by Colin Forbes
'That's because she'd covered the steel with thick polish.'-
'Sounds as though she could be an asset in our car,'
Mark said to Newman. 'And I thought we'd have to look after her . . .'
'You may find she has to look after you,' Monica commented wickedly.
'Weapons,' said Harry.
'I'm taking my Smith & Wesson,' Newman remarked.
'Now listen.' Tweed raised his voice. 'There is to be no shooting on this expedition. Only if your life is in danger or you fear serious injury. The police will be there.'
'When it's all over,' Newman replied cynically.
He had just spoken when Pete Nield came in. He gave Tweed a little salute.
'Sorry I'm so late. Saw an accident on my way here. A lady had a broken leg. As usual, no one knew what to do. I lifted her into the back of a car which was going to drive her to a hospital. Got a glass of water from a nearby house and got her to swallow a couple of painkillers. Always carry stuff like that with me.'
'Ruddy walking medicine chest, you are,' Harry snorted.
The two men often worked as a team, knew they could always rely on each other. The contrast between them was striking. Butler always wore a shabby windcheater, denims which had seen better days, a pullover ragged at the cellar. Whereas Nield, slim and erect, was smartly dressed in a blue suit with shirt and tie.
Tweed began talking, bringing Nield up to date tersely with everything that had happened. Nield listened carefully, perched on the edge of Paula's desk. Tweed repeated his warning about the use of firearms, showed him Lisa's list of targets, which caused Nield to whistle softly.
'Going to try and level London to the ground, are they?'
'As I told you,' Tweed snapped, 'it's supposed to be a rehearsal for a major event later.'
'If you say so . . .'
He stopped speaking as the door opened and Lisa entered with Paula behind her. Everyone stared. Carrying her heavy raincoat with capacious pockets Lisa wore a leather skirt ending way above her knees. For a top she was wearing a gaudy silk blouse which fitted her tightly. It was sleeveless. Newman stopped staring, looked anywhere except at her legs.
'Sorry to dress like a tart,' Lisa explained. 'But a major target is the huge discotheque in the West End. I need to merge with the atmosphere. When we leave the place I'll put on what's in my raincoat pockets. Rolled-up sweater, pair of jeans, old windcheater.' She smiled. 'I'm only showing you this outfit so you don't get a shock later.'
Saying which, she slipped on the raincoat. Then she checked her watch, looked at Tweed.
'Shouldn't we leave during the next half hour? It's got late suddenly.'
'Transport,' growled Harry, jumped up, left the room.
Tweed introduced Lisa to Pete Nield, who shook hands, smiled at her.
'Welcome to the war party.'
'I don't want to hear any more language like that,' Tweed told him. 'It's the wrong attitude.'
'You hope,' Newman said under his breath.
'That SAS team I wanted here from Hereford has arrived, I hope,' Gavin Thunder snapped at the aide who had replaced Jeremy Mordaunt.
'It's across the street, secreted in a building near what used to be Scotland Yard, sir. I hope you don't mind my saying this — but don't they come under the control of the MoD?5
'Yes, but I talked the Defence Minister into agreeing. I can talk him into anything. You've heard the rumours. Tonight that foreign scum we've let in has planned an inferno. We'll keep the SAS in reserve, see how it develops.'
'I hope, sir, the Cabinet will go along with you.' 'None of your damned business. But as you've raised the
point, I talked the Cabinet into agreeing, albeit reluctantly.
We may need to show our iron fist.'
'Which, I hear, sir, is your nickname inside the Cabinet.
Iron Fist.'
CHAPTER 8
Action this day.
The words went out on the Internet, from Ponytail at his base in the apartment on the shores of Lake Washington in Seattle. Went out to be decoded by 'chief executives' in London, Paris, Rome, Brussels, Berlin and Stockholm.
Even as they were deciphered, 'tourist' buses were moving in to the centre of each city. There were no convoys to attract the attention of the police. Single buses packed with men drove in from different directions, heading for their targets.
Ponytail then turned to operating on the home front. The same coded instruction went out to San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles and New Orleans. In the States Greyhound buses had been hijacked at prearranged points in the countryside, their passengers herded into barns where they were trapped once the doors had been locked. All mobile phones had been confiscated. Waiting gangs of rough-looking men boarded the empty buses which then proceeded to their destinations.
And no one realized that these three words of the instruction had once been the favourite phrase of Winston Churchill, urging lethargic civil servants to do what he said immediately.
It was 10 p.m. in London. Tweed and his team had entered the basement restaurant off Piccadilly in separate groups, had sat at three different tables. The only member absent was Harry Butler, which left Pete Nield by himself.
They had eaten a light dinner - without alcohol - when Harry ran down the stairs from outside, made a gesture for them to leave.
Lisa, wearing her sweater and jeans, dashed into the ladies', carrying her raincoat. Locked in a cubicle she swiftly changed into her 'tart's' outfit, emerged wearing the raincoat.
'Vorina's, the discotheque,' Harry told them and dashed out and up the steps into the street, followed by Pete Nield. The four-wheel drive was parked nearby and they jumped into it. Tweed had taken the precaution of paying his bill early while he drank coffee. The others had done the same.
Lisa appeared, her raincoat belted tightly, joined Newman and Mark. They dived into their car, Newman taking the wheel. Tweed and Paula led the convoy - he had parked his car ahead of the other two vehicles.
'Where the heck is this Vorina's?' Tweed asked.
'In a side street off Regent Street. I'll guide you . . .'
The moment they entered the side street Tweed saw Vorina's. It was impossible to miss with the glow of lights shining out through enormous plate-glass windows. Earlier, after consulting Harry, Paula had arranged with him to rush out in the afternoon and purchase three members' tickets. One ticket admitted three people.
'Only ninety quid for that lot,' he'd told her when he came back and distributed tickets.
'Ninety pounds!' she'd exclaimed. 'It must be a high-class place.'
'Decide for yourself when you see it,' he'd told her.
They parked in a wide alley with the four-wheel drive in front. A doorman in a blue uniform checked their tickets while Paula stared inside. Behind the windows attractive girls in various states of undress were dancing. When the door was opened a blast of sound hit them, the latest modern 'music'.
Crystal balls of lights were suspended from the ceiling of the vast room. They flashed on and off non-stop in wild colours. On a platform halfway down the left-hand side a group of five young men were armed with saxophones, guitars, and heaven knew what else. Huge amplifiers built up the deafening noise to incredible decibels. Couples sat at tables, drinking and trying to hear each other. At intervals down the right-hand side were booths where men were playing at undressing their girlfriends. A number of older men were urging younger girlfriends to drink more. Tweed could see no activity the police would regard as obscene. They were all people of various ages enjoying themselves. But he didn't like the hellish noise or the flashing lights. C'est la vie, as the French would say. Paula grasped his arm after looking back.
'Trouble.'
Lisa, who had gone ahead, ran back to them, heard what Paula had said.
'Big trouble,' she warned.
At the entrance door a giant had pushed his way in, followed by a troop of ugly-looking toughs wearing ragged camouflage jackets. The doorman dema
nded from Delgado his ticket. The giant grabbed the doorman with one hand round the throat, lifted him off the floor, slammed him against the wall. His victim collapsed. A bouncer appeared, tried to grab the giant by one arm. Delgado grasped his wrist, whirled him round and round, let go suddenly. The bouncer crashed against the wall, collapsed. The giant's toughs were rapidly infiltrating the restaurant.
They ran from table to table, jerking the cloths off them, spilling plates and food and drink on the floor. One man, using a can of spray paint, swiftly defaced a wall with his graffiti message. Down With Monny, Tweed detected a degree of illiteracy.
Panic broke out. Women were screaming. Men were holding on to their partners, trying to escort them out through a wild mob. One woman with a semi-backless dress was refusing to leave her table. Delgado came up behind her, shoved in his huge hand, tore the dress down to her seat. Butler appeared behind the giant, grabbed a handful of his hair, crashed his head down on to the table, then went elsewhere. Delgado straightened up, dazed, staggered round.
The five-man entertainment group had stopped playing, stood scared stiff on the platform. A tough jumped on the platform, a graffiti can in one hand. He grabbed hold of the saxophone, squirted liquid inside it. The youngster whose instrument it was protested. The tough reversed the instrument, holding it by the horn end. Using it as a club he hit the youngster a savage blow behind the legs. The lad collapsed off the platform. Mark had just hit a tough on the side of his neck. His target went down like a sack of coals.
'Time to leave,' Tweed decided.
'Easiest escape route,' Lisa pointed out, 'is along the wall by the booths . . .'
Tweed was waving his hand to warn the others to leave. Butler saw him, took out a whistle, blew a penetrating blast clearly heard above the screaming and shouting. All the booths were now empty and there was a clear passage past them. Close to the exit Paula glanced back, saw Delgado, fully recovered, also heading for the street. He rammed his way through the scared crowd, shoving people aside.
Butler was ahead of them as they emerged into the street with Nield close behind him. Lisa grasped Butler's arm before he could run to his vehicle.
'Wait a minute when you're behind the wheel. Delgado has some other devilry . . .'
They were in their cars, their engines running, when Tweed lowered his window, glowering as he looked back at what remained of Vorina's. Delgado was wielding a huge sledgehammer, probably conveniently left on the pavement earlier.
The sledgehammer crashed into the window of Vorina's. The glass, a large sheet, fell inwards, broke into pieces when it hit the floor. A girl, her expensive dress torn, ran out into the street. A tough grabbed her, hoisted her, threw her through the gaping hole. She landed inside on her back amid the shattered glass. Lisa, who had jumped out of Newman's car, ran up to Butler, then ran back to Tweed.
'Piccadilly Circus next.'
'I know. Get back inside your car . . .'
The four-wheel drive moved off, followed by Newman's car and Tweed bringing up the rear. In no time at all they were approaching Piccadilly Circus down Regent Street.
'That was horrible,' Paula said. 'I'm sure I saw one man with a broken neck. Who are these bastards?'
'I did notice,' Tweed told her, 'that a number were British, but a larger number were foreigners. Kosovars, Turks, I think I even spotted an Afghan. At least we now know what we're up against. The trick is to find the top man.'
'Lord! Look at this.'
Every car parked - or abandoned - in Regent Street that they passed had windows, windscreens smashed in. One large store had no glass left in its windows. Toughs were coming out holding armruls of expensive suits. The looting had started.
Thanks to Butler being in the lead, they drove straight down Regent Street. When groups of toughs stood in the road he drove ruthlessly at them. They scattered swiftly. At the Circus was a fresh mob. Eros had already been defaced by sprays of graffiti. A crowd of 'revolutionaries' occupied the top level. Butler was driving part way round with his window open. A hulking man threw a brick, aimed at the four-wheel drive. Driving with one hand, Butler caught the brick with his other gloved hand. He stopped, hurled the brick back with all his strength. It struck the thrower on the jaw.
'Let's clear that lot,' Nield suggested. 'Drive once round Eros.'
Nield was holding his latest weapon, a long wide-barrelled metal tube. Butler sat well back. As he circled once round Eros, Nield aimed the barrel through the open window at the top level. He pressed the trigger. A jet of ice-cold water sprayed the crowd, soaking them. When Butler had completed his circle the men and women on Eros was drenched to the skin.
'Dampen their ardour,' Nield remarked as Butler headed out of the Circus.
Seated in the back of Newman's car with Mark in the passenger seat in front, Lisa, occupying the back, had pulled on her jeans, her sweater, her coat. She was glad Butler had turned his heater full on. Her mobile buzzed.
She listened, said they were on their way, warned Newman, took out a little notebook with the mobile numbers of Butler and Paula, gave them both the same message.
'Herb called me. A riot's breaking out near The Hangman's Noose. A big one. I told Herb we're coming . . .'
Leaving the West End, everything became quiet. Paula welcomed the peace, the lack of violent people. At one point Tweed overtook both Newman and Butler, putting himself at the head of the column while Paula, a map open on her lap, navigated.
Realizing it was time for a news bulletin, Tweed switched on the radio. The announcer was just beginning.
'Reports are coming in of serious riots in the centres of Paris and Berlin. A commentator said they had the appearance of being coordinated since they started at the same time in both capitals . . .'
Tweed switched off, his expression grim.
'And here too,' he said.
'What does it mean?' Paula asked.
'That it's international. Which worries me. Which means we have to locate the top man.'
'And I think Lisa knows who he is. Which would put her on the other side.'
'It's a mystery, one I'm determined to solve.'
They said no more until they were approaching the East End. Tweed slowed down, drove more cautiously. In his rear view mirror he saw that Butler and Newman were close behind them.
'We'll soon be at Reefers Wharf,' Paula remarked.
'I wonder why they call it that? I suppose it's on the edge of the river.'
'No, it isn't. I was asking Lisa about it when I took her to the bathroom. The end near The Hangman's Noose is a quarter of a mile at least from the Thames. Apparently it was once a real wharf. Barges and small freighters used it to unload. Then some property speculator had the idea that if he filled it in he'd have some valuable real estate. So now most of the warehouses are offices occupied by companies paying sky-high rents. We're very close now, I think.'
They turned a corner and the street where in daytime the market was held stretched about before them. In the distance Tweed could see, by the light of flames, The Hangman's Noose. Someone had hung from the sign board a real noose with the mask of a grotesque head inside it.
'If it was chaos in the West End this is anarchy,' Paula said grimly.
There seemed to be far more thugs than those they had left behind. When it closed, the stallholders' tables used in the market were folded up, stacked against the far wall. These had been dragged into the road, piled up, set alight. Tweed stopped in front of The Hangman's Noose. They got out as Newman's and Butler's vehicles arrived.
Lisa jumped out, ran along to Tweed and Paula, pointed to a stocky man emerging from the pub. All the windows were boarded up and Herb was carrying a heavy club.
'It's been hell,' he said, addressing Tweed. 'They've been attacking women as well as men.'
Lisa left them. A thug was battering a man with his club. He turned, grinned when he saw her. She stiffened the side of her hand, hit him with a karate chop. He sagged and she grabbed his club. A fire e
ngine had arrived and men in helmets were preparing to deal with the bonfires dotted down the street, flaring up viciously. Tweed noticed groups of thugs were gathered along the opposite pavement, listening to a strange tall fat man in a pink shirt, waving a malacca cane.
Harry Butler saw a fireman bent over a hydrant, attaching a big hosepipe. Then he had difficulty turning on the water. A thug, holding a knife, came up behind him as the fireman removed his helmet, which was getting in his way.
'Look out!' shouted Butler, running forward.
The thug hit the fireman with a club in his other hand. The fireman fell down. The thug turned to face Butler who smashed him in the face with his fist. The thug dropped the knife, lost his club, dazed by the tremendous blow. Butler grabbed his long hair, rammed his head back against a brick wall with such force he thought he heard the skull crack.
Glancing round, he saw the army of thugs, divided into groups, advancing across the street. Further down the street Mark, Newman and Nield were grappling savagely with different opponents. Bending down, Butler checked the hose. It was firmly screwed to the hydrant. With his gloved hands he picked up the hose and it needed all his strength to twist the tap of the hydrant. Water gushed from the tip of the hose. Raising it, he directed its powerful flow at one advancing group, then another. The power of the jet was so great it knocked flat each thug he aimed at.
Thugs with knives were assaulting the firemen trying to get down off their vehicles, preventing them from intervening. Once he had flattened each group of thugs he could see, Butler switched the jet to the fires burning in the street.
