Janet had known that this would be the station to broadcast tonight’s signal, assuming this connection on hearing what Ferreira had translated and on seeing the numbers in the notebook.
Swan presented her with a cup of coffee ordered from room service. ‘So, what happens now? How is the message deciphered?’
‘Menendez would’ve had a book, which she’d been using to match meanings with the numbers.’ She referred back to the notepad. ‘The first number is for the page, the second is for the line, the third is for the word, and the last number is the letter in that word.’
Swan suddenly recognised this. It was similar to another code, used in the American revolutionary war to hide secret messages from the British, and was called the Otterndorf Cypher. ‘I studied this during my days with the signal corps.’
‘Yes, but this is slightly more complicated.’ Janet grabbed the one-time pad from the table. ‘This last set is a formula to use after you have found the letter on the page. Again, look for the first zero, so add two means you move two letters along in the word, which could even be in the next word in the line. Now, you move back four letters which will give you the actual letter that the operative would need to use.’
‘Swan nodded. ‘All we need now is to find out what book she used.’
Janet asked him to pass her the novel he was reading, from the bedside table.
‘Look, the ISBN number. Every book has its own unique identifier.’
She pointed to the final long set of numbers on her pad.
‘All we need to do is go to a bookshop in the morning, find out what this book is, and buy a copy.’
Chapter 17
The next morning, the British couple was escorted by Ferreira to the airport.
On leaving the hotel, Janet asked him to recommend a good bookshop, and to go there en route.
Without explanation, they had presented the shop’s owner with the ISBN number, and in a few minutes he returned with a copy of a classic Portuguese love story, Os Maias by José Maria de Eca de Queiroz. Ferreira had recalled having had to study it in school, and soon guessed it had something to do with the mysterious notebook. He then took them on to the airport, and on saying their farewells, Swan promised host Ferreira and his wife, when they found the chance to visit London.
High over the Bay of Biscay, Janet Swan had the novel, along with the scrap of paper with the numbers from the broadcast. Her husband was embroiled in another paperback novel, one that Arthur Gable had given to him. Being in the aisle seat of the BEA Trident, he occasionally prodded his wife to warn her of the approaching stewardess and on this prompt, Janet would casually move the numbers to the inside back cover, pretending to be reading the book until the coast was clear again. It seemed she really did know her tradecraft.
Decoding the message was proving difficult, not helped by the fact that the text of the book was in its original Portuguese. As she moved through it, a few words were easily translatable, such as ‘English’, ‘Lisbon’ and ‘judicial police’. When Janet had completed what she could of the translation, she had suddenly discovered something. Part of the number sequence had deciphered into her husband’s name.
From this, she had come to a conclusion the attempted shooting of him had not been an act of self-defence.
Reaching into her handbag to extract a small Portuguese phrase book, the words she had not understood were soon translated.
She sat with her mouth agape at what she was reading.
Hiding the decoded message again to allow the stewardess to pass by, she leant over and whispered to her husband. ‘I’ve done it — and you are not going to believe it!’
She discreetly lifted the novel for him to read the note. Janet had then hyphenated each word so that the message could be read more easily.
TAKE — EXTREME — CAUTION — A — BRITISH — AGENT — CALLED — ALEX — SWAN — IS — WITH — JUDICIAL — POLICE — ELIMINATE — IMMEDIATELY — AND — REPORT
Swan’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Good lord She wasn’t just trying to defend herself, she meant to kill me?’
His wife gave a nod. ‘Yes, it seems so. The most worrying thing about it is that, in a way, I instructed her to do it!’
Swan gasped. ‘So, who’s the poacher, I wonder? Someone behind the Danvers murder?’
Janet took some time to think this over. Suddenly, she remembered.
‘Alex, I did these numbers for the Foreign Office and the head of this special team at the time was our now deputy foreign secretary, Christopher Allenby. He was in charge of The Lincolnshire Poacher Number Station on Cyprus.’
The Jasmine Star was already in the port by the time David Reynolds arrived at the docks in Limassol, on the southern coast of Cyprus. With her cargo of goat hair, carpets and other goods from North Africa, the twenty-two-year-old, 11,500-ton, freighter had docked at berth number five.
The crew, a mixture of Moroccans and Spaniards with a French captain, were busy throwing and securing the extra mooring ropes to the bollards at the quayside, the huge vessel rocking as the waves slammed into her hull.
Reynolds, fresh from his flight from London, yawned in the bright mid-afternoon sunshine, the sun beating down with a temperature of almost thirty-eight degrees centigrade; the ex-SAS trooper wore a black cap to protect his head from its penetrating rays.
From landing at Pathos airport, he had hired a yellow Vauxhall Viva and driven the thirty-six miles to Limassol. Having located the Jasmine Star, he now waited patiently at the bottom of the gangplank, knowing that in a few moments his team would be descending it.
He checked his watch, and as he did so, raised his head again to voices coming from the entrance of the freighter.
First to emerge was his second in command and ex-foreign legionnaire, Jacques Daffaut, who walked down with two of Reynolds’ old SAS team members, who had also decided to leave the service in favour of the more prosperous private sector. Tolly Evans, a short stocky Welshman, waved at his old officer from the top of the walkway. They were soon followed by the rest of Reynolds’ unit and all gathered to greet their boss.
Among them was a hardened Moroccan, named Sami Ahmed. His small but nimble frame suggesting agility. He had proven himself many times in combat with a variety of close- fighting knives.
Reynolds looked around at the smiling faces. The enthusiasm of his men showed they were really looking forward to their impending mission. ‘I just wish I could’ve been on board with you, guys.’
Daffaut jokingly explained that the voyage had been the usual combination of drills, briefings and poker. The Frenchman held a wad of banknotes and flashed them in the air.
‘Looks like you did well then, Jacques?’ Reynolds quipped.
Daffaut smiled smugly as the former owners of the cash scowled at him.
Also part of the motley crew of mercenaries was the big German, Josef Meyer. His six-foot frame and bushy hair had earned the nickname Seppy, after Sepp Meier, the West German goalkeeper who played in the recent World Cup finals. Seppy even had big hands to match those of the footballer, who himself was nicknamed The Cat from Ansling and had performed brilliantly in the tournament, taking West Germany to victory over Holland. Meyer stood, towering over the others as he lit a cigarette.
Reynolds then noticed that not all of his team were present. There were two missing, one of them a black African. He turned to Daffaut. ‘Where’s Hoppo and Olu?’