They may have driven the Jews out of Russia, but they and their religion had some good points. The Sabbath. They always switched off their phones on a Sabbath. It was a day of rest. He wished he could switch off the phone.
He picked up the receiver and dialled 2 Dzerzhinsky Square. When the operator answered he asked to be put through to the Director. He knew he'd be there.
He grinned as he waited.
He was certain the Director didn't believe in Santa Claus.
Ch. 17
They white police car, its red and blue lights busily flashing, spotted him in the heavy traffic and chased him for nearly two miles before pulling him into the soft shoulder.
'In a rush, are we?' was the sarcastic policeman's comment as Adam climbed out of the Ferrari F40. He added, 'Sir,' with the customary arrogance that is traditional in such situations.
'Not really,' smiled Adam.
'You were doing nearly a hundred.'
'Was I?' Adam knew that a hundred miles an hour normally meant a ban in most traffic courts. Which is why he'd held it ninety miles an hour.
'The limit's seventy.'
'I know the highway code.'
'Then you should stick to it.' Once more the sneering, 'Sir. Would you follow me, please?'
Adam followed the officer to the patrol car where the second policeman was waiting.
'Mr Nicholson?' asked the second officer.
'Yes.'
'Would you get in the front, please.' He opened the door for Adam to slide into the passenger seat, then walked round and climbed into the driver's side. He leant over and picked up the radio telephone. 'I've got him here.' he said, then handed over the telephone to Adam.
'Nicholson,' said Adam.
'Where've you been this time in your little toy?' came the official voice that Adam recognised as his contact officer.
Adam put his hand over the receiver and turned to the policeman. 'Would you excuse me?' he asked politely. 'Official secrets and all that.' The policeman shrugged and climbed out, annoyed at being asked to leave his own car. 'What do you want?' he asked into the receiver once the door had been closed.
'I wish you'd follow orders.'
Adam didn't reply. He'd spent the day at the Ferrari Owners Association at Castle Donington Racetrack in Leicestershire. He'd come second in the unlimited class race and was still savouring the enjoyment of the speed and precision of the racing circuit.
'Anyway, we need you down here. Immediately.' went on the voice.
'Is this an operation?' Adam asked, suddenly excited with the possibility of action.
'So it would appear.'
'Where?'
'We'll tell you that when you get down here.'
'In my toy.'
The radio phone went dead. Adam put it down and stepped out of the police car. 'Thank you.' He walked towards the F40.
'Watch your speed, will you? Sir.'
Adam nodded and climbed into the Ferrari.
The police car followed him till the next turnoff and he cheekily kept the speed at eighty five. He knew they wouldn't stop him, not when they knew he was important enough to be stopped on the motorway and given a message.
When they'd gone, he gunned her up to a hundred and twenty and drove his little red toy into London.
Ch. 18
The big British Airways 747 is the only scheduled jumbo that lands at San Diego's Lindbergh Field.
Flight BA 285 flies direct from London Gatwick to Los Angles, and then, once it has discharged the majority of its passengers and burnt up most of its fuel, carries on for the short hop into San Diego. Lindbergh's 09 eastbound runway is only 9,400 feet long and the lightly loaded Boeing jumbo can be landed safely because of its lack of weight.
The approach to runway 09 is over the mountains that leap up to the west of the city. It is an exacting approach for any pilot, leading down to the runway which is close-by to the downtown area. It juts out into the most spectacular bay and to watchers on the other side it appears that aircraft descend into the heart of the city, into the heart of the corporate skyscrapers that are clustered together as a beacon of a modern and prosperous San Diego.
Adam was one of fifteen passengers left on flight BA 285, and the only one still in First Class. He had fought the usual bureaucratic battle with the Admin boys who had insisted he use a travel warrant that only entitled him to an economy class seat. In the end he had simply agreed because he realised he was wasting his time arguing with the form fillers who were blindly carrying out their orders. As soon as he left them he called British Airways and bought a first class ticket on his American Express card. It was his usual way; he simply reported that he had lost his travel warrant and claimed the economy fare back from the form fillers on his return. There would be the usual caustic remark about 'Lose your head next time' or some similar comment that the form fillers always seemed to dredge up from the safety of their filing cabinets and wooden government issue desks.
The briefing in London had been short. He wondered how much his people really knew, or whether the Americans had simply passed on as little information as they needed to.
'The Yanks believe Mr. Trimmler is in danger, that an attempt may be made on his life. They've asked for our help because they want to keep it out of their own sphere. Apparently there is some concern that security is not as tight as it should be…,' the briefing officer, Captain Coy by name but not by nature, allowed himself the hint of a smirk, '…and that the danger to this scientist chap could come from inside their own organisation. That's why we're involved.'
'So I'm the bodyguard.'
'I wouldn't class it as that. You're to protect where necessary, but your first responsibility will be to help find if there is a plot against Trimmler.'
'Wouldn't a policeman be better?'
'They asked for someone with field experience. Someone who could look after himself if things took a nasty turn.'
'Will I be armed?'
'Yes. Nothing too extravagant, mind you. We don't want you getting off the plane with a sub machine gun and grenades strapped to you, do we? This isn't Ulster we're talking about.'
'Have you ever been to Ulster?'
'Hardly the point, is it?' answered Coy tetchily. Adam knew he'd scored a point, could tell the man had never visited the province. Bloody desk soldiers. 'You can pick up a firearm in America. No need to get caught going through airport security and blowing the job before you've even arrived. You'll be dealing with two Americans. Both are, I believe, from the CIA. A Mr Phil Tucker and a Billie Wood. As this is an American operation, you will be directly responsible to them. Should something arise which causes you concern, then contact the British Embassy Military Attache and ask him to contact us here.'
'That's it?'
'That's all I was told.' Coy pushed a small folder across the desk. 'There's a small bio of Mr. Trimmler in that, including a picture, your voucher for a travel warrant to San Diego and another voucher for any petty cash you might need. The Americans have some credit cards in your name which you can pick up in San Diego. That'll be for additional and necessary… ' he emphasised the word 'necessary', '..expenditure. Hire cars, things like that if you need them. That's all.'
Adam took the folder and put it on his lap. He would check it later. 'Who chose me?' he asked.
'No idea. You were available and, as far as I can tell, still causing everyone here a headache.'
'So cure the headache. Cut off the head.'