by Colin Forbes
'Now how did I know, Paula, you'd be here? Fancy shepherd's pie?'
'I'm so hungry,' Paula told her, 'I could devour it. I hadn't the patience to make myself something at the flat.'
'Bring your chair over this side,' Monica ordered.
She waited until they were settled, facing each other across the desk. Then she bent forward.
'Have to do this properly like they do in posh restaurants, she announced.
Monica grasped the covers of each carton, paused, then with a flourish she removed the covers. Tweed realized he was famished as an appetizing aroma drifted into the room.
'Thank you, waiter,' said Paula.
'There'll be a pot of tea shortly. Don't wait for it – your food will get cold.'
'I have things to tell you,' Tweed said between mouthfuls.
He told her about his conversations with Philip at the MoD, about the arrival of Alf's mob at the Bunker, about the delivery of the searchlights and star shells. They were still eating when Howard came into the room, a rather dishevelled Howard. His shirt collar was open at the neck, his hair was only roughly brushed, his jaw whiskery.
'Excuse my appearance. I fell asleep for hours in my office. Pardon me, Tweed.' Taking a spoon, he scooped up a helping of shepherd's pie. 'That's very good. Why don't I get service like this?'
'Make passionate love to Monica,' Paula suggested. 'I'll get it for him anyway,' Monica said hastily. 'Howard,' said Tweed, 'we drive down at ten o'clock on the dot this morning. I'll keep you in touch as far as I can.'
`Please do that. I'll be thinking of you all.: He put his hand on Paula's shoulder, squeezed it.! You take care of yourself.'
'I don't think I'm too bad at doing that. But thank you for the thought.'
`I'm going off now to make myself respectable. Good luck to you all.'
He left quickly. Paula had the impression he was on the verge of getting emotional. As they finished their meal Monica was working away at her desk. She was checking the profiles again.
'Sharon Charlotte Mandeville,' she called out suddenly. 'Charlotte. I suppose she couldn't be Charlie.'
'Tweed thinks she is,' Paula replied. 'I'm not one hundred per cent certain.'
At precisely 10 am two cars drove away from Park Crescent. In the lead car Paula was behind the wheel with Tweed by her side. In the back Newman relaxed, legs crossed as he gazed out of the window.
Behind them Marler drove the second car. Next to him sat Nield and in the back Butler sat very upright, scanning the traffic, looking frequently back through the rear window to see if there was any sign they were being followed. There wasn't.
'Thank you for letting me take the wheel,' Paula said as they left London behind.
'I thought it was your turn,' Tweed replied. 'And I know that you love driving. You realize you're humming a tune?'
'I know. It's such a lovely day. Not a cloud in the sky and the air is so crisp and fresh.'
'It will be a different atmosphere after dark,' Newman commented. 'Might be a bit too fresh for you, Paula.'
'Now don't you get fresh with her,' Tweed joked. 'I think she's safer with you in the back.'
'So she's safe with you in the front?'
'So far she is. I'm not making any promises about later.'
Tweed continued keeping up a bantering conversation. He knew that they wouldn't be able to avoid the growing tension once they had reached the Bunker. For as long as possible he wanted to create a holiday mood. The atmosphere changed when they were driving slowly through Parham.
'Sir Guy's village,' Paula recalled. 'And the poor chap will never again see Irongates. What guts – the way he offered his help when we were going on to the Black Forest. You know something? I could strangle the Phantom with my bare hands. And slowly.'
'He was a remarkable man,' agreed Tweed, 'both in his military career and in business. I share your sentiments, Paula.'
There was a brooding silence in the car as they continued on their way, south through Ashford, then the turn-off from the highway to Ivychurch. Paula had slowed down, was driving carefully as she negotiated the twists and turns of the narrow lanes.
She was approaching the farmhouse where the Bunker was located when she suddenly stopped, staring to her left. Tweed and Newman looked in the same direction.
'What is it?' Tweed asked.
'I think I saw something. Back in a minute.'
Before Tweed could protest she had jumped out of the car and plunged along a track leading to a large copse of evergreen trees, a rare sight on Romney Marsh. Newman dived out to follow her, his Smith amp; Wesson in his hand.
'What the hell are you doing?' he hissed as he caught up with her.
'I thought the sun flashed off something. Look.' She stopped. 'See where Alf parked all his cabs? That was clever. They can't be seen from the air.'
Newman stared. The cabs were arranged laager fashion, left in a small circle. All were sheltered from observation from the air under great evergreen spreading branches.
'No flies on Alf,' he said.
'I think he's a very astute man. Better get back to the car or Tweed will fret.'
Once inside the car, they told Tweed what they had found. He was intrigued. He agreed that Alf knew exactly what he was doing in any given situation. Paula lowered her window, switched off the engine. She had repeated this performance several times after leaving Parham behind.
'Why do you keep doing this?' Tweed enquired. 'Listening. For any sign of a chopper. Not a whisper. So we can drive on. We're nearly there.'
'I know;' Tweed said quietly.
She was crawling as the farmhouse came into view. Deliberately to give Mrs Carson time to observe them, then to open the automatic gate.
Tweed stared hard at the farmhouse. He kept his expression neutral to conceal his reaction. He spoke to himself without letting anyone hear a word.
'The battlefield.'
50
Paula was amazed by the complexity and the global reach of the communications system which had been created. Mrs Carson was taking her on a conducted tour. They had reached the underground rabbit warren of offices by first descending into the cellar beneath the farmhouse.
'We enter through here,' Mrs Carson explained.
She opened a slab-like steel door and they entered a long tunnel. The concrete roof above them was arched, illumination was by a series of fluorescent tubes suspended from above. She opened one door and Paula peered inside. A large number of men in shirtsleeves sat behind computers and radio terminals. All wore earphones and most were scribbling like mad on yellow pads.
'Coded messages coming through from all over the world,' Mrs C. explained.
'I didn't see any masts with aerials when we arrived,' Paula commented.
'Wait till We get back upstairs. Alf and Marler have redesigned the whole. reception before you got down to see us. Staggering what those two men – with helpers – achieved. This is the decoding room.'
She opened another door further along the corridor. Inside there were more men in shirtsleeves. They were working at desks with codebooks open while they deciphered messages, writing on more yellow pads.
Paula noticed that in both rooms no one had looked up when they stood in the doorways, such was the concentration on the work.
Mrs C. led Paula into another tunnel, running at right angles to the main one. Opening another door they peered inside a vast canteen. Paula recognized Mrs Payne, wearing whites and preparing large quantities of food. Guiding Paula further down the tunnel, Mrs C. opened yet another door. Beyond was a large, very clean and modem washroom.
'I think you've seen enough to give you the general idea,' Mrs C. decided. 'If you stay down here too long and you're not used to it you get a feeling of claustrophobia. And the rattle of the teleprinters gets on your nerves.'
'How can Mrs Payne possibly cope on her own?'
'She won't have to. Other cooks on the staff come on duty shortly. She was preparing lunch for you and the people
who drove down in your two cars.'
'And all this converted out of what was once a major smugglers' haunt, ages ago.'
'Yes. And the main tunnel extended to close to the sea. They must have worked like madmen with the most primitive of tools.'
'Imagine the number of casks of brandy which must have travelled along these tunnels at one time.'
'Makes me feel tiddly just to think of it,' said Mrs C. leading them back into the farmhouse's cellar. 'Now I've shown you the system I can get back to reassembling my machine-pistol. I dismantled it this morning to clean it.'
'Machine-pistol?' Paula queried as they mounted the steps and arrived back in the farmhouse.
'Yes. Tweed phoned me earlier to warn me what's coming. It will be all hands to the pumps. I was trained by that nice man, Sarge, at the mansion in Surrey. Wonder why they call him Sarge?'
'He was a sergeant at one time, SAS I believe.'
Tweed sat drinking tea by himself at the large old wooden table in the living room. He put down his cup when they arrived.
'Well, Paula, what do you think?'
'They have much more space down there than in the second building they normally occupy in Park Crescent. Would it be an idea to keep them down here?'
'We're considering just that – if we survive tonight.' 'Of course we will,' scoffed Mrs C. blow hell out of them.'
Paula stared at Mrs C. Plump-figured, her apple-cheeked face was smiling. She was actually looking forward to what was coming.
'I'll go now,' she said.
'Put your coat on,' called out Mrs C., disappearing into another room. 'It's pretty nippy out there.'
She must have eyes in the back of her head,. Paula thought. She was slipping on her coat as she went out into the farmyard. Newman, standing at the entrance to a narrow passage between two old barns, beckoned to her. She followed him, emerged at the other end into the open. She gazed around. As on her previous visit, she thought she had never seen bleaker terrain.
To the south, until the ground belonging to the farm terminated at a hedge, the land was almost completely flat, covered with miserable tufts of grass. Like a desert, she said to herself. A chill wind, freezing her face, made her glad she'd taken Mrs C.'s advice.
'This way,' said Newman.
He was leading her to a copse of very tall leafless deciduous trees. Thick, black, skeletal branches extended out way above her. Marler was standing next to a large thigh-high wooden box which had a pyramid of thick wires over it. From the tip of the pyramid a pulley was attached. A cable, extended high up, was looped over two heavy branches, then its remaining length dropped to the ground. Marler was wearing motoring gloves. 'What on earth is all this?' Paula asked.
'Observation point. One of Alf's Gulf War veterans said we needed one. And that box he's standing by is like one of those cat's cradles window cleaners are suspended from to clean the windows of high buildings. Care for a ride up?'
'On my own? Who made the box?'
'Alf, with the help of Marler and some of Alf's men. When this place was built the builders left behind a workhouse complete with tools in one of those barns. And you won't be on your own. I'm coming up with you.'
Newman had a powerful pair of binoculars slung around his neck. From the pocket of his weather-proof jacket he produced Beck's mobile, loaned to him by Tweed. Marler had his own mobile suspended from his neck.
'Communication,' said Newman. 'All aboard.'
He helped her climb inside the cradle, then joined her. There was plenty of room for both of them. She heard Marler shout to one of Alf's men to come and give a hand. Hypnotized, she watched the two men, both with gloved hands, haul on the wire cable. She gripped the side of the cradle with both hands as it began its ascent. It moved upwards faster than she had anticipated, swayed a little. She gritted her teeth, refused to look down. Newman put an arm round her waist.
'Safe as houses.'
'I'll have to take your word for that.'
She experienced an unexpected change of mood as the ascent continued. As a vast panorama of Romney Marsh spread out she experienced a sense of exhilaration. They were very high up when their cradle stopped moving. She stared at a large wooden platform, constructed of wooden planks, situated between heavy branches.
`Time to disembark,' said Newman. 'Don't look down.'
He helped her to leave the cradle. Then she was standing on the platform. Her nervousness disappeared as she gazed into the distance.
'You can see far out into the Channel.'
'That's the idea. Like to use my binoculars? I'll hold on to you,' he said, clasping her round the waist.
'I can see a ship sailing up the Channel.' She focused the binoculars. 'I can read its name. The Mexicali. This is wonderful.'
'Get the idea?'
'We'll see them coming. No, it will be dark.'
'So we use night glasses. And we have communication.' He took out Beck's mobile. 'Marler, they're here.'
'What? Where!'
'Just joking.'
'Bob, don't do that again. I was about to raise a general alarm.'
'Sorry. That was stupid of me.' He. looked at Paula. 'At least it proves the communication works. Time to go down.'
When they had climbed back into the cradle Newman called Marler on the mobile. The two men waiting on the ground released the wire cable from a large iron hook driven deep into the ground they had wrapped the end round. As it descended Paula noticed a thin black cable attached to the tree trunk. She pointed to it.
'What is that?'
"The cable from the underground complex up to a camouflaged aerial at the top of this tree. We had a normal thirty-foot mast sticking up out of the ground, thought it was too prominent, so we substituted that.'
'Clever.'
The cradle landed gently and Paula stepped out with Newman. She was surprised to realize her legs felt stiff. With tension, she assumed. They next showed her how to operate one of the compact mobile searchlights which manoeuvred easily on thick rubber tyres. At Newman's suggestion she aimed it at the copse of evergreens concealing the taxi cabs. She switched it on, was startled by the intensity of the device even in daylight. The evergreens glowed in the glare. She switched if off quickly. Mrs C. appeared.
'I've slowed down lunch,' she called out. 'You're busy. Tweed said he'd like you to join him. He's way over by the perimeter.'
It was quite a walk over the open ground but Paula welcomed it. A chance to stretch her legs, get them moving. Tweed stood, hands in his coat pockets, waiting for them.
'See anything wrong with this hedge?' he asked her. 'No,' she replied, after studying it. 'Just a very prickly hedge.'
'Very prickly,' he told her. 'We've entwined coils of barbed wire inside the whole length of hedge round the perimeter. The wire was painted the same colour as the twigs. Anyone trying to get through it will be ripped to pieces.'
'Diabolical,' she said.
'We're playing for keeps,' Tweed said grimly. 'Time for lunch, I'm sure. Let's get moving. I'm hungry again.'
The afternoon dragged by on sluggish legs. Waiting was always the worst part. Weapons had been distributed. Everyone was issued with a large shoulder-slung canvas holdall, packed with deadly material.
'I'll take a machine-pistol and extra ammo,' Paula said at one point to Newman.
'You've got your Browning and loads in the holdall.'
'Have you lost your memory, Bob? I used a machine-pistol back at Schluchsee to take out three thugs emerging from a side door of that Psycho house.'
Paula was given her machine-pistol. Unloading it, she went outside to practise, to get the feel of it again. In the late afternoon it was still a brilliantly sunny day. Tweed and Newman joined her, strolled across the flatlands.
Without warning a low-flying light aircraft appeared from the direction of the Channel. It swooped low over them, circled as Tweed looked up. Marler came running out, gripping his Armalite. The plane flew off inland, vanished.
'You think i
t was them?' Newman asked.
'I'm sure it was,' Tweed replied. 'Lucky you weren't up the tree, Marler, and that the mobile searchlights are hidden in a barn. So it won't help them – the fact that the passenger had a camera. I suggest we keep under cover inside the farmhouse.'
Night came suddenly like a black menace. Inside the farmhouse Mrs C. served supper at six o'clock. To her disappointment they ate only half of what was on their plates, except for Paula, who was famished again. By now they had all been issued with mobile phones which would be worn slung from their necks. The mobiles had special amplifiers, so everyone would hear what was said no matter how much noise was generated by weapon fire. The amplifiers had been designed by the boffins in the basement at Park Crescent weeks before.
'Don't forget,' Newman warned, 'that the whole perimeter is split up into sectors A, B, C, D, E, F and G.'
'That's the third time you've told us that,' Paula complained.
'I want you to remember it,' Newman told her.
'We ought to have had music to see us through the evening,' said Marler.
'What would you have suggested?' enquired Newman.
'The end of the 1812 Overture. The crash of the guns.' 'I don't think that's funny,' snapped Paula.
'Wasn't meant to be,' Marler rapped back.
Tweed again checked his watch. He pursed his lips, glanced at everyone round the table.
'That's the fifth time you've checked the time,' said Paula.
'Who's counting?' Newman snapped back.
'I am.'
'It's nine o'clock,' Tweed said in a bored voice.
He had just spoken when Mike, one of Alf's Gulf War veterans, got up from the table. He put on a short sheepskin coat. His night glasses were slung round his neck.
'Time I went up that tree. It is the observation point. Come and haul me up to heaven.'
Newman and Marler stood up, accompanied Mike outside. Paula, on edge, frowned.
'He'll freeze to death up that tree. It's too early.
'Never too early,' said Alf, who rarely spoke. 'And he'll be all right. Once trained for three months in the Arctic.'