“Titus became a symbol for us. Every day he lived up there, every day he spat back at them, every time he managed a curse of his parched tongue, we rejoiced in his spirit. A dignitary was to arrive on his fourth day, so at nightfall we were allowed to cut him down. Men came from all over the prison, Muslim men, Hindu, Christian, even a few Buddhists. They gave their hoarded food and bits of medicines they had stolen and secreted around the place. More than that, they gave their prayers. He was no longer just a man. He was everything we wanted to be. He was strong, he was proud, his dignity and his spirit were intact – and his will to live was astonishing. We nursed him back to health as best we could. Eventually, he was back breaking rocks with the others, but the guards gave him a wide berth from then on. They believed he was something unnatural.
“Well, one day he told me he was going over the wall. I begged him to take me. He agreed. We broke out that night. Even weak, after two years of eating shit, he was formidable. He killed two guards with his bare hands. We took a truck, rolled it down the slope towards the main road, starting the engine a mile from the prison. From there we headed east towards Cairo, out into the desert. He saved my life more than once along the way. When we were found, we had actually crossed into Egypt, and someone contacted my Embassy. In all that time, we never knew his job. I suspected, of course. But he was bitter at being left behind. That much was plain.”
He sipped his wine again and smiled at Holly across the table top.
“So fear not for his safety. Fear more for his soul. He has seen too much for one man. Now he needs peace and laughter and family around him.” He paused. “And fear for those he hunts. If I were they, knowing him as I do, I would just kill myself and be done with it.” He laughed again – and then the old Marco was back. “Come, you have yet to taste my expresso!”
The car took the bend fast and Cockburn put his hand up to steady himself. The traffic was light, considering the proximity to London, and the driver was giving no quarter.
“Slow down!” Cockburn said. “Whatever it is can wait.”
The man eased off the speed and studiously ignored his look in the mirror, a funny half-smile on his face. Eventually, the car drew to a halt outside a small mews house in Belgravia.
“I thought you were taking me to Century House,” Cockburn said. He was tired and all the cloak and dagger nonsense was beginning to bore him.
“Orders,” the driver said. “I’ll wait here for you.”
“You do that,” Cockburn replied dryly, stepping from the car.
As he did so, the door to the house opened, and a well-groomed woman in her fifties smiled welcomingly. “Mr Cockburn?” she said. “Do come in.”
Further up the mews, a black London taxi stood in the darkness.
Quayle pulled himself up the last few feet of the down pipe and swung himself across onto the window sill of Gabriella Kreski’s living room. He peered in, not expecting to see much at two in the morning, but more to confirm that the room was empty before he did the job on the door. Then he climbed down, hand over hand, until he felt the ground beneath his feet. Moving back round the front, he picked the lock on the street door and moved up the stairs three at a time, barely pausing at the top to pick the old Chubb like a professional thief.
He slipped into the room and swore softly. Inside it had the unmistakable air of a house not lived in. Quickly, he checked the bathroom and bedroom. All of the toiletries were gone, as were two suitcases, the dust silhouette on the shelf proof of their recent occupation.
He was already too late.
Letting himself out, he drove back onto the main Brighton to Horsham road, then cut north to Godalming, taking the back roads. When he arrived just before dawn, he broke into the offices of a local solicitor, bypassing the basic Telecom alarm system, and crawled into the attic storage area. There he carefully moved boxes until he found the one he was after. It sat above a box of old crampons, harness, ice axes and other assorted mountaineering paraphernalia. The paraphernalia of his climbing days. Carefully sliding the masking tape off one of the boxes, he began to work through the contents with a torch held in his mouth. Half an hour later, he replaced the boxes as he had found them and was on his way back to London.
Once there, he checked into a small West Kensington hotel, one he knew had direct dial telephones in the rooms, and stood under a hot shower, the fine jets pelting his tired body. As he dried himself, he looked at his watch. There were still two hours until he could make the call. He had remembered Teddy Morton talking about Gabriella Kreski, and the fact that she wrote articles for an obscure subscription-only Chess magazine under a pen name. Now that he had an old copy of the magazine from his personal effects, he had their address and phone number as well.
At 9am, he dialled the number and spoke to a Dickensian sounding character who began to quiz him.
“What do you want her for?” he asked in a shaky old voice.
“I’m an old friend from Poland,” Quayle replied, thickening his accent “She said that, if ever I was here, I was to call and we could play. She was rather insistent…”
“Well,” the old man said, seemingly pleased with Quayle’s credentials. “I’m afraid you shan’t be able to play her. She is abroad, you see.”
“Not visiting her brother again, is she?” he tried. Morton had once told him that her brother was a lecturer at Trinity College, a gifted violinist by anyone’s standard.
“Oh you know him then? Jolly good. Yes she is, but we aren’t supposed to know that – only, he phoned to say that her article wouldn’t be coming this month. We only have a week to the deadline, you see, and a big hole on page four. So if you see her, would you…”
My God, Quayle thought, Kreski must have been getting old to have allowed her brother to make that call.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll ask her for you.”
“She’s rather good on Queens challenge, you see,” the old man explained as if he wouldn’t ask if she were a mere defensive player.
If she’s run, thought Quayle, then she’s scared – and if I’ve found her, then others can too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At precisely the same moment that Titus Quayle was booking himself onto a noon Air Lingus flight to Dublin, Hugh Cockburn walked up the stairs into Milburn House and showed his identification to the porter at the desk.
“Sir Martin is expecting you,” the porter said, his thumb jerking at the narrow dingy flight of stairs.
Moments later, Cockburn was ushered into Sir Martin Callows’ office. The Deputy Director General sat behind his desk, one huge hand holding a golden pen and writing noiselessly on a white pad.
“Took your time getting here,” he muttered.
“It was late when I got in,” Cockburn answered. “Everyone had gone home.”
Callows gave a porcine grunt and leant forward to speak into his intercom. “Get Burmeister in here,” he said, and his secretary’s voice buzzed back with a metallic reply that neither man could understand. “You been following the search for Quayle?” he asked, putting his pen down.
“In so much as reading the station updates, yes I have.”
“How much do you know about him? You worked together enough times?”
“Enough to know that you won’t find him and take him if he doesn’t want to come.”
“You rate him that highly?”
“He’s good. As good as any man we ever fielded. But it’s not that I rate him so high, he couldn’t be caught. Everyone can be found sooner or later.” He paused there for a second. “I just don’t rate the people who are looking for him.”
Callows raised an eyebrow.
“And don’t ask me to take on the job or assist,” Cockburn added. “I’m yet to be convinced that he’s done anything that warrants this kind of extreme action.”
“Don’t take that tone of voice with me, lad!” Callows warned.
“With due respect, Sir Martin, I have over twenty years in the service. My judgement
is what I’m paid for. My judgement and my experience. Within my service conditions there are riders that allow me to use that experience and refuse to become involved in any venture that I consider to be either foolhardy, ill-conceived, or lacking in any rational objective.”
“I know!” Callows interrupted. “I wrote them!” His head turned angrily as the door swung open and John Burmeister walked in. “You two know each other I presume,” he muttered. “John has been running the file since the attack on Adrian Black. He can bring you up to date.”
“Why am I here?” Cockburn asked. “If it’s to help find...”
“Relax,” Callows said, raising a hand and his eyes to the ceiling. “You aren’t going to be asked to help take him out. To the contrary in fact…”
“We need your help, Cockburn,” Burmeister spoke for the first time.
Cockburn looked at them both, the realisation dawning. “My God! You want me to run him! After all you’ve put him through, you want me to try to bring him on service again…”
“Not try. Succeed,” Callows replied harshly. “He’s the only one who knew enough about Morton, the man who wrote the files.”
“What do you think?” Burmeister asked, leaning forward.
Cockburn just shook his head slowly, as if unable to believe them.
“Well?” Callows snapped.
“Well what?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re a first class prick,” Cockburn replied pronouncing every word clearly and standing up.
Burmeister winced but Callows threw back his head and laughed.
“I am that,” he crowed. “Now get on with it!”
Dublin is a small old weathered city and one that Quayle knew well. Over successive visits he had marvelled at the destruction of the city’s character by its modern day planners, its vitality and soul gouged out by demolition men, the great wounds filled over with ugly blocks of flats and office buildings. At least Trinity University remained protected by history, for this was the very heart of old Dublin.
Quayle walked the cloisters looking for the administration section, pleasant memories of his own time at Cambridge flooding back. Eventually he was guided there by a student and stood, wearing an old coat and cap, before a bespectacled young woman. He knew his local accent wasn’t up to the test, so instead he adopted the broader harsh tones of Ulster.
“I’m needing the address of the Polish fella that teaches the violin…”
“You mean Professor Lomza. Stefan Lomza?” she queried, looking him up and down. “What on earth for?”
“Got a delivery,” Quayle replied.
“Well, we don’t give out faculty addresses.”
“Suit yourself darling, I’ll dump it in front there.” he indicated the immaculate lawns in the main square.
“Dump what?” She rose up another inch, ready to defend her beloved Trinity to the death.
“Two tons of manure,” Quayle replied.
“What?”
“Horse shit,” he replied loudly, like she was deaf.
“You will not! Wait here. I’ll get his address. Dump it there!”
“Make up your mind woman,” he said wearily.
Now, with the chill of the evening settling down over the city, he made his way up towards Rathgar, pulling the coat up over his aching shoulder. Another month and he knew Dublin’s ancient stone streets would be shrouded in damp fog, laden with petrol fumes and smog. Walking slowly up Grafton Street amongst the last minute shoppers, he realised he was too early. He wanted to be at the Rathgar address after dark, so he settled himself into a pub near Stephens Green and nursed a glass of Guinness. He’d taken a room at a small hotel near the old railway station and, as he sat and sipped his drink, he wished he’d taken the time to sleep. He hadn’t had a decent rest since the passage to Newcastle – and he knew, only too well, that fatigue was the cause of most covert operational problems. Tired men make mistakes.
Then he mused, with some bitterness, that he hadn’t slept so well in the last few years anyway, not until Holly came along: wonderful warm Holly, her smell on the pillow and her body curled into his back, her soft murmurs as she dreamed beside him.
Look after her Marco, my friend, for without her I have nothing.
Finishing the drink, he returned to the road, the street lights bright in the night. Taking a bus as far as Rathgar Road, he got out and walked up to the turning he wanted, then moved way from the traffic and along the narrower residential street.
The address was half way up on the right, a solid Georgian building with columned portico. The street was devoid of movement and he moved round the back. Still making sure that he was unobserved, he took up position to watch the windows. He had never met Gabriella Kreski, but knew her age and her background and was pleased to notice that every curtain in the house was drawn. While it meant that he couldn’t see in, it was a good sign. It meant she was probably there – and, what’s more, was observing some basic security procedures.
After half an hour had passed, he used a pool of darkness to climb the back wall until he was on the first floor. Then, pulling a small battery-operated audio enhancer from his pocket, he placed it on the glass of a window and began to listen. He was rewarded on the fourth window with a woman’s voice, old but strong, and speaking fast Polish. The other voice was a man’s and, as they argued about the merits of some obscure composer, he used her name. ‘Gabriella…’ Quayle smiled to himself and eased back down to the ground. Then he made his way back to the hotel.
Tomorrow he would make contact.
He slept lightly, the cough of the man next door harsh and grating through the thin old walls, and he was back watching the Georgian House by seven the next morning. It was almost ten by the time Gabriella Kreski stepped onto the road, a sensible green coat over her shoulder and a string shopping bag in her hand. Three hundred feet away, Quayle watched her from the back of a hired van and was about to get out and follow when he noticed two men in a parked car, one climbing out onto the pavement as son as Gabriella appeared.
He had seen the car arrive just before eight and had thought nothing of it. Now, however, everything had changed. He swore silently to himself, thinking fast. They were here when Lomza left for work, so they knew she may well have been alone in the house. If they were going to take her it should have been then. So perhaps they did not know she was alone? They may have just arrived and been incredibly lucky to get a live sighting within a couple of hours of finding a potential hidey-hole.
Quayle watched her walk a few paces. Then blue exhaust fumes rose from up behind the watcher’s car. He switched his gaze to the walking tag and saw him put his hand up to his ear.
Ear piece receiver. That meant the tag car could follow or give instructions. They might well be calling in help. If they knew Kreski’s background, they would know she would spot a lone walking watcher very quickly.
She would be taking the bus, that much he knew. Starting the van, he drove in the other direction to take the first right turn then right again, doubling back on himself to end up back on Rathgar Road, hopefully in sight of the bus stop. She must have had a timetable because, almost immediately, a big orange double decker pulled into the stop and she climbed on board with several other people.
He tagged at a distance most of the day, following her from the supermarket to the post office and finally the library, where she sat for three hours. The watchers were still there, joined now by two others. All day long they switched positions, the walker following her into buildings and then re-appearing, changing his coat often or wearing a hat.
Finally, when she walked up to Bewleys in Grafton Road, Quayle saw his chance. He didn’t know who they were – and, until he did, it was difficult to establish what threat they meant. He would try and get to Gabriella and at least warn her. Now, with a bigger team, she was less likely to realise she was being watched.
The pavement was crowded and the old coffee shop was busy. As soon as the curr
ent walker was momentarily separated from his vehicle, Quayle moved into the shop.
He scanned the room quickly but could not see her. He waited for a few minutes outside the ladies, aware he was losing valuable time, and when she finally appeared he breathed a slow sigh of relief. He was about to move forward when the driver of the watcher car walked through the doors. They had changed roles. Swearing to himself, a bitter little curse, he waited until a woman with a baby and some shopping was moving his way and quickly jumped in to offer to help. Relieved, the lady agreed. He took two of her packages and, as they brushed past Gabriella’s table, the woman with the baby thanked him and said the car wasn’t far. Quayle smiled easily. It was the normality of appearance he wanted. He would have to try again later.
As they pushed their way through the front door, he glanced back and took a good look at the man who had driven the watcher car all day. As Quayle looked, the man raised his hand to his face to scratch at something and he fixed the image in his memory.
From opposite the coffee shop, he watched through the windows of a store. The watchers were all out on the pavement – waiting for something to happen. Come on, Gabriella, he thought. Do something soon. Go home, go to a friend’s, do bloody something! You’re an old lady now. You must be tired. Go home. Please. I’m getting exposed here…
The field craft lecturers would have marked him as blown within a hour of starting, even changing his jacket and cap as he did. One watcher – tag, tail whatever you wanted to call them – was only good for an hour, and then only if they were very talented, changing the way they walked with heel lifts or introducing a change in the gait or even a limp. Quayle had never been one of the best watchers ever passed out of Norfolk – he was to big to melt into crowds – but at least he was competent. MI5 had the real experts who could watch a party for weeks and never be suspected. The danger was that he had been on the job now for over five hours. The other team were obviously not expecting to be watched themselves, or he would have been blown hours ago.
The Protector: A gripping, action-packed spy thriller Page 19