McBride got to his feet and began running along the hedge, following it as it angled towards the farmhouse. He could hear doors opening and banging shut, and the shouting of orders in German. He drew the Mauser from his waistband without pausing in his stride.
Walsingham himself decided to enter the country house that had been converted into a hotel on the outskirts of Cheltenham, after they traced Goessler's hire car to the hotel's residents" car park and checked the register. The receptionist was helpful but bemused. Two German businessmen, yes — Herr Muller and Herr Schmitt, was there anything the matter?
Exton showed her only the CID card he carried, and then asked to speak to the manager. Only the manager's wife was available, and Exton explained simply that the two men were suspected of currency illegalities and that he would cause as little disturbance as possible and he was sorry but it couldn't be postponed and he'd be grateful if the matter could be concluded immediately.
While he talked at the desk, Walsingham stood where he could see into the lounge bar without himself being seen. He located Goessler and Lobke, enjoying their after-dinner coffee and brandies, and the moment welled in him like a hot, indigestible lump. He had found them, had them in his hand, and they were unaware of his presence. His plan for the two Germans stretched before him as easily and entirely as Emerald had come into his head, the absence of moral or human qualifications suggesting a brilliant, logical inevitability about its components. Those cold moments of clarity were Charles Walsingham's most gratifying and fulfilling experiences. He was, while they still occurred, not an old man on the verge of retirement, of being forced to relinquish his accustomed grip on clandestine power. Goessler laughed at something the more saturnine Lobke said, and Walsingham smiled in concert with him.
Exton came over to him.
"Everything satisfactory, Exton?"
"Sir. They don't like it, but they won't argue — as long as we do it discreetly, sir." Exton smiled thinly.
"With panache and taste always, Exton. Let's go and ask Herr Goessler to accompany us."
Walsingham crossed the half-empty lounge bar swiftly, with a youthful step. As Goessler looked up at him, there was a recognition in his eyes that was not of an individual but a type. A kindred spirit. Lobke, startled and panicked, reached inside his coat but Goessler arrested the movement with his own hand. The barman watched as he dried a pint glass, and one or two of the customers looked up, then down again as Walsingham greeted Goessler familiarly.
"Klaus, my dear fellow, how good to see you again!" He held out his hand, and Goessler took it in his own dry grip. Walsingham admitted the man's coolness, the sense of amusement that lingered in his eyes. Lobke's eyes were already darting towards doors, other people, windows.
"My assistant, Rudi Lobke," Goessler said disarmingly.
"And mine — ah, James Exton." Goessler seemed greatly amused at the hesitation while Walsingham recollected Exton's name.
"Will you sit down, gentlemen — Charles. Walsingham was slightly taken aback, then nodded acknowledgement.
"Of course." Walsingham's secret amusement at Goessler's behaviour increased as he saw the fat man relax, already make assumptions of diplomatic immunity, envisaging only deportation as a final solution, the ultimate weapon possessed by Walsingham. How wrong he was — "No, I think we'd all better get off straight away, don't you?"
Goessler shrugged. "As you wish — our luggage?"
"It will be taken care of."
"Good. Is it a long drive?"
"No. You'll not get cold. Shall we go?"
He gestured towards the door. Lobke appeared dangerously nervous, and Goessler touched his hand with a feminine reassurance that made Walsingham embarrassed.
"It's all right, Rudi — don't be foolish, liebchen." He took Lobke by the elbow and guided him, Exton alongside them, to the door of the lounge bar. Walsingham followed, satisfied with the smoothness of events, the professionalism that Goessler had displayed, was relying on, and about which he was totally mistaken.
Outside, the night was fine and chilly, high stars pale above the halo of light from the hotel's floodlighting. Hard white light that seemed to distress Lobke. Perhaps he was picking up some kind of emitted signal from Exton or himself, Walsingham wondered, and waited until Goessler registered the absence of police cars. Just the one Granada, parked by their own Ford, with two men leaning against it but coming to alertness as they saw the party emerge from the hotel. Goessler turned to Walsingham.
"A quiet and exclusive party, yes?"
"Indeed, Herr Goessler. This way, please." He directed them to the car, and Exton, removing Lobke's gun from his shoulder-harness, pushed the young man into the back seat. The driver and his companion waited for Walsingham's orders. "Driver, you take us — and you, Peters, bring up the Ford. Keys, Professor?"
Goessler seemed to be reassured by another close appraisal of Walsingham's face, and handed over the keys to Walsingham, who tossed them almost carelessly to Peters, then gestured to the open rear door of the Granada. Goessler shrugged and got in. Exton squeezed in beside the two Germans. Walsingham sat next to the driver, nodded, and the Granada pulled away from the harsh floodlighting out of the car park onto the A40 towards Andoversford. For a moment, Goessler experienced the acute fear that they had already located Moynihan, the woman and their prisoner, but he had to close his face against the expression of relief when Walsingham said:
"Now, Professor, where are you keeping young McBride and his IRA friends?" Walsingham half-turned in his seat. The old man's profile was aquiline beyond the suggestion of a mere garden bird. This one preyed on meat. Lobke's leg, pressed against his on the bench seat, was throbbing with nerves, and Goessler patted the young man's thigh in warning and comfort.
"I'm sorry, Herr Walsingham — these people — McBride? — strangers, I'm afraid."
"You don't deny you are a senior officer in the East German intelligence service, I hope?"
Exton, as if on cue, drew the Heckler & Koch VP-70 Parabellum from inside his coat, and laid it in a parody of innocence across his lap. Lobke was supremely aware that the gun contained eighteen cartridges in its magazine. Goessler smiled without apparent effort. Walsingham's eyes watched the lights of the Ford Escort behind them, then focused on Goessler again.
"I am covered, of course, by diplomatic immunity."
"Naturally — under ordinary circumstances. But, it is of the utmost importance — as you well understand — that I locate Professor Thomas McBride and anyone else who may have shared his information. You understand the — urgency of the matter, I'm sure. Therefore, I'm sure you will understand that the ordinary rules do not apply." Walsingham shrugged, declaring innocence and necessity and threat at the same moment. Goessler controlled the fading of the smile from his face, in the oncoming headlights of a car. Dark woods rushed by the Granada, and the half-caught gleam of a thin ribbon of reservoir water. Goessler knew they were still heading towards Andoversford.