work, but even that was a joke. Everything he did was visual and he had never even realised it. Every file was on paper or a screen. Photographs needed looking at. Even walking across a room required eyes.
The department psychologist had called round to see him and, during their tense but supposedly informal chat, he had asked him how he had felt. Black had been surprised at his own anger and told the man to take his pity and fuck off.
The car was slowly coming to a stop. This weekend at home was a treat, the sister had said, before they started the surgery next week. At least he thought they hadn’t tried to bullshit him about that. He had a friend once who had been burnt after a fall from his motorbike, and the plastic surgeons had gone to him with the knife. Black had visited him when his life had devolved down to a succession of drugged periods between skin grafts, but the drugs were never enough. That was what his life was going to be like now.
He felt in his pocket for the small metal object that the strange visitor had given him, and ran his finger around the edge for the hundredth time. He hadn’t shown it to anyone because he had understood, even through the drugged haze, that his visitor should not have been there. He still couldn’t place the accent and the voice. He had had other visitors from the office – Callows’ secretary and even Burmeister had stood awkwardly over his bed – but this one had been different. Somehow, he knew that he was involved with Long Knives.
His wife was waiting when he got home. She was a tall, black haired, quietly efficient woman who had firmly, but kindly, told the district nurse that she could manage and shown her the door. Now she stood at the front gate of their small house, ready to help and support her man with whatever it took. She had always known this could happen and had been steeling herself for this day ever since he had first walked out in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police, very like the young man who now waited outside the house, their protection.
“We don’t know how long you are going to be bashing into things, so I’ve moved them about a bit.” She pushed the dog down and took his arm. “Get down, Wellie!” she said fondly to the big Labrador as he lunged at Black again, his pink tongue lolling happily.
Early that evening, as Black sat at the kitchen table with his wife washing dishes, he thought for the thousandth time about the missing files and the shadowy figures with the acid spray. Gently, he touched his bandaged face, his anger complete and cold and terrible.
Sir Gordon Tansey-Williams called the next day, gruffly wishing him his best. As Mrs Black seated him in the lounge opposite her husband, she warned him with a look.
He came straight to the point.
“Your heart still in it lad?” he asked. “Because we need to talk. Say so now and I’ll understand if it’s no…”
Mrs Black stood glaring at him. “It’s time you left. How dare you...”
Black raised one bandaged hand, turning his unseeing face turned toward her. “How about a cup of tea?” he said. “I’m sure Sir Gordon
