“These people use guns?” the one BND man asked.
“Yes,” Quayle answered. “Do not become compromised, or you may find yourself in the shit. There’ll be no police or back-up on this job, but it’s one time only, so...”
“No problem,” the man said, “I just like to know.”
“What about decoys?” another asked.
“Unlikely, but bunch up at the start, and then be ready to split up if you have to. These people are very confident, but I think they’re also so close to home that they’re careless.”
“Just like the Ivans,” the oldest said.
Quayle looked at him and smiled. He hadn’t heard that expression since Lincoln and the instructors, all wartime operatives.
The old man caught his look. “Don’t worry about me, sonny. I was following men in these streets before you were born.”
The others ragged him for a few seconds before Quayle spoke again. “Right, you have your radio call-signs. Heine will be here at this phone, in case your handhelds give out or you lose contact. Help me find where this man goes and you know what it’s worth. I’ll be in the taxi with Klaus. I’ll tag the target in the terminal, and we’ll take the first few kilometres. After that, wait for orders.”
As they stood, Quayle moved forward to one of the BND, the one with the bulge in his pocket. Quayle tapped the object and the man’s hand covered it defensively.
“Out with it.”
The man shrugged and pulled an ageing Walther P38 from the pocket of his windbreaker.
“I know how to use it... and when to,” he said firmly, in response to Quayle’s look.
“Be sure you do. If you frighten my man off, no-one gets paid.”
The others all glared at him. “Alright, alright,” he conceded, lifting his hands dramatically. And the gun was given to Heine, the one-armed customs man, to hold with their other kit until the job was finished.
An hour later, Quayle – bearded, blonde, green-eyed and dressed in the uniform of a chauffeur – was holding up a fictitious name on a hand panel in the arrivals area of the terminal, hoping that his hastily assembled team of watchers could do the job. He had his doubts. The best teams had worked together for years and could almost anticipate each other’s thoughts and actions, the drills and procedures – the fallbacks, the overlaps – worked and reworked a hundred times.
His taxi was out the front now, and the first relay car was only a mile away in case the target took the autobahn south and not north. Schuter lived to the north of the airport. Come on then, he thought, let’s be having you. Quayle was almost sorry the man was an American. He liked them as a rule, the romantic in him finding their naivety appealing, their faith in justice and their leaders childlike. He was always disappointed when one turned out to be sour. Like a vintner with bad grapes from good vines and good soil. Teddy Morton had once described it that way, saying the soil of the American dream was no longer what it was, leached dry by the greedy and overworked by its own success.
He had been ignoring the possibility that the man wouldn’t show all day – take another flight, fly into another airport or simply abandon the visit after the two men had disappeared – but he hoped that they were so confident that they would stick to their plans. Kurt’s clean-up crew would have packed bags, toilet articles and enough to suggest a deliberate move. The two men had turned up as casualties in a road accident, unidentified until this morning, drugged to the extent that the last few hours would be fuzzy, the residual effect lasting some months. It was the only solution that allowed them to live, without compromising the mission, one insisted on by Kurt. Quayle didn’t care one way or another and conceded to Kurt’s wish immediately, knowing that he needed the German’s help in the coming hours if not days.
He looked down at his watch, thinking the arrival process through. American passport meant the non-EEC line and the usual delays of checking Turk and Sri-Lankan visas. Give it twenty minutes, he thought, another twenty wondering if his suitcase had gone to Antigua or something. Any minute now.
He left the position he was in, put the name board down, trying to look disappointed and walked back towards the exit doors. He wanted to see who the man left with when he did. He hung around another ten minutes before spotting his target. The description was accurate. A big heavily-jowled man, his hair grey and spiky: real middle America, complete with plaid shirt, loafers and striped trousers, the overcoat incongruously formal. Quayle watched as he shook hands with a man he hadn’t seen before, noting the ring on the finger. A few stiff Germanic nods later, the stranger took the man’s bags.
A moment later, another man appeared. Oriental in appearance, he came from behind, stepping forward for the introductions. Quayle looked
