‘My third man?’ Krakovitch sat up straight, seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I have no -‘
‘But you do,’ Quint cut in. ‘KGB. We’ve seen him. In fact, he’s here in Frankie’s Franchise right now.
That was news to Kyle. He looked at Quint. ‘You’re certain?’
Quint nodded. ‘Don’t look now, but he’s sitting in the corner over there with a Genoese whore. He’s changed his clothes, too, and looks like he’s just off a ship. Not a bad cover — but I recognised him the moment we walked in here.’
Out of the corner of his eye Krakovitch looked, then slowly shook his head. ‘I do not know him,’ he said. ‘Not to be surprised. I do not know any of them. I dislike —strongly! But. . . you are sure? How can you be so sure?’
Kyle would have been caught on the hop, but not Quint. ‘We run the same sort of branch as the one you run, Comrade,’ he stated flatly. ‘Except we have the edge on you. We’re better at it. He’s KGB, all right.’
Krakovitch’s fury was obvious. Not against Quint but the position in which he now found himself. ‘Intolerable!’ he snapped. ‘Why, the Party Leader himself has given me his — ‘ He half stood up, half turned towards the man indicated, a thick-set barrel of a man in rough and ready suit and open-necked shirt. His neck must be at least as thick as Krakovitch’s thigh! Fortunately he was looking the other way, talking to the prostitute.
Before Krakovitch could carry it any further, Kyle said, ‘I believe you — that you don’t know him. It was done behind your back. So sit down, act naturally. Anyway, it’s obvious we can’t talk here. Apart from the fact that we’re being watched, it’s too damned noisy. And Christ, for all we know there might even be someone listening in on us!’
Krakovitch abruptly sat down. He looked startled, glanced nervously about. ‘Bugged?’ He remembered how his old boss, Borowitz, had had a thing about electronic surveillance.
‘We could be.’ Quint gave a sharp nod. ‘This one either followed you here or he knew in advance where we were going to meet.’
Krakovitch gave a snort. ‘This getting out of hand. I no good at this. What now?’
Kyle looked at Krakovitch and knew he wasn’t faking it. He grinned. ‘I’m no good at it either. Listen, I’m like you, Felix. I prognosticate. I don’t know your word for it. I, er, foretell the future? I occasionally get fairly accurate pictures of how things are going to be. Do you understand?’
‘Of course,’ said Krakovitch. ‘My talent almost exactly. Except I usually get warnings. So?’
‘So I saw us getting along OK together. How about you?’
Krakovitch heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I also,’ he shrugged. ‘At least, no bad warnings.’ Time was running out for the Russian and there were things he desperately needed to know, questions he must have answered. This Englishman might be the only one who could answer them. ‘So what we do about it?’
Quint said, ‘Wait.’ He got up, crossed to the bar, ordered fresh drinks. He also spoke to the bartender. Then he came back with drinks on a tray. ‘When we get the nod from the bloke behind the bar we pile out of here fast,’ he said.
‘Eh?’ Kyle was puzzled.
‘Taxi,’ said Quint, smiling tightly. ‘I’ve ordered one. We’ll go to. . . the airport! Why not? On the way we can talk. At the airport we find a warm, comfortable place in the arrivals lounge and carry on talking. Even if our pal over there manages to follow us he won’t dare get too close. And if he does show up we’ll take a taxi somewhere else.’
‘Good!’ said Krakovitch.
Five minutes later their taxi came and all four exited at speed. Kyle was last out. Looking back, he saw the KGB man come slowly to his feet, saw his face twisting in anger and frustration.
In the taxi they talked, and at the airport. They started talking at about twenty minutes before midnight and finished at 2.30 A.M. Kyle did most of it, aided by Quint, with Krakovitch listening intently and only breaking in here and there to confirm or ask for an explanation of something that had been said.