The Spy Killer (John Smith Book 1) by Jimmy Sangster

Author:Jimmy Sangster [Sangster, Jimmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-09-01T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

It’s surprising the number of Asians who live and work among us. They’re so much part of the pattern that we don’t notice them, that is until we’re looking. Now it seemed that every third person I saw hailed from the East. They probably came from Japan, Thailand, Cambodia or Malaysia. But to me they all looked Chinese, and they all looked dangerous.

I was in a blue funk. After the autoroute incident, I drove up into the hills behind the old coast road and found a small restaurant that looked as though it hadn’t had a client for the past twenty years. I parked the car well out of sight from the road, went in, and ordered a large vodka. They didn’t have any vodka, but it was the end I was after, not the means, so I had a large brandy instead.

I was way up the creek without a paddle, and I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do next. One thing was certain, I had to get the notebook back to Max as soon as possible. What is more, I had to advertise the fact that I no longer had it in my possession. It would take the Chinese no time at all to see that they had hijacked the wrong notebook. After all, they must already know the code. When they realised it, they would be after me like a modern day bunch of Genghis Khans.

The Chinese may be behind the West in matter of science and technology, but they have nothing to learn when it comes to spying and other miscellaneous thuggery. They had agents at work when the British were still painting themselves blue, and the only real American was the Red Indian. And that popular supposition about Asians being the most patient people on earth is so much eyewash. They can be as impatient as the next man when they want something really badly. And their means of obtaining it don’t bear contemplation; they were the inventors of painful persuasion.

As far as I was concerned, the airport was out. So too, were the main-line stations. I could try driving across the border to Italy and catching a plane from Genoa, but they’d probably be watching the border as well. That left me one way out. Drive north, making for Paris, and pick up a plane there. They would be watching the main roads, the Routes Nationales 7 and 85, so I would have to do it by easy stages, sticking to the back roads. I didn’t doubt for a moment that they knew what I looked like. If their organisation was efficient enough to have discovered my rendezvous with the Service, it was efficient enough for anything. For that reason, I couldn’t go back to my hotel. I could see my new cashmere overcoat hanging in the wardrobe where I had left it but, as a measure of how scared I was, it didn’t seem important any more. My hide

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