An American Spy

by An American Spy (retail) (epub)

  ‘Come on,’ said Dundee, climbing out of the car and jamming the automatic into the waistband of his trousers. Fleming followed and Jane clambered out of the backseat. The mist and rain were like a wet towel wrapped around her, soaking through her clothes and making it somehow difficult to breath. She knew that if she screamed right now the sound would be swallowed up and smothered. She couldn’t see much more than a few yards ahead.

  They moved away from the road, angling themselves in the direction of the dunes. According to the innkeeper there had once been a settlement of peat-cutters and crofters who came in seasonally and had their small, rude houses by the shore but they had vanished long ago, simply leaving one autumn when the leaves turned and there was frost on the hills, never returning. A northern mystery there was no explanation for.

  A moment or two more and they came to a narrow stream that seemed to leap down through the rocks and cols of the steep slopes of Ben More before it quieted on its course in front of them. There was a low stone bridge and beside it a tiny chapel, the only thing indicating its purpose an ancient Celtic cross. Other than that it looked like some sort of old stone shelter, open on one side, the arch in front sagging, the stone roof half collapsed into the interior.

  For an instant Jane was sure she spotted a small, lone figure dressed all in black, wearing hip waders and casting his line into the narrow, bubbling stream on the far side of the bridge. He seemed to smile and wave and then the mist swallowed him up again. She almost waved back but she didn’t think anyone would understand. Instead she followed Dundee and Fleming across the bridge to the sand dunes beyond.

  ‘Look,’ said Fleming as they reached the top of the nearest dune. He dropped down to the ground and the other two followed suit. They could see down to a narrow foreshore between the stream and a beach of stone and slate. Built close to the stream just before it raced down to the sea, half a dozen decrepit old sod-roofed cottages huddled against the cold and the mist coming in from the water. The glass in their windows was gone, if it had ever been there at all, and their doors were empty holes in the stone. Far out in the loch they could now hear the heavy pulse of engines and the squeaking sound of davits being swung out; they heard the muffled sounds of seamen calling back and forth to each other.

  ‘They’re lowering a boat,’ Fleming whispered. He dug into the pocket of his pea jacket and pulled out a compact pair of Zeiss Featherweight binoculars. He handed them to Jane. ‘Got these in San Francisco, remember?’ he said. Jane didn’t bother answering; instead she took the binoculars from him and focused on the little clutch of dwellings beside the sea.

  It took her a while but eventually she found what she was looking for; a single rutted track in the ground, running up to the furthermost cottage. She wasn’t sure but she thought she saw the curl of the Harley’s front mudguard peeping out from the rear of the building.

  ’‘Last hut on the right,’ she said. ‘Farthest from the stream.’ She handed the binoculars back to Fleming.

  ‘The boat’s coming in,’ said Dundee.

  Fleming turned and looked out at the slate-coloured water, refocusing the binoculars. A few seconds later a small boat appeared out of the fog, chugging towards shore. It was some kind of ship’s launch, sixteen or eighteen feet long with an inboard motor and no cabin. There was one person in it, standing at the controls.

  ‘I don’t recognise him,’ said Fleming. He handed the binoculars to Dundee. He took them and swung his attention towards the launch.

  ‘I do,’ said Dundee. He handed the glasses to Jane. She looked.

  ‘Selkirk,’ she breathed. ‘I’ll be damned.’

  ‘It fits,’ said Dundee. ‘It had to be someone like that.’

  ‘Who, pray, is Selkirk?’ asked Fleming politely.

  ‘He worked at Shepton Mallet Prison. Obviously one of Charlie’s boys.’

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ said Jane.

  ‘Arrest them both,’ said Dundee.

  ‘Wait,’ said Fleming. ‘Let’s see if your man Selkirk has the goods.’

  They watched as the launch moved warily into shore. Twenty yards out, Selkirk leaned down and they saw him fiddling with something below the narrow windscreen. A moment later they heard the sound of a bell ringing. Once, twice, three times, then silence, then two more rings. Some kind of signal. A few seconds later a figure appeared in the doorway of the last crofter’s cottage by the stream. It was Charles Danby, dressed in casual country clothes, including an Ivy League cap. He was carrying a ship’s lantern, which he raised and lowered twice in response to Selkirk’s signal. The engine on the launch burbled more loudly and the small boat approached the shore. Selkirk jumped out of the boat with a line and anchor in his hand. He thrashed his way through the last foot or so of water, getting his trousers soaking wet, then tossed the anchor onto the beach. He walked up the slippery stone beach, his hand outstretched and a broad grin on his face as Danby came down towards him. In place of the lantern Danby now carried an automatic exactly like the one clasped in Dundee’s fist.

  ’‘Damn and blast!’ muttered Fleming. ‘The bugger’s going to shoot him!’

  The two men met on the beach and Danby put away the gun and warmly shook Selkirk’s hand, then clapped him on the back. They turned and went back up the beach towards the crofter’s cottage, faint sounds of laughter crossing to the three people watching from the shelter of the dune. A few seconds later they reached the cottage and went inside.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ said Jane.

  ‘Reporting in,’ said Dundee. ‘They’re congratulating each other.’

  Another few minutes passed and then the two men appeared again. Selkirk was now wearing the MP’s uniform and leather motorcycle leggings. As Dundee watched, the younger man went behind the cottage and dragged out the heavy Harley-Davidson. Selkirk threw one leg across the pillion and settled himself into the saddle. The two men stood talking.

  ‘Bugger me!’ said Fleming suddenly, realising what was about to happen. ‘They’re trading places! He’ll see the car when he goes up the road!’ Down by the cottage Selkirk lifted himself off the saddle and pounded his booted foot down on the starter pedal. The big engine roared into life.

  ‘Stop him!’ Dundee hissed angrily. Fleming slithered back down the backside of the dune, then clambered to his feet and began to run, dragging his own weapon out of the pocket of his pea jacket. Jane and Dundee looked back to the cottage. There was no sign of Danby; he’d completely vanished.

  ‘Where the hell did he go?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Back into the hut,’ said Dundee. ‘Now’s our chance.’ He paused and gave her a quick look. ‘You stay here.’ He got to his feet and sidestepped down the seaward side of the dune in a crouch, heading quickly down the beach to the abandoned buildings.

  ‘I don’t think so, pal,’ muttered Jane. ‘I lost you once. I’m not going to let you sneak out on me again.’ She stood up and followed him, running hard.

  She caught up with him just in front of the dark entrance to the cottage. Dundee put up a warning hand. He lifted the automatic, peering into the dark recesses of the little building.

  ‘Come on out, Charlie.’

  ‘What?’ said a laughing voice from behind them. ‘You’ve got me surrounded, Ten Spot?’

  Jane whirled. Danby was three feet from her back, his automatic pointed halfway between her shoulders and her waist. In his other hand was a bulging leather briefcase. He looked perfectly at ease except for a hot, almost maniacal gleam in his eye. He’d won the prize and she and Dundee were just a last, irritating detail to be dealt with.

  ‘I could see you out there by the dunes.’ He grinned. ‘Selkirk couldn’t see it but I could.’ He paused. ‘Drop your weapon.’

  ‘There’s MPs everywhere, Charlie,’ said Dundee. ‘You can’t get out of this one.’

  ‘You’re lying. Selkirk is the only MP within a hundred miles of this place and he’s mine,’ said Danby. ‘And I can get out. I am out as a matter of
fact. You being here makes it perfect.’

  ‘How’s that, Charlie?’

  ‘Why don’t we discuss it in the boat?’ said Danby. ‘I’m on a bit of a tight schedule here.’

  ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Lucas,’ said his old schoolmate. He lifted the pistol in his hand slightly. ‘You know exactly what this thing will do to your lady friend’s insides. You really want her to go out like that, Ten Spot?’ A small note of anger was creeping into his voice. She caught Dundee’s eye but he ignored her, concentrating on Danby. ‘Now get into the boat, both of you.’

  Dundee gave her an almost imperceptible nod and she did the same in reply. She moved carefully and Dundee stepped out of the doorway to the cottage. Danby backed up, staying well out of Dundee’s grasp, even though he was unarmed. They moved down the beach, feet crunching on the pieces of water-worn slate and small, smooth stones. Danby followed, the gun in his hand never wavering. Out in the loch, the foghorn on the Hebrides Trader moaned loudly.

  ‘Sounds like your friends are anxious to leave,’ said Dundee.

  ‘You let me worry about that, Ten Spot; you start figuring out what kind of story you and your friend here are going to tell St Peter when you get to the Pearly Gates.’

  ‘You sound like George Raft,’ said Jane and laughed.

  ‘Shut up and get into the boat,’ said Danby, flushing slightly at her quip. Jane had met Raft a few times at the Stork and she’d been surprised to discover that the actor was exactly the same off-screen as on. One of his favourite dinner guests at Billingsly’s club was Eddie Florio, the scar-faced head of the New York Longshoreman’s Union.

  Dundee and Jane waded out into the freezing water then boosted themselves over the gunwales. ‘In the stern,’ said Danby. They did as they were told, seating themselves on the rear transom. Jane’s hands were plunged deeply into her pockets against the cold. She wondered briefly what Tweedsmuir would do under the circumstances. She could almost hear the man’s soft, educated voice.

  Don’t give away all your secrets yet. Always hold something in reserve.

  Danby dropped the briefcase into the boat and then tossed in the line and anchor. He climbed into the boat, keeping his eyes on the pair as he swung his legs over the side. Still watching them he pressed the starter button on the launch’s polished wood dashboard, then engaged the small gear lever on the port-side coaming, putting the inboard engine into reverse, sending them slowly out into deeper water.

  Jane noticed two boxes at his feet, both sheet metal and carefully made, one large and square with a leather strap riveted to the top, the other long and narrow. A hat box and a case for a treasured pool cue. The missing jewels. There were no identification numbers on the boxes. She nudged Dundee and pointed with her chin. He nodded briefly. Beside the two boxes was the plain, soft-sided leather briefcase, bulging with documents. Turing’s codes and Tube Alloys and according to Fleming the larger treasure by far.

  Danby hit the shift lever with the ball of his thumb and spun the wheel to starboard, sending them around in a tight circle and pointing them out into the loch. Directly ahead of them now, the high, black side of the Hebrides Trader rose like a cliff. Bending down again briefly, Danby took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, snapped one bracelet around the briefcase handle and left the other dangling. He threw the briefcase down the length of the launch, where it landed at Dundee’s feet.

  ‘Put it on,’ he ordered.

  Dundee picked up the briefcase and looked at it. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ll shoot your girlfriend in the belly and then throw her overboard so you can watch her drown if you don’t.’

  Dundee put the second bracelet around his wrist and closed it.

  ‘There’s enough real documentation in there to make them believe you were part of it from the beginning… if it survives your watery grave. A nice bit of stage dressing, though; give Wild Bill something to wonder about,’ he said. ‘The rest of it’s in here along with His Majesty’s ancestral headdress.’ He kicked the square box, laughing. ‘I can just see Adolf prancing around Berchtesgaden with the stupid thing on his head. Mad King Ludwig rides again; just his kind of thing don’t you think?’

  ‘You don’t care about being a traitor?’ said Dundee.

  ‘I only care about making sure I’m a rich traitor,’ said Danby. ‘Rich enough so that I don’t need the old man’s money any more.’ He laughed again. ‘Or maybe I’ll just buy Switzerland and settle down.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Dundee flatly.

  Jane stared at the boxes at Danby’s feet, thinking hard. She’d been watching from the dunes the whole time and neither Danby nor Selkirk had come out to the boat. Ergo, the two boxes had already been here. Why?

  Why would Selkirk bring him the boxes when Danby was just going to take them right back to the Hebrides Trader?

  The answer was obvious.

  He wouldn’t.

  There had to be another boat, one big enough and fast enough to take him across to Ireland and the safety of a neutral country.

  There was the sudden, unnaturally hollow echo of a much larger engine starting up nearby. Jane looked around in the fog. Nothing.

  Danby, grinning broadly, reached out with his left hand and threw the gear lever into idle. The boat slowed and they began to drift towards the stark cliffs of Ben More, a hundred yards or so away. According to Tommy’s uncle, one of Mull’s most interesting and macabre tourist attractions was up there somewhere, lost in the fog; in the late 1800s, in the tiny village of Gribun, perched between the cliffs and the wooded slopes above Loch na Keal, a newly-wed couple came for their honeymoon, having rented a cottage at the point where the waters from Loch Ba on Ben More’s heights became the river that eventually wound its way down to the sea. On their wedding night a great storm rose, dislodging a boulder from the heights, supposedly weighing more than ten thousand tons. The boulder fell directly on the lovebirds’ cottage, crushing them instantly.

  The boulder could still be seen, surrounded by the cottage’s garden wall. Directly below that at the base of the cliffs was MacKinnon’s Cave. According to the stories, the ghosts of the newly-weds could still be heard on stormy nights, howling like banshees with unresolved desire. The cave was so large that, according to legend, it went right through the island, easily twice the size of Fingal’s Cave on Staffa and more than large enough to hide a good-sized boat at high tide.

  The powerful, twin screw Thorneycroft came barrelling out of the entrance to the cave at a good twenty knots, piling up huge bow waves as she plowed through the dark, freezing water of the loch. Jane had a brief glimpse of the rotund figure with his owlish spectacles, standing grimly behind the wheel, and the name on her bow: Lady Beryl II.

  ‘Bond!’ she whispered. The boat, five times the size of their small launch, didn’t seem to be slowing down at all. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned, just in time to see Danby aiming his weapon at Dundee. There was no time to wait for the proper moment; it was now or never. She fired first, squeezing the trigger of the little pearl-handled automatic from Tweedsmuir’s glove compartment, blowing a smoking hole in her jacket pocket and then in Danby’s thigh, spinning him around and flipping him out of the boat just as he fired at Dundee, striking him in the shoulder.

  An instant later the Lady Beryl II was on top of them, her welded-steel stem cutting through the ash-and-fir skin of the launch like paper. She heard the stuttering of an automatic weapon and had a brief, unlikely vision of the plump little ornithologist raking the remains of the launch with a lethal-looking machine pistol. Then she was thrown into the loch, swallowed up by the dark waters.

  The passage of the Lady Beryl II forced Jane even deeper under. For a moment she didn’t know which way was up. Aware only of the freezing cold and the searing heat of her exploding lungs she pushed herself to the surface, clawing off the heavy tweed jacket as she did so. She caught hold of the broken transom of the launch a
s it drifted by and searched around frantically for Dundee. She coughed, retching seawater and dragged her arm across the transom. In the distance she saw Bond’s Thorneycroft charging west into the fog, the only sign that she’d ever been there the widening V of her vanishing wake.

  ‘Lucas!’ she yelled, and then choked as small waves crashed into her face. She coughed and retched and called again. ‘Lucas!’

  Dundee rose out of the water, clutching Danby with a strangulating elbow wrapped under his chin.

  They struggled wildly and then Dundee managed to get his hand up, the open manacle between his thumb and forefinger. He snapped it around Danby’s wrist, then heaved himself backward, out of the way of the man’s windmilling arms. Danby’s head went underwater and then he came up again, one hand smacking at the water. He was screaming, eyes wide with terror. In the distance, the sound of Lady Beryl II was finally lost, overwhelmed by the sudden, deep-throated sound of the Hebrides Trader as her engines throbbed into life again. Her funnel whistle shrieked.

  ‘Dundee!’ Danby’s head went under again, chin tilted back, horrified eyes looking up at the rain. Jane watched but he didn’t come up again. She looked everywhere but there was no sign of the Crown and the Sword either.

  ’‘He couldn’t swim,’ coughed Dundee, paddling towards her. ‘It was one thing I always did better than him.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘I’m still not quite sure I understand all the fine points,’ said Dundee, walking ahead of Jane and Fleming. ‘Tell it to me again: who was Bond?’

  Their footsteps rang on the metal steps leading to the upper level of the Women’s Wing at Shepton Mallet. Mr Johnson, the Keeper of Special Acquisitions at the Public Records Office was leading the way, his feet making an odd little pitter-pat like a scuttling mouse. Dundee was back in uniform, still wearing a sling from Danby’s parting shot.

  ‘An assassin,’ said Fleming. ‘We’ve known about him for some time or at least his existence. The James Bond identity is new, though. There is one and he is an ornithologist; he just doesn’t look anything like your fellow. We’ve known him by the name of Charles Calthrop but even that name may be wrong.’