by Colin Forbes
'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.
'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.
CHAPTER 35
Who was Mr Blue, as he was known in Britain and the States, or M. Bleu in France and Herr Blau in Germany? Tweed woke in the morning and blinked. He realized the questions had been surging through his mind while he slept.
He checked the time, forced himself out of bed, had a shower, shaved, got dressed. He packed in less than five minutes – he could pack faster than Paula. It came from years ago when he'd had to pack and leave in minutes to save his life.
Downstairs he found everyone else having breakfast in the dining room, except for Harry. He had just ordered full English when they all heard the gentle purring of a motorcycle pulling up outside. Harry, carrying a crash helmet and pulling off gloves, bounded into the room, sat down.
'I'll have the lot,' he told the waitress.
'Where on earth did you get hold of that machine?' Paula asked.
Harry told the story, making a joke of it. Then went on to explain how he'd just persuaded a garage proprietor to open up so he could get the tank filled with fuel.
'The Danes wake early,' he concluded.
'Not that early,' Nield objected. 'How did you persuade him? Half strangle the poor blighter? Knowing you, I guess you did.'
'And the crash helmet?' Tweed enquired.
'Bought that last night off the chap who sold me the bike.' He looked at Tweed. 'Hadn't you better explain the tactics?'
Tweed explained that Harry would be both advance guard and rearguard at a distance from the car. Then, for the benefit of the others, apart from Harry, he told them about the grim warning he'd received over his mobile in the night. He said he'd decided to take it very seriously.
'And I thought it was going to be a joyride,' Newman commented humorously. 'Instead it sounds as though the enemy is revving up.'
'Seems to me they always know where we are,' Lisa chimed in.
'Yes, they do,' Paula replied, giving her a look.
'We must be prepared for a really violent assault,' Tweed warned.
'Well,' Paula added on a more cheerful note, 'I arranged last night for cartons of food and fruit to be prepared for all of us. Plus umpteen litre bottles of water.'
'Maybe it will be a picnic after all,' Lisa suggested.
'It could be,' Tweed agreed. 'We mustn't let fear dominate our outlook. That could be our opponent's aim…"
Breakfast over, Tweed spread a map on the table. For Newman's sake he indicated the route they would follow to Traverminde. Even more important, he showed Harry, who said it seemed pretty straightforward.
'It's anything but that,' Tweed told him. 'A lot of country lanes – and we purposely cross over the autobahn at this point and continue on secondary roads…'
They could feel the heat starting to build up as they settled into the blue Mercedes. Everyone sat in the positions they'd occupied the previous day. Newman was behind the wheel with Marler alongside him. In the second row Tweed sat with Paula while behind them the rearmost seats were occupied by Nield and Lisa. It struck Paula that Nield was beginning to get very attached to Lisa.
Harry, astride his motorcycle, drove off first. Paula looked out of t
he window as they passed over the stream where a man was fishing. She'd like to have stayed longer and felt quite nostalgic about leaving Tender.
Then the town was behind them and Tweed carefully kept an eye on the map open on his lap, navigating for Newman. They were soon out in open undulating country with copses of trees here and there. Paula looked ahead as Harry disappeared over a rise.
'What has Harry got in that big pannier?' she wanted to know.
'An Uzi,' Tweed replied. 'Plenty of firepower. Nield has the second one and Lisa the third. Because they're in the back. Now, everyone, I want you to keep an eye open for a fortress.'
'I haven't seen a castle anywhere,' Lisa pointed out. 'What do we need one for?'
'They do seem a bit spare on the ground,' Tweed admitted. 'I want a topographical area where we can hold an enemy off and make him come at us so we can see him clearly.'
'You'll be lucky,' said Marler.
On the mainland, opposite Sylt, out of sight of the railway, three jeeps were drawn up, one behind the other. Seven men in camouflage jackets stood waiting, holding automatic rifles.
Gavin Thunder appeared, accompanied by Brig. Lord Barford who had reluctantly agreed to join him. Apart from anything else, he was worried that the two ex-SAS men might be soldiers he had had attached to his forces during the Gulf War.
'That's Ed Miller, the leader,' Thunder whispered to Barford.
The American he was referring to, wearing a camouflage jacket like his men, was six feet three tall, wide-shouldered, with prematurely white hair and a face that might have been carved out of rock. Barford studied him and couldn't detect even a trace of humanity in that face.
'He was in the Marines,' Thunder whispered again. 'A born leader.'
A born killer, Barford thought to himself. A man who really enjoys his work and drives his men ruthlessly. Casualties to him would be all in the day's work. Ice-cold eyes glared at him but Barford held his murderous gaze and it was Miller who looked away.
'Which are the two ex-SAS men?' Barford asked.
Miller had heard him and gave a grin like a viper. He swung round to face his troops. They all stood stiffly to attention. Miller stared at them for over a minute and not a man moved an eyelash. When Miller gave the command his voice was a harsh grating bark, more savage than that of a British GSM.
'The two Brits take two paces forward.'
Two men did so and stood like frozen statues. Barford had to admit to himself the discipline was impressive. What worried him was the personality of Ed Miller. Clearly he ruled with cold-blooded fear. Barford was relieved to realize he had never seen the two men before. He had thought it most unlikely that he would have, but had wanted to be sure.
'Never seen either of them,' he said quietly to Thunder.
Again Miller picked up every word. He paused, keeping them standing there. Never for a second did he stop letting them know who was in command. Another minute passed and the two men remained motionless.
'Now take two paces back!' Miller roared.
He swung round, facing Thunder and Barford. He ignored Barford. His words were addressed directly to Thunder.
'Sir, time is passing. Permission to start the mission. We shall take no prisoners.'
'That's no way to fight,' snapped Barford, unable to contain his indignation.
Miller stared at him and again Barford stared back with a grim expression. This eye-to-eye confrontation lasted longer. He thought there was a hint of contempt in Miller's gaze.
'Sir,' Miller eventually said, switching his gaze to Thunder. 'Permission to start the mission,' he demanded again.
'Get moving, then,' said Thunder.
He turned to say something to Barford but the Brig was walking away. His back was erect and men who had known him in earlier times would have recognized the stiff, deliberate walk. Rare for him, he was in a state of controlled rage and cursed himself for agreeing to accompany Thunder. He was further disturbed by some of the decisions which had been taken at the meetings on Sylt. They had been far more extreme than he had expected. Above all, he felt responsible for certain events to which he had agreed. At least he had warned Tweed with his anonymous phone call in the middle of the night.
Miller organized his small convoy of jeeps very swiftly. He would travel in the leading jeep alongside the driver. A third man sat behind them. He put his deputy, Ollie, in the last jeep which would bring up the rear. Ollie would drive and have a second man with him. In the middle jeep he put two men. Then he walked up and down, holding a map as he barked orders.
'We space out. One hundred yards between my jeep and the one behind me. The third jeep, Ollie, travels a quarter-mile behind jeep Number Two.'
'The route, sir?' asked Ollie.
'Thunder and I spent some time last night working out Tweed's likely plan. We decided that from Tender he'll travel south over the border from Denmark, heading back into Germany. His smart way out of Tonder is down Route Five. Near a dump called Klixbull he'll turn on to Route 199, heading for the autobahn. We want to intercept him before he reaches Klixbull!'
'Any idea when he'll leave Tonder?' Ollie asked.
'If you'll keep your flapping trap shut I was just coming to that.' Miller checked his watch. 'At this early hour I doubt he's left Tonder.'
'What transport will he be using?' enquired Ollie.
'You know something, Ollie?' Miller paused and stared at his deputy. 'I'm thinkin' of puttin' a piece of sticky tape over that big mouth of yours.'
Ollie was a big man, not quite as tall as Miller. Inwardly he shuddered as Miller gazed at him. He was getting this all wrong. Don't say another word, he told himself. Once, during an exercise in the Carolinas, a man had talked back to Miller. One slamming fist from Miller had broken the culprit's jaw. Miller had waited until the exercise was over, hours later, before he'd called for an ambulance.
'Tweed is a nut,' Miller announced. 'He's travelling with his whole team in one blue stretch Mercedes. We locate him on a road, drive across country on either side, wait for him to pass. Ollie, you'll come up behind and punch holes in his arse. Got it? Then get aboard, get the show on the road…'
Newman was driving down Route Six, the direct way out of Tonder, and they were now back on German soil. Harry had sped past them on his motorcycle and vanished from view. Paula looked out of the window as they progressed through rolling, hilly country.
'There's a light aircraft way over to our left,' she reported. 'It seems to be flying on a parallel course to ours.'
'Lots of light aircraft in this part of the world,' said Tweed. 'Quite a few airstrips around here.'
'Where are we heading for?' she asked.
'Towards a place I've never heard of. Klixbull.'
'We're definitely not using the autobahn?'
'We are not. We cut across country to another place I have never heard of. Bad Bramstedt. Then we're on Route 206 which takes us over the autobahn and we go on, heading for Liibeck, which we bypass. Then we head straight up to Travemiinde.'
'Sounds as though it's not too far, then.'
'It's a long way. Newman, have you got the air-conditioning turned full up? It's getting pretty warm in here.'
'Turned up as high as it will go. And Harry is on his way back. He'll let us know if it's clear ahead.'
He lowered his window, slowed the car to a crawl, then stopped as Harry reached them. Harry hauled off his crash helmet, took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat off his face.
'Road ahead seems clear,' he reported. 'Very quiet, in fact. No traffic at all. Now I'm checking behind you, make sure nothing is sneaking up. Back soon…"
'He's got a hot job,' Paula said sympathetically. 'And that aircraft has turned this way, is coming closer.'
'On its way back to its airfield after a morning's flight before it gets too hot,' Tweed said and returned to checking his map.
Barton had used his high-powered binoculars to scan the car. He was pretty sure he could see Tweed sitting in the middle row. He
used his mobile to call Oskar's number. He tried three times and made no contact.
'To hell with him,' he snapped. I'm calling Thunder. He can pass on the info to the Special Reserve lot.'
'No sign of them,' Panko observed.
'They'll be coming.'
He had trouble contacting Thunder. He persisted and after a few minutes got through.
'Is that Gavin Thunder? Good. Barton here. Tweed's blue Mercedes has left Denmark. Is now proceeding down Route Seven. Estimate he's halfway down it. Leave you to tell your people. Tried to contact Oskar but got no reply. I am continuing to check their progress…'
He turned the plane away from Route Seven so as not to draw attention to himself. He grinned brutally at Panko.
'That will earn me credit with Thunder. Meantime we'll keep well back. We'll have a bird's-eye view from up here – see the lot in that car turned into mincemeat.'
'They've survived so far.'
'Your trouble, Panko, is you think some people can go on surviving for ever. You're about to get a demonstration of what happens when the road runs out for them.'
Harry was on top of them before he knew they were anywhere near him. He rode at speed over the crest of a hill and nearly ran into two jeeps, with barely a hundred yards between them. A huge white-haired man in camouflage was sitting next to the driver. Harry waved as he roared past the first jeep.
They were still some distance from Tweed's car so he continued on past the second jeep, waving again. But where was the third one? Tweed had said there would be three jeeps. He had to find the other one. He hammered his foot down. Soon he'd have to turn back to warn Tweed what was coming up behind him.
He never saw what happened to the third jeep because the road kept curving. The third jeep, under Ollie's command, was some distance behind the other two. Ollie was smoking a cigar when, in the wing mirror, he saw a black car coming up behind them. He realized immediately the black car could be a problem.
