Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  Paula, on her own, was stalking the fat man in a pink shirt. His behaviour seemed very odd. Holding his malacca came in both hands, she suspected he was directing the onslaught. At the very least he was closely observing the effectiveness of the attack. He was facing away from her as she crept up behind him. She rammed her .32 Browning automatic into his back.

  'This is a gun,' she yelled in a fierce voice. 'Shove off and don't come back.'

  The fat man dropped his cane. Then Paula was knocked off balance as a thug collided into her. She swung round, hit the thug across the jaw with the muzzle of her gun. He staggered back, slid down a wall, lay still. When she was free to turn round to confront Pink Shirt the fat man had vanished. She couldn't see him anywhere. And his cane had vanished with him.

  Tweed was running after Lisa, who was pursuing Delgado. Her raincoat flapped as Delgado disappeared round a corner. As she peered round the corner he struck at her with a club. It grazed the side of her head. She staggered back, fell. Delgado came back, raised his club to finish her off. Tweed grabbed hold of the Beretta, tucked in the back of her raincoat belt. He hauled it out, aimed it point-blank at the giant. Delgado changed his mind, disappeared round the corner. Tweed peered round cautiously, in time to see the giant vanish down an alley. He turned his attention to Lisa.

  Her pulse was irregular, her eyes closed. He lifted her as Newman appeared. Appalled, he gazed down at Lisa. Tweed snapped at him.

  'We've got to get her to the clinic. No help round here. So drive my car if we ever reach it.'

  Newman went wild, using brute force to clear the route to the car. He opened the rear door and, gently, Tweed carried Lisa inside, sitting down with her head on his lap. The rear door was slammed shut, Newman got behind the wheel. The car took off like a rocket, Newman keeping one hand on the horn, blaring non-stop.

  CHAPTER 9

  They had been waiting at the clinic for an hour. Newman sat on a chair against a wall in the gleaming white-walled corridor. Tweed was pacing up and down, couldn't keep still.

  'Why are they taking so long?' growled Tweed.

  'They have to give her a thorough examination, I expect,' said Newman. 'She's in a private ward?'

  'All the wards are private here. Who were you calling on that wretched mobile?'

  'Harry, so he knew where we were. He's on his way . . .'

  He stopped speaking as Butler appeared, hurrying down the corridor. His face was damp with sweat and he had obviously moved after hearing from Newman.

  'How is she?' he asked.

  'We don't know yet.'

  The consultant, Mr Master, a friend of Tweed's, appeared in the corridor accompanied by a tall horse-faced sister Tweed immediately took a dislike to. Master looked at all three visitors with a serious face.

  'I have a problem, Tweed . . .'

  'Damnit, how is she? That's what we want to know.'

  'Of course. She has concussion at least. The odd thing is she's now conscious and desperately anxious to see you. It can only be for a few minutes. Oh, this is Sister Vandel who will be looking after her.'

  'Mr Master, I don't agree with her seeing anyone now,' snapped Vandel.

  'You told me that before. What do you think, Tweed? Seeing you might settle her, if she's still conscious.'

  'Take me to her now,' Tweed said decisively.

  Master led the way down the corridor, opened a door numbered 25. The room was spacious, airy, light. Lisa was lying in a bed under sheets and a blanket. Her head rested on a pillow and her eyes were closed. The right side of her head was covered with a large bandage. Tweed was shocked by her complexion. Normally she had a reasonably high colour but her face was ashen. Part of her red hair had been tied back with a ribbon to keep it clear of the bandage.

  'You see,' said Sister Vandel, 'she's fallen unconscious again. This visit is pointless.'

  Lisa opened her blue eyes, gazed at Tweed. She raised a limp hand, indicating she wanted him to come close to her. Tweed, upset, but not showing it, smiled, sat down on a chair next to the bed.

  'You're going to be all right,' he said softly.

  She smiled, raised the limp hand again, telling him she wanted him to take it. He took hold of it, squeezed the fingers tenderly. She feebly squeezed his in appreciation. She was opening and closing her mouth, clearly trying to say something.

  'She mustn't talk,' commanded Vandel from the other side of the bed.

  Tweed gave her a certain look, cold, fierce. It was a look Paula would have recognized, seen only at rare moments when he violently disapproved of a blunder. Vandel looked away, disconcerted.

  Tweed bent closer to Lisa. The expression in her blue eyes seemed to communicate that she was desperate to tell him something. Her mouth opened again and he sensed she needed to speak clearly.

  'Ham . . . Dan.' She made one final effort. 'Four S . . .'

  Then she closed her eyes, letting go of Tweed's hand.

  He stood up and Vandel came over to hurry him out of the room. Tweed told Master to send the bill to Park Crescent when Lisa was fully recovered and left the clinic. They were in the corridor, the door closed, when Tweed turned to Vandel as Master walked off.

  'Sister, your patient is an important witness. There is a remote risk someone may try to get in here to attack her. I'm therefore posting a guard outside her room round the clock.'

  'We do not allow . . .'

  'Sister, look at this.' He produced the folder which identified him as Deputy Director SIS, opened it, held it under her nose. 'If you continue objecting I can always have a word with Mr Master.'

  'That won't be necessary,' she said hastily.

  'Harry,' Tweed called down the corridor, 'bring your chair up here. I want you to sit by this door to guard Lisa against any intruders,' he told him as Harry arrived, plonked his chair next to the door. 'The only people allowed inside are Mr Master, Sister Vandel here and any replacement she brings and introduces you to while she's off duty.'

  'Clear enough,' said Harry, staring blankly at the sister.

  'If she recovers,' Vandel snapped, 'she'll have to be taken to another room for a second X-ray.'

  'Understood, but Mr Butler will accompany her. Another member of my staff will take over from Mr Butler in a few hours. I will work out a roster of guards. Meantime, Mr Butler is probably hungry and thirsty.'

  'A big mug of tea with plenty of sugar and a bit of milk — and a sandwich, ham if you've got it, will do me,' Harry announced.

  'We're not running a hotel for visitors,' Vandel rapped out.

  'Then I'll have a word with Mr Master.'

  'Oh, well, I'll see what I can do . . .'

  She stormed off down the corridor, disappeared. Harry opened his windcheater a few inches, showed Tweed the butt of his Walther.

  'No one except those you mentioned will get near her. That Vandal is the dragon of the clinic. There's always one.'

  'Vandel,' said Tweed.

  'Vandal will do for me,' Harry decided.

  'I'll send Pete Nield to relieve you as soon as I can,' Tweed assured Butler.

  'No 'urry . . .'

  On his way out Tweed met Master again. He stopped to thank the consultant for what he was doing.

  'One thing bothered me. Sister Vandel said at one stage if she recovers. I think she was simply frightening me.'

  'One can never be sure, but I'm confident the phrase should have been when she recovers.' He looked annoyed. 'I'll have a word or two with Vandel. We'll take good care of the patient . . .'

  Outside in the night Tweed found Newman seated behind the wheel of his parked car. He explained as Tweed got in next to him.

  'I decided to stay with the car. It's unlikely any of those thugs will get into this area but I wanted to protect the car. How is Lisa?' he asked, driving off.

  'I'd say she's completely exhausted, needs a lot of sleep and quiet. I didn't think she looked all that fresh when we left Park Crescent.'

  He took out his notebook, wrote down Ham . . .
Dan . , . 4 S. Then he showed the page to Newman. 'Mean anything to you? Lisa had trouble saying anything but that's what she said to me.'

  'Not a thing. Is it important?'

  'Lisa thought it was - to make the effort she did make to say that to me.'

  'You probably didn't hear her properly. In her state it's likely she was confused.'

  'I don't think she was. Could be the key to this bizarre international situation.'

  'Heard on the radio Paris, Berlin and Brussels experienced the same type of trouble. The wreckers are abroad.'

  'And it's just occurred to me,' Tweed ruminated, 'those are three of the cities Lord Barford visited recently. If we can believe what Aubrey Barford told Paula in a drunken stupor. And I think we can.'

  CHAPTER 10

  Marler had driven to Dorset, visited his contact, a retired manager in a security company, living in the model village of Abbotsbury, north-west of Weymouth. He'd suggested his contact might like to join him, but the manager had said sorry, he was no longer in shape.

  'And those villains I saw ferried ashore last night were the toughest I've ever encountered . . .'

  So, for several hours, Marler had sat in his car alone. He had driven off the road overlooking Chesil Beach up a steep track. He was now behind the wheel of his car, parked out of sight behind a clump of shrubbery. The height gave him a clear view over the seaway east of Weymouth, over Chesil and west towards Bridport. High-powered night glasses hung from a loop round his neck.

  Chesil Beach was a quite unique phenomenon. Instead of sand, six miles or more of a great bank of pebbles extended from Weymouth westward. Marler knew the area, knew that near Weymouth the 'pebbles' were almost the size of small boulders, gradually diminishing in size as the bank stretched to the west where eventually they were truly pebbles in size. He also knew that fishermen, coming ashore in a fog, could tell where they were by checking the size of the pebbles.

  It had been night for several hours and outside the air was a bitter cold. He was far enough back and above Chesil to keep his heater on. He had eaten sandwiches purchased from a roadside cafe on his way down from London, and occasionally drunk mineral water from a litre bottle.

  Marler, the most deadly marksman in Western Europe, was blessed with an infinite patience. It was ten o'clock, very dark, when he saw something blazing out at sea, east of Weymouth. He focused his glasses, saw a small fishing boat on fire. No sign of a crew.

  'The decoy,' he said to himself. 'To keep coastguards away from this area. They're coming and someone is well organized.'

  A few minutes later he swore. He had just spotted a launch, a large vessel, packed to the gunwales with men, heading for the end of Chesil Beach near what was known as the Swannery. Then he saw the fog rolling in from the sea, blotting out the launch. He waited.

  A few minutes later an old tourist-type bus, what his father would have called a charabanc, appeared from the direction of Bridport. It stopped, performed a two-point turn until it faced the way it had come. The vehicle was then parked near a point where Marler estimated the launch would beach. It carried the legend Topsy Tours. The fog swallowed up the bus.

  Marler lowered his window, put his hand out. A few minutes later he felt a breeze. He closed the window, sat up erect, holding his glasses. The fog swirled, evaporated. The bus came back into view, so did the large launch as its bow hit Chesil. He focused on it.

  A big man clad in waders, an oilskin, a sou'wester hat came ashore, bent down, picked up a pebble with one hand. In the other he was holding something Marler couldn't identify. Then the big man climbed the steep bank, saw the bus. He returned to the launch, lifted a megaphone to his mouth, called out instructions in as quiet a voice as possible.

  Marler couldn't hear what he said but he could see the big man helping to unload his cargo, grabbing men by the arm, shoving them up the bank towards the bus. Marler studied their strange faces, agreed with his contact that this was a right bunch of villains.

  Most looked foreign, out of the Balkans. What impressed - and worried - Marler was the military way they filed one behind the other up to the bus, carrying floppy bags. He took out his mobile, pressed the numbers of the police HQ in Dorchester, numbers he'd earlier memorized from a directory in an isolated phone box.

  'Police 'ere,' a bored voice said.

  'I'm reporting that a gang of illegal refugees are being smuggled ashore at the Swannery end of Chesil Beach. Send patrol cars . . .'

  'Might I have your particulars, sir?' the bored voice asked.

  'You'll lose them if you don't move fast. Put me on to a senior officer now.'

  'Hold on a minute, sir. Maybe the sergeant will have a word . . .'

  'You'll lose them,' Marler fumed, but there was no one on the line.

  He waited, watching a whole column leaving the launch, climbing aboard the bus. He counted twenty men. Once aboard their transport, the bus moved off towards Bridport. Marler saw the big man was still waiting at the edge of Chesil Beach. Then a second tourist bus appeared, performed the same two-point turn, parked so it was also facing Bridport. The fog had cleared off the water and Marler heard the muffled sound of engines. Two large outboards, crowded with men, were approaching the shore where the big man had flashed a torch twice.

  'Can I help you, sir? Sergeant Haskins here. What seems to be the trouble?'

  'The trouble is you have at this moment a very large gang of illegal refugees being brought ashore at the Swannery end of Chesil Beach. They're being taken away towards Bridport in old tourist buses with the name Topsy Tours.'

  'Did I hear you aright, sir? You did say "Topsy"?'

  'Yes.'

  'Funny name . . .'

  'For God's sake, get patrol cars to intercept the buses. I said they're on their way towards Bridport. . .'

  'I heard that, sir. Might I ask exactly where you're speaking from?'

  'Send patrol cars or I'll report this lack of action to the Chief Constable

  Marler had had enough. The motorized dinghies had emptied their passengers with astonishing speed. They had scrambled up the bank, were already aboard the second bus. The big man had returned to the launch, was already steering it out to sea where presumably a freighter was standing to until it could winch the launch aboard. Then the freighter might well return to its pick-up point to take aboard another assortment of talent and bring it back to Britain.

  Marler had switched off his mobile, feeling it was hopeless. The only thing he could do was to track the buses to their destination. He manoeuvred his car back down the track on to the road leading to Bridport. He rammed his foot down to catch them up.

  A few minutes later a patrol car came towards him. Heavens, they had reacted. Then he saw the car was flashing its lights, waving him down. He had reduced speed when he'd seen it was a patrol car and now he stopped. The patrol car swung over to the wrong side of the deserted road, parked its front bumper inches from Marler's. A very young policeman got out, arrived as he lowered his window. Marler sat very still.

  'Pushin' it a bit, weren't we, sir?'

  'It isn't a built-up area.'

  A second, equally young policeman arrived, a portly man who had the look of a man conscious of his importance. He was holding something, bent down to peer in at Marler.

  'I'd like you to switch off your engine.'

  Marler did so. Then he sat with his arms folded and tried to look expressionless.

  'Been drinkin', 'ave we, sir?'

  'Yes, this. And only this.'

  Marler reached down for the bottle of mineral water. He held it up for the portly policeman to get a good look.

  'Would you object to being breathalysed? The alternative is to accompany us to the station.'

  Marler took a deep breath, reached out, took the nozzle. He blew into it with all his strength. Portly took out the breathalyser, studied it. The meter registered nothing.

  'Thank you, sir. You can proceed now, when we've moved our car.'

  'May I suggest,
' Marler said politely, 'that you get in touch urgently with your Dorchester HQ?'

  'Good night, sir . . .'

  It was 3 a.m. when Marler arrived back at Park Crescent. He wondered where the time had gone. He was also surprised to find everyone waiting for him in Tweed's office. Paula, Newman, Butler, Nield and Mark were drinking coffee. Marler accepted a cup gratefully from Monica.

  'You've done a good job,' Tweed began. 'Thank you for calling me on your way back. You must have found the police down there frustrating.'

  'I could have strangled them.'

  'Don't worry. As soon as you went off the line I phoned Roy Buchanan at the Yard, passed to him all your information. He's phoning the Chief Constable down there - has done - and called me back. They've sent up a helicopter to comb the area you mentioned in search of those two buses.'

  'Doubt if they'll find them. From Bridport there are three or four different routes they could have taken.'

  'I agree. If you can stand it I'll tell you what's been happening up here while you were down there ...'

  Marler listened, adopting his usual stance of leaning against a wall. After he'd drunk his coffee he lit a king-size.

  'This is developing into an international conflagration. All over Europe and now it's started in the States.'