The Main Chance

by Colin Forbes

  The phone rang. Monica answered, waved to Tweed who reached for the phone, heard the voice, beckoned to Paula to listen on her phone.

  `Yes,' he said. 'More information about—'

  `I'm reliably informed that Calouste Doubenkian is now in England. Arrived several days ago...'

  `Where?'

  `No idea.'

  `What route did he use?'

  `No idea. Will keep in touch. When I can.

  The phone went dead. Philip Cardon had swiftly ended the call. Tweed raised his eyebrows at Paula. He thought for a moment, then asked Monica to get Commander Buchanan on the line. He opened the conversation by giving his friend Roy a terse report on his visit with Paula to Hengistbury, leaving out any reference to the gold specks.

  `I'm sorry,' Buchanan commented. 'I had no idea she was after you as a bodyguard, which is what it comes to as I see it. Of course you had to refuse. Don't like the sound of an offer to buy her out. That could be very dangerous.'

  `Thought you didn't know anything about this character.'

  `Only rumours, which it's suspected Doubenkian spreads himself.'

  `What rumours?'

  `Among others he wanted to buy a private bank in Vienna. The owner refused. Next development is his only son — eighteen years old — is kidnapped. Price of his safe release is the sale of the bank. Owner sells, boy is returned unharmed. Then a mysterious buyer, as in Vienna, is offered a price for his private bank in Grenoble. Owner refuses, his wife is kidnapped. Owner, who maybe wasn't too fond of wife, gets her back through the post, a leg at a time, then an arm and in pieces the rest of her.'

  `Doubenkian sounds the most cold-blooded villain I have ever heard of...'

  `Hold on. These are rumours. Nothing is ever connected to Calouste Doubenkian.'

  `The buyer could be traced by finding out where the sale money ended up,' Tweed insisted.

  `The Vienna criminal department tried that. The money was passed through several private holding companies. Ended up inVaduz, Liechtenstein. You know it's impossible to check accounts in that tiny state.'

  `Mrs Bella Main says Doubenkian phoned her himself.'

  "That's no proof. We only have her word for that. It is not enough to prove it was him.'

  `Doesn't anyone have any idea where his base is?' `No.'

  `What about Interpol?' Tweed hammered away. `Aren't they at all interested?'

  `What I'm about to say is not a joke. You know Interpol out at their quiet HQ at Lyons in France have black notices to list wanted major criminals, with their photographs and whatever data they have? I once asked a contact in Lyons what the position was on Calouste Doubenkian. A black notice is on their walls. Just his name with a query mark. Nothing else, a blank sheet. No photo. Some humorist has scrawled one word on it: Phantom. He probably has half a dozen perfect fake passports. All with different names.'

  `Why the query mark after his name?'

  `Because his real name could be anything. Tweed —' Buchanan became emphatic. — 'Everything Fire told you is rumour.'

  `Well, now you know I'm not going to Hengistbury.' `How could you? With the present position you hold...'

  Tweed ended the call, looked across at Paula, who had heard every word. Smiling, he spread his hands in a gesture of forgetting the whole thing.

  `What did you think of that?' he asked.

  `I found it most intriguing.'

  `In what way?'

  We don't yet have a clue as to what Calouste looks like but his character is emerging.'

  `In what way, for Heaven's sake?'

  `In his callous way he is very clever, a brilliant puller of strings without ever exposing himself. I'll bet he never stays in the same place for long. And he'll always appear with a false name.'

  `Doesn't get us much further. In any case he's not our problem.' He waved a hand at the pile of files on his desk. 'My job is to deal with these reports from agents overseas. Probably most will have sent meaningless reports to show they are active. I don't want to be disturbed while working on them.'

  Robert Newman, a key agent of Tweed's, was sprawled in an armchair near Tweed's desk. Thoroughly vetted long ago, he had once been the most respected international news reporter in America and Europe. His occasional articles had been reprinted in full in the Washington Post, Der Spiegel in the German Republic and many other influential papers, including London's Daily Clarion.

  Six feet tall, well built, in his early forties, his strong, good-looking face was often stared at by women when he walked down a street. He frowned at Tweed's response.

  `Tweed,' he began forcefully. 'I think what Paula said was very shrewd. Defining the character is halfway towards identifying the man. Give her credit.'

  `I asked for no more interruptions,' Tweed said quietly. 'We're not concerned about this Doubenkian. But since you all have him on the brain, everyone can go out and trawl your contacts. Don't go south of the river. Criminals and spies avoid that better-off area.

  They're worried they would be conspicuous.'

  `I'm going to the ladies' room,' said Paula and left the office.

  On the morning of the third day after Calouste received the disturbing news that Tweed and Paula Grey were alive and probably back at Park Crescent, he decided to move. He never stayed in the same place for long wherever he might be.

  He had spent the whole night out of bed in his hotel room, seated in an armchair, drinking cup after cup of coffee. His agile brain had come up with the only answer to eliminating Tweed. He knew that Tweed was formidable. Picking up his case, always kept packed for a swift departure, and sliding back the bolt of the interconnecting door, he opened the door, spoke quietly to Max, standing by a window.

  `We are leaving. When will you be ready?'

  Now, sir. Immediately.'

  Settled beside Max in the second-hand Ford he spoke as soon as they were in open country. The glaring sun shone low through the windscreen. Calouste pulled down his visor a moment after Max had taken the same precaution.

  `We are moving,' Calouste informed his henchman, `to one of the houses I own outside the village of Leaminster on the borders of Sussex and Hampshire. It's ten miles away from Hengistbury Manor and The Forest.'

  He produced a map to hand to Max, who shook his head. 'Just show me. Some of those people who bought second homes out here assume there'll be no traffic, drive in the middle of the road.Young macho types.'

  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 Ma
yfair, 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 just 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 chu
te, 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.