‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Liz, hoping that by answering she could buy herself some time. There was an unmistakable sense of menace in the way the men were crowding in on either side of her. Then the shorter, heavy-set man on the street side of the pavement put his hand around her left wrist.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, her voice rising sharply. She twisted out of his grasp, but suddenly the man in the baseball cap man grabbed her other arm and twisted it sharply up behind her back. His grip was like steel.
To slow the men down she stumbled deliberately, hoping to break the iron grip on her arm. She tilted her head up to one side, and shouted as loud as she could: ‘Help!’
The shorter man grabbed her hair and jerked hard, pulling her head back. The pain was excruciating. She tried to dig her heels in, but now they were half-pushing, half-towing her by both arms. Ahead, a narrow alley led off the street and she suddenly felt sure they were planning to force her up it, out of sight of any passersby, and then she’d be completely at their mercy. They reached the entrance to the alley, the men still holding tightly on to her, and as they turned, pulling her with them, Liz suddenly tripped over a pile of rubble and fell to one side, dragging the man in the cap down with her. He let go of her wrist for a moment but the shorter man crowded in from her left, reaching for her arm to pull her up.
It was then Liz made her move. Standing up, she spread the first two fingers of her freed right hand and jabbed them viciously into the eyes of the smaller man. As he began to howl in pain she swung her elbow back ferociously into the groin of the tall man in the Yankees cap, who was still off balance. Then she turned away and ran into the street, where a car was driving slowly along from the direction of the Stratford Road. She stood in front of the oncoming vehicle, hands held up to force it to stop. She saw the startled face of the driver, a middle-aged Sikh in a turban, as he hit the brakes. His little car skidded once, twice, then stopped with a squeal of its tyres about three inches from Liz.
‘Help!’ she shouted, running round to the driver’s window. ‘I’ve been attacked by those two men. Call the police! Quick… before they get away.’
The Sikh held up both hands and his expression of concern turned to one of bafflement. ‘If you wish I will call, young lady. But what two men?’
And when Liz looked around, breathing hard, she saw that her attackers had disappeared. The alley was empty. At the end of it the green-painted door of a garage hung open, gently swinging.
Chapter 15
This Monday morning Arthur Goldsmith was looking forward to retiring. He could have gone several years earlier, with a decent pension too, but the last Head of Station, Danny Molyneux, had persuaded him to stay on. Arthur had liked Molyneux, a friendly chap who’d run a good station. He and his wife Annie had created a real family atmosphere. They’d organised swimming parties for the kids in their pool and picnics in the garden, and the station had run some excellent operations too. The whole station had been commended for the way they’d handled a Libyan diplomat who’d defected from the embassy. He’d been in their London embassy in the eighties and knew all about what had gone on when that policewoman was killed in St James’s Square. He knew quite a bit about Pan Am 103 too. They’d all got involved in that case, even the secretaries and some of the wives, though Arthur’s own wife had left by then. Gone off with a Greek lawyer. She still lived in Athens, though they never met.
But Danny Molyneux had gone back to London and now a new Head of Station had arrived and Arthur was not at all sure he was going to enjoy working with Bruno Mackay. He was an Arabist; he’d worked in Pakistan, and most recently been Deputy Head of Station in Paris. Mackay’s reputation had preceded him on the grapevine. He was an Old Harrovian and a bit of an arrogant shit, it was said, a protégé of Geoffrey Fane, who could be an arrogant shit too though he had many a brilliant operation under his belt. Mackay was still in his thirties, young for a Head of Station, but that was par for the course nowadays.
Arthur wasn’t public school and Oxbridge – not a graduate at all. He’d joined MI6 from the army; had come in to the General Service Branch, not Intelligence. Communications was his forte. He’d had a good career and done very well to get as far as he had: Deputy Head of Station in Athens was an important post. But it looked as though the station might be about to change, and probably not for the better.
His thoughts about his new colleague were rudely interrupted by the sharp buzz of his internal line. He picked up the phone. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. It was a point of principle with Arthur Goldsmith never to show his feelings at work. He reserved emotions for Tia, the only other resident of his small, comfortable flat near the Parthenon. People might wonder how anyone could care so much about a cat, but Goldsmith felt no need to explain the depth of his affection. Tia was special.
‘Arthur? It’s Bruno. Can you pop along for a minute?’
Goldsmith went along to Mackay’s office cautiously. You never knew what might be going on in there. Once he’d discovered the new Station Head showing a secretary (a pretty young thing called Veronica) a new fishing rod he’d had sent out from Hardy’s in Pall Mall. What would he find in progress now? he thought sourly. A practical tutorial on Greek cuisine? Or a troupe of belly dancers brought in from Egypt?
‘Ah, Arthur,’ said Mackay, who was for once sitting at a desk covered in papers. ‘I was hoping you could help me. Have a seat.’
Goldsmith grunted, then sat down in the chair opposite the desk. Mackay looked as though he’d had a good weekend. He was ridiculously handsome, with his deeply tanned face, sculpted nose and mouth and grey-blue eyes. No wonder all the girls were in a flutter. This morning he was wearing a dark red shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing tanned arms downed with fine blond hair and a heavy, expensive-looking watch. It wouldn’t have been so annoying, Arthur thought, if Mackay hadn’t also been very clever.
‘There’s a job come in for us from Head Office. They’ve got a bit of a situation. The French have managed to catch some pirates trying to board a cargo ship in the Indian Ocean, off Somalia. It turns out the ship sailed from here; it was leased by a London-based charity with an office in Athens.’
‘UCSO,’ Goldsmith murmured.
‘That’s right,’ said Mackay, looking up in surprise. ‘How’d you know that?’
‘It’s the only major international charity with a base in Greece.’
‘Do we have a contact in their office?’
‘Danny knew the boss, an American called Berger, but I’ve never met him. Danny didn’t hand him on when he left; I think he was more of a friend than an official station contact. You know the rules about not getting too close to charities.’
‘Yes. Well, Geoffrey Fane’s in touch with their boss in London and it seems they’ve been having a bit of a hijacking problem for some time. Not alone in that, of course, but this time the French Navy nabbed the pirates and one of them turns out to be a British citizen. Hails from Birmingham, would you believe?’ Mackay leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs and laughed.
‘Anyway, that’s one aspect. The other is that the UCSO people are worried that someone’s been leaking information about their shipments. The only ships hijacked have had especially valuable cargo – cash in particular. Those with just the routine stuff have been left alone.’
Arthur Goldsmith pondered this for a moment. ‘Don’t tell me Head Office believes that Somalian pirates have a source inside UCSO?’
Mackay grinned. ‘Who knows what Geoffrey believes or what he’s really up to? He plays his cards close to his chest. But he’s agreed with the London UCSO boss that we’ll put someone in at the Athens end to try and find out what’s going on. Berger’s in on it and we’re going to do it straight away.