Shard passed through Okehampton on the Launceston road, branching off the A-30 onto the A-386 for Lydford and the road block where, only the day before, he had lost Lavington. At the road block, no fresh information: just in case — however unlikely a thought — the dog should have returned to his vomit, Shard turned right for Lydford once again, driving slow through the straggle of houses and cottages. There were a few people about, mostly gathered in small groups, talking. Wondering what was in the air, no doubt! Shard’s heart sank: the West Country he liked, its people too. They were friendly, helpful and smiling, a happy breed and a contented one, all country people at heart, even the town dwellers: and Lydford had a friendly feel about it, the feel of a genuine country community. Maybe it would not survive much longer: the village was on the track east, a little south maybe, from Nancekuke. The weather reports coming in on his car radio spoke of a strong westerly wind expected with the shades of the evening. There would be a wide scatter … Shard’s thoughts, with an effort, veered away from Lydford: when all was said and done, it was just one place among many. Not for the first time, Shard wondered how, if his Lavington-controlled blow-up theory was correct, Lavington meant to blow Nancekuke: the answer probably was, an accomplice in situ, a man who would have planted a device. His mind was going over and over the possibilities when, at last, his radio bleeped and he answered.
“Field One, over.”
“Control calling Field One. We have a clear in all points.”
Shard flicked his switch. “Thank you, but keep trying. Out.” A clear in all points meant that none of Lavington’s devices had been located: and it meant just that, in Shard’s view — no more. Lavington would know, precisely how to site them where they were not likely to be found even by Bentley and his opposite numbers in the other establishments. The imponderables were legion: Shard cleared his mind, hoping that a vacuum would ask nature for a fill. He made back through the byways for the A-30 into Launceston, past the village war memorial into the narrow lanes. By-passing Launceston, he headed on west across Bodmin Moor, grey and lonely but brightening as the sun came up behind his speeding car. In Bolventor he passed Jamaica Inn, granite-hard and grey like the moor itself, ancient haunt of Cornwall’s smugglers, an isolated place where you could almost smell still the brandy and the tobacco that had found its romantic way past the prosaic clutches of the excisemen. Here on Bodmin Moor with its bog patches and its grotesque tors was the feeling that anything could happen at any moment. Ahead mist was rolling in, increasing the remoteness. Meeting it, Shard dropped his speed and flicked on his windscreen wipers and lights. Other lights came up like searching eyes, moved past and away east. As the mist thickened Shard was left in isolation, in a world of his own, thinking about shortness of time and about Lavington: and about security and the anti-measures. Had they done enough, had there been oversights anywhere along the line?
The mist was patchy: coming down a hill Shard found the visibility better and he put on more speed. A police motorcyclist overtook him, going fast; army transport, heavy vehicles bunched in convoy with outriders, passed him heading east. Then into another belt of mist, real fog, thick and clinging. Down through the gears again and, this time, stop: he couldn’t see the verge. He cursed and switched off his engine but left his lights on. Maybe it would clear soon, when there was some strength in the sun or a wind to blow it away. For the moment he could do nothing: the swirls of fog slid thick against his windows, sealing him in. The sense of eeriness was immensely strong. Into his private world came once again the bleep of his radio: with relief at even vocal company, Shard reached out and answered.
“Field One, over.”
“Control. It’s me.” It was Hedge in person: the voice was unmistakable, as was the rejection of proper procedures. Odd in a way, but Hedge never used the radio in the authorized manner, though Shard would have expected him to wallow in the official jargon of Control Boss Two and whatnot. Hedge went on, “Where are you, Field One?”
“Bodmin Moor, A-30 west of Bolventor. Stuck in a mist. Over.”
“Stuck in a mist did you say. Too bad.” There was a pause. “I have news of first contact. Will be returning a.m. Do you wish to interview? Over.”
Shard gritted his teeth: who the hell was first contact? Reason suggested Katie Farrell, about whom Shard had not expected to have new’s over the car radio. If this was Katie, it would seem she had been apprehended as requested, which was fine: Shard would have preferred Hedge to hold the information off the air, but maybe he’d tried the police stations and couldn’t wait. Shard flicked his switch. “I wish to interview, yes. But I say again. I’m stuck in a zero visibility mist. Over.”
“One must sometimes take risks.”
“Then I suggest you come and look at this one.”
“Oh, God. When’s it going to clear?”
“You’ve just invoked the only authority that can answer. Now listen, Control. First contact to be despatched onward, repeat onward, to await my arrival. Got that? Over.”
“Yes. Received and understood. I trust you’ll soon be moving. Over and out.”
Hedge clicked off. As he did so something thumped hard against the offside rear door of the car, which swayed a little on its suspension. Shard’s gun was in his hand before he dimly saw the culprit moving in the swirls of mist: a sheep, horned and shaggy, as lonely as Shard himself. Shard grinned, but swore: his nerves were fairly ragged, which wasn’t good. The sheep’s advent had curdled his stomach. Seething with his impatience, he sat and waited for a clearance. With Katie Farrell back in Britain and held in custody, things might start to happen: at least the girl might prove some sort of bargaining counter. On the information side, it was doubtful if she could tell him any more than O’Riordan, but one could never be sure. Though even if she could, it all boiled down, in Shard’s view, to getting hold of Lavington before the deadline expired. They knew the score by now, they knew the demands and the threat. What they had to do was short if not simple: prevent it!
He sat and waited: there was nothing moving now and the silence was as intense as the mist itself. His thoughts were bitter: Britain could go to its doom just on account of its weather if this mist was widespread enough to inhibit the whole area of search. The wind predicted by the meteorologists was not expected until the evening: much too late! Shard prayed for sun, strong sun to melt away the water-particles. Mist could persist for days … all morning might be the very least, time passed, dragging its heels. He drummed urgent fingers on his steering-wheel and began to sweat. Then after a long interval he heard more sounds from outside, some kind of movement Another lost sheep?
Feet on the tarmac, slightly dragging — it didn’t sound like a sheep. The rhythm was of two, not four. Shard once again brought out his gun, remained otherwise very still, listening out. The sounds came closer and he heard something scrabbling at the boot of the car, then he heard muttering, a whimpering sound, followed by a groan and the slide of something heavy down the back of the car.
Then silence.
He got out, his gun ready for action, leaving the driving door open. There was no sound, no movement. Carefully, eyes straining through the mist, Shard moved towards the back of the car. Vaguely something came up, a black huddle looming through the dampness, something collapsed behind the car. Shard moved closer and squatted on his haunches, instinct telling him not to touch, not to go too close. He saw the shine of chrome, buttons and shoulder numbers, a policeman. A dead policeman, already starting to bloat. Nauseated, Shard backed away: the instinct now was to run, run like a madman … but reason overrode instinct and he flung himself into the car and crashed the door shut.
16
SHARD FOUGHT DOWN his stomach’s enmity and called Launceston nick: “Field One calling Hector.”
The response was immediate: “Hector answering Field One, receiving you loud and clear, over.”
Shard flicked his transmit switch. “Inform all concerned, fish arrived three miles west of Bolventor on A-30
.” Fish: bloaters. This had been pre-arranged and coded. “My diagnosis: Keyman may be found in vicinity. Could have been approached and acted to protect himself, using perhaps a spray-gun. Ring area as soon as the mist lifts. When this happens I shall proceed and contact Bodmin police. I repeat the general instruction: throw a cordon only, do not approach Keyman. Over and out.”
Shard flicked off and resumed his wait. Out there — unless he was still carborne — Lavington might well be, now lost and stumbling around. The hopes of Britain must not be allowed to sink into a bog. Yet queries still remained: how long since that dead constable had got his dose? The onset was fast; if Lavington, surprised by an equally surprised PC, coming upon him by chance in the mist, was the culprit, then he had to be close whether he was in a car or on foot. The alternative was that the disease was already spreading west from Worthing, and that was highly unlikely: no report had as yet indicated other than that Worthing was still containing its own troubles. That left just one more: Lavington in his travels, which in this case need not necessarily be close at hand, was starting to infect Cornwall, casting out yet another warning that the threat was for real.
Some forty minutes after making his transmission Shard found an improvement in the visibility: he began to see the road verges, then the nearer stretch of moorland to north and south of the A-30. He got on the move thankfully, away at last from the corpse behind; then slowed suddenly as his rear-view mirror showed a police mobile coming up. He stopped and got out, running back and waving his arms. The police car stopped and the driver looked out, saw the object on the ground, and went green: the body had burst and lay on the road like a split haggis, the uniform parted under pressure at the seams.
“Don’t touch it,” Shard said, feeling sick again.
“And you are?”
“Detective Chief Superintendent Shard. Considering the visibility, you’re here fast.”
“We had your message, sir, and we weren’t far behind you as it happened, when the mist cleared. The police driver was staring at the spill on the roadway as if he couldn’t look away. That, sir. Is … is that the body?”
“I’m afraid it is. Don’t let it shake you into any indiscretions if you come up against Lavington — he has to be handled carefully for everyone’s sake — you know the orders.”
“Yes, sir. Any special ones for us?”
“What orders do you have currently?”
“To patrol the A-30, sir, ten miles each side of Bolventor, contacting other mobiles each end.”
“I’m over-riding them,” Shard said. “You stay here and keep all comers away from that body. It’s lethal and the sickness can spread fast. Don’t approach it — stay in your car with windows closed. Report back to your control by radio. The army’s South-West District at Taunton has an availability of decontamination crews, widespread by now. Ask for the nearest to be sent in on my orders, pronto. All right?”
“Understood, sir.”
Shard ran back to his car, skirting the body. He drove fast for Bodmin. On the way in he passed some of the troops and police detailed for the toothcomb, the flushing operation. Men and vehicles, an impressive array. He hoped they understood their orders fully: it was a flush and not a fight and they were moving in as beaters, no more. Lavington was to be treated with blind eyes and when he emerged he was to be reported and not shot at. In Bodmin Shard decided to keep going for Nancekuke; already far too much time had been wasted and it was acceptable to risk missing any messages from London until he got to his final destination.
*
Nancekuke lay on the north Cornish coast about mid-way between Portreath and Porthtowan, a lonely place, wild, not so far from the boom of the Atlantic rollers dividing off Land’s End. Shard turned off the A-30 in Redruth, taking the B-3300 to Portreath, thence a right turn onto an unclassified road to Nancekuke village.
The chemical warfare base was strongly guarded. Shard’s papers painstakingly checked. Admitted, he drove in past a gate guard of police, troops and domestic security men. Dogs were around, held on leashes as their handlers patrolled the establishment’s perimeter. A wind was coming off the sea, a south-westerly — the predicted one that was later going to back to the west? Shard shivered as an armed corporal of the Royal Military Police escorted him from the gate to the admin building: this looked a grim place, comparable only with Princetown and its lonely prison buildings on Dartmoor, a dreadful place to be stationed in. Inside it was grim as well: to Shard, the prison comparison held. He was taken along a bare corridor that echoed to his footsteps, and was ushered into a room the two windows of which looked out distantly over the Atlantic beyond the Cornish North Coast path — grey and turbulent with that rising wind, streaked with the long white gashes of the rollers. Below the windows was a desk: a man sat behind it, a man now rising in greeting, long and thin and yellow-skinned like a man of long service overseas. Another man rose from a chair at the side.
“Mr Shard?” the first man said in a voice as thin as his body.
“Right.”
“I’m Wendlestock — Director.” He gestured towards the other man. “Smith-Lyneham, Security. Major Smith-Lyneham.”
You had to be a major, Shard thought sardonically, even to be given so much as an interview for this sort of security appointment. He shook hands and got down to business. “Well, gentlemen. I take it you’re both fully acquainted with all the facts?”
“Certainly.” Wendlestock coughed, a hollow sound: he was not, poor man, far off being a husk already. “I hope you come with happier news, Mr Shard?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Then you believe we have just seven and a bit hours?”
Shard checked his watch. “Yes. Unless we take Lavington alive.”
“That will solve it?”
“It doesn’t have to, but I’m hopeful. Can either of you tell me anything about Lavington as a man, anything his wife might not have told me?”
Wendlestock and Smith-Lyneham exchanged glances. Smith-Lyneham said, “Actually, we can’t. Neither of us knew him.”
“I see. I gathered he’d never been here to Nancekuke?”
“That’s correct”
“How about your staff? The possible planting of a device — have you any suspect, Major?”
Smith-Lyneham spread his hands. “They’re all clean — they’d have to be, or they wouldn’t be here —”
“Lavington was there — at Porton, and Wiston House.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Smith-Lyneham gnawed at a finger-nail. He was stoutish, with an indolent look, and a kind of self-indulgency: but a man would scarcely be lazy in the circumstances. Duty would have been done. Smith-Lyneham proceeded to indicate that it had been. “All personnel have been questioned and every conceivable place searched, visually and with detectors, Mr Shard. I’m convinced there’s nothing of the sort that’s been suggested. I’d give my guarantee on that.”
“Can you suggest anything else?”
Smith-Lyneham said, “Only aerial attack, bombing. But that has its problems from the other side’s viewpoint.”
“Such as?”
“It’s obvious: availability of bases and aircraft, the imponderables of whether or not they can be sure of penetrating our radar defences and fighter screens, the chanciness of any air attack hitting the target.”
“How about rockets fired from aircraft? Have they the penetrability?”
“In many cases, yes. Some of the stowages are very deep, though, and heavily protected. Of course there are the big rocket-launchers, seaborne or land based —”
“But that would call for an availability of bases on the continent — or in Ireland maybe — or ships that’d be spotted in no time. I have my doubts that they’d get away with land based launchers — you can’t keep that sort of set-up hidden for long.” Shard got up and paced the room, frowning. “As a matter of fact all these possibilities have been considered … I stick to my hunch, gentlemen. I have faith in it. Lavington’s still the
key. I ask again: can either of you suggest any other way — any way, that is, apart from a time-fused or radio-controlled explosive device — that he could use to blow the dumps?”
“I can’t think of any,” Smith-Lyneham said. He lit a cigarette: there was a noticeable shake in his fingers. Shard was about to go into the death-potential of Nancekuke in more detail than his documentary summaries had given him when a red telephone burred on Wendlestock’s desk. The Director answered, then handed the instrument to Shard.
“For you, Mr Shard.”
“Thank you. Shard here.”
“Oh, Shard, thank God!” It was Hedge again, sounding put out. “You’ve got there. We’re coming in shortly — from RAF Pewsey, by helicopter —”
“Who’s we, Hedge?”
“Me and you know who. First contact. I know this is a security line, but —”
“Why you, Hedge?”
“I’ll explain all that when I see you. It’s to do with my wife.” Hedge rang off: Shard put down the receiver with a crash. The last person he would ever have expected to turn up in Nancekuke was Hedge: Hedge did not normally venture into the field; that was not his job. And Hedge’s wife? How, for God’s sake, did she affect the issue — unless, of course, she had produced some further information about the attack in Eaton Square? Even that would not, presumably, require her personal presence in Nancekuke. Shard, with half his mind now on Hedge’s advent and the chances of getting hard information out of Katie Farrell, listened to Smith-Lyneham’s catalogue of Nancekuke’s stockpile: the VX gas in liquid form, the various disease cultures, the germs and the botulinum. Once enough of the latter to cover a half penny reached any of Cornwall’s water reservoirs, you could kiss the West Country goodbye. Smith-Lyneham took Shard on a quick inspection of the stocks: basically, it was the South Downs all over again. It was still difficult to realise just how much death and suffering the various containers held. In toto, here in Nancekuke alone and never mind the other dumps, was more than enough to kill the world’s population a hundred times over. But it wouldn’t be the world that would suffer when Lavington went into action: the English Channel, the silver sea until now serving as Shakespeare’s wall or moat defensive to a house against the envy of less happier lands, would act as Britain’s leaden coffin.
Blood Run East Page 18
