The Frenchman looked, unable to believe what he was seeing. His consternation did not deter Quayle. He simply kept moving, his hand rising to strike low beneath the man’s left ear; then, catching the falling dead-weight, he lowered him silently onto the grey carpet. Then, listening for a second, he moved smiling into the living room like a welcome visitor.
“Hello,” he said. “It’s me!”
The Swiss man was faster, standing and reaching for something in his jacket pocket – but Quayle was already there, gripping the other man’s forearm with astonishing strength, the vicelike grip forcing him back down into the seat. The smile was still there, but Quayle’s eyes were hard like granite as he looked down and saw the square ring on the man’s finger.
He reached down into the man’s pocket and pulled a small automatic clear, throwing it across the room.
“Sorry,” he said in French. “Bedroom window was open! You really should be more careful. Never know who is about these days.”
The man looked up, his eyes betraying the pain in his arm. “Who are you?”
“Titus Quayle. The one you’re all looking for. Remember?” The man’s eyes widened at the sound of the name, but he covered it quickly. “It’s time we had a little talk, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an engineer.”
“Engineers don’t have guns in their pockets. Engineers don’t follow people. Engineers don’t have cute little rings...” Quayle took the man’s hand and squeezed the fingers together, crushing them against the ring. “Your friend Duboir. He is out in the hall. Can’t tell me much for the moment, so you’ll have to. I will ask a question and you will answer. No more, no less. Understand?”
The man spat an oath.
Quayle squeezed harder. “We can do this as long as you like,” he said in a conversational tone. “What will happen is that you will have irreparable damage to the tendons in your fingers, and maybe break a bone or two.”
As the man gave a gasp of pain, Quayle leant forward and spoke in a comfortable whisper, almost like an old friend might. “Then we can progress to some other part of your body. Don’t get me wrong. I feel nothing. You’re not protected by the law, or by anyone else. You have no rights whatsoever. There is just me and you. I want information and I will do anything to get it. That makes me a particularly nasty proposition. Take the line of least resistance. Tell me what I want to know.”
“Fuck you,” the man sneered through the pain.
“Oh well,” Quayle said. “Into each life a little rain must fall.” He smiled like a madman and took the small knife from his pants. “Sabatier. French. Not very sharp, but the point is quite good. Look!” He stabbed the knife down into the man’s thigh, the point tearing through his trousers and entering the muscle with a meaty thump.
The man groaned, his breath exploding from his lips in a saurian hiss of pain.
“Oops! Sorry. I can be so careless sometimes.” Quayle smiled sweetly. Then he leant forward, his face inches from the other’s, his right hand still holding the Swiss’s left across his stomach. “Like I said. We can go on all night. You’re frightened of the people you work for. I can understand that. It is all very well them expecting your silence. But then they aren’t here and you are. You’re the one with a veggie knife four inches from your pecker. Who knows where it will go next? You’re the one who may be needing a blood transfusion before midnight because all yours is on the carpet, with your manhood. So, honour and all that aside –” He twisted the knife a sixteenth of an inch and the man snapped his head back, stifling a scream. “– who are you working for?”
“Schuter!” he gasped.
“Not good enough. He may be your boss, but who pays the money? Who calls the tune?”
“He does!”
“I’m not stupid.”
“You will die for this…” he hissed.
“Maybe.” Quayle shrugged, reaching for the knife handle. “But I don’t give a fuck.”
The Swiss man blanched.
“NO! Jesus no! I’m just a soldier! I don’t know anyone senior. People are coming up soon. Day after tomorrow to see Schuter…”
“Who?”
“I’m to pick them up at the airport. Sikon. An American, and a Chinese.”
“Coming from America?”
“From London.”
“What flight?”
The man remained silent, so Quayle reached for the knife handle again.
“British Airways! In at 8.30pm. The American, he will be wearing a black coat and a checked hat!”
“Why were you following the BND man?”
“We thought you might come to see him.”
“What have I got that your masters want?”
“We were to find you...”
“And?”
“Kill you. Nothing personal. I just follow orders.”
He was frightened now, all his bluster gone – but Quayle knew that he had heard all he was going to hear from the Swiss. Time, he decided, to put them on ice.
Walking to the phone, he dialled the number Kurt had given him for the clean up crew.
*
It was in the pitch black darkness just before the dawn when the two cars coasted silently round the hill, engines and lights off. As they reached the boundaries of the property they slowed to a halt and remained there, just off the road. There were seven men and, as they climbed clear of the doors, they carried with them light packs of equipment and webbing rather like a soldier might. All were heavily armed. As soon as they had disembarked, they moved off into the trees, one group to go into the house and the other to secure the grounds. They would need to move fast. It would be light in an hour and they wanted to be well away by then, the job done.
The first group arrived at the high barbed wire fence and the leader dropped
