by Colin Forbes
'Drop flat behind the ridge.'
He did so, facing the way they had come, and she flattened herself behind him. He gave the order fiercely.
'Whatever happens, you stay still. You do not fire.'
He glanced over his shoulder, saw the three men as blurred figures, like ghosts, weapons at the ready. He looked in front over the crest, aimed his rifle. He timed it carefully. As the three in front stood on top of the other ridge Newman aimed, fired, deliberately hit one man in the kneecap. A shriek as he fired two more shots over their heads, dipped his own head.
The mist made his tactic work. The three in front thought the three blurred figures coming from the other direction had opened fire on them. A fusillade opened up on the men behind Newman and Paula, immediately returned by a rattle of automatic weapons. The three men on the ridge nearest the prison dropped, slumped like dead men. Newman looked over his shoulder. The three behind him were collapsing on their ridge. No further movement anywhere.
'Let's get out of this,' Newman ordered urgently.
They ran to the ridge behind them. Newman paused to check the bodies on the ridge. All dead. Bless the Duke of Wellington, he said to himself.
They ran all the way after Paula had checked her watch and said they were going to miss the return ferry. As they arrived on the dock, Abe, his motor running, waved at them. Newman glanced down into a powerful motorboat tied to the other side of the jetty. The earlier wind had blown overboard a canvas covering, now floating in the water. He saw the contents.
'We've made it,' Paula panted as she hauled herself aboard the ferry.
'Don't be too sure of that,' Newman warned.
8
Abe had the barge leaving the dock as soon as they were aboard. A strong breeze had blown up, curling the smooth water into waves. It had dispersed any fragments of mist. Above the sky was a clear cerulean blue.
'Thank heavens,' Paula said to Newman as they sat near the stern. 'What we saw was quite terrible.'
'Main thing is we have the evidence – your photos. Soon as we get back to Park Crescent, take the camera down into the basement. I want the film developed immediately and five sets of prints.'
'Five?'
'That's what I said,' he told her abruptly, then grinned.
They were in mid-channel, halfway to the mainland landing point, when Paula turned in her seat, stared back towards Black Island. Newman was also looking in that direction. The speedboat had left Lydford dock and was roaring towards them. Paula took out her field glasses, steadied herself, then slipped them back inside her pocket.
'We may never reach the mainland,' she said quietly.
Newman was using his own field glasses. He sucked in his breath, then lowered them. He looked at Paula, who had taken out her Browning, holding it out of sight of Abe. She looked at Newman.
'You've seen what's coming after us like a bat out of hell?'
'The powerboat moored to the dock back there. I peered down inside it and neatly stacked next to each other inside the craft were grenades.'
'Do you think, if we survive, they could sink this barge?'
'I've no doubt they could.'
When their lives were in mortal danger Newman never concealed the situation from Paula. She was tough enough and experienced enough to face the truth. She looked back at Abe attending the engine behind them, just far enough away not to overhear them.
'There are three of those swine in black uniforms aboard it,' she mused. 'One is concentrating on steering and the other two are holding automatic weapons. I guess they could spray us with bullets.'
'They'll use the grenades.'
The breeze had dropped. The sea was now a calm sheet of blue. The roar of the oncoming powerboat was louder. Newman calculated it was a question of minutes before the killers arrived. He turned round to Abe.
'Abe, whatever you do don't increase speed.'
'I'm doing that. Don't like the look of that speed job coming straight for us.'
'Do not increase speed if you want to live,' Newman ordered.
Something in his tone, his expression, got through to Abe. Reluctantly he ceased powering up the motor, then looked back, his ancient face distorted with fear. Newman called out again.
'It's going to be all right. Maintain present speed.'
'Hope you knows what you's doin',' Abe shouted back.
Paula had lifted her gun, perched the muzzle on the side of the barge. Newman's tone was quiet but intense.
'Put that damned thing away. Stay very still.'
'If you say so,' she replied, obeying him.
Newman turned his head again, estimating the course the powerboat would take. Earlier it had been roaring towards the stern of the barge, now it veered to their port side; close enough when it was parallel to the barge to hurl grenades into the target, far enough away to elude the results of the expected detonation.
The powerboat was catching them up at a rate of knots. One minute hence and they'd have their craft alongside the barge, but far enough away for their own safety. Newman delved inside a pocket in the golf bag, brought out his clenched hand grasping something. He showed it to Paula. She stared at a large grenade.
'That's a biggie,' she commented.
'One of Harry's specials. Gets them made up by a pal working in an ironworks. Then Harry fills it himself with high explosive, inserts the four-second fuse.'
He held it up so Abe could see only a portion of it. Abe, whose gaze had been fixed on the nearby powerboat, stared, called out.
'What's that?'
'Firework,' Newman lied. 'Left over from Guy Fawkes' day.'
'Lot of friggin' use that will-'
He stopped speaking as Newman, seeing the powerboat had now drawn level with them, jumped swiftly to his feet after removing the grenade's pin. He was on his feet only seconds as he lobbed the grenade. Paula watched it curve in an arc, fall straight inside the powerboat. Newman dropped flat as the first bullets were fired, grabbing Paula, hauling her down with him.
The grenade detonated with an ear-splitting crack. This was nothing compared to the tremendous explosion as it detonated the explosives inside the enemy craft. The menacing prow soared into the air, followed by large fragments of the stern. Abe was knocked flat with the Shockwave.
Paula sat up, gazed at where the boat had been only moments before. The surface of the sea was boiling and bubbling. Small pieces of the enemy boat drifted on the surface, then sank. As the sea settled a large red lake spread. Blood. No sign of the recent occupants.
Abe clambered to his feet, a stunned expression on his face. He opened his mouth, burbled something. Then he regained control of his voice.
'What the 'ell was that?'
Newman stood up, walked back to him, laid one hand on his shoulder, showed him his folder with the other. Abe frowned, blinked, looked at Newman.
'Secret Service,' he gulped. 'Gawd!'
'So you don't mention that we were here – not to a soul. And if anyone heard that bang in Tolhaven, you simply say they're using explosives in Black Island's quarry. Got it?'
'Sure I 'ave, and I keeps me mouth closed tight. Now I'll get you both back to the mainland…'
'We're leaving for Park Crescent right away,' Newman decided as they approached the Monk's Head. 'Grab your stuff and I'll get mine, then we link up in the car park.'
They left Tolhaven behind, Newman in his Range Rover with Paula behind him in the Ford. Again she had to fight to stop the car running away from her. They paused for a quick tea at an old farmhouse, sitting in the garden despite the cold so no one could hear them.
'Where's Harber's Yard?' Paula wondered. 'We never found it.'
'Remember the old bridge we crossed where you peered over at the river? It flows on and widens into a lake. Then it continues on through woodland to the sea. I explored down there before you arrived, then took the ferry and found the prison. It was important to show you.'
'You're satisfied with our expedition?' she asked.
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'I am.' He put his arm round her. 'You've been such a great help taking all those photos. We now have powerful evidence of the lengths to which the so-called State Security lot are going in plotting to turn Britain into a police state.
On top of that, at the battle of the ridges six of the bastards killed each other. Add to them the crew in the speedboat and that makes nine less of them to worry about. The first phase of the war went well.'
'You're right,' Paula agreed, 'it is a war. I wonder what's been going on in London while we were away in Dorset.'
9
The Cabal was holding yet another of its brain-storming sessions. All three men were seated round the strange triangular rosewood table. Outside dusk was falling and they had the lights on. Nelson was playing with his fountain pen, still wearing his Armani suit. As usual, Noel was holding forth.
'The Parrot has reported to me about the informant she sent to spy outside Tweed's office. He was still there, so the plan to involve him in that horrible murder in Fox Street didn't work.'
'What horrible murder?' enquired Nelson.
'Obviously you don't read the Daily Nation,' Noel sneered. 'It might help if you kept up with the news. There's a lurid article on the murder by that swine of a lead reporter, Drew Franklin. We ought to do something about him, put him out of action…'
'You've just made two mistakes in a few sentences,' Nelson said severely. 'First, you must call Miss Partridge by her proper name. If she ever heard you use the nickname Parrot we could lose her loyalty, which is important to us. And, in addition, don't try any of your funny tricks on Drew Franklin. He may be a nuisance but he has great influence. Just watch it, Horlick.'
Noel, his face livid, jumped up, ran round the table, his long hands reaching for Nelson's neck. 'Don't ever call me by that name again,' he screamed.
Benton stood up just in time to stop him reaching Nelson. He grasped Noel's outstretched arms, forced them down by his side. Breathing rapidly, Noel glared at Benton, who was smiling.
'Go back to your chair, Noel.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Nelson, I think you'd be wise to remember his name is now Macomber. An apology would help -otherwise I'm adjourning the meeting.'
'My sincere apologies, Noel,' Nelson said quickly. 'I made a blunder, which you can rest assured will never be repeated.'
'I should damned well hope not,' Noel snapped.
He returned to his seat, mopping his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. To calm himself down he poured water from a carafe into a glass, drank the lot. He waited and there was silence while he got a grip on himself. He resumed talking.
'As I was saying, Miss Partridge's informant visited Tweed, found him seated in his office, his normal self. She, the informant, did notice one relationship we might exploit to throw Tweed off balance. I refer to his senior assistant, Paula.'
'What about her?' asked Benton.
'She is Tweed's weak point. He appears to be fond of her. If she was kidnapped-'
'What!' demanded Benton. 'Who gave you that idea?' he went on, his tone ominously quiet.
'Thought it up myself,' Noel replied with a smug grin.
'In that case,' Benton leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on Noel's, 'you can remove the thought from your evil mind.'
'In any case,' Nelson interjected, 'first, who is the informant Miss Partridge used who is capable of penetrating Tweed's fortress?'
'That's restricted info,' Noel replied. 'Not to be told to anyone under any circumstances.'
'I see.' Benton pressed on. 'Had you anyone in mind to carry out this dangerous folly?'
'As a matter of fact,' Noel continued in the same smug way, 'I have the perfect operator for the job.'
'Who is? This time you tell me,' Benton demanded.
'Amos Fitch.'
He was not able to proceed any further. Benton's full face became red, red as a man with high blood pressure.
'Oh, my God!' He lifted a hand, ran it through his thick greying hair. 'Amos Fitch. You've lost your mind. We can't be involved with a brute like that. About eight years ago he was charged with knifing a man to death. The not guilty verdict was due to his brilliant lawyer discrediting the circumstantial evidence.'
'Just a thought,' Noel said, smiling. 'Forget it. And no one has noticed that all the time we've been talking the door to the next room has been left open a few inches. Who left us last?'
'Actually,' Nelson observed airily, 'it was Miss Partridge.'
'I'm checking,' Noel whispered.
He crept over to the door, moved it slightly. Well-oiled hinges. He closed it quietly, testing the latch. He pulled at it quietly. It was firmly closed. He looked at the other two.
'I'm going to see if anyone is there.'
Again he opened the door, slipped into the next room, closing the door carefully. On their own now, Benton looked at Nelson.
'That was a bad slip, using the name Horlick. You saw the effect it had on him.'
'My mistake, but I have apologized.'
Noel surveyed the spacious room next door. No sign of Partridge at her large desk. The only occupant was her assistant, Coral Flenton, seated with her back to him at a corner desk as she worked at a word-processor. Noel crept up behind her, laid a hand on her shoulder.
'Oh, please! Don't do that.' She had moved her mirror and she had nearly jumped out of her chair, which amused Noel. She swung round in her swivel chair, her large hazel eyes glaring at him. She put up a hand to push back a lock of red hair. 'What is it?' she snapped.
'No "sir"? I am a junior minister,' Noel said genially and gave her a wide smile. He perched himself on a nearby desk, looming over her small neat figure.
He had a winning smile and she responded with a faint smile of her own, but ignored the reference to 'sir'. He folded his arms. He still looked youthful and she had mixed feelings about him.
'The door to our sanctum was open, not properly closed,' he began. 'Not that I'm suggesting it has anything to do with you. Has Miss Partridge been lingering near that door?'
'I doubt it. In any case,' she went on, emboldened, 'with my back to it how would I know who comes and goes?'
'Of course you wouldn't. When you leave the office tonight maybe you would join me for coffee or a drink?'
'That's very nice of you,' she replied in a neutral tone, 'but I'm attending a girlfriend's birthday party.'
'Pity.' He stood up, still smiling. 'Maybe some other time.'
He walked slowly back across the wide room to the door and voiced his thoughts to himself, barely muttering.
'Paula is the key. And Amos Fitch is the man for the job.'
Amos Fitch was at the greyhound races. He kept at the back of the crowd, always remaining as inconspicuous as possible. Five feet eight inches tall, he wore a brown overcoat and as usual he also wore a large trilby hat, the brim pulled well down, exposing only the lower half of his face. Which, unintentionally, was kinder to the rest of the world. His restless brown eyes hardly ever stopped moving while they checked his surroundings. The thick upper lids were frequently half-closed so only part of the searching eyes were seen. His bent nose above a thin twisted mouth added to the cunning look, almost his trademark. His mouth was little more than a slit with a heavy jaw below. He was known in certain not-so-law-abiding circles as Sly. He was pondering the brief message on his mobile inviting him to meet Canal at 9.30 p.m. in an East End pub called the Pig's Nest.
Tony Canal was a dubious go-between who never revealed the identity of his employer. This habit had caused Sly to follow Canal on an earlier occasion. Canal was an old Etonian who had gone to the bad, as they said at the Yard. So Sly knew that the real employer was a toff. A real toff, called Noel Macomber.
10
Tweed was driving slowly in the country near the border of Surrey and Sussex. He was searching for Peckham Mallet, where General Lucius Macomber, father of the three Cabal brothers, had a cottage. He'd decided it was time he met the General, had a chat with him.
It w
as early afternoon, the sky was a clear blue, sunlight illuminated the forested area. He had been driving for over an hour, searching for this tiny village. He hadn't found it on the map back at Park Crescent. It was only when Monica suggested checking the index that he'd located it. Should have thought of that first. Was that drug still fogging his system? Percodin, Saafeld had called it.
There were no houses in the forested area, no pubs, no one he could ask for directions. He drove slowly on and almost missed an ancient signpost at the entrance to a turning. He reversed to read it, barely able to make out the words on the worn signpost. Peckham Mallet.
He proceeded slowly down the narrow lane. After about half a mile he saw an old codger, dressed in working-man's clothes, scything the grass verge. He stopped, got out, smiled as he approached the man. His shoulders were permanently bent, probably due to the nature of his work. About seventy, Tweed assessed. His face was lined, his chin was shrunken and he'd not had a shave for days.
'Can you help me, please?' Tweed began. 'I've been asked to give General Macomber some information. I need to speak to him urgently.'
'Who might you be?'
Tweed produced his folder, held it under the old boy's nose. The workman studied it. He attempted to straighten up but the shoulders stayed bent. He gazed at the folder, then gazed at Tweed.
'SIS? That wouldn't be Secret Service, would it?'
'It would be and is. I'm asking for your help, please.'
'Won't find the General round 'ere. Comes up to the cottage on his way to Lunnon. Spends a few days up there and then goes back 'ome. On his way up he calls 'ere to pay me wages, checks the cottage back there.'
He waved with the scythe he was still holding. Tweed stepped back quickly to stay clear of the deadly blade. He looked up a pathway to a cottage set in the fields as he spoke.
'Would you mind putting down that scythe while we chat for a moment?'
'Means I'll 'ave to bend over to lift it again. If I'm able to manage that…'
'I'll pick it up for you,' Tweed said quickly.
