Double Cross [antikvár]

DECLARATION OF WAR The sky was low and London-grey, seated firmly like th( of a pressure-cooker on Heathrow airport. Shiverish autu faces emerged from the coaches and cars soon to bathe in alluring artificial glow of the departure lounge. In the of 1971, it was a good day for minor criminals and si scandalous divorcees—their court cases had been sque^ out of the papers that were still reverberating the hea the first British mass-expulsion of 105 Russian diplomat! commercial espionage. Special Branch officers could begin to relax: the Tupc flying 'expulsion specials' had all gone. Services were rum on schedule, perfunctory passport inspection melted endless blinking in slow motion, passengers da through breathlessly to delve into duty-free goodies, a Khrmmmmmmm, sorry, Mr. Krhmmmmm from Zambia' urgently required at the information desk, the megapl girls never ran out of calls, warnings and recognition of importance, and the Paris shuttle departure was not yet < announced. Two tall men of the nondescript City-gent breed aligl from a well-matured Bentley, quite aware of the fact one cannot simply 'get out' of a machine like that. It is li that nobody paid any attention to them. That is if we count a man of dull, sky-bound gaze whom they passed at door; another, who stepped out of a blue Cortina bel them; and a keen plane-spotter who directed a pair of po ful 10 X 50 binoculars towards the middle-aged woman di as she manoeuvred the Bentley into an empty slot in open car park. The passengers of the Bentley checked in at the aristoci hand-luggage-only desk, then walked up the stairs and set