He was confident that his identity as an intelligence agent had never been seriously suspected by any government until his Russian visit three months or so earlier. Therefore his Paris rooms had probably been wired only after his return from Moscow.
Zero had admitted that a ‘client’ had hired Force X to arrange Grant’s death. There was no clue as to who the client might be.
But someone had monitored his flat during the attempted murder and overheard the plan to smuggle him back to England. Which suggested that the same agency was at work in both cases. They had at least twelve clear hours from that moment until his arrival in London, and the chances were that his Kensington house had been taped during that time, which also showed that until then they did not know the purpose of his mission. Twelve hours, of course, was not long. But it was long enough for experts working under pressure.
It also seemed unlikely that any tape could have been removed from the flat until after he himself had left the place.
So it was almost certain that Zero knew nothing about the detail of his mission at the time of their interview after the kidnapping.
But that had been thirteen days earlier. Long enough for Force X to gate-crash even Spanish Sahara. And if they had been able to hear the whole of his conversations with Miss Sidders and the Admiral they would know to within a few miles where the meteorite was located. They must certainly have heard the name of the Sheikh. And so even with nothing else to work on it would now be comparatively easy for them to pin-point the mineral.
He rang for coffee and tried to put himself into Zero’s position. Before taking action even Force X would have to plan in detail. The removal of as much riodorium as possible to a suitable hiding place for example. Which meant aircraft ferry to a safe port and then a cargo ship or large yacht to some isolated place like an Aegean or Caribbean island.
Then there would have to be a selling market. Which meant only America, Russia, France and England. Or China. But the price would be high. And the purchaser would have to be convinced that he wasn’t buying a pup. But, of course, if Zero scooped ADSAD and got in first even America might be forced to buy from a crooked market. Riodorium meant more to the States than to anyone else. She at least knew what it could do. Though Russia would need little persuading if any of her boffins were allowed to hear Admiral Cooper’s appreciation.
But most important of all: it was reasonable to believe that Force X—or whoever it was behind all this—did not yet know that ADSAD had discovered their ‘listen-in’ cover at Kensington. They would expect him to be off-guard, confident that he had made a clean get-away.
He had a golden opportunity to see if Force X was still in action, and the best way to do that was to create an obvious target.
Loathing the prospect of another thirty-six hours’ inactivity before meeting Miss Turquoise he walked the mile or more into Las Palmas to lay on transport, and then, impulsively, fixed a self-drive job for himself. His international driving licence was always kept up to date and the garage arranged insurance whilst he sipped a Cinzano and studied maps. A run over steep hairpins from the city of Tejeda. and then down to the coast towards Juan Grande, offered plenty of open country for ambush. He would try to draw some fire . . . if there was any to draw.
Slamming the low-seated Porsche into bottom gear he snarled through one-way streets past the cathedral and pointed up a valley until the smoke of Las Palmas was a grey cloud far below, the country now gay with trim country houses and garden walls hanging with geraniums. He drove almost without thinking, content to swing the powerful car up dusty roads and savour the folding country as it rose and fell around him, the thrill of speed edging his tensions as he cut alongside rattling lorries on the lower slopes and learned the knack of snapping past lumbering bullock-carts or heavily laden mules. Later the road narrowed towards the summit of the mountains and then evened out to curve downwards through wild country which reminded him of parts of Les Rochers de Naye.
He slipped the gears into neutral and coasted to near walking pace as he sniffed the freshness of mountain air and watched two dust-clouds follow him uphill from the valley. They might mean nothing—or anything.
A group of pines was growing near a lay-by poised on the very edge of a forty-degree slope while a group of peasant women were forking baked red soil amongst a plantation of young olive trees a hundred or two feet below.
And then it happened, a Lambretta tearing downhill in his tracks like a maniac, its wheels skidding on the dusty verge of a corner behind the Porsche before going over the edge.
As Grant leapt out of his car the man riding behind was catapulted from the pillion seat and thrown twenty feet or more against a tree while the driver lurched sideways into a shallow ravine, his skull striking rock with a thwack which could be heard above the noise of screaming women below and the crash of undergrowth as the machine lumbered towards them. He saw one figure drop her wooden rake and rush towards a child playing on the ground near the door of the house, and then it was over. The woman threw up her hands as though to protect her head and a shriek of fear died into silence as it struck her. She seemed to fall across the child and then the Lambretta spluttered on for another two hundred feet or more before leaping into a gorge.
Throwing off his jacket he zig-zagged down the slope, pausing only for a moment beside the passenger, who must have been killed instantly. He had worn no crash-helmet and the head was smashed to pulp.
Further down a group of three women were clustered round a boy whose leg had been half severed at the knee. The Lambretta had struck the mother full on the chest, and she was gasping for breath, her lips bubbling with blood-stained saliva as she lay on the furrowed earth.
He concentrated first upon the child. The boy was unconscious, with a superficial bruise across temple and forehead. But he was breathing regularly and there was heavy blood loss from leg wounds. ‘Your head-scarf, señora. If we are to try and save him we must stop this bleeding.’ His voice was persuasive and one of the younger women knelt down by his side as he rolled the cotton square into a tourniquet and tied it firmly round mid-thigh. Blood-pressure was low and it needed little tension to stop the flow.
Time was vital and he moved swiftly, half surprised to discover that he had not forgotten habits acquired from experience years earlier in the field. Given first-class surgical skill and an up-to-date hospital it was now possible to save almost any limb. Especially if there was money to pay accounts which could come heavy. But on the Canaries a peasant family like this could pay for nothing, and for certain the child could not survive any journey until it had been treated. Damage was so extensive that under these primitive circumstances amputation was unavoidable.
He explained the position. He was, himself, a surgeon, and he would do his best. But conditions were hopelessly bad. There were no proper instruments and no anaesthetic. So whatever had to be done must be finished before the child recovered consciousness.
He had won their confidence. ‘It will be as God wishes, señor. You can only try and we shall help where we can.’ The youngest woman had honest eyes and a good nerve. ‘Go into the house and see what can be found to help.’
Inside he found a pan of water simmering on a charcoal stove, and an old woman showed him a packet of modern ‘kirby grips’. There were also a wooden bobbin of white linen thread and four thick darning needles, a pair of scissors and three knives, all razor-sharp with worn wooden handles.
He dropped them into boiling water. A minute or two at the most was all he could spare for sterilization. Long enough only to wash his hands and roll up his shirt-sleeves. ‘And then,’ he added, ‘you must take this pot of boiling water outside and put it down beside the boy.’
He wanted to preserve every possible inch of limb, but life itself might depend upon everyone doing the right thing at the right time. Especially the steady-eyed girl who would assist him.
He glanced uneasily around the hills. Kneeling as he was on the belvedere he presented a perfect target, and at least o
ne large car had been steadily raising dust a few kilometres behind him since leaving the city.
He had decided upon a guillotine amputation, closing the skin with a few interrupted sutures. Kirby grips were used to clamp the main blood vessels until he had tied them off with linen. And later, before removing the tourniquet, he cauterized oozing areas with white-hot knitting needles ferried from the stove by one of the women.
‘What must I do with this, señor?’ The girl was holding the severed limb and he had almost forgotten he was not working with trained nurses. He was releasing the tourniquet and sealing final bleeding points with the pressure of hot packs. Leakage had been minimal and the child was already beginning to come round. ‘Wrap it up and we can decide later.’
Swiftly he threaded the largest darning needle and loosely anchored skin edges together, a sliver of sponge at one corner acting as drain.
He glanced again towards the child’s mother. ‘In one moment, señora.’ But her eyes had begun to glaze and her head fell forward as he spoke. She gasped for a moment or two and then another trickle of pure blood ran from her mouth. She clutched the crucifix which someone had placed on her hands and died while raising it to her lips.
He found that he was tired. Reaction, he supposed, and sat down beside the child. ‘How old is he?’
The girl who had assisted made an effort to appear composed. ‘Today is his third birthday.’ She paused. ‘Will you drink a glass of wine?’
He nodded. ‘And then we will take him to hospital.’ The boy was alive: breathing and pulse were improving and he had become restless. He glanced towards the outline of the bodies of the cyclists. They would have to be examined.
Neither were local, and papers showed that the scooter had been rented. Passports proved an Italian and a Greek. He hesitated, remembering the other Greek at breakfast. Exit stamps from London and arrival at Las Palmas were for the previous day, while crumpled B.E.A. and Iberian labels were stuffed in one trouser pocket. Both men carried guns, and one a book of travellers’ cheques totalling more than two thousand American dollars.
There was a screech of brakes on the road above and a party of Civil Guards were running downhill as he returned to the house. The boy had been wrapped in a blanket and colour was returning to his cheeks. The oldest woman had rushed to meet the men and the child’s mother was now covered with a sheet.
He showed his passport and dictated a statement. The guards were sensible and gave him an escort to hospital, one of the women holding his patient in the back seat while he raced back to Las Palmas.
Zero. Greeks. Force X. Millions in arms deals. Big Business. Island hiding places. New arrivals from London who carried guns! He drove almost automatically as a tangled mess of clues jingled in his mind. Only one thing seemed certain. It was no coincidence which had brought the Lambretta at top speed on his tail from Las Palmas into these mountains. But what had happened to the other car, the rakish crimson saloon which he had glimpsed from time to time as he had thrust up the hairpins to Tejeda?
The boy was standing the journey well. He was still unconscious but began to whimper and open his eyes when Grant handed him over to a surprised doctor. He then left the woman with the Civil Guard in a waiting-room and paid enough at the office to guarantee decent attention for a month.
Even allowing for Spain’s mid-afternoon meal hour he was still late for lunch at the Santa Catalina. A crimson car was parked outside and the Greek was leaving the dining-room when he arrived.
The man was pale and thick-set, with sleek dark hair and heavy eyebrows. They met unexpectedly in the foyer near the entrance and Grant glimpsed a shade of surprise as their eyes met. A cheek muscle twitched slightly and the man paused to light a cigarette. His lighter failed to work, and moving on sudden impulse Grant opened a box. ‘May I?’ The nearest waiter was twenty paces away and the bell-hop at the other end of the hall.
The man hesitated and nodded curtly as Grant sparked a light. There was a faint tinkle of glass and as the flame flared up under the Greek’s nose Grant saw him stiffen with surprise. He knew what he was feeling and remembered the terrifying sensations which were triggered off by a first exposure to the gas. Crunching the fine particles into the carpet he caught the man as he fell. Moving easily he half dragged him to a chair and dropped him on the cushions as a bell-hop ran forward.
‘Heat or something,’ snapped Grant. ‘Get a stretcher and we’ll carry him upstairs.’
Miguel arrived with two porters behind the boy. His face was anxious. What had happened? Which doctor would he telephone?
‘Quit worrying,’ said Grant. ‘I’m a doctor and I’ll examine him properly upstairs. Meanwhile see if you can find his girlfriend.’
Miguel looked surprised. ‘She does not travel with him. Dr. Gunten. She was a friend for last night only. Not important.’
‘Then let’s get him to bed. He’s probably had a mild fainting attack, but if he needs anything more than I can give him I’ll let you know.’ He hesitated. ‘Is he alone?’
The clerk nodded. ‘But with friends in town, though I do not know their address. Two men who came in the same plane.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Grant smoothly. ‘They may have been strangers.’
Miguel shrugged his shoulders. ‘In this business, Doctor, we all know what is going on. The police told me that they travelled together and that they seemed to be one party.’
Thank God (sometimes) for police states, thought Grant. Or for places like Gran Canaria and men like Miguel who were crooked to the eyebrows. Every visitor who didn’t arrive with a tour was automatically under some sort of observation in a place which was no more than a sieve for half the vice which filtered through between the Americas and Afro-Europe.
‘And the girl?’ continued Grant. ‘Is she booked for tonight? Perhaps he took too much out of himself last time.’
Miguel grinned sourly. ‘Not him. He comes here perhaps every year and he is like an ox. Very strong.’
So the police knew him. Miguel knew him.
‘But, of course,’ said the clerk. ‘He is rich and powerful. It is important not to offend such men. They make bad enemies.’
Grant became strictly professional. He would report to the management within the hour. ‘And, incidentally, his name?’ he ended.
‘Ion Zeys,’ said Miguel. ‘He is well known in Europe. A political and a bon viveur.’
‘And you have his home address?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Well, if necessary we can contact his family later. Meanwhile we must make sure it is nothing serious.’
Miguel looked at him cynically. ‘I am no doctor, señor, but to me it looks very serious. He is like death.’
The man was in bed. Porters were undressing him and Grant returned swiftly to his room for a case of drugs and equipment. The under-manager was at the bedside when he returned. He was an ineffectual little man, worried sick about possible scandal. Death outside the dining-room was no good advert for any business.
Grant made an impressive show of his clinical examination. ‘A form of heart attack.’ He stood up and smiled confidently. ‘The person usually sleeps for several hours after this type of seizure. But we will have to watch him carefully.’ There was a divan in the room and Grant had missed siesta. He would be happy to stay there for a little and keep an eye on things.
The management was delighted. The fewer people who knew about what had happened the better. They had every confidence in Dr. Gunten. Indeed a press-man was downstairs waiting for him even now with a fantastic story about a serious operation carried out on the mountains. He wanted an interview. Could the doctor see him for a few moments?
Grant hesitated for only a second. The sooner it was over and done with, the better. Who could tell when the Greek would surface again? The dose from these matches was minute. He had jumped into trouble in a big way. By the time the Press had finished with him everyone on the island would know about Gunten.
The report
er was excited and flattering. Photographs were unavoidable and a drink killed even more time. The last thing Grant wanted was publicity, but the Press had to be satisfied. It made a better friend than an enemy and the man left half an hour later with a story which was bound to cause a splash of publicity.
Zeys was still unconscious when Grant returned to the room. Coffee had arrived and the manager bowed. ‘You have been too kind. Ion Zeys is important. Nothing must happen to him in our hotel.’
Grant smiled politely. Plenty was going to happen as soon as this gang of people quit the room. ‘My siesta,’ he hinted. ‘I am a very light sleeper. The slightest sound from our patient will waken me. And see that we are not disturbed,’ he added.
He snecked the Chubb lock as soon as the door closed and turned to the bed. Zeys was still flat out, but Grant guessed that the effect would soon wear off. He slipped on a pair of fine kid gloves and turned to the luggage. Everything was monogrammed and of top quality. There was a small supply of sleeping pills and a bundle of trashy magazines, shaving kit inside a crocodile leather case and a wallet packed with currency from three different countries. Passport showed an exit date from Paris on the day after his own attempted murder: and from London two days after his meeting with Zero. Zeys had then returned to Paris for a week and called at Tangier before flying back to London for a twenty-four-hour stay: his last stop before Las Palmas.
There was a radio telegram from a yacht: Sailing Tangier tomorrow. And a typescript on good-quality paper which seemed too harmless to be true.
The man was still unconscious. Grant gulped down some coffee and then worked on the sheet. There was a blur of print near the third line. Almost as though a ‘%’ had been struck in error. He lifted out a torch and unfolded a pocket magnifying glass. A powerful bulb reflected light through the paper and he could even detect the paste which had been used. A micro dot blended in the actual paper itself!
He nodded approvingly. Much more sensible than the usual methods. Micro dots had killed or jailed scores of people in his lifetime. They were ideal for carrying hot messages. But utterly fatal if discovered, and to date no proven effort had been made to fuse them with ordinary paper or pass them off as a smudge.
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