by Colin Forbes
'Didn't know you were mixed up with insurance,' Joel went on cheerfully. 'Come to think of it, what an ideal set-up to learn people's dark secrets.'
He had been fooled by the brass plate outside which was engraved with General amp; Cumbria Assurance – the cover name for the SIS. Not asked to sit down, he was still standing.
'What is it you want?' Newman snapped. 'I happen to be very busy.'
'Insurance companies have top-security safes.' Dyson smirked at Monica who had sat down at the table and was making notes. She stared at him blankly, then dropped her eyes to the notebook. Which fazed Dyson not at all.
'I have a tape and a film,' he went on, addressing Newman, 'and they're a bombshell. I'll keep the originals and you store the copies. In case anything happens to me.'
'And what might happen to you?'
Dyson waited until he'd slapped his case on the table, unlocked it, produced two canisters, which he slid across to Monica.
'I may end up dead,' he said quietly.
The seriousness of his tone, the abrupt change from his previous breezy manner intrigued Newman. He was half-inclined to believe Dyson, but still not fully convinced.
'And who would want to kill the world's most popular paparazzo?' he enquired ironically.
'Don't like that word. I'm a highly professional photographer, one of the best-if not the best. And I can't answer your question.'
'Can't – or won't?' Newman snapped again.
'Pass.'
'Then get to hell out of here and take your junk with you.'
The contents of those two canisters could shake the world, shatter Europe to its foundations, destroy any influence Britain has internationally. I'm running scared, Bob – scared as a rabbit with the ferrets inches from its tail.'
Dyson took a cigarette from a gold case and Newman tried an experiment: he used his own lighter to ignite the cigarette. Dyson couldn't hold the tip still, his hand trembling like a leaf in the wind. Reluctantly, Newman decided he was not putting on another of his chameleon-like acts.
'If we agree to keep this stuff we have to know where to get in touch with you,' he said. 'Otherwise, forget it.'
Newman had noticed something when Dyson had extracted the two canisters inside his case. Rammed in on top of some clothes which looked new – and American in style – was a film camera with a coiled hanging strap.
'I've got to rush now,' Dyson protested, lifting his case off the table.
'I said, how do we get in touch with you? Where will you be staying?'
'Contact that Swiss banker you introduced me to. Julius Amberg in Zurich. Look, I'm going to miss my plane…'
'Then shove off.'
Monica escorted him to the door, nodded to George to unlock the front door. Dyson disappeared like the wind.
'I'm taking these canisters straight down to the explosives boffins in the Engine Room for testing,' Monica said the moment she came back.
'Wise precaution,' Newman agreed. 'Then what?'
'Put them in Tweed's safe until he gets back…'
The driver behind the wheel of the grey Volvo, still parked within sight of the building where Dyson emerged, signalled to the driver of another car, a silver Renault, parked behind him, by stroking a hand over his head. 'Volvo' picked up his mobile phone as Dyson stepped inside a taxi he'd hailed, dialled.
'Jerry here again.'
'Developments?' Norton's gravelly voice demanded.
'Subject called at a soft-porn shop in Soho. Came out, took another taxi to a Park Crescent building. Went…'
'Park Crescent? God Almighty, not there! Number of the building?'
'General amp; Cumbria Assurance.' The driver gave him the number. He had strolled round the crescent and back to his car while Dyson was inside. 'When Dyson left the Renault took over-'
'General amp; Cumbria.' Norton had interrupted him, sounded to be thinking aloud. 'I know what that place is. What was Dyson carrying – when he left?'
'Just his bag…'
'He must have left them there for safe keeping.' The voice became even grimmer. 'We'll have to take out the whole building. You'll be needed to prepare the vehicle -and the explosives. The job must be done in the next forty-eight hours. Get back to headquarters…'
PART ONE
The Massacre
1
Two days later Paula Grey was following the other guests into the large dining-room of Tresillian Manor for lunch. The Elizabethan gem was located on an isolated stretch of Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. She had been staying with friends in Sherborne when the call from Tweed came through early in the morning.
'Paula, a strange emergency has arisen. I'm just back from Paris and I had a call from Julius Amberg, the Swiss banker. He sounded frightened. He's flown over here from Zurich to a friend's house on Bodmin Moor…'
He had given her careful directions where to turn off the A30, which spanned the moor. She had said she would drive there at once.
''I'll be there in time for lunch,' Tweed had continued. 'I am bringing a heavy bodyguard – Butler, Nield and Cardon. Armed. Which is what Amberg begged me to do.'
'What on earth for?'she had asked.
'He wouldn't say on the phone. He was calling from Tresillian Manor. Apparently he flew from Zurich to London Airport this morning, called me here at Park Crescent before I'd arrived. He then caught a Brymon Airways flight to Newquay Airport and called me again from Bodmin Moor. He has his own team of guards with him but doesn't have that much confidence in them. He spoke as though in fear of his life. That isn't like Amberg. We'll all meet up at the manor…'
It had been a pleasant drive from Sherborne for Paula – a cold February morning with the sun shining brilliantly out of a duck-egg blue sky. Pleasant until she had turned down the side road across Bodmin Moor. The sense of isolation had descended on her immediately, the bleak deserted moor closing in on her.
She had stopped the car, switched off the engine for a moment, listened. Not a sign of human life anywhere among the barren reaches of gorse-covered heathland. In the distance she saw a dominant cone-like hill rising up – Brown Willy. It was the silence which seemed menacing.
Despite the sunlight, a sense of doom gripped her. Of impending tragedy. She shook off the dark mood as she started up the car and drove on.
'You're just being silly,' she told herself.
Tresillian Manor was hidden from the outside world because it was located in a bowl. Wrought-iron gates were wide open with a curving drive beyond.
Lousy security, Paula thought as she drove in past the stone pillar carrying the name of the house on a brass plate. Tall firs surrounded the estate, isolating it further from the outside world. Paula gasped as she turned a corner, slowed on the tarred drive.
Built of grey stone, it was a smaller manor than she had expected but a beauty. Stately gables reared up at either end. A massive stone porch guarded the entrance. Six cars, including a Rolls, were parked below the terrace which ran the full width of the house. Mullion windows completed the architectural masterpiece.
'Welcome to Tresillian Manor,' a small portly man greeted her. 'I am Julius Amberg. We met briefly in Zurich.' He peered over her shoulder. 'Where is Tweed?'
'He's coming down with his people from London. I'm sure he'll be here shortly.'
Behind Amberg stood a blank-faced heavily built man. Paula was shown a cupboard where she divested herself of her trench-coat. She kept her shoulder-bag, inside which nestled her Browning. 32 automatic.
Drinks were served in a room Amberg called the Great Hall. Spacious, lofty, with a sculpted plasterwork ceiling, it seemed as old as time. A few minutes later Paula followed the other guests across the large entrance hall into a long narrow dining-room. The table was laid for lunch. Paula counted twelve places. Plenty of room for Tweed and his contingent.
She glanced at her watch. Unusual for him to be late. Her stomach felt queasy again: she must have eaten something the previous evening which had disagreed with her. She'd b
e relieved when Tweed did arrive. The sensation of imminent catastrophe had returned. She studied Amberg, who sat at the head of the table.
The Swiss banker, in his fifties, wore his black hair without a parting, slicked back from his high forehead. Under thick brows his blue eyes were shrewd, his face clean-shaven and plump. He smiled at Paula, who sat on his left.
Tweed is usually so prompt.'
'He'll be here any minute,' she assured him.
She looked down the table at the other six men, none of whom had spoken a word. All were in their thirties and wearing black suits. She suspected they were hired from a private security firm in Switzerland. They didn't inspire her with confidence – there had been no one at the entrance gate, and Amberg had opened the door himself with only one guard behind him.
'It's very good of Squire Gaunt to rent the manor to me at such short notice,' Amberg continued. 'Even though I have spent longer periods here before. And the butler and kitchen staff.'
'Squire Gaunt?'
'He owns the manor. The locals call him Squire. He finds it rather amusing in this day and age.'
'Where is he?'
'Oh, probably riding across the moor. While I'm here he stays in a cottage he owns at Five Lanes.'
He looked up as someone knocked on the door. The butler who had served the drinks earlier appeared, his manner apologetic.
'Excuse me, sir, Cook says she is ready with the luncheon whenever it suits you.'
Mounce, a Cornishman, wore-a black jacket, grey-striped trousers, a white shirt and black tie. A tall, heavily built man, he had the perfect manners for a butler, Paula thought.
'I'll let you know in a minute, Mounce,' Amberg replied.
'Very good, sir.'
'Gaunt has an excellent cook,' Amberg chattered on as Mounce closed the door. 'I hope you Will like the lunch. Asparagus mousse for a starter, followed by venison with wine. She is so good I'd like to steal her off him.'
'Sounds wonderful,' Paula said automatically.
The mention of food had brought back the queasiness. She was about to speak when Amberg checked his watch.
'Perhaps we ought to start. I'm sure Tweed will understand. In any case, that will probably bring him post-haste!'
'Mr Amberg…' Paula lowered her voice. 'Will you please excuse me for a moment? You showed me where the toilet is. Do start the meal – I'll only be a moment.'
'Of course…
As she stood up she looked out of the windows overlooking the curving drive. A postman had appeared, riding slowly on a cycle. She recognized who was arriving from the blue uniform, the peaked cap pulled well down over the forehead, and for a second sunlight flashed off the red and gold badge. Perched on the front carrier was a large canvas bag.
'The postman's on his way here,' she said to Amberg.
'Mounce will attend to him.'
Amberg was slowly drumming his clenched knuckles on the table. Intuitively she guessed it was not with impatience but with nervousness at the non-arrival of Tweed and his men.
As she left the dining-room and crossed the wood-block floor the front doorbell rang. Mounce appeared, used both hands to pull down the edges of his jacket, walked erectly to the door. Paula, carrying her shoulder bag, entered the toilet, walked down two stone steps, closed and locked the door. It was heavy wood, insulating all sound from the rest of the manor.
Mounce opened the door and stared at the postman. Wrong time of the day. Also it was not the usual postman who stood with a heavy bag looped over the left shoulder. The postman held a parcel in the right hand which was extended to the butler.
As Mounce glanced down, noticed it was addressed to Julius Amberg, the postman's right hand slid swiftly inside the uniform jacket, emerged holding a long stiletto knife. It was rammed upwards into Mounce's body, carefully aimed to penetrate with great force between two ribs. Mounce grunted, an expression of amazement creased his face, then he slumped to the floor, still clutching the parcel.
The killer stepped inside, hauled the body clear of the threshold, quietly closed the front door. Stooping, the figure checked the neck pulse. Nothing. Straightening up, it whipped off the cap, shoved it into the bag, grabbed a Balaclava helmet from inside, pulled it over its head, adjusted the eye slits.
It next extracted a pistol with a wide short barrel from the bag, walked over to the closed kitchen door, opened it wide. The 'postman' was inside, door closed again, before the four occupants – Cook and three local girl helpers -had time to react. Grasping its nose with its left hand, the intruder fired the pistol, the tear-gas shell aimed at the flagstone floor. The gas filled the sealed room – all the windows were closed against the cold.
The four women were choking and reeling as Balaclava produced a leather sap like a small truncheon. Methodically Balaclava ran round the kitchen, coshing each one on the head. Up to this moment the 'postman' had worn leather gloves. For the next weapon sensitive finger control would be needed. Stripping off the leather gloves carefully, hands encased in surgical gloves were exposed.
The 'postman' checked the time. Two minutes since the butler had been dealt with. On the central table lay a silver tray with mousse in individual glass bowls. Venison and other items were cooking in a modern oven against a wall. A hand switched off the cooker – no point in risking a fire. Glancing round at the unconscious forms slumped on the floor, Balaclava extracted an Uzi machine-pistol from his bag. A firing rate of six hundred rounds a minute. Balaclava left the kitchen, closed the door.
Able to hold a breath for a minute, the 'postman' sucked in air. Rubber-soled shoes made no sound as Balaclava approached the dining-room door. A hand hovered, grasped the handle, threw the door open.
Seven men stared at the Balaclava-clad figure holding the Uzi. For a brief second in time they froze. They had been expecting the butler whom Amberg had summoned by pressing a wall bell. That brief second was fatal. Balaclava pressed the trigger, aiming first at the guards, spraying them as Amberg jumped to his feet. The last six bullets stitched a neat row of red buttons down his shirt front, buttons which rapidly enlarged. The banker fell backwards, sagged into the seat, hit the rear of the chair with such force the top half broke. He was grotesquely sprawled at a reclining angle, supported by the intact lower half. His face stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
The assassin extracted the empty magazine, which had held forty rounds, and shoved it in a pocket, then inserted a fresh mag. Walking round the table, he emptied it into already inert corpses. Best to be sure.
Cradling the Uzi, Balaclava brought out a glass spray bottle two-thirds full of sulphuric acid. The spray was aimed at Amberg's face, the plunger pressed. A jet of acid enveloped the face from the bridge of the banker's nose to the chin. Replacing the cap, the assassin thrust it into a pocket, shoved Uzi and empty mag into the bag still looped from the shoulder. After leaving the dining-room, the door was closed.
In the hall the Balaclava helmet was removed, dropped inside the bag, replaced by the 'postman's' official cap. The front door was opened with gloved hands, closed from the outside, the bag was placed on the front rack of the cycle propped against the wall. The 'postman' rode off down the drive.
'Well, I delivered the parcel,' the assassin commented aloud with cold-blooded indifference.
2
Paula checked her appearance in the toilet mirror. She was feeling better, stomach settled, but rather weak. 'Not bad,' she said to her reflection. 'A bit white round the gills.'
Her image stared back. An attractive girl in her early thirties, long raven-black hair, good bone structure, calm eyes which missed nothing, a firm shapely chin. She wore a cream blouse with a mandarin collar, a navy blue suit, pleated skirt, flesh-coloured tights and soft-soled loafers.
Paula had been sick. Which left her with a washed-out f eeling, she had cleaned up the basin. She suddenly felt empty, hungry.
'Maybe I could tackle a little venison,' she said to herself as she mounted the steps, unlocked the door.
She took two paces into the hall, stopped. Mounce lay flat on his back near the closed front door, the handle of a knife protruding from his midriff. A red stain discoloured his white shirt. The Browning. 32 automatic was already in Paula's right hand. She edged against the wall, listened, looked.
All doors closed, including the dining-room and the kitchen. She forgot her weakness, glanced up the staircase. Was the killer still in the house? Her loafers made no sound as she crossed the floor, bent over the butler, whose hand was still clutching the package. The 'postman'…
Her mind was racing as she quickly checked his carotid pulse. Dead. What the hell was going on? She straightened up, approached the dining-room door. She listened before her left hand reached out for the handle. Another solid door which shut out all sound. She revolved the handle slowly, using her handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints, opened the door suddenly, stepped one pace inside, her gun ready to swivel on any target.
'Oh, my God!'
She had the presence of mind to whisper the words. Her mind struggled to take in the macabre horror. It was a massacre. Two guards were still seated, sprawled across the table in lakes of dark red blood. Some security, she thought bitterly. Four other guards had toppled out of their chairs, lay on the floor in pools of blood. She closed the door quietly, still wary that the killer might be inside the manor. Facing the door, she bent down again and checked the pulses of the two men on her side of the table. Nothing. Corpses ready for the morgue.
Sucking in her breath, she moved to the top of the table where Amberg's body was bent over the broken-backed chair. Paula was about to check his neck pulse when she suddenly saw his head. She gasped, trembled with shock. Julius Amberg was faceless. Large parts of the flesh had been eaten away. Even as she watched, the original face was rapidly being converted into a skull.
Forcing herself to stoop closer, her acute sense of smell caught a sharp whiff. Some kind of acid? Why? Why this extra barbarity? She stood up, looked round the walls of the panelled dining-room – panelled from floor to ceiling. A beautiful room – which seemed to emphasize the horror of what she was witnessing.
