Devlin, who had been waiting anxiously, said, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I even slept on the train. Don’t worry. They can’t have any idea where I am. When will I see you again?’
‘Soon,’ Devlin told her. ‘We’ve got to get you to London safely first. Now listen to me. When the hydrofoil gets into Jersey, you’ll be met by a man called Martin. Alexander Martin. Apparently he’s a bit of a fan of yours so he knows what you look like.’
‘I see. Anything else?’
‘Not really.’
‘Good, then I’ll get back to my omelette, Professor.’
She rang off and Devlin replaced the receiver. A girl and a half, he told himself as he went into the kitchen. In the cottage, Harry Cussane was already phoning Paul Cherny.
Croix was a small airfield with a control tower, two hangars and three nissen huts, headquarters of an aero club but also used by Pierre Lebel to operate his air taxi service. Lebel was a dark, taciturn man who never asked questions if the price was right. He had flown for Belov on a number of occasions and knew Turkin and Shepilov well. He hadn’t the slightest idea that they were Russian. Something illegal about them, he’d always thought, but as long as it didn’t involve drugs
and the price was right, he didn’t mind. He was waiting for the two men when they arrived, opened the door of the main hangar so that they could drive inside.
‘Which plane?’ Turkin asked.
‘We’ll use the Chieftain. Faster than the Cessna and there’s a headwind all the way to Golfe St Malo.’
‘When do we leave?’
‘As soon as you like.’
‘But I thought the airport at Jersey wasn’t open until seven?’
‘Whoever told you that got it wrong. It’s officially seven-thirty for air taxis. However, the airport is open for the paper plane from five-thirty.’
‘Paper plane?’
‘Newspapers from England. Post and so on. They’re usually sympathetic to a request for an early landing, especially if they know you. I did get the impression there was some urgency on this one?’
‘There certainly is,’ Turkin told him.
‘Good, let’s go up to the office and settle the business end of things.’
The office was up a flight of rickety stairs, small and cluttered, the desk untidy, the whole lit by a single bulb. Turkin handed Lebel an envelope. ‘Better count it.’
‘Oh, I will,’ the Frenchman said, and then the phone rang. He answered it at once, then passed it to Turkin. ‘For you.’
Belov said, ‘She’s made contact with Devlin from Rennes. There’s a new complication. She’s being met off the hydrofoil in Jersey by an Alexander Martin.’
‘Is he a pro?’ Turkin asked.
‘No information on him at all. One wouldn’t have thought they’d have any of their people in a place like Jersey. Still…’
‘No problem,’ Turkin said. ‘We’ll handle it.’
‘Good luck.’
The line went dead and Turkin turned to Lebel. ‘All right, my friend. Ready when you are.’
izS
It was just six o’clock when they landed at Jersey Airport, a fine, blustery morning, the sky already lightening in the east, an orange glow on the horizon as the sun came up. The officer on duty at customs and immigration was pleasant and courteous. No reason not to be, for their papers were in order and Jersey was well used to handling thousands of French visitors each year.
‘Stopping over?’ he asked Lebel.
‘No, straight back to Paris,’ the Frenchman told him.
‘And you, gentlemen?’
‘Three or four days. Business and pleasure,’ Turkin said.
‘And nothing to declare? You’ve read the notice?’
‘Not a thing.’ Turkin offered his holdall.
The officer shook his head. ‘All right, gentlemen. Have a nice stay.’
They shook hands formally with Lebel and passed out into the arrival hall, which at that time of the morning was deserted. There were one or two cars parked outside, but the taxi rank was empty. There was a telephone on the wall, but just as Turkin was moving to use it, Shepilov touched his arm and pointed. A cab was drawing up at the entrance to the airport. Two air hostesses got out and went in. The Russians waited and the cab drew up beside them.