pouch, and felt the gun. The gun with which she had killed the Russian, the gun he was supposed to drop in the sea.
The helicopter came chopping over the airport, towards the far corner. Down there a car was waiting. When the helicopter settled on the ground, two men got out of the car.
Morgan scrambled out of the helicopter and held out his hand for Anna. She came clambering out, hair flying. They hurried under the downblast towards the car. A third man was getting out, his hand clutching his hat. One man held open the back door for them. Before they reached it, the helicopter was taking off again. Morgan stopped at the car door. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted.
The man indicated the open door and pointed at the helicopter. Then the noise abated as it rose away. ‘Who are you?’ Morgan repeated.
‘Thompson, Security, British Consulate, and that’s Edwards. Get in please, sir.’
‘Identification, please. For all I know you’re KGB.’
The man pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. ‘This’ – he indicated the man with the hat – ‘is Mr Gillespie, the British consul.’
‘How do you do?’ the consul called. ‘Do let’s go.’
Anna held back angrily. ‘May I ask where?’
The consul said, ‘Can we discuss that en route?’
‘No, we cannot!’ She turned to Morgan. ‘Can I have a word?’
She walked away angrily. Morgan followed equally angrily. She turned to him: ‘So it’s the bloody British who want me!’
He gripped her arm and whispered:
‘Anna, at least we’re not on the aircraft carrier! You couldn’t have swum off! Now those two security guys aren’t stage props! We’ve got to go with them and figure it out from there!’ He seized her elbow and led her back to the car.
She got in, furiously. Morgan got in beside her, Thompson beside him.
The consul started the car. He said airily: ‘We’re going to my residence.’ He drove off across the grass. ‘I dare say you could use a hot bath and a decent meal?’
They drove out of the airport, through security gates without stopping, onto the highway. Anna seethed, her hand clammy in Morgan’s, her face averted. They drove through tropical island countryside. Then through seashore suburbs. The car swung into a gateway.
A Union Jack hung from a pole. The iron gates opened electronically. They drove through, and stopped outside the front door. The garden was beautiful. The consul’s wife opened the door, beaming.
She bustled out, and took charge of Anna. The consul led Morgan straight into his study. He closed the door and faced him. He was a nice, bookish man.
‘Now we can speak. Thompson and Edwards are utterly reliable, of course, but we don’t know much about the cloak-and-dagger business here. Now, then, you’ll be perfectly safe, the house is well secured. And comfortable, I hope. Please make yourselves at home. You needn’t worry about being seen, because I was given strict instructions to give the servants the day off –’
‘How long are we here for?’
Mr Gillespie said busily, ‘An RAF plane is coming to fetch you. It arrives after midnight, for reasons of secrecy.’
‘To take us where?’
The consul lifted a white hand. ‘One of your people will be coming here shortly and he’ll answer –’
‘Who?’
‘One of your people. I’ve no idea where the plane’s coming from or going to. Mine not to reason why. All I know is that I am to look after you till then.’
‘I’d like some civilian kit.’
‘Indeed. I have already bought some for you, they knew your size. I was authorized to buy Mrs Hapsburg a change of dress and – er … underwear, but if it doesn’t fit my daughter’s clothing may do so. Oh, and you’re to stay indoors, please. And you’re not to use the telephone.’ He added: ‘All calls go through our central switchboard.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Now, then, business over, what can I get you to drink?’
‘I’m allowed to drink, am I? A beer, please. But I’ll take it upstairs and drink it while I bath.’
‘Of course. My wife will serve luncheon shortly.’
Morgan said firmly: ‘Thank you, but we’ll skip lunch. We’re both exhausted. I think we’ll just have a bath, a drink and a sleep.’
‘Of course,’ Mr Gillespie said, apparently relieved. ‘Would you like my wife to bring a tray to your respective rooms?’
‘That would be a better idea, thank you.’ He added firmly: ‘Mr Gillespie, I don’t know how much head office has told you, but Mrs Hapsburg and I will be sleeping in the same room.’
Mr Gillespie blinked. ‘You mean, for security reasons? …’
‘Both.’
‘Oh …’ Mr Gillespie touched his spectacles. ‘Well, of course.’ He added with a rush of joviality: ‘Beer …’ He bustled for the door. Then stopped. ‘Oh, I’m told to relieve you of your weapons. Evidently they’re not Her Majesty’s.’
Morgan would have liked to toss the gun at the man, like they do in the movies, except it would have alarmed Mr Gillespie. He placed his machine gun on the desk. Just then there was a smart knock, and the door opened:
‘Ah …’ the consul said, even more relieved.
‘Good morning,’ Christopher Carrington said, with his crooked grin. He was carrying a briefcase.
Morgan stared at him.
Carrington propped himself against the bookshelves, pipe in hand, a picture of masculine elegance. In civilian clothes. ‘Arrived yesterday,’ he said – ‘thought the Yanks might spring you from jolly old G.H. yesterday, but no such luck. They made a bit of a mess of it, if you ask me. All that sweat just to’ disperse a few fuzzy-wuzzies? After all, they’re not exactly Zulus, are they? We could have done it with one hand tied behind our backs. Still, I must congratulate you, most sincerely, Jack.’
‘What the hell are you here for, Carrington?’
Carrington lit his pipe.
‘Officially, I’m a naval observer of what the Yanks are up to. Officially Maggie Thatcher’s as sore as a gumboil with Ronnie. Unofficially, I’m here to hold your hand.’
‘You, of all people?’
‘Why not? We’re old shipmates.’
Jesus. ‘Well, I don’t need you to hold my hand. Or Anna’s.’
‘Delighted to hear it. As I say, congratulations, Jack.’ He wagged his eyebrows, gave his jolly smirk: ‘I hope it wasn’t all work and no play?’
Jesus,
