“How?” Black asked angrily.
“I’ll get the bastards who did your eyes. I’ll get the bastards who killed your dog. I’ll get the bastards who won’t let your wife walk up to the corner without a diplomatic protection squad officer walking with her. I’ll get the bastards who are fucking up my life.”
“You won’t,” Black said bitterly. “From what I can see, they’re way too big, way too far up. Untouchables.”
Quayle’s eyes narrowed and he leant forward, over Black’s bed.
“Bullshit. No-one is untouchable. No-one!” He paused to let that sink in. “So?”
Black sat in silence for several seconds, the only sound the clock ticking on the wall.
“This is a breach of the Official Secrets Act. It’s everything I swore to defend,” he said miserably.
Quayle shrugged, as if Black could see him.
“You can’t use the law. You’re outside it already.”
“Who said I would use the law?” Quayle said innocently.
Black gave a short hard laugh, but his demeanour changed almost immediately. He turned his sightless, bandaged head at Quayle. “If I tell you what I know... they will try and kill you. They will do anything to prevent any further investigation.”
It was Quayle’s turn to laugh. “What’s new?”
At last, Black was weakening.
“Who is running the job now?”
“John Burmeister,” Black answered.
“That cretin?” Quayle shot back. Things were falling into place. “What am I supposed to have that they all want?”
“It began with Morton’s Daughter. The old man was working on a file before he retired. It’s been lifted. All our copies. Computer purged. Even the Russians are interested. A low grade defector came over. He knew we had a man on it back in ‘80-whatever. Immediately he mentioned it, people began to die. We never knew its significance. Every effort to establish what the hell it was all about ended up with people dying. It’s big Quayle, very big. I thought that Morton’s daughter might know where he would have left a hard copy. It wasn’t complete, you see – and, from what I know of Teddy Morton, he would never have left it unfinished. So somewhere out there is the file. Whatever is in it is worth killing for. I sent Pope out to cover the girl. I knew that they would get to her soon. They knew I would too.”
“What’s the file about?” Quayle asked.
“We don’t know. Gabriella Kreski. Morton visited her before going to Australia. He said something to her. Led her to believe it was dangerous. But that’s all he said. The Russians call it ‘Long Knives’.”
“And Teddy left his hard copy somewhere?”
“Not just a hard copy, possibly a file nearly complete. Don’t forget he was down in Australia two years before he died. He wasn’t just teaching kids German and History, I don’t think. That wasn’t Teddy.”
“Lots of time to put it together,” Quayle agreed aloud. “It must detail the group that’s trying to keep it quiet.”
“Correct.” Black paused there, thinking quickly. Then, as if coming to a decision, he said, “I had a visitor recently. The day after I was admitted.”
“Who?”
“Dunno. I was pretty groggy. Came in very quietly. Said something. Guttural accent. Left something near my hand…” He held it up to Quayle. “What is it?”
Quayle took the small metal disc, tarnished by time, and held it to the light from the bathroom. He had seen one before.
“It’s Soviet. A medal. The ribbon’s long gone, as has the mounting, but the rest is still there. It’s old. Someone valued this.”
“What medal?” Black asked, intrigued. “Can you tell?”
“It’s a ‘Hero of the Soviet Union’,”
“Shit! That’s like a Victoria Cross, isn’t it?”
“They don’t come any higher in Russia.”
“So my visitor was a Soviet?”
“Yes, I would say so. If you figure out what he wanted, let me know. Thanks for your input.” Quayle looked at his watch. “Where can I find Gabriella Kreski?”
Black told him the address, then asked, “What was the message?”
“What?”
“The message from Pope.”
“Oh yes. He said he was sorry. He wasn’t ready for the trains.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Not coming back when he realised he’d shot three Fairies.”
“I sent him down to protect Holly Morton. He had no orders to return or to stop doing just that.”
“Wherever he is, he’ll be pleased you said that,” Quayle said.
Quayle was already at the door when Black spoke again, his hands up to his bandaged eyes in frustrated fury.
“Quayle, fuck the law! Take these people down. If you need help, I can give it – it’s yours! You hear me?”
“I hear you,” Quayle smiled.
*
Hugh Cockburn’s recall orders gave him twenty four hours to clear his desk and return to London. Frustrated by the heavy bookings on the direct commercial flights, he ended up flying to Berlin and cadging a lift on a Royal Air Force transport. He had packed enough clothing for an extended attachment and left most of his other possessions for the Embassy relocation people to forward when he knew where he was going. He had been following the communications surrounding the hunt for Titus Quayle and, in his heart, he knew that his recall to London was to involve him in the search.
He’d known Titus better than anyone in the Service, and in their convoluted thinking they had probably decided that he could help. He remembered the last time they had gotten drunk together, Quayle mellowed by at least three bottles of Hungarian red wine, quoting great English poets and filthy limericks in the same breath, a blowsy French Embassy secretary running her hand up his leg and trying to whisper into his ear. It had been a freezing cold night outside and the fire in the cafe was glowing so warm. But, as always, the Hungarian Secret Police were pacing the pavement outside.
Cockburn remembered it well. Quayle had lurched to his feet, dumping the French girl on her bottom, and walked outside, accosted their tail and dragged him to sit with them and drink. The man had shrugged with typical mid-European nonchalance and
