‘So, if EOKA B has hired her, this will be the first time, as far as I know, they have done anything in the UK. Even during the troubles under Grivas, they never committed any of their outrages here,’ Gable remarked.
Swan smiled, admiring his colleague’s attention to detail. ‘Been doing your homework on Cyprus already, Arthur?’
Gable grinned. ‘Not really, Alex.’ He picked up the early edition of the Evening Standard. ‘It’s all in here.’
Swan took the newspaper to view the article. ‘Hammer Higgins told me that Danvers was due to be appointed head of overseas air operations, which would clearly make him a target for them.’ Swan looked at his watch. ‘I wonder if John Stratton is up for a spot of lunch at the Brigand. I wouldn’t mind picking his brains about EOKA, as he was in Cyprus in the as part of intelligence.’
The telephone rang on Janet’s desk. ‘Good morning, SID.’ She listened to the caller, then called over her husband. ‘Alex, it’s Scotland Yard for you — and here’s the file on Mahmoud.’
Swan listened, thanked the caller and put down the receiver. ‘A cleaner found a woman’s cream-coloured jacket with blue ink stains on the right sleeve, in one of the toilets at Heathrow. The airport police have it now, so this provides us with more evidence.’
‘Looks like our killer caught a plane,’ suggested Gable.
An hour later, Swan and Gable walked through the highly polished black doors of the Brigand Club in Northumberland Avenue. This was an exclusive establishment used by men of government and the military, where subjects ranging from current affairs of the state to the latest tips in The Sporting Life could be discussed, over smoked salmon sandwiches and the finest blends of malt whisky. As they stood surveying the clientele, sitting in their high back green leather armchairs, the topic on everyone’s tongue was of course that morning’s invasion of Cyprus.
Swan noticed the man they had come to see, sitting alone, reading The Times and nursing a half-full pint glass of bitter. They walked over to him, pulling two chairs to his table.
‘Afternoon, John. Not your usual lunchtime tipple, is it?’ Swan remarked.
John Stratton was a devout malt scotch man. He ruffled his newspaper, and placing it on the table, the head of MI5’s A section greeted the two men. ‘Been told to cut down on the spirits, Alex. According to my quack, the liver’s not too good.’ He shook hands with both men. ‘So, you think it could be her, then? The elusive Praying Mantis, back on the scene?’
A young waiter, dressed immaculately in a white tunic and black trousers, approached to take their order for drinks. Swan and Gable both chose a single malt. They then briefed Stratton about the evidence discovered at the hotel, but decided to save the best for last. He enjoyed teasing his former colleague. After Swan had left MI5 to form SID, the two men had continued to play a little game of one-upmanship; Stratton had been irritated how the work of the services investigation department sometimes invaded his territory in the security service, but over the past few years, both decided that underneath all the sniping and backstabbing, they were actually good friends. A speech from Stratton at Swan’s wedding to Janet confirmed this and the two team leaders had collaborated happily together for the past few years, especially over the recent incidents involving the provisional IRA. Technically, Britain was at war, this latest cell causing havoc not only in London, but elsewhere on the mainland. There was now a nationwide manhunt for them.
Stratton’s eyes widened at the news of the fingerprints. ‘Good grief, gentlemen! If the prints do turn out to be hers, then Interpol have finally got her, bang to rights. Do you happen to know when you can expect the xerox?’
Swan shuffled in his chair. ‘Anytime now, John. Janet is in the office as we speak, waiting for it to come through. I take it we still have a press black-out?’
Stratton confirmed that they did. ‘I can picture old Juneau, the Interpol detective overseeing her case,’ he sighed. ‘He’s been chasing her for years and she’s eluded him on every occasion. If this all turns out well, he will be jumping for joy having got something solid on his arch nemesis. She’s always been considered the bird that flew away… Mind you, if it is her, then this is the first time she has ever carried out a job in London.’
Swan agreed, informing the MI5 man that he’d had similar thoughts, as the waiter arrived with their drinks.
Two and half hours later, Stratton was sitting in his new office at Thames House, when he received a call from Swan. ‘John, it’s good news. We indeed have a match. Danvers was assassinated by the Praying Mantis. Question is, why?’
Stratton raised an eyebrow. ‘That is something we need to know. Why don’t you take a little trip out to Lisbon? I’ve done some chasing, and it seems informers used by the judicial police have revealed that our deadly little gem has been spotted somewhere in Portugal. That’s quite strange though, I would have thought of all the places to go to, her home turf would not be one. There’s a good friend of mine, Carlos Ferreira, head of the judicial police in Lisbon, I’ve worked with him a couple of times. I’ll give him a call and set things in motion.’
Swan thought about this. ‘I’ll do that, John. How about Friday?’
‘Nothing like striking while the iron is hot, Alex!’ Stratton quipped. ‘Oh, by the way, I also have the post mortem report from St Mary’s. The puncture wounds were two inches deep, made by something that resembles a sharp fork with the two centre prongs removed. Does this sound familiar?’
‘Indeed it does, John. Very familiar, same as Saeed Al-Mahmoud in Paris.’
Swan put down the receiver.
The next day, Gable was at Scotland Yard working with the police on investigations into the Tower of London bombing. This is what they had both been involved with, prior to the murder investigation, and Swan had decided that he could handle the murder of Danvers while Gable continued working alongside the special branch team to catch the bombers.
He looked over at Janet and informed her that the woman could be in Portugal, therefore he would be taking a trip to Lisbon. He then had a thought, and moving across to her, he leaned on the desk. ‘Arthur hates flying. So why don’t we leave him to man the fort and we can have that belated honeymoon we’ve always promised ourselves?’
Janet beamed a smile and, leaning over for a kiss, showed that she was more than happy with the idea.
Chapter 7
Walking through the colourful laden souks of downtown Marrakech, Nick Everard waved aside the hordes of market traders begging him to view their wares. Everard was slim with fair wavy hair. He wasn’t in the Moroccan capital to buy an expertly-woven carpet or any of the myriad of freshly tanned leather goods on display; he had been sent by Senator Donovan Tremaine to purchase something else entirely — to the buy the services of a man named David Reynolds.
The American turned the street and spied his destination, the Hotel La Renaissance. Parked in front of the building was something he did not expect to see; it was a pink-painted, British military Land Rover. Everard moved closer to it, raising an eyebrow as he observed some of the features — the two pieces of steel planking mounted on either side, the empty machine gun carriages, and the three flare chutes; he also noticed that even the steering wheel had been painted in this most peculiar hue. Who in the world would drive around in such a vehicle? He wondered.