“You need a hobby.”
“Can you imagine me growing orchids or joining some amateur dramatics society? UNACO was my life, Sergei. It’s what kept me going. That’s what I meant just now about you being lucky. I’d sell my soul to the devil to trade places with you right now.”
“I’d settle for a straight swap,” Kolchinsky said with a weary sigh. “You come back and I’ll take early retirement.”
“I’d jump at the chance but I doubt my doctor would agree to it.” Philpott drank down the whiskey then reached for his cane and got to his feet. “Thanks for the drink. And the company. I’ll leave you to get some rest. You look like you need it.”
Kolchinsky stood up and walked with Philpott to the door. “You know you’re welcome here anytime, Malcolm. I mean it.”
“I know,” Philpott replied, patting Kolchinsky on the arm. “And I might just take you up on that offer. When things quieten down again.”
Kolchinsky closed the door behind Philpott then returned to the lounge and sat down again. He retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray and was about to take another drag when he abruptly changed his mind and stubbed it out. He switched on the television to catch the last five minutes of the news. He was already asleep by the time it finished.
Chapter Five
The flying time by Concorde between New York and London is three and three-quarter hours.
Graham and Sabrina had spent the first hour of the flight assimilating the contents of the dossiers which Whitlock had given to them at the United Nations. Graham had then replaced the dossier in his overnight bag and promptly fallen asleep. Although tired, Sabrina had decided against trying to catch a couple of hours’ sleep as well. She knew from experience that she would only wake up feeling even more tired. She spent the remainder of the flight reading a paperback she had bought at JFK.
The rain splattered the window beside her as the Concorde began its final descent toward the runway at Heathrow Airport. She closed the paperback and looked out over the illuminated London skyline. It brought back so many memories. Good memories. Her father had been appointed to the Court of St. James’s as the US ambassador to Britain when she was ten years old and the family had spent eight happy years in London before returning to the States.
New York was unquestionably her favorite city. But London ran a close second. A home from home …
She turned to Graham and smiled faintly to herself. He looked so peaceful with his head nestled against her arm. She shook him gently. He stirred, muttered something under his breath, but his eyes remained closed. She shook him again. His eyes opened. He immediately sat up and glanced guiltily at her arm. She bit her lip to stop herself smiling at his obvious discomfort. He noticed the gesture and, to her surprise, gave her a wry grin. She could remember a time when he would have bitten her head off for less. He now seemed more at ease with those around him. But, more importantly, he seemed more at ease with himself. She sensed that he was beginning to come to terms with the guilt he’d felt over the loss of his family …
It was nine-fifteen p.m. by the time they were cleared through customs but there was still no sign of their contact, Inspector Keith Eastman of Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad. Graham went to collect their suitcases, leaving Sabrina to wait for Eastman. By the time Graham returned, Eastman had arrived. He was a tall, gangly man in his early forties with a pale complexion and short brown hair. Sabrina introduced him to Graham.
“You’ll have to excuse my not shaking hands, Mr. Graham,” Eastman apologized, holding up his black-gloved right hand. “An IED, an improvised explosive device, blew up while I was trying to defuse it. It cost me two fingers and part of my thumb.”
“Yeah, I read about it in your file,” Graham said. “You used to be a bomb-disposal man before you joined Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad.”
“We prefer to call ourselves ATOs. Ammunition Technical Officers. I was with the Royal Army Ordnance Corps for five years, which included three tours of Northern Ireland. I came to know IRA tactics pretty well in that time. That’s why the anti-terrorist squad recruited me after I was retired from the army.”
“Is there any news of McGuire?” Sabrina asked as they walked toward the exit.
“His car was found abandoned in Dover this afternoon. My sergeant, John Marsh, has taken a team down there to check it out. It could be a decoy to make the IRA think he’s fled to the continent. We won’t know any more until John gets back.”
“When’s he due back?” Graham asked.
Eastman shrugged. “It all depends on what they find down there. That’s my car over there.”
They crossed to a white Ford Sierra and loaded the suitcases into the boot.
“I’d like to make a stop before I take you to your hotel,” Eastman said. “The pub McGuire frequents is in Soho. I’ve had it staked out all day but there’s been no sign of him. Not that I thought he’d show anyway. I’m more interested in the two friends he drinks with there, Frank Roche and Martin Grogan. They’re both expatriate Irishmen with strong Republican links. They won’t talk to me or any of my men, not with so many other villains in the pub. But they might talk to you.”
“And they might not,” Graham retorted.
“It’s worth a try,” Eastman said, glancing at Graham in the rearview mirror. He started up the car and headed toward the exit.
It had stopped raining by the time they reached Soho.
Eastman opened the glove compartment and removed two Beretta 92FS. “I was asked to get these for you. The shoulder holsters will be delivered to my office in the morning.”
“Are Grogan and Roche dangerous?” Graham asked, taking one of the Berettas from Eastman.
“Grogan’s been inside for armed robbery but I doubt he’d try anything,” Eastman replied. “But it’s best not to take any chances.”
“Agreed,” Sabrina said, pushing the Beretta into the pocket of her leather jacket.
“Do you want to take another look at their mugshots before you go in?” Eastman asked, indicating the envelope on the dashboard.
They shook their heads.
“OK, I’ll wait out here for you,” Eastman replied. “I’ve got a team staked out around the pub so if either Roche or Grogan try and make a run for it, they’ll be on hand to grab them.”
Graham and Sabrina climbed out of the car.
“You watch the back door,” Graham told Sabrina. He noticed her scowl. “You heard what Eastman said, the place is full of ex-cons. If you go in there they’ll be all over you, offering you drinks and God knows what else. What chance will you get to talk to Grogan and Roche in private?”
She knew he was right. “OK, I’ll take the rear door.”
“I’ll call you when I’m through.”
She disappeared up the alleyway at the side of the pub. Graham zipped up his jacket to conceal the Beretta tucked into his belt and entered the pub. The jukebox, situated near the door, was blaring out an old Robert Palmer hit. He slowly looked around the room. It was packed. He eased his way through the customers to the bar.
A barmaid immediately approached him. “What’ll it be, luv?”
Graham rarely touched alcohol. But considering the situation, and his surroundings, he asked for a beer.
“You’re an American,” the barmaid said with a quick smile.
“Yeah,” Graham muttered.
“We sell Budweiser if you want it.”
“Sure,” Graham replied absently as he scanned the faces around him. No sign of either Grogan or Roche.
“Where you from?” she asked, returning with a glass and a bottle of Budweiser.