Defender(61)

The aggrieved Cornell lashed out, pushing him away. "Bugger off!" "God, I'm so sorry."

The apology was ignored and Cornell scuttled off. He could hear the couple's laughter as they headed off in the direction of Trafalgar Square. He pushed his way through the rest of the tourists and locals on the footpaths of Westminster, continuing on his way.





Far behind him now, the young 'American' man took a phone from his pocket, dialled and speaking in a distinctly East-End accent said: "Yeah, Gov, I got it on him. You should be picking up sound soon. Dave's covering him on foot." A pause. Listening. "Yes, Gov. He's still got the other tail. Same two we spotted yesterday; two blokes." Listening. "No, not today, but we did get some shots of her late yesterday. She was sitting a few tables away from him at his local in Richmond ... that's right, at The Duke."





Cornell made a sudden change of direction, as he'd been taught to do, through Great College, Cowley and then Great Peter Street. He carried on along Marsham until he found a public phone. He fumbled with a pre paid card and tapped in the number he'd memorised. At the other end, the number began to ring.

"Yes?" came the dipped .nswer. "I need ... help."

"Who's speaking, please?"

"It's me ..." he began, then cursing and correcting himself, said very quickly, very quietly: "It's Pisces! Pisces! It's regarding our... mutual friends. Recent events. Need to see you," Cornell blurted.

"That's not possible, I'm afraid."

"I need to meet with somebody. They're onto me, I know it ... I can't ... I have to get out. Have to get away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Fast. Please..."

"Very well. Will be in touch soon." "Hello? Hello?"

The line was dead.

Cornell cursed as he slammed the phone back into its cradle twice. "Blast! Blast!" He stormed from the booth. Directionless, he started along Horseferry Road, and then stood for a moment on the approach to Lambeth Bridge. His faculties finally returned and he scampered north back to the Foreign Office.





* * *





Abraham Johnson slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and let out a long, controlled breath through pursed lips. Damn him!

"Are you quite alright, Sir?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." He shifted awkwardly at his window looking out onto Whitehall. "Please proceed. No, wait." He ran a hand across his unfashionably slicked hair. "Find Miss Halls and send her in, please. We'll finish this up again shortly."

'I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I'm afraid Miss Halls is away today. She's on leave."

"Well get her on the bloody phone then!"





* * *





Minutes later Cornell was hurrying back along Whitehall. He had tried to be careful. He'd stopped himself from calling many times because he'd been told only to call the number in absolute emergencies. He didn't even know the man at the other end. He was the man, the anonymous man who called the shots. But Cornell was close to losing control, he'cl passed on the information he'cl been required to when he had received his last instructions. He'd given every detail he had access to concerning Namakobo's whistle-stop visit to London. They'd made their move and that was to be the end of it as far as Cornell's involvement was concerned.

It wasn't his fault that they hadn't killed Namakobo. He just wanted his money. Wanted to be done with it. Then reality returned, and the nervous, hounded appearance resumed.

Just 50 feet behind him, a solidly built man with slightly graying hair and a cheerful face sauntered casually along Whitehall, snapping pictures of various buildings and statues, George - Duke of Cambridge, Alanbrooke, Slim, Montgomery, and the Cenotaph amongst them. Keeping his distance from Cornell, Senior Constable Dave Ingham was one member of a team that had been following Cornell's movements that day. Over the past few weeks, the teams had changed on a daily basis. And although Cornell, gripped by paranoia, suspected he was being watched, he had not managed to identify any of his newly acquired companions.





CHAPTER 38





Cape Town, South Africa





The clatter and bustle of the busy kitchen carried harmlessly across the empty expanse of darkness that separated predator from prey.

Just a few short steps away, a couple of oblivious domestic staff prepared the evening meal, while a looming creature sat quietly in the shadows, watching their every move.

They had been in clear view for the hour or so he had sat there, scrutinising their behaviour to the last detail. The chef, a young man in chequered pants, fussed over the preparations, as he did every night, ensuring that the final details were perfect. Another man appeared, somewhat older than the chef and, judging by his standard of dress, responsible for the household. He entered and exited the scene, continuing a familiar pattern of domestic duties.