The Protector: A gripping, action-packed spy thriller Read online

  “Sorry.”

  “I could order you.”

  He knew that would be tough. They had known each other for over ten years.

  “And I could refuse. Then we would both go before Tansey-Williams. Look Martin, that network is too well placed to risk it for something that might turn out to be a clever Kilo move to get us to blow a network looking for the answers... Besides, we’re getting good material out now. I would not like to redirect that effort. Sorry chum.”

  Burmeister entered through the side door, interrupting his thoughts.

  He needn’t have bothered; Callows knew by his expression that there had been no word from his team.

  A new case officer was assigned to attempt to fill in the rather slender file on Holly Clement nee Morton, and on his five person team was a razor sharp investigator who masqueraded as a gregarious young black girl with the unlikely name of Chloe Bowie.

  She took one look at the file and headed straight for Guys Hospital. Two hours later, she had the name of Holly Clements friends and workmates and began working down the list. Sarah Moody was number three on the list and swung the door back with force, her red hair mussed and tangled.

  “I’m on nights,” she snapped angrily.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s important. My name is Chloe Bowie. May I come in?”

  Why? I want to go back to bed!”

  Chloe turned on the smile. “Please?” she asked, holding up her ID. “I won’t take to much of your time.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Yes, alright! If it’s not you, it’s the bloody gas board, or some dickbrain with a questionnaire. I suppose you want coffee?”

  Holding her dressing gown closed with one hand and pushing her hair up out of her eyes with the other, she lead the way into the apartment. There wasn’t much room in the tiny kitchen so Chloe stood solidly in the doorway while Sarah bashed cups about and noisily filled the kettle.

  “I need to know about your friend Holly. Where she might be, where she might go if she were in trouble…”

  Sarah turned and glared. “Is she?”

  “We think she might be, yes.”

  “And who is ‘we’ precisely?” she asked arms, folded defensively across her substantial breasts. Behind her, the kettle began to make grumbling noises.

  “Foreign Office.” Chloe held up her ID again. “Look, all we have is a box number in Greece. We need to know where she is.”

  Sarah lifted the kettle and began to pour water into the cups. The silence was too long for the investigator.

  “Are you mates?” Chloe asked.

  “Why?

  “Look, let’s cut the Omerta bit. You aren’t the bloody Mafia. We need her back here. We need to talk to her. But she might also be in some danger, real danger. Now, are you going to waste any more of my time or what?” Chloe stood to her full height of five feet five and glared.

  “She phoned before she left. From here. Some Taverna on an island. Left a message for the people she was going to stay with. It’s here somewhere.”

  “What is?”

  “The name.”

  She began fishing round on top of the fridge, amongst old notes and messages and things in a basket.

  “A boyfriend?”

  “No, nothing like that. Family friend more like it. Remembered it because it was the same name as some American politician or something. In the news at the time.”

  “What? Bush?”

  “No.”

  “George?”

  “No,” Sarah muttered

  “Not Reagan?”

  “No,” she said, sifting through the bits of brown paper and jotted scraps, waving a hand. “The guy who didn’t go to Vietnam. Holls said he wasn’t like that.”

  “Like what?” Chloe asked

  “Gutless. Here it is!” She held aloft a small square of pink paper, then dropped her eyes to read it. “Dan Quayle! See, this guy’s name is Ti Quayle, care of the Taverna something, looks like Aegean.”

  Chloe took the note. “Aegean. Taverna Aegean. Quayle.” The name rang a bell.

  “I want you to promise me something,” Sarah said

  “What?”

  “Holly’s had a tough time of it recently. Her dad died couple of years ago. She doted on him, then her husband was killed in an accident. She’s a real sweetie. I’m only helping you because you say she might be in danger. She doesn’t need any more shit in her life right now…”

  “I will bear that in mind,” Cloe said honestly, thinking ‘she’s in it up to her eyeballs.’

  *

  It was midmorning in Athens, the streets crowded and noisy and the taxi drivers as dishonest as ever. Quayle paid up like a tourist, a little over the odds, not wanting to be remembered for either speaking a little Greek or knowing the correct price. He had taken Holly and Pope to a small hotel where they weren’t to choosy about passports. The problem remained, however, that they looked memorable. Pope, despite dusting off his suit, looked grimy and tired, his eyes grainy with fatigue, with no luggage at all. They took two rooms, small and hot with peeling paint, but at least the windows opened and there were two beds in each.

  “I’ll be about three hours. Get some breakfast and some sleep if you can,” Quayle said to Pope. He turned to Holly and was about to speak when, suddenly, she broke in.

  “I know. Do what he says,” she said.

  “Mr Quayle,” Pope began. “I need ammunition.”

  Quayle raised an eyebrow.

  “I used six. I have fourteen left. Six of those are Teflon. No good for practice. I will need to do that soon.”

  “Teflon?”

  “For body armour,” he replied.

  Quayle shook his head sadly before replying, “What do you want?”

  “Nine mil’ wad cutters if you can. Otherwise standard hard nose and a hacksaw blade. American are best, or Belgian. Nice shiny new ones please, and not Spanish. I’ll reload them myself.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Quayle replied.

  “Take care,” Holly said quietly. The talk of bullets had brought her back to earth.

  He nodded and smiled – and, taking a cheap seaman’s cap from his bag, he pushed it into his pocket and left the room.

  After he was gone, Pope pushed a chair under the door knob and climbed onto the nearest bed, his gun out and in his hand, his body shielding the other bed.

  “Rest,” he said. “We’ll get some food sent up later.”

  “Here?” she asked, indicating the second bed. “I wanted a bath and though I might use the other…”

  Pope shook his head. “Use this bath in here. Then that bed. No lights on and stay away from the window.”

  His tone of voice said the matter wasn’t up for discussion, so Holly went into the cramped old fashioned bathroom, turned on the tap and stood watching the lukewarm brown water trickle down onto the stained enamel.

  Quayle found the warehouse, much where he expected it to be, behind the chandler’s shop in Piraeus. He was pleased, because the description he’d been given six years ago by a man now dead matched perfectly the man standing in front of him: Greek, fat and unshaven, his jowls wobbling under his porcine little eyes. His open-necked shirt had sweat stains under the arms and, as Quayle leant over the desk, he could smell his odour.

  “Constantine?”

  The Greek looked up and saw a big man in a scruffy jacket and a sailor’s cap, squeezing something in his hand. The accent was French, guttural and harsh, the sound of the Marseilles docks. He looked at the hand and noticed the ugly purple scar.

  “Who are you?” he asked, leaning back importantly on his seat. Behind him, a younger man leant indolently on a packing case, his hair brushed back in a parody of James Dean.

  “That is not important. I need blank passports. I am told that you are a man who can help when one has such a need.”

  “Oh, who told you that?”

  “A man,” Quayle answered cagily.

  Constantine pondered the risks for a moment – but his g
reed got the better of him. “I might know someone who could help you. But these things cost money. You have money?”

  “How much?”

  “Hundred thousand drachma each.”

  “Merde! I will give you that for six.”

  “If you are short of money, used are cheaper. I have a friend who can make a few changes, take a photo…”

  “Non. New ones.”

  “Six for four hundred thousand. Used,” said Constantine. “I don’t have that many new ones. My last offer. Take it or leave it.”

  Quayle instinctively knew he was telling the truth.

  “I will pay that if you can deliver now. European passports!”

  Constantine raised an eyebrow. Behind him, the sharp looking youth eased onto his feet.

  “Take a seat,” he said, standing ponderously and wiping the sweat from his face. “I will get your merchandise.” A few minutes later, he was back with a brown paper bag. “The money,” he said.

  “Let me see,” Quayle answered.

  Constantine held open the bag and took out the contents out. Quayle was relieved to see four British and two EEC passports.

  Constantine shrugged. That was when Quayle knew it was only just starting. This had been all to easy. The old sell it, then get it back up the street trick. Stuff it, he thought. Lets get it over with.

  Throwing Constantine a handful of notes, he scooped up the passports and jammed them into the bag.

  “Constantine. I am going to leave now. If your little pretty boy follows me or tries it on, I will break his fingers. Then I will come back and break yours.” He smiled charmingly, the hard tense French sailor gone, and a more worldly and considerably more threatening character emerging.

  “Who are you?”

  “Never mind. But I owe you one. You sold out a friend of mine once. I don’t forget that kind of thing.”

  With the bag in his left hand, he leant forward, took the Greek’s hand in his right and began to apply pressure. The cords of muscle in his hands and arms rose up in hard ridges.

  Constantine gave a girlish shriek and, as the smooth hard man leapt across the floor to his boss’s aid, Quayle let go the fat hand, dropped low and caught the foot flying for his groin, pulling it up and twisting. As the man flailed to fight back, Quayle heard his face hit the hard floor with a satisfying thud and put the boot in twice, hard, into his kidneys.

  Still holding the bag, Quayle looked at Constantine. “Get the message?”

  The Greek nodded quickly, his jowls wobbling.

  Quayle walked quickly from the warehouse and, once in the alley, reversed the jacket he was wearing and pulled the plastic brim off the cap. Now he was wearing a beret and the dark blue sailor’s jacket was a muddy fawn. Hailing a taxi, he told the driver to drop him at Parliament Square. There he would disappear into the thousands of tourists and make his way to the bank where he kept his Athens funds. Like most intelligence men who had spent time in the field, he had appropriated funds over the years – the slush payments, the bribe money – and secreted it in accounts dotted around the world. One never knew when one would need it. He took twenty thousand pounds and another two passports from the safe deposit box and, ten minutes later, was in a call box phoning a contact from long ago. The man told him that he would have the ammunition and be in the café opposite the hotel in two hours. Quayle then crossed the street into a large store and, now in just shirt sleeves, began buying a few things for the team: shaving gear, clothing, toiletries, several hats of different sizes, sun glasses and two or three overnight bags to hold it all. His last stop was the Olympic Airlines office where he bought three tickets on the afternoon flight to Milan.

  When he arrived back at the hotel, he was in a creamy silk shirt and sporting a Panama hat. They had to move today. The Greeks would be hesitant and slow to action any request to check passports at the airport, but if someone had put two and two together already then they may have also put a Interpol alert on the request, and to this the Greeks would have to listen. While he had two spares in other names, Pope and Holly were using their own passports to get clear of Greece. Holly was delighted to see him and promptly ordered him some breakfast. Half an hour later, he briefed them while splitting up the purchases and drying his hair still wet from the shower.

  “OK, from here we go down to the café, collect the bullets and head straight to the airport. Milano.”

  He had chosen Milan because, from there, they could drive to Venice where he knew a forger and could get the passports done. It was also an excellent jumping off point into Europe, with the Brenner Pass into Austria only a few hours away.

  “What are you going to do with your gun?” he asked Pope.

  The bodyguard was now looking much more respectable, bathed, shaved and in clean clothing. He had even trimmed the thin grey pencil moustache. His eyes had lost the grainy look and were back to their familiar selves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “At the airport.”

  “I’ll try my Diplomatic Warrant.”

  Quayle nodded in agreement. It was worth the try. The warrant normally quoted a flight number and an airline, but on occasions and in some airports they barely looked at them. A warrant issued by Her Majesty’s Government was distinctive and almost unforgeable. Besides, they would have logged Pope on his way in and would be expecting him out. A small detail like a ticketing mistake would be understandable.

  “Don’t forget to buy Ouzo at the airport,” he said to Holly.

  “Why?”

  “Every tourist takes some home. You are a tourist. Mr Pope and I will check in separately. We will all be travelling as individuals. We’ll never be more than ten feet from you, but you must pretend you don’t know either of us. Let’s go.”

  Chloe Bowie sat straight-backed in front of the Case Officer, having taken an instant dislike to the man. He was not only sexist but a chauvinist with it.

  “What have you got?” he asked, without looking up from his work.

  “Holly Clement went to stay with people in Greece...”

  “I know that,” he interrupted.

  “I have a name,” Chloe said stiffly. “The name of the person she went so stay with.”

  “I should hope so,” he said. “Look, you said you had something important?”

  “The name... it rings a bell. Quayle.”

  It was only now that the case officer looked up. “What did you say?”

  “Quayle. That was the name.”

  “Initial?”

  “T, sir. Possibly Timothy or Thomas or…”

  “Titus! Titus bloody Quayle. Ring a bell. It bloody should do, girl. He’s ex-service. Retired a couple of years ago. Booted out on a section eight.” He laughed then, short and hard. “Good girl! Now, get your bum upstairs and get your report written. This will set the cat amongst ‘em. Three Fairies on red two and who should turn up? Titus Quayle,” he wondered, “what have you done?”

  He laughed again – but now it had a nervous, jagged edge, and as Chloe walked away she felt pleased. She had never met this Quayle man, but if he could drive the normally taciturn case officer to nervous chatter with just the mention of his name he was her kind of guy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Burmeister was angry.

  As he paced his office, his secretary waved the visitor in without announcement. He was the senior psychiatrist used by the service, a distinguished man in his field. Dr Phelps specialised in nervous disorders brought about by extreme or prolonged stress, and he had treated several chronically ill Secret Intelligence Service people over the years.

  Burmeister came straight to the point, standing over his desk, his suit coat buttoned formally. “I have problem with a diagnosis you made. Doctor Phelps.”

  “Presumably you are talking about Titus Quayle.”

  “I am,” Burmeister snapped.

  Phelps had been expecting the conversation to be about Quayle but had not expected Burmeister’s hostility.

  “There are no
hard and fast rules in psychiatry, Mr Burmeister. My assessment of the patient was after two years interment in a prison which reputedly people never leave. He was systematically beaten, he was crucified, he was alternately starved of both water and food. He was the subject of sleep deprivation and physical torture. Furthermore, nobody lifted a finger to help him. He was ignored by the service and his country when he needed their help most and had to finally effect his own escape. My best judgement was that he would never again be fit for duty. There is only so much the human body or mind can take and, in this instance, the limit was reached.” Phelps held up the file.

  “Doctor Phelps, I have three men missing. I believe Titus Quayle is involved. Now your report suggests that the man’s nerve is shot. It suggests that he would avoid involvement. It suggests he would end up a recluse, shunning the world and its problems, angry, bitter, beaten?”

  “Yes, that is a view to take. I would say you have a strong chance that is how it would be two years on. Superficially, he would appear normal. Angry yes, bitter, yes… but beaten? No.”

  “I have reason to believe he is involved with the disappearance of my men.”

  “I doubt it,” said the doctor. “He felt deserted, betrayed, forgotten. He felt he was expedient...”

  “All operatives know that they are on their own sometimes!”

  “Not for two years in a prison like that, they don’t. Titus Quayle has every reason to hate the lot of you. But, in spite of that, I consider his involvement in these incidents unlikely. He was a romantic, a loyalist – essentially a patriot. These are very deep convictions and, while he may harbour resentment for the way he was treated, he is still essentially a decent man. I re-read the file before coming over, not that I needed to. I remember him well. He quoted Keats and Shelley. He has done some unpleasant things in the name of his country and has protected himself to some extent with a shield of cynicism – but, as I said, it’s unlikely he would get involved again. Too many wounds that go to deep. He wouldn’t want them reopened.”

  Burmeister thought about that for a second. “Could he have got it together?”

  “What are you asking? Could time have healed?”

  “Yes.”