'That's Alex, sir. Short service commission in the Welsh Guards, three tours in Ireland. Quite an accomplished musician. Plays the piano rather well. Mad as a hatter on a good day. Typically Welsh.'

'Get him!' Ferguson said. 'Now, Harry.' He had a hunch about Martin and suddenly felt much more cheerful. He helped himself to one of the bacon sandwiches. 'I say, these are really rather good.'

Alexander Martin was thirty-seven, a tall, rather handsome man with a deceptively lazy look to him. He was much given

to smiling tolerantly, which he needed to do in the profession of investment broker which he had taken up on moving to Jersey eighteen months previously. As he had told his wife, Joan, on more than one occasion, the trouble with being in the investment business was that it threw you into the company of the rich and, as a cla.s.s, he disliked them heartily.

Still, life had its compensations. He was an accomplished pianist if not a great one. If he had been, life might have been rather different. He was seated at the piano in the living room of his pleasant house in St Aubin overlooking the sea, playing a little Bach, ice-cold, brilliant stuff that required total concentration. He was wearing a dinner jacket, black tie undone at the neck. The phone rang for several moments before it penetrated his consciousness. He frowned, realizing the lateness of the hour and picked it up.

'Martin here.'

'Alex? This is Harry. Harry Fox.'

'Dear G.o.d!' Alex Martin said.

'How are Joan and the kids?'

'In Germany for a week, staying with her sister. Her husband's a major with your old mob. Detmold.'

'So, you're on your own? I thought you'd be in bed.'

'Just in from a late function.' Martin was very much awake now, all past experience telling him this was not a social call. 'Okay, Harry. What is this?'

'We need you, Alex, rather badly, but not like the other times. Right there in Jersey.'

Alex Martin laughed in astonishment. 'In Jersey? You've got to be joking.'

'Girl called Tanya Voroninova. Have you heard of her?'

'Of course I d.a.m.n well have,' Martin told him. 'One of the best concert pianists to come along for years. I saw her perform at the Albert Hall in last season's promenade concerts. My office gets the Paris papers each day. She's there on a concert tour at the moment.'

'No she isn't,' Fox said. 'By now, she'll be half-way to Rennes on the night train. She's defecting, Alex.'

'She's what?'

'With luck, she'll be on the hydrofoil from St Malo, arriving Jersey at eight-twenty. She has a British pa.s.sport in the name of Joanna Frank.'

Martin saw it all now. 'And you want me to meet her?'

'Exactly. Straight to the airport and bundle her on to the ten-ten to Heathrow and that's it. We'll meet her this end. Will that give you any problem?'

'Certainly not. I know what she looks like. In fact, I think I've still got the programme from her concert at the Proms. There's a photo of her on that.'

'Fine,' Fox told him. 'She's phoning a contact of ours when she gets into Rennes. We'll warn her to expect you.'

Ferguson said, 'Give me the phone. Ferguson here.'

'h.e.l.lo, sir,' Martin said.

'We're very grateful.'

'Nothing to it, sir. Just one thing. What about the opposition?'

Shouldn't be any. KGB will be waiting at all the obvious bolt holes. Charles de Gaulle, Calais, Boulogne. Highly unlikely they'll be on to this one. I'll hand you back to Harry now.'

Fox said, 'We'll stay close, Alex. I'll give you this number in case of any problems.'

Martin wrote it down. 'Should be a piece of cake. Make a nice change from the investment business. I'll be in touch.'

He was totally awake now and decidedly cheerful. No hope of sleep. Things were looking up. He poured himself a vodka and tonic, and went back to his Bach at the piano.

Bureau Five was that section of the Soviet Emba.s.sy in Paris that dealt with the French Communist Party, infiltration of trade unions and so on. Turkin spent half an hour with their file on St Malo and the immediate area, but came up with nothing. 'The trouble is, Comrade,' he told Belov when he returned

to the office, 'that the French Communist Party is extremely unreliable. The French tend to put country before party when the chips are down.'

'I know,' Belov said. 'It comes of an inborn belief in their own superiority.' He indicated the papers spread out on his desk. 'I've looked Jersey over pretty thoroughly. The solution is simple enough. You know that little airfield outside Paris we've used before?'

'Croix?' Turkin said. 'Lebel Air Taxis?'

'That's right. Jersey Airport opens early. You could land there at seven. Ample time to be down at the harbour to meet her. You have the usual selection of pa.s.sports available. You could go as French businessmen.'

'But how do we bring her back?' Turkin asked. 'We'd have to pa.s.s through customs and immigration for the return flight from Jersey Airport. It would be an impossibility. Too easy for her to create a fuss.'

'Excuse me, Comrade Colonel,'. Shepilov put in, 'but is it really necessary for us to bring her back at all since all that is needed in this affair is her silence, or have I got the wrong impression?'

'You certainly have,' Belov told him coldly. 'Whatever the circ.u.mstances, however difficult, General Maslovsky wants her back. I'd hate to be in your shoes if you reported that you had had to shoot her, Shepilov. I think there is an easy solution. According to the brochures, there is a yachting marina in St Helier Harbour. Boats for hire. Wasn't sailing something of a hobby of yours back home, Turkin?'

'Yes, Comrade.'

'Good, then I'm sure it's hardly beyond your abilities to sail a motor launch from Jersey to St Malo. You can hire a car there and bring her back by road.'

'Very well, Colonel.'

Irana came in with coffee on a tray. He said, 'Excellent. Now all that's needed is for someone to haul Lebel out of bed. The timing should just work nicely.'

Surprising herself, Tanya managed to sleep for most of the train journey and had to be prodded into wakefulness by two young students who had travelled next to her all the way from Paris. It was three-thirty and very cold on the station platform at Rennes although it had stopped raining. The students knew of an all-night cafe outside the station in the Boulevard Beaumont and showed her the way. It was warm and inviting in there, not too many people. She ordered coffee and an omelette and went to call Devlin on the public telephone.

Devlin, who had been waiting anxiously, said, 'Are you all right?'

'Fine,' she said. 'I even slept on the train. Don't worry. They can't have any idea where I am. When will I see you again?'

'Soon,' Devlin told her. 'We've got to get you to London safely first. Now listen to me. When the hydrofoil gets into Jersey, you'll be met by a man called Martin. Alexander Martin. Apparently he's a bit of a fan of yours so he knows what you look like.'

'I see. Anything else?'

'Not really.'

'Good, then I'll get back to my omelette, Professor.'