She rang off and Devlin replaced the receiver. A girl and a half, he told himself as he went into the kitchen. In the cottage, Harry Cussane was already phoning Paul Cherny.

Croix was a small airfield with a control tower, two hangars and three nissen huts, headquarters of an aero club but also used by Pierre Lebel to operate his air taxi service. Lebel was a dark, taciturn man who never asked questions if the price was right. He had flown for Belov on a number of occasions and knew Turkin and Shepilov well. He hadn't the slightest idea that they were Russian. Something illegal about them, he'd always thought, but as long as it didn't involve drugs

and the price was right, he didn't mind. He was waiting for the two men when they arrived, opened the door of the main hangar so that they could drive inside.

'Which plane?' Turkin asked.

'We'll use the Chieftain. Faster than the Cessna and there's a headwind all the way to Golfe St Malo.'

'When do we leave?'

'As soon as you like.'

'But I thought the airport at Jersey wasn't open until seven?'

'Whoever told you that got it wrong. It's officially seven-thirty for air taxis. However, the airport is open for the paper plane from five-thirty.'

'Paper plane?'

'Newspapers from England. Post and so on. They're usually sympathetic to a request for an early landing, especially if they know you. I did get the impression there was some urgency on this one?'

'There certainly is,' Turkin told him.

'Good, let's go up to the office and settle the business end of things.'

The office was up a flight of rickety stairs, small and cluttered, the desk untidy, the whole lit by a single bulb. Turkin handed Lebel an envelope. 'Better count it.'

'Oh, I will,' the Frenchman said, and then the phone rang. He answered it at once, then pa.s.sed it to Turkin. 'For you.'

Belov said, 'She's made contact with Devlin from Rennes. There's a new complication. She's being met off the hydrofoil in Jersey by an Alexander Martin.'

'Is he a pro?' Turkin asked.

'No information on him at all. One wouldn't have thought they'd have any of their people in a place like Jersey. Still...'

'No problem,' Turkin said. 'We'll handle it.'

'Good luck.'

The line went dead and Turkin turned to Lebel. 'All right, my friend. Ready when you are.'

izS

It was just six o'clock when they landed at Jersey Airport, a fine, bl.u.s.tery morning, the sky already lightening in the east, an orange glow on the horizon as the sun came up. The officer on duty at customs and immigration was pleasant and courteous. No reason not to be, for their papers were in order and Jersey was well used to handling thousands of French visitors each year.

'Stopping over?' he asked Lebel.

'No, straight back to Paris,' the Frenchman told him.

'And you, gentlemen?'

'Three or four days. Business and pleasure,' Turkin said.

'And nothing to declare? You've read the notice?'

'Not a thing.' Turkin offered his holdall.

The officer shook his head. 'All right, gentlemen. Have a nice stay.'

They shook hands formally with Lebel and pa.s.sed out into the arrival hall, which at that time of the morning was deserted. There were one or two cars parked outside, but the taxi rank was empty. There was a telephone on the wall, but just as Turkin was moving to use it, Shepilov touched his arm and pointed. A cab was drawing up at the entrance to the airport. Two air hostesses got out and went in. The Russians waited and the cab drew up beside them.

'Early start, gentlemen,' the driver said.

'Yes, we're just in from Paris,' Turkin told him. 'Private flight.'

'Oh, I see. Where can I take you?'

Turkin, who had spent much of the flight examining the Jersey guide book Irana had provided, particularly the town map of St Helier, said, 'The Weighbridge, isn't that right? By the harbour.'

The taxi drew away. 'You don't need an hotel, then?'

'We're meeting friends later. They're taking care of that sort of thing. We thought we'd get some breakfast.'

'You'll be all right there. There's a cafe close to the Weighbridge opens early. I'll show you.'

The roads, at that time in the morning, were far from busy

and the run down to Bel Royal and along the dual carriageway of Victoria Avenue took little more than ten minutes. The sun was coming up now and the view across St Aubin's Bay was spectacular, the tide in so that Elizabeth Castle on its rock was surrounded by water. Ahead of them was the town, the harbour breakwater, cranes lifting into the sky in the distance.

The driver turned in by the car park at the end of the esplanade. 'Here we are, gentlemen. The weighbridge. There's the tourist office. Open later if you need information. The cafe is just across the road over there around the corner. We'll call that three pounds.'

Turkin, who had been supplied with several hundred pounds in English banknotes by Irana, took a fiver from his wallet. 'Keep it. You've been very kind. Where's the marina from here?'

The driver pointed. 'Far end of the harbour. You can walk round.'

Turkin nodded to the breakwater stretching out into the bay. 'And the boats come in there?'

'That's right. Albert Quay. You can see the car ferry ramp from here. Hydrofoils berth further along.'

'Good,' Turkin said. 'Many thanks.'

They got out and the cab moved away. There was a public toilet a few yards away; without a word, Turkin led the way in and Shepilov followed. Turkin opened his holdall and burrowed under the clothing it contained, prising up the false bottom to reveal two handguns. He slipped one in his pocket and gave Shepilov the other. The weapons were automatics, each gun fitted with a silencer.

Turkin zipped up his holdall. 'So far so good. Let's take a look at the marina.'

There were several hundred boats moored there of every shape and size: yachts, motor cruisers, speedboats. They found the office of a boat hire firm easily enough, but it was not open yet.

'Too early,' Turkin said. 'Let's go down and have a look round.'