by Colin Forbes
`What do you think of that?' Paula asked.
`I don't like it. The whole thing was planned by a brilliant organizer'
`So are we getting involved with the Main Chance Bank.'
`No.'
`You mentioned a traitor. I'm wondering about Snape. He did take photos of us this morning when we were leaving Park Crescent.'
`The timing is all wrong. They — whoever "they" may be — had to have that data earlier to set up their complex trap.'
`Yes, that makes sense. So you still think we'll never get involved with Hengistbury again?'
`Absolutely not. I'll explain why if you'll come back with me to my Bexford Street house this evening.'
`Of course I'll come. But I still wonder if we've seen the last of Hengistbury.'
5
Norfolk, the Wash.
Thirty-six hours before Tweed and Paula left for Hengistbury, a man called Max was standing in darkness on the seaward side of the great dyke which protected the wilderness known as the Wash, protected the vast area of grassland from the erosion of the North Sea. Max was waiting for the tramp steamer lying just beyond the three-mile limit to reply to his signal.
He held the powerful torch in his large hand. He had flashed one short, two long, one short. He was cold. Despite his fur-lined beaver overcoat, woollen scarf, the cap on his head and the motoring gloves he was frozen in the bitter Arctic breeze. Fortunately the sea was calm. The VIP who would come ashore disliked rough water.
Then the breeze dropped and at that moment the tramp answered his signal. One short, two long, one short. His earlier signal had informed the tramp it was safe, this section of the Wash was deserted.
Dammit, he thought, the whole Wash is deserted. The only buildings were never-used ancient churches scattered across the grassy emptiness, built centuries ago by wool merchants when wool was profitable money. Then the economy changed and the price of wool nosedived. The wool barons disappeared — and so did their workers, abandoning the villages which over a long period had crumbled. Max flashed his torch again as he saw a massive rubber dinghy approaching. This
was the only place it could land its powerful passenger_
A crude landing stage with rails projected into the water and Max signalled again to guide the dinghy in. It moved swiftly but its muffled engine made hardly any noise beyond a gentle purr.
Max was over six feet tall, burly, quick with his hands and feet. He had been the most productive lumberjack in Canada. There he had killed one of his fellow workers who owed him money and refused to pay. Removing the knife from the corpse he had used a chainsaw to fell a poor-quality tree, guiding it so it landed across the body. The rest of the crew were working a distance away and Max knew no one would be interested in the fallen tree.
Max immediately went to Vancouver, caught a flight to London. He spent time in the East End where he learned to speak like a Cockney. His next move was to use some of the pile of money he'd earned to buy the best clothes.
He then spent time in some of London's top hotels, listening carefully to how the guests spoke. He was educating himself to mix in any environment. He had an acute brain so he soon boarded a flight to Paris.
He took a job as a bouncer in a high-class nightclub off the Champs-Elysées. His tough but well-shaped features and fair hair appealed to women. He liked women but in his role as a bouncer avoided getting involved. By now he was speaking fluent French.
Late one night when the club closed he walked out, wandered into a classy bar which was empty, he thought, as he ordered a drink from the barman. Normally he was careful, taking euros from a few in his trouser pocket. This time he made a mistake. He took out his wallet stuffed with money. A fat man appeared from nowhere, grabbed for the wallet.
Max held on to the wallet, used his left hand to hurl the thief halfway down the bar where he tripped, fell over. With a savage look on his plump face the thief jumped up after pulling an automatic out of his hip holster. He was aiming the weapon when Max, who had lifted his hands, called out in French.
`Behind you!'
The fat man glanced back as Max's right hand slipped a knife out of his pocket. The long blade whipped through the air, penetrated the fat man's throat. He fell forward on the handle and the knife was driven through to the back of his fleshy neck. He lay very still.
Max turned, picked up his glass again, used a handkerchief to wipe off his fingerprints. Which was when four sinister apache types appeared all round him. Max was considering how to deal with them when the one in front of him lifted the palms of both hands in a peace gesture.
`The chief was impressed with you. He wishes to talk with you. In that alcove over there...'
Which was how Max came to meet and eventually become second-in-command to the man now stepping carefully ashore from the dinghy held fast to the landing stage by its crew.
Calouste Doubenkian walked slowly towards Max. It was impossible to tell what he looked like as he cat- footed onto firm ground. He was short, but he wore a long black astrakhan overcoat which ended below his knees, a Russian-style fur hat which concealed his high forehead, and large dark glasses which concealed his eyes. Long fur gloves masked the shape of his hands. His soft-soled shoes made no sound as he approached Max. His voice was a quiet purr and he spoke in English very softly, which Max always found disturbing.
`Is it safe?' he enquired.
`It was when I last checked …'
`Then perhaps you had better check again?'
`Please wait here, Mr Doubenkian,' Max said nervously.
`Have I not told you before never to speak my name?'
`Sorry, sir. Very sorry.'
`I will come with you while you check.'
`If you would please follow my exact footsteps. There is deep marsh just beyond the stepping stones.' `Useful for hiding dead bodies, my dear Max.' `I'll lead the way, then, sir.'
The moon that had appeared from behind a cloud and had enabled Max to spot the approach of the large dinghy shed its eerie glow over the vast stretch of grass land behind the dyke. The silence pressed down on them now the faint purr of the dinghy as it headed back for the tramp had died away. The silence disturbed Calouste as he carefully trod from one stepping stone to the next small island of safety. He had a strong nerve but it was tested to the limit as he saw the acid-green grass floating on top of the deadly ooze on either side of the path.
`You have made all the arrangements to eliminate Tweed before he reaches Hengistbury?' he asked softly.
`In thirty-six hours he'll be as dead as mutton,' Max assured him cheerfully. 'I have a network now across Britain. Tweed is a goner.'
He stopped speaking suddenly as they came close to the solitary road where the cars were parked. A red- haired girl appeared standing just off the road. She wore a windcheater and jeans and was obviously waiting for them. Carol Lynton had lost her way after visiting her boyfriend in his cottage. As Max stopped, wondering whether she had heard what they had just said, Calouste caught up with him.
`Get rid of her,' whispered Calouste. 'Sound carries in this silence.'
`You don't mean...' Max began in a similar whisper.
`Obey my order. Eliminate her.'
Max swallowed, gritted his teeth. She was a pretty girl, no more than eighteen. She came down towards him, smiling. He tried to smile back, couldn't. Calouste jabbed him in the back. Max took a deep breath of cold air.
When the girl reached him Max grasped her hard round the waist. She was quite small. As she opened her mouth to yell he uplifted her, swung her upside down, plunged her head-first deep into the ooze. He thought he heard a gurgle. Her legs were waving desperately, then they sank out of sight. A few muddy bubbles appeared on the surface of the green slime. Then nothing.
`Village girls gossip,' Calouste remarked off-handedly.
Max glanced north where, under the moon's ghostly glow, the Wash had the atmosphere of a bleak and desolate desert. Max couldn't wait to leave the area.
`So
rry we had to land you in a place like this,' he commented, 'but it's one of the loneliest spots in Britain'
`Nothing wrong with it,' snapped Calouste, who had grown up in the wilderness of Central Asia. 'Where is the car?'
`Only a short walk down the road here. I thought it unwise to park them too close to the path. There they are.'
Stepping onto the road Calouste stared. Parked by the roadside was a gleaming black stretch limousine. Beyond it was Max's second-hand Ford. Seeing their arrival a uniformed chauffeur opened the driver's door, stood to attention.
`The limo is for you, of course,' Max explained. `Driver is one of my star turns. He's strangled at least one man. Name is Grogan....'
`You idiot!' Calouste was apoplectic. 'I have told you before, I do not wish attention to be brought to me. Is that limo hired?'
`Oh, yes.' Max was nervous. 'It is'
`At least you got one thing right. Get rid of this Grogan,' Calouste almost screeched. 'Tell him to return the car to the hire firm instantly. If the police stop him he was to pick up a banker, a Mr Moran in Spalding, and couldn't find the address. I have to cover every bloody angle myself! I will travel beside you in your car. I will walk to it. Give me the keys now And send that limo off this moor toute suite. Move, damn you!'
Max felt in his pocket for his car keys. In his haste he dropped them, stooped, grabbed them. He ran to the limo, his legs unsteady. He was scared stiff of Calouste in his chief's present mood.
`To the Green Dark Hotel in West Higham. Is that right, sir?' he asked as he drove off with Calouste beside him.
`Correct.'
Max was relieved to find Calouste was in a better mood. He had no idea Calouste had pretended to be in a rage. It was a method he used occasionally on a subordinate to remind them who was boss.
`I drove earlier to the Green Dark Hotel,' Max said casually. 'Just checking so I knew the route. I cruised past. No one seemed to be about. You have booked a suite there, sir?'
`I own the damned place. Bought it through a series of small companies, staffed it with my own people. I will be the only guest. Getting there, avoid King's Lynn. It has a police HQ. I doubt if that peasant girl you had to deal with has yet been reported missing. Why take the risk?'
`Very sensible, if I may say so. You think of everything.'
`If I don't no one else will. Pull up somewhere very quiet before we reach the hotel. I wish to change my appearance.'
No more was said and they met hardly any traffic. No one would be out on such a bitterly cold night. When they pulled up in the middle of nowhere Calouste got out with the suitcase he had hugged on his lap. Max tactfully turned his back. When he turned round he had a shock.
He hardly recognized Calouste, who now wore a tweed overcoat, woollen scarf pulled up to his chin, smart leather gloves and a wide-brimmed trilby pulled well down over his face. The only similarity was a large pair of gold-rimmed dark glasses, different from the pair he'd worn when he had come ashore. His previous outfit was neatly packed in the suitcase. He handed Max a card, keeping his own card in his hand.
`When we enter we go to reception, say nothing, just give the desk man your card. I am in suite three on the first floor. You are in suite four. There is an interconnecting door. In case of trouble use your fists or your beloved knife. No shooting. A passer-by might hear shots.'
`You are expecting trouble?' Max enquired as they got back into the car.
`Absolutely not, dear boy,' Calouste replied, speaking now in the perfect accent of an Old Etonian. 'But I once read that the maxim of the Boy Scouts' organization was "Be prepared". Here we are. Afterwards park the car out of sight in the garage at the back.'
The oddly named Green Dark Hotel was a large square building, its plaster walls painted in a light
green. There was a spacious park area in front with a
pebble drive. Inside, Calouste marched up to the desk, planted down his card next to Max's.
`Parsons, I notice you have omitted an instruction. You really must do exactly as I tell you, please. Outside I want a No Vacancies sign erected immediately. I will have a meal in my suite in one hour. There is a menu in my suite? Excellent. I shall phone down my order. Mr
Rogers here will make his own arrangements, again for
a meal in his suite.'
`Will do, Mr Pennington,' the smartly dressed receptionist assured his guest. 'Will get crackin' at once.' `The sign outside first, if you please. Immediately.' `I was goin' to escort you to your suite, sir...'
Not necessary,' Calouste replied in the same lordly manner.
`So you are Mr Pennington,' Max whispered. 'And I'm Mr Rogers...'
`Precisely. Kindly do not forget the names. Your suite is the next one. I shall not wish to be disturbed — I have some papers to check.'
Inside his suite Calouste dumped his case in a cupboard. Seated in an armchair he placed a highly sophisticated mobile on a side table. From an inside pocket he extracted several large sheets of paper. Unfolded, they were architect's plans of the intricate layout of Hengistbury Manor. The only section not shown was the labyrinth of cellars underneath the house. Calouste was unaware of their existence. The photostats of the plans had been sent to an address in Brussels by registered mail.
Even Calouste's agile brain had to concentrate hard to memorize the hallways, the large number of apartments, each complete with drawing room, dining room, two bathrooms, two large bedrooms, a spacious kitchen and a small library.
The names of the occupants had been added with a black biro, spelt out in peculiar block letters he suspected were in disguised writing. Hengistbury Manor was more complex and much larger than he'd expected. Removing his reading glasses he glanced at the mobile. It would be at least forty-eight hours before it rang, telling him the first phase of his plan had been completed.
Two days later at eight in the evening the mobile buzzed. Calouste grabbed it.
`Yes, who is speaking?'
`Orion here. The news is not good. Not good at all...'
The voice was robotic. The caller was using some kind of instrument which completely distorted the voice. Impossible to tell whether it was the voice of a man or a woman.
`What the hell do you mean?' Calouste demanded. `The plan failed. Tweed and Paula Grey are alive
and well. Back in London, I assume. Alive and well...' `You said that before." he screeched.
He slammed the mobile closed. He was going to have to start all over again. He started to swear in the foulest French.
6
When Tweed and Paula arrived back from Hengistbury all the core staff were assembled. Tweed gazed round at them. Marler, tall and slim, in his late thirties, occupied his favourite position. He was standing up, leaning against the wall next to Paula, now seated at her desk in the far corner by the large windows. He was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder.
As always, he was smartly dressed, his dark hair neatly trimmed He wore a well-cut beige suit, dark blue shirt, Chanel tie. Marler was reputed to be the top marksman in Europe with his Armalite rifle. Clean shaven, his face was handsome, attracting envious attention from elegant women when he walked down any London street.
`In case you think we've been lounging about,' he began in his upper-crust voice, 'we've all been out and busy. I've been in the East End where agents of a certain Calouste Doubenkian have been recruiting the
worst types — brutal thugs, some killers who have never been caught for their crimes. Thought I'd just mention it in view of Philip Cardon's phone call, passed on to me by Monica.'
`What!' gulped Paula.
`Don't I speak so good?' Marler enquired cynically. `You see?' Paula called out to Tweed.
`Harry,' Tweed responded, as though not having heard what had just been said. 'No, I mean you, Pete,' he said to Pete Nield, five feet seven tall and also neatly clad, but without the panache of Marler. 'You have a pal in one of the three gold-bullion merchants. Got something for you.'
Paula jumped up to jo
in him as Pete fingered his neat moustache by the side of Tweed's desk. An educated man, his team-mate was Harry Butler, seated cross-legged on the floor. A greater contrast between the two men would have been difficult to imagine. Harry wore a shabby old windcheater, trousers which had seen better days. He was indignant.
`I've got twice the number of underground contacts Pete has,' he grumbled.
Tweed, absorbed, ignored the protest. Laying a sheet of thick white paper on his desk he carefully took his white display handkerchief from his top pocket, emptied the contents onto the sheet. Peter switched on a desk lamp. The specks and one larger piece glittered brilliantly in the light.
`Pete,' Tweed said, `is that gold?'
`Oh,' said Paula, 'so that's what you were doing. Wetting your handkerchief in the water carafe, then pressing it on the carpet while Bella and Lavinia were struggling to open their awkward drawer.'
`What do you think, Pete?' Tweed asked, ignoring another interruption.
Pete had produced a powerful magnifying glass from a pocket. He peered at each speck for several minutes, spending most time on the largest piece.
`I need to take this to my pal who is an expert,' he said eventually. 'But for my money this is gold.'
`I need to know how long ago it was mined. Also, if it's possible, where.'
`Should be back within two hours,' Pete said, checking his watch. 'My contact works through the afternoons and evenings. Sleeps in the morning.'
As he spoke he converted the paper sheet into a chute, then skilfully emptied the contents back into Tweed's display handkerchief. Screwing it up gently he produced a clean white handkerchief of his own as more protective wrapping.
`Back in two hours,' he promised and was gone. `Don't tell me anything,' Paula chided.
`Wait until we find out whether I'm right or wrong,' Tweed replied.
`No good pushing Tweed,' Harry warned from the floor. 'He will only talk when he's ready. Should know that by now.
`And I love you,' she told him with a smile.