No Mercy

by Forbes, Colin

  Told her to stay all night if necessary until it arrived. She wasn't pleased - has a new boyfriend. I ordered her to stay. When I get back to town can we meet, have a chat over a drink? At my apartment, say?'

  'Thank you. I'm sure we'll catch each other soon.'

  He put the phone down and sat back, realizing he'd been sitting ramrod upright. He gazed round the room. ' 'That's odd. All four suspects will be at Abbey Grange this evening.'

  'All four?' Newman queried.

  'Larry Voles, Lucinda, Michael and the accountant, Aubrey Greystoke. Odd. Very odd.'

  'Monica's still trapped, holding off Buchanan,' Nield remarked, nodding to where Monica was still battling on the phone.

  'What on earth for?'

  'Probably about this.' Newman waved the latest copy of the Daily Nation. 'Their star reporter, Drew Franklin, has really gone to town in his usual eccentric style.'

  He handed Tweed the paper, folded open at the main page. The headline was disturbing, as it was meant to be.

  FOURTH SKELETON KILLER MURDER

  Police baffled

  Discovery of two mauled skeletons on Dartmoor has been followed by a third skeleton on a houseboat at Wensford, off the M3 . . . London now at risk . . . Skeleton body of woman forensic accountant found at her flat in Fulham area . . . Baffled police hand over case to Tweed, Deputy Director of SIS, and warned: Lock all windows and doors. Do not answer callers after dark. You could be Skeleton No. 5.

  'Franklin should be shot,' Tweed exploded. 'He's causing panic everywhere. And he's muddled up the sequence of our finding the victims. Fulham came third.'

  'Oh, that's deliberate,' Newman said cynically. 'Makes for a better story. All London will now be terrified. Drew knows a good story, even if it means twisting-the facts.'

  'Where's Paula?' Tweed said, suddenly aware he hadn't seen her for quite some time.

  'She went out to the deli to get food for the tramp,' Monica told him. 'I couldn't go because I was fencing with Buchanan, who wanted to talk to you. He—'

  'How long ago?' Tweed demanded, rising up from behind his desk.

  'It must be quite a while ago now,' Monica reported, now worried herself. 'Well over three-quarters of an hour. Could be longer.'

  'Get out on the streets and find her,' Tweed shouted with mounting anxiety. 'The lot of you. Now! I'll handle the phone.'

  25

  Earlier Paula had left the building on her way to the deli in the direction of Baker Street. She glanced round, saw no one except the inert figure of the tramp across the main road. The heavy rain had driven people indoors temporarily.

  Her shoulder bag hung loosely as she turned the corner. Walking briskly, she had reached up to haul the shoulder bag's strap more securely up her shoulder as she reached a cul-de-sac on her left.

  It happened so quickly she had no time to react. A hand had reached out, grabbed her left arm, hauled her off the main street. Her shoulder bag slipped off the shoulder and flopped on to the pavement. She caught a whiff of chloroform, jerked her head away from it, sucked in a deep breath. A cloth was pressed over her nose. The grip on her left arm was very strong.

  Goddamn Browning was inside the shoulder bag somewhere on the pavement. A large thick white cloth enveloped her like a tent. Something hard struck her on the head, slid off the side. She was struggling to get out of the all-enveloping cloth, partially dazed by the blow to her head.

  A rope was wrapped swiftly round the cloth several times. It pinioned her arms to her sides. Then it was wrapped round her legs and pulled tight. She was lifted up, thrown on to the back seat of a car through the already open door. A body fell on hers.

  Hands felt under the cloth up her legs. She thought this was rape. The hands grabbed both of hers, forced them together. Plastic handcuffs closed over her wrists, clicked as they locked. Hands grasped her body, rolled her off the seat on to the floor. She lay still, hoping her attacker would believe the chloroform had worked. Hands reached her face. She opened her mouth to scream. A mistake. A cloth gag was forced between her lips, tied behind her neck. She couldn't call out now.

  Finally, something that felt like a duvet was pressed down on her. She guessed this was to conceal her if anyone saw into the car. The weight of the man's body hauled itself off her. A car.door slammed. In no time the car's engine started and the vehicle was moving. She sensed it turn towards Baker Street. Instead of futilely trying to struggle, she eased her head sideways, so she could breathe easily.

  As the car picked up speed she realized how unfortunate was the timing. It was not yet rush hour. The driver could keep the car moving at a reasonable speed. She struggled with her locked wrists. The handcuffs held her tightly. She knew plastic handcuffs, a comparatively recent invention, were impossible to break, to ease her wrists free.

  Half an hour later Newman returned to the office, holding something that made Tweed feel sick. Paula's shoulder bag.

  'Where did you find it?' Tweed asked quietly.

  'Nearby. Go out of the Crescent, turn left, then you pass on your left a quiet residential cul-de-sac. It was on the pavement close to the entrance to the main road.'

  'Anyone see what happened?' Tweed asked in a voice that seemed too self-controlled.

  'No. I checked at the houses close to the entrance. Got no answer from one. Crossed the road. An ancient lady opened the door. Said she'd earlier seen a blue car parked. Asked her the make. No idea. Knows nothing about cars.'

  'And, of course, she didn't get a plate number?'

  'No, she didn't. Paula's been kidnapped. Doesn't take a lot of imagination to guess who the kidnapper is.' 'Charmian,' said Marler, who had just come back. 'Oh, God,' said Tweed. 'What does he want?' 'You, probably,' Marler said grimly. 'Wait for the call.'

  The evening before, Charmian had called M as arranged. He had not told his unknown employer about the Ivy Cottage fiasco. He was always careful to engender confidence, to avoid any mention of assassination attempts that failed.

  'M speaking,' the man-woman voice had answered his call.

  Charmian had given up trying to identify the gender of his employer. He assumed M spoke through a silk handkerchief wrapped round the receiver.

  'M?' he queried.

  'M for mosque. What is it?'

  'What is it Tweed values more than his own success?'

  'His close assistant, Paula Grey. Slim, jet-black hair, five feet six or so in height. She—'

  'I know now,' Charmian interrupted. 'I have seen her. I will report in a few days.'

  So far his attempts to kill Tweed had misfired. The shot into his car from the field bordering the A303. His attempt to cause an accident when he'd driven the Volvo in front of him. The bomb at Gantia. His bombardment of Ivy Cottage. Time to change tactics.

  Now he might have the answer. Kidnap this Paula Grey. He had spent miserable hours hidden in shrubberies not far from where the tramp was, keeping watch. It had rained but Charmian was wearing a heavy waterproof raincoat and a fisherman's hat.

  Charmian had infinite patience. He could wait in one position, however uncomfortable, for his target to appear. Then, on the afternoon of the following day, she had appeared, walking alone. Throwing off the raincoat and hat, he had grasped the bin liner containing the thick sheet and had moved.

  The atmosphere inside Tweed's office was almost unbearably tense as they waited for Charmian to call. Marler had no doubt the assassin would call. He had kidnapped Paula as bait to lure Tweed to his destruction.

  Tweed himself outwardly seemed the most composed. He sat at his desk with his hands clasped. His expression, difficult to read, reminded Marler of a stone face. Earlier, despite the awful anxiety gnawing at him, Tweed had given his team their instructions.

  'When it gets dark - or dusk - you all leave in the Land Rovers heading for the West Country. I've shown you the route on the map, the same one Paula and I followed when we visited Abbey Grange. Until you approach Exeter . . .'

  He waited while Marler with Newm
an unfolded the map again and bent over it. Marler used a small steel pointer, tracing the route as he spoke.

  'Down the M3 until we reach Junction 8. There we turn off along the A303, heading straight for the West Country.'

  'You've got it,' Tweed told him. 'Near Exeter it gets complicated, but I'll navigate for you.'

  If you're with us, if you're alive, Marler thought, but kept the thought to himself.

  'I assume,' Tweed continued calmly, 'that the Land Rovers are now equipped with all the weapons we're likely to need.'

  'You asked that before,' Harry told him.

  'So I did, and the answer was yes.'

  The phone rang. Everyone except Tweed stiffened. They all had a deep affection for Paula. Monica listened, handed the phone to Tweed.

  'It's for you,' she said grimly.

  'Who?'

  'It's him. I'm sure of it.'

  'Tweed speaking.'

  'As you probably know by now, I have Paula.'

  'Put her on the phone to say a few words. Then I know she's—'

  'Shut the face and listen.' the voice hissed. It had a trace of French accent and was unnervingly menacing. 'You will come to get her yourself. In your normal car. If anyone is with you or near you she dies instantly. The barrel of my gun inserted in her mouth.'

  'If she's harmed in any way I promise you a lingering death.'

  'Don't threaten me!' the voice screamed. 'You will drive alone to the destination. Stonehenge. You know where that is?'

  'Yes.'

  'You will leave immediately in your own car. Alone. I see any of your team, she will die in seconds.' The voice became sarcastic. 'Do you not think you waste the time? Come on. You come in by main entrance.'

  'It will be locked after dark. And at this time of year . . .'

  'The gate will be unlocked. You waste the time . . .'

  The connection was broken. Tweed gently handed the receiver back to Monica. He looked round at anxious faces.

  'He's holding her at Stonehenge.'

  'What?' exclaimed Marler.

  'Yes, Stonehenge. Of all places. But it has an advantage. Along the route the rest of you have to follow, you pass Stonehenge . . .'

  'We'll sort out the bastard for good.' growled Harry.

  'You'll do nothing of the sort. Charmian was very clear I travel in my own car and alone. He sees anyone else and immediately kills Paula. You leave before me and you do not even look at Stonehenge as you pass it. Near Wylye just beyond the dual carriageway you wait in a lay-by. I will join you later.' He paused. 'I will sack anyone who disobeys my order.'

  Monica was appalled. She had never heard Tweed speak in such a way before. She jumped up quickly.

  'A quick cup of tea before anyone leaves.'

  She was out of the room as Marler leaped to his feet. He ran to Tweed's desk. His tone of voice was commanding.

  'Give me Loriot's private number in Paris.'

  Tweed, his mind on his recollection of Stonehenge and its layout, wrote down the number. Marler snatched the piece of paper, ran to Monica's empty desk, sat down and dialled the number. He hoped to God Loriot was in his office.

  'Who is this, please?' Loriot enquired in French.

  'Marler. You remember me?'

  'My dear chap, of course I do. When are we going to have the pleasure . . .?'

  The chief of French counterespionage had reverted to speaking in perfect English. Marler cut off his greetings.

  'Listen. This is a major emergency. I must know everything you know about Charmian, the assassin.'

  'Cold-blooded hired killer. The best. We still have no description of him. He is like a fox.'

  'Is he religious?' Marler asked quickly.

  'He is a Catholic. A lapsed one. But we believe that although not a churchgoer he does attend confessional. We think he is in Britain.'

  'Would he kill a priest if the money was right?'

  'Oh, no!' Loriot sounded horror-struck. 'Not for all the gold in Fort Knox.'

  'Thank you. I must go. Time is running out.'

  'What was all that about?' asked Newman.

  Marler ignored him. Slipping on his raincoat, he headed for the door, speaking to Tweed as he ran.

  'I need fifteen minutes, Tweed. You wait until I get back. He'll wait for you to arrive. It's you he wants.'

  Once outside in the drizzle, Marler dived down the steps into the front area below ground, unchained the Harley Davidson, hauled it up the steps by sheer brute strength and was skidding out of the Crescent in no time.

  He headed for a nearby theatrical costumier's that boasted it could dress an actor in any clothes required. He walked in with a bin liner in one hand, a sheaf of twenty-pound notes in the other.

  He told the proprietor what he wanted and asked if he could have them in five minutes, including checking the fitting. The man knew his stock, knew where everydiing was. Marler stripped off his raincoat, tried on what he had ordered. Perfect fit.

  He asked the price, threw twenty-pound notes on the counter. His purchases went inside the bin liner. Then he was out of the shop, stuffing the bin liner inside his pannier and on his way back to Park Crescent.

  Arriving, he took out the bin liner and dumped the machine back into the area. Entering the building, he dashed through to the back, scribbled a note for Harry and attached it to the first Land Rover, then got behind the wheel of its twin.

  Tweed had swallowed his last mouthful of tea when Harry ran into the office, waving a piece of paper and in an unusually agitated state. He stopped in front of Tweed's desk, catching his breath.

  'Marler has driven off in one of the Land Rovers. The so-and-so left me this note.'

  Tweed picked up the note Harry had dropped on his desk. . It was clearly written in a great hurry but was still legible: 'Sorry, Harry. Am following up a tip. Marler.'

  'Doesn't even say a tip about what,' Harry raged. 'And now we have only one Land Rover to take us all to Wylye

  'Calm down,' Tweed said quietly, swiftly adjusting to the new situation. 'Harry, you will be driving. There'll still be plenty of room for Newman and Nield. You still have plenty of weapons in the Land Rover, don't you? Good. When you're passing Stonehenge everyone except yourself will crouch down and cover themselves with canvas. You can leave now? Then leave. Now!'

  Monica spoke when the team had dashed out of the office, a puzzled expression on her face.

  'I saw you take Paula's mobile before Marler rushed off. So what's the use of that with your team miles further on at Wylye? I've looked at the map.'

  'You never know,' said Tweed as he slipped on his overcoat. 'One more thing. It's unlikely, but if Charmian phones and asks to speak to me you reply that I left for an unknown destination some time ago. Be vague.'

  'Good luck,' Monica wished him with a tremble in her voice.

  Tweed's mind was a tumble of different scenarios as he drove out of London on to the M3. He seemed to have missed rush hour by minutes although it was now dark. Was Paula still alive? He suppressed the flood of emotion that threatened to fill his brain. He had visited Stonehenge several years before and his excellent memory could visualize the extraordinary and vast prehistoric circle of megalithic stones, reputed once, ages ago, to have been a place of worship to strange gods.

  Stones? They were immense blocks standing vertically, some at least eighty feet high. To keep out vandals a high wire fence had been erected round the whole area. They were located on a hill just beyond where two roads forked. The A344 to the right headed northwest while the A303 continued to the southwest.

  The only entrance was off the A344, a heavy gate you paid to enter through. At this time of day after dark it would be closed - probably closed anyway at this time of the year. Yet Charmian had ordered him to use this entrance. He'd probably by now have broken the lock. If I use that way in, Tweed thought, he'll be waiting for me with a bullet.

  Recalling some of this before racing out of Park Crescent, he had obtained from George, the guard, a stron
g pair of metal clippers. He was sure Charmian would, perched up on the hill, be watching for his arrival. So, he'd think Tweed had made a mistake when, reaching the fork, he continued a short distance along the A303.

  He'd park a short distance beyond the fork. He also recalled that on this side a steep grassy slope climbed to the top where the megaliths were standing. Using the metal clippers, he would cut a hole in the fence, crawl through, slowly make his way to the top.

  He pulled in to a services on the M3, checked the working mechanism of his Walther, slid back the full magazine. He thought he would probably die as he appeared over the top of the hill, but he hoped he'd fire one deadly shot at Charmian at the same moment that the assassin fired to kill him.