EIGHT

DEVLIN WAS WATCHING a late night movie on television when the phone rang. The line was surprisingly clear, so much so that at first he thought it must be local.

‘Professor Devlin?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Tanya - Tanya Voroninova.’

‘Where are you?’ Devlin demanded.

‘The Gare du Nord. Paris. I’ve only got a couple of minutes. I’m catching the night train to Rennes.’

‘To Rennes?’ Devlin was bewildered. ‘What in the world would you be going there for?’

‘I change trains there for St Malo. I’ll be there at breakfast time.

There’s a hydrofoil to Jersey. That’s as good as being in England. Once there, I’m safe. I’ll catch a plane for London. I only had minutes to give them the slip, so it seemed likely the other routes your people supplied would be blocked.’

‘So, you changed your mind. Why?’

‘Let’s just say I’ve realized I like you and I don’t like them. It doesn’t mean I hate my country. Only some of the people in it. I must go.’

‘I’ll contact London,’ Devlin said. ‘Phone me from Rennes, and good luck.’

The line went dead. He stood there, holding the receiver, a slight ironic smile on his face, a kind of wonderment. ‘Would you look at that now?’ he said softly. ‘A girl to take home to your mother and that’s a fact.’

He dialled the Cavendish Square number and it was answered almost at once. ‘Ferguson here.’ He sounded cross.

‘Would you by any chance be sitting in bed watching the old Bogart movie on the television?’ Devlin enquired.

‘Dear God, are you going into the clairvoyance business now?’

‘Well, you can switch it off and get out of bed, you old bastard.

The game’s afoot with a vengeance.’

Ferguson’s voice changed. ‘What are you saying?’

‘That Tanya Voroninova’s done a bunk. She’s just phoned me from the Gare du Nord. Catching the night train to Rennes. Change for St Malo.

Hydrofoil to Jersey in the morning. She thought the other routes might be blocked.’

‘Smart girl,’ Ferguson said. ‘They’ll pull every trick in the book to get her back.’

‘She’s going to phone me when she gets to Rennes. I presume, at a guess, that would be about three-thirty or maybe four o’clock.’

Ferguson said, ‘Stay by the phone. I’ll get back to you.’

In his flat, Harry Fox was just about to get into the shower before going to bed when the phone rang. He answered it, cursing. It had been a long day. He needed some sleep.

‘Harry?’

He came alert at once at the sound of Ferguson’s voice. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Get yourself over here. We’ve got work to do.’

Cussane was working in his study on Sunday’s sermon when the sensor device linked to the apparatus in the attic was activated. By the time he was up there, Devlin was off the phone. He played the tape back, listening intently. When it was finished, he sat there, thinking about the implications which were all bad.

He went down to the study and phoned Cherny direct. When the Professor answered, he said, ‘It’s me. Are you alone?’

‘Yes. Just about to go to bed. Where are you ringing from?’

‘My place. We’ve got bad trouble. Now listen carefully.’

When he was finished, Cherny said, ‘It gets worse. What do you want me to do?’

‘Speak to Lubov now. Tell him to make contact with Belov in Paris at once. They may be able to stop her.’

‘And if not?’

‘Then I’ll have to handle it myself when she gets here. I’ll keep in touch, so stay by the phone.’

He poured himself a whiskey and stood in front of the fire. Strange, but he still saw her as that scrawny little girl in the rain all those years ago.

He raised his glass and said softly, ‘Here’s to you, Tanya Voroninova. Now, let’s see if you can give those bastards a run for their money.’

Within five minutes, Turkin had realized something was badly wrong, had entered the dressing room and discovered the locked toilet door.

The silence which was the only answer to his urgent knocking made him break down the door. The empty toilet, the window, told all. He clambered through, dropped into the yard and went into the Rue de Madrid. There was not a sign of her and he went round to the front of the Conservatoire and in through the main entrance, black rage in his heart. His career ruined, his very life on the line now because of that damned woman.

Belov was on another glass of champagne, deep in conversation with the Minister of Culture, when Turkin tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Colonel, but could I have a word?’ and he took him into the nearest corner and broke the bad news.

Nikolai Belov had always found that adversity brought out the best in him. He had never been one to cry over spilt milk. At his office at the Embassy, he sat behind the desk and faced Natasha Rubenova.

Shepilov and Turkin stood by the door.

‘I ask you again, Comrade,’ he said to her. ‘Did she say anything to you? Surely you of all people would have had some idea of her intentions?’

She was distressed and tearful, all quite genuine, and it helped her to lie easily. ‘I’m as much at a loss as you are, Comrade Colonel.’

He sighed and nodded to Turkin who moved up behind her, shoving her down into a chair. He pulled off his right glove and squeezed her neck, pinching a nerve and sending a wave of appalling pain through her.

‘I ask you again,’ Nikolai Belov said gently. ‘Please be sensible, I hate this kind of thing.’

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, Boulogne. 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.

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 trenchcoat 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 blade 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?’