No Mercy

by Forbes, Colin

  'Cost you fifty nicker to come 'ere, mate.'

  'I don't think so,' Marler said quietly, shoving his folder under the man's pockmarked nose. 'Any trouble from you and the hygiene inspectors will be coming.'

  He walked on into the haze, spotted a girl with blonde hair who looked half intelligent. He sat down opposite her. She was checking him out, his clothes, his expression, before she spoke.

  'You're not the fuzz. I can tell. You could be Special Branch is my guess. And you're not 'ere for me.'

  'You could be right. I'm looking for a man I can't describe. He's not been over here long and keeps to himself. He'll speak English, probably with a French accent. He does have a motorbike, probably a good one. Ring any bells?'

  'Info costs money. I like you. Don't get me wrong. Info still costs money.'

  Marler reached into his trouser pocket, brought out four fifty-pound notes, kept them in his hand. He'd extracted them from his wallet earlier. This was not the sort of area where you showed a wallet. She stubbed out the cigarette she was smoking in a tiny ashtray, lit another.

  'The motorbike tells me something.' She looked at her empty hand. 'Haven't got any dosh yet.'

  'Tell me, I'll decide if it's any good. If it's very good you get what I'm holding.'

  'There's a Mrs Hogg. That's what she is, a hog for cash. I'd never stay there. So here's the address . . .'

  After leaving Heel Lane at high speed, Charmian had made his way back to London. He wasn't happy. He'd botched the job a third time. No precedent for that - he always pulled off an assignment first time.

  He moved fast on his Harley Davidson, keeping a sharp eye open for where a patrol car might be parked. To hell with speed limits. The gun he had used to try to kill Tweed the first time, a weapon with the numbers filed off, was now in a field he'd tossed it into.

  Before starting out on this mission he had shaved off his curved moustache. His dark hair was concealed under a baseball cap. The telescopic ladder he had used to scale the wire fence at the Gantia plant was at the bottom of a pond miles away. The rifle he'd used to shoot at Tweed at Ivy Cottage was buried in the mud of a lake he'd passed. Charmian was a professional.

  Eventually arriving in London, he had crawled through Soho, which he had earlier in the day reconnoitred. Feeling like a drink, he had entered several 'clubs', including the one patronized by Marler's bottle blonde. Here he had made his only mistake.

  Approached by a woman Charmian had brushed her aside. His remark had not been complimentary: 'I can do much better than you elsewhere . . .'

  Which was why the blonde girl had followed him, to see which establishment he had entered. Mrs Hogg's. Checking that no one was watching, he wheeled his machine into the alley at the back of her place, saw the fire escape running up past a first-floor room. With his gloved hands he disabled the machine, which tomorrow would end up in the Thames.

  He walked back up the narrow side street, which led to the entrance. A board outside proclaimed, rooms to let - by the hour, or the day. A blatant invitation which Mrs Hogg kept there by passing the local policeman cash.

  Beyond the entrance was a small reception area. Behind a wooden counter stood a fat woman with greedy eyes. She wore a cheap dress, waited for him to speak.

  'I need the room for three days,' Charmian began. 'On the first floor. One with a fire ladder - I fear the fire.'

  'That's five hundred quid. Where's the girl?'

  'No girl.' Charmian leaned over the counter. Mrs Hogg didn't like that. She stepped back, nervous now. 'I do not think anyone would pay this five hundred,' he said quietly.

  'Three hundred,' she managed to snap. 'That's rock bottom. Don't think you can sneak in a girl up the fire escape. It's locked with a chain at the bottom.'

  'I just need the sleep.' He already had his wallet out, placed three hundred pounds in fifty-pound notes on the counter. 'You stupid Brit woman,' he went on. 'I say I need the sleep.'

  'You can always go elsewhere,' Mrs Hogg shouted, after grabbing hold of the money. 'Room 10. First floor. Up the stairs,' she sneered.

  'You shut the stupid face.'

  Holding the key she had given him, he walked up the middle of the stairs, which creaked. Room 10 was small, had a double bed - he guessed why - and a small toilet closet. He turned on the light, a forty-watt bulb, lifted the sheets and mattress off the bed, shook the mattress. No bugs. He made the bed up again quickly, switched off the light, went to the window.

  He pulled back the curtains cautiously and stared down. There was a fire escape just outside his window. The alley below was a pool of darkness. As his night vision returned he saw his machine. He tried to lift the window. It was stuck. He took a deep breath, heaved with all his strength, jerked it up. That was how he would leave early in the morning.

  The payment for three days was to fool Mrs Hogg into believing he'd be there longer.

  He took off his cap, his leather jacket and trousers. Underneath was a pale-blue suit, which he kept on. He removed his boots, reached round his back to the knife tucked down inside a sheath behind his belt. It had a large blade with a keen edge on both sides. Placing it on the table beside the bed, he fell fast asleep, leaving the light on.

  An unrecognizable Marler walked into the small hall where Mrs Hogg stood behind the counter, an old name board was propped up in full view: mrs dina hogg.

  Marler had changed inside the toilet at the back of the 'club' where the blonde woman had given him the address. Having taken off his dark jacket, he turned it inside out, put it on. He was now clad in a light-blue jacket with yellow checks - very sporty. Next he rammed a cap on, hiding his hair. Taking out a pair of large square-rimmed glasses, he put them on, stared into the mirror over the basin. It was a different man who gazed back at him. He slung the dark sheath containing the Armalite close to his side. No one in the 'club' who had noticed it had thought it wise to ask any questions.

  After lifting the bar across the exit door, he disappeared into the outside world. Within ten minutes he was walking inside the small hall where Mrs Hogg stood on guard.

  'You on your own, too?' she rasped.

  'Special Branch,' Marler hissed with a lisp. 'Have you a guest who speaks English with a French accent?'

  He hoped he had guessed correctly.

  'What if I have?'

  'You did hear me say Special Branch? I don't want to have to bring a team to turn this place over,' he warned, an air of menace in his tone.

  'Yes... yes ... I have,' she stuttered. 'Room 10. A corner room with a fire escape.'

  'Don't make the mistake of phoning him while I'm upstairs.'

  He didn't like the look of the ancient worn wooden stairs. He walked slowly, placing his feet as far as possible to either side. No creaks. Turning left along a narrow landing, he paused in front of Room 10. The end room, so it was the one with a fire escape and a window. Too dangerous to fiddle with the lock.

  He walked back downstairs in the same way he had come up. Mrs Hogg's fat figure was shaking like a jelly. She was wiping her sweaty hands on her dress. Marler nodded, said only one thing before he went outside.

  'More than your life is worth to phone him. A dangerous criminal . . .'

  Outside he hurried back along the deserted side street, made his way back to the alley. He had a problem. He couldn't fire his Armalite. Mrs Hogg would hear the shot.

  The alley was pitch black. He used a torch to check there were no drink cans lying about. Kicking one would wake up Charmian. He put a glove on his left hand, took out a picklock with his right. It was a big lock. They were always the easiest to open. Holding the lock with his gloved hand, he fiddled with the pick, had it open in seconds. His gloved hand held on to it so there was no risk of its clattering down into the alley.

  He placed chain and lock on the floor, looked up. His eyes were now accustomed to the dark. He was surprised to see the room's window was wide open on a chilly night. Didn't like anything abnormal. He climbed the rusty iron steps two at a ti
me, placing his feet carefully. The Armalite, ready for action, was gripped in both hands. He paused outside the open window screened by a curtain.

  He was listening for any sound - snoring, heavy breathing of a man fast asleep, the creak of bed springs as the occupant quietly got up. Nothing. He would have to Use the barrel of the rifle, preferably to bring it down across the bridge of the nose, alternatively across a kneecap.

  He parted the curtain slightly, just enough to peer inside. A feeble bedside light was on, perched on a table. It gave him enough illumination to realize the bedroom was empty, the bed linen thrown on the floor. He stepped over the sill, crept to the tiny toilet room. Door open. Empty. The bird had flown.

  He remembered his foot making a slight creak when he had been on the landing. Very slight but enough to alert Charmian. His reputation as a top professional was proving itself once more. Marler also checked the door leading into the hall and found it locked.

  He returned to the window, peered out cautiously, ran down the staircase, slipping his Armalite back inside its sheath. He was whistling as he casually entered reception. Mrs Hogg was standing in the same position as earlier. Didn't the woman ever move?

  'Your guest who was in Room 10 . . .' he began.

  'He's gawn. 'Ad all his clothes on, bag over his shoulder, said he wanted a drink.'

  'Thank you,' said Marler.

  'He'll be back,' she called after him as he left for the street. 'Paid for his room for three nights.'

  'No, he won't,' Marler said to himself grimly.

  Which meant Charmian was still on the prowl, God knew where. It also meant he would try for the fourth time to assassinate Tweed. Marler just hoped he'd be there to prevent it.

  22

  Activity at Park Crescent in the middle of the night was frenetic. Paul and Tweed returned from Ivy Cottage to find the whole team assembled. Marler immediately told them about his abortive attempt to kill Charmian.

  'He'll try again,' he concluded.

  'Then.' said Newman, 'we have to make sure enough of us are with Tweed at all times.'

  'No,' snapped Tweed. 'I have to operate alone or with Paula.'

  'Then in that case,' Harry insisted, 'you change your car.'

  'No,' Tweed snapped again. 'That would mean Charmian is dictating my way of life. I'm used to my car.'

  'OK,' Harry persisted, 'I'm the smallest. I travel everywhere with you hunched up in the back. I'm going to do it whether you like it or not.'

  'Don't forget,' Paula reminded her chief, 'Harry saved us both from that bomb. You've got to listen to him.'

  'Yes, you've got to listen to him,' growled Marler.

  'You're going to,' added Nield.

  'All right.' Tweed threw up his hands in exasperation. 'To keep you all happy I'll agree to that.'

  'Even going home to your apartment,' Paula hammered. 'No more walking home till Charmian is in the morgue.'

  'Next, I have to phone Lucinda,' Tweed decided. 'I want her to drive down to Abbey Grange to check out Michael.'

  'Michael? Why?' asked Paula.

  Without replying, he called Lucinda himself. He had her number in his head. A sleepy voice answered.

  'Tweed here. Hope I didn't wake you.'

  'You didn't. I can't sleep. Keep thinking about all those horrible murders. Wish I had something to do.'

  'You have. In the morning I want you to drive down to Abbey Grange and check on Michael.'

  'I can drive down now, get there early morning. He's still not said one word. I called Mrs Brogan. So if you hoped he'd talk to me . . .'

  'No. I want you to watch him without his realizing what you're up to. Then let me know what your impressions are.'

  'I'm on my way . . .'

  'Hold on, we visited Ivy Cottage out at Boxton. Place had been ransacked. Same as in the houseboat where the detective, John Jackson, was found.'

  'I'm on my way . . .' she repeated.

  'You didn't tell her about the envelope I found in the cottage,' Paula commented.

  'Didn't I?'

  'And why are you sending Lucinda down to watch Michael?'

  'Everybody except me is forgetting about him. I want to see how she reports the situation down there.'

  'That's right.' She smiled ruefully. 'Go cryptic on me.'

  'Now let's see if I can get any cooperation, even sense, out of the MoD.' Again he dialled the number himself on his old-fashioned phone. 'MoD? Tweed here, Deputy Director, SIS. I need to speak urgently to Commander David Wells. He's usually on night duty. My code? Stop wasting my time or you'll lose your job. Just get Commander Wells'

  'Who is speaking?' a cultured voice enquired after a long pause.

  'Tweed. David, I need to know—'

  'You didn't give the code.'

  'Damn the code. You know my voice. Is this a secure line?'

  'At this end, yes. Don't know about yours . . .'

  'I want your searcher ships - and aircraft - to scan the route up north from Gibraltar for a freighter. Old job, tonnage fifteen to sixteen thousand tons. Single funnel. Name of vessel Oran. Flies Liberian flag.'

  'This is confidential. We do have search ships out already - concentrating on the Straits of Dover and the Anglian coast. As regards the Med, the Americans have sent out searchers from their big base at Naples, concentrating on the eastern Med. Happy now?' David's tone was becoming bored.

  'Wrong damned area,' Tweed snapped. 'I've given you a very precise description. And the crew are all Arabs.'

  'Really? Then it would automatically be stopped and searched by a corvette at the Dover Straits.'

  'Supposing that isn't its destination?'

  'There's a limit to the areas we can cover. And Naples would not appreciate suggestions from us.'

  'Great collaboration. One more question. We know Angora has obtained a large delivery of long-range rocket launchers from North Korea, but no missiles. How much would the sort of missile they need cost?'

  'I can't imagine why this interests you. One missile would cost about one million pounds.'

  'One million pounds per missile?' Tweed repeated.

  'Yes. That paranoid North Korean dictator, Kim, sent the launchers in an advance vessel, then followed it up with the missiles on another ship which promptly collided with an American destroyer in the Sea of Japan. Tokyo reported their divers found forty armed missiles aboard the sunken ship. Armed! They must be mad to send them armed. But Kim is mad.'

  'So Angora's now desperately short of missiles, can't yet launch them against a big city target in Europe?'

  'I would presume so.' Commander Wells paused. 'Tweed, you're not off your rocker, are you? The newspapers are full of reports that you're investigating a pretty ghastly murder case. I don't see any link between what you've been asking me and the mass murderer.'

  'I do now.' Tweed controlled his desire to slam down the receiver. 'David, thank you for being so helpful.'

  'Any time, old boy . . .'

  'Just before you go, any chance of sending searchers out to check the waters off Portugal, Spain and France?'

  'None at all. Fully stretched now.'

  During their conversation Paula had brought over a notepad in case Tweed needed it. She heard the last part of the conversation, perched on the edge of his desk, her arms folded.

  'I couldn't help hearing the bit about the link between the skeletons and this freighter, the Oran. I can't see any connection between the two elements.'

  'Which is why I'm sitting here and your desk is over there.'

  'I understand,' she said quietly.

  She was sliding off his desk when he reached forward, grabbed her by the arm. 'I'm sorry. That was unfair of me, unforgivable.'

  'You don't have to apologize.' She smiled warmly. 'We all know you're under great pressure. We're just surprised you haven't sworn at any of us.' She smiled again, returned to her desk, peered between the curtains after drawing them back a few inches. 'It's really dark outside,' she said as she sat down. 'Clouds
blotting out the moon. Shouldn't someone check to make sure Charmian isn't waiting out there - as he did before Tweed and I drove out to Boxton?'

  'I should have thought of that,' said Marler. 'I'm going out to have a shufti.' He saw Paula's expression. 'Arabic for take a look around.'

  'I'll come with you,' piped up Harry.

  The atmosphere of tension was demonstrated by the fact that Marler took out a Walther, slipped it under the raincoat he put on. Harry fitted a knuckleduster over the fingers of his right hand.