by Jack Higgins
Natasha, filled with pain, rage and humiliation, did the bravest thing of her life. 'Please! Comrade, I swear she told me nothing! Nothing!'
She screamed again as Turkin's finger found the nerve and Belov waved a hand. 'Enough. I'm satisfied she's telling the truth. What would her purpose be in lying?'
She sat there, huddled, weeping and Turkin said, 'What now, Comrade?'
'We have the airports fully covered. No possible flight she could have taken yet.'
'And Calais and Boulogne?'
'Our people are already on their way by road. The soonest she could leave from both places would be on one of the morning ferries and they will be there before those leave.'
Shepilov, who seldom spoke, said quietly, 'Excuse me, Comrade Colonel, but have you considered the fact that she may have sought asylum at the British Embassy?'
'Of course,' Belov told him. 'As it happens, since June of last year, we have a surveillance system operating at the entrance during the hours of darkness for rather obvious reasons. She has certainly not appeared there yet and if she does so…' he shrugged.
The door opened and Irana Vronsky hurried in. 'Lubov direct from Dublin for you, Comrade. Most urgent. The radio room have patched it through. Line one.'
Belov picked up the phone and listened. When he finally put it down, he was smiling. 'So far so good. She's on the night train to Rennes. Let's have a look at the map.' He nodded to Natasha. 'Take her out, Irana.'
Turkin said, 'But why Rennes?'
Belov found it on the map on the wall. 'To change trains for St Malo. From there she will catch the hydrofoil to Jersey in the Channel Islands.'
'British soil?'
'Exactly. Jersey, my dear Turkin, may be small, but it is very possibly the most important off-shore finance base in the world. They have an excellent airport, several flights a day to London and many other places.'
'All right,' Turkin said. 'We must drive to St Malo. Get there ahead of her.'
'Just a moment. Let's have a look in Michelin.' Belov found the red guide in the top left hand drawer of his desk and leafed through.
'Here we are — St Malo. Three hundred and seventy-two miles from Paris and a great deal of that through the Brittany countryside. Impossible to get there by car now, not in time. Go along to Bureau Five, Turkin. Let's see if they've got anyone we can use in St Malo. And you, Shepilov. Tell Irana I want all the information she has on Jersey. Airport, harbour, plane and boat schedules and so on — and hurry.'
At Cavendish Square
, Kim was making up the fire in the sitting room while Ferguson, in an old towelling robe, sat at the desk working his way through a mass of papers.
The Gurkha stood up. 'Coffee, Sahib?'
'God, no, Kim. Tea, nice and fresh and keep it coming and some sort of sandwiches. Leave it to you.'
Kim went out and Harry Fox hurried in from the study. 'Right, sir, here's the score. She'll have a stopover at Rennes for almost two hours. From there to St Malo is seventy miles. She'll arrive at seven-thirty.'
'And the hydrofoil?'
'Leaves at eight-fifteen. Takes about an hour and a quarter. There's a time change, of course, so it arrives in Jersey at eight-thirty our time. There's a flight from Jersey to London, Heathrow, at ten minutes past ten. She'll have plenty of time to catch that. It's a small island, sir. Only fifteen minutes by cab from the harbour to the airport.'
'No, she can't be alone, Harry. I want her met. You'll have to go over first thing. There must be a breakfast plane.'
'Unfortunately it doesn't get into Jersey until nine-twenty.'
Ferguson said, 'Damnation!' and banged his fist on the desk as Kim entered carrying a tray containing tea things and a plate of newly cut sandwiches that gave off the unmistakable odour of grilled bacon.
'There is a possibility, sir.'
'What's that?'
'My cousin, Alex, sir. Alexander Martin. My second cousin actually. He lives in Jersey. Something in the finance industry. Married a local girl.'
'Martin?' Ferguson frowned. 'The name's familiar.'
'It would be, sir. We've used him before. When he was working for a merchant banker here in the city, he did a lot of travelling. Geneva, Zurich, Berlin, Rome.'
'He isn't on the active list?'
'No, sir. We used him as a bagman mainly, though there was an incident in East Berlin three years ago when things got out of hand and he behaved rather well.'
'I remember now,' Ferguson said. 'Supposed to pick up documents from a woman contact and when he found she was blown, he brought her out through Checkpoint Charlie in the boot of his car.'
'That's Alex, sir. Short service commission in the Welsh Guards, three tours in Ireland. Quite an accomplished musician. Plays the piano rather well. Mad as a hatter on a good day. Typically Welsh.'
'Get him!' Ferguson said. 'Now, Harry.' He had a hunch about Martin and suddenly felt much more cheerful. He helped himself to one of the bacon sandwiches. 'I say, these are really rather good.'
Alexander Martin was thirty-seven, a tall, rather handsome man with a deceptively lazy look to him. He was much given to smiling tolerantly, which he needed to do in the profession of investment broker which he had taken up on moving to Jersey eighteen months previously. As he had told his wife, Joan, on more than one occasion, the trouble with being in the investment business was that it threw you into the company of the rich and, as a class, he disliked them heartily.
Still, life had its compensations. He was an accomplished pianist if not a great one. If he had been, life might have been rather different. He was seated at the piano in the living room of his pleasant house in St Aubin overlooking the sea, playing a little Bach, ice-cold, brilliant stuff that required total concentration. He was wearing a dinner jacket, black tie undone at the neck. The phone rang for several moments before it penetrated his consciousness. He frowned, realizing the lateness of the hour and picked it up. 'Martin here.'
'Alex? This is Harry. Harry Fox.'
'Dear God!' Alex Martin said. 'How are Joan and the kids?'
'In Germany for a week, staying with her sister. Her husband's a major with your old mob. Detmold.'
'So, you're on your own? I thought you'd be in bed.'
'Just in from a late function.'
Martin was very much awake now, all past experience telling him this was not a social call. 'Okay, Harry. What is this?'
'We need you, Alex, rather badly, but not like the other times. Right there in Jersey.'
Alex Martin laughed in astonishment. 'In Jersey? You've got to be joking.'
'Girl called Tanya Voroninova. Have you heard of her?'
'Of course I damn well have,' Martin told him. 'One of the best concert pianists to come along for years. I saw her perform at the Albert Hall in last season's promenade concerts. My office gets the Paris papers each day. She's there on a concert tour at the moment.'
'No she isn't,' Fox said. 'By now, she'll be half-way to Rennes on the night train. She's defecting, Alex.'
'She's what?'
'With luck, she'll be on the hydrofoil from St Malo, arriving Jersey at eight-twenty. She has a British passport in the name of Joanna Frank.'
Martin saw it all now. 'And you want me to meet her?'
'Exactly. Straight to the airport and bundle her on to the ten-ten to Heathrow and that's it. We'll meet her this end. Will that give you any problem?'
'Certainly not. I know what she looks like. In fact, I think I've still got the programme from her concert at the Proms. There's a photo of her on that.'
'Fine,' Fox told him. 'She's phoning a contact of ours when she gets into Rennes. We'll warn her to expect you.'
Ferguson said, 'Give me the phone. Ferguson here.'
'Hello, sir,' Martin said.
'We're very grateful.'
'Nothing to it, sir. Just one thing. What about the opposition?'
Shouldn't be any. KGB will be waiting at all the obvious bolt holes. Charles de Gaulle, Calais, Boul
ogne. Highly unlikely they'll be on to this one. I'll hand you back to Harry now.'
Fox said, 'We'll stay close, Alex. I'll give you this number in case of any problems.'
Martin wrote it down. 'Should be a piece of cake. Make a nice change from the investment business. I'll be in touch.'
He was totally awake now and decidedly cheerful. No hope of sleep. Things were looking up. He poured himself a vodka and tonic, and went back to his Bach at the piano.
Bureau Five was that section of the Soviet Embassy in Paris that dealt with the French Communist Party, infiltration of trade unions and so on. Turkin spent half an hour with their file on St Malo and the immediate area, but came up with nothing. 'The trouble is, Comrade,' he told Belov when he returned to the office, 'that the French Communist Party is extremely unreliable. The French tend to put country before party when the chips are down.'
'I know,' Belov said. 'It comes of an inborn belief in their own superiority.' He indicated the papers spread out on his desk. 'I've looked Jersey over pretty thoroughly. The solution is simple enough. You know that little airfield outside Paris we've used before?'
'Croix?' Turkin said. 'Lebel Air Taxis?'
'That's right. Jersey Airport opens early. You could land there at seven. Ample time to be down at the harbour to meet her. You have the usual selection of passports available. You could go as French businessmen.'
'But how do we bring her back?' Turkin asked. 'We'd have to pass through customs and immigration for the return flight from Jersey Airport. It would be an impossibility. Too easy for her to create a fuss.'
'Excuse me, Comrade Colonel,'. Shepilov put in, 'but is it really necessary for us to bring her back at all since all that is needed in this affair is her silence, or have I got the wrong impression?'
'You certainly have,' Belov told him coldly. 'Whatever the circumstances, however difficult, General Maslovsky wants her back. I'd hate to be in your shoes if you reported that you had had to shoot her, Shepilov. I think there is an easy solution. According to the brochures, there is a yachting marina in St Helier Harbour. Boats for hire. Wasn't sailing something of a hobby of yours back home, Turkin?'
'Yes, Comrade.'
'Good, then I'm sure it's hardly beyond your abilities to sail a motor launch from Jersey to St Malo. You can hire a car there and bring her back by road.'
'Very well, Colonel.'
Irana came in with coffee on a tray. He said, 'Excellent. Now all that's needed is for someone to haul Lebel out of bed. The timing should just work nicely.'
Surprising herself, Tanya managed to sleep for most of the train journey and had to be prodded into wakefulness by two young students who had travelled next to her all the way from Paris. It was three-thirty and very cold on the station platform at Rennes although it had stopped raining. The students knew of an all-night cafe outside the station in the Boulevard Beaumont and showed her the way. It was warm and inviting in there, not too many people. She ordered coffee and an omelette and went to call Devlin on the public telephone.
Devlin, who had been waiting anxiously, said, 'Are you all right?'
'Fine,' she said. 'I even slept on the train. Don't worry. They can't have any idea where I am. When will I see you again?'
'Soon,' Devlin told her. 'We've got to get you to London safely first. Now listen to me. When the hydrofoil gets into Jersey, you'll be met by a man called Martin. Alexander Martin. Apparently he's a bit of a fan of yours so he knows what you look like.'
'I see. Anything else?'
'Not really.'
'Good, then I'll get back to my omelette, Professor.'
She rang off and Devlin replaced the receiver. A girl and a half, he told himself as he went into the kitchen. In the cottage, Harry Cussane was already phoning Paul Cherny.
Croix was a small airfield with a control tower, two hangars and three nissen huts, headquarters of an aero club but also used by Pierre Lebel to operate his air taxi service. Lebel was a dark, taciturn man who never asked questions if the price was right. He had flown for Belov on a number of occasions and knew Turkin and Shepilov well. He hadn't the slightest idea that they were Russian. Something illegal about them, he'd always thought, but as long as it didn't involve drugs and the price was right, he didn't mind. He was waiting for the two men when they arrived, opened the door of the main hangar so that they could drive inside.
'Which plane?' Turkin asked.
'We'll use the Chieftain. Faster than the Cessna and there's a headwind all the way to Golfe St Malo.'
'When do we leave?'
'As soon as you like.'
'But I thought the airport at Jersey wasn't open until seven?'
'Whoever told you that got it wrong. It's officially seven-thirty for air taxis. However, the airport is open for the paper plane from five-thirty.'
'Paper plane?'
'Newspapers from England. Post and so on. They're usually sympathetic to a request for an early landing, especially if they know you. I did get the impression there was some urgency on this one?'
'There certainly is,' Turkin told him.
'Good, let's go up to the office and settle the business end of things.'
The office was up a flight of rickety stairs, small and cluttered, the desk untidy, the whole lit by a single bulb. Turkin handed Lebel an envelope. 'Better count it.'
'Oh, I will,' the Frenchman said, and then the phone rang. He answered it at once, then passed it to Turkin. 'For you.'
Belov said, 'She's made contact with Devlin from Rennes. There's a new complication. She's being met off the hydrofoil in Jersey by an Alexander Martin.'
'Is he a pro?' Turkin asked.
'No information on him at all. One wouldn't have thought they'd have any of their people in a place like Jersey. Still…'
'No problem,' Turkin said. 'We'll handle it.'
'Good luck.'
The line went dead and Turkin turned to Lebel. 'All right, my friend. Ready when you are.'
It was just six o'clock when they landed at Jersey Airport, a fine, blustery morning, the sky already lightening in the east, an orange glow on the horizon as the sun came up. The officer on duty at customs and immigration was pleasant and courteous. No reason not to be, for their papers were in order and Jersey was well used to handling thousands of French visitors each year.
'Stopping over?' he asked Lebel.
'No, straight back to Paris,' the Frenchman told him.
'And you, gentlemen?'
'Three or four days. Business and pleasure,' Turkin said.
'And nothing to declare? You've read the notice?'
'Not a thing.' Turkin offered his holdall.
The officer shook his head. 'All right, gentlemen. Have a nice stay.'
They shook hands formally with Lebel and passed out into the arrival hall, which at that time of the morning was deserted. There were one or two cars parked outside, but the taxi rank was empty. There was a telephone on the wall, but just as Turkin was moving to use it, Shepilov touched his arm and pointed. A cab was drawing up at the entrance to the airport. Two air hostesses got out and went in. The Russians waited and the cab drew up beside them.
'Early start, gentlemen,' the driver said.
'Yes, we're just in from Paris,' Turkin told him. 'Private flight.'
'Oh, I see. Where can I take you?'
Turkin, who had spent much of the flight examining the Jersey guide book Irana had provided, particularly the town map of St Helier, said, 'The Weighbridge, isn't that right? By the harbour.'
The taxi drew away. 'You don't need an hotel, then?'
'We're meeting friends later. They're taking care of that sort of thing. We thought we'd get some breakfast.'
'You'll be all right there. There's a cafe close to the Weighbridge opens early. I'll show you.'
The roads, at that time in the morning, were far from busy and the run down to Bel Royal and along the dual carriageway of Victoria Avenue
took little more than ten minutes. The sun
was coming up now and the view across St Aubin's Bay was spectacular, the tide in so that Elizabeth Castle on its rock was surrounded by water. Ahead of them was the town, the harbour breakwater, cranes lifting into the sky in the distance.
The driver turned in by the car park at the end of the esplanade. 'Here we are, gentlemen. The weighbridge. There's the tourist office. Open later if you need information. The cafe is just across the road over there around the corner. We'll call that three pounds.'
Turkin, who had been supplied with several hundred pounds in English banknotes by Irana, took a fiver from his wallet. 'Keep it. You've been very kind. Where's the marina from here?'
The driver pointed. 'Far end of the harbour. You can walk round.'
Turkin nodded to the breakwater stretching out into the bay. 'And the boats come in there?'
'That's right. Albert Quay. You can see the car ferry ramp from here. Hydrofoils berth further along.'
'Good,' Turkin said. 'Many thanks.'
They got out and the cab moved away. There was a public toilet a few yards away; without a word, Turkin led the way in and Shepilov followed. Turkin opened his holdall and burrowed under the clothing it contained, prising up the false bottom to reveal two handguns. He slipped one in his pocket and gave Shepilov the other. The weapons were automatics, each gun fitted with a silencer.
Turkin zipped up his holdall. 'So far so good. Let's take a look at the marina.'
There were several hundred boats moored there of every shape and size: yachts, motor cruisers, speedboats. They found the office of a boat hire firm easily enough, but it was not open yet.
'Too early,' Turkin said. 'Let's go down and have a look round.'
They walked along one of the swaying pontoons, boats moored on either side, paused, then turned into another. Things had always worked for Turkin. He was a great believer in his destiny. The nonsense over Tanya Voronmova had been an unfortunate hiccup in his career, but soon to be put right, he was confident of that. And now, fate took a hand in the game.
There was a motor cruiser moored at the end of the pontoon, dazzlmgly white with a blue band above the watermark. The name on the stern was L'Alouette, registered Granville, which he knew was a port along the coast from St Malo. A couple came out on deck talking in French, the man tall and bearded with glasses. He wore a dark reefer coat. The woman wore jeans and a similar coat, a scarf around her head.