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Touched down in the waste ground alongside the bridge over the Raba River, Kovács and Drexler clambered out and struggled up the steep embankment to the rail lines. The border guard unit tried to look casual as they concealed themselves behind the stanchions whilst the two intelligence operatives hurriedly discussed the situation with the scene commander; crossing covered, tracks covered, station covered, British diplomats waiting on the opposite bank.
Through borrowed binoculars, they surreptitiously observed the British diplomatic plated black saloon parked beneath the trees on the other side of the river. A suited man of Afro-Caribbean descent walked into view and stood next to the bonnet. Checking his watch, he scanned the bridge with a pair of mini binos. The Hungarians hugged the safety of the bridge girders as if they were long missed lovers.
Felix walked back into the cover of the trees and past the CD registered Mercedes to the little Opel in which Astrid sat listening to the car’s radio. He placed a hand on the roof and leant down at the window. “Yeah, they’re up there, trying to blend with the metalwork. That helicopter produced two guys who I’d bet are from their Intelligence Agency, one of them at least.”
She looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
He gave her a half-smile with a tilt of his head and a nonchalant dismissive wave of his free hand. “It’s just something, a gut feeling; the way the first bloke introduced the second to the bridge commander and subtleties in dress. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was from out of town, maybe even German. I’m starting to smell East Kraut. We’ll give it another ten minutes then I’ll lock the Merc and we’ll go. I think it’ll be a while before they think to take a closer look and realise there’s no one in it. We’ll pick it up later.”
If anyone noticed the Opel emerge from beneath the tree cover at the far junction as it left they never said anything. Max Drexler, however, had become suspicious and walked along the railway track to get a better angle from which to observe the occupants of the diplomatic car. Watching his footing on the uneven track, he too missed the Opel’s departure. Crouching down, he adjusted the focus of the binoculars and discovered the vehicle empty. He ran back to the bridge just as a train lumbered slowly from the bend towards its final destination for the day, horn sounding triumphantly.
On reaching Zsolt, he hurriedly told him, “He’s not on this train! The British have gone! There’s no one with the car. It was simply a distraction.”
Kovács had nothing to offer as the diesel-engined monster lazily dragged its coaches over the tracks cutting off the opportunity to get back to the waiting helicopter. When the sixth and final carriage had passed they hurried across the lines, almost sliding down the slope, and dashed to the waiting Mi-8, its rotors still turning. Airborne, they turned northeast, heading for the only other weak spot in the border ‘defences’.