The Main chance tac-23

by Colin Forbes

  The moon that had appeared from behind a cloud and had enabled Max to spot the approach of the large dinghy shed its eerie glow over the vast stretch of grass land behind the dyke. The silence pressed down on them now the faint purr of the dinghy as it headed back for the tramp had died away. The silence disturbed Calouste as he carefully trod from one stepping stone to the next small island of safety. He had a strong nerve but it was tested to the limit as he saw the acid-green grass floating on top of the deadly ooze on either side of the path. `You have made all the arrangements to eliminate Tweed before he reaches Hengistbury?' he asked softly. `In thirty-six hours he'll be as dead as mutton,' Max assured him cheerfully. 'I have a network now across Britain. Tweed is a goner.'

  He stopped speaking suddenly as they came close to the solitary road where the cars were parked. A red- haired girl appeared standing just off the road. She wore a windcheater and jeans and was obviously waiting for them. Carol Lynton had lost her way after visiting her boyfriend in his cottage. As Max stopped, wondering whether she had heard what they had just said, Calouste caught up with him. `Get rid of her,' whispered Calouste. 'Sound carries in this silence.' `You don't mean…' Max began in a similar whisper. `Obey my order. Eliminate her.'

  Max swallowed, gritted his teeth. She was a pretty girl, no more than eighteen. She came down towards him, smiling. He tried to smile back, couldn't. Calouste jabbed him in the back. Max took a deep breath of cold air.

  When the girl reached him Max grasped her hard round the waist. She was quite small. As she opened her mouth to yell he uplifted her, swung her upside down, plunged her head-first deep into the ooze. He thought he heard a gurgle. Her legs were waving desperately, then they sank out of sight. A few muddy bubbles appeared on the surface of the green slime. Then nothing. `Village girls gossip,' Calouste remarked off-handedly.

  Max glanced north where, under the moon's ghostly glow, the Wash had the atmosphere of a bleak and desolate desert. Max couldn't wait to leave the area. `Sorry we had to land you in a place like this,' he commented, 'but it's one of the loneliest spots in Britain' `Nothing wrong with it,' snapped Calouste, who had grown up in the wilderness of Central Asia. 'Where is the car?' `Only a short walk down the road here. I thought it unwise to park them too close to the path. There they are.'

  Stepping onto the road Calouste stared. Parked by the roadside was a gleaming black stretch limousine. Beyond it was Max's second-hand Ford. Seeing their arrival a uniformed chauffeur opened the driver's door, stood to attention. `The limo is for you, of course,' Max explained. `Driver is one of my star turns. He's strangled at least one man. Name is Grogan…' `You idiot!' Calouste was apoplectic. 'I have told you before, I do not wish attention to be brought to me. Is that limo hired?' `Oh, yes.' Max was nervous. 'It is' `At least you got one thing right. Get rid of this Grogan,' Calouste almost screeched. 'Tell him to return the car to the hire firm instantly. If the police stop him he was to pick up a banker, a Mr Moran in Spalding, and couldn't find the address. I have to cover every bloody angle myself! I will travel beside you in your car. I will walk to it. Give me the keys now And send that limo off this moor toute suite. Move, damn you!'

  Max felt in his pocket for his car keys. In his haste he dropped them, stooped, grabbed them. He ran to the limo, his legs unsteady. He was scared stiff of Calouste in his chief's present mood. `To the Green Dark Hotel in West Higham. Is that right, sir?' he asked as he drove off with Calouste beside him. `Correct.'

  Max was relieved to find Calouste was in a better mood. He had no idea Calouste had pretended to be in a rage. It was a method he used occasionally on a subordinate to remind them who was boss. `I drove earlier to the Green Dark Hotel,' Max said casually. 'Just checking so I knew the route. I cruised past. No one seemed to be about. You have booked a suite there, sir?' `I own the damned place. Bought it through a series of small companies, staffed it with my own people. I will be the only guest. Getting there, avoid King's Lynn. It has a police HQ. I doubt if that peasant girl you had to deal with has yet been reported missing. Why take the risk?' `Very sensible, if I may say so. You think of everything.' `If I don't no one else will. Pull up somewhere very quiet before we reach the hotel. I wish to change my appearance.'

  No more was said and they met hardly any traffic. No one would be out on such a bitterly cold night. When they pulled up in the middle of nowhere Calouste got out with the suitcase he had hugged on his lap. Max tactfully turned his back. When he turned round he had a shock.

  He hardly recognized Calouste, who now wore a tweed overcoat, woollen scarf pulled up to his chin, smart leather gloves and a wide-brimmed trilby pulled well down over his face. The only similarity was a large pair of gold-rimmed dark glasses, different from the pair he'd worn when he had come ashore. His previous outfit was neatly packed in the suitcase. He handed Max a card, keeping his own card in his hand. `When we enter we go to reception, say nothing, just give the desk man your card. I am in suite three on the first floor. You are in suite four. There is an interconnecting door. In case of trouble use your fists or your beloved knife. No shooting. A passer-by might hear shots.' `You are expecting trouble?' Max enquired as they got back into the car. `Absolutely not, dear boy,' Calouste replied, speaking now in the perfect accent of an Old Etonian. 'But I once read that the maxim of the Boy Scouts' organization was "Be prepared". Here we are. Afterwards park the car out of sight in the garage at the back.'

  The oddly named Green Dark Hotel was a large square building, its plaster walls painted in a light green. There was a spacious park area in front with a pebble drive. Inside, Calouste marched up to the desk, planted down his card next to Max's. `Parsons, I notice you have omitted an instruction. You really must do exactly as I tell you, please. Outside I want a No Vacancies sign erected immediately. I will have a meal in my suite in one hour. There is a menu in my suite? Excellent. I shall phone down my order. Mr Rogers here will make his own arrangements, again for a meal in his suite.' `Will do, Mr Pennington,' the smartly dressed receptionist assured his guest. 'Will get crackin' at once.' `The sign outside first, if you please. Immediately.' `I was goin' to escort you to your suite, sir…'

  Not necessary,' Calouste replied in the same lordly manner. `So you are Mr Pennington,' Max whispered. 'And I'm Mr Rogers…' `Precisely. Kindly do not forget the names. Your suite is the next one. I shall not wish to be disturbed – I have some papers to check.'

  Inside his suite Calouste dumped his case in a cupboard. Seated in an armchair he placed a highly sophisticated mobile on a side table. From an inside pocket he extracted several large sheets of paper. Unfolded, they were architect's plans of the intricate layout of Hengistbury Manor. The only section not shown was the labyrinth of cellars underneath the house. Calouste was unaware of their existence. The photostats of the plans had been sent to an address in Brussels by registered mail.

  Even Calouste's agile brain had to concentrate hard to memorize the hallways, the large number of apartments, each complete with drawing room, dining room, two bathrooms, two large bedrooms, a spacious kitchen and a small library.

  The names of the occupants had been added with a black biro, spelt out in peculiar block letters he suspected were in disguised writing. Hengistbury Manor was more complex and much larger than he'd expected. Removing his reading glasses he glanced at the mobile. It would be at least forty-eight hours before it rang, telling him the first phase of his plan had been completed.

  Two days later at eight in the evening the mobile buzzed. Calouste grabbed it. `Yes, who is speaking?' `Orion here. The news is not good. Not good at all…'

  The voice was robotic. The caller was using some kind of instrument which completely distorted the voice. Impossible to tell whether it was the voice of a man or a woman. `What the hell do you mean?' Calouste demanded. `The plan failed. Tweed and Paula Grey are alive and well. Back in London, I assume. Alive and well…' `You said that before." he screeched.

  He slammed the mobile closed. He was going to have to start all
over again. He started to swear in the foulest French.

  6

  When Tweed and Paula arrived back from Hengistbury all the core staff were assembled. Tweed gazed round at them. Marler, tall and slim, in his late thirties, occupied his favourite position. He was standing up, leaning against the wall next to Paula, now seated at her desk in the far corner by the large windows. He was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder.

  As always, he was smartly dressed, his dark hair neatly trimmed He wore a well-cut beige suit, dark blue shirt, Chanel tie. Marler was reputed to be the top marksman in Europe with his Armalite rifle. Clean shaven, his face was handsome, attracting envious attention from elegant women when he walked down any London street. `In case you think we've been lounging about,' he began in his upper-crust voice, 'we've all been out and busy. I've been in the East End where agents of a certain Calouste Doubenkian have been recruiting the worst types – brutal thugs, some killers who have never been caught for their crimes. Thought I'd just mention it in view of Philip Cardon's phone call, passed on to me by Monica.' `What!' gulped Paula. `Don't I speak so good?' Marler enquired cynically. `You see?' Paula called out to Tweed. `Harry,' Tweed responded, as though not having heard what had just been said. 'No, I mean you, Pete,' he said to Pete Nield, five feet seven tall and also neatly clad, but without the panache of Marler. 'You have a pal in one of the three gold-bullion merchants. Got something for you.'

  Paula jumped up to join him as Pete fingered his neat moustache by the side of Tweed's desk. An educated man, his team-mate was Harry Butler, seated cross-legged on the floor. A greater contrast between the two men would have been difficult to imagine. Harry wore a shabby old windcheater, trousers which had seen better days. He was indignant. `I've got twice the number of underground contacts Pete has,' he grumbled.

  Tweed, absorbed, ignored the protest. Laying a sheet of thick white paper on his desk he carefully took his white display handkerchief from his top pocket, emptied the contents onto the sheet. Peter switched on a desk lamp. The specks and one larger piece glittered brilliantly in the light. `Pete,' Tweed said, `is that gold?' `Oh,' said Paula, 'so that's what you were doing. Wetting your handkerchief in the water carafe, then pressing it on the carpet while Bella and Lavinia were struggling to open their awkward drawer.' `What do you think, Pete?' Tweed asked, ignoring another interruption.

  Pete had produced a powerful magnifying glass from a pocket. He peered at each speck for several minutes, spending most time on the largest piece. `I need to take this to my pal who is an expert,' he said eventually. 'But for my money this is gold.' `I need to know how long ago it was mined. Also, if it's possible, where.' `Should be back within two hours,' Pete said, checking his watch. 'My contact works through the afternoons and evenings. Sleeps in the morning.'

  As he spoke he converted the paper sheet into a chute, then skilfully emptied the contents back into Tweed's display handkerchief. Screwing it up gently he produced a clean white handkerchief of his own as more protective wrapping. `Back in two hours,' he promised and was gone. `Don't tell me anything,' Paula chided. `Wait until we find out whether I'm right or wrong,' Tweed replied. `No good pushing Tweed,' Harry warned from the floor. 'He will only talk when he's ready. Should know that by now. `And I love you,' she told him with a smile.

  The phone rang. Monica answered, waved to Tweed who reached for the phone, heard the voice, beckoned to Paula to listen on her phone. `Yes,' he said. 'More information about-' `I'm reliably informed that Calouste Doubenkian is now in England. Arrived several days ago…' `Where?' `No idea.' `What route did he use?' `No idea. Will keep in touch. When I can.

  The phone went dead. Philip Cardon had swiftly ended the call. Tweed raised his eyebrows at Paula. He thought for a moment, then asked Monica to get Commander Buchanan on the line. He opened the conversation by giving his friend Roy a terse report on his visit with Paula to Hengistbury, leaving out any reference to the gold specks. `I'm sorry,' Buchanan commented. 'I had no idea she was after you as a bodyguard, which is what it comes to as I see it. Of course you had to refuse. Don't like the sound of an offer to buy her out. That could be very dangerous.' `Thought you didn't know anything about this character.' `Only rumours, which it's suspected Doubenkian spreads himself.' `What rumours?' `Among others he wanted to buy a private bank in Vienna. The owner refused. Next development is his only son – eighteen years old – is kidnapped. Price of his safe release is the sale of the bank. Owner sells, boy is returned unharmed. Then a mysterious buyer, as in Vienna, is offered a price for his private bank in Grenoble. Owner refuses, his wife is kidnapped. Owner, who maybe wasn't too fond of wife, gets her back through the post, a leg at a time, then an arm and in pieces the rest of her.' `Doubenkian sounds the most cold-blooded villain I have ever heard of…' `Hold on. These are rumours. Nothing is ever connected to Calouste Doubenkian.' `The buyer could be traced by finding out where the sale money ended up,' Tweed insisted. `The Vienna criminal department tried that. The money was passed through several private holding companies. Ended up inVaduz, Liechtenstein. You know it's impossible to check accounts in that tiny state.' `Mrs Bella Main says Doubenkian phoned her himself.' "That's no proof. We only have her word for that. It is not enough to prove it was him.' `Doesn't anyone have any idea where his base is?' `No.' `What about Interpol?' Tweed hammered away. `Aren't they at all interested?' `What I'm about to say is not a joke. You know Interpol out at their quiet HQ at Lyons in France have black notices to list wanted major criminals, with their photographs and whatever data they have? I once asked a contact in Lyons what the position was on Calouste Doubenkian. A black notice is on their walls. Just his name with a query mark. Nothing else, a blank sheet. No photo. Some humorist has scrawled one word on it: Phantom. He probably has half a dozen perfect fake passports. All with different names.' `Why the query mark after his name?' `Because his real name could be anything. Tweed -' Buchanan became emphatic. – 'Everything Fire told you is rumour.' `Well, now you know I'm not going to Hengistbury.' `How could you? With the present position you hold…'

  Tweed ended the call, looked across at Paula, who had heard every word. Smiling, he spread his hands in a gesture of forgetting the whole thing. `What did you think of that?' he asked. `I found it most intriguing.' `In what way?'

  We don't yet have a clue as to what Calouste looks like but his character is emerging.' `In what way, for Heaven's sake?' `In his callous way he is very clever, a brilliant puller of strings without ever exposing himself. I'll bet he never stays in the same place for long. And he'll always appear with a false name.' `Doesn't get us much further. In any case he's not our problem.' He waved a hand at the pile of files on his desk. 'My job is to deal with these reports from agents overseas. Probably most will have sent meaningless reports to show they are active. I don't want to be disturbed while working on them.'

  Robert Newman, a key agent of Tweed's, was sprawled in an armchair near Tweed's desk. Thoroughly vetted long ago, he had once been the most respected international news reporter in America and Europe. His occasional articles had been reprinted in full in the Washington Post, Der Spiegel in the German Republic and many other influential papers, including London's Daily Clarion.

  Six feet tall, well built, in his early forties, his strong, good-looking face was often stared at by women when he walked down a street. He frowned at Tweed's response. `Tweed,' he began forcefully. 'I think what Paula said was very shrewd. Defining the character is halfway towards identifying the man. Give her credit.' `I asked for no more interruptions,' Tweed said quietly. 'We're not concerned about this Doubenkian. But since you all have him on the brain, everyone can go out and trawl your contacts. Don't go south of the river. Criminals and spies avoid that better-off area.

  They're worried they would be conspicuous.' `I'm going to the ladies' room,' said Paula and left the office.

  On the morning of the third day after Calouste received the disturbing news that Tweed and Paula Grey were alive and probably back at Park Crescent,
he decided to move. He never stayed in the same place for long wherever he might be.

  He had spent the whole night out of bed in his hotel room, seated in an armchair, drinking cup after cup of coffee. His agile brain had come up with the only answer to eliminating Tweed. He knew that Tweed was formidable. Picking up his case, always kept packed for a swift departure, and sliding back the bolt of the interconnecting door, he opened the door, spoke quietly to Max, standing by a window. `We are leaving. When will you be ready?'

  Now, sir. Immediately.'

  Settled beside Max in the second-hand Ford he spoke as soon as they were in open country. The glaring sun shone low through the windscreen. Calouste pulled down his visor a moment after Max had taken the same precaution. `We are moving,' Calouste informed his henchman, `to one of the houses I own outside the village of Leaminster on the borders of Sussex and Hampshire. It's ten miles away from Hengistbury Manor and The Forest.'

  He produced a map to hand to Max, who shook his head. 'Just show me. Some of those people who bought second homes out here assume there'll be no traffic, drive in the middle of the road.Young macho types.'