They took a walk around the pontoons, returning in ten minutes and going on board. The door to the companionway which led below was locked. Shepilov produced a spring blade knife and forced it expertly. There were two cabins neatly furnished, a saloon and a galley. They went back on deck and tried the wheelhouse. The door to that was open.
‘No ignition key,’ Shepilov said.
‘No problem. Give me your knife.’ Turkin worked his way up behind the control panel and pulled down several wires. It took only a moment to make the right connection and when he pressed the starter button, the engine turned over at once. He checked the fuel gauge. ‘Tank’s three quarters full.’ He unfastened the wires again. ‘You know, I think this is our day, Ivan,’ he said to Shepilov.
They walked back round to the other side of the harbour and turned along the top ofthe Albert Quay, pausing at the end to look down at the Hydrofoil berth.
‘Excellent.’ Turkin looked at his watch. ‘Now all we have to do is wait. Let’s find that cafe and try some breakfast.’
At St Malo, the Condor hydrofoil moved out of the harbour past the Mole des Noires. It was almost full, mainly French tourists visiting Jersey for the day to judge from the conversations Tanya overheard. Once out of harbour, the hydrofoil started to lift, increasing speed, and she gazed out into the morning feeling exhilarated. She’d done it. Beaten all of them. Once in Jersey, she was as good as in London. She leaned back in the comfortable seat and closed her eyes.
Alex Martin turned his big Peugeot estate car on to the Albert Quay and drove along until he found a convenient parking place, which wasn’t easy for the car ferry was in from Wey-mouth and things were rather busy. He had not slept at all and was beginning to feel the effects, although a good breakfast had helped and a cold shower. He wore navy-blue slacks, a polo neck sweater in the same colour and a sports jacket in pale blue tweed by Yves St Laurent. Partly this was a desire to make an impression on Tanya Voroninova. His music meant an enormous amount to him and the chance to meet a performer he admired so much was of more importance to him than either Ferguson or Fox could have imagined.
His hair was still a little damp and he ran his fingers through it, suddenly uneasy. He opened the glove compartment of the
Peugeot and took out the handgun he found there. It was a.38 Smith and Wesson Special, the Airweight model with the two inch barrel, a weapon much favoured by the CIA. Six years before, he’d taken it from the body of a Protestant terrorist in Belfast, a member of the outlawed UVF. The man had tried to kill Martin, had almost succeeded. Martin had killed him instead. It had never worried him, that was the strange thing. No regrets, no nightmares.
‘Come off it, Alex,’ he said softly. ‘This is Jersey.’
But the feeling wouldn’t go away, Belfast all over again, that touch of unease. Remembering an old trick from undercover days, he slipped the gun into the waistband at the small of his back. Frequently even a body search missed a weapon secreted there.
He sat smoking a cigarette, listening to Radio Jersey on the car radio, until the hydrofoil moved in through the harbour entrance. Even then, he didn’t get out. There were the usual formalities to be passed through, customs and so on. He waited until the first passengers emerged from the exit of the passenger terminal then got out and moved forward. He recognized Tanya at once in her black jumpsuit, the trench-coat over her shoulders like a cloak.
He moved forward to meet her. ‘Miss Voroninova?’ She examined him warily. ‘Or should I say Miss Frank?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Alexander Martin. I’m here to see you get on your plane safely. You’re booked on the ten-past-ten to London. Plenty of time.’
She put a hand on his arm, relaxing completely, unaware of Turkin and Shepilov on the other side of the road against the wall, backs partially turned. ‘You’ve no idea how good it is to see a friendly face.’