Once there, he checked into a small West Kensington hotel, one he knew had direct dial telephones in the rooms, and stood under a hot shower, the fine jets pelting his tired body. As he dried himself, he looked at his watch. There were still two hours until he could make the call. He had remembered Teddy Morton talking about Gabriella Kreski, and the fact that she wrote articles for an obscure subscription-only Chess magazine under a pen name. Now that he had an old copy of the magazine from his personal effects, he had their address and phone number as well.
At 9am, he dialled the number and spoke to a Dickensian sounding character who began to quiz him.
“What do you want her for?” he asked in a shaky old voice.
“I’m an old friend from Poland,” Quayle replied, thickening his accent “She said that, if ever I was here, I was to call and we could play. She was rather insistent…”
“Well,” the old man said, seemingly pleased with Quayle’s credentials. “I’m afraid you shan’t be able to play her. She is abroad, you see.”
“Not visiting her brother again, is she?” he tried. Morton had once told him that her brother was a lecturer at Trinity College, a gifted violinist by anyone’s standard.
“Oh you know him then? Jolly good. Yes she is, but we aren’t supposed to know that – only, he phoned to say that her article wouldn’t be coming this month. We only have a week to the deadline, you see, and a big hole on page four. So if you see her, would you…”
My God, Quayle thought, Kreski must have been getting old to have allowed her brother to make that call.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll ask her for you.”
“She’s rather good on Queens challenge, you see,” the old man explained as if he wouldn’t ask if she were a mere defensive player.
If she’s run, thought Quayle, then she’s scared – and if I’ve found her, then others can too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At precisely the same moment that Titus Quayle was booking himself onto a noon Air Lingus flight to Dublin, Hugh Cockburn walked up the stairs into Milburn House and showed his identification to the porter at the desk.
“Sir Martin is expecting you,” the porter said, his thumb jerking at the narrow dingy flight of stairs.
Moments later, Cockburn was ushered into Sir Martin Callows’ office. The Deputy Director General sat behind his desk, one huge hand holding a golden pen and writing noiselessly on a white pad.
“Took your time getting here,” he muttered.
“It was late when I got in,” Cockburn answered. “Everyone had gone home.”
Callows gave a porcine grunt and leant forward to speak into his intercom. “Get Burmeister in here,” he said, and his secretary’s voice buzzed back with a metallic reply that neither man could understand. “You been following the search for Quayle?” he asked, putting his pen down.
“In so much as reading the station updates, yes I have.”
“How much do you know about him? You worked together enough times?”
“Enough to know that you won’t find him and take him if he doesn’t want to come.”
“You rate him that highly?”
“He’s good. As good as any man we ever fielded. But it’s not that I rate him so high, he couldn’t be caught. Everyone can be found sooner or later.” He paused there for a second. “I just don’t rate the people who are looking for him.”
Callows raised an eyebrow.
“And don’t ask me to take on the job or assist,” Cockburn added. “I’m yet to be convinced that he’s done anything that warrants this kind of extreme action.”
“Don’t take that tone of voice with me, lad!” Callows warned.
“With due respect, Sir Martin, I have over twenty years in the service. My judgement is what I’m paid for. My judgement and my experience. Within my service conditions there are riders that allow me to use that experience and refuse to become involved in any venture that I consider to be either foolhardy, ill-conceived, or lacking in any rational objective.”
“I know!” Callows interrupted. “I wrote them!” His head turned angrily as the door swung open and John Burmeister walked in. “You two know each other I presume,” he muttered. “John has been running the file since the attack on Adrian Black. He can bring you up to date.”
“Why am I here?” Cockburn asked. “If it’s to help find...”
“Relax,” Callows said, raising a hand and his eyes to the ceiling. “You aren’t going to be asked to help take him out. To the contrary in fact…”
“We need your help, Cockburn,” Burmeister spoke for the first time.
Cockburn looked at them both, the realisation dawning. “My God! You want me to run him! After all you’ve put him through, you want me to try to bring him on service again…”
“Not try. Succeed,” Callows replied harshly. “He’s the only one who knew enough about Morton, the man who wrote the files.”
“What do you think?” Burmeister asked, leaning forward.
Cockburn just shook his head slowly, as if unable to believe them.
“Well?” Callows snapped.
“Well what?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re a first class prick,” Cockburn replied pronouncing every word clearly and standing up.
Burmeister winced but Callows threw back his head and laughed.
“I am that,” he crowed. “Now get on with it!”
Dublin is a small old weathered city and one that Quayle knew well. Over successive visits he had marvelled at the destruction of the city’s character by its modern day planners, its vitality and soul gouged out by demolition men, the great wounds filled over with ugly blocks of flats and office buildings. At least Trinity University remained protected by history, for this was the very heart of old Dublin.
Quayle walked the cloisters looking for the administration section, pleasant memories of his own time at Cambridge flooding back. Eventually he was guided there by a student
