Shadow Hunter

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The restaurant was Greek. Kebabs and non-stick rice, washed down with retsina. Plymouth had a dozen like it; the evening trade was good in a navy town.

The watchers sat outside in a car, wishing they were inside so they could catch something of what the man and woman said to each other, but there’d been no spare table.

For a week, the two men from Special Branch had been shadowing the big blond man who claimed to be Swedish. The man had chatted up a young submariner in a pub, asking questions about nuclear propulsion that were too intelligent to be casual.

Up to now there’d been nothing; a dreary circuit of bars and dockside dives. Sometimes the man had drunk alone, just looking at faces. Sometimes he’d feigned drunkenness and joined in the raucous banter of the sailors, but there’d been nothing they could call a contact.

Clearly the man was searching. But for what? Information? Secrets? Or just companionship?

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