Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) (8 page)

He nodded to the man servant, an ex-Gurkha
naik,
who waited patiently by the door. 'All right, Kim. Tea for three.'

The Gurkha retired and Morgan looked around the room. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire which burned there. The rest was Georgian also. Everything matched to perfection, even the heavy curtains.

'Nice, isn't it?' Ferguson said. 'My second girl, Ellie, she did it for me. In interior decorating now.'

Morgan moved to the window and looked into the square. 'You always did do rather well for yourself.'

'Oh dear, are you going to be tiresome, Asa? That
is
a pity. Very well, let's get it over with. You wanted to see me?'

Morgan glanced across at Baker who was seated in a leather armchair on the other side of the room, filling his pipe. 'According to Harry, it was the other way round.'

'Was it?' Ferguson said cheerfully.

The Gurkha came in with a tray which he placed by the fire and retired. Ferguson picked up the teapot

'For Christ's sake,' Morgan exploded violently.

'All right, Asa. You are by now aware that the man who shot Maxwell Cohen is the same one who knocked down your daughter in the Paddington tunnel. Am I correct?'

'Yes.'

'And you'd very naturally like to get your hands on him. And so would we. So would the intelligence organizations of most of the major nations. You see, the one thing we do know for certain about the gentleman involved is that he's performed the same sort of exercise with monotonous and rather spectacular success, all over the world, for something like three years now.'

'And what's being done about it?'

'You can safely leave that to us. I've been in touch with the Ministry of Defence. They inform me that in these special circumstances, you're to be granted a month's leave.' Ferguson was serious now. 'I'd bury your dead and then go as far away as possible for a while if I were you, Asa.'

'Would you indeed?' The Welsh accent was much more noticeable now as it always was in times of stress. Morgan turned to Baker, 'And you, Harry? Is that what you'd do?'

Baker looked troubled. Ferguson said, 'They're considering promoting you on the autumn list, or had you heard a whisper already? Brigadier, Asa, at your present age, means you should make major-general at least before you retire. Something to be proud of.'

'Who for?'

'Don't spoil it, Asa. You've come a long way.'

'For a little Welsh pit boy who walked into the recruiting office with the arse out of his trousers, isn't that what you mean?'

Morgan went out, slamming the door violently. Baker said, 'You were a bit rough on him, sir.'

'Which was exactly what I intended, Chief Superintendent. He'll be back when he's reached boiling point.' Ferguson reached for the teapot again. 'Now, how would you like it?'

The interior of the church of St Martin at Steeple Durham was sparse and beautiful in its simplicity. Norman pillars rising to a roof that was richly carved with figures, both human and animal. Perhaps because at the period it was built it had been used as a place of refuge, there were no windows at ground level. The only light was from round, clerestory windows high up under the roof, so that the church itself was a place of shadows.

Harry Baker and Stewart arrived just after two and found Francis Wood waiting in the porch in his vestments.

'Chief Superintendent - Inspector. It's good of you both to come.'

'No news, I'm afraid, sir.'

'No arrest, you mean?' Wood smiled gently. 'What possible difference could it make to us now if there were?'

'I saw Colonel Morgan yesterday. His sentiments were rather different.'

'Knowing Asa, I would imagine so.'

People started to arrive, mainly on foot, obviously villagers. Wood greeted them and then the gate in the wall on the other side of the churchyard, which gave access to the rectory garden, opened and his wife appeared.

She was not dressed in mourning, but wore a simple grey suit with a pleated skirt, tan shoes and stockings. Her hair was tied back with a velvet bow as on the first occasion Baker had met her. She was unnaturally calm considering the circumstances.

She nodded to Baker. 'Superintendent.'

Baker, for once, couldn't think of a thing to say. Francis Wood kissed her briefly on the cheek and she moved on inside. The hearse pulled up at the lych gate and a few moments later the coffin was brought forward on the shoulders of Harry Pool, his son and four assistants, all suitably garbed in black coats.

Wood went forward to greet them. Baker said, 'You know what I hate about this sort of thing, George? The fact that they've probably done two already today. Same hearse, same black overcoats, same appropriate expressions. It means something, but I'm not sure what.'

'No sign of Morgan, sir.'

'So I'd observed,' Baker said, and added as the procession moved towards them, 'Let's get inside now we're here.'

They sat in a pew half-way down the church and the cortege moved past them, Francis Wood reciting the Order for the Burial of the Dead.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

The coffin was placed before the altar rail, the bearers retired. There was a pause and Wood carried on.

Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another.

The door opened, then shut again so loudly that he paused and looked up from the prayer book. Heads turned. Asa Morgan stood there in full uniform, razor-sharp, polished Sam Browne belt gleaming, medals hanging in a neat row beneath the SAS wings above the tunic pocket. He removed the red beret, sat down in the rear pew.

The one person who had not turned was Helen Wood. She sat alone in the front pew, shoulders straight, staring ahead. There was the briefest of pauses and then her husband carried on in a loud, clear voice.

As they moved out to the churchyard thunder rumbled in the distance and the first heavy spots of rain dotted the flagstones of the path.

'One of life's great cliches,' Baker observed. 'Eight times out of ten it rains at funerals. That's why I brought this thing.'

He opened his umbrella and he and Stewart followed at the tail end of the villagers as they made their way between the headstones towards the freshly dug grave.

Most of them stayed at a respectful distance while Helen Wood stood at the edge of the grave facing her husband. Asa Morgan was behind the rector, his red beret tilted forward at the exact regulation angle.

Francis Wood continued with the committal, raising his voice a little as the rain increased in force. His wife, at the correct moment, dropped to one knee to pick up a handful of soil to cast into the open grave. She remained there for a moment, then glanced up and found that Morgan had moved forward to stand beside her husband.

Francis Wood carried on without faltering,
Earth to Earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection.

Morgan took the red beret from his head and dropped it into the open grave on top of the coffin. His wife stood up slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. He turned, marched away through the tombstones and went into the church.

'Which should give them something to talk about in the village for quite some time,' Baker observed.

When Francis Wood went into the church a few minutes later, he found Morgan sitting in the front pew, arms folded, staring up at the altar.

Wood said, 'Well Asa, you didn't come to pray, so what exactly do you want?'

'Not if that's the best you can do, the claptrap you handed us out there,' Morgan told him. 'Forasmuch as it hath pleased God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed. What in the hell is that supposed to mean, Francis?'

'I don't know, Asa. You see, for me, it's a matter of faith. Faith in God's purpose for all of us.'

'That's really very comforting.' Morgan stood up and climbed the steps to the pulpit.

'All right, Asa, say what you have to say.'

At the back of the church Baker and Stewart stood in the shadows by the door, listening.

Morgan said, 'I'm trying to reconcile the fact of God's mercy with a little girl on a bicycle getting in the way of a rabid fanatic, fleeing from an attempted murder. You'll be interested to know, by the way, that an Arab terrorist group named Black September have claimed credit. A nice word, you must admit. All in the terminology.'

There was an unnatural calm to him now and he gripped the edge of the pulpit so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Wood said, 'Asa, God punishes, men only take revenge. I think I know the road you wish to take and I tell you this now. You will find nothing at the end of it. No answer - no satisfaction - nothing.'

Morgan looked around him. 'I never realized before what a good view you had up here.' He came down the steps, walked briskly up the aisle and went out.

Baker and Stewart followed him. It was raining harder than ever now and they watched him march, bareheaded, to the lych gate and cross to the Porsche.

Baker said to Stewart, 'You take the car and get after him. I'll take the train back to London. Stick to him like glue. I want to know where he goes and what he does. Lose him and I'll have you.'

Stewart had little difficulty in keeping the silver Porsche in plain view, for even after skirting London and joining the Ml motorway north, Morgan seldom did more than seventy, moving into the fast lane only when it was necessary to pass a heavy lorry or some other particularly slow-moving vehicle.

Just outside Doncaster, he pulled into a service area for petrol. Stewart did the same, keeping well back. The Porsche moved across to the car park and Morgan got out. reached inside and pulled out a military trenchcoat which he put on over his uniform. Then he walked across to the self-service cafe.

Stewart parked a few cars away, then went to the toilet. When he came out, he checked that the Porsche was still in view, then crossed to the cafe and peered inside. There was no sign of Morgan.

He turned quickly, but he had not been mistaken. The Porsche was still there and then he saw the Colonel crouched beside his own car.

As Stewart hurried towards him, Morgan stood up and Stewart saw that his offside front tyre was flat.

'Here, what the hell do you think you're doing?' he demanded angrily.

Morgan kicked the wheel. 'Looks like you're in trouble, Inspector. I'd get hold of a policeman, if I were you.'

He walked to the Porsche, climbed in and drove rapidly away.

Mikali rose late that morning and it was eleven o'clock before he went for his usual run in Hyde Park in spite of the heavy rain. Not that it bothered him. He liked the rain. It gave him a safe, enclosed feeling, rather like being in a little world of your own.

He finally got back to the flat in Upper Grosvenor Street and opened the door to the aroma of freshly ground coffee. At first he assumed the girl from the previous night hadn't gone home and then Jean Paul Deville appeared in the kitchen doorway.

'Ah, there you are. Let myself in with the contingency key. I hope you don't mind.'

Mikali got a towel from the bathroom and mopped the sweat from his face. 'When did you get in?'

'The breakfast plane. I thought we should chat.'

He returned to his coffee-making. Mikali said, 'It didn't go too smoothly.'

'You shot him in the head at point-blank range. Who could ask for more? And we've achieved what we set out to do. A major assassination attempt in the heart of London. Headlines in every newspaper in the world and wonderful publicity for the Palestinian cause. Black September are delighted. Their man in Paris came to see me last night. It got a little rough this one, I understand. Were you worried?'

'When I was in Algiers, the Arabs had a saying. It comes as God wills. However carefully you plan, one of these days, someone turns up where they shouldn't be. The gun that's never been known to jam, does. That's what will kill me in the end and you, when you least expect it'

'Very possibly,' Deville said. 'Like the girl on the bicycle in the tunnel?'

'That was regrettable. I tried to avoid her, but there was nothing to be done. There was the briefest of mentions in both London evening papers, but what I can't understand is why they've made no connection with the Cohen affair.'

'Yes, I wondered about that. I had my people in London investigate. It seems the girl's parents were divorced some time ago. The father is a paratroop colonel named Morgan - Asa Morgan. Serving in Ireland at the moment. The KGB at our London Embassy most obligingly ran him through the computer for me and he has quite a record. Expert in subversion, urban guerrilla techniques, advanced interrogation methods. Was even a Chinese prisoner in Korea. It makes sense that the Army would prefer to keep a very low profile on a man like that, which would explain the official handling of the matter.'

'They're also keeping a very low profile on the Cretan.' Mikali spooned tea into the pot.