Shadow Hunter (29 page)

Sara gingerly unpinned the envelope and pulled open the flap.

Patsy tried to see. The card was almost covered with writing; Sara's hands trembled as she read it. The message continued on the back.

‘Nothing wrong, I hope.'

‘I'm sorry . . ,' was all she could say. She looked at her watch. She was plainly very scared.

‘You want me to go?'

Sara nodded. Tears welled up again; she pulled a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.

‘All right. But look. Ring me whenever you feel like it. D'you promise?'

‘Yes, I will.'

Patsy clasped Sara by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. For the first time in her life she felt some kinship with her.

‘'Bye, now. I'll drop in again soon.'

Sara forced a smile.

‘Thanks for coming. I mean that.'

Patsy turned her car into the road and headed for Plymouth. What Sara had just told her was immensely important. It was what Andrew must have had in mind when he'd asked her to get talking with Sara.

She decided to ring Norman Craig from a phone box, and arrange to see him at the Naval Base.

At the front of the old rectory, overlooking the road, was a small bedroom used to store junk. Sara unlatched a small window at the top of the frame and pushed it open. This was the signal she'd been told to make when Gunnar made contact. The room smelled stale; it could do with ventilation anyway.

She prayed the watcher was watching.

She still clutched the florist's card. The words, written in Gunnar's foreign script, had terrified but excited her.

He'd deceived her, taken advantage of her loneliness. He was an enemy of her country, who'd used her cynically. Yet he'd loved her with a passion she'd never known before, a passion which surely no man could fake.

The words seemed to smoulder on the card.

My darling. I
have
to see you again. For me it is not over between us and can never be.

My heart is broke, and you must mend it.

Please!

Big news! I'm leaving my employer, and need your help to make friends with the people you know. I depend on you. Please don't fail me!

Cannot meet at old rendezvous, but you go there now. Don't delay.
Tell no one.
I'll know if you do. The H.I. desk will have a message for ‘Mrs Mathews'. That will tell you where I am.

Please do it! I long to kiss you again.

G.

‘Leaving his employer'? He wanted to defect?

Or was it another deception? Perhaps she should contact
Hillier first. If things were changing, would they still want her to tell Gunnar about Philip?

But she dared not delay. They'd told her to do nothing to make Gunnar suspicious. Was
he
bugging her phone? Would he be watching her from a distance as she drove into Plymouth to meet him? Possibly. She could take no risks.

She opened the wardrobe in her bedroom. She'd have to change. Couldn't drive into Plymouth in an old pair of jeans.

She'd wear the plum-coloured skirt and blouse, with the black jacket.

She looked at her watch; eleven-thirty. The traffic wouldn't be bad; she could be there by twelve. Her face was a mess. Anyone could tell she'd been crying. She splashed on some cold water, then applied some makeup.

Handbag, money, car keys, then she closed the front door and checked it was latched. She'd left the upstairs window open as instructed, but it made her uneasy. Burglaries were rife in the district.

A South West Electricity Board van was parked fifty yards from the Hitchens' house. The engineer sitting behind the wheel was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee from a flask.

The silver Volkswagen drove past him at speed, heading for Plymouth. The watcher picked up a microphone to report that Mrs Hitchens was on her way.

He finished his coffee. There was no great hurry; another car would pick her up at the next crossroads. His instructions were to follow at a distance, and hold himself ready for new orders.

At the junction with the Plymouth road Sara noticed the car behind her. A red Escort. Was it following her?

She turned left and the Escort followed, but two minutes later it turned off to the right. Unknown to her, the trail had been taken up by the green Vauxhall in front.

At the outskirts of the city she slowed down. The car she was following pulled into a filling station. Her heart
raced as she neared the rendezvous. Fear gripped her, fear and excitement.

Left into a side street, up to the Hoe. She didn't notice the green Vauxhall following fifty yards behind. Left again into Citadel Road. She was in luck; a parking meter bay was just coming free.

The Vauxhall slid past her and disappeared. Sara locked her car and paused for a moment to compose herself. Her legs felt like jelly. Two deep breaths, then she started towards the Holiday Inn. She looked up to the sixth floor. It was where Gunnar had always stayed; a room with a view of the Hoe. Was he there now, watching her?

As she mounted the hotel steps, the red Escort drew up opposite. She was through the swing door and approaching the reception desk, when its driver began to cross the lawn to the hotel.

‘Do you have a message for Mrs Mathews?' Sara asked the girl behind the desk, as calmly as she could.

‘Oh, hullo!'

The receptionist had recognized her. Sara smiled; she was sure the girl had never known her name.

‘Yes, here it is.'

‘Thank you.'

Sara took it and walked towards the bar and the lifts.

My darling! We must be very careful! You are being folowed.

Take the lift
alone
to the fifth floor. Make sure you are alone in the lift. On the fifth go strait to the fire stairs. Down to the basement – the garage. Be sure no one follows! In bay 16 is a Black VW. The door is open, the keys inside. KEEP THE WINDOWS SHUT.

Drive out on the Exeter road. After 3 miles take the left to Stumpton. On the edge of the village is the Red Crown pub. Stop in the car park and wait for me. If I'm not there after twenty minutes, go inside and ask for the phonebox. I'll ring you there.

I love you, rember.

G.

There was something endearing about Gunnar's spelling mistakes.

The lift came; the doors closed behind her. From the lobby, the man who had driven the red Ford Escort watched the lift indicator stop at number five.

They'd told him to protect her, but not to compromise her rendezvous with the target. Stupid bloody instructions! He couldn't do both.

He hurried to the payphone at the other end of the lobby and punched in a number. It answered instantly; he spoke for no more than five seconds and replaced the receiver.

Sara's heels clattered on the stone stairs. On every other flight she stopped to listen, but hers were the only feet she could hear.

The basement garage stank of petrol. It was dimly lit. At first she couldn't see the bay numbers, but recognized the car, a VW like her own but black.

The engine fired at the first turn of the key. She slipped it into first and drove up the ramp into daylight, realizing then that the windows were of dark-tinted glass. The Electricity Board van was parked opposite.

The watcher wasn't sure. It could've been her. Sod those blackened side windows! Better report it, just in case.

Sara found the pub with ease. It was lunchtime and the car park was already half-full. She swung the VW round to face the road. There was little traffic; just a green Vauxhall cruising past and up the hill to her left.

She re-read both his notes. She could almost hear him speaking the words in the fake Scandinavian accent he'd cultivated. She ought to hate him, yet she didn't. Evil? Dangerous? But he wanted her help to defect . . .

Doubts set in. Sara closed her eyes and prayed it wasn't a trick.

Behind the Red Crown a wooded hill rose steeply. From the car park a path led diagonally up it through beech and oak trees. A wooden railing lined the path.

Concealed amongst the beeches stood a man, himself built like a tree, training binoculars on the black VW below. This was Viktor Kovalenko, known to most of those he'd met in recent months as ‘Gunnar'.

Kovalenko stood over six feet tall, his frame broad with muscle. His hair had been almost blond, but today it was dyed a dark chestnut. As a ‘Swede' he'd let it grow long, but now it was neatly trimmed.

He worked for the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. His role was to establish an identity in Britain, to build an information network, and to identify targets to be assassinated if the Soviet Union went to war with the West.

Until a few weeks ago his mission had gone according to plan. He had lived with his ‘wife' Elena in a London suburb; they'd blended well into the background. Now their cover had been broken, and he was to blame.

Elena had been picked to work with him by the First Chief Directorate, without thought to their personal compatibility. They'd experimented with a physical relationship, but it had only heightened their dislike for one another. The problem was a serious one for Viktor Kovalenko, a man with an inexhaustible sexual appetite.

He searched the road below for signs of watchers, but saw none; he'd give it another ten minutes to be sure.

He brought the binoculars to bear on the VW and cursed the black glass which prevented him from seeing Sara, the woman whose welcoming body and child-like hunger to be loved had given such a pleasurable edge to his duties. He and Elena had been activated in the summer. A naval attaché at the Soviet Embassy in London had learned the name of the commander of the trials boat for the new Moray mines. KGB headquarters in Moscow had then made the stunning discovery that a man with the same surname was a prisoner in a labour camp on the Kola. Checks at Somerset House confirmed they were father and son.

Keeping watch on Sara Hitchens' activities for a couple of weeks had been enough for Viktor to know she was a natural target. It had been easy.

At their second date, she'd talked of her unhappy marriage and, mentioned the plan for a family holiday in Guernsey.

It was Elena who'd targeted Philip on the Channel Island clifftops. She'd handled it well, Viktor had to admit.

He knew he'd been careless. He'd made the unforgiveable mistake of letting a woman mean more to him than easy sex. A week ago, when Sara had told him Philip knew about their affair, and that she'd guessed he was a spy, it had shaken him. Years of training and preparation thrown away for allowing personal involvement to cloud his brain!

He'd told Elena by phone they'd have to leave the house before dawn, and driven fast back to London that night.

They'd moved to Bristol, a contingency plan ready prepared. The London house had been raided – they knew that – but how much of their scheme had been uncovered? Were their identities known? Had he been photographed? And above all, did the security services know what Hitchens had agreed to do for the KGB?

That was why he was here today; he had to find out even if it meant risking his neck.

She'd been waiting fifteen minutes. Time to say hello.

Sara glanced at the dashboard clock every minute while she sat there. Alone in the car, she felt conspicuous and vulnerable.

The sharp tap on the window made her jump in her seat. She didn't recognize him at first with his short, dark hair, but then came the familiar smile. Trembling, she unlocked the passenger door.

‘I was afraid you wouldn't come,' he breathed, slipping into the seat beside her, and tossing his small rucksack into the back.

‘I . . . I don't know why I did . . ,' she stuttered. ‘You look so different with that hair.'

‘The change is superficial, my darling,' he grinned, putting his arm round her. ‘Underneath I'm the same!'

‘Don't touch me!'

He pulled a face like a scolded child.

‘Nothing's changed since last week,' she warned him.

‘Except that you said you'd never see me again, and you're here now.' There was a twinkle of triumph in his eyes. ‘But we can't talk here.'

‘Why not?'

‘Someone might come. Were you followed?'

‘Not that I noticed. But then, I'm not trained to spot these things,' she goaded.

‘One mile up the road. There's a parking place at the top of a hill. It'll be more private. Drive there please, my darling.'

She noticed his accent had changed. He'd dropped the Swedish lilt.

‘All right.'

At the edge of the road she paused to allow a red Escort into the car park, then she sped off up the hill. Kovalenko kept his eye on the wing mirror, but there was no one following. The lay-by was signposted, and she pulled in behind a clump of bushes. The car park boasted public toilets.

‘This isn't very nice,' Sara complained.

He was silent and didn't look at her.

‘I want to know your real name,' she demanded.

‘Don't you know it already? Haven't
they
told you?'

She realized he meant the security men.

‘I don't think
they
know it.'

He smiled inwardly. She'd told him some good news.

‘You can call me Viktor.'

It was okay to tell her now.

‘I meant what I said in the letter,' he told her, then added eagerly, ‘Did you like the flowers?'

‘Yes.' She allowed herself a brief smile. ‘They were lovely.'

‘They were to say sorry for deceiving you.'

‘You admit you're a spy. That's an advance; you were still denying it a week ago,' she answered tartly.

‘What did you expect? But it's different now. You must listen to me, my darling.'

He edged closer to her, but without touching.

‘When we first met it was for one reason only. Not because I'm a spy and your husband . . . I didn't know anything about that when we met,' he protested. ‘Believe me. There was nothing in what you told me that was any use to Moscow.'