There was no time left to lose. Quayle pulled Holly to her feet, roughly wiping the blood from her face and hands, snatched up her bag and pulled her along into Pope’s room. From here they scrambled down the rusting iron fire escape. Dropped the last ten feet alone, he held up his hands for her and she let go of the railing, a picture of silent hysteria, her pupils dilated, thick wet clotting blood in her hair and eyebrows and bright smears down her neck
Quayle returned the car and collected his deposit as normally as he could, knowing that anything out of the ordinary would show them up to a city about to conduct a massive manhunt. The evidence was there that Pope had been the gunman, but the hotel would give them their details. Together, they took a taxi back into town. Holly – now in clean clothes and washed, after a stop at a public toilet – sat beside him silently while he chatted with the driver, careful now to emphasise a northern accent, a pair of thick spectacles on his nose and his cheeks padded with tissue that both disguised his voice and made him look fuller in the face. Once in town, they headed for the airport where Quayle took a single room on a day use basis, presenting an Icelandic passport at the desk. Holly wandered up past security and, once in, he locked her there and disappeared, arriving back an hour later with a pair of loaded shopping bags. He produced wash-in hair dyes, a blonde wig, various items from a haberdashery and other bits and pieces.
Four hours later, a heavy overly made-up French blonde in her mid-thirties paid cash for two tickets to Frankfurt, asking about any senior citizen discount for her father who stood at the edge of the queue, tired and looking slightly bewildered by the bustle of the airport, leaning heavily on two canes.
The check-in girl immediately ordered him a wheel chair and he was taken through a ‘routine security alert’ by airport handling staff, then seated on an electric trolley for the long ride to the departure gate. An hour and a half later, they checked into the Frankfurt Hilton as delegates attending the Medical Convention, the canes and breast padding now in suitcases, and all their other items in a rubbish skip outside the loading area at the rear of a department store.
Quayle passed Holly a large brandy.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Here, drink this.”
She took the drink and sat with her legs folded under her on the room’s small sofa. He was concerned about her silence. If she was going to get over the events of the morning. he wanted her to talk about it, and soon. The longer she remained silent, the more difficult it would become.
“This morning you went through an experience that hardened professionals fear. You saw five men die in the most horrible circumstances, one of them a friend who died saving you. It’s tough...” He put his hand out to stroke her cheek. “Not for nothing is it called ‘baptism of fire’ by soldiers. In the old days, people spoke of seeing the elephant. That means they saw death, they saw fear, real fear, gut-wrenching, puking fear – and they say that you’re never the same again. It’s a humbling experience, one that takes some men to God and some to a bottle.” He tilted her head up to look into her big hazel eyes in time to see the first tear beginning. “So don’t bottle it up now. Cry. Cry for your lost innocence. Cry for Mr Pope. Cry for everything, and remember that I love you and that I will always be here.”
An hour later, he made her take two sleeping pills, tucked her up, kissed her cheek – and then, redressing in his old man outfit and carrying his canes, let himself out of the room, moving straight down to the lobby and hailing a cab.
He sat in the dark in a big leather chair and waited. The lock had been easy, almost too easy, but then the man who owned the apartment had always been casual about that kind of thing, making up the difference with small signs that would reveal he had been broken into: a hair in the door that would drop, deliberately dusty surfaces that would show finger marks, a match that would be misplaced by an opened drawer. Quayle had searched well and found them all; now all that was left to do was sit and wait for the man to come home.
It was after midnight when he heard the tinkle of a woman’s laughter in the corridor and the deeper murmurs of her companion.
The key was harsh in the lock. The pause told Quayle that the homeowner was looking for the hair he’d left in the door, and this made him smile. On the other side of the door, the woman gave a giggled plea to hurry up and get inside, and moments later there was the flick of a switch and the lights went bright in the hall.
There was silence. He must have seen the note, thought Quayle, the five franc note folded under the edge of the vase. It wouldn’t be long now.
Quayle watched as he pushed the giggling woman into the bedroom, closed the door and entered the lounge. He was tall and blonde, sharp featured and undeniably Aryan, with crisp blue eyes and clear youthful skin.
“Hello Kurt,” Quayle said. “Still bringing them home, I see.”
“God! You… you have more nerve than a bad tooth. Half of Europe is hunting you, my friend.”
“Really?” Quayle said sarcastically. “I wouldn’t have known.”
Kurt Eicheman looked at him and his brows softened. “I will get rid of the girl. Then we can talk.”
They had known of each other a long time, contemporaries when Quayle arrived in Romania to find and bring out a dissident. In the following days, he and Eicheman had competed for the prize and had finally joined forces when Quayle had broken Eicheman out of a Securitate holding facility, along with the man they we both looking for. Eicheman had been larger than life, a drinking, carousing, whoring buccaneer of a man who found something to laugh about in every situation. The pair had nearly driven Hugh Cockburn insane with their competitive efforts and their friendship had endured even after Quayle left Romania with more traded information than was normal between the BND and MI6.
In the apartment, Quayle heard the girl’s complaints and she was ushered without ceremony to the door. Moments later, Eicheman was back with two full brandy balloons.
“So, my friend, every player in Europe after you and the girl. The word is you are a homicidal maniac. Are you?”
“When did the word go out?” Quayle asked.
“After the incident on Serifos, as best we can tell. We didn’t get involved until two nights ago.”
“Who’s in Bonn who would have put a couple of freelancers onto me in Venice before that?”
Eicheman was surprised. “Before? You are sure?”
Quayle nodded, the brandy untouched on the table beside him.
“No-one. These requests are rare and treated with sufficient authority. I saw the first notices. They were the night before last. You are positive of the facts?”
“I am,” Quayle replied.
“Then it wasn’t BND,” Eicheman replied with fervor. “This morning was, however. Your man was very good. He killed three of the better talents around... and a loyal service man.”
“They came up the fucking stairs, shooting at my woman! If Pope hadn’t killed them I would have. Your loyal service man is dead. So is Jerry Pope. We are quits!” he snarled, daring Eicheman to bring the topic up again.
The other nodded quickly. The fact that Quayle was personally involved with the woman explained so much.
“How did they get onto us?” he asked.
“You should know that your man is still alive. Barely, of course. The doctors say he won’t make it.” Eicheman paused. “You were seen buying food across the street last night. The receptionist had a friend who is on our payroll.”
Quayle nodded. He had thought as much and cursed his own stupidity. He hadn’t taken them seriously enough. “So, who is in Bonn who hires guns? Who has that kind of money and those kinds of contacts?”
Eicheman held up his hands in a rather Italian gesture. “What else have you got to go on?”
“Not much. A man. From Bonn. Square ring.”
“What?”
“A ring. A square ring on his finger.”
“That’s all?”
Quayle nodded.
“It’s not much,�
�� Eicheman said. “What’s going on, Quayle? You’re not a maniac. A kill order, for Christ’s sake? Now this Bonn thing. Two teams after you?”
“You tell me,” Quayle replied without sarcasm.
He looked at Quayle’s hands. Even in the soft light the round scars were apparent. “They do that in that Libyan prison?”
Quayle nodded again.
“Jesus. They are animals, those people. I wanted to help. They owe us favours.” He paused awkwardly, feeling inadequate. “But I was unable to... Look, let me see what I can get on Bonn.”
Quayle stood and began to button his coat. “I’ll be in touch in a couple of days. Thanks Kurt, and be discreet. You are being watched. There’s a man down on the street. They’ve obviously gone through the files.”
Kurt didn’t doubt Quayle for a second, but even so he went white in the face. Then he tapped his ear and pointed a finger at the walls.
Quayle shook his head. “Not yet, anyway. I checked.”
“Jesus, who are these people?” Eicheman said in awe, standing up. “I am head of station in Frankfurt. Verschtun? They are powerful enough to put me under suspicion with my own organisation. That means orders from...”
Quayle pointed upward with one extended forefinger. “The bloody top.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Black sat in the back of the hospital car, his face and hands still heavily bandaged, the overnight case of pyjamas, toilet articles and the clothing he had arrived in beside him on the seat. They had thrown away the shirt and overcoat, the acid having eaten right through the collars on both, but had cheerfully explained that the laundry had managed to save the blazer as if it mattered. The nurses had carefully ignored all of his questions about his eyes, and the specialist had mumbled how the eye was a wonderful thing and not to worry unduly – but the brutal truth was that, until they managed to clear away the burnt flesh that were his eyelids, they wouldn’t know a thing.
For now, he was blind.
The thought terrified him. He tried to beat it with positive thoughts about returning to work, but even that was a joke. Everything he did was visual and he had never even realised it. Every file was on paper or a screen. Photographs needed looking at. Even walking across a room required eyes.
The department psychologist had called round to see him and, during their tense but supposedly informal chat, he had asked him how he had felt. Black had been surprised at his own anger and told the man to take his pity and fuck off.
The car was slowly coming to a stop. This weekend at home was a treat, the sister had said, before they started the surgery next week. At least he thought they hadn’t tried to bullshit him about that. He had a friend once who had been burnt after a fall from his motorbike, and the plastic surgeons had gone to him with the knife. Black had visited him when his life had devolved down to a succession of drugged periods between skin grafts, but the drugs were never enough. That was what his life was going to be like now.
He felt in his pocket for the small metal object that the strange visitor had given him, and ran his finger around the edge for the hundredth time. He hadn’t shown it to anyone because he had understood, even through the drugged haze, that his visitor should not have been there. He still couldn’t place the accent and the voice. He had had other visitors from the office – Callows’ secretary and even Burmeister had stood awkwardly over his bed – but this one had been different. Somehow, he knew that he was involved with Long Knives.
His wife was waiting when he got home. She was a tall, black haired, quietly efficient woman who had firmly, but kindly, told the district nurse that she could manage and shown her the door. Now she stood at the front gate of their small house, ready to help and support her man with whatever it took. She had always known this could happen and had been steeling herself for this day ever since he had first walked out in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police, very like the young man who now waited outside the house, their protection.
“We don’t know how long you are going to be bashing into things, so I’ve moved them about a bit.” She pushed the dog down and took his arm. “Get down, Wellie!” she said fondly to the big Labrador as he lunged at Black again, his pink tongue lolling happily.
Early that evening, as Black sat at the kitchen table with his wife washing dishes, he thought for the thousandth time about the missing files and the shadowy figures with the acid spray. Gently, he touched his bandaged face, his anger complete and cold and terrible.
Sir Gordon Tansey-Williams called the next day, gruffly wishing him his best. As Mrs Black seated him in the lounge opposite her husband, she warned him with a look.
He came straight to the point.
“Your heart still in it lad?” he asked. “Because we need to talk. Say so now and I’ll understand if it’s no…”
Mrs Black stood glaring at him. “It’s time you left. How dare you...”
Black raised one bandaged hand, turning his unseeing face turned toward her. “How about a cup of tea?” he said. “I’m sure Sir Gordon would like one.” His voice was low and measured, and he turned to face Tansey-Williams. “You’ll have to forgive me. I will be using a straw. Can’t hold a cup, I’m afraid.”
He listened to her walk into the kitchen.
“So,” he said, as soon as she was gone. “Start talking.”
They talked until the tea was cold, Tansey-Williams firing questions and Black listening silently as the Director General told him of Quayle’s run with Morton’s daughter and Pope’s involvement.
“It’s not Quayle,” Black said.
“You seem pretty positive of that.”
“He only became a factor because Burmeister went after Morton’s daughter. Hardly surprising with three Fairies turning up.”
“And Pope?”
“Like Jonno told you. He was doing his job. So you’re back to square one. Except that there’s a man hunt on for the wrong bloody man. Christ! This is elementary police work. Where was Quayle when the killings took place? What does his doctor say? Has he an alibi?” He was shouting it now, the anger and frustration bursting out. “What the hell has been going on for the last week?” He swung his hand and knocked his children’s beaker off the small table, its bright red straw rolling across the floor, tea gurgling out onto the carpet as Mrs Black stepped quickly through from the kitchen.
He cooled just as quickly and took a breath.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“I think you should leave now,” Mrs Black said to Tansey-Williams, her expression saying it was not a negotiable issue.
“Of course,” he said standing. Then he looked down at Adrian Black and thought for a second. “I’d like a friend of mine to have a look at you. He’s the best in the country and I need you back at the office. In the meantime, I’ll send something over for you to get your teeth into – and a pair of eyes to be at your beck and call.”
“Long Knives?” Black asked, his voice husky.
“You want it?”
“That’s like asking me if I want to see again.”
Across the small room, his wife gave a look that verged on despair.
It was just after four the following morning, his second night lying awake at home, that he heard the noise. He lay absolutely still, listening to his own heart beat, as he tried to fathom it. A scrape, a squeak perhaps. He tried to think where the young policeman would be, walking a lonely beat around the house. Maybe it was him. Then he heard another noise and the hair on the back of his neck rose. So did the impulse to tear the bandages of his eyes. He checked himself and sat up, then dropped bare feet to the floor, reaching for the bedside drawer and the gun that was always there. I have no sight, he said to himself, justifying the action, but I am familiar with the house. I know which stair squeaks and which door creaks. It’s my house.
He was easing the drawer shut when his wife woke, instantly aware that something was wrong.
He turned his head her way and put one bandaged finger to his lips.
&n
bsp; “What?” she whispered. Then, seeing the dark glint of the gun in his hand, she continued, “Oh Ades, no, please…”
“Stay here,” he whispered, the gun heavy and painful in his light grip. “I’ll be all right.”
“Darling, please don’t go. There’s a policeman somewhere. Let him! Please, he can see...”
But Black’s mind was made up. “Stay here,” he said with a dreaded finality, ‘until I’m back.”
Making his way to the open bedroom door, he sliding one foot ahead of the other, pleased when his hand found the banister rail exactly where it should have been. I should have a shotgun for this, he thought. Mustn’t fall over the dog!
He moved down three steps very quietly and raised his hand to where he knew the electricity junction board was, feeling for the mains switch and easing it into the off position. He had become good at picking the source of sounds in the last week and, as he moved downward, he hoped there was no moon to shine in the kitchen windows. The gun was in his hand, his forefinger bandaged and tight on the trigger guard.
He stopped to listen every few feet, his heart beating loud as he strained to hear. This time I have a gun, bastard, he was thinking. I have a gun and it should be as black as pitch. Ears straining, he moved onward until his left hand hit the rounded end of the banister. Keeping low, he eased around it, the gun pointing down to where he knew the passage was.
It was quiet, too quiet.
There was a draught now, cool air moving. He had listened to Mary lock up before they had gone to bed. She was the wife of a security man. She didn’t leave windows open.
He moved down the passage and into the living room, dropping down on his knees and swinging the gun back and forth as he turned his head, listening for movement. A smell now. Rich and warm, almost sweet. Familiar but not. He slid forward. Still too quiet. Come on, you bastard, he pleaded silently. A window’s open. Make a sound, just a little sound... He waited for a full thirty seconds, rock steady, and then – beginning to doubt his senses – he crawled forward again.
The Protector: A gripping, action-packed spy thriller Page 16