2355 Saturday
The car traveled slowly along a deserted O'Connell Street, then second right down Jacksons Lane, moving just quickly enough to avoid suspicion and just slowly enough to arrive at Holy Cross exactly on time. Raindrops the size of marbles battered the car roof and ran in rivers across the badly paved road, collecting in pot holes to glitter like black oil until the tires hissed over them.
In the back seat Abou checked his watch. Five minutes to go. Five minutes before he claimed another life - perhaps more than one if others interfered, or had the misfortune to get in the way. The thought never worried him. How could it when the lives of a few were weighed against the future of fifteen million? How could it when the war was not of his making? It was the impending American betrayal which made it all necessary. Once Washington had taken that fateful decision - once Washington had decided to renege on a thirty year old alliance, what options were left?
At the comer of Fitzpatrick Street a lone street lamp cast a yellow glow over a billboard. A blonde in blue uniform smiled damply into the night on behalf of British Airlines. He looked into the larger than life blue eyes and remembered another blonde. The one they had known as Monique Debray. Just the thought of her made him curse so violently that the driver jumped with nervousness.
"It's all right - get on with it," Abou muttered, and the man's gaze swivelled back to the road.
But was it all right? How much had she found out and whom had she told? Even when tortured, she had revealed only a part of the story. She had resisted pain like a professional. But whose professional? It was a thought he preferred not to dwell on, knowing it could fester and weaken his confidence. After all, it had changed nothing. It had not changed the Plan. She was dead now, along with that fool Hayes - as dead as he had planned them to be once their part in the scheme came to an end.
He had found her quite by chance. Late at night, alone in the Hayes place in Paris. He had gone there just to make sure it was exactly as he wanted it to be - for when the police arrived. And she had been in the secret room.
"How did you get in here?" he had asked softly, standing at the top of the spiral staircase, blocking her only means of escape.
She had whirled round, a tiny Minox camera in her hand and the code books still open next to the transmitter. "Abou - I - Abou I thought you were in—"
He had hit her then. The factory was deserted and there was no chance of her screams being heard. She had run to the bedroom, trying to lock the door against him, but his strength had been too much for her. And after that... his nose crinkled as he remembered the animal smell of scorching flesh.
She had been the only member of the team he had not selected personally. All of the others he had chosen himself. Hayes years ago in the homeland, Negib Katoul after meeting him in the Clinic, and then, through him, Suzy Katoul herself. Even the Irish end he had personally vetted as far as he could. Only Monique Debray had been accepted on another man's word. Hayes had vouched for her and in the rush and flurry of events which followed the inception of the Plan, Hayes's recommendation had been good enough.
"Orlov," he said aloud. It was the one name wrung from her torment. It sounded Russian, certainly Slav. But then Eisenhower sounded German and Willy Brandt sounded like an American shoe salesman. Damn Hayes to hell and back for letting a girl like that get under his skin.
The car crept along Fitzpatrick Street until the bulky outline of the Holy Cross Prison loomed as a solid mass at the end of the road. The rain still lashed down in torrents, bouncing high on the pavements and hurling itself against the car in angry squalls driven by a gusting wind. The street was deserted except for a solitary car parked on the other side of the road. It blinked its lights in greeting before making a tight u-turn to head them by about ten yards, leading the way across the junction with John Street before turning left by St. Michael's Church.
The hoist was parked by the path leading to the old railway yard. Big Reilly had conveniently arranged for it to "break down" there late that afternoon, when the driver had locked it up and gone back to the depot, saying it was safely parked until the service crew came to fix it in the morning. But it was fixed now - fixed and waiting.
The car ahead slowed and two men sprinted into the rain, stumbling and sliding across the wet road until they hauled themselves up into the cab. A moment later the interior light flickered briefly, then one of the men left the cab for the platform of the hoist itself. All three vehicles moved off, past the church to the beginning of the long high wall which surrounded the prison. Fifty yards, that was as far as they needed to go - traveling in convoy at ten miles an hour, the hoist already raising its platform like a snake about to strike.
"Now," Abou snapped and his driver accelerated hard, pulling out to pass the hoist. Abou twisted in his seat and wiped the condensation from the rear window. The platform was already almost as high as the wall, with less than twenty yards left to go. He could see the commando bracing himself against the restraining rails as he pulled the pins from the grenades. Ten yards - five - the platform soared above the wall to give the commando clear sight of the detention centre. Then his arm jerked like a whip against the night sky and the grenades were flying through the air. By the time the explosions occurred, the platform had already dipped back below the wall. The air shook with noise as the commando leapt the last six feet to the ground. The driver of the hoist flung open his door and both men raced for the second car. Abou's driver had already gunned the engine and a gap of thirty yards had opened before the other car gathered speed, a back door swinging wildly like a broken wing until one of the commandos jerked it shut. Abou's car thundered past the prison's main gates and he watched the other car slide into a four wheel skid as it turned left. But it righted itself and disappeared from view to begin its race for the border.
"Shannon Airport - here we come," Abou's driver muttered and swung the car right into Jamestown Road.
Abou straightened in his seat, sighing with relief as he watched the road ahead and barely hearing the distant sound of an ambulance as it rushed through the night to the Holy Cross Prison.
The Irish connection was broken. Killing Cassidy had severed the last link. Now nobody was left who could tell of the tall dark stranger who had arrived with the others on the decks of the Aileen Maloney. Now it was up to a dying Irishman named Mick Malone and a half-breed Arab called Suzy Katoul.
CHAPTER SIX
"Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun."
Mao Tse-tung, Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung(1966)
The Sixth Day
1040 Sunday
The RAF Valiant touched down opposite the Civilian Air Terminal at Luqa and ran on for another mile before turning off the main runway to taxi the last eight hundred yards into the RAF compound. But for the fact that whenever he closed his eyes he had a nightmare, Ross might have slept during the flight. The stump of his left arm ached abominably and he was dog-tired but despite that, rest was impossible. He yawned widely and then blinked out into the white glare of reflected sunlight where his tired eyes came to rest on Smithers waiting with the Mercedes next to the Officers' Mess.
LeClerc's signal had reached command at two in the morning and Twomey had called an immediate security conference. Even now Ross struggled to believe the events of the past eight hours. He would have dismissed the entire affair if LeClerc had not been involved. But LeClerc's evidence had been shattering. The corpse of Monique Debray. And the transmitter. And the code books. Together they would bring about the biggest confrontation with Red China since the Korean War. And for it to happen now for Chrissakes! That's what was so damned puzzling. Five or six years ago maybe, but since the death of Chairman Mao relationships with China had improved so steadily that Twomey's conference had been stunned speechless by LeClerc's discoveries. Even now there were some who could not believe that Red China was running Katoul. Twomey's usual composure had shattered to a million splinters, especially when he had been summoned to Bonn to r
eport to the Prime Minister personally, and no doubt through him to the summit itself.
"Thanks, Charlie," Ross called to the pilot. He gathered his case, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and rose to make his way back to the door. But Smithers blocked his way at the top of the steps.
"Excuse me, sir, but may I have a word first?"
"Hi, Smithers, everything all right at Spitari's?"
"Yes, sir."
Ross yawned again and promised himself an immediate visit to the steam room for a work out with Max. "Jesus I'm tired." He looked at the other man's expression. "Nothing wrong is there Smithers?"
"Perhaps not, sir. There's a lady to see you. She's in the car now, but I thought I'd better warn you first."
"A lady?" Ross knew very few ladies in Malta. Apart from Elizabeth, of course, and clearly Smithers couldn't mean her. A suspicion formed in his mind. "If this is some personal problem you're handing me I warn you - I'm in no mood for—"
"Nothing like that, sir." Smithers sounded insulted at the very idea. "It's Suzy Katoul."
"What is?"
"She's here, sir - in the car."
"Jesus Christ - you're out of your mind!"
"No, sir. I'm quite certain it's her. In fact she admits it."
Ross sat down in the nearest seat. "Katoul here?"
"She arrived an hour ago - scheduled Alitalia from Rome - wearing a blonde wig and carrying a French passport in the name of Debray."
"Debray?" Ross repeated in complete astonishment.
"The lad's with her now, sir," Smithers said. "We searched her, she's not carrying—"
"Katoul here?" Ross scraped his brains in an effort to understand. -
By way of further explanation Smithers added: "She asked for a cab to take her to the Health Farm."
Nobody asked for a cab to Spitari's Health Farm. Guests who were expected were collected from the airport by Smithers personally, so anyone asking for a cab clearly was not expected, and arrangements had been worked out long since to deal with them. Every cab driver on the island had his standing orders. Such guests were driven directly to the RAF Guard Room and locked in until Smithers arrived.
"Anything else, Smithers? Did you find out anything?" Some of the colour had returned to Ross's face.
"No, sir. I arrived twenty-two minutes after the call from the Guard Room and by then she'd got rid of the wig, so I recognised her straightaway. I said, 'You're Suzy Katoul aren't you?' and she said 'Yes, I'm here to see Major Ross on a matter of great urgency."
"The hell she did." Ross buried his head in his hands. "And that's all?"
Smithers wondered if he had neglected some part of his duty because he said: "Well, I thought that as you were due in within the hour it was best to keep her here, sir - pending your arrival."
Ross shook his head. "I mean did she say anything else?"
"No, sir," Smithers looked puzzled. "She's pretty jumpy though - on edge if you know what I mean."
"Her and me both," Ross mumbled. Twomey had to be right. It could only mean blackmail. But for her to deliver the blackmail note herself demonstrated some nerve. Christ, she had to be confident - confident that she'd get away with it whatever it was. And for a moment or two Ross was too frightened to go and find out.
He stood up slowly, more in control of himself again. "Okay Smithers, you'd better show me our little wildcat."
She sat in the back of the car waiting for them. Wait was all she could do, since her right hand was handcuffed to the door handle and the door itself was locked. A lighted cigarette was held in her left hand and she blew smoke at him as he peered through the half open window.
"Major Ross, I presume?" she attempted a smile which didn't quite come off.
Ross clambered in next to her while Smithers joined his son in the front.
"Do you always chain your guests up as soon as they arrive?" she asked.
Ross turned to stare at the handcuffs as the car edged forward to begin its journey back to Delimara Point. Privately he regretted it. If she had taken this risk to visit him, she was hardly likely to run away now. But he managed a shaky smile and said, "Take it as a compliment, Miss Katoul - we'd just hate to lose you."
1100 Sunday
Mick Malone was a good sailor and the long crossing to Boulogne had left him rested and anxious to get on his way. He had spent much of the previous evening playing cards with another long distance driver and two off duty crew men, and the five pounds it had cost him had been well spent in terms of occupying his mind. Not that he had made a late night of it, nor had he succumbed to the temptation to make it a boozy one, despite the attraction of shipboard prices. For the truth of it was that Mick was pacing himself. Today would be a long and painful one, with at least eight hours spent behind the wheel if he was to make Aachen by nightfall. And he was determined to do that. Through France and Belgium today and then Cologne tomorrow, and after that wherever his instructions took him until he reached Switzerland and a chance of a decent life again.
The ship would dock shortly and Mick was already pacing the deck, a thick sweater worn beneath a duffel coat to keep the chill morning breeze at bay. But it was dry and he was grateful for that. Driving was more tiring in the wet, it demanded more concentration, so that his muscles cramped and his back hurt twice as much. He sniffed the air and scanned the dockside, seeing a clear, cold day and welcoming it.
He had visited Boulogne once before and his eyes began to pick out remembered landmarks amidst the rising new buildings. Not that he had much time for sight-seeing. As soon as the ship had berthed he hurried below to the transport deck, anxious that his should be the first vehicle to return to dry land. He unlocked the cab and pulled himself up, unzipping his canvas bag and arranging his travel documents on the seat next to him, then lighting a cigarette as he settled back to wait. With any luck, half an hour should see him on his way, north along the coast on the N40 prior to the long right-hand sweep which would take him past Brussels.
But as soon as he rolled down the ramp into the customs shed, he knew it would take more than half an hour. The place was crawling with police! And there were at least twice as many customs officials as on his last visit. Special barriers had been erected, hastily by the look of it, because men were still rolling them into position. A gendarme waved him to a halt and six men detached themselves from what looked like a battalion of officials at the top of the steps. Mick flinched as they hurried over to meet him. He sensed danger but saw no way to avoid it. His path forward was blocked by a mobile wire-mesh screen ten feet high and twice as wide. The way back led only to the ship, and was in any case blocked by the crowd of vehicles which had followed him down the ramp. Had he driven into a trap? Mary Mother of Christ - was it all over already? To be so near and... one of the men had opened the nearside door and was talking to him in French.
"I'm sorry," Mick shook his head. "Irish - I only speak English."
"Your papers, Monsieur."
Mick handed over his passport and the little leather wallet of traveling documents which had been provided by the office at the factory.
"Ou sont les bagages?” another voice asked from the other side, changing to English after Mick's startled protest. "Is this all of your luggage, Monsieur?" Mick nodded and the man lifted the canvas bag down from the cab. "You will please follow me to the office."
"Is - is anything wrong?" Mick stammered, cursing his nervousness and trying desperately to regain his composure. The customs man stared at him for a long moment before answering. "Let us hope not," he said, then half turned, waiting for Mick to climb down from the cab.
Mick drew a deep breath and reached for the ignition keys. "Leave the keys where they are," the man said impatiently.
Miserably, Mick followed him to the office ten yards away. At the steps he glanced over his shoulder. Two men were searching the cab and another man was underneath the vehicle with a flashlight, while a fourth was sweeping the sides of the trailer with what looked like a lightweight va
cuum cleaner.
"Sit down, please," the man indicated a chair in a partitioned cubbyhole. His mate began to unpack Mick's belongings, putting each item on to a small table. "Your name is Michael Malone?" The man glanced up from the passport long enough to register Mick's answering nod. "And you are a driver by occupation?"
Mick said yes, and then yes and no to another dozen questions which merely confirmed the details contained in the travel documents. The other man repacked the canvas holdall and placed it on the table in front of him. "You travel light, Monsieur. How long do you expect your trip to last?"
It almost caught him off guard. "I'll - I'll be away again by the end of the week."
"Back to Ireland?"
"And where else?" Mick demanded.
The man was about to reply when he was interrupted by two men from the yard, who interspersed a quick gabble of French with suspicious glances at Mick. Then all three men hurried back down the steps. More alarmed than ever, Mick stood up to watch from the open doorway. The compound was crowded with vehicles now, arranged in ranks of four, with Mick's truck, two cars and another lorry making up the front rank. The vacuum cleaner brigade were out in force and Mick's nervousness subsided fractionally when he realised that his wasn't the only vehicle being subjected to intensive examination. He took another look at the vacuum cleaners - more like metal detectors he thought, or even mine sweeps. Men clustered around his truck, one sweeping the long-handled instrument back and forth along the sides of the trailer while others crowded around a portable instrument panel. There was a good deal of excited chatter and then the three-man delegation hurried back up the steps.
"What is the nature of your cargo, Monsieur?"
"It's on the manifest," Mick said, outwardly calm but secretly alarmed. "Twelve volt batteries."
"Pardon?"
"Tractor batteries," Mick said. He reached over for his wallet of travel documents and the others crowded to peer over his shoulder. "There - see for yourselves - twelve volt batteries."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 26