Half an hour passed and then a small Fiat came slowly into the street below their window and stopped some distance clear. No-one got out. Just thirty seconds later the big doors of Stolnik’s yard opened, there was a brief glimpse of little fat Annie doing the opening, then after a short delay a closed van emerged and turned away fast in the other direction from the Fiat. Having given the van a few seconds’ start, the Fiat turned and followed, coming below Shard’s window. Shard got a good view of the driver. He turned to Eve. “Did you see that?”
Eve nodded. “Tex, sir.”
“Right!” Shard used his transceiver. Quickly after that a report came in that the van had been picked up and was being tailed from behind the Fiat. Shard’s blood raced: things, at long last, were coming together and the sparks might fly now that Tex had, evidently, got his line on Mikhail. Or anyway Stolnik, which looked very much like the same thing.
*
Hedge had been removed from the treadmill’s vicinity and put back in the original cellar with its overpowering smell of damp and decay. By now Hedge was almost abject, apprehending the grim loom of death, but there was no-one now to see. He had been left alone for some hours and he saw no hope. He had a feeling Tex and his associates had gone, shut up shop … and no-one in the Embassy had the remotest idea where this dreadful place was.
He would be left to rot.
He had climbed the steps and found the door locked. He had expected no less. Descending, he had slipped on the slimy stone and had gone all the way down on his bottom, which had upset him and shaken him up rather badly though there was no physical damage. He sat now with his back against the wall, in total darkness since the lantern had not been brought back. He sat and moaned, a sort of keening to demonstrate his fright, pathetically, to the empty air.
There was not a sound from above, from anywhere around. He had been so right: he’d been abandoned. They hadn’t even bothered to question him again. They were going back on their promises and he just didn’t matter any more. He’d been bypassed.
Then he heard a sound, very faint. It wasn’t coming from above and it wasn’t footsteps. It wasn’t anything human, he believed. Nor animal either.
He listened intently, all his senses on the alert in an attempt to identify the sound. Tinkle, tinkle … trickle?
Hedge gave a gasp.
Water?
Yes, water he was certain.
Goodness gracious — water! Another infernal torture. But he was, he knew, not far from the Seine. Perhaps that was it; relief flooded as he told himself that of course it must simply be the tide — but was the Seine tidal? Not so far up as this — no. At least he didn’t think it would be. The movement of boats, then? Or possibly a fountain somewhere. Or drains … what a thought! The French were filthy. It could even be one of those dreadful, impossible holes in the ground concealed by corrugated iron walls that in some parts of France passed for lavatories and you had to aim straight or squat over them and hope for the best. So insanitary, if it was Britain Borough Housing and Health would go mad …
But it wasn’t that either.
The sounds increased to a gurgle, louder and nearer, and within minutes of that Hedge felt the wetness, the encroaching water. It lapped his bottom and he got to his feet with a shriek. Of course, there was no-one to hear him. He shook with fear. If the water deepened he would drown like a rat. It was no doubt intentional, all arranged that he should. Within the next five minutes he knew the water was deepening. It was now lapping over his shoes.
He began praying.
It was cold as well as wet. After a while Hedge found himself shivering uncontrollably. The rise in the water-level was slow but apparently inexorable. Was it the tide?
If so, it would go away again, though it might be so deep as to finish him off before it did. And he still didn’t believe in the tide. No seaman, no riverman, Hedge knew little of tides except that they came and went with a curious predictability, but he felt he couldn’t rely on easy salvation from a doubtful French tidal system. He had to do something, but what?
He could climb the steps. He’d be safer higher up; he did so, and sat trembling violently at the top, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He thundered on the heavy, impenetrable door. No response, just nothing but the awful silence broken only by the water’s gurgle. It was gurgling in something … water didn’t gurgle unless made to. Placid water, even rising placid water, didn’t normally gurgle. Perhaps it was coming through something narrow, gurgling as it emerged into the wider cellar — something like that.
Panic! He must stiffen himself, he must not give in. Life beckoned. He forced his mind to happier things — the Embassy, the Foreign Office in distant, safe London. Whitehall and Downing Street … oh, if only the Prime Minister hadn’t decided to come — but no, it wasn’t her they were after … or was that American, Tex, after her as he’d reflected some time in the past? The man was a communist. One never knew with communists. At least Mrs Heffer was keeping his thoughts off death and his predicament, but of course just as soon as that thought came into his mind so did the other, the death and predicament back again.
Possibly he should make an examination of the walls. Quite obviously, the water must be seeping through the walls. Unless it was rising from the floor, a sort of hole-in-the-ground lavatory in reverse. It could be that.
Hedge eased himself down the steps and splashed into the water. As his movement disturbed it the stench arose, stiflingly, horrid, full no doubt of disease. Hedge retched and went on retching, feeling desperately ill. But bravely he trod through the water, seeking some sort of hole. He found none. He tried again, to make sure. No hole.
It must be the walls.
Trying not to breathe more than he had to, he moved around the walls, feeling, probing. He had an idea that perhaps the water wasn’t really meant to come in; there might be some shaky brickwork that was admitting it, brickwork that had deteriorated over the years. The building was, as he’d noted earlier, very old. It could be very crumbly. And the cellar had been more than ordinarily damp; it might have been seeping through on a minor scale for a long time. But if so, why had it run away again? Logically, the cellar would have filled up. Well, there must be a drain hole — but he hadn’t found a hole. That was a mystery; he came away from the wall he was feeling and tried again for a hole in the ground; a hole would provide reassurance that he might not drown after all.
And yes, there was a hole: he hadn’t found it before because it wasn’t in the floor, it was in the side of the otherwise solid stone steps. A hole with a grating over it.
That could, and in fact did when he listened carefully, explain the gurgle. The water was gurgling away but not quite fast enough. The level was increasing. It was up to his knees now. The ingress had to be found. A nasty thought: perhaps he had found it.
In panic Hedge resumed feeling. He wondered what the time was. It must, surely, be night outside.
*
“They’ve simply not contacted,” Roberts-White said to the Counsellor. “Not a peep.”
“I wonder how Hedge is making out.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right. They’ve an obvious use for him still, haven’t they? I’m not worried.” Roberts-White went over to a polished mahogany corner cupboard and brought out a bottle. “Whisky?”
The Counsellor nodded. “Thank you, yes. Plain water.”
Roberts-White poured. “Good health,” the Counsellor said. “And a quick conclusion to all this bloody hassle. What about Shard?”
“Nothing fresh, not since the Fiat and the van.”
“Not much time to go now.” The Counsellor paused, sipped at his whisky. Very welcome; he’d had a long and tiring day. Mrs Heffer’s presence in Paris had been like a gale sweeping through the Embassy and disturbing everyone’s routine. Hedge was lucky to be out of it, nothing to do but wait for his release, though if anyone did happen to blow up the Russian brass he just might never be seen again. An act of revenge … the Counsellor shru
gged. Such things were endemic to Hedge’s job and he would be prepared for it. He went on, “I hear the Soviet Foreign Minister’s rampaging.”
“Oh? What about?”
“Security.”
“On the river?”
“Yes. He wants so much protection the press of agents’ll be in danger of sinking the bloody boat.”
“Cold feet?” Roberts-White asked lifting an eyebrow sardonically.
“Could be.”
“Don’t say there’s going to be another change of schedule. We have to think of Hedge, you know!”
The Counsellor grinned. “We do. The Russians don’t.”
Roberts-White was about to say something further when his security telephone burred. He took it, looked up at the Counsellor who had been on the point of leaving for bed: it was getting late. He said, “Report coming through from police HQ … looks like a balls-up.”
It had been a balls-up all right and a bloody one and across Paris in Montmartre Shard’s reaction was fury when an agent came in with the news. But it had been the French who had suffered the casualties and he had to hold back on criticism. The van had stopped suddenly and Tex in the Fiat had reacted quickly and pulled past, very neat. From ahead a big Volvo had appeared, and had done a rapid U-turn. As the unmarked police car had crash stopped, the van doors had been flung open and a sub-machine-gun, query Kalashnikov, had sprayed bullets back. All but one of the plain clothes men had died, virtually cut to ribbons by the rapid rate of fire and the police car’s tyres had gone as had its radio communication after an initial alarm call had gone out. When the alarm was answered and more cars went in they found the wreckage and nothing else: there was nothing in the back of the van. Nothing and no-one.
“And the Volvo?” Shard asked.
“Gone, M’sieur.”
“And the men — and the girl, probably — with it. Number?”
But the number was not known. The man who had survived hadn’t managed to get it. And the Fiat had vanished. The Fiat’s number had, of course, been noted and it would be found. Fine, Shard thought cynically, but when it is, Tex won’t be in it any more. “Now we go in,” he said. “Stolnik’s emporium might give us a lead — and might not!”
Not unexpectedly, they found the premises empty. Of people, not of stock, which was there in plenty. Shard wasn’t especially interested in the toys. Eve Brett was; she had small nephews and nieces. This wasn’t the time to look for birthday presents, Shard said, noting the interest. But he didn’t repeat that when something caught the WDC’s eye in a workshop, not the one in the front behind the counter but in a biggish shed opening off the yard at the back.
“Look, sir,” she said. She pointed. There was a lot of unfinished work around, the same sort of things as Shard had seen on his first visit. What had attracted Eve Brett’s interest was a pile of lead sheeting; and lead in another form as well. A case with five lead canisters shaped like the small C02 bottles used to fill soda syphons or sodastream machines but much larger — about a foot in length, around eighteen inches in circumference, stubby. She moved towards them; Shard stopped her.
“Leave it,” he said sharply. He got down on hands and knees and studied one of the bottle-shaped objects at close quarters. In its nose was a round hole a little under an inch across. There was a cylindrical cavity, perhaps three inches in depth and of the same circumference as the aperture. The other four had closed ends.
Shard got to his feet, frowning.
“What is it, sir?” Eve asked.
“I don’t know for sure. I’m not taking chances. We’ll get the army in. Maybe I’m being fanciful … but I’ve a hunch those things take a nuclear filling.”
Eve stared at him in consternation. He said, “I hope I’m wrong, but … remember I told you Mikhail had all the high explosive offloaded from the barge in that boathouse? He wasn’t going to need that once he’d been forced to shift to his alternative plan.”
“You mean these are the alternative?” she asked.
He nodded. “Could be. It’s just guesswork. We simply don’t know. Another thing we don’t know is whether or not Mikhail knows the original schedule’s been restored. Or even if he could have decided to use these gadgets for either of his alternatives …”
“He could have some of these aboard the barge?”
He said, “Could be. This is a pack of six bottles, obviously. So one’s missing. And another has its filling missing.” He turned away. “We’ll get the army in pronto.”
15
They waited until the army arrived. A truck drove up, no time lost once Shard’s warning had gone in, and the crate of canisters was taken away, incarcerated in a lead container as a precaution. A police presence was left to carry on surveillance in case anyone came back to the premises. Shard and Eve went back to the Embassy and Roberts-White was dug out of bed.
Shard’s report rocked him. A nuclear explosion in the heart of Paris couldn’t be contemplated; but it seemed it might have to be. He said, “I’ll have to inform HE at once.”
“Wait for the army to report back,” Shard said. “Any word of Hedge?”
“No.”
“Anything else? Tex? No leads?”
“Not a thing. Ditto Mikhail.” Roberts-White paused. “Just one thing that may or may not connect. I have that hippie commune in mind.”
“Well?”
The First Secretary said, “We have reports of hippies coming into Paris. Bloody great dollops of them —”
“Where from?”
“All points of the compass. Noisy. Soul, pop, folk groups, you know the sort of thing. Otherwise peaceful enough … it’s the sheer numbers that are worrying the police, bearing in mind the current Paris scene.”
“Are they congregating?”
“Not up to the last report,” Roberts-White said. “They’re still spread, camping in the open spaces, even in the streets. The police are keeping the Champs Elysées and all motorcade routes clear as best they can. It’s an uphill task, I gather. Do you see any significance in the hippies?”
Shard said, “There could be a Tex connotation.”
“That’s what I wondered.” Just then a telephone burred and Roberts-White answered. He looked up at Shard. “For you,” he said. “Police HQ.”
Shard took over. “Shard here.” He listened, nodding at intervals. When he rang off his face showed relief. He said, “It’s not nuclear. Just a new type of detonator. But God knows what they’re supposed to detonate.”
“And Stolnik has two of them with him — one of them being still in its container?”
“Right,” Shard said.
*
Following Shard’s report another attempt was made by the Ambassador to deflect the Prime Minister from the river excursion. The Ambassador telephoned early but the Prime Minister was awake, was up, and was on the ball. She said, “But Stephen, it’s all still supposition.”
“Shard’s report —”
“Yes, Stephen. I understood perfectly what you said he said. It still remains unsubstantiated that these people mean to use these detonators on the river. They could use them anywhere, couldn’t they?”
“Yes, that’s true, but —”
“Then we’re all at risk wherever we may be. Aren’t we, Stephen?”
“Yes!” the Ambassador said, coming close to a snap. “But —”
“Well, then.” The Prime Minister was calm, reasoned, unflappable, patient. “You know — the thing to do is to find these people before they can act. Then the problem’s solved. In the meantime we must all carry on as usual and not be panicked. I say again, these devices can be used anywhere. The only really safe — and cowardly — thing to do would be to abort the conference and let all the delegations go home. I can’t even consider that, Stephen.”
“But —”
“And there’s still Mr Hedge, remember.” Steel had come into Mrs Heffer’s voice now. She was very British; and the British did not retreat. The Ambassador saw that it was hopeless an
d gave up the struggle for commonsense. In a way he had to admit she was right. It could happen anywhere, not just in jollification. Shard seemed set on the river, but in point of fact he had nothing more than that barge to go on, the barge that even Shard had admitted had been rejected by Mikhail in favour of an alternative plan. The mere fact that the river trips, one Russian and one with all the delegations, were taking place after all might throw all the terrorists’ plans out of gear. Possibly, the Ambassador thought, that was what the Prime Minister had in mind …
*
Results, of a sort, had attended Hedge’s feeling around the cellar walls: he found a crumbly patch where the bricks and their cement pointing were loose.
That was where the water was coming in.
Where something came in, something could get out. That was axiomatic. Of course water was water and always found a way into everything, or almost everything. But the brickwork was certainly crumbly and might succumb.
Hedge, hope rising, tore at the wall. He knew not what he might emerge into, but anything was better than being abandoned in the cellar, which would, he was convinced, mean certain death. Spurred by his fears he worked hard. The wall wasn’t as crumbly as he had first believed; it resisted quite strongly. But after some time he managed to free a brick, and then quite quickly another came away and he was able to thrust an arm through.
There seemed to be an empty space behind.
Now the water was coming in a gush, fast enough perhaps to overcome the drain hole’s capacity to take it away before it reached the roof. The gurgling was horrible, so was the smell. Sewage, river water, Hedge couldn’t tell. He worked away in the darkness like a demon, hands torn and bleeding. This he scarcely noticed; life, fresh air, freedom was his all. He had no idea how long he had been in frenzied action when a whole section of bricks fell away and when he felt around he found there was a hole large enough for him to go through. Water poured like a cataract over the lip of this hole as he clambered across, felt with his feet, and found solid ground at the bottom. The relief of getting out of the cellar over-rode his fear; but not for long. God alone knew where he was, what he was in. If only he had a torch. But the only way was forward and he reached out a tentative foot. It seemed clear ahead. He dragged his trembling body on against the flow of water. A few moments later he heard an alarming sound behind him, a sound of collapsing walls he believed it was. It went on for a long time and while it was happening something hard and solid took him in the small of the back, and he gave a yelp. He went ahead as fast as possible; the sound stopped. Now his rear was most likely cut off and if the way ahead was also blocked he would be as imprisoned as before.
The Executioners Page 17