Operation Destruct

by Christopher Nicole

  OPERATION DESTRUCT

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 1969

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1969 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part One

  Guernsey

  Chapter One

  “I should get off here, mate,” said the bus conductor. “The farm’s just behind those trees. You can’t miss it.” He pulled the rucksack from the luggage compartment. “Early for camping.”

  Jonathan Anders buttoned his duffel coat. “It’s the best time of the year for birds.”

  The conductor winked. “There’s only one kind of bird worth watching, if you ask me, and you won’t see any of them around here before July.”

  Jonathan pulled the rucksack on to his shoulders and stepped down. He gave the thumbs-up sign, watched the bus rattle away in a cloud of exhaust fumes. A minute later it was lost to sight around a bend in the road, and the afternoon was suddenly quiet. It was early March, and cold; the trees were still bare, and the breeze kept the boughs swaying rhythmically. Jonathan put on a red-and-white knitted woollen cap, adjusted the rucksack once again, and turned away from the bus stop to climb the hill.

  He took long strides. He was tall, and had good shoulders; beneath the duffel coat he wore corduroy trousers and an old sweater. His face was thin, with a straight nose and a big chin. His mouth was relaxed. He suggested a university student on an early holiday.

  He reached the top of the hill, drawing great breaths, left the road, and clambered over the stile. The trees clung to both sides of the road here, but the fringe was thin, and it took him only a few minutes to force his way through the sparse, damp bushes with their carpet of rotting brown leaves. From the edge of the thicket he looked down a sloping meadow. To his right a wisp of smoke rose sharply and then dissolved in the brisk wind; that would be the farmhouse the bus conductor had recommended. To his left, and beyond several more meadows, all dotted with grazing cows, he could see another cluster of trees. These shaded the house; he had passed the entrance to the drive earlier, in the bus.

  He unslung the rucksack, rested it on the ground, took out his binoculars. He focused the glasses, inspected the trees. There was no wall, no wire visible from this distance. But he knew there was a wire. He turned his attention to that part of the house he could see through the wood. It was late Georgian, four square and massive, three storied and many windowed. On the right-hand side a lawn drifted down to an ornamental stream crossed by a small Japanese bridge; beyond was a disused tennis court. He could not see the house wall opening on to the lawn, but he knew there would be French windows.

  He remained standing motionless against the tree for an hour, scrutinizing every inch of the country between himself and the house. Then he put away the binoculars, returned into the wood, and sat down. He ate a sandwich, drank coffee from his thermos, and waited. He watched the evening draw in, felt the temperature drop. He heard the cowherd calling his cattle for the night, counted the faint hum of three cars passing on the road; lonely Wiltshire was as lonely as you could get, in southern England.

  By six-thirty it was quite dark, with a veil of scudding cloud coming up from the south coast, chased by the rising wind. It would be a stormy night afloat; the Channel was less than fifty miles due south.

  He waited until eleven. To keep himself awake and alert he solved mathematical problems, repeated every Secretary of the Treasury since Hamilton, every Poet Laureate since Spenser, analyzed the Worrall Attack in the Ruy Lopez as far as move twenty-five. By eleven he was ready to go, and the night was ready too, still dry, but shrouded by storm-force winds which howled through the trees and set each branch swaying and crashing.

  He buried his rucksack in the bushes, taking only his shaded flashlight and the thin-bladed knife. He buttoned his duffel coat to the neck, pulled his woollen cap tight around his ears, and left the wood. He descended the hill, crossed the meadows. He climbed over three more stiles, wandered into a boggy patch he had missed during his reconnaissance, had to spend fifteen minutes cleaning the mud from his shoes, and at last approached the trees. The time was three minutes to midnight.

  He listened, and heard nothing but the wind. Beyond the trees the house was in darkness. He knelt, cupped his hand over the flashlight, examined the ground in front of him. Satisfied, he moved forward again, four feet, repeated the operation. Once again he found nothing. He had advanced eighteen feet into the trees, and could see the carriage drive beyond, when he discovered a thin line of copper wire lying on the ground, embedded in leaves and soft earth. Anyone walking carelessly would stand a good chance of treading on it. But only a good chance. He stood up, shone the flashlight beyond, and nodded. The second wire was suspended two feet off the ground, and eighteen inches beyond the first. There was no possibility of accidentally missing them both.

  He drew a long breath, stepped over the ground wire, straightened, stepped over the second wire, sighed with relief, and felt the third wire brushing his face.

  *

  A red light winked on the control panel.

  “Isn’t that the outer fence?” Southern asked.

  Headly nodded. “We seem to have a ham-fisted one here.”

  “What will he do now?”

  Headly filled his pipe, leaning well back in his leather swivel chair. He was not a big man, but his face no less than his shoulders promised immense strength. His jaw was square, and jutted beneath a big nose. His mouth was flat, his gray eyes flint hard. His black hair was graying at the temples, and showed a trace of scalp in the crown. Headly’s obvious power, of will as well as muscle, had always been his principal asset; it inspired confidence in others and made them willing to trust him. It had taken him from the field into his present position of authority. “I imagine he knows he’s touched it. And I imagine he will have been told not to continue if in any doubt. He’s on his way home by now.”

  Southern stood up. “So that concludes the entertainment for tonight. I’m going to bed.”

  Headly struck a match. His chair was placed exactly in the center of the little room, facing the control panel. Without moving he could adjust any of the knobs, switch on either of the two television screens; the lower half of the panel was a reference library, with just space between the two rows of books for his feet, so that, also without moving, he could select any volume he required. Behind him, along the farther wall, there was a built-in settee, but otherwise the swivel chair and the control panel were all the furniture in the room; the walls were bare, and there were no windows. Visitors often wondered if Headly had not also been built in as a fixture.

  He breathed a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “It’s a pity, though.”

  Southern opened the door. His face no less than his body was ascetic, giving him a permanent suggestion of tiredness. “You sound really sorry.”

  “I am. They must be scraping the bottom of the barrel if they’re using people who can’t even get through a wire.”

  Southern pointed at the control panel. “I thought you said he’d quit?”

  A green light winked. Headly sat up. “That’s the garden.”

  “So he either doesn�
��t realize he touched the wire, or he’s coming anyway. What do you do now?”

  “Oh, he’ll have to be stopped, after blundering like that. Besides, I’d like to have a chat with such an optimistic young man.” He leaned forward, turned a switch, and the right-hand television screen flickered into life. The picture was of a large reception room, carpeted, but sparsely furnished. The right-hand wall was composed of French windows, opening on to a patio, beyond which the lawn sloped down to the stream. “He’ll come through there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the simplest way to get in. He’ll know there’s no outside alarm.”

  “And the safe?”

  “If he lays a finger on that without neutralizing the system he’ll think he’s on his way to a fire. But he’ll have been briefed about that. There you are.”

  The French windows trembled, and now they could see the outline of the man outside.

  “He’s using a knife,” Southern remarked.

  “Looks more like a bayonet to me.”

  The thin blade came through the doors, moved upward, very slowly, very carefully, seeking the catch.

  “A nasty looking thing, whatever it is,” Southern remarked. “I take it he’s not likely to resist arrest?”

  Headly smiled. “I’m quite sure he won’t appreciate it. And you must always remember that these fellows are trained to be dangerous when cornered. But he’s also intelligent, I hope.” He opened a drawer, took out a Smith and Wesson Magnum, spun the chambers. It was fully loaded. “Know anything about side arms?”

  “Not a thing,” Southern confessed. “And I’m enjoying my ignorance.”

  “Well, just to put your mind at rest, you may be sure that our visitor knows a great deal abut firearms of every description. He’ll need only a glance to identify this, and he’ll know it carries a .44 bullet and will stop a man at something like three hundred yards. In a room this size it would just about blow him into two pieces.”

  Southern took off his glasses, polished them, replaced them again. “You’d actually shoot him? I had no idea you could do that sort of thing in England.”

  “My dear fellow, of course I hope I won’t have to shoot him. But at the very least he’s committing burglary. And carrying a deadly weapon.” Headly watched Jonathan tiptoe across the downstairs room and open the inner door. He flicked the switch, and the television went dead. I don’t really want him wrecking my wiring. Shall we go?” He stood up.

  Southern gazed at the big revolver, shrugged. “You people frighten me.”

  Headly took a flashlight from the drawer, followed his companion into the corridor, closed the door behind them. He raised his finger to his lips, moved forward. The revolver hung from the fingers of his right hand; he carried the flashlight in his left. Southern took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his brow.

  Headly stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the darkened hall. The house had been built in a spacious, luxurious era; the staircase clung to the outer wall, and huge doors opened off the hall itself, the drawing room on one side, the library on the other. The fuse box was under the stairs, and the two men could hear a faint scratching from beneath them. To Southern’s surprise, Headly threw a leg over the banister and slid down, for all the world as if he were on a fairground, making sure that no step could creak under his weight. At the bottom he leaped clear, striking the parquet floor heavily, and in the same instant switched on his flashlight and thrust the revolver forward. The brilliant beam of light cut across the darkness to illuminate the opened door of the stair cupboard.

  “Come out,” Headly said. “With your hands high.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Jonathan crawled out. He held the knife in his right hand.

  “I think we’ll have that,” Headly said. “Drop it to the floor and kick it over here.”

  Once again Jonathan appeared to hesitate, then he allowed the knife to clatter to the floor. He gazed at it, and kicked. His right leg moved forward in a smooth swing, paced by his left hand. The knife slid across the parquet toward Headly, and at the same moment the fingers of Jonathan’s left hand opened and a crumpled pocket handkerchief flew at Headly’s face. Surprised, Headly ducked, and Jonathan was upon him. He struck downward with the heel of his hand, and Headly grunted. The heavy revolver exploded with a clap of thunder, and then Jonathan swung again, his fist closed now. The punch took Headly high on the cheekbone but yet carried sufficient weight to spin him round and send him crashing to the floor. The revolver slid from his fingers and smacked against the skirting board. Jonathan stepped over him, hesitated for the last time, and then crossed the living room in six long strides. He threw the French windows wide, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Headly sat up and touched his cheek. “He must soak his fist in brine.”

  Southern came down the stairs and picked up the flashlight. “I have an idea that if he’d wanted to, that young man could have killed you. I even have a feeling he was tempted.”

  “I’d like to know something about that handkerchief,” Headly muttered, crawling about the hall on his hands and knees. “It came straight as rock, and felt like one, too. Let’s have the light.”

  Southern stood above him, and Headly held the handkerchief in the beam of the torch. Into each corner was sewn a small iron marble. “Now that is very, cute,” he said. He folded it, thrust it into his pocket, got up.

  “What now?” Southern asked. “Do we give chase, or telephone the local constabulary?”

  “I think we telephone the boss,” Headly said. “As you remarked just now, this young fellow is a little above the average, at least when it comes to doing the unexpected.” He switched on the house lights, went into the library, picked up the receiver and dialed a very brief number. “Headly,” he said. “I would like to speak with Mr. Craufurd.”

  Chapter Two

  Craufurd paused at the top of the stairs, surprised by the silence, by the concentration which seemed to hang in the air like fine rain. He looked across a vast room, normally used for dancing or civic receptions, but now occupied from end to end by small tables arranged in orderly rows, each table covered with a green baize cloth on which rested a chessboard and clock, each board stared at by two anxious players, frowned at by several no less concerned spectators. It occurred to Craufurd, as he watched them, that here was a quite representative sample of the human race: Old men and young men, bespectacled men and bearded men, men in business suits and men in open-necked sweaters, men smoking and men chewing gum, and among the men, women, only in a proportion of one to ten, but similarly typical of every age and occupation. And every one engaged in acute mental activity. He reminded himself that these people were on holiday.

  Craufurd also was on holiday, at least officially. He wore a gray suit and a bright tie, and smoked a cigar. But he was too obviously and prosperously at peace with the world to be a competitive chess player. Of average height, he was quite bald except for a fringe of gray hair. His cheeks were round, his mouth only slightly arrogant, his brown eyes gentle. He was running to stomach, and he moved thoughtfully, as if aware of a back which had seen better days. He liked to think of himself as a father figure, and as such felt, for the first time in his career, inadequate in this setting. Not one of these determined men and women looked in need of a father.

  He took a step forward, and the floor creaked. He checked, expecting four hundred voices to condemn him as one. No one took any notice. He glanced to his left, at the long table behind which sat the officials, the referees, the scorekeepers, and newspapermen, and then up at the huge blackboard behind him, reminiscent of the arrivals and departures board in a large railway station, divided into sections, one for each of the various tournaments taking place. He scanned the names, found the one he wanted, and realized, as he turned back to the crowded room, that he was no further ahead.

  A gasp swelled through the auditorium, and Craufurd watched a knot of spectators dissolving from round on
e of the nearer tables. They looked at once shocked and disturbed, as if they had just witnessed a crime. Craufurd positioned himself close to them, managed to bump into a young man as he turned away. “I beg your pardon,” Craufurd said. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

  The young man threw both arms into the air. “A finger slip! Bryant had a mate in four. Everyone could see it. Colfax saw it. He just sat there, staring at the board as if he was hypnotized. Pawn to queen six was the move. There was absolutely no reply. And Bryant touched his knight instead. It’ll cost him at least half a point.”

  Craufurd scratched his ear. “Most unfortunate,” he agreed. “Tell me, I am at the Southern Counties Chess Championship?”

  The young man stared at him. “They’re not playing poker, if that’s what you mean, dad.”

  “This is my first visit to a chess congress,” Craufurd said apologetically. “I must say, I never expected to see so many people. However do they arrive at a winner?”

  The young man waved his arm once more. “Only this lot closest to us are actually playing for the championship. Back there are the other sections, and the juniors, and what have you.” Suspiciously, he peered at Craufurd. “You do play?”

  “Actually, no,” Craufurd admitted. “But I find it an interesting game. I happened to be in Lewes for the weekend, and I thought I’d motor down here, as I haven’t been in Bognor for years. And I find that this weekend, at any rate, everyone seems to be playing chess. And this, in turn, reminded me that I have a nephew who is very keen on the game, and who always comes to the Bognor Congress. His name is Jonathan Anders. I believe he is quite a good player. But I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “That’s Jon, over there,” said the young man.

  Craufurd followed the direction of the pointing finger, gazed at a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a pointed beard, smoking a pipe and frowning as he gazed at the chessboard. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “My nephew is quite a young fellow.”