Quayle dodged cars across the wide road, arriving at the waiting cab. There he slid into the seat.
The driver lifted the Motorola handheld to his mouth. “Cream 500 Mercedes, five men, licence as follows: Lima Seven Three Three Five. All acknowledge please.”
The engine gunned into life and the taxicab darted out into the flow of traffic. Soon, they had taken up a position four cars behind the Mercedes.
“On the main road half kilometre from the first exit, fifty kilometres an hour, inside lane behind a red trailer. Did you get that, Two?”
Two came back with a snapped “Ja, rolling”, and moved off the verge where he had been sitting with his bonnet up, looking miserable in the rain for the last half hour.
The driver looked across at Quayle, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Don’t worry English. We won’t lose him.”
*
There was a car waiting at Gatwick Airport for Cockburn and Chloe, the same driver who had picked up Cockburn the night he had flown in to the RAF base only days before.
“The office doesn’t know you’re back, sir. Sir Gordon requests no contact until you’ve met with him.”
“Same as last time?”
“No, sir. We’re staying in Sussex.” And, with that, the glass panel slid across, leaving the back seat in privacy.
Chloe looked at Cockburn, who shrugged and sat back in the deep seats. For a time they sat in silence, while the big car eased its way westwards through Crawley, the light drizzle softening the hard yellow street lights.
“You seem pretty sure about what’s-his-name,” she said softly.
“Eicheman?” He shrugged to himself. “Yes I am. I’m a bloody idiot. I should have thought of him before. He and Titus go way back. Career BND man, bloody good at his job. If Ti’s convinced anyone to help, it will be Kurt. And if anyone will be willing to help, it will be Kurt. He owes Ti favours. Eicheman’s a man who respects that type of thing.”
“The old school,” she said.
“No. Just another disobedient, stubborn, innovative, loyal bastard.”
“Oh!” she said, chuckling. “You like him too then!”
“Don’t remind me! Those two have given more controllers grey hair in both services than the rest put together. Kurt is now quite senior. Station Chief Frankfurt was his last move.”
It was close to ten o’clock when the car pulled into a long gravel driveway a few miles outside Godalming. The house was a large red brick affair with roses growing in careful columns out front and a large barn along the garden’s south aspect. Bright lights gave the whole area a showy staged look.
They were ushered into the drawing room by a uniformed maid, who closed the big double doors behind them. There, in front of the fire, stood Tansey-Williams. Behind him, a pair of long crossed legs protruded from a high-backed Queen Anne chair.
Tansey-Williams raised a hand in welcome.
“Come in, Hugh. You too, Miss Bowie. Sorry to drag you back like this – but things have been happening. First, I would like you to meet someone...”
The figure in the chair rose. The first thing Chloe saw was the eye patch on a lean hard face and, as her eyes dropped, taking him in, she saw the right arm hanging down, its hand in a glove. He smiled at her, a raffish confident smile – and, if only for a second, she went weak at the knees.
“My God,” Cockburn said, “General Borshin.”
He had studied pictures of the man a thousand times, the man responsible for all Soviet external operations. Here he was, in the same room as his arch-rival the Head of MI6, drinking brandy and chatting by the fire.
His thunder stolen for a second, Tansey-Williams glowered at Cockburn and then turned to Chloe. “May I introduce KGB General Nikolai Borshin, Head of Directorate Four in Moscow?”
She put out her hand, her mouth dropping open at the mention of the name.
“How do you do?” she said
He took her hand and nodded formally, then turned to Cockburn. “You are Hugh Cockburn?”
“I am.”
“Interesting career. Prague, Berlin, Bucharest amongst your tally. Never Moscow?” Borshin was trying to score points.
Cockburn smiled. “Several times, but your people never knew. I took a photo of you the day you got the Directorate.”
“Touché,” he replied gallantly.
“Just as our people will never know he has been here today,” Tansey-Williams said, stepping forward. “Sit down everyone. Let’s get our cards on the table. Hugh, what news of Quayle?”
“He wasn’t at the villa. But they got Holly Morton alive. He was never there. Just dropped her off.”
“Dead end?”
“Not quite. I have another lead. I am also hoping that Quayle himself will be getting in touch when he hears about the kidnapping. But of his whereabouts? We have no idea.”
“It would seem we have had more luck,” Borshin said.
Cockburn leant forward in the firelight, his face a mask of disbelief. “What?”
“ I have had a man here for a while. He met Quayle in Ireland, offered him help.”
Cockburn allowed himself a wry smile. “Your man gets about. He also saw Adrian Black, didn’t he?”
Borshin nodded.
“I wish he would stay the hell out of the way,” Cockburn said bitterly. The comment was unfounded and he knew it. He was just frustrated that the Russian had beaten him to it twice in a row.
Tansey-Williams looked up sharply, but the KGB man waved him back.
“If it’s any consolation,
