The doctor was flashing a torch into his eyes.
“Well?” Cockburn asked.
“Difficult to say with head wounds. Looks like a crease, certainly concussed. Involuntary reflexes seem alright but I want to do some X-Rays. The shoulder looks nasty enough but the entry is way over. Nothing vital in there except the bullet.” He stopped talking, pulling a saline drip from his bag, stripped the feed needle clear and pushed it firmly into Marco’s arm, handing the bag up to one of the Fairies to hold above the patient.
“Is this him?” the team leader asked.
“No. This is Marco Gambini. The owner of the house. I wonder why didn’t they finish him off…”
“Angle of attack is from below. Two rounds would have knocked him on his back, then the punch-up starts outside. They probably thought he was dead already.”
“I want a hospital,” the doctor said.
“Not yet,” Cockburn said. “I want to talk to him first.”
“This is not negotiable,” the doctor replied firmly.
“I said no.”
“I don’t take orders from you. I take my orders from the Officer Commanding Medical Services for the Corps of Royal Marines, and even then my first duty is to my patient. In this case, one who may die. Head wounds are tricky.”
“How soon can I talk to him?”
“When he comes round.”
“OK,” Cockburn said, “I need a phone.”
Fifty minutes later, a Spanish Air Force helicopter settled like a large insect onto the grass lawn and Marco Gambini was transferred to a military hospital outside Palma. Cockburn and the doctor travelled with him, while Chloe was left to liaise with the Spanish Intelligence operatives who would precede the arrival of the local police. She had been sick when she brushed past the dried gore on the wall, and almost fell over a body in the hall, one that seemed to have no chest left at all – but, for now, she was coping as well as she’d hopes.
Marco faded in and out of lucid thought throughout most of the day, sometimes rambling, sometimes just staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t until nearly 5pm that Cockburn was able to talk to him when he suddenly tried to sit up, holding his bandaged shoulder with one hand and his head with the other, remembering the attack in vivid flashes.
“Holly. Where is she? Is she alright?”
Cockburn sat forward in his seat. “She was with you?”
Marco eyed him suspiciously. “Who the hell are you?” he thundered, then winced and held his head in his hands.
“My name is Hugh Cockburn. I am a friend of Titus. Was Titus with you?”
“He wasn’t there,” he answered, “but the girl was. Is she alright?”
“She wasn’t there, Marco…”
“They got her then. Bastards! I saw them carrying her when I was shot...” Suddenly, he remembered his guards. “My people?”
“I’m sorry Marco,” Cockburn replied, shaking his head.
“All of them?”
Cockburn nodded.
“My God…”
“Where is Titus, Marco? I must find him. He needs help.”
The Italian fixed him with a look. Then, in perfect English, he delivered the only two words fit for the situation.
“Fuck off,” he seethed.
An hour later, with the doctor signalling him from the hall, Cockburn was still trying to bring Marco around.
“Look, Marco. You’re a friend of his. So am I. There are people after him. The same ones that took Holly. He can’t fight them on his own. Sooner or later, they’ll corner him somewhere.”
“They better hope they don’t. I know who I’m betting on.”
“I still need to talk to him. He must have indicated where he was going.”
“He didn’t. He just said he had things to do and left me his most valued possession. Which I have lost…” he finished sadly.
“How will you tell him?” Cockburn tried.
“My public relations team will do that for me. I’ll have the story of my home under attack in every paper in Europe. He’ll know by tomorrow morning.”
“And then?”
“He’ll find them and take her back.”
“And if she’s dead?”
The Italian looked at him for a second, the bull strength and will faltering for a second.
“Then he is dead too. Inside.”
Cockburn nodded, understanding it all perfectly now.
“Do me a favour?”
Marco nodded.
“Have your people write me into the story. Try and get Ti to phone me. Call me…” He dredged through his memories, all the way back to the last job they had done together. What had his cover been back then? He had been an engineering lecturer. “Call me Mr Spokes,” he said. Some wag in travel had dreamed that one up and it had stuck for the entire mission.
“He spoke of you once in the Muhkta. He liked you. You and the German.”
“The German…”
A look like revelation flickered across Cockburn’s face. I’m a bloody fool, he thought, a stupid incompetent arsehole. The German – of course! “Kurt Eicheman!” he shouted triumphantly to himself. If there’s anyone, it’s Kurt!
He ran from the room, in time to be stopped in the hall by Cloe. They had been recalled to London.
*
Quayle looked at the small group of men sitting round the edges of the room. He would have preferred a mixed team – some women, some old, some young – but the cast-offs and the retired and the invalids was the best he could do. Kurt had risen to the occasion magnificently, giving the names of nine ex-BND and Customs men who could use the extra money and who would, he thought, be itching for a return to the harness. Of the nine, five had agreed. Now they sat around the briefing table in various types of dress, one with a suspiciously shaped bulge in his pocket. They knew they were working for an Englishman, but they also knew he was clean and that payment would be in cash. The job was simple. A full tag and
