The man looked into Quayle’s eyes, the contact lenses giving him a slightly crazed look.
“He has gone. I was looking for him also.”
“Why are you burning his stuff?”
“We are partners on many projects. I don’t want any material falling into the wrong hands. Publishing is very competitive,” he said, raising his hands defensively.
“Where do you think he is?”
“I think, I think he may be dead...” The man stopped. “It’s the cat. He didn’t feed the cat for three days or more. He used to phone me and ask me to come over to do it if he was going away. He was always sticking his nose into things that were dangerous. Well, this time he stuck it in too far. Where do I think he is? I think he is dead! Some partner! Stupid little fool. Now I am making sure that nothing he has here will bring them to me!”
“Bring who?”
“Whoever it was that did for him…”
“Who might that be?” Quayle asked, his voice low and laced with menace.
“I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” he answered childishly.
Quayle dug into his pocket. “Did he ever wear a ring like this?” He held it up for the other man to see.
“No.”
This man was lying and Quayle knew it. He reached forward, took a hold of the man’s cheek between two fingers and squeezed.
“Yes, yes, he did!” the man squealed. “Let go please, please...”
“When?”
Quayle let go and the man rubbed the red spot on his cheek with three fingers. “He stopped about a year ago. But he wore it often for three or four years before that.”
“What was its significance?”
“I don’t know. I asked once and he laughed. He said they would feel the might again.”
“Who would?”
“Liberals, greenies, communists, the anti-nuclear people. He hated the lot of them, he said they were weak. A cancer. Then he stopped wearing the ring. He was bitter, angry. His work was also affected. He was like a boy who had his toys taken from him. Sulky.”
So, thought Quayle, he got thrown out of whatever it was. They obviously thought him a liability, and now they’ve iced him.
“Did he travel at all? Anywhere regular? Over the period he wore the ring?”
“Regular? No. He went lots of places. Work.”
“What work was that?”
“Critic. Theatre, ballet, films, art. I do food. Together we used to produce a package for the magazines.”
“What were you looking for really?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t fuck me about! Food and art is hardly competitive stuff. What was it that he was working on that you wanted?”
The man seemed to give in then, deflating before Quayle’s eyes. As he sagged, he sat down in one of the chairs.
“The manuscript. He said he was doing an exposé . He had that look in his eye. It would be good. When he put his mind to something, he was quite talented. Better than me...”
“Did you find it?”
“No,” he replied miserably. “It’s gone.”
“Where would he take it? Did he have an agent or a publisher?”
“No agent. He was too mean for that. He spoke of a publisher in Berlin. Melchun and something.” He brightened up then. “They may have, it I suppose.”
*
Cockburn sat opposite Black, who lay back in bed. The bandages were off his hands now and ugly weals of new pink skin and scar tissue criss-crossed the unburnt areas like a child had done it with a paint brush. His eyes were still covered, but the bandages had been taken off the rest of his face – and the deep pitted burns across his cheeks were horrific. Fresh dressings covered the places where the plastic surgeons had gone with the knife.
“I told you everything I could yesterday,” he said to Cockburn.
“I’m not a copper, Adrian,” Cockburn said. “I’m the poor bastard trying to find Titus Quayle.”
“Well he’s not under my bed.”
“You’re not helping, are you?”
Black sat up, angrily. “Why the fuck should I? Tell me! That poor bugger was hunted by every bastard with a gun because some fucking idiot in London fancied himself as a great detective! He had nothing to do with the missing file or the killings. The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster in the true traditions of the service. So why the fuck should I help you? So you can kiss and make up?” He leant back, his anger spent for the moment.
Cockburn looked at him and stood up. He had had enough. “He’s an old friend of mine – that’s why. I was pulled out of my station to come and find him. The hunt’s over and the DG needs him back. Now, I personally don’t give a shit if he tells Tansey-Williams to stuff it. In fact, I’d rather like to be there when he does. But someone else is after him. I think it’s the same bunch that got the files. So you can lie here in your own self pity – I don’t like losers anyway – but find him I will, and help him I will, with you or without you. “
With the final words ringing in Blacks’ ears, he marched towards the door.
To Black, it was only too familiar.
“Cockburn? You on the level? You really trying to help?”
“Yes, I am.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll get you for it. You know that.”
“Yes,” he replied softly. “I think you probably would.”
“He was here. The night you flew back in. Walked in, bold as brass, past the police outside. Sent them off for a cuppa.” He smiled at the thought.
Cockburn walked back to the bed. “What did he want?”
“Same as you. What did I know about the Long Knives affair.”
“How was he?”
“Never knew him before. But he was all there, if you know what I mean. Scary.”
“That’s him,” Cockburn said, pleased. “Where did he go from here?”
“Dunno. He had his own leads. He wants to get to whoever’s after the girl. But I had another visitor…” And he told Cockburn about the strange man who had left the medal.
“What’s your feel?”
“If he’s on the Kilo payroll, then they’re as concerned as we are. Quayle knows about him too.”
“If you were to find him, where would you look?”
Black thought for a second or two.
“That stupid manhunt would have chased any normal operative underground, back into his own channels, back into his contacts of long ago.”
“That’s the intention,” Cockburn said dryly.
“Not this one,” Black said. “Quayle’s way too smart for that. He’ll avoid the old haunts like the plague. Try the opposite. I’d look where he has a life the service doesn’t know about, at more recent contacts.”
“I never thought of that,” Cockburn admitted.
“It’s my job, son. Been finding people who didn’t want to be found for years.”
Cockburn thought for a minute, walked to the phone by Black’s bed and dialled the office. You know how to find people and I know Quayle, he thought.
“Chloe? My friend spent some time in the Middle East. Yes. When he left, he travelled with a friend. I’d like his name, if you would.”
That was all he could say over an open line, but he knew she would get the message.
CHAPTER NINE
Quayle had stopped at an autobahn service area and, through the noise of the manoeuvering juggernauts, he telephoned the conduit in Bremen, using the lemon code. It was affirmative and, smiling broadly, he ran back to the car. The post restante at the main post office closed at four. There were names waiting there for him. Something concrete at last. He silently blessed Kurt and, wheels spinning, headed back onto the autobahn and Frankfurt.
An hour later, he sat in a commercial parking building and split open the envelope. Two eight-by-ten inch black and white photographs dropped onto his lap. One was a grainy, badly lit shot, obviously from a surveillance camera. Three men sat round a desk in a crowded office, t
he two facing the camera circled in red pen. The police station, thought Quayle. The second was a better shot of the two men walking towards a car, obviously after release.
There was a note paper in the envelope too. He opened it now.
‘Two watchers circled. False names no doubt. The thin one was called Gasser, Swiss, and the other, Duboir, is a French national. Definitely not playing on any national team. So who for? Release organised by Herr D.G.Schuter – lawyer of dubious background, but recent links put him as an occasional subcontracted advocate for Munchen Dag AG, a Bavarian holding company, and the Geneva law firm of Wald Dressen. Address in the phone book. The watchers dropped at the tower of executive apartments on Feldstrasse. Lift went to the seventh floor. Two apartments only. Clean up crew on the number on the back. Ask for Pauli. Call Bremen tonight.’
Geneva! The name leapt out of the page at him. He tried to place the name of the law firm but couldn’t. They’ll be representing clients anyway, he thought. Maybe even Munchen Dag. He started the car, then drove back onto the street to find a shop that sold maps of the city. He wanted the Feldstrasse. The two watchers would be pulled out quickly, now they were blown – but more would arrive. Be there when the change over happens, he thought. Nice to have a little chat with one first.
He stopped at a magazine stand, bought a map, and then crossed the street to a quick printing shop where he could borrow phone book. Schuters’ name and address were there, just as Kurt had promised. He copied it down and handed the book back to the girl behind the counter with a smile, then walked back to the car map in hand. Now he wanted a list of the directors of both the holding company in Bavaria and the Swiss law firm, and he would ask Kurt for one more favour. Driving into the city, he found yet another friendly shopkeeper, who looked up enquiry agents on his behalf.
Twenty minutes later, he sat opposite a jowly ex-policeman in a shabby Formica and plastic office suite.
“My clients in England have been recommended a law firm in Geneva. It is their custom to check these things carefully. I want a full list of directors and senior partners, established clients and a feel for their reputation. Any hint of, shall we say anything untoward, would be most prejudicial to my clients interests.”
“I understand, Herr..?”
“Collins.”
“And the firm recommended?”
“Wald Dressen.”
The man sat back in his chair, disappointment on his face. He was essentially an honest man and he felt bad about taking a client’s money for nothing.
“Herr Collins, Wald Dressen is a very reputable well-established firm. They also have offices in Munich and Berlin. As a law firm they are above reproach. I would be stealing your money to do a search on them.”
“Nevertheless, I have my brief from my client. Are you prepared to take the commission? If so, what is your fee structure?”
“If you insist. Of course. What currency?”
“US Dollars. Cash.”
“Five hundred a day plus expenses. That buys you my expertise and some people on the ground.”
“Here’s fours days in advance. I have a second commission, same brief on a company called Munchen Dag AG in Bavaria. I don’t have their address…”
“We’ll find it.”
Quayle stood. “I’ll be in touch in forty-eight hours. Please have the task complete. For five hundred a day in cash – which we both know will never be put through the books for the Federal Government to tax – I expect confidentiality. Total and complete confidentiality. Do I make myself understood?”
The big man smiled. “Mr Collins, I forgot you were even here.”
Quayle drove straight to the short stay executive apartments and parked the car up on a side street nearby. Slinging his bag in the boot and rubbing his tired eyes, he walked round to the front and entered the building.
The management office was on the ground floor and a bespectacled young man was delighted to show him a vacant apartment on the tenth floor.
“You have nothing lower?” Quayle asked.
“I’m sorry sir, only one on the eighth floor. The remainder are occupied until the end of the month at the earliest.”
“Well,” Quayle smiled, “the eighth floor should be fine. Same layout?”
“All identical, sir, other than the penthouse up on twelve. That’s larger and has a sunken bath.”
“Good. I shall pay you a month’s deposit now, and take the keys with me.”
As they turned towards the door, Quayle silently dropped his car keys onto the thick carpet.
A few minutes later, as they sat in the office, the young manager filling out the registration forms and receipt, Quayle’s eyes swept the small room, the desk top and the wall planner. Finally, he saw what he was looking for. It wasn’t on the wall at all. It was on the small computer screen. The house list and reservations diary.
He patted his pockets meaningfully.
“Oh dear,” he said, “I seem to have dropped my keys. Must have been up in the apartment we looked at.”
“If you would wait here sir, I could go up and get them?”
The manager was pleased. This booking put him on ninety per cent occupancy –and that was his trigger level for bonus from the company.
“That would be very kind,” Quayle said – and, as the man left the office, he stepped behind the desk and sat down at the keyboard.
The menu was easy and simply asked him for the room number, or date requirement. He tapped in 701 and a name flashed back at him. Morse. Nationality English. He came out and went in again, this time entering 702. The name Keppler came back at him, but the address was familiar. He pulled out his jotted notes. It was the same as Schuter, the lawyer. Must be close to home. They were being careless. He smiled grimly, came out and tapped in 801. Another name came back, so he tried 802. Vacant. It must have been the apartment he had just taken. That meant he was in luck. He was directly overhead. ‘Captain art though sleeping down below,’ suddenly flashed though his mind. It was part of Drake’s Drum, the poem quoted by Teddy Morton on his last visit to Gabriella Kreski. He came back to the menu, walked round to the front of the desk and sat down again. ‘And we will drum them up the channel as we drummed them long ago.’ The warning of the Armada. Full stretched canvas, salt and spray and heavy guns – and a man, legend said, playing bowls on Plymouth Ho. Henry Newbolt’s particular style of patriotism.
Then it came in a flash. The warning. Quayle’s eyes glittered for a second. Then he smiled as the manager re-entered the office, holding a sets of keys aloft.
“Ah. Thank you. That was very careless of me.”
Soon, Quayle left with the keys, collected his bag and made his way up to the apartment. Rolling the carpet back from one corner of the wall, he leant down and attached a sucker cup device to the thin concrete floor. Then, taking the trailing wire, he plugged it into a small micro recorder and listened for a few moments.
Voices and a television in the background. He rolled the enhancer dial a fraction and the sound became clearer. The set was state of the art technology four years ago and had been given to Quayle by a grateful CIA man.
They were in, settled by the sound of it. He listened for half an hour longer, until finally he heard one of them phone out for food and talk about the evening television movie. Satisfied they weren’t going anywhere, he dropped the earphones and turned the battery pack off. Then he showered and decided to try for some sleep. He hadn’t slept properly in days, and now he had a few hours to kill.
He rolled between the clean starched sheets – but with the sleep came the demons, angry and malevolent, and he sat up, sweating and shaking, within an hour of lying down. It was the first time since leaving Serifos. He thought about Holly with Marco in Valldemosa.
It seemed like an omen, so with a shaking hand he reached for the phone – but somehow he found the discipline to be able to put it down again. He could have been traced this far already. Unlikely, but possible.
Getting up, he
walked into the shower and stood beneath the pelting hot water.
*
“That’s it then,” Cockburn said, leaning over her shoulder. The microfiche reader was big and cumbersome so they had walked down into registry to read it there.
“I believe so,” Chloe said. “The date’s right. Italian business-man escapes Libyan Prison. How many could there be?”
“Bugger all from Jebel Muhkta, that’s for sure…”
The news story was from page seventeen of the Times, and rated only four paragraphs, but the man’s name was there.
“OK. Get onto Rome station. Ask them to get a recent address on this individual. Assume they’ll have something by tomorrow. I’ll put together a team from Milburn. Be ready to move in the morning.”
“Milburn? Is that necessary? I rather liked it without them,” she muttered.
“We aren’t the only people looking for them, remember. I don’t like the rough stuff.”
That night, the Station Chief in Rome met a friend for a drink in a cafe after work. The man was in the anti-terrorist section of the police and owed MI6 a favour after they had handed over information about a Red Brigade member who was transiting through Italy. He left almost immediately and, by 8pm, had accessed the police computers, then hauled out operators for both immigration and the expatriate division of the tax department.
By 9pm, he was able to supply not only the man’s Madrid address, but the name of a Spanish journalist who had recently finished an article on eccentric millionaires, a distinction that he felt included Marco Gambini. He handed over a sheaf of photos. The quality was good and the station chief was pleased. They would transmit well. Century would be happy and he could get an early night.
Chloe then raised the station chief in Madrid and asked him to pay a call on the journalist. “We need to know where this Marco character is now. Any hidey holes round the place, weekend retreats, boats, that sort of thing…” She paused to allow the voice scrambler to unravel things and spoke again, “I’ll wait here for you to call back, shall I?”
The Protector: A gripping, action-packed spy thriller Page 22