by Jack Higgins
As the man helped her over the rail, Turkin heard him say, 'We'll walk round to the bus station. Get a taxi from there to the airport. The flight to Guernsey leaves at eight.'
'What time are we booked back?' she asked.
'Four o'clock. We'll have time for breakfast at the airport.' They walked away.
Shepilov said, 'What is Guernsey?'
'The next island,' Turkin told him. 'I read about it in the guide book. There's an inter-island flying service several times a day. It only takes fifteen minutes. A day out for tourists.'
'Are you thinking what I am?' Shepilov enquired.
'It's a nice boat,' Turkin said. 'We could be in St Malo and on our way hours before those two get back this afternoon.' He took out a pack of French cigarettes and offered one to his companion.
'Give them time to move away, then we'll check.'
They took a walk around the pontoons, returning in ten minutes and going on board. The door to the compamonway which led below was locked. Shepilov produced a spring blade knife and forced it expertly. There were two cabins neatly furnished, a saloon and a galley. They went back on deck and tried the wheelhouse. The door to that was open. 'No ignition key,' Shepilov said.
'No problem. Give me your knife.' Turkin worked his way up behind the control panel and pulled down several wires. It took only a moment to make the right connection and when he pressed the starter button, the engine turned over at once. He checked the fuel gauge. 'Tank's three quarters full.' He unfastened the wires again. 'You know, I think this is our day, Ivan,' he said to Shepilov.
They walked back round to the other side of the harbour and turned along the top ofthe Albert Quay, pausing at the end to look down at the Hydrofoil berth.
'Excellent.' Turkin looked at his watch. 'Now all we have to do is wait. Let's find that cafe and try some breakfast.'
At St Malo, the Condor hydrofoil moved out of the harbour past the Malo des Noires. It was almost full, mainly French tourists visiting Jersey for the day to judge from the conversations Tanya overheard. Once out of harbour, the hydrofoil started to lift, increasing speed, and she gazed out into the morning feeling exhilarated. She'd done it. Beaten all of them. Once in Jersey, she was as good as in London. She leaned back in the comfortable seat and closed her eyes.
Alex Martin turned his big Peugeot estate car on to the Albert Quay and drove along until he found a convenient parking place, which wasn't easy for the car ferry was in from Weymouth and things were rather busy. He had not slept at all and was beginning to feel the effects, although a good breakfast had helped and a cold shower. He wore navy-blue slacks, a polo neck sweater in the same colour and a sports jacket in pale blue tweed by Yves St Laurent. Partly this was a desire to make an impression on Tanya Voroninova. His music meant an enormous amount to him and the chance to meet a performer he admired so much was of more importance to him than either Ferguson or Fox could have imagined.
His hair was still a little damp and he ran his fingers through it, suddenly uneasy. He opened the glove compartment of the Peugeot and took out the handgun he found there. It was a .38 Smith and Wesson Special, the Airweight model with the two inch barrel, a weapon much favoured by the CIA. Six years before, he'd taken it from the body of a Protestant terrorist in Belfast, a member of the outlawed UVF. The man had tried to kill Martin, had almost succeeded. Martin had killed him instead. It had never worried him, that was the strange thing. No regrets, no nightmares.
'Come off it, Alex,' he said softly. 'This is Jersey.'
But the feeling wouldn't go away, Belfast all over again, that touch of unease. Remembering an old trick from undercover days, he slipped the gun into the waistband at the small of his back. Frequently even a body search missed a weapon secreted there.
He sat smoking a cigarette, listening to Radio Jersey on the car radio, until the hydrofoil moved in through the harbour entrance. Even then, he didn't get out. There were the usual formalities to be passed through, customs and so on. He waited until the first passengers emerged from the exit of the passenger terminal then got out and moved forward. He recognized Tanya at once in her black jumpsuit, the trench-coat over her shoulders like a cloak.
He moved forward to meet her. 'Miss Voroninova?' She examined him warily. 'Or should I say Miss Frank?'
'Who are you?'
'Alexander Martin. I'm here to see you get on your plane safely. You're booked on the ten-past-ten to London. Plenty of time.'
She put a hand on his arm, relaxing completely, unaware of Turkin and Shepilov on the other side of the road against the wall, backs partially turned. 'You've no idea how good it is to see a friendly face.'
'This way.' He guided her to the Peugeot. 'I saw you play the Emperor at the Proms at the Albert Hall last year. You were amazing.'
He put her into the passenger seat, went round to the other side and got behind the wheel.
'Do you play yourself?' she asked, as if by instinct.
'Oh, yes.' He turned the ignition key. 'But not like you.'
Behind them, the rear doors opened on each side and the two Russians got in, Turkin behind Tanya. 'Don't argue, there's a silenced pistol against your spine and hers. These seats aren't exactly body armour. We can kill you both without a sound and walk away.'
Tanya went rigid. Alex Martin said calmly, 'You know these men?'
'GRU. Military Intelligence.'
'I see. What happens now?' he asked Turkin.
'She goes back if we can take her. If not, she dies. The only important thing is that she doesn't talk to the wrong people. Any nonsense from you and she'll be the first to go. We know our duty.'
'I'm sure you do.'
'Because we are strong and you are weak, pretty boy,' Turkin told him. 'That's why we'll win in the end. Walk right up to Buckingham Palace.'
'Wrong time of the year, old son,' Alex said. 'The Queen's at Sandringham.'
Turkin scowled. 'Very amusing. Now get this thing moving round to the Marina.'
They walked along the pontoon towards L'Alouette, Martin with a hand on the girl's elbow, the two Russians walking behind. Martin helped Tanya over the rail. She was trembling, he could feel it.
Turkin opened the compamonway door. 'Down below, both of you.' He followed close behind, his gun in his hand now. 'Stop!' he said to Martin when they reached the saloon. 'Lean on the table, legs spread. You sit down,' he told Tanya.
Shepilov stood on one side, gun in hand. Tanya was close to tears. Alex said gently, 'Keep smiling. Always pays.'
'You English really take the biscuit,' Turkin said as he searched him expertly. 'You're nothing any more. Yesterday's news. Just wait till the Argentinians blow you out of the water down there in the South Atlantic.' He lifted Martin's jacket at the rear and found the Airweight. 'Would you look at that?' he said to Shepilov. 'Amateur. I noticed some cord in the galley. Get it.'
Shepilov was soon back. 'And once at sea, it's the deep six?' Martin enquired.
'Something like that.' Turkin turned to Shepilov. 'Tie him up. We'd better get out of here fast. I'll get the engine started.' He went up the compamonway. Tanya had stopped trembling, her face pale, rage in her eyes and desperation. Martin shook his head a fraction and Shepilov kneed him painfully in the rear. 'Up you come, hands behind you.' Martin could feel the muzzle of the silencer against his back. The Russian said to Tanya, 'Tie his wrists.'
Martin said, 'Don't they ever teach you chaps anything? You never stand that close to anyone.'
He swung, pivoting to the left, away from the barrel of the gun. It coughed once, drilling a hole in the bulkhead. His right hand caught the Russian's wrist, twisting it up and round, taut as a steel bar. Shepilov grunted and dropped the weapon and Martin's clenched left fist descended in a hammer blow, snapping the arm.
Shepilov cried out, dropping to one knee. Martin bent down and picked up the gun and miraculously, the Russian's other hand swung up, the blade of the spring knife flashing. Martin blocked it, aware of the sudden pain as the blad
e sliced through his sleeve, drawing blood. He punched Shepilov on the jaw, knuckles extended and kicked the knife under the seat.
Tanya was on her feet, but already there were hurried steps on deck. 'Ivan?' Turkin called.
Martin put a finger to his lips to the girl, brushed past her and went into the galley. A small ladder led to the forward hatch. He opened it and went out on deck as he heard Turkin start down.
It had begun to rain, a fine mist drifting in from the sea as he stepped lightly across the deck to the entrance of the companionway. Turkin had reached the bottom and stood there, gun in his right hand as he peered cautiously into the saloon. Martin didn't make a sound, gave him no chance at all. He simply extended his pistol and shot him neatly through the right arm. Turkin cried out, dropped his weapon and staggered into the saloon and Martin went down the companionway.
Tanya moved to join him. Martin picked up Turkin's gun and put it in his pocket. Turkin leaned against the table, clutching his arm, glaring at him. Shepilov was just pulling himself up and sank on to the bench with a groan. Martin swung Turkin round and searched his pockets until he found his gun. He turned to Turkin again.
'I was careful with the arm. You aren't going to die — yet. I don't know who owns this boat, but you obviously meant to leave in it, you and chummy here. I'd get on with it if I were you. You'd only be an embarrassment to our people and I'm sure they'd like you back in Moscow. You ought to be able to manage between you.'
'Bastard!' Peter Turkin said in despair.
'Not in front of the lady,' Alex Martin told him. He pushed Tanya Voroninova up the companionway and turned. 'As a matter of interest, you two wouldn't last one bad Saturday night in Belfast,' then he followed the girl up to the deck.
When they reached the Peugeot, he took off his jacket gingerly. There was blood on his shirt sleeve and he fished out his handkerchief. 'Would you mind doing what you can with that?'
She bound it around the slash tightly. 'What kind of a man are you?'
'Well, I prefer Mozart myself,' Alex Martin said as he pulled on his jacket. 'I say, would you look at that?'
Beyond, on the outer edge of the marina, L'Alouette was moving out of the harbour. 'They're leaving,' Tanya said.
'Poor sods,' Martin told her. 'Their next posting will probably be the Gulag after this.' He handed her into the Peugeot and smiled cheerfully as he got behind the wheel. 'Now let's get you up to the airport, shall we?'
At Heathrow Airport's Terminal One, Harry Fox sat in the security office, drank a cup of tea and enjoyed a cigarette with the duty sergeant. The phone rang, the sergeant answered, then passed it across.
'Harry?' Ferguson said.
'Sir.'
'She made it. She's on the plane. Just left Jersey.'
'No problems, sir?'
'Not if you exclude a couple of GRU bogeymen snatching her and Martin off the Albert Quay.'
Fox said, 'What happened?'
'He managed, that's what happened. We'll have to use that young man again. You did say he was Guards?'
'Yes, sir. Welsh.'
'Thought so. One can always tell,' Ferguson said cheerfully and rang off.
'No, Madame, nothing to pay,' the steward said to Tanya as the one-eleven climbed into the sky away from Jersey. 'The bar is free. What would you like? Vodka and tonic, gin and orange? Or we have champagne.'
Free champagne. Tanya nodded and took the frosted glass he offered her. To a new life, she thought and then she said softly, 'To you, Alexander Martin,' and emptied the glass in a long swallow.
Luckily, the housekeeper had the day off. Alex Martin disposed of his shirt, pushing it to the bottom of the garbage in one of the bins, then went to the bathroom and cleaned his arm. It really needed stitching, but to go to the hospital would have meant questions and that would never do. He pulled the edges of the cut together with neat butterflies of tape, an old soldier's trick, and bandaged it. He put on a bathrobe, poured himself a large Scotch and went into the sitting room. As he sat down, the phone rang. His wife said, 'Darling, I phoned the office and they said you were taking the day off. Is anything wrong? You haven't been overdoing it again, have you?'
She knew nothing of the work he'd done for Ferguson in the past. No need to alarm her now. He smiled ruefully, noting the slash in the sleeve of the Yves St Laurent jacket on the chair next to him.
'Certainly not,' he said. 'You know me? Anything for a net life. I'm working at home today, that's all. Now tell me - how are the children?'
Chapter Nine
AT CAVENDISH SQUARE, Ferguson was seated at the desk holding the telephone, face grave when Harry Fox came in from the study with a telex message. Ferguson made a quick gesture with one hand, then said, 'Thank you, Minister,' and replaced the receiver.
'Trouble, sir?' Fox asked.
'As far as I'm concerned it is. The Foreign Office have just informed me that the Pope's visit is definitely on. The Vatican will make an announcement within the next few hours. What have you got?'
'Telex, sir. Information on the Task Force's progress. The bad news is that HMS Antelope has finally sunk. She was bombed by Skyhawks yesterday. The good news is that seven Argentinian jets have been brought down.'
'I'd be happier about that if I saw the wreckage, Harry. Probably half that figure in actuality. Battle of Britain all over again.'
'Perhaps, sir. Everybody claims a hit in the heat of the moment. It can be confusing.'
Ferguson stood up and lit one of his cheroots. 'I don't know, sometimes the bloody roof just seems to fall in. I've got the Pope coming, which we could well have done without. Cuchulain still on the loose over there, and now this nonsense about the Argentinians trying to buy Exocet missiles on the black market in Paris. Orders have gone through to pull Tony Villiers from behind enemy lines in the Falklands?'
'No problem, sir. He's being off-loaded by submarine in Uruguay. Flying from Montevideo by Air France direct to Paris. Should be there tomorrow.'
'Good. You'll have to go over on the shuttle. Brief him thoroughly, then get straight back here.'
'Will that be enough, sir?'
'Good God, yes. You know what Tony's like when he gets moving. Hell on wheels. He'll sort the opposition out over there, no problem. I need you here, Harry. What about the Voroninova girl?'
'As I told you, sir, we stopped off at Harrods on the way from Heathrow to get her a few things. Only had what she stood up in.'
'She'll be broke, of course,' Ferguson said. 'We'll have to tap the contingency fund.'
'As a matter of fact that won't be necessary, sir. It seems she has a very substantial bank account here. Record royalties and so on. She certainly won't have any difficulty in earning her living. They'll be clamouring for her, all the impresarios, when they know she's available.'
'That will have to wait. She's very definitely to stay under wraps until I say so. What's she like?'
'Very nice indeed, sir. I settled her into the spare room and she was having a bath.'
'Yes, well don't let's make her too comfortable, Harry. We want to get on with this thing. I've heard from Devlin and it seems another of McGuiness's hatchet men, the one who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Cherny, has turned up in the Liffey. He doesn't waste time, our friend.'
'I see, sir,' Fox said. 'So what are you suggesting?'
'We'll get her over to Dublin now — this afternoon. You can escort her, Harry. Hand her over to Devlin at the airport, then get back here. You can go to Paris on the morning shuttle.'
Fox said mildly, 'She might just feel like sitting down for a moment. Taking a deep breath. That sort of thing.'
'So would we all, Harry, and if that's a subtle way of telling me how you feel, then all I can say is you should have taken that job they offered you at your uncle's merchant bank. Start at ten, finish at four.'
'And terribly, terribly boring, sir.'
Kim opened the door at that moment and ushered in Tanya Voroninova. Her eyes were slightly hollowed, but
she looked surprisingly well, the general effect enhanced by the blue cashmere sweater and neat tweed skirt she had purchased at Harrods. Fox made the introductions.
'Miss Voroninova. A great pleasure,' Ferguson said. 'You've certainly had an active time of it. Please sit down.'
She sat on the couch by the fire. 'Have you any idea what's happening in Paris?' she asked.
'Not yet,' Fox said. 'We'll find out in the end, but if you want an educated guess, the KGB never care for failure at the best of times and if we consider your foster-father's special interest in this case…' He shrugged. 'I wouldn't care to be in Turkin or Shepilov's shoes.'
'Even such a shrewd old campaigner as Nikolai Belov will have difficulty surviving this one,' Ferguson put in.
'So, what happens now?' she asked. 'Do I see Professor Devlin again?'
'Yes, but that means flying over to Dublin. I know your feet have hardly touched the ground, but time is of the essence. I'd like you to go later on this afternoon if that's all right. Captain Fox will escort you and we'll arrange for Devlin to meet you at Dublin Airport.'
She was still on a high, and somehow it seemed a part of what had already happened. 'When do we leave?'
'The early evening plane,' Devlin said. 'Sure, I'll be there. No problem.'
'You'll make your own arrangements about the necessary meeting with McGuiness so that she can look at whatever photos or other material they want to show her?'
'I'll take care of it,' Devlin said.
'Sooner rather than later,' Ferguson told him firmly.
'I hear and obey, O Genie of the lamp,' Devlin said. 'Now let me talk to her.'
Ferguson handed her the phone. Tanya said, 'Professor Devlin? What is it?'