Solo - Jack Higgins [84]
Morgan said, 'Is all this legal, Harry?'
'Ferguson could have had you taken into custody if he'd wanted, until it was over.'
'On what charge?'
'Suspicious person would do for a start, suffering from gunshot wounds with no adequate explanation.' He tossed his cigarette into the gutter. 'Be sensible, Asa. Go to bed.'
He went down the steps, got into the rear of the police car beside Stewart and was driven away. Morgan looked across the street at the other car, waved to the young policeman behind the wheel, then went inside.
Jock Kelso was watching a football match on television when the phone started to ring. His daughter Amy, a pretty, dark-haired girl, came in from the kitchen drying her hands on her apron and answered it.
'It's Colonel Morgan, Dad.'
Kelso switched off the television and took the receiver from her. 'Colonel?'
'Jock. I have a slight problem. A police car parked at my front door and a copper in the rear courtyard to make sure I don't leave. Brigadier Ferguson wants to keep me out of trouble. I was wondering if there was anything you could do about it.'
Kelso laughed. 'Christ, Colonel, but this gets more like old times by the minute.'
Morgan put down the phone, opened the desk drawer and took out the Walther PPK. He checked the magazine carefully, then fitted the Carswell silencer over the muzzle.
He was beginning to feel tired and that would never do. He went into the bathroom, opened the cabinet above the sink and found a small bottle of purple capsules. Belfast bullets the Army called them, because they were designed to get you through the bad times when rest was impossible. Two every four hours and you could manage for twenty-four without sleep. The only trouble was you were like a corpse for a week afterwards.
He swallowed two with the aid of a glass of water, went back into the sitting-room, sat down by the window and waited.
It was just after seven-fifteen and Deville was making coffee in the kitchen of the flat in Upper Grosvenor Street when the doorbell rang. He poised, instantly alert and moved to the kitchen door, still holding the can of coffee beans in one hand, a spoon in the other.
The bell rang again. Obviously not Mikali. He would have his key, unless he'd forgotten it, but it was unlikely that he'd put in an appearance at this hour so close to the concert. It could, of course, be Katherine Riley, but it occurred to Deville that she would be more than likely to have a key of her own.
He decided to let it go and in the same moment, a key rattled in the lock, the door opened and Ferguson entered. Deville was aware of Baker standing behind him, a lock pick in one hand.
Ferguson said, 'Thank you, Superintendent. You can wait downstairs. We shan't be long.'
He wore a greatcoat of the type favoured by officers of the Household Brigade and his umbrella was damp with rain. He leaned it against a chair.
'Shocking weather for the time of year.' He smiled faintly. 'You know me, I think.'
Deville, familiar with the faces of every important Intelligence chief in the Western world for his entire career, nodded gravely. So it had come, he thought, after twenty-five years. The moment that had always been possible. The moment they came through the door for him when least expected.
There was a golden lion fob on the watch chain that stretched from one pocket of his waistcoat to the other. He touched it casually, feeling for the catch.
Ferguson said, 'Is that where you keep it, the cyanide capsule? How very old-fashioned. They used to issue them to us during the war. I always threw mine away. Supposed to be quick, but I was once in the presence of an SS general who took one and didn't stop screaming for the next twenty minutes. Beastly way to go.'
He walked to the sideboard, took the stopper out of the whisky decanter and sniffed. He nodded his approval and poured himself one.
Deville said, 'What would you suggest?'
Ferguson moved to the window and peered down into the rain-filled street. 'Well, you could try something desperately