Free The Insulators by John Creasey Page B

bright blue paint and a magnificent inn sign of a seventeenth century sailor in vivid colours, and the name of the inn in letters in red: The River Smugglers. The cab pulled close to the driveway of the house, Philip got out and asked: “How much?”
    “Sixty pence, sir, please.”
    Philip gave him a pound note, smiled quite normally, giving no sign that he was so deeply preoccupied, waved away the change, and went up to the front door. It had been freshly painted. The cab drove off and the street seemed deserted. As he stepped onto the small porch, the door opened, and the tallest man he had ever seen stood there, smiling, bending down a little so as to avoid the lintel.
    He had a huge face with beautifully shaped features; many had said he had the face of an angel. Now, there was an expression of deep pleasure on it as he extended his huge right hand.
    “Stefan!” Philip exclaimed, and let his hand be taken, although most men would fear that bones and fingers might be crushed. Instead the big Russian’s grip was firm but not too heavy or too tight. He drew Philip in, then closed the door.
    One thing struck Philip above all else as the freshly painted door caught the light, while closing.
    In this house was silence.
    The silence was disturbed only by their footsteps as they walked up a curved, wooden staircase with a smooth banister polished a deep red. There was carpet, muffling, but not killing the sound. At a square landing, Stefan Andromovitch turned into a room on the right. It was a drawing room attractively furnished and well kept. Out of one window Philip caught a glimpse of the river, deeper blue than the sky, and seen overaged and lichen-yellowed tiles which had once been red.
    “Sap will be here in a few minutes,” Stefan said. “Meanwhile would you like to wash and then have a drink?”
    “I’ll settle for a whisky and soda,” said Philip, dropping into a chair with yellow velvet or velour covering.
    Stefan poured his drink and a milder one for himself, passed it across and then sank down in the big couch, covered like the chair, which was just large enough; he would have overlapped most furniture, he was so big.
    “Cheers,” Philip said.
    “To your very good health,” toasted Stefan, “and very great success.” He sipped. “You know you were followed, don’t you?” When Philip nodded, he went on: “And we followed your followers. There were two groups: the three you saw and three others in a smaller car which approached from the other direction. They were communicating by radio-telephone, and we were listening in. No doubt they thought they had a wavelength we didn’t know, but we discovered it some days ago. Occasionally they reported to a man they called Parsons; is that name familiar?”
    “Yes,” Philip said. “He is one of the lesser VIPs.”
    “Yet not unimportant, I gather,” Andromovitch said drily.
    “The Project has an excellent communications system and many agents. It is clear, as Sap thought possible, that all main roads and all railway and bus terminals in London were kept under surveillance, and immediately you were found – as at Euston – agents were to trail you to wherever you went and then withdraw, leaving one man at every vantage point. No doubt they planned to raid us once they had our rendezvous. They may even think this the headquarters of Z5; it would be almost worthwhile letting them convince themselves!” The big man paused, only to go on: “But Sap thought it best to catch them all, so both car loads were taken prisoner, and he is seldom wrong.”
    Stefan Andromovitch paused again, his head on one side as if he were listening; then he heard a faint sound, leaned back and said: “He’s probably quite right this time, too. In any case, here he comes.”

 
8: The Organisation: Z5
     
    Palfrey appeared in the doorway. He had shed his raincoat and cap, and was remarkably like his photograph, but taller and thinner than Philip recollected from earlier