“Reports reaching the Foreign Office indicate a recent intensifying of the go-slow movements in all sections of the country’s industry; in particular, the copper mines are very seriously affected. Intensification of the rioting is also reported from widely dispersed areas, and the general situation is confused and uncertain. The Foreign Secretary has assured the House, in answer to questions, that a close watch is being kept on the state of affairs, but that meanwhile British subjects resident in Nogolia are being advised to remain at their posts unless the situation should deteriorate rapidly.”
And, Shaw thought with a curling lip, what then? What hope would there be of evacuating the whites once the situation did ‘deteriorate rapidly’?
Edo had to be found and his Cult smashed — quickly.
After a breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and steaming hot coffee, Shaw felt more relaxed. He telephoned Albany Street as promised to let Debonnair know he’d survived the Ship’s Biscuit He had that odd feeling that he wasn’t going to be seeing her again for a long, long while… he shook himself out of that, rang off, and started to check the Webley .38, which he was now using since it was less bulky than a Service revolver. He cleaned it carefully, reloaded it, laid it ready in the shoulder-holster with a good supply of spare ammunition handy.
Just before eleven-thirty a long black Jaguar purred up Great Tower Street and pulled in near the entrance to Tower Hill station.
Two heavily built men got out, a third man remained behind the wheel, a nervous tic making his upper lip twitch continually.
One of the men, throwing away a cigarette-butt and grinding it with his heel, put his head in casually at the driving-window and said between his teeth, “Righto, Lucky boy. Pull ’er ahead a bit. Give us five minutes from now. If we’re not back in the car then — scarper. Something’ll ’ave gone wrong and the more we split up the better. Don’t worry about us — we’ll handle our end. If a copper asks questions about your parking, do as he tells you, don’t answer back but get rid of ’im quick as you can. If you ’ave to move, I’m not fussy but keep ’andy. I’ll be watching you. Okay, Lucky?”
“Sure.” The driver, a thin, undersized man with a receding chin and wearing a chauffeur’s livery, spat deftly through the window. “What if the skirt’s talked, though?”
The big man looked irritated. “She won’t have. But it makes no odds really if she has. I told you. They won’t start anything here — they’ll tail us. Stands to reason, like Canasset said. Only thing is, they’ve not got to keep behind us too long. Shakin’ off the tail if there is one, that’s up to you, ain’t it!” He gave a coarse laugh and then walked away with his companion. They crossed the road and became apparently deeply engaged in watching some men at work on building operations. Unobtrusively they kept a sharp look-out on the station exit, and both of them kept their right hands in their coat-pockets.
As they waited the eastbound District Line train from Richmond sped, rattling and rocking, out of Cannon Street for the Monument. Gillian Ross, pale but composed, was in the second coach from the rear of the train. The regular rattle of the wheels made tunes in her head, tunes of foreboding. Inside, she was thoroughly frightened; outwardly, except for that pallor, she kept the calmness, the hard exterior that she’d been accustomed to showing the world for so long now. The coach was fairly crowded even at this time of day. Men and women read newspapers, or stared without interest at one another, almost unconsciously, seeing nothing but their own thoughts. But there were two men who were very aware of Gillian Ross the whole time though, in fact, their eyes were looking anywhere but at the girl. One, sitting four seats down on the opposite side, a comfortable-looking man, fat and with a beaming face, and mild eyes behind heavyframed glasses, was studying the adverts over Gillian’s head. There was a string-bag full of books down by his feet. The other man, a tall man with a thin, pale face and a bowler hat a size or so too large for him so that it appeared to rest on his ears, stood leaning back against the glass partition farther up the coach, clutching a briefcase as though it contained the crown jewels, and with his nose buried in The Times.
The train rushed on, then slowed for Tower Hill.
It was approaching destiny.
It eased to a stop, and the doors slid back. Gillian got up, just a little unsteadily, clutching at her handbag as at some frail straw of safe familiarity in what was becoming a very strange and frightening world. The man with the briefcase got out immediately behind her, appeared suddenly to recognize her, gave a gasp of surprise, and put a hand on her arm.
She swung round.
The man grinned down at her, said in a loud haw-haw voice, “I say, it’s you, m’dear… do you know, I never saw you. I’m terribly sorry. You’d better join me, hadn’t you. I’ve got the car waiting…”
She looked at him, her lips tight, challenging despite those jumpy nerves. The man’s eyes said, You’d better or else…
She nodded, and he took her arm in a fatherly grip.
From the far end of the platform a man came casually along, exchanged a glance with the fat, beaming man who had also got off the train, carrying his string-bag. The beaming man stopped the other and asked for a light. As the other man held out the match the fat tail from Sloane Square said softly, “That’s her, just going out of the barrier with the tall gent in the bowler.” Louder, jovially, he said, “Thanks so much, very good of you.”
His benefactor moved away slowly and, keeping his distance, followed Gillian Ross and the bowler hat out through the barrier, losing himself in the crowd.
CHAPTER NINE
Gillian Ross and her escort climbed the steps. The girl was really scared now, her glances darting to left and right as she walked along beside the tall man.
Behind them, discreetly, came the Outfit’s tail, the man who had been on the eastbound platform as the train drew in. Outside the entrance he bought a newspaper, scanned the headlines as he ambled along. The tall man and the girl walked away to the left in the direction of the Tower, and the two hefty men strolled away from the building excavations, following on behind Gillian Ross and making towards the black Jaguar.
The Outfit’s man stopped as though he had forgotten something, then turned back clicking his tongue in annoyance and walked away in the opposite direction, passing the two hefty men as he did so. He went right back to the corner of Mark Lane and turned up it, glancing back casually and without interest from the corner. He saw the girl getting into the Jaguar with the other men. Making for a small blue Morris, he got in beside the driver.
He said with satisfaction, “Got her. Black Jag, 123 XKV, headed east.”
The driver nodded, let in his clutch and nosed out of Mark Lane. Coming out into Great Tower Street he saw tl‘ Jaguar turning round Trinity Square to come down Cooper Row towards Tower Hill. No one in the Jaguar was looking at the Morris as the big car came down past them, making for Eastcheap and the Monument.
As they approached the junction, the man beside the driver of the Morris picked up a hand microphone and flicked a switch. Keeping his eyes on the Jaguar he said, “Olga calling Redfern… Olga calling Redfern… over.”
The reply came quickly, a little muzzy with interference. “Redfern acknowledging, Redfern acknowledging… come in, Olga. Over.”
The man said, “Black Jaguar, 123 XKV, four men, girl in rear seat centre. Men almost certainly armed. They are turning north out of Eastcheap into Gracechurch Street now. Over.”