by Colin Forbes
It was still dark but his eyes had regained their night vision. As he had suspected, the plane was doing the wrong thing: it was revving up to full power. The transport began moving towards him. Slowly at first, then a steady increase in speed. He braced himself, shoved the stock of the rifle hard against his shoulder. He was aiming for the huge tyres on the machine's wheels.
As it came closer a door opened. Framed inside stood a man holding a machine-pistol with a long barrel. Probably a 9 mm Uzi. Forty rounds in the mag. The night was filled with the roar of the oncoming transport. Ignoring the gunman in the doorway, Newman aimed his night sight for the blur of a fast-revolving tyre. The gunman had begun to open up on him. A spray of bullets hit the grass fifty yards from where he stood. In seconds they'd be firing at him point-blank.
The sound of the transport's engines drowned the noise of the motor-cycle Butler was riding, coming up behind the tail of the plane. He held the handlebars with his left hand; in his right he gripped the Browning automatic. He came like a rocket, was suddenly alongside the machine. He raised the automatic, pressed the trigger, firing nonstop at the doorway.
Hipper toppled out of the plane, thudded down on the concrete runway. Newman fired several shots, moving the muzzle a fraction. The transport sheered past. Newman saw the port wheel collapse, metal grinding through rubber. The machine's starboard side swung through an angle of ninety degrees - carried on by its intact starboard wheels. The plane wobbled across the grass, stopped. Butler pulled up a few feet behind the open door, reloaded, aimed his Browning upwards. A ladder was dropped as Benoit arrived in a jeep driven by the chief security officer. Brand alighted first, climbing down with hesitant steps. Benoit was waiting for him. Before the banker could turn round Benoit clamped his hands behind him with a pair of handcuffs.
'Peter Brand, I have a warrant for your arrest . . .'
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Epilogue
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Two weeks later three men sat in Tweed's office at Park Crescent. Newman sat in the armchair, Marler stood by the window, Tweed occupied the seat behind his desk.
'So you've seen off Cord Dillon,' Newman remarked.
'He flew back to Washington yesterday,' Tweed answered. 'I took him up to Cockley Ford with the order to exhume the seventh grave in the church cemetery. When they opened it they found the body of Lee Foley. Dillon reacted well, said he didn't know who he was. Afterwards he told me he recognized the signet ring on the corpse's third right finger. My guess is Klein couldn't get it off and had the villagers dump the body in.'
'And our nice friend, Ned Grimes, confessed before he died?'
'Talked non-stop. Foley had explained the idea to the villagers with Klein and Dr Portch present. Offered them the earth if they would cooperate - let the tomb of Sir John Leinster be used to store a secret cargo. That was the bombs and sea-mines due for delivery by the Lesbos, of course.'
'But not everyone agreed?'
'No, now we come to the nasty bit. Six of them -egged on by a Mrs Rout, the postmistress - wouldn't play. Threatened to report the plan to the police. Enter Lee Foley one evening at The Bluebell, masked in a Balaclava when they'd manoeuvred all the six dissenters to be present. He mowed them down with a machine-pistol. Except Simple Eric. No one worried about him. No one would believe a word he said.'
'Why did the other villagers agree to go along?'
'Greed, pure greed, Foley offered them a fortune, handed out expensive presents - including a Rolex for Simple Eric. They had no idea what was going to be hidden in the tomb. I doubt if they cared. Portch by then had them in the palm of his hand. He took them off occasionally for holidays to distant places - and escorted them.'
'After they'd buried the bodies of their fellow-villagers,' Newman commented. 'What a macabre business.'
'I gathered from Grimes they were divided into two factions long before Foley and Portch appeared. That's not uncommon considering the isolated lives some of those tiny villages in Norfolk lead,' Tweed remarked.
'And afterwards Portch practically held them in quarantine - with very little contact with the outside world?'
'Again not uncommon - especially round Breckland. Some of them have never seen London. Portch would charter a flight to some lonely West Indian island out of season to stop them getting restless.'
'And what happened to Foley?' Newman enquired.
'He blundered. Panicked when Paula followed him. Decided he had better wipe her out. Hence the TNT - packed inside one of the smallest Soviet bombs. Klein was furious, drugged him at Cockley Ford, then cut his throat. Grimes helped dispose of him. Hence the seventh grave. I think Klein met Foley in New York during his UN posting. Like recognized like. Foley, Dillon told me, had contact with European arms dealers, probably supplied the weapons. Klein would have killed him anyway in due course, I'm sure.'
'And now they're all dead. Again, how macabre,' Marler drawled, 'that they died of anthrax, a rare disease.'
'Contracted, so the Special Branch doctor diagnosed,' Tweed explained, 'from old rags piled in Sir John Leinster's mausoleum. After the explosives had been moved Grimes used it to shelter cattle. If Dr Portch had stayed, had not been blown up with that coaster, I'm sure he'd never have allowed it. Ironic.'
'So,' Marler remarked, 'another touch of irony. Earlier Portch covered up the six murders of Foley's with a fake diagnosis of meningitis. Had the village quarantined. Now the accomplices to mass murder have died of anthrax the place is once again in quarantine. The strange death of a village cleansed with flame throwers.'
'All except Simple Eric,' Tweed reminded him. 'He survived - weak in the head, strong in the body. Now he's living at Cockley Cley. A lady there has given him shelter.'
'No trouble with the coroner?' Newman enquired.
'None at all. Special Branch has moved in. Matter of national security. And no one will believe Simple Eric if he talks.'
'Later I thought your Olympus was poor Lara,' Newman observed. 'Not Marler.'
Tricky when I had to "shoot" the three police,' Marler recalled. 'I aimed to miss, hoping to God Tweed had fixed it for them to fake death - which he had. Helped my status with Klein. On the Dames de Meuse I also aimed to miss Newman, nearly killed Tweed. He moved as I fired.'
'That was a bit of luck,' Tweed said. 'I'd earlier "created" a skilled assassin called The Monk - Marler's first job for us. With the help of a few friends on the continent we built up his "reputation". He's a marksman, as you now realize, Bob. But he never killed that German banker. We simply spread the rumour in the right quarters it was The Monk's work. The banker wanted to take a long holiday incognito - away from the press - in Honolulu. He agreed to cooperate with the German police. Same with the Italian police chief, who was killed, but not by Marler. Again we spread more rumours.'
'What was the idea?' Newman asked.
'We thought that sooner or later Marler would be approached by someone wanting a top statesman killed. Even a Secret Service chief. Marler would have warned us. As I said, it was sheer luck Klein hired him.'
'Trouble was I couldn't tell Tweed much,' Marler remarked. 'For the simple reason I didn't know the target until late on in the game. Then Klein stuck to me like glue. I'd have shot him inside Euromast when I knew his horrendous plan - but he carried his infernal control box everywhere. I nearly had kittens when he shoved that poor girl over the rail.'
'I'm attending the memorial service,' Tweed said. 'I paid a call on Lady Windermere when I got back. Incredible woman. Accused me of being responsible for the postponement of the wedding of her wretched son, Robin. She didn't realize her banker husband, Roily, was listening from the next room. He walked in and said he was leaving her. She blamed me for that.'
'What did you say?' Newman asked.
' "My pleasure." Then I left the old cat. I must be getting vicious . . .'
He broke off as the phone rang. It was Moscow. Lysenko came on the line, asked if Zarov had been traced yet.
'You can f
orget he ever existed. Because he doesn't any more. No questions. You said you'd leave it to me. It's called détente.'
He smiled as he put down the receiver. 'I never thought that I could do it. Keep Washington and Moscow happy at the same time. It's been a weird case.' He clasped his hands behind his neck. 'I had both of them on my back. Do it for us. Oh, Bob, while I remember. Marler is joining us as sector chief for Germany. Good at languages. Hasn't been to university - the new breed.'
'Congratulations,' said Newman.
He didn't shake hands. Those two, Tweed thought, will be at each other's throats in future. Solve one problem, create another. He reached for the file on his desk as Newman stood up. 'Howard has already dumped a fresh job on me. Oh, Bob, Colonel Romer of the Zurcher Kredit wasn't involved, Beck has told me.'
'I'll push off,' Newman said. 'I'm going to ask Paula out to dinner. See you.'
Tweed stared at him with a blank expression as Newman grinned, gave a little salute and left the room.
'Pipped you at the post?' Marler suggested.
'Actually, no. Paula has already agreed to join me for dinner at Daphne's this evening.'
Marler had left Tweed alone when Monica came into the office. She sat at her desk, began tidying files, then asked the question.
'One thing I can't understand. Klein must have been amazingly greedy. He already had twelve million Swiss francs from the bullion stolen in Basle. More than enough to set him up for life. Why go on and risk mounting that huge operation to grab even more money? I know it was a huge amount . . .'
Tweed paused, glanced at the door to make sure it was closed. Again he hesitated before he began speaking.
'This is strictly between the two of us. Forever. The PM did tell me what was really at stake when it was all over. Came out in her conversation with the General Secretary. Inside Russia there is a powerful faction which doesn't like Gorbachev and his reforms, a hard-line group which wants to bring him down, take over power. Partly Red Army, partly KGB. Identities unknown - even to Gorbachev. Zarov was their agent.'
'Still don't understand.'
The conspiracy was diabolically clever. This group realized they couldn't safely organize a coup inside Russia. They decided to set up a secret base outside the Soviet Union - South America. From there they would organize the coup - probably through sympathizers inside various Soviet embassies. A plan like that takes money, a great deal of money. Hence the assault on Europort. When the coup succeeded, I suspect Zarov had been promised the top KGB job, probably a seat on the Politburo. I think he saw a quick route to become General Secretary in due course. Imagine a man like that ruling Russia. A lust for power was the driving force. None of this was revealed to me until last night. I think the PM decided to tell me because I was lucky enough to foil the attempt. And anyone who succeeded Gorbachev was bound to be a menace to the West. Which is why she decided to help him.'
'What a terrifying thought. A man like Zarov running Russia.'
'Don't let it keep you awake. It's all over now. I hope.'
Time passed. The authorities had boarded up the entrance from the highway to Cockley Ford. No one ever went near the place. Nature - Breckland - began to take over in its slow relentless way.
Ivy and other creepers invaded the abandoned village. Spreading up the cottage walls, they penetrated the windows, crept into the rooms. The gardens became a jungle, merging with the encroaching forest. The footbridge alongside the ford collapsed. The road through the village disappeared as undergrowth took root.
A small boy vanished and was never seen again. A searching helicopter had great difficulty locating Cockley Ford. Eventually it found the place. From the air humpbacked mounds engulfed in vegetation were all the pilot could see of the scorched village. As though Nature had buried forever the cottages where so much evil had originated.
