Quayle turned and walked away – but Chloe continued after him, and this time he didn’t try to send her away.
When she slung the coat over his shoulders, he left it there.
Cockburn and Eicheman drove back to the hotel and picked listlessly at a room service breakfast while Kirov powered his way through a huge bowl of fruit salad, then sat back and began to strip and clean his weapon. The juxtaposition of silver foiled butter portions and a single carnation, and the stripped blued parts of his big gun, was both ridiculous and poignant.
“I think we better round up that surveillance team he used. Find out where they went to ground and pick up the threads from there,” the Russian said.
“He’ll be here,” Eicheman said in German. “He would have told all of us to get stuffed, but the woman’s touch will work with him.”
“He’s close to something. That much is certain.”
“How do you know?” Eicheman asked. He hadn’t briefed Kirov like he had Cockburn.
“I just feel it,” the Russian answered honestly, easing the slide home and giving the barrel a final rub with a rag.
Neither of the other two men found that odd. Both had been running agents long enough to respect their instincts without too many questions.
Moments later, they watched him get up and walk to the phone.
“Who are you calling?” Cockburn asked.
“Borshin,” the Russian replied.
“May I ask why?”
“If he joins in, then we’re close. Close enough to want some backup close too.”
“Look, I don’t want half of Moscow’s hoods roaming round Frankfurt,” Cockburn said wearily.
Kirov laughed and kept on dialling. “Not KGB. Don’t worry.”
“What then?”
“You call yours the hooligans from Hereford. Ours have more respect.”
“Spetznatz? Here in Frankfurt?” Eicheman snapped. “Jesus! That’s all we need!”
“We may do, and if we do, there is nothing quite like them…”
Cockburn sat back and let the two argue it out, wondering how Cloe was getting along. As far as he was concerned, Eicheman was right. If there was a way to bring Titus in it was with a woman. His old fashioned values would work against him there, even one as young and different as Chloe.
She returned three hours later, let herself in with her own key and begged off a de-brief until she’d showered and changed her clothes. But this wasn’t good enough for Cockburn. Too impatient to wait, he stood outside the bathroom door, asking her questions while she dried herself off.
“And?”
“I left him at a bratwurst stand about two miles from the station. Or rather he told me to go home, and I wasn’t going to argue. My feet are killing me…”
“Go home?”
“Yeah. Nicely, you know, like go home and get warm and I’ll see you later sort of thing.”
“Will we?”
“What?” she asked.
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” he said, exasperated. “Will we see him later? Is he going to come in?”
She slid the door back, her bright face beaming at him. “I think so. He has things to do first.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know. I don’t ask you and I didn’t ask him. I just know he has things to finish. He’ll come looking for a deal, I think.”
“What sort of deal?”
“Not sure... but the flame of altruism has waned, I’m afraid. The Metro order saw to that. I think he became rather fond of Mr Pope, so don’t try Queen and country on him. He won’t laugh, he’ll just walk out. He believes we need him more than he needs us. And he’s probably right.”
“What’s his frame of mind?”
“Resolute. Strong. He’s tired, no doubt about it, but he’s going to take down this ‘Broken Square’ group with us or without us.”
Cockburn hesitated. “Broken Square?”
“That was Teddy Morton’s file name.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“That he was going to blow it back in their faces.”
“Titus getting personally involved again,” he mused out loud.
“Can’t blame him. He’s in love with her.”
“Did he say that?”
“No. But I could tell.”
Cockburn sounded sceptical.
“Women can,” she added.
“And if she’s dead already?”
Chloe thought about that for a second or two, then shook her head. “He doesn’t think she is.”
Cockburn breathed deeply, trying to imagine what Titus Quayle in love might look and sound like – and what, in the name of all that is holy, that might mean if Holly was dead.
“Let’s hope not,” he sighed.
He arrived unannounced just before 7pm that evening and didn’t seem surprised to see Alexi Kirov in the room with his classic rivals.
“The band’s all here, I see,” he said dryly.
“Now it is,” Cockburn said, smiling and very pleased to see him.
“Not yet,” Quayle replied. “I’m here to talk. That’s all.”
“You’re not a talker, Titus. That’s what I do. You are here to do it.”
“Not this time, Hugh.”
Chloe watched them squaring off, trying to countenance Cockburn’s stand, understanding his need to control the meeting, to stamp his authority on it, because without that he would never be able to control his agent later. All controllers had their own style. With some it was paternal, with others it was fear. For others a respectful distance was the key. They usually had themselves being called Mister, because with the formality and the positioning came obedience. The last group were those who treated their agents as full equals, sometimes even superiors, servicing their needs rather like a secretary or a personal assistant, massaging their vanities and jabbing at their weaknesses while supplying logistical support and running interference for their men on the ground.
Cockburn was trying to be agreeable but strong, but Chloe wasn’t certain how successful he was being.
“Why not? We both want the same thing. You do what you’re good at and so will I…”
“You want an operator. Use Dirty Harry here.” Quayle jerked a thumb at Kirov. “He’s quite good. Better than the wankers at Milburn. Or get Phillips. He’s still alive, is he? Or did someone decide he was better out of the way too?”
“That was a mistake, Titus. Someone fucked up.”
“Some fuck-up. Tell Jerry Pope
