I pulled up and pushed the intercom button. A man’s voice almost immediately boomed at me through the speaker, gruffly asking me to identify myself. Looking up and smiling at the camera, I said; “Really, Rumple, we only spoke ten minutes ago, do we have to go through this every time we work together?”
“You know the procedure sir. For all I know you could be an impostor. The rules are there for a reason.”
After the week I’d just been through, I gave in easily. “Oh, very well, Mr Rumple, you win.”
Rumple eventually opened the gates and let me into the drive. I could see two of the firm’s very special field operatives standing at the front door, waiting to greet me. We had worked together on numerous occasions over the years; their talent and expertise was invaluable as they had a knack for blending in virtually anywhere without attracting attention. In reality they were both highly trained and well organised professionals, who for many years had been employed by the Government on various deep cover surveillance assignments. I parked the Mercedes inside one of the double garages. Greeted them both, and was immediately shown up to my room. I always travel light, so unpacking took all of a few minutes. After a refreshing shower and a change of clothes I went downstairs, where Mrs Rumple had prepared a culinary feast as was customary whenever we worked together and there was an excellent full-bodied red wine to wash it down.
After dinner, I had a look around and was briefed on the progress that they had made since arriving at the house on the Thursday morning. As I expected, every detail was being attended to, all of the equipment that I had requested was already neatly arranged in the second garage awaiting my inspection. All that remained was for me to see the boat and to take a look at the general area the next day.
On the Saturday morning, after breakfast Rumple took me down to the boathouse to take a look at the craft that was going to take the team to the Gin Fizz. “Well, I’m very impressed, Rumple. But how did you manage to get hold of a Phantom at such short notice?”
Rumple, as I knew, was an expert in anything nautical. That was one of the reasons LJ had specifically chosen him for this assignment. “Oh, is that what it is, sir?” He said giving me a sideways glance. “This craft was already in here. The fax that we received shortly after we arrived just said to tell you that it’s fitted with the same bit of kit as the other boat; I presume you know what that means sir?”
“Yes, I do know what that means, Rumple. Who sent the fax, by the way?”
“I believe it was Mr Levenson-Jones, sir.”
It was our good fortune that the boathouse had been built with sufficient room down one side to enable indoor loading and unloading of equipment comfortably, without anyone being able to watch from land or sea. Doors had been fitted at both ends making entry and exit very easy, which for us was a good thing as we were going to be using it at night. The next two hours were taken up cruising along the coast to get my bearings. I did, with a scornful glare from Rumple, indulge myself a little and put the forty six foot cruiser through her paces. I familiarised myself with the array of hi-tech navigation and communications equipment on board. I discreetly checked out the radar-jamming device, while Rumple was at the helm on our way out to look at the area over the dive site.
We refuelled and, on arriving back at the boathouse, carefully checked and stowed all of the diving equipment.
“Any problem obtaining that other piece of equipment?” I asked Rumple.
“No sir, although Mr Levenson-Jones did say that the owners would like it back undamaged, if that was at all possible sir. I’ve stowed it safely in the forward rack, as you requested.”
“Thank you, Rumple, just checking.”
Saturday afternoon and most of the evening was spent calculating times, tides, distances and speed of all the various stages. As with all successful assignments sound planning is crucial, and due to the potentially hazardous nature of this one, particular care was being taken. The fact was that when the other member of my team arrived at the house on Tuesday, everything had to be in place and ready to go. We’d finished up by midnight and I said goodnight to Rumple, informing him that I had to be back in London by Sunday lunchtime.
There were blue skies and sunshine in Dorset, a sharp thunderstorm on the M3 and then bright sunshine again as I came off the motorway. I glanced in my mirror, then switched on the radio. Up towards and over Putney Bridge, onto the New Kings Road just as another thunderstorm clattered above. Students walking and talking on their mobile phones, girls showing off the latest fashion in tattoos and belly button piercing. Right towards the Thames and then first on the left into Studdridge Street. Just before the end, left again and back towards the New Kings Road.
Now I was sure. The black Ford Mondeo was following me. I turned left back onto the New Kings Road and then right, accelerating the Mercedes past Parsons Green Underground to the junction, and then right onto the Fulham Road. I pulled up by the entrance to the Fulham Broadway underground. The Mondeo came past me slowly as I searched the glove compartment for a nonexistent pad and pen. I watched out of the corner of my eye until it stopped perhaps twenty metres up the road, then I quickly cut across the road and headed towards the Kings Road. This left the black Mondeo facing the wrong way up the Fulham Road. Now to see how good they really were.
I drove on past fashionable Victorian terraces behind which designer homes crouched, pretending to be traditional English houses. I stopped. I reached over to the passenger seat for my holdall, locked the car and walked back up the road I had just driven down to Tatiana’s house. Number 14 had wooden slatted blinds at the front windows and a narrow hallway that seemed never to end. I let myself in.
Music playing provided a soft background sound while Tats floated around the kitchen fixing a large pot of freshly ground coffee. I stood and watched her from the kitchen doorway. She was wearing tight-fitting stonewashed jeans and a revealing top; her tan had not faded and the hair that hung across her forehead was still golden from the St Barts sunshine. She looked up. She was calm, her eyes as bright as sapphires. She said, “So, did you straighten out the Rumples?”
“You make me sound like some sort of analyst,” I said, smiling.
She moved across to me. Her kiss was sweet and lingering and through my shirt, I could feel her breasts lightly brushing against me.
I said in barely a whisper, “Hello, stranger.”
She poured the coffee into colourful art-pottery mugs. “You were followed here, you know.”
“I don’t think so,” I said casually.
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“You know exactly what. You go all nonchalant and macho.”
“OK relax. I know I was followed by a black Ford Mondeo, possibly all the way back from Bournemouth, certainly from the M3. I’ve no idea who it could be, perhaps it’s my tailor.”
“Pay him,” said Tats. She stood well back from the window still looking down at the street. “He could be from the finance company; he has a base ball bat in his hand.”
“Very funny.”
“You are popular today, aren’t you? There are two more men across the road in a Porsche Boxster. Um, that car is rather gorgeous.”
“You are joking, of course.”
“Come and see for yourself.”
I walked over to the window. There it was, a Porsche of brilliant metallic blue, suitably grimy enough to have done a fast trip up the motorway. It was parked at an awkward angle behind a BMW estate about twenty metres up the road. On the pavement two aggressive looking men in dark suits were smoking cigarettes and one was talking on a mobile phone. I found my sport binoculars in the bottom of my holdall and focused on them and the car carefully.