by Colin Forbes
'This is an old village,' Newman commented. 'There's another one of the same name in Suffolk, I think. And a good three miles north of us is a very good hotel, Chilston Park. Tweed has stayed there-' He broke off as they swung round a bend, dipped, his headlights, slowed down. 'Well, well – look what's ahead of us. The white Cadillac.'
'Have you got a gun I could have?' Dillon growled, jerking himself into his normal alertness.
'I'm carrying my usual Smith amp; Wesson. 38 – and you can't have it. We don't want to start a shooting war out here.'
'Those guys in the Cadillac will see us.'
'I don't think so. I've experienced this before. One car tails another, loses it. From then on the occupants are looking in front of them. They rarely look back. Might be interesting to see where they're headed for.'
Parham was a working village. Even at this late hour lights were on in pubs and restaurants. The Cadillac drove slowly along a narrow street lined on both sides with white clap-board houses. Newman was familiar with the place laid out in a series of chessboard-like squares, one leading into another, an old village typical of the area. A cutting icy wind had been blowing in the countryside but the village was sheltered by the layout of its buildings.
'Looks like they've arrived somewhere,' Dillon commented.
'Let's find out where…'
Everyone was indoors. There was not a soul on the deserted narrow streets, lit at intervals by ancient lanterns. They followed the Cadillac into one small square and then it turned into another even smaller square. Newman parked his Merc by the kerb.
That's a dead end. Let's follow on foot.'
'Bloody cold night,' Dillon observed, standing on the cobbled pavement.
'You'll feel it – you're very tired. Now where have they gone?'
Leading the way, he peered round a corner into the smaller square. The Cadillac had stopped at one side in front of tall gates which gave no view of what lay beyond them. On either side the property was further concealed by old twelve-foot-high brick walls. A hand protruded from the driver's window. Both huge gates slowly moved inwards automatically.
'That's weird,' Newman whispered as Dillon stared over his left shoulder. 'They're electronically controlled and the driver has the gadget which opens them.'
They watched as the Cadillac drove slowly forward up a curving drive. At the end they had a glimpse of a large grim-looking mansion built of stone with turrets at the corners. All the windows were masked by closed shutters and there was no sign that the place was inhabited – until the front door opened and light streamed on to the drive. Then the gates closed and the mansion was gone.
'Let's take a closer look,' Newman suggested.
They crept into the square and on the three other sides were more high brick walls almost hiding the large houses behind them. Newman handed Dillon a pair of gloves, told him to put them on. The American was shivering with cold and fatigue. Newman had a torch in his left hand as they reached the outside of the mansion where the Cadillac had disappeared. The gates were constructed of tall iron rails and attached to them on the inside were sheets of metal, obstructing any view. On the right- hand brick pillar was a metal plate which gave the name when Newman switched on his torch. Irongates.
'Let's get back to the car,' Newman whispered.
Once inside the Merc they savoured the warmth of the heaters. Newman had left the engine running in case they had to make a quick getaway. He drove back into the large square, took another exit and suddenly Parham vanished and they were out in lonely countryside, moving along another deserted country lane.
'Irongates,' Newman said half to himself. 'I know who lives there. Sir Guy Strangeways. Spent over twenty years in the States building up a property empire. Never met him.'
'I have,' Dillon told him. 'A mogul. Had the right contacts with certain senators in Washington. Money changes hands and he always got permission to buy an old building to erect a high rise after demolition. He was over there a long time but stayed very British.'
'Never went native?'
'I guess that's what you think we Yanks are – just a bunch of natives,'
'I always respect other people's opinion of themselves,' Newman joked back.
Dillon must have woken up to be capable of a wisecrack. Probably the brief excursion into the cold night air, Newman decided. They drove on through the night, each smoking a cigarette. Dillon looked to his left. The moon had risen, illuminating a range of low hills which fanned away into the distance.
'Thought this part of the world was flat,' he remarked.
'It is. Wait till we get beyond Ashford. A very ordinary town but difficult to drive through if you don't know it. Have to get into the right lane – otherwise you're going miles out of your way.'
Newman had turned onto a wide highway which stretched south as far as the eye could see. No traffic now. Hardly a village. They passed through a deserted Ashford and continued along a highway. Dillon saw what Newman had meant. The world was flat as a billiard table. On both sides fields stretched away to nowhere. Newman slowed down as they approached a signpost. Ivychurch. He turned left off the highway, drove slowly along a twisting narrow lane. Ivychurch was an isolated church, a handful of cottages, then nothing.
'What is the Bunker?' Dillon asked.
'You'll see when we get there.'
'Where are we now?'
'A place where you'll be safe,' Newman said. 'Tells me everything.'
'Gunmen in Cadillacs will never track us here.' 'You don't know those boys.'
'Maybe I do,' Newman retorted. 'Let's stop for a minute. We could get out for a moment.'
Putting on Newman's gloves again, Dillon stepped out of the car. The wind had dropped, the night air was still. There was a heavy silence which seemed to press down on him. Bare hedges, networks of bleak twigs, lined the narrow road. Beyond them flat fields sprawled away for ever. Here and there was dotted the silhouette of a leafless tree, its extremities like skeletal hands clawing upwards towards the sky. No sign of any kind of habitation or life anywhere.
'Too damned quiet for my liking,' Dillon commented. 'Reminds me of certain parts of the Midwest back home. Where the hell are we?'
'We're inside Romney Marsh,' said Newman who had joined him. 'This side of that hedge is a wide gulley, a drainage ditch – they're all over the place.'
'Think I'd like to get back in the car. Where to next?' 'Deeper inside the marsh…'
Dillon lost track of the number of lonely forks and crossroads they came across. Newman seemed to know the way even with his headlights dimmed. They met no traffic, passed through two tiny villages with no lights in the huddled cottages. Dillon thought this was the most desolate area he'd ever encountered. Would they ever reach the mysterious Bunker?
'Will I be out here long?' he eventually asked without enthusiasm.
'You'll be safe. That's the object of the exercise.' 'Anyone to talk to?'
'Yes. We're close now.'
Ahead of them, just off the road, a strange shape loomed in the night. A large round windmill, its four huge sails motionless. Dillon stared at this first sign of civilization.
'What's that thing?'
'A windmill. The only one on Romney Marsh, so far as I know. It's five storeys high and they say the view from the top is awesome.'
'There was a light in the top window. It's gone out. Any idea who lives there?'
'A hermit, I gather. No one ever sees him. We're close to the Bunker – and not so far from the sea. At times a mist, even a fog, comes rolling in. The atmosphere is pretty ghostly when that happens.'
'Goddam ghostly now…'
Newman had slowed to a crawl. They turned yet another curving bend and what appeared to be an old farm gate closed off a track leading through a gap in the hedge. Stopping as the car faced the gate, Newman flashed his lights in an irregular series. The gate slowly swung inwards, Newman drove through on to the track, the gate closed behind them.
'While I remember,' Dil
lon remarked, 'Washington has also sent a team of top communication experts to the Embassy. No idea why.'
'Useful to know.'
A large old tumbledown farmhouse stood at the end of the track. Laid out on three sides it enclosed a cobbled yard Newman drove onto. They got out of the Merc as an old wooden door opened and a small plump woman in her fifties was framed in the light behind her. She wore a flowered print dress with an apron over it. Dillon's idea of a typical Brit's farmer's wife.
She had red apple cheeks and a warm smile. Her grey hair was tied back in a bun, reminding the American of Monica's hairstyle. She ushered her guests inside and Newman patted her affectionately on the rump.
`Meet your hostess, Cord. This is Mrs Carson. She runs the 'Bunker and we take orders from her. This is Cord Dillon – just arrived from the States,' he introduced. 'No sleep for days and hungry as a hunter, I'm sure.'
'That door has a solid steel plate on the inside,' observed Dillon as Mrs Carson closed and attended to three sophisticated locks.
'Behind the closed shutters of every window is armour-plated glass,' Newman told him.
'Place looks like a series of shacks and turns out to be a fortress. Who protects it if we come under attack?'
'I do,' said Mrs Carson. 'Not that anyone will find us.'
Dillon stared at her in disbelief. His expression became more pronounced as she slipped her hand inside a large canvas shopping bag perched on a shelf and took out a Heckler amp; Koch MP5 9mm sub machine-gun.
Effortlessly she inserted a magazine, then, still smiling, looked at Newman.
'Is he trustworthy?'
'Totally. And he may be staying here for a while. He's on the run from gunmen.'
'You'd better have this, then,' she said, handing the weapon to Dillon. 'You do know how to use it?' she asked.
'Cord is very familiar with it,' Newman assured her.
'I have another one ready hanging in a cupboard,' she assured her guest. 'And down in the cellars we have an armoury. Handguns, machine-guns, smoke bombs, grenades. I'll show you, then you can have supper. Tweed phoned me, said he thought you'd need a good hot home-cooked meal…'
They were standing in a large kitchen-breakfast room with a wooden table laid for three people to eat. The atmosphere was warm, cosy and Dillon detected a slight humming sound.
'You've even got air-conditioning, for Pete's sake.'
'We have, Newman told him. 'Powered by our own generator. We have a spare as back-up in case of a breakdown.'
'Are you a drinking man?' Mrs Carson enquired. 'I haven't Bourbon but I could supply a double Scotch. You look as though you could do with it.'
'I sure could. Thank you.'
'Nothing for me,' Newman chimed in. 'I may have to drive back tonight. I'll know when I've phoned Tweed.'
Their hostess had walked quickly to check what was happening on her Aga cooker, lifting lids of several pans, stirring one gently. She then opened a cupboard, brought out a bottle of very expensive whisky, poured a generous double Scotch, handed it to her guest.
'Get that inside you. Supper's not quite ready. I'll show you your sleeping quarters underground.'
'This is what I need.' Dillon took a large swallow. 'The weakness of this place is that a mob of gunmen could ignore that gate, scramble through the hedge. They'd be all round this farmhouse before you knew what was happening.'
'No, they couldn't,' Mrs Carson said sharply. 'Look at this.' She opened a large white metal panel on the wall. Behind it was a series of small porthole windows, each with a number above it. 'There's an electric tripwire all round all the hedges. If there are intruders a buzzer goes off. I only have to check this and whichever number is flashing tells me which sectors they're coming in through. Three teenage boys did try to break in. I knew where, saw them coming through my binoculars, went out to meet them with my miniature water cannon. The pressure on the jet is very powerful. It is so strong I knocked them over when I aimed it at them. And it was in winter so they were soaked in icy water. They ran for it, I can tell you.'
'I'm dazed,' reacted Dillon.
'Must be the drink,' Mrs Carson suggested, pulling his leg. 'Now follow me…'
Crossing to the opposite panelled wall, she pressed a button. A section of the panel slid back, revealing a doorway. Telling Dillon to mind the steps, she switched on a light and led the way down a flight of concrete steps with a handrail on either side.
The underground complex was vast, one cellar leading to another. The floors, walls and tunnel-like ceiling were painted white. There was nothing primitive about the complex. Opening one door, she ushered her visitor into a comfortably furnished bedroom with a modern bathroom leading off it. Dillon could hardly believe it as she escorted him to more rooms. Taking out two keys she unlocked a steel door and a light came on inside automatically.
'The armoury.'
Dillon stared in amazement as he wandered slowly round, looking at the racks holding a vast majority of guns amd grenades. Below each rack holding weapons was another rack stacked with the correct ammunition. As he turned round Mrs Carson was checking her watch.
'Must have taken you ages to excavate all this,' he said.
'No, it didn't,' Newman explained. 'This place has a history of being used by smugglers in the old days. The cellars were here so they just had to be modernized. Marler supervised the development.'
'Difficult to keep it secret. Workers talk.'
'Not the workers who created this. Marlev recruited them in Eastern Europe. Brought them in secretly aboard small launches by night. They never knew where they were. Marler could talk to them in their own lingo. A lot were miners – used to working underground. They never left the place until it was done. Then they were transported secretly back to where they'd come from – with a load of dollars, their favourite currency. For the sophisticated technical work we used boffins from Park Crescent and the training mansion down in Surrey.'
'You two will be gabbling all night and the meal is ready,' Mrs Carson said severely.
'What do they think about the assassination of our Prime Minister in the States?' Newman asked as they followed her upstairs.
'The rumour they spread was it was the work of a splinter group of the IRA.'
'Who might "they" be?'
'Top-flight spin doctors. Incidentally, a team of them have also arrived at the Embassy. Experts in TV, radio and the Internet. Why, I don't know. Something very big is being planned.' Dillon drank the rest of his Scotch.
'When I said top-flight I meant it – recruited from private industry.'
'What do these spin doctors do in America?' Newman asked as they entered the kitchen-breakfast room.
'Brainwash people. Which is why the President is still in the White House.'
'Stop chattering, you two,' Mrs Carson ordered. 'Supper is ready. I hope you like roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Mr Dillon?'
'Lead me to it. And call me Cord.'
'I must call Tweed from the office here,' Newman told her. 'I may not have time to eat anything. Back in a minute.'
Opening another door, he went into a small room after switching on the light. Closing the door, he sat in a swivel chair behind a desk. Its surface contained a phone, the machine Mrs Carson typed her reports on, but no fax. Security was very tight at the Bunker. When Monica answered he asked for Tweed.
'I'm on the line…' Tweed's voice.
'Be careful. I'm not sure this is any longer a safe phone.' Newman was recalling Dillon's reference to a team of communication experts arriving at Grosvenor Square. 'I've arrived here with the parcel.'
'Any important data?'
'Yes, but I don't think I should give you it on the phone. I propose to drive straight back. I can give it to you in the morning.'
'I'd like it tonight. I'll wait for you.'
'I'm on my way…'
Going back into the other room, he found Dillon ravenously devouring Mrs Carson's meal. She had refilled his whisky glass and was eating a smal
l portion herself. The aroma made Newman suddenly feel hungry. Mrs Carson was an excellent cook, besides being a crack shot with a variety of weapons.
'Sorry,' he said, 'but I have to drive straight back to London. Cord, I have a full outfit of clothes down here, including pyjamas and shaving kit. You'll find everything you need.'
'Thank you, friend, for bringing me here.' Dillon had stood up, left hand holding his napkin, shaking New- man's with the other. 'How long will I be in the Bunker?'
'Until it's safe to come out. There are fifteen acres round the farmhouse. Mrs Carson will show you outside. She'll give you some old farmer's clothes in case anyone sees you. They'll think you're a yokel.'
'Better practise my yokel accent.'
Mrs Carson was putting the plates of food in a warming drawer. She produced her keys, ready to let Newman out.
'One more thing, Cord, before I go. All the things you have seen recently, what has happened to you. Any idea what it's all about?'
'The whole grim business is a mystery.'
Mrs Carson dimmed the lights before unlocking the main door. Newman hugged her, went out into the breathtaking cold air to his car. He drove slowly back up the track and Mrs Carson timed the opening of the gate perfectly.
Leaving the farmhouse behind, he turned his lights on full beam. As he navigated the maze of lanes half his mind was on driving the car, half on what Dillon had told him. Why did he have a sense of imminent doom?
2
When Newman walked into Tweed's office in the middle of the night there was a tense atmosphere. Paula and Monica sat silently behind their desks. Tweed was leaning forward in his chair chatting to a man in his thirties who Newman detested. Basil Windermere.
Leaning against a wall, smoking a king-size, stood Marler, a key member of Tweed's team, reputed to be the best marksman in the whole of Western Europe. Shorter than. Newman – he was five feet seven tall – Marler was slim and, as usual, smartly dressed. Wearing a grey suit with a Prince of Wales check, his trouser creases were knife-edged, his white shirt fresh from the dry-cleaner, his blue silk tie decorated with a subtle chain link design. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and his clean-shaven face had an expression suggesting he was miles away in thought.