by Colin Forbes
'A bit drastic,' he suggested. 'I've heard about the methods they use. They don't even waste time getting rid of the bodies.'
'I have decided.' Thunder stood up again after draining his glass. 'I'll have a quiet word with the Secretary of State. I'm sure he'll agree to loan them to us.'
'If you're sure this is a good idea.'
'Damnit!' Thunder smashed his glass on the table. 'Tweed has to be eliminated. The Secret Reserve - seven of them - will do the job. They are utterly ruthless. They can travel in jeeps from the motor pool on the mainland. Tweed will be no match for men like that.'
CHAPTER 34
Tweed was still up, studying the complex route from Tender to distant Travemiinde. Some instinct was making him look for alternative routes in case they ran into something. Someone tapped on his door and when he opened it Paula, fully dressed, walked in.
'Am I a nuisance?' she asked.
'You're never a nuisance. Sit down. Like some coffee?'
'No, thank you. I'll never sleep. It looks from the pot as though you've been drinking it by the litre.'
'Helps me to concentrate. What brought you here?' Tweed asked.
'I've been thinking about this journey to Travemiinde. Could it be a trap?'
'Yes, it could. But to clean up this business we have to take the risk.'
'It isn't that I mistrust Gina,' Paula commented. 'I've come to the conclusion that you're right.'
'It's my old cocoon theory.'
'Cocoon?' she asked, puzzled.
'Well, everyone lives inside a cocoon. Their daily life, the way they think, react. Many live in a small cocoon. They go to work by the same train each day, sit at the same desk, their only thoughts concerned with their job -and their family, if they have one. They're not interested in what goes on in the wider world. Fair enough, if that rather enclosed life - cocoon - satisfies them. Others live inside a larger cocoon - men or women running big businesses, generals who command large forces, who need to know many parts of the world because they may find themselves sent anywhere there is a crisis. When I'm talking to somebody - like Mrs France - I'm trying to gauge the size of their cocoon.'
'And Mrs France's is?'
'A very large cocoon indeed. The world is her oyster. She has a wide outlook - searching for huge missing sums of money in the biggest bank in the world, tracking and recording secret coded instructions being sent via the Internet, dealing with two remarkable men. And she has ethics, is trustworthy. If our trip to Traveműnde is a trap it is so because someone else has set the trap.'
'That's a thought.'
'Incidentally, I've decided everyone must be up and ready to leave by 6.30 a.m. Don't ask me why - I could only say sixth sense. I've called everyone else and luckily didn't wake anyone up. I think it could be quite a day.'
'I'd better go . . .' Paula yawned. 'I need the shut-eye. Is Lisa coming with us?'
'Yes. We can hardly leave her here.'
She told him about the incident when Lisa had mentioned a man with gold-rimmed glasses as one of the partners.
'How could she know that?' she concluded.
'That fits in too with the picture I am forming of the two massive forces ranged against each other. I won't explain now. You get off to bed.'
Paula turned at the door before opening it, waved her finger at him. 'You need sleep too, so I expect you to get to bed as soon as I've left.'
She threw him a kiss and was gone. Tweed took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. She had a point, he decided.
* * *
At Inseknde Barford had eaten dinner with the FBI section guarding the house. He had sat next to the head man whom he had found intelligent and interesting. They were alone now, drinking coffee. Cordell, the FBI chief, seemed in no hurry to leave.
'I find it a strain,' he admitted, 'protecting the Secretary of State and the other three VTPs. I wish the meeting had taken place back home in familiar surroundings.'
Cordell was a man of medium height, well built and very fit. He had a tough face but a warm smile which appeared occasionally. He seemed to have taken to the Brig. He showed no sign of being in a hurry to leave the table.
'It will soon be over,' Barford told him. 'How many more days?'
'They're vague about that. For security reasons. Three or four more days is the official version. My bet is we'll be out of here in one or two days.' He paused, lit a cigarette. 'I hear they're using the Special Reserve to go after some poor bastards.'
'They are. You don't sound enthusiastic.'
'I'm not. That bunch of thugs. They do things we'd never dream of doing. I heard of one case where their target was a banker who wasn't cooperating. Two men did the job. They had checked his routine and he never varied from it. Came out to lunch at exactly the same time. So one thug goes into the bank wearing dark glasses - they always wear dark glasses. He hung around for a few minutes. His pal waited outside. The banker appears, starts to walk out of the bank, reaches the door. The Special Reserve man inside shoots him in the back. At the same moment the thug outside shoots him in the head. They go down to the sidewalk, step into the waiting getaway car and they're gone. We would never use methods like that. It's cold-blooded murder.' Cordell paused. 'I'm sure you won't pass on to anyone what I've just said - for obvious reasons.'
'Not to a soul on earth. I promise you.'
'I'd better go outside now and check the situation . . .'
The Brig lingered for a few minutes, then walked out of the dining room. Outside in the corridor he almost collided with Gavin Thunder.
'Dinner's over. We talked a lot. Everyone in agreement. Very satisfactory.'
'Could we have another private word?'
'Why not? We'll go back to the room where we talked before.'
Once inside the room Thunder headed for the drinks cabinet, came back with two glasses and a bottle of brandy. Barfbrd thanked him but refused a further drink. Thunder poured himself a large tot, was in a jubilant mood.
'Here's to the success of our great enterprise.' He raised his glass, then noticed the Brig's expression. 'You don't look too happy.'
'I'm not happy at all about using the Special Reserve. I don't approve of it.'
'Don't approve of it!' Thunder had raised his voice. 'You know something? I wasn't aware that your approval was a factor we have to consider. The decision is taken. I want you to accompany them in the boat which will take them to the mainland tomorrow, to see them off in the three jeeps they will travel in, wish them luck, for God's sake.'
'I will accompany them in the boat. But I stress that I do not approve. I'm asking you to cancel the operation.'
'Cancel it! You know something, Bernard,' Thunder rapped out nastily, 'you're not yet Supreme Governor of the military areas Britain will be divided into.'
'I am aware of that.'
'My dear Bernard. . .'Thunder's mood changed abruptly, became very friendly. '. . . No one blames you for not wiping out Tweed. He's a cunning devil. You have been labouring under a lot of strain and stress. This I understand. Two of the Special Reserve, incidentally, are British - they were in the SAS. They came to the States, adopted American nationality, were recruited into the Special Reserve. That ought to make you feel better about the whole operation.'
'I'm exhausted. I think I'll go to bed.' 'Do that. You'll feel so much better in the morning.' When Barford had left, Thunder sipped at his brandy. He had always had a flair for talking people round to his point of view.
Tweed was still up, sitting at a desk with his doodle pad, long after Mrs France had come and gone, followed later by Paula's visit. He had added Mrs France to his pad, with a circle round her. He had drawn a line linking Lisa with Mrs France. The vast mosaic was becoming clearer to him. His mobile phone started buzzing. He swore, picked it up.
'Yes?'
'Mr Tweed?'
'Yes. Who it it?'
'You will be in mortal danger tomorrow. Lucky to survive.'
The voice sounded like that of a woman, or
of someone talking with a sweet in their mouth and speaking with a silk handkerchief over the phone.
'Thanks a lot,' Tweed said.
'This is serious. Seven professional killers in three jeeps will follow your car. At the right tactical moment they will kill all of you. They are trained assassins.'
'Where are they based?'
Tweed had decided this had betterbe taken seriously. The phone clicked, went dead. Who the devil eould that have been, he asked himself, relaxing back in his chair. Too many people had his mobile phone number. But there had been something disturbing about the warning. He wished he could call Harry, but had no intention of waking him up at this hour, despite the fact Harry hardly ever seemed to sleep.
As though in answer to his wish there was a tapping at his door. When he opened it, his Walther in his hand, Harry, fully dressed, walked in.
'Thought you'd still be up. Wanted to discuss tactics for today's expedition.'
'You should be getting some sleep.'
'Sleep dulls the brain.'
Tweed offered him coffee or an alcoholic drink. Harry refused both. He just wanted to get on with it, to work out tactics. Tweed decided to tell him about the strange warning call he'd received. Harry, silting forward in a chair, listened.
'You take it seriously?' he asked when Tweed had concluded.
'At first I thought it was a bit of psychological warfare, to rattle me. Then I recalled how specific the caller had been. Seven men, three jeeps. I am taking it seriously. On the way we have to look for somewhere we can use as a fortress-like position. Somewhere they have to come in and attack us while we're entrenched.'
'Got myself a motorbike,' Harry said tersely.
'How on earth did you get that in Tonder at the dead of night?'
'I was prowling round, looking for trouble - any sign of the enemy. Came across this chap oiling his machine in front of a garage. Asked him how much. Thought I was joking, so he names a price. Double what it's worth. I said yes. A Dane, I think, but spoke good English. I hauled put a wad of marks, did a quick calculation, gave him the money and rode off on it.'
'You never cease to amaze me.'
'Sometimes I amaze myself,' Harry replied, making a rare joke. 'Point is, I could follow the car - then at other times overtake and ride ahead of you. Call me your scout.'
'That improves our situation enormously. I was worried that again we'd all be crammed in one car.'
'Like to go now. Want to soup up the engine a bit. Six in the morning.' He turned at the door. 'Oh, I'll have the Uzi with me . . .'
Tweed decided it was time to take a shower, then get into bed. As he switched out the light and rested his head on the pillow, his brain was still hurtling over various questions to which he didn't know the answers.
Who was Number Five - the man referred to in the exchange between the FBI agent at the windmill and the man who had run out of the wood? Was the dire warning he'd received on his mobile to frighten or in deadly earnest? Who could have called him, using his mobile number? It all went back to Monica, who had insisted once that it should be given to key people. She'd shown him the list and reluctantly he'd let her go ahead. But he was so tired he couldn't recall all the names on that list. Who was Rhinoceros?
His brain suddenly switched off and he fell into a deep sleep.
In the middle of the night Oskar was woken by the buzzing of his mobile phone. Swearing, he switched on his bedside light, picked up the phone.
'Yes? Who the hell is it at this hour?'
'Gavin Thunder. And when you are addressing me I like some polite acknowledgement of who I am.'
'You're Gavin Thunder.'
Oskar was in no mood to be conciliatory, to kowtow. Not if it had been the President in the Oval Office.
'I'm emphasizing the importance of not losing Tweed. I'm sure he will leave Tonder in the morning. You must tail him. Now do you understand my order?'
'Already dealt with. Barton and Panko will follow him from the air . . .'
Oskar switched off the mobile. Thunder was a man given to issuing the same order three times. He'd better damn well take a sleeping pill, Oskar thought, switched out the light and fell fast asleep.
Early in the morning he knocked on Barton's door. No reply. He tried the handle, walked in. No one there. Bed left like a rubbish dump. Nothing in the bathroom. Then he noticed the absence of a case. He went downstairs to enquire at reception about his two friends.
'They had asked for packed breakfasts and a flask of coffee to be ready very early. They left the hotel some time ago.' The receptionist stood straighter. 'They said you would be settling their bill.'
'And so I will . . .'
Oskar went into the dining room and deliberately had a leisurely full English breakfast. He had been up very late - or very early - and still felt sleepy. He drank two large glasses of orange juice and they seemed to start to get him going. He paid the bill, went upstairs to pack.
An hour earlier, just after dawn, Barton and Panko had left for the airfield. Not wishing to have Oskar chauffeuring them to the airfield, Barton had bribed the porter to drive them there. They travelled in an old Skoda which rasped and groaned but got them to their destination. As the car drove off, Barton approached the light aircraft.
It was surprisingly cool in broad daylight. A hint of mist like a flimsy tablecloth hung above the trees. That would go quickly when the sun climbed higher. Barton, thickset and muscular, scanned the deserted airfield. Holding a .45 Colt in his large right hand he crept up to the hut. He liked the weapon. It was self-loading and the magazine carried seven rounds.
Barton was a cautious killer. He checked out everything. He had once stalked a man for ten weeks before completing the job. He turned the handle of the hut's door slowly, then threw the door open and dived inside, swinging his automatic in all directions. The place was empty. He had thought it would be but he never took a chance.
Panko, who had carried both their bags from the Skoda, stood watching this performance from a distance. To him it was all unnecessary. He waited while Barton walked over to the plane. The previous evening, when they had left the machine, he had shut the door and attached a piece of sticky tape near the bottom, covering the edge of the door and a small part of the fuselage. The tape was still there but was curling up a fraction. Sticky tape did that in the sort of heat they'd endured the evening before. He removed it, opened the door, climbed inside, sat behind the pilot's controls.
Panko followed him, hoisting the two bags inside, climbing in after them, securing the two cases. He sat next to Barton. He guessed that his chief was glad to be rid of Oskar and have his independence again. Barton reached to turn on the machine. His hand froze in mid-air.
Glancing around, he had noticed a small black object tucked under the pedal, an object that shouldn't have been there. He took a small torch out of his pocket, bent down, examined the object with the aid of his torch beam. He straightened up, looked at his companion.
'Isn't it time we took off?' Panko grumbled impatiently.
'Oh, we'd take off all right when my foot pressed that pedal. Take off about a hundred feet into the air in small pieces. Someone during the night put a bomb on board . . .'
'A bomb!'
Panko had opened the door, dropped to the ground, fled at top speed until he was behind a wide tree trunk. Barton grinned without any mirth. It suited him that Panko had run like a scared rabbit. Now he could concentrate.
He had seen on the Internet how to make a bomb. So had someone else. It was a crude device but it would have detonated. Remembering the Internet programme which had also showed how to dismantle such a device, he looked for the switch. Behind the bomb a small red light was glowing. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the switch. The red light went out.
Several minutes later he climbed out carefully, holding the black box which had wires protruding at different angles. He carried it into the wood, hid it gently under a tangle of undergrowth, returned to the plane.
&
nbsp; 'You can come out now. Gutsy,' he called. 'The bomb is no longer on board.'
Panko slouched forward slowly, hesitantly. An ugly look came over Barton's tough face. He pulled out the Colt, aimed it as he shouted.
'Move faster or I'll shoot you.'
Panko ran. Barton was again behind the controls as Panko climbed aboard, shut the door. Barton glanced at him with an expression of disgust.
'You know something?' he began. 'There are people who would thank God I was the pilot.'
'You do great job. You great pilot. You best pilot flying in world. You great.'
'Don't overdo it,' Barton growled as he reached to switch on the engine. He paused. 'What I want to know is, who planted that bomb? When I find out whoever it was, he's going to die. Die very slowly . . .'
The propeller started whirring, built up power. The aircraft moved forward, left the ground well before it reached the end of the airstrip, gained height. Barton's plan was to fly a distance from Tender, keeping south until he observed Tweed's blue Mercedes on the move. He was convinced the car would leave Denmark, heading south into Germany. Then all they had to do was keep their distance, follow it to its destination. He wouldn't contact Thunder to tell him where it went to. They could do the job themselves, wipe out Tweed and his team and earn another load of money.
