by Colin Forbes
He glanced at the map Doubenkian was holding out for him. His chief's small thumb was pointed to Leaminster, and Max nodded. `I can drive on a quiet roundabout route. Be there by lunchtime.' `I have solved the Tweed problem,' Calouste said as he struggled to refold his map. 'Every man had his weak point. Even a man of Tweed's eminence. That is the lever we will use. As we successfully did in Vienna. You will lure Paula Grey out of SIS HQ, grab her, then you phone Tweed. Inform him you have the Grey girl, that she will be tortured for three hours, then murdered unless he comes along within an hour to rescue her. Before you phone him you start the torture, then put her on the phone so he can hear her scream.'
As he explained his plan Calouste was still trying to fold the map. He therefore failed to observe the grim expression which appeared on Max's face.
7
The Park Crescent office was occupied only by Monica, Tweed and Paula when, in the late afternoon, the call came through. Monica waved to Paula. `It's for you. A Mr Evelyn-Ashton. Posh voice.. `Yes?' said Paula. `Miss Paula Grey?' `Speaking. Who is this?' `Evelyn-Ashton. You won't know me but I have information for you concerning a certain gentleman of Armenian origin.'
The voice was very Old Etonian, bland and superior without being condescending. Paula glanced over at Tweed, who was immersed in his files. `Well, tell me,' Paula replied. `Not over the phone. Too dangerous. Can we meet?' `Where? And when?' `Now. At the Duke's Head Hotel. In Mayfair, off Tiverton Street. I'm tall, well-built, wearing a suit with a fake grey rose in the buttonhole. Thick brown hair, clean-shaven. Are you on?' `Be there in fifteen minutes, roughly.' `I'll be drinking champagne. Moderately…'
Paula had kept her voice low, knowing Tweed wouldn't like an assignation. Paula stood up, put on her leather windcheater, checking her Walther in the hip pocket. While bending to pull up her ankle boots she checked her Beretta tucked inside her leg holster was firmly in position. `Who was that?' Tweed asked without looking up. `A firm that's altering a dress for me…'
As she drove towards Mayfair, Paula's mind was in a whirl. Was it possible this stranger she was going to meet did have information about Calouste Doubenkian? On previous cases she had known lucky breaks which came when least expected.
Inside the well-appointed bar of the Duke's Head, Max was already waiting for his visitor. He always arrived early for appointments. It gave him time to check the surroundings. The bar was spacious and oblong, the narrower side being the frontage.
He was the only occupant at that hour and had chosen to sit near the door. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne stood by his side and two glasses were set before him. In his large hand was concealed a small tasteless capsule for her drink. It would swiftly make her feel very sleepy.
Max's mind was in a turmoil. At the Green Dark Hotel he had not had a wink of sleep during the nights he had spent there. Into his mind had frequently crept a memory of the girl he had thrown into the marsh. He had imagined the horror of her opening her mouth to scream. She would have sucked in that foul ooze, then choked on it. He had felt sickened and still did.
It had all happened so quickly. Accustomed to obeying a command from Doubenkian, he had acted on a reflex. Grabbing his victim, upending her, hurling her in. And his paymaster had casually referred to her as a `peasant'. Max could kill any man and eat a hearty meal soon afterwards. What Doubenkian proposed for Paula Grey filled him with loathing.
Approaching the Duke's Head, Paula, who had parked her car in a free space some distance away, noticed a shabby brown Ford parked almost outside the hotel. She also noticed the driver watching her through his rear-view mirror. He looked away quickly. He sat tensely behind the wheel, North African she thought, dressed in London clothes. She noticed two more things. In the back on the seat was a large travelling rug, and as he sat very still his engine was running. The meter showed he had been there for ten minutes.
She entered the bar and the white-coated man behind the long counter smiled at her and said, 'Good afternoon.'
At a table near the entrance a man stood up and came forward to escort her to his table. Tall, good- looking and heavily built, he was clad in a smart grey suit, white shirt and an old school tie. His smile was cheerful but she thought she detected a hint of strain in it. `I am Evelyn-Ashton,' he began. 'It is very good of you to take the time to come and meet me.' `I haven't got a lot of time,' she warned as he pulled out the chair for her. `Oh, that is quite in order,' he assured her as with unusual agility he was back in his own chair facing her. `What I have to say is hardly likely to take all week. A tipple of champagne to relax us? We were indeed in the habit of smuggling a bottle into the dormitory when I was no more than a boy at school. Indeed, yes.' `I'd sooner have coffee, thank you.'
The barman had tactfully moved to the far end of his counter to give them privacy. Max turned round and ordered. `Coffee for my guest with all the trimmings, if you please.'
Paula already knew something was wrong. Ages ago she had briefly had an Old Etonian as a friend before she escaped his predatory clutches, a man she soon found she disliked intensely. This so-called Evelyn- Ashton couldn't speak Old Etonian correctly. Near, but not near enough. While his back was turned speaking to the barman she dropped her handkerchief. Bending to retrieve it she slid the Beretta out of its holster and kept it in her right hand concealed under the table cloth, the muzzle aimed at her host's legs.
Max was in shock. Facing him was the most beautiful woman, in her thirties he guessed, and with the most entrancing smile. He'd almost decided before she appeared that he couldn't do it. Torture? Hideous. No way.
After coffee arrived a dam broke in his mind. She had to be warned. And certainly after what had happened out on the Wash. She sensed something strange in his manner, leaned forward. `Is something wrong, something bothering you?'
He opened his mouth, swallowed, then it all flooded out as he forgot to speak like an Old Etonian. `Miss Grey. Not from me anymore. I've been hired – this will be a shock – to kidnap you, dope your champagne, pretend you're ill, carry you out into that Ford outside, hide you in a travelling rug on the back seat.' He took a deep breath. 'Then torture you in a secret place, get Tweed on the phone to hear you screaming to lure him out. I can't do that to you. Please go now The barman knows a back way out. Don't use the front entrance.' `So,' Paula said coolly, 'what is the name of the Armenian?' `Don't know any Armenians.'
In a strained voice he turned round to call the barman. She chose the opportunity to slip the Beretta back inside her leg holster under her jeans.
Max explained the problem to the barman in low tones but she heard every word. `This lovely lady's husband is on his way here. Can you quickly show her out of the back way you told me about earlier?'
She laid a hand on his broad shoulder as she stood up to follow the barman. `Maybe you should get out of the country quickly. Start a new life.'
She was still alert for a more sophisticated trap when the barman led her to a concealed door out of sight at the back. `Where does this lead to?' she asked. And could you check to make sure there's no car or persons out there?' `Nothing,' he replied, returning from outside. 'No room for a car. Nobody about. You turn left, walk straight down the alley until you come to an even smaller alley. That takes you into Tiverton Street, well away from the Duke's Head.' `Thank you so much.' `Good luck.'
It was all in a day's work to him. Paula was not the first woman he had smuggled out just in time.
Paula had her Walther in her hand, concealed by her shoulder bag as she hurried over the cobbles. Thank heavens for my sensible shoes, she thought. She found the narrower alley and emerged into Tiverton Street, close to where her Porsche was parked.
She glanced down the street to where the brown Ford had been parked. It was gone. She realized then she had walked slowly over the cobbles to avoid twisting an ankle. She heard a familiar sound, a cross between a hum and a whistle. She turned round. It was Marler. `I've been on the prowl,' he said with a smile. 'You look a bit tense.' `I'm j
ust going shopping in my Porsche.' `Give you a hand?' `Yes, please. The fridge is empty.'
When Max left the Duke's Head he was working on a problem. Taz, the Moroccan who was behind the wheel of the Ford, had been shown a photo of Paula Grey, so it was almost certain he'd recognized her when he saw her enter the bar. If he was questioned by Doubenkian, Max knew his own life wouldn't be worth a penny. Taz was a recent addition to the army of men Calouste had built up in different European countries and now in Britain. In Max's opinion the new recruit was poor quality but he could carry out simple jobs.
When Max opened the passenger door he saw the solution to his problem. Taz, slumped behind the wheel, was holding in both hands a sheet of white paper, carefully folded so it formed a chute. He was holding it up to one nostril while he snorted white powder heavily. He transferred the 'nose' of the chute to the other nostril and snorted again deeply.
He was so absorbed in his indulgence he was not aware of Max until he was seated beside him. Max wet a finger, dipped it into the remnants of the powder still remaining in the chute, tasted it. As he'd thought. Cocaine. `Needed it… to pass… the time,' Taz said with a foolish grin. He was slurring his words. `I will take the wheel,' Max said speaking very clearly. 'So get out, walk round the front of the car and sit in my seat.'
Taz had indulged heavily. He had trouble opening the door. While he did so Max grabbed the chute out of his hands, folded it tightly to keep the remnants of the cocaine inside, then tucked it in the door pocket.
He watched contemptuously while the Moroccan used both hands to hold on to the body of the car while he worked his way round to the passenger seat. As he flopped in the seat, Max lost patience. `Seat belt, he snapped.
He was forced to fasten the seat belt round Taz himself. Then he started driving, the detailed plan now settled in his head. He took a devious route to Cambridge Circus, turned down Shaftesbury Avenue. It was late rush hour but there seemed surprisingly little traffic. He was approaching Piccadilly Circus when he saw the reason. Road works. The double decker buses were being given priority, two were purring towards him. He slipped into an empty space on the right-hand side, just vacated by a motorist. `I have another job to do on my own,' he told Taz. `You get out here. Walk a few metres along the pavement, then you cross the street and there's a Tube station,' he lied. 'Get a train to the lodging house in New Malden. Both rooms are paid for, covering the next two days. Get moving, man…'
He had to unfasten Taz's seat belt for him, then open the door on his side. Taz managed to step out onto the pavement and closed the door after him. Max lit a rare cigarette while he watched Taz stumbling along. The two previous buses had passed the Ford but another one was coming.
Taz stepped off the pavement to cross over without looking. The bus, with a clear road ahead, was moving at thirty miles an hour to make the next stop on schedule. It hit Taz – the driver desperately tried to brake but too late. The bus slammed into Taz, brought him down, rolled over his prone body with one wheel. The bus backed, one wheel red with blood.
Max had kept his engine running. He saw a man dart out, bend down to check the neck artery, then stand up, shaking his head. Max signalled, turned out, drove slowly past a shocked crowd, proceeded on to the Circus.
An hour earlier, facing Paula Grey, he had been shaking inwardly at the prospect at what he was supposed to do. Now he was ice-cold and very hungry. `I think I'll go to the Cafe Royal and order a full dinner,' he said to himself. 'At least I'm dressed for a place like that.'
8
`Nice car,' Marler remarked as Paula drove him towards the shops. 'I might think of getting a Porsche myself.' `Cost a mint, as you probably guessed,' she responded. 'I have a very generous salary, as you'll know, but I saved for months to collect the deposit.' `If you'd told me I'd have gone halves with you,' Marler joked. 'problem would have been which of us occupied the boot if we'd had a passenger. I think you'd fit better than me.'
She laughed and felt much better. Marler, sensing the tension in her when they'd first met, was talking more than usual. He continued joking, mimicking perfectly the voices of other members of the staff at Park Crescent.
She kept laughing and eventually protested good- humouredly, 'If you don't stop I'll lose control of this beauty.' `That's the idea. Then I'll take over the wheel.'
She pulled in a slot outside the large new food shop and Marler jumped out to feed the meter before she could reach it. Then he grabbed a trolley, waved her forward. `In the Far East they call the servant who helps, boy.' `Well, boy, I'm a quick shopper so keep moving.' `And I'm ten years younger than you..
She hauled food off the shelves, out of the refrigerated compartments. Soon the large trolley was piled high. She went to the checkout and Marler stared. A man in a white uniform picked up the purchases as they were checked out, then packed them in a series of strong brown paper bags. He then asked which was their car and wheeled the large stock to the front of the Porsche where he placed them neatly in the luggage compartment. Marler reached in his pocket for a generous tip. The helper shook his head. `Thank you, sir, but we're not allowed to accept tips. We get well paid if we're quick. Excuse me, I see another customer at the checkout' `Last time I saw that was in California,' Marler commented as he settled in the passenger seat. `It's a new American food store with American methods.'
She was already driving away from the slot, her speed just below the limit. She slid through a gap in the traffic. A driver of another car shouted at her but she ignored him. `Going back to California?' she asked. `I don't think so. Full of blondes with incredibly long legs and not an atom in the brain department'
Arriving back, eventually, at Park Crescent, Paula parked the Porsche in the yard at the back of the building. It was now dusk and they were followed up the stairs by Pete Nield, holding a small black velvet bag tightly in his hand.
All the staff were inside the office. Harry was seated in his usual position, cross-legged on the floor. He was dismantling a Walther, placing the elements in a plastic tray. Tweed waved a hand at his clear desk. `Dealt with all the reports. Monica took the replies along to the Communications building further along the street. Ah, here's Mr Pete Nield. Took you a while, not that it matters if you've got the answers to my gold queries' `You'll be fascinated. I had to wait while my contact, who was amazed, took this stuff to another analyst.'
At the reference to the word 'gold' everyone gathered in front of Tweed's desk. Harry produced a large piece of black velvet, emptied the contents of the poche. With the office lights on, the specks and the larger piece glittered. `From the Rand in South Africa.' Harry paused. `Mined well over a hundred years ago. No doubt about it.' `I had just wondered,' said Tweed, speaking slowly.
Before Paula prepared dinner for two at Tweed's house in Bexford Street they had carried the huge stock from the Porsche up to the first floor. Tweed was astonished. `Why do we need all this?' `Because both your big American fridges are almost empty. It's essential to keep up supplies.' `We could run our own supermarket,' he chaffed her. `I'm cooking. Fancy mushroom soup, lamb chops, potatoes, plus mixed veg, followed by a lemon tart I baked at Fulham Road?' `My mouth's watering…'
When she was well advanced with the meal she came in to set the dining-room table, found everything laid. Two glasses of wine had been poured. She sipped one appreciatively. She peered over Tweed's shoulder at the book he was reading. The Official History of Gold Bullion.
They ate in silence, as was their custom. Only when they were perched on the comfortable sofa did Paula tersely tell Tweed about the bizarre Evelyn-Ashton encounter. He looked disturbed so she changed the subject. `What did you think of Hengistbury Manor and its inhabitants?' `Seemed like the most luxurious prison in the world. All those people living under one roof. I sensed hatred and maybe an atmosphere of evil. The lid held on by the remarkable Bella.' `What about Marshal Main?' `A charmer. Never liked them, probably because it's a quality I lack…' `I've seen women of all ages look at you speculatively. An
ything else about Marshal?' `A ladies' man – and with no qualms when he gets fed up with one Behind the hail-fellow-well-met flamboyancy I detected a ruthlessness.' `And Crystal?' she asked, keeping her expression blank. `Led me into her bedroom, saying the view was best seen from there. Then she tried to seduce me. She's strong but I managed to push her off.' `And she was furious, even ferocious?' `Oddly enough, no. She was calm, perfectly controlled. She took me along the corridor to show me Pike's Peak. A very unusual mountain – well, a huge hill. Shaped like a cone at the summit. Sheer sides. Nothing grows on it. I most certainly wouldn't attempt to climb it, not for a thousand pounds.' `Lavinia?' `Well…' Tweed paused. 'Certainly with the exception of Bella, the cleverest, most controlled person there. I must admit I had trouble reading her. Staring into those enormous glowing blue eyes I couldn't see what was behind them. Strong-willed.' `And very attractive,' Paula suggested. 'Clever? She is a forensic accountant. The tops.' `So is Crystal, and she's younger,' he remarked. `What about the other director, Warner Chance, the father of Leo and Crystal? He's so quiet.' `Again, excluding Bella, possibly the strongest and the most enterprising character in the whole set-up. I do suspect that he secretly despises Marshal.' `Two incidents keep coming back into my mind,' Paula mused. 'I was struck by Bella's last comment – "to come and protect our treasure".' `I noticed that wording.' `But when you quoted Bella downstairs Snape was appalled. He almost shouted hysterically, "She said that to you!" Most odd, I thought.' `So did I.' `What does it all mean?' Paula wondered. `Haven't a clue. Place is like a time bomb ready to explode.' `Well, we won't be there if it happens. What about Snape?' `Something odd there. I phoned a friend at the MoD while you were out. He served in Bosnia, was accused of shooting two unarmed Muslims in the back. The only witness was discredited and Snape was exonerated. Soon afterwards he voluntarily transferred to the Engineers. May have felt he was under a cloud. One thing I'm sure of – he knows more about what is going on there than anybody.'