Rust told him about the break-in at the plant, the stolen vial, Ubrino’s demands and the death of Zocchi. ‘Mike and Sabrina will be handling that side of the case. You’re going undercover. We received a report today to say that Wiseman’s brother is out for revenge. He’s already hired a gunman to find his brother’s killer.’ He took a blue folder from his attaché case, opened it, and handed a photograph to Whitlock. ‘That’s the wheel man he wants to use. His name’s Reuben Alexander, a Londoner of Jamaican extraction. You’re going to take his place.’
‘But I don’t look anything like him. All we’ve got in common is that we’re black.’
‘Alexander’s camera-shy. In fact, he takes it to extremes. That’s why we think you’ll be able to pull it off without any hitches. That’s a police photograph you’ve got there. And it’s the only one they’ve got, apart from his official mug shots.’
‘I take it Wiseman’s never met him?’
Rust shook his head. ‘Wiseman only put the scheme together when he heard of his brother’s murder. Alexander’s been in custody for the past fortnight. He’s due in court tomorrow. That’s when they intend to spring him.’
‘I don’t get it, Jacques. Why not just have Wiseman and this gunman picked up until we’ve recovered the vial?’
‘On what charge? All we have is the word of an informer. Richard Wiseman is a three-star general. He also happens to be one of America’s most decorated war heroes. If we pulled him in without any evidence we’d have the Pentagon down on us like a ton of bricks. We have to keep this whole thing as quiet as possible. Imagine the pandemonium if word ever got out about the vial. This way we can make sure that Wiseman won’t get under our feet. It’s imperative that Ubrino’s given as wide a berth as possible if we’re to have any chance of recovering the vial.’
‘Who’s the gunman?’
‘His name’s Vie Young. They served in Vietnam together. That’s all we know about him at the moment. We’re having him checked out, the information will be waiting for you by the time you reach London.’
Whitlock handed the photograph back to Rust.
‘Who’s my contact in London?’
‘A Major Lonsdale of Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad.’
‘Aren’t we handling the switch ourselves?’
‘Now, the British authorities wouldn’t hear of it. It was either the anti-terrorist squad, or nothing. We had no choice. Lonsdale will brief you further once you get to London.’
‘What time’s my flight?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
Whitlock checked his watch.
‘It’s gone seven-thirty already. You’ll have to excuse me, Jacques, I still have to break the news to Carmen.’
‘Go on,’ Rust said softly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
They shook hands, then Whitlock grabbed the key off the dresser and left the room. He took the lift to the foyer, handed in the key, then emerged out into the cool night air and strode briskly to the bistro a hundred yards away, on the rue de Crenelle. It was exactly as he remembered it. The whitewashed exterior walls, the green and white awning over the entrance and the umbrella-shaded tables spilling out on to the pavement. He went inside. It was packed. Carmen sat at the counter, tracing her finger absently around the rim of her empty glass.
‘Can I buy madame another drink?’ he asked over her shoulder.
‘That’s the fourth offer I’ve had since I came in,’ she replied.
‘What Frenchman can resist a beautiful woman?’ he said, trying to catch the barman’s attention.
‘What time are you leaving?’
‘My flight’s at ten o’clock. I’m sorry–’
‘Save it, I’ve heard it all before,’ she interceded, snapping her fingers to catch the barman’s attention. She asked him to refill her glass.
‘Monsieur? the barman asked Whitlock.
‘The gentleman was just leaving,’ she answered. When the barman had gone she turned to Whitlock.
‘Thanks for the second honeymoon, all three days of it. I suppose I should be grateful it lasted that long.’
‘Carmen–’
‘Leave me alone!’
He kissed her on the cheek. There was nothing he could say.
She stared ahead of her as he left the bistro. She was damned if she would give him the satisfaction of seeing the tears in her eyes.
Three
Tuesday
The BA 707 touched down at Heathrow at midnight, ten minutes behind schedule. Whitlock took a taxi to the address in East Acton he had been given in his brief. It turned out to be a red-brick bungalow with a low wooden fence running the length of a small, neat garden. The gate squeaked as he opened it. An old intelligence trick. He instinctively looked around. The street was deserted. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door, dumping his overnight bag at the foot of the hall stand. He switched the light on and took in the unobtrusive patterned carpet, the pale-blue walls and the framed photograph of the Queen which hung between the two doors to his right. The first door led into a lounge. The second led into a bedroom.
He glanced at his watch. 11.45. He had no idea when the anti-terrorist squad were going to brief him. Tonight? Tomorrow morning? It was up to them to contact him. He certainly wasn’t going to wait up for them. He picked up his overnight bag and headed for the bedroom, turning on the light at the wall switch as he went in.
The man in the armchair facing the door was in his mid-thirties with a pale complexion and cropped blond hair. The automatic in his right hand was aimed at the centre of Whitlock’s chest. Whitlock recognized it as a Browning high power, a favourite handgun of the British special forces. He dumped his bag on the bed.
‘Are Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad always so cordial to foreign visitors, Major Lonsdale?’
The man picked up a photograph of Whitlock from the table beside him, looked at it, then put it down again, laying the Browning on top of it.
‘You can never be too careful these days,’ he said with a grin, then got to his feet, hand extended. ‘George Lonsdale.’
Whitlock shook his hand.
‘Your accent intrigues me,’ Lonsdale said. ‘Eton? Harrow?’
‘Nothing so grand, I’m afraid. Radley.’
‘Really? I’m an Old Etonian myself.’ Lonsdale clapped his hands together. ‘Well, how much have you been told about the London operation?’
‘Only that you’d be my contact once I got here.’
‘I guessed as much. Let’s go through to the lounge, we can discuss the details in there.’ Lonsdale slipped the Browning into his shoulder holster then picked up a folder from the table and led the way. He switched on the light and indicated the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. ‘What’s your poison?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a scotch and soda. No ice.’
‘Coming up,’ Lonsdale replied, crossing to the cabinet. ‘We always keep a bit of alcohol in our safe houses. It can get pretty frustrating being cooped up in a place like this for days on end. We find that alcohol helps to relieve the tension.’
‘As long as it’s taken in moderation.’
‘You sound like a commercial for AA,’ Lonsdale said with a smile and handed Whitlock his drink. He raised his own glass. ‘Here’s to a successful operation.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Whitlock replied, taking a sip of his whisky.
Lonsdale sat down facing him. ‘How much do you know about Alexander?’
‘I read his background history on the plane. What I don’t know about him isn’t worth finding out. One thing does puzzle me, though. If Wiseman doesn’t know what Alexander looks like, how can this Young be sure he’s springing the real Alexander from the prison van?’