The spring sun was shining over Cambridge the next morning, but John Bannon and Tyreen Mackenzie --- known to the staff as Mr. and Mrs. James Baxter --- stayed in their rooms until almost eleven before finally going down for brunch. The hotel was two-thirds full and just about all the guests had the same idea, which led to a slight waiting time for the kipper and kedgeree. They had almost finished the meal when the Tanns came into the main dining room, looking very much the squire and his wife relaxing on a Sunday.
The two men whom they had seen coming into the hotel with the Tanns on Friday evening were once again with their employers. The tall, burly one wore a light-gray suit, the double-breasted jacket of which was so well tailored that you could hardly see the bulge under the left lapel. The shorter, stocky man was as casual as Max Tann: gray slacks and a matching gray rollneck.
They could see now, in the light of day, that the latter man was not simply stocky, but paunchy, around his early fifties, balding fast but with a vaguely military bearing. He also had a pair of ice-blue glittering sharp eyes that took in everything at a glance. The younger man did the same thing, but with the style of a trained bodyguard, a slight turning of the head, followed by quick looks, like swift double takes. Within seconds of entering the room, Bannon guessed, this one would know exactly who was sitting where.
"I think it's time for me to deliver the glad tidings, if you'll excuse me a minute." Bannon stood and headed for the door as a waiter approached with more coffee.
It took only a few minutes to hand in his note at Reception. He saw that the pair of lovers, supplied courtesy of the Security Service, were still in the main lounge, sipping coffee and watching the doors, just as they had been told to do --- wrongly. A Boy Scout would have marked them as suspicious, let alone any of Tann's trained private bullet-catchers.
He lingered in the dining room for another half an hour or so while Tyreen had another couple of cigarettes. The Tann party appeared to be enjoying themselves, eating to the punctuation of bursts of laughter.
Back in their room, they had nothing to do but wait.
By three o'clock they were both getting edgy. Tyreen had thus far refrained from lighting up, instead taking to pacing back and forth across the room. Finally she decided to give up. She'd just retrieved her cigarette case from her purse when the telephone rang.
Bannon beat her to it.
"Mr. Baxter?" The voice had a slight growl of authority to it. The kind of voice you heard from passed-over officers in an army mess.
"Speaking."
"Good. This is Maurice Perkins. I'm Sir Max Tann's staff manager."
"Ah." Bannon kept his voice flat and devoid of expression.
"He's received your kind note and would like to have a word with you, if you have the time."
"Certainly."
"You can come up now, if that's convenient. I know Sir Max is seriously embarrassed about not getting in touch with you before this. After all, you were responsible for dealing with those clowns who tried to hold up the passengers, as well as showing great courage after the explosion."
"Yes, I suppose we performed a small service. Tell me, where..."
"The Senate Suite. Top of the hotel. You go to the tenth floor and there's a private elevator up to the top. One of our people will be there to see you up. That all right?"
"Of course. May I bring my wife?"
There was a brief pause. "We'd rather you didn't, actually. Sir Max wanted a word with you alone. Privately. See you in a few minutes, then?"
He shrugged as he replaced the receiver. "Sounds as though he's going to present me with a medal for bravery. Also doesn't want my wife in on the conversation."
"Obviously not politically correct." The cigarette had been between her lips while she listened to one half of the conversation. She now lit it and inhaled deeply.
"Tyreen, I think you'd better go downstairs. Signal --- as gracefully and silently as you can --- that I'm with him. Just a simple precaution."
"Oh, heavens, John, this isn't going to turn out to be one of the those complete security cock-ups, is it?"
"I don't know. The guy who called --- Maurice Perkins --- is probably the paunchy, military type. Might just have his own reservations, or perhaps they feel I'll be more open if I see him alone. It might even be that Lady T doesn't want competition."
"Me? Don't be an idiot, John."
"In my book you'd be competition."
Taking the cigarette from her mouth, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Just you be careful out there," she said in her best TV-cop-show voice.
It was the tall bodyguard in the gray suit who was waiting for him at the tenth floor. He checked Bannon's name by simply asking, "Mr. Baxter?"
At Bannon's nod he introduced himself. "Conrad." He gave a wry smile. "Sir Max calls me Connie, which is his idea of a little joke." He raised an arm toward the small elevator cage marked Senate Suite. "I handle security for Sir Max and Lady Tasha." He carefully shepherded Bannon into the lift, and before he knew what was going on, Connie frisked him with a quick expertise. "Sorry about that, sir, but we have to be careful, you understand. We were all very impressed at how you and your wife handled the team who tried it on during the cruise --- the Aegean Princess, I'm talking about."
"Yes. Yes, of course, you are."
The elevator carried them to a large lobby that had a set of double doors with Senate Suite picked out in gold on a dark plate to the left. Conrad opened the door and gestured for Bannon to go in, following hard on his back and announcing, "Mr. Baxter, Sir Max."
Close up, Tann looked as smooth as they came: well-shaved cheeks, almost pink over a good layer of tan. He was better looking than in his photographs. Calm deep-brown eyes, the nose a shade too long for symmetry, and the almost polished iron-gray hair swept back with slight wings over the small ears. His movements were controlled, and his manner charming in a way guaranteed to put anyone off his guard.
"Come in, Mr. Baxter. Do come in. Thank you for your note. Most kind. I had planned to get in touch with you anyway. The least I could do was personally thank you for what you did during that incident on Aegean Princess." His handshake was like touching a snake: dry, smooth, and dangerous. The experience made the short hairs tingle on the back of Bannon's neck.
"Now, how about a drink, or tea, or whatever you fancy. This, incidentally," he moved his right hand a fraction of an inch toward the paunchy short man who stood by the window, "this is Maurice Perkins. He's the right side of my brain as far as travel and staff go."
"We spoke, Mr. Baxter." Perkins did not attempt to cross the room for a handshake. He simply nodded, a shade aloof, while his boss clasped Bannon's hand in a grip as tight as a hangman's noose.
"A little tea, if that's not..."
"Tea it is. Excellent choice. Connie, tea for Mr. Baxter. You prefer what, China, Indian...?"
"Just as it comes. Preferably Indian."
"Man after my own heart. My wife adores Lapsang Souchong, but I prefer a good old dish of Darjeeling myself." He had a tendency to draw words out. Soooochong and Darjeeeeling.
"Now, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. You were very kind about my staff and the awful Aegean Princess episode. Terrible business. Haven't got to the bottom of it yet, but we will."
"I'm sure you will, Sir Max."
"Doubtless you heard about what happened to the holdup merchants who were still alive after your bit of gunplay?"
"No."
"Ah, thought you would have heard by now. We very carefully got them off the ship after the explosion, then handed them over to the police in Naples. Unhappily, while they were in the holding cells, mixed up with some very unsavory prisoners, someone took a dislike to them. Used a makeshift knife. All killed during a disturbance. Police cannot determine who did kill them, but they certainly were done."
"I would say that was a happy ending." Bannon again felt the nape of his neck tingle.
"Yes." Tann did not take his eyes from Bannon's. For a second it was like being locked into a staring competition. "Yes. Well. Yes, you have something to tell me? Your note hinted at... Well, I don't know what your note hinted at. Home Office. Foreign Office. Something about my affairs, which cover the entire globe, Mr. Baxter. What was it all about?"
While outwardly Tann seemed charming, Bannon got the impression that the charm was less than skin deep. Beneath the surface lay something malignant: an undertow of bleak, unbalanced evil mixed with the undeniable charisma. This was the kind of man who could bring down countries, charm the worst elements of society, and make black appear to be white and vice versa. Deep down, Bannon surmised that Sir Max Tann could be a very dangerous enemy. His charisma was that of a rabble-rouser If the man chose politics as a profession, he would be able to hold certain segments of society in the palm of his hand. "I think it would be best if we talked in complete privacy, Sir Max."
"Oh, you do?" from Perkins, still beside the window that looked out of the front of the hotel. "You prefer privacy, eh? Those bloody British Telecom people're still working down there. Have been since we arrived. You anything to do with them, Mr. Baxter? Anything to do with people listening to other people's conversations on the old blower?"
Bannon gave Tann a quick quizzical look.
"It's quite safe to talk in front of Perkins, Mr. Baxter. Ah, here's Connie with the tea."
They did not speak while Conrad poured the tea, making it all a little civilized ceremony. When he had finished, Tann pleasantly told him to wait outside, adding somewhat archly, "Mr. Baxter prefers privacy. Don't be offended, Connie, I don't suppose it's personal."
When the bodyguard had withdrawn, it was Perkins who spoke again. "Well, Mr. B., got an answer for me?"
"I didn't quite get the question... Mr. P."
"We are circled about with people who watch. People who follow every movement. People who'd like to listen in to our telephone conversations --- though they can't because we tend to bypass the switchboard."
Bannon opened his mouth, but Perkins had not finished. "We've been quite interested in the little armies of fairy folk dogging our footsteps. You anything to do with that, Mr. B?"
"I can tell you about it."
"Ah," from Max Tann. "Then please, before you tell, why would you tell?" The last rays of charm left his voice, and the question held within it a vestige of something deeply repulsive.
Finally, Bannon replied: "Because I wanted to do something to help. I've always admired you, sir, and doubly so since the Aegean Princess business."
"Admiration. That all? Nothing in it for you? Doing it out of a sense of duty --- whatever it is?"
"Something like that, Sir Max, yes. I'm not even supposed to know about it Just. saw some things in the office that I don't think I was supposed to see."
"So you came trotting down here to tell all."
"No, sir. We've had this weekend booked for the past six weeks. You can check that out, here in the hotel."
Tann nodded. "Yes, we already have. So tell me what it's all about. Just spit it out, James --- that is your name, yes?"
"Yes, Sir Max."
"Well, James. Tell all."
"There's a warrant out for your arrest. You and Lady Tann. They're going to pull you in on Monday morning; and there's another search-and-seizure warrant for the premises in Ludgate Circus --- Tann International --- and also for your private residence. They're Security Service people watching you, and..."
"I told you so, Max," from Perkins. "Couldn't be anyone else'd make such a foul-up."
"Yes, you mentioned that." Max Tann had gone slightly pale under the ruddy and tan cheeks. "What exactly are they arresting me for, Mr. Bax... Oh, to hell with it, why don't we all come clean, Mr. Bannon? It is Bannon, isn't it, not Baxter? Why? How? I want it all or you'll end up with your wife in a neat little plastic body bag. I didn't mention that some of Connie's people are with your wife at this very moment. One's the young gentleman whose wrist you almost broke on Friday night. He thinks your wife's a dish --- his words not mine. I wouldn't presume. But I would presume to order your mutual demise if I don't get the right answers. So let's have a little party, Mr. Bannon. Let's play Truth or Dare, just like I used to play it in my nursery with my dear old nanny."
"She's not my wife." Bannon juggled several complex problems in his head, calculating on the fly. He had not even discussed this possible scenario with Tyreen, yet from the outset Max Tann had known his identity. Now it was up to him to lie. Cover every possible permutation. Lie convincingly, and pray that Tyreen's story jigsawed with his own. Tann was obviously shaken by the very idea of the arrest and search-and-seizure warrants. It was probably the last thing he expected, just as Bannon had not foreseen the exposure of his name. What else did Tann know? he wondered in the split second between sentences. "She's not my wife," he repeated, pleased and a little surprised that he sounded so casual. Deep within him, metal butterflies stirred and sent their anxiety cannoning around his guts.
"Of course she isn't, Mr. Bannon." Tann's voice was silkily smooth. "She's a former officer of the Security Service. So tell me exactly what this arrest business is all about, and why you, of all people, would wish to warn me in advance."
"I haven't the slightest idea what it's all about. All I can tell you is that I've seen the warrants. As for warning you, I've already told you. I've always held you in great regard. Any man who has the intelligence and flair to emerge from practically nothing to become a multibillionaire has my respect..."
"But I didn't come up from nothing, my friend. I came from one of the oldest and most proud families in Germany. I don't use the 'von,' but I am really Sir Max von Tann. My grandfather was a general who fought bravely in the first war, his father was a general, and my great-great-grandfather held one of the highest positions in the Prussian Empire, with blood ties to the Hohenzollern family. Look..." His voice rose as he spoke, and he pulled open his elegant cardigan to one side, revealing a small crest embroidered on his shirt. A shield, surmounted with scrollwork, two crossed swords on a field of gold, and below it a motto: In Familia Vir. In Family Lies Strength.
So, Max Tann did claim a direct link with the old family. "I didn't realize." Bannon tried to sound genuinely astounded. "Sir Max, if you have such a respected and aristocratic background, why do you never use it?"
"Because I prefer things to look as though I came from nowhere, and in some ways I did come onto the scene out of the blue. After all, the Nazis murdered all my relatives, apart from my mother, and stole our family estates. My mother kept very quiet about our background. Officially, I'm dead." A friendly charming smile that caused a flash of pleasure deep in the brown eyes; the twinkling of his irises gave out a strange uncanny impression, as though they were water and a breeze came rippling across them. "Though, of course, many of my close friends and business associates do know from whom I am descended. They're very good about it." He paused, chin lifted and face set in a smile that was, at once, paradoxically condescending and welcoming.
"Well, I have even more respect for you now, Sir Max," Bannon lied. "I came from a pretty middle-class background, and I've had to drag myself up by my bootstraps. I thought I'd done quite well. If you know my real name, then you probably know what I do to serve my Queen and Country."
"Spy. Agent provacateur. Assassin. Saboteur. Right? All those unpleasant things people do in 'The Secret World.' "
"I am a field agent with the Secret Intelligence Service, yes."
"Oh, I think something more than just a field agent, Mr. Bannon. Don't be modest. You are a star, a leader; decorated many times --- in secret, of course. A legend within your service." A pause, as he looked Bannon from head to toe. "I could always use a man like you. Think about it."
"Well." He blinked quickly, then looked away in mock modesty. "I've been lucky." He shrugged his shoulders. "So far. But I'm getting too old to continue living like this. In some ways I suppose I'm well off. At least they've found me a job --- at about a third of my old salary, and with a pension that drops accordingly. That's the way people like me are treated. When we can no longer do the dirty work, the powers that be don't want to know. We're turned out into a life they neither understand nor wish to live."
"And that's the kind of life you live nowadays, Mr. Bannon? Come, come, you could afford to take Ms. Mackenzie on one of my cruises --- not a cheap item, if I say so myself. You don't appear to stint yourself. I understand you have a good London address."
"Bit of a final fling, Sir Max. The cruise, I mean. The job they've given me is a dead end; it's as boring as watching sand in an egg timer. I even have a little sign on my desk that says, 'Beware, the End is Nigh.' Now I'm as good as being put out to grass."
"Yes, I wanted to ask you what actually goes on in that house in Bedford Square."
"Nothing exciting, I fear. Just routine paperwork, trying to cut costs."
"Tell me, Mr. Bannon, why did you find it necessary to use a pseudonym to cruise on my ship, and book in at this hotel?"
"I would have thought it was obvious. Tyreen --- Ms. Mackenzie --- and I are having an affair."
"Which seems to be common knowledge. You are living together, after all."
"There's a kind of double standard about that, as far as my outfit is concerned." Bannon gave another shrug. "Things have changed a little recently, but we used the Mr. and Mrs. Baxter names on the cruise because our relationship was frowned on at the time. It's out in the open now, but in the last few months we've stayed here on a number of occasions and used the other names. That's how the staff here know us, so we decided not to embarrass them by using our proper names for this weekend..."
"Which you claim is a coincidence?"
"I've said so, and you can check with reservations."
"So you've already told me." He gave a little chuckle. "And I've already checked."
Bannon nodded, as though Tann was simply showing common sense. "I might also ask you, Sir Max, how you know all about me. You appear to have gone out of your way to burrow into my past, and I'm sure that wasn't done just over this weekend."
"No. No, that's fair. The truth about that is I have a staff who go through the names of all those who travel on my cruise ships. If they look interesting I authorize a little digging. You looked very interesting. I found the fact that you worked for both the Home and Foreign Offices intriguing, particularly after hearing the details of how the pair of you dealt with those blundering miscreants on Aegean Princess. I remember saying to Connie that you sounded like a couple of hired killers. So we checked you out. Both of you. It's relatively easy, you know."
"Of course I know, sir. I've done it myself. Even took a peep at a file on you at one time. You came up squeaky clean, incidentally; that's why the warrants concerned me so much."
"Maybe I believe you, Mr. Bannon, but I really need to know something about these search-and-seizure warrants. You come to me and tell me this because we happen to be in the same place at the same time. If it turns out to be true --- which I would doubt except for this sudden odd surveillance over this weekend --- I would have known nothing about this. Not that I have anything to hide; my conscience is clear. But I'd like you to think about these warrants for a moment. You say that you saw them. Where was this?"
"At the Home Office."
"And why would you, a big-league field officer now shuffling papers looking after accounts and cutting expenses, why would you be at the Home Office?"
"I was looking for something in their accounts. I'm afraid I can't tell you exactly what." Bannon shrugged his shoulders.
Tann nodded. "Well, Mr. Bannon, how much of a look did you get at these warrants?"
"Pretty brief. Enough time to see your name --- together with that of Lady Tann --- and the address of Tann International's offices."
"You say they're to be enacted on Monday."
"That was the date on them."
"So you had time to see that also?"
"Yes."
"Surely you know that part of the interrogator's art is to draw out things which the person being interrogated does not realize he's seen? This is standard practice with the police, and --- I should imagine --- your employers, yes?"
"Yes." Careful.
"Well, the point's already been proven. It now appears that not only did you see names and places, but also the date the warrants were to be enacted. If you had time to see those things, perhaps you also had time to pick up --- even cerebrally --- the reason for these documents being issued."
The silence stretched out, like a body on a mortuary slab. At the window, Perkins moved and muttered, "Christ, they're using that same damned car --- the Volvo. Been going round and round for the past half hour."
Finally, Bannon replied: "No, no, I can't think of anything." Then: "Wait a minute, though. I can remember something about restrictions on the sale of arms." Out of the corner of his eye, Bannon saw that he had hat least got Maurice Perkins' attention and Max Tann's shoulders seemed to stiffen slightly.
There was a considerable pause before Tann said that, surely, this had to be a mistake. "Arms? Arms as in weapons?"
"Arms as in devices to kill people, yes."
"But I've never had any dealings with armament companies." An uncertain frown, and a slight tremor in his right hand. Then he seemed to recover. "Ah, yes. Yes, I see what's happened. I did buy certain things. We're planning a small museum --- a war museum --- for one of the islands the cruise line owns in the Aegean. It's just a desolate strip of land, but with a pleasant beach. When my ships put in there, we fly a few people over from Greece. They set up a couple of bars, small restaurants, a little store that sells local artifacts. The passengers like a pleasant day on the beach with some amenities laid on." His tone became more convincing as he continued. "One of my people suggested the museum. You wouldn't expect to find something like that out in the middle of the sea. In fact, we start building this summer. Should be done by next year, and it'll house all kinds of things --- aircraft, weapons, paintings, models, simulations. Even a submarine. Pay for itself in a couple of years, we reckon. One of my companies bought quite a number of things for the museum." He gave a brief sigh meant to indicate relief but falling very short of its target. "Well, that's it, I suppose. Some idiot in one of your snooping departments has made a glorious error and taken my purchases as something dangerous and illicit." Tann's expression was stilted and patently unconvincing.
"Then you'll be able to satisfy them, sir. That's good."
Tann turned away, his head moving in the direction of Perkins. "Yes, a relief. A relief indeed, eh, Maurice?"
"A relief? Oh, yes, indeed." Perkins did not sound happy.
Tann began to say something else to Bannon when there was a knock at the door and Conrad put his head into the room. "A word, sir, please." The bodyguard moved his head to indicate that he needed to talk with Sir Max in the relative privacy of the passage.
Tann excused himself, leaving Bannon alone with Perkins, who looked straight at him, then glanced out of the window before settling his cynical eyes back again. "You think my boss is going to buy your story, do you?"
"It's not a story, Maurice. Just the plain, unvarnished truth. Incidentally, I was looking forward to meeting Lady Tann."
"You betcha." Perkins gave a short laugh. "Of course you want to meet her. Everyone does. The famous beauty, Tasha Nicoletti. Amazing what money'll buy for a man, isn't it?"
"Meaning that your boss bought her?"
"Now, I didn't say that, Bannon. I only remarked that it's wonderful what money'll buy."
"Yes, but..."
The door opened and Tann came back into the room. "Maurice, could you join us outside for a few moments." Then, to Bannon: "I'm sorry about this, Mr. Bannon. Duty calls, though. Won't be but a minute."
Bannon nodded and watched as the door closed behind them. He went over to the window and looked down into the street in front of the hotel. Taking in the Security Service's surveillance teams, he thought how well they were assembled. A layman would not have recognized the team as watchers. Only someone with a profound knowledge of surveillance methods could have fingered them for what they really were. So Maurice Perkins was well versed in these things. That was not so unlikely, for he was patently ex-military.
He was just turning away from the window when the door to the bedroom opened quietly. Lady Tann stood just inside the room. Beautiful and even more stunning than the photographs he had seen of her, or the glimpses at the hotel.
She hesitated, her movements quick and full of nervousness. "Mr. Bannon, I know your real name. I only want a quick word." She glanced agitatedly toward the main door. "First, I want to thank you. You tried to save the life of one of the officers on Aegean Princess..."
"Well, I..."
"No, I just want to thank you. It was Lieutenant Mike Nichols. He was my cousin. I know you did all you could to save him." Her eyes glistened with tears just below the surface. "I wanted to warn you, as well."
"Warn me?"
"My husband. He's not what he seems. Please take great care. If you've been of use to him, he'll try to use you again and again. Max can be charming, but his goal in life is terrifying. I don't know..."
The main door opened, and Tann came striding back into the room, stopping suddenly as he saw his wife. "What're you doing in here?" There was a touch of merciless brutality about both his face and voice. Maurice Perkins hovered behind him, looking a little too anxious.
"I thought you had all left." She spoke like someone near to pleading, as though she feared physical pain. "I only..."
"Just wait in the bedroom. We haven't quite finished." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "My dear."
As soon as she was gone Tann altered again, now all smiles, obviously trying to project a conciliatory mood. "I'm sorry to have kept you, Mr. Bannon. You've been most helpful. Both of you. You and Ms. Mackenzie."
"If your gorillas have hurt one hair of her head, I'll..."
"Mr. Bannon, please." His voice oozed with an unlikely sense of serenity. "I apologize most profusely for any belligerence I showed when we first met. If I can do anything to put that right..."
"No, just let us get on with our lives," Bannon snapped. "I came to do you a favor."
"And I appreciate that. I'm quite willing to pay you back with interest. In time you'll appreciate that I had to be absolutely sure of you both. A few answers from your good friend Ms. Mackenzie were all we needed. Just to check out the pair of you."
"Well, you've asked your questions; presumably asked them of Tyreen as well. Now, I'd like to go, sir, if that's convenient."
"By all means, Mr. Bannon. You've done me a service. I'd simply like to repay..."
"It's not necessary. Good afternoon to you, Sir Max." Then, over his shoulder, "And you, Mr. Perkins."
Outside, the burly Conrad was all set to escort him down in the lift. "Not necessary, Conrad. I'll see myself out." He placed the palm of his hand firmly on the bodyguard's chest and pushed him away. As the doors to the elevator closed, he saw the surprised look in the big man's eyes as he stumbled back against the opposite wall.
Tyreen was standing by the window, looking down into the street below, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, when he got back to their suite.
"You've had visitors, I hear?" Bannon went up behind her and locked his arms around her waist.
"A pair of nicely dressed apes, yes. If they weren't so potentially dangerous, they'd be like cartoon characters." Tossing her cigarette into an ashtray, she twisted her face up toward him. "One of them was the oaf whose hand you mangled before we checked in. He's still not happy about that. Became definitely unpleasant about it, John, and he goes by the delightful name of Mr. Archie; his friend is Mr. Cuthbert. They're superior types who'd think rape was their right, and would have no bad dreams if they roasted their grandmothers and served them up as an entrée."
"And these two little charmers asked you questions?"
"Just your hostile interrogation, with plenty of unveiled threats. A very nasty couple, though they seemed to believe me in the end. Sir Max Tann's private knuckle-dragger, Connie, came down and finally checked me out. I presume we were both asked roughly the same questions."
They talked for some twenty minutes, and Bannon discovered that Tyreen had not been asked about the warrants. Tann's inquisitors had zeroed in solely on her relationship with Bannon, the reasons for their use of pseudonyms, and the kind of work going on at the Bedford Square house. They had been particularly interested in when and why Bannon and Tyreen had decided to spend the weekend in Cambridge.
"I gave them the answers they wanted to hear, which was basically the truth." She shrugged. "After that, they seemed to lose interest."
"I wouldn't be too certain about that." Bannon pulled her close to him. Her hair smelled of hay and late summer, and he felt the familiar surge of affection that had become so much part of his life again. "I think I'd better go and make a little telephone call," he said eventually. "I believe The Committee should be kept informed."
Outside, the bank of telephones on Parker's Piece was empty. Bannon dialed the contact number. This time it was a male voice that answered.
"Brother John," Bannon identified himself.
"Brother John. You calling about Knight's Move?"
"No. How long...?" he began. Knight's Move had been their chosen code for extreme emergency.
"Called in less than a minute ago. Move!" The disembodied voice in London had about it the urgency of a bomb threat.
Bannon slammed down the receiver, turned on one heel, and started to run back toward the University Arms. He was less than twenty yards away when he saw Sir Max Tann's Rolls, accompanied by one of the Rovers, moving out from under the hotel's porte-cochère, nosing its way into the traffic.
He slowed to a walk and sauntered into the foyer. "Sir Max leaving us?" he casually asked of one of the porters standing by the door.
"Sudden call back to London. You never know with these wealthy folk. Always on the go." The porter was looking at a five-pound note --- his tip from Tann, no doubt. He appeared to be considering it as paltry.
Bannon did not use the lift, but went up the main staircase, two stairs at a time. The door to their suite was slightly ajar, a room-service table outside. "Did you...? he began as he entered the room, pulling the door wide open.
"Shut it, Bannon." He was looking into the circular little mouth of an automatic pistol, held left-handed by the young thug whose hand he had injured on their arrival. What had Tyreen called him? Mr. Archie?
Across the room Archie's partner, Cuthbert, had one arm around Tyreen's neck; the other held a small weapon Bannon recognized as a little Beretta .22, not exactly a stopping weapon.
Little or not, it was more than enough to compensate for her Arion strength.
"Don't do anything stupid, will you, old chap?" from Archie. "Sir Max so wanted to be here for this. Sends his apologies and all that. Called away unexpectedly. Him and Lady Tasha. Very disappointed, as were Mr. Perkins and Connie. They all wanted to be in on this."
Bannon remained absolutely still, balancing on the balls of his feet, not moving a muscle as he tried to calculate the risk involved in any immediate action. The man who had spoken kicked the door closed, then moved in behind Bannon. His breath was warm and the quiet voice full of menace. The hard cold touch of the automatic on the back of his neck banished all thoughts of any instant attempt at turning the tables.
"Now, Mr. Bannon, sir. We're going to take a little trip. A short journey by car. Just the four of us. Very cozy and nothing to be concerned about." The voice was low, though there was something curious about the pitch.
"Take me." Bannon matched the volume of his voice to that of his captor. "Just take me. Leave Ms. Mackenzie out of it."
"Very chivalrous." The man holding Tyreen moved slightly, pressing the muzzle of his pistol harder into her neck. "Don't you think that's chivalrous, Mr. Archibald? Something you rarely come across these days." The timbre of his voice was almost identical to that of his partner.
"Exceptionally unselfish, Mr. Cuthbert. What a pity it's not in our power to grant such a plea."
Tyreen had been very accurate in her description of these two men. As the one called Archibald moved around Bannon, coming into his line of vision, he saw that the pair looked like escapees from a cartoon. In spite of their immaculate turnout, they presented a bizarre couple. Both had dark hair, cut very short in a style once favored by the Beatles, and the hair coloring seemed at odds with their pink, almost feminine, complexions. The pair were obviously related, for each had unnaturally thick pale lips, while their eyebrows were clownish --- thick inverted Vs --- which made them look as though they were permanently asking questions.
"I really think it's time we got moving." Archibald moved again. "Let me tell you what we're going to do."
"Excellent thought, Mr. Archibald. I was about to suggest the same thing."
"We're going out of this room," Archibald continued, "and down the service stairs. It's five floors down and --- though it sounds a shade melodramatic --- if either of you makes a wrong move, both of you will die."
"Instantaneously, wouldn't you say, Mr. Archibald?"
"Couldn't have put it better myself, Mr. Cuthbert."
"And what happens then?" Bannon tried to sound casual as he desperately thought of some way of immediate escape that would pose no threat to Tyreen.
"We head for the service exit, don't we, Mr. Archibald?"
"Right again, Mr. Cuthbert. The service exit, outside of which there should be a car, complete with driver."
"Then we take this cozy journey?"
"You're very quick, Mr. Bannon. That's about it. Into the car and away. At this time on a Sunday evening it's unlikely we'll be seen by anyone."
"Aren't the two of you going to miss choir practice?" Tyreen asked with no sense of fear. Bannon knew that she was looking for a chance to act, to use her star-born heritage that made her significantly stronger than the three men in the room combined.
"Very droll, Ms. Mackenzie, but we'll have plenty of time for that later. Actually, we do have rather fine voices. Maybe we'll get a chance to sing at your funerals."
"Well, that's very nice for the pair of you." Bannon shifted a little to his right. "But what if we don't really want to make the journey?"
"Mr. Bannon, you have no option." Archibald hefted the pistol uncomfortably in his left hand, and Bannon could see the bandages showing under the cuff of his right sleeve. It was clear that he was not happy using a weapon held in his left hand. "Oh, no, Mr. Bannon. Please don't even think about it." Archibald moved back a couple of paces as he saw Bannon's eyes take in the damaged right wrist. "You actually broke a bone, did you know that?"
"Only one?"
"Very painful. But I'm quite good at pain. I can take it and inflict it, as you'll probably see. Now, could you move over to your lady friend." He made a small gesture toward Tyreen with his pistol. "Oh, come on, Mr. Bannon, don't be tiresome. Just move."
"Better do as he says, darling." Tyreen smiled across the room. "I think they've both got slightly mercurial tempers."
Bannon slowly went over to her, flashing a look that told her that, in spite of their grotesque appearance, he had already taken in the extent of the danger they represented. When people like Archibald and Cuthbert came in pairs they were usually psychotics, and he had no desire to even attempt taking them out until a foolproof moment presented itself.
As their hands touched, Cuthbert stepped forward and snapped a pair of handcuffs around both their wrists. "There," he cooed. "Isn't that a nice lovers' knot? Now, I suggest we move at a steady pace. Mr. Archibald will lead the way, you will follow, and I'll bring up the rear."
"And please don't make us do anything we'd regret," added Archibald. He paused just outside the door, nodded, and led them along the passage to the plain door marked Staff Only.
The rear staircase was bare: concrete steps and whitewashed walls all the way down.Bannon noted that these unlikely toughs both moved with the quick surefooted speed of highly trained soldiers, and the thought that they might possibly be paid mercenaries flicked through his mind. But for their appearance they could have been a couple of men from the SAS.
They were both obviously very alert during the journey down. Bannon had no doubt that any attempted escape would result in fast, sudden death.
At the ground floor, Archibald made a quick gesture with his head, nodding toward a pair of doors with an interior automatic bar lock. For the few seconds it took to get to the doors the pistols disappeared, but both men hemmed in their prisoners, using their bodies to keep them close and moving in the right direction.
The doors opened out onto a side street, where Tann's other Rover sat, its engine purring and a man at the wheel. Archibald opened the nearside door, pushing Tyreen and Bannon into the vehicle, while Cuthbert had the door open on the other side and slid into the rear. In seconds they were moving, crammed close in the back of the car, flanked by the two gunmen.
"Everything okay?" The driver did not move his head, concentrating on taking the car out into the main flow of traffic.
"Like a charm," Cuthbert replied.
"Clockwork, I'd say," Archibald added.
"Wherever we're going, you'll be stopped long before you're out of the city." Bannon felt confident about that probability. With the surveillance teams around, it should not take long for one of the units to latch on to the second Rover.
Yet nothing happened. The only moment that caused any tension in the car was when they had to pull over as, with a shriek of sirens, two fire engines, a pair of ambulances, and a police car hurtled past. They reached the ramp onto the M11 without any sign of police or paramilitary roadblocks, though the driver was constantly warned by Cuthbert to check that nobody was following.
Occasionally Bannon glanced toward Tyreen, and several times their eyes met in cold comfort, reflecting that they were both at a complete loss as to how they could evade their two weird captors.
One further worry was that neither of them had been blindfolded. Nobody seemed in the least concerned that they could follow the route with ease.
"You don't mind us seeing where we're going?" Bannon finally asked.
"Do you mind, Mr. Cuthbert?"
"Not in the least, Mr. Archibald."
The odd pair sniggered and Cuthbert added, "I can't see the Chief letting you trace the way back."
"No return ticket," Archibald snapped smugly.
Eventually they came off the motorway at Exit 8, and for a few minutes Bannon thought they were heading toward Stanstead Airport, but they continued on through the town of Tackley, then turned off onto a minor road about a mile farther on.
Now it became difficult to follow directions as they twisted and turned through a series of lanes and secondary roads with few signposts. At last the Rover made an abrupt turn through an open gateway, up a long winding drive flanked by shrubbery that appeared to have been allowed to grow wild and out of hand. There were places where the bushes, encroaching on the drive, scraped against the car. Finally the headlamps picked out what looked like a large Victorian house. In the darkness the gables and brickwork took on a sinister look: a Gothic pile gone to ruin, its silhouette black against the dark sky. It could have come from the Brontës or Dickens: Wuthering Heights or Bleak House.
The driver flashed the lights of the Rover, and an answering pinpoint of light came from the doorway.
"Not here yet, by the look of things," the driver muttered.
"Late for their own funerals," Cuthbert said brightly.
"Never mind, we can all make ourselves comfortable." Archibald gave Bannon a prod in the ribs. "We've arrived, Mr. Bannon. Everyone out."
"All ashore who's going ashore," Cuthbert added.
Still handcuffed together, they climbed from the car into the chill night air. There was a hint of rain in the wind, and the driver was talking, low and fast, to a sixth person --- a tall young woman carrying a large electric torch.
The driver turned to speak to Archibald, while Cuthbert remained close to the two prisoners. "At least Beth's got food ready for us."
"I don't know about food, but I'm dying to use a bathroom," Tyreen spoke up.
"Well, you're the lucky one," from Archibald. "Beth here'll make certain you won't try and run for it."
Inside, the house appeared to be deserted, with little furniture and no electricity. Candles had been set at vantage points, and the three men took great care in uncuffing Bannon from Tyreen, crowding them both, making sure they were given no opportunity to try an escape.
In turn they were taken to a ground-floor bathroom covered in mildew, which was quite visible in the light from a pair of candles. The newcomer, Beth, who was careful to keep her face in shadow, guarded Tyreen, and Cuthbert watched over Bannon. They were then taken up the main stairs, which creaked and cracked underfoot. The house smelled damp, musty, full of decay, and the room --- two flights up --- in which they were eventually locked had the paper hanging in great triangles off the wall. In one corner there was an old iron radiator to which they were handcuffed --- two pairs this time --- and left with a single candle burning in the center of the room.
It was a long narrow chamber with one dormer window and bare wooden boards underfoot. At one time this could easily have been a servant's bedroom, and Bannon wondered what misery the place had seen in the shape of young girls sent away from home for the first time and finding themselves with this small room as their only place of privacy.
A few moments after they had been secured to the radiator, Beth returned with two cups of a nondescript soup and a couple of chunks of bread. She said nothing to either of them, though Tyreen tried to make bright conversation and thank her. They heard a key click in a lock outside and her footsteps echoing away on the dry rotting boards as she went downstairs.
"What do you think, John?" Tyreen whispered.
"I think we'd better try and get out of these damned handcuffs." He looked down at the shackle on his wrist and gave it a tug. "Solid as a stone."
"This one's rusty as hell, but I'm going to try." She felt up and down the pipe with her free hand. It was obviously the conduit for hot water to flow into the radiator, but a professional plumber would have problems getting it unscrewed even with proper tools. "You think they've got orders to kill us?" she asked.
"Not yet, but I think it's an even bet that they're waiting for orders. If they had been told to do away with us, it would be all over by now."
"A happy thought." She was twisting the cuffs against the pipe, turning her right hand over and over so the short chain tightened.
"They're a happy little pair. Psychopaths of the kind who take a pride in their work. I guess they're Tann's human Rottweilers."
Eventually Tyreen could move the chain no further. Now she used her left hand to add pressure on the right-hand cuff, trying to see if she could get enough leverage to shatter the pipe, or even break the chain between the cuffs.
Not for the first time, she wished that she had the strength of an Arion Prime. Marlen could have shattered the chain and the cuffs --- and the pipe and the entire radiator --- without any effort.
After half an hour of effort Tyreen stopped; drank the soup, which had gone cold; and ate a couple of mouthfuls of bread. She did not want to raise any false hopes, but the radiator pipe was bending slightly against the steel of the cuff, causing a cutting bruise in her wrist but certainly doing some damage to the rusted metal.
She rested for a few minutes and then began again. Far away, deep below them in the house, they could hear voices as the three men and Beth talked.
"We must be well away from any other houses," Bannon said. "They're behaving as though they own the place."
"Of course we've no way of knowing if they do," she replied, panting with the exertion of working on the pipe. She worked on, making a little more progress, not about to give up, though her wrist soon became torn and bleeding. She had no idea of what time they had left, but slowly the old radiator pipe was cracking under the tough steel of the handcuffs. Minutes turned into hours and time had absolutely no meaning, then suddenly, with a loud wrenching crack, the pipe gave way and she gently pulled her hand free of the radiator.
The candle was guttering, almost out, and from beyond the grimy window came the first sign of dawn, the sheer black night turning into an unearthly pearly light.
There was nothing she could do about getting Bannon free, as he was shackled to the main section of the old radiator. Flexing her torn, bruised, and bleeding wrist, she stretched out her legs and began to try and move all her limbs, which were cramped and singing with pain. She had just managed to get herself into an upright position, leaning her back against a wall, when the bright light of a pair of headlamps swept across the window and there was the sound of a car stopping behind the Rover in front of the house.
Pulling herself along the wall, Tyreen slowly made her way to the window but kept to one side, not daring to let herself be seen. The small dormer window was set into the roof of the house, and from below came the sound of voices raised in argument. She heard Cuthbert say, quite loudly, "But we can't just leave them here."
Another voice, which Bannon identified as Max Tann's, said, "Well, that's what we're going to do. I want no more blood on anyone's hands. Not yet, anyway. We have a lot to do."
"They'll turn us in, Chief!" from Archibald.
"Get in the car, you perverted little monster, and do as the Chief says." This time, according to Bannon, the voice was that of Maurice Perkins.
"I'm not perverted. You've no right to speak to me like that. Cuthbert, help me. We can't leave that pair upstairs."
"We have to if the Chief says so."
There was the sound of a short scuffle and a yelp of pain from Archibald: "That's my bloody wrist, Perkins. Leave me alone."
"Get in the car, then. We haven't got that much time."
Tyreen pulled herself right up to the window and saw that both the Rovers were outside, motors running, the first one about to pull away. Then, as she strained her eyes, she clearly saw the figure of Max Tann in the headlamps, as he stomped around the front of the second car and bent to get into the rear seats. Moments later the cars moved off, their taillamps growing dim as they headed down the drive.
She waited for a good three to four minutes, crouched by the window, listening for the sound of anyone left below them. Nothing. Not a movement nor a word.
"John," she called gently. "John, I'm free and..."
"And they've gone. I heard. What the hell's happening?"
"Well, we're alive, so I'm going to see if they've left anyone behind." Tyreen went over to the door, tried the handle, felt slight movement against the flimsy lock, then stepped back and kicked. The woodwork around the lock splintered and the door swung back.
Flattening herself against the wall, she listened for ten seconds. There was nothing inside the house, just the wind outside.
A slight glimmer from the dawn was starting to filter into the windows below. The candles had been extinguished, so she waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness, wishing that she had a cigarette to help calm her nerves, before making her way along the passage to the stairs, then down to the second-floor landing, with its long balustrade leading to the main staircase and the hall.
In the hallway the front door had been left open, blowing a chilling wind into the shell of the house. Some debris, paper or leaves, flicked through the door, making a scratchy sound on the quarry-tiled entrance.
In the hall, by the foot of the stairs, she saw something small, hunched, and black, which at first she thought was cat or, worse still, a large rat. She kicked out in a reflex, and to her surprise the object skittered along the floor, hitting the skirting board with a dull thud and the sound of a bell. It was an old telephone, still attached by its cord to the wall.
She lifted the receiver, expecting nothing, and almost jumped with fright as she heard the dial tone. Automatically she dialed the contact number. It was a female back at the distant end.
"Sister Teresa," Tyreen said, hearing the rasp of her dry throat and realizing that she was out of breath.
"Give me the answer to question two, Sister Teresa."
Obviously nobody back in London was taking chances. Before leaving for Cambridge they had been through the usual list of code words and what they liked to call telephone security. Tyreen viewed all this with a certain amount of cynicism, but she dragged the correct word out of her memory.
"Just hold one moment, ma'am."
"Mac?" It was the voice of Bill Turner, C's Chief of Staff. "Mac, where the hell are you?"
"I haven't got a clue. You'll have to do a trace. It's somewhere the other side of Stanstead Airport. Not certain of the exact location. Old Victorian property falling to pieces. I think it probably belongs to the Tanns, because they've just left here."
"They can't have." Turner sounded almost shocked.
"Well, put a trace on this damned telephone."
"Yes, we're doing that."
"And why can't the Tann's have just left here?"
"Because," Turner said slowly, "they were killed in a car accident just outside Cambridge last night. I've seen the bodies myself. Sir Max, Lady Tasha, and their driver."
"You've seen the bodies?"
"What's left of them. Burned out of recognition, but it couldn't have been anyone else."
Two police cars and a further three vehicles used by the Security Service arrived at the house within fifteen minutes of Tyreen Mackenzie's conversation with Bill Turner. Only later did they discover that the property --- Hall's Manor --- was a crumbling relic of better days, five miles south of the village of Hope End.
Originally built by a mid-Victorian businessman, the rambling house was locally thought of not only as a "Folly" but also a place of hauntings. People in nearby villages usually steered well clear, and recently there had been stories of lights in the night, and other forms of ghostly activity.
The Hall family had followed in the path of so many similar self-made Victorian clans, they said, going from rags to genteel poverty in three generations, leaving the dilapidated Manor as a huge, quite useless blot on the landscape. Any sale of the land was now blocked by a mad old relative who lived in a home for ladies in reduced circumstances while she clung to the dream that Hall's Manor would one day be great again.
Bannon had been taken to the nearest hospital for a couple of hours to wait while Tyreen had her wrist dressed and attended to. Turner had arranged for the Saab to be driven to the hospital and they continued their journey back to London, where they lunched well, returning to the flat off the King's Road to rest and recover.
By the evening, they were restored enough to take a short walk to one of their favorite restaurants, after which they retired to bed and slept, holding each other close, for almost twelve hours. Eventually they were woken by the telephone call that summoned them both to a full briefing on the situation.
Over a late breakfast they went through the papers. Sir Max had certainly made the headlines --- Tycoon and Wife Killed in Horror Car Crash; Accident Claims Lives of Philanthropist and Wife. Prominence was also given to the fact that, within hours of his death, Tann's headquarters near Ludgate Circus, and his Chelsea home, had been raided by the police officers --- including members of the antiterrorist and bomb squads, as well as officers from the fraud squad and security experts.
Now they were back where things had started, in the reading room at the Home Office, with the events of the previous day lingering uncomfortably in everyone's mind.
The Minister opened the proceedings: "Now that the warrants have been acted upon, we seem to be in a paper maze." One of his men took over, briefing them on what they had discovered so far. Eventually the subject turned to the accident outside of Cambridge.
"So, nobody actually saw the accident?" Tyreen Mackenzie looked up from the pile of grisly photographs that lay on the table before her. Weak late-afternoon sunshine slanted through the window and across the highly polished table but did nothing to reduce the horror depicted in the photos. They were so horrible that Tyreen felt absolutely no urge to light up a cigarette.
"As I understand, nobody actually saw the accident. So will you go over the events again, Bill, just to humor me?" This from John Bannon.
Turner smiled bleakly. Things, he said, had not gone well from the start. The surveillance teams had been unable to tap into both incoming and outgoing telephone calls. "Tann seemed to be using some very sophisticated electronics," he told Bannon, who recalled Maurice Perkins' boast about "people who like to listen in to our telephone conversations --- though they can't because we tend to bypass the switchboard."
"It was only after the sudden departure last night that we managed to steal a peep at them," Turner admitted. "Even then it was some chatter between two of the cars. They were heading for Duxford airfield, we thought that was probable, but they were staying off the Motorway, taking side roads, going by the villages. As you know, some of those minor roads are dangerously narrow."
The surveillance teams had Sir Max's party well boxed in. The Rolls was being led by one of the Rovers, and Turner's people were able to drive well in front, with another party staying back about a mile.
"We were checking out Duxford. Wondering if Tann's corporate jet had landed there, which was unlikely, and, in the event, it hadn't. Our people who were following got the first hint that something was wrong. When the accident occurred, there was a trail of flame and smoke which could be seen from the Motorway itself."
The police by this time on the Tuesday afternoon had put things together, and their findings lay next to the photographs. The Rover, ahead of Tann's Rolls, had disappeared, but the Rolls itself had been in a head-on collision with a heavy tanker that had no business being on that particular secondary road anyway. The driver of the tanker, together with the Tanns and their driver, had probably died instantly, their bodies consumed by the flames that followed the impact.
"As I told you before, John, the damned tanker was carrying highly flammable jet fuel. It was the tanker that exploded. Probably engulfed the Rolls in a matter of seconds."
Tyreen turned back to the photographs, which showed the Rolls as a skeleton of twisted, burned metal, concertinaed into the cab of the tanker, which had been reduced to a similar skeletal wreck. The road, they said, had been closed for almost six hours.
In the next set of photographs what was left of the four victims had been laid out in the mortuary at Addenbrooke's Hospital, Cambridge: unrecognizable charred remains, each in the grotesque boxer's position that is assumed by the human body after death by burning. The only real evidence was that three of these terrible black mounds had once unmistakably been males; the fourth was a female.
"What about identification?" Bannon asked, looking over Tyreen's shoulder.
"John, you know as well as I that the old dental records are really for the thriller writers. You can seldom get hold of them, but we're running DNAs on all four bodies, using traces of hair and the like, taken from the Tanns' home, as comparisons. A week, maybe ten days for solid proof. The only things we have to go on are the remains of a necklace identified as having been worn by Tasha Tann, and what's left of a Rolex that could have belonged to Sir Max."
"But we know that the bodies can't belong to them --- at least Sir Max's can't," Tyreen looked straight into Turner's eyes and saw him look away. "So," she continued, "none of you are going to take us seriously. You have bodies removed from the Rolls and the tanker. I have my own eyes and ears. At least Max Tann was still alive early yesterday morning and was there at Hall's Manor. Now, let's go through the possibilities. You maintain that only the Tanns and their driver occupied the Rolls, so how many people were crammed into the Rover?"
Turner repeated his earlier statement that, when it left the University Arms, the Rover contained a driver by the name of Hawker; Maurice Perkins; the man they called Connie --- in fact identified as Conrad Albert Starks --- Lady Tann's maid, a girl called Sarah Foster; and Tann's valet, Greg Drummond.
Bannon and Tyreen went through the information they had on these five members of the entourage. As far as they could see, Perkins was employed as Tann's fixer. He had overall control of the security, and also dealt with mundane matters like travel arrangements, hotels --- when they were used --- and the general running of Sir Max and Lady Tann's lives outside business.
"I've a shrewd suspicion that he was deeply into the daily running of Tann International as well," Bannon had said when they first went through the list. "He seems to be on pretty close terms with Tann. While I was with them he talked to Sir Max as an equal. A partner even."
The Head of Special Branch, Wilson, told them that there was "nothing known" --- as the police computers showed --- regarding either Perkins or the driver Hawker, while the maid and valet were also simply ciphers. Conrad Starks was another matter entirely: personal bodyguard, probably with control over other muscle employed by Tann International. Starks had a record that included one short prison sentence for GBH --- grievous bodily harm --- and another charge concerning firearms of which he had been acquitted. His past, however, included a military background with several years spent with the Special Air Service. He had even received a citation for bravery during the Falklands campaign.
"All right," Bannon leaned back in his chair. "I'll tell you again. Tyreen and I were placed in the dangerous position of being prisoners of some of Tann's other bodyguards. A precious pair who called each other Mr. Cuthbert and Mr. Archibald. Anything known there?" His question was directed at the Head of Special Branch, who shook his head and deflected the query toward Turner.
"They are fully described by the surveillance teams. We even have photographs, but there's absolutely no other information, and I have to ask you, John, if this could have been a personal matter. You did have a run-in with Archibald when you arrived at the University Arms. We've even got that on tape. A slight case of overkill, we thought."
"Not from where I was standing. The little twerp was being officious, trying to stop me going about my business. If you have a sound track on the video, you'll also know that he threatened me and even presented himself as official security --- which he was not."
"So you would deny what happened on Sunday afternoon and early evening being in any way a personal thing?"
"Absolutely, and Tyreen will back me up."
Tyreen nodded and took up the story. "They left us in no doubt that they were acting on Tann's instructions. Personally, I think those two jokers --- and they are very weird people --- believed that they were going to be ordered to kill us and dispose of the bodies at Hall's Manor. Now, by the end of Sunday, and in the early hours of Monday morning, John and I saw or heard the following people: Cuthbert and Archibald, one driver whose name was never mentioned, a tall, long-haired girl called Beth, Maurice Perkins, and Max Tann. We are simply presuming that Lady Tann was also in the Rover that arrived at the Manor in the early hours. Cuthbert, in particular, was very annoyed that they were just going to leave us there. We were not drugged, I had managed to get free, damaging myself as I did so." She lifted her right arm. "But I do know what I saw and heard. You, on the other hand, received no reports on either of the two Rovers."
Turner shrugged, giving a slightly grudging "No."
"Yet police and the other surveillance people were on the lookout for both cars?"
"Yes."
"Which leaves us with one possibility." Bannon leafed through the papers in front of him. "It would seem that Lady Tann's maid, the Foster woman, and Sir Max's valet were of a similar build and stature to their employers."
"We'd have to agree with that, yes." Turner's face showed that he did not like the direction Bannon was taking. "I can tell you what you're going to suggest, John, but can you really believe that someone like Tann could be so ruthless?"
"Yes. Out of the blue he's suddenly in deep trouble. If C's informant... What was his name? Phillip Dahl...?"
C nodded but contributed nothing to the conversation.
"If Phillip Dahl is correct, friend Tann, captain of industry, pillar of the community, philanthropist extraordinary, was about to have the rug pulled out from under him. If Dahl is right, the man's conscience hasn't stopped him from dealing in death --- smuggling arms and explosives. When I dropped the news on him, Tann was incredibly calm, really extraordinarily cool under fire, though Perkins appeared to be more shaken. I don't see a man like Tann thinking twice about doing what I'm going to suggest."
"And you're suggesting that he's faked his own death, together with the death of his wife." Turner's voice was losing its skepticism.
"In fact, he's murdered four people --- Lady Tann's maid, his valet, and two drivers." This from Wilson.
"Exactly. Anything known about the tanker driver?"
There was a long, tense silence at the end of which Wilson shook his head. "Tell you the truth, Bannon, we don't even know where the tanker was coming from, or even if it belongs to some local firm operating out of Duxford airfield."
"So doesn't this convince you?" Bannon was appealing to the entire group seated around the table. "I followed your instructions; tipped him off that he was about to be arrested on illicit arms dealing, and that the headquarters of Tann International was about to be searched. Object --- your idea --- was to flush him out; con the press and pick him off as he tried to get rid of evidence. Instead, he puts together a very quick plan to turn up dead and unidentifiable. Doesn't any of that make sense to you?"
"Far too much sense." The Minister glanced toward C, who nodded and turned to Bannon.
"John, the fact is that I suppose we really didn't want to hear any of this. I know you well enough to believe everything you say. You've outlined a distinct possibility. Now, what's your gut instinct about Tann's movements after he picked up the three people from Hall's Manor?"
"They were very close to Stanstead, sir. I heard one of them, Perkins I think, say they didn't have much time. An educated guess would be that they flew out of Stanstead within an hour of leaving Tyreen and myself."
Wilson rose from the table. "I'll get my people to go through private departures from Stanstead yesterday morning. We're looking at what? Eight passengers?"
"Nine, I fear." C looked grave and miserable. "I've kept touch with our squads at Tann International HQ and at his private house. Nobody's seen hide nor hair of Phillip Dahl. It's very much on the cards that he's been spirited away. Or worse."
Wilson left the room, and there was a short silence before the Minister spoke. "It seems our only hope is that we can sort our way through the paper chase. If we come up with further firm evidence that Tann may be alive, we'll naturally alert everyone, from Interpol to agents of the Secret Intelligence Service, to go on an offensive lookout for him. Now, is there anything else we can do?"
"I'd like to know a little more about the two clowns, Cuthbert and Archie, and try to pin down the identity of the girl they called Beth. It wouldn't be a bad idea to find out if one of Tann's companies has acquired Hall's Manor as well. Someone mentioned that the locals have kept clear because of lights and activity in recent weeks. If Tann has some right to use the building, he certainly wouldn't simply bring it into play for his plan to turn up dead. The place it too close to Stanstead for my liking."
He was about to continue when Wilson returned, his face a mask of anger. "Bad news, I fear. A corporate jet, belonging to a company called Rendrag Associates. There's no such company, of course, and the aircraft livery looked as though it had just been done. Also, the descriptions fit and they had filed a flight plan to Paris, Charles de Gaulle, but there are indications that this was not their final destination. I have people working on it." He sat down, took a deep breath, and tried to control his anger. Eventually: "I'm sorry. This should not have happened. My people've slipped up badly."
The Minister opened his mouth, but the one telephone in the room, which sat in front of him, purred softly. He picked up the instrument and spoke into it quietly --- barely a whisper. Almost immediately his eyes lifted, glancing across toward C. "He's here. One moment." A hand covered the phone as he told C it was for him. "Urgent," he added, holding out the handset.
C grunted into the telephone, then became suddenly alert. "You're absolutely certain it was Boxwood?... And the voice print is a match?... Good... Yes... Yes, have it sent over immediately, with an armed guard.... No. No, I am not joking. When I say an armed guard, I mean it. The Chief of Staff will be outside to pick it up from you. Yes. Now." He returned the handset to the Minister, who replaced it on its cradle. Before saying anything else, he looked at Turner. "Get downstairs, Chief of Staff. The DO's sending a small packet over. We need it here, and we need it now."
Without a word, Turner rose and left the room.
"I presume we have such a thing as an audiocassette player in this building?" C addressed nobody in particular but the Minister nodded.
"What...?" he began, but C was already addressing the assembly.
"It seems that my man Philip Dahl has surfaced. We have a secure line with voice analysis and a number of other technical wonders built in. Dahl has left a message on the tape about an hour ago. The Duty Officer has had it unscrambled, and it's undoubtedly Dahl. His code name is Boxwood, and the DO says the message is ultra-urgent."
C slipped the tape into the machine, adjusted the controls, and asked that nobody speak until the tape had been played at least once.
The voice was controlled, pitched low, but its owner spoke with confidence:
This is Boxwood. I don't think I have long, but what I have for you is of the utmost importance. You may be under the impression that our mutual friend Morgan is dead. He's not; neither is his lady. We're at a villa he owns in the hills above Seville. We flew into Paris and then on to Spain early yesterday morning, and I'm obviously under a certain amount of control. Two of the party are watching me quite closely, though they're not difficult to evade. I have all the papers you'll need to get at the heart of the evidence. I can get away with ease tomorrow, and will be in the Jardines del Alcázar at midday precisely. I shall be wearing jeans, a denim jacket, and will carry a satchel over my right shoulder if the coast is clear. If things are difficult, it'll be over my left shoulder.
I'd suggest that you pick me up, by car or motorcycle, from the street known as San Fernando. I'll expect somebody carrying tomorrow's Financial Times using the same signals as myself: right hand okay; left hand uncertain. If you can pick me up, all well and good. If anything goes wrong, get the satchel at all costs. From what I've overheard we are only going to be here for two days, so we have only one shot. I'm not going to pinpoint the villa for you, because any assault would be very dangerous. Also, you need what I have in order to unlock the doors to Morgan's secrets. Tomorrow. Midday.
There was an audible click on the tape as Dahl hung up somewhere near Seville.
"As I said," C spoke, "Boxwood is Philip Dahl, and he knows more than anyone about Tann's dealings. Morgan is Tann. We thought an old pirate's name was acceptable. Now, there's only one answer to this. As much as we want Max Tann behind bars, our first loyalty must be to Philip Dahl. Without him we might have months of work ahead. I'll see to it that a team of my best people fly out to Seville tonight."
"Sir," sharp and uncompromising from Bannon.
"Forget about it, Bannon." C's face became granite hard and his eyes appeared to change to the color of pewter. His eyes scanned the two agents' faces. "They know who you are. You and Mackenzie both."
"With luck, Tann and his people'll never see us, sir. I'm simply requesting that we pick up Dahl for you. I'll make a plea for going after Tann later. I think he's our due. He's mine to hunt and kill if necessary. This is a sideshow that Tyreen and I can do standing on our heads."
The long silence was finally broken by C. "Be it on your heads, then."
The girls from the Seville Flamenco School presented a unique splash of color, their long skirts lifting and whirling as they danced on top of the tablao --- the slightly raised platform --- which had been set up some forty yards into the Alcázar Gardens. There were two guitarists, and the four girls who danced gave a counterrhythm with castanets and stamping of feet, while one of the guitarists broke into occasional guttural shouts of encouragement that are always part of a juerga --- a carousel or spree of singing and dancing.
Juergas are held regularly in the open air during the spring and summer in Seville. The distinctive melodies and chords, the almost aggressive beat of the dancers' feet with the counterpoint of clapping, made the scene come alive for locals and tourists alike, who crowded the gardens. Looking out to the back of the palace that was the Alcázar, and the huge Cathedral, just visible behind it, eyes and ears were stunned by the music, the sensual beauty of the movement, and the almost overpowering backdrop of massive architecture.
Earlier that morning, Tyreen Mackenzie and John Bannon had looked up at the Jerez Gate, walked through both the Cathedral and the Alcázar Palace, and drunk in the sense of history that shows in both architecture, setting, and even in the faces of the people of this melting pot of Europe.
Though the sky was a light, cloudless blue, the sun was still thin and there was a chill in the air. In a month or two the heat would be strong and unrelenting, but now --- at around ten minutes to noon --- Bannon was glad of the motorcycle leathers he wore as he sat outside the Alcázar Gardens, a glass of rough Spanish brandy in front of him.
They had come in from Gibraltar, courtesy of a Royal Air Force jet from Northolt, on the previous evening. Two dark-skinned men, who spoke Spanish with the accents of Andalucía, and an English so flawless that it was difficult to determine their true origin, had driven them across the frontier. Then they headed up the coast to Seville, depositing Tyreen at a small apartment where a third man, together with a silent suspicious-looking woman, waited to make sure they had all they needed: food, drink, and the other essential items for the pickup due to take place at noon on this the following day.
On the aircraft they had both studied detailed street maps of Seville, and marked out the route they would take once Dahl had been lifted. Now they would have time to organize the final stages of that journey: a route that would bring them and the rescued Dahl back to the apartment.
The man and woman at what was so obviously a safe house checked that the motorcycle leathers and helmet were right for Bannon, showed him where the big Triumph was hidden, in a small lockup three minutes' walk from the apartment, and did not leave until they were satisfied that the plan for the following day was timed to the second. C had insisted that some of his other people were around to act as backup. Tyreen and Bannon did not recognize any of them, but from their long experience in the Security Service did recognize the type: people bound by the silence of secrecy, and dedicated to seeing that a dangerous job was carried out with no hitches. If anything was to go wrong, the fault would not lie on the consciences of those who planned the operation.
Both of them had their preferred weapons, Bannon a 9mm Browning ASP and Tyreen a smaller, though equally deadly, Walther PPK Special. In the early hours of the morning, they sat in the small apartment, stripped the weapons, checked and rechecked them, then, holding each other, drifted off into shallow sleep.
The silent woman had returned at five-thirty in the morning, gently wakening them, preparing coffee, newly baked rolls with preserves and butter. They hardly spoke to one another as they ate, or later as they walked through the town, taking in the main vantage points around the Alcázar Gardens, and the streets that twisted around the area.
Now, as the hands of his watch moved nearer to midday, Bannon tossed some currency onto the table and walked away, turning left into the street around the corner from the café. He had timed it earlier: exactly two minutes to get from the café to the Triumph, draw on his gloves, and settle the helmet and visor on his head. He swung into the saddle, kicked the engine into life, and felt the immense power begin to rumble under him, his hand on the throttle, twisting and running the engine in short, noisy bursts. Finally, he checked that the automatic pistol was in place and could be reached easily if necessary before knocking away the bike's stand and slowly pulling up to the street that led into the San Fernando. Across the road he caught a glimpse of Tyreen moving purposefully toward his left, her shoulder bag held in her right hand, together with a copy of the Financial Times. Dahl had arrived.
He swung the bike out onto the street, filtering into the traffic going right. There was a large roundabout some twenty yards down, and this allowed him to turn full circle, bringing him back into San Fernando, so that he could stop on the right-hand side, within feet of Tyreen. He negotiated the roundabout, and thirty yards away, he saw Dahl break from the crowded Gardens, walking casually toward her. He was dressed exactly as promised: blue jeans, denim jacket, the heavy leather satchel hanging almost carelessly over his right shoulder.
Bannon pulled over, glancing in his mirror to the right, then left. It was as his eyes flicked over to the left that he saw the other bike. It was a Harley-Davidson, but with a pillion passenger. He cursed, as there was no way he could cut it off as it came roaring up behind him, swinging and passing close enough for him to feel a slipstream that had him momentarily fighting for balance.
Everything, from that moment, seemed to happen in slow motion. Bannon had been alerted by the second bike, but did not completely take in the danger. As he straightened his motorcycle, he was aware of the Harley picking up a burst of speed, cutting in front of him, slewing to the right, causing him to brake violently.
He saw the back of the second bike and watched helplessly as it shot ahead, pulling over to slow slightly right in front of Tyreen and Dahl. Then the pillion passenger reached out, a small black shape in his gloved hand. Later Bannon could have sworn he heard the three loud pops. He certainly saw the driver flick his hand out and grab at the satchel as Philip Dahl was whipped backward by three bullets, his head disappearing in a fine mist of scarlet as the bullets caught him in the face. He saw Tyreen's eyes and mouth, a dreadful carving of horror; the mouth frozen open in a scream of anger, her eyes wide, flaring. He saw her reach for the gun in her shoulder bag and turn sideways as though she expected to feel bullets penetrating her own flesh.
He was powerless, and thought that she had also been hit as the crimson cloud appeared to float over her, producing great red blotches of blood and matter across her face; but by the time she had the weapon half out of her shoulder bag, the Harley was roaring away, weaving through the traffic.
The Triumph leaped forward as his hand opened the throttle: at least he knew that his bike was more agile than the Harley. Whatever else had happened, the only thought now filling his mind was the recovery of the satchel.
He could not have predicted the Renault suddenly cutting in front of him. As Bannon swerved to avoid it, the Triumph's front tire hit the curb at an oblique angle. The bike turned on its side, skidding in one direction along the sidewalk as he rolled in the other.
Tyreen had to leap aside to prevent being taken out by the skidding motorcycle. A quick glance showed John Bannon nursing his right leg as he sat up on the sidewalk. She didn't know how bad he was hurt, but somebody had to recover the satchel.
She was the one closer to the motorcycle, now resting on its side about eight feet from her. Going quickly to it and throwing off her coat, she pulled it upright and threw a leg over it. It took two kicks to get the engine started again. Opening the throttle, she leaped out into the street.
In the heavy traffic that clogged the streets of inner Seville, she managed only an occasional glimpse of the Harley carrying the two men. To keep up speed and follow them demanded all the concentration she could muster. The Triumph handled perfectly, and she was able to weave and dodge through the thick, slow-moving crush of cars and trucks that seemed to stretch in an endless snake. Tyreen leaned to left and right, slaloming through narrow gaps, behind vehicles that seemed to be bumper to bumper. Her one concern was to get as near to the other motorcycle as possible. If she had been doing their operation, the passenger would already have left the motorcycle and spirited the satchel away on foot, but as she managed to get closer, she was relieved to see that both men were still on the machine. They were also heading away from the city center, out toward the perimeter of the ancient walls. Within fifteen minutes they were almost free of the city streets, bearing out into the open countryside where the flow of motor vehicles was steadier.
She was now about half a mile behind her quarry, and thought that far away behind her heard the wail of a police siren. Without a helmet and visor, her eyes watered and her unbound hair streamed behind her in the wind like a flag. By this time she was touching speeds of just under a hundred miles an hour, which meant that the Harley was going just as fast. It flashed through her mind that, with a passenger on the cycle, the torque on the machine must at times be reaching a dangerous level.
As it was, Tyreen could feel the forces of gravity on her own motorcycle and upon herself. While it was exhilarating, there were moments when the wheels hit small indentations that caused the cycle to lift and bounce. Her body was at times pressed back in the saddle, and she found her brain making decisions well in advance of reaching other traffic.
They hit a long incline. She could hear and feel the first strain on the engine, so she shifted down quickly, opening up the throttle again to maintain speed. The fact that she wasn't carrying a passenger had to be helping her. Slowly, she was beginning to gain on her opponent. Still, it wasn't as fast as she would have liked.
They were on a three-lane main road now with no oncoming traffic, the main hazards being cars and trucks that did not bother to signal when changing lanes. The speed and power were exhilarating, and she had to focus her concentration, constantly dragging her mind back to the Harley now only a couple of hundred yards in front of her.
Without warning, she saw the Harley suddenly veer off to the right, rider and passenger leaning over as the machine took a forty-five degree angle, then righted itself and shot across the three lines of traffic, disappearing through an exit ramp.
Tyreen signaled and saw a large heavy van moving to the left behind her. She opened the throttle wide, leaned with the tilt as the Triumph began to angle over, heard the rasping horn of the van as it braked when she crossed directly in front of it to get into the far-right lane. The exit ramp came up very fast, and she felt the rear wheel begin to lose traction swinging outward. She shifted down, tapped the brake, and hauled the motorcycle back to the straight and level as she shot into the exit.
Now she knew where they were heading, for she caught a glimpse of the green and white sign that said Itálica. They were going into the very womb of the Roman Empire, the remains of the large Roman town where both the Emperors Hadrian and Trajan had been born. Ahead was a ticket point with a large notice in four languages saying the ruins were closed. She also saw the brake lights of the Harley as it whipped through the entrance, dipped, and headed up the path leading to the sprawl of skeleton buildings rising up the hillside. A great view to her right, and, slightly ahead, the steep slope that, like a bowl in the earth, contained the remains of Itálica's amphitheater. She was chasing a pair of modern murderers into one of Europe's cradles of history.
Once more Tyreen opened the throttle in an attempt to get even closer, but this was no place for speed. She saw the Harley slew to the left, down what had once been a narrow cobbled street, but when she reached the turn there was no sign of her prey. She retarded the throttle so that the cycle was barely idling, straining in the saddle to try and catch the sound of their engine, but the world had suddenly gone silent and her mind sprang forward, latching on to the worst possibility --- that the couple on the Harley had a prearranged meeting here in the shadows. If that was the case, she had lost, so she might just as well get out now and save what was left.
Tyreen reminded herself that she had never given up on an assignment yet, reaching into her bag to slowly remove the PPK and one spare magazine. She switched off the Triumph's engine, then, with her back against the old drab and crumbling remains of the buildings, she inched forward. Instinctively, she felt that she was being watched.
It was some twenty yards to the end of the street. The first shot came as she reached the point where the cobbles ended and the remains of the buildings ran into what was virtually a T-junction. She heard the crack as the bullet hit the stone just to the left of her head, gouging a small crater, splaying dust that fell into her hair.
She ducked to the right, jumping into the ruined street that formed the crosspiece of the T, fanning her hands in a wide circle, gripping the butt of the pistol a shade too tightly.
There was movement to her left and she reacted, swinging her body in that direction without moving her feet, squeezing off the standard two shots. The figure was too quick for her, ducking back down an alley before the first bullet struck the wall where, a split second earlier, the man had been standing.
She turned again, knowing that the two men were trying to circle her, coming in a pincer movement. Sweeping her hands from left to right, back hard against the stone, she whirled in the direction of the target she had just missed. As she wheeled to her left a second time, something moved in the periphery of her vision. This time she was faster, hands coming up to a firing position and centering the sight of the Walther on the black-clad figure's chest.
The two rounds she fired both slammed into the target, ripping at the leather, sending a sickening gout of blood and viscous matter into the wall behind him. Now the odds had evened.
She turned left again, reached the junction where a line of uneven ruins made another rough street, parallel to the one in which she had left the Triumph. For a second her mind drifted and she felt that she was among ghosts, the men, women, and children who had once peopled this place; laughing, arguing, loving, and dying. Taking a deep breath she moved, stepping out cleanly, in a firing position, ready to take out anything that lay in her path.
The street was empty, but she could see that the man she stalked might easily be crouched within one of the undulating, fragmented buildings. The ground under her feet began to angle down. For a second she looked past the end of this row of bleached masonry and saw the beginning of the fantastic view that looked out right across the Guadalquivir Plain. This one lapse of attention almost cost her life, for this time two bullets came from the left, shattering the stillness and hitting the old stonework to ricochet with a deadly whine within inches of her face.
She returned the fire, shooting only in the general direction from which it had come. In the quiet that followed she could hear the thudding of boots moving away from the clumps of stone.
She took off down what was left of the street, changing magazines as she did so, feeling a terrible draft of frustration as a motorcycle engine burst into life nearby. The second killer had got to her machine, and she hurtled down the slight hill, pistol still in both hands as she came out on the edge of the ruins. She saw the Triumph moving slowly to her left, disappearing from view, toward the plain that stretched below.
As she reached the open she saw it again, rushing down a grassy slope, heading straight for the remains of the town's amphitheater, now an irregular oval of stone benches, with the big acting area far below. The Triumph was bumping almost casually down what had once been an aisle leading through the seating, the rider trying desperately to put on speed, but braking constantly to keep balance on the sheer angle of the hillside.
It was a long shot for a pistol, but her hands were steady as she brought the sights to bear. Later she realized that she must have fired off practically a whole magazine of ammunition. She felt the weapon jumping in her hands and saw the little explosions of dust around the motorcycle, then the two shots that caught its rider in the back, lifting him into the air and returning him to the saddle, his body slumping over the handlebars. As the Triumph slewed to one side, now out of control, Tyreen reflexed, putting two more shots in the vicinity of the target.
The rider was still actually on the Triumph as it toppled over, the leather strap of the satchel slung across him over the right shoulder so that the pouch rested against his left hip as the motorcycle and body slid in a long jarring skid down into the acting area of the amphitheater.
It was Tyreen's last shot that hit the gas tank.
She saw the flame dance from the motorcycle before she heard the roar of the explosion. The fire seemed to flicker and then rise, enveloping the machine, rider, and the satchel he carried in what looked like an unquenchable blossom of flame.
Tyreen leaped forward, running with all her Arion speed through one of the aisles toward the disaster --- here, where hundreds of people had laughed and cried, she imagined that she could hear cries urging her on. By the time she got to the furnace bursting around the motorcycle, devouring its last rider, she realized that the cries were real, but they came from Spanish police officers ringing the edge of the bowl above her.
The smell of burning flesh wrapped around her nostrils as she plunged a bare arm into the fire and pulled at the blackened satchel that was just about to be eaten by the flames.
In spite of the arrangements that had been made between SIS and the Spanish authorities, there were a lot of questions to be answered. There were no fewer than six police cars, several motorcycle officers, and two ambulances parked in the area that usually contained the cars of visitors.
The police showed little respect, and immediately treated Tyreen Mackenzie as though she was a renegade villain, despite her telling them that they should get in touch with certain senior Spanish intelligence officers whose names she had been given. Even though she argued, they removed the blackened satchel saying that this could be used as evidence. As for the Walther PPK Special automatic pistol, it was wrested from her and treated as if it was Jack the Ripper's original knife.
Back in Seville, they took her to the main police station, where she found John Bannon sitting, silent, the right leg of his trousers cut to the knee and bandages showing, in an interrogation room, and for the next hour, they were both subjected to hostile questions from two plainclothesmen who smoked filthy Spanish cigarettes throughout and never bothering to offer Bannon or Tyreen one.
Finally the inquisitors left the pair of them alone, almost too obviously in the hope that they would incriminate each other in a conversation that was being recorded --- sound and video --- for posterity.
During the interrogation, each of them --- on several occasions --- had asked for the officers in charge of their security and intelligence services to be called in. Apart from that, their answers had been of the name, rank, and number variety.
Bannon's ankle had been sprained and he had a number of bruises and contusions, but he had escaped any permanent injury. He was concerned about what had happened, so, because of the listening devices, Tyreen told him just enough to take his mind off the pain and nod with relief that she had retrieved the satchel. "Mind you, I don't know what condition it's in," she said, stroking the bandages on her burned hand. "The outside's burned pretty badly, but I think I got to it before the papers were damaged. I just hope these people aren't fiddling with it."
She went through the trauma of Philip Dahl's death again, slowly repeating her description of what had happened, as though trying to come to terms with it. He leaned across the bare table and took her unburned hand in both of his. "He was set up, poor devil." He looked into her eyes, saw the pain and anger, so added, "We were all set up."
"Easy to say after the event."
"I know, but we'll get the bastard."
Half an hour later things changed. First, a smiling policeman came in with coffee and sandwiches. He was followed by a senior officer who made what just stopped short of being a formal apology. Within the hour, two senior officers in plain clothes arrived. They spoke to Bannon and Tyreen in helpful, pleasant tones, returned Bannon's Browning and Tyreen's Walther and, almost as important, her cigarettes. Then, finally, they gave back the satchel, encased in a plastic bag, and said they were free to leave.
Outside, the two men who had picked them up on the previous night were waiting with a car. They drove back to Gibraltar, pausing for a mirthless and silent meal on the way. There were no customs or immigration formalities at La Linea, and they drove straight to the airport. An RAF transport took them to Lyneham, where a car waited to shuttle them up to London.
They drove first to the office, where two of the staff had been instructed to take the satchel directly to the offices of the Metropolitan Police. By one in the morning they were back in Bannon's flat. Immediately, he stretched out on the bed, favoring his injured leg. "What a damned tiring and frustrating day." He let out a deep sigh, and Tyreen came toward him, rubbed his leg, kissed him gently, and then gave him a little loving bite on the lip.
"Not all that tiring, my dear John. I hope not that tiring."
"Ah." He smiled. "No, never that tiring."
