by Colin Forbes
COLIN FORBES
THE CAULDRON
PAN BOOKS
First published 1997 by Macmillan
This edition published 1998 by Pan Books an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd
25 Eccleston Place, London SW1W 9NF
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.macmillan.com
ISBN 0 330 35209 1 Copyright © Colin Forbes 1997
The right of Colin Forbes to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introdued into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized
act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.
13 15 17 19 18 16 14 12
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset by CentraCet, Cambridge
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Mackays of Chatham pic, Chatham, Kent
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,
or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Author's Note
All the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's imagination and bear no relationship to any living person. The same applies to all residences whether located in Cornwall or California. Again, they are invented out of the author's imagination.
FOR SUZANNE
Prologue
Paula Grey tensed as she saw the floating body crest a huge wave, carried close inshore across the Pacific Ocean like a surfer lying on its back in the lonely moonlight.
She had started on a night-time walk from the luxurious Californian Spanish Bay Hotel, down the boardwalks between the deserted golf links which swept away on either side. Depressed, because she had discovered nothing suspicious about Vincent Bernard Moloch, billionaire owner of the world's largest conglomerate, AMBECO - the mission Tweed had sent her on from London - she had decided to walk to clear her mind.
It was cold in July at this time of night and the storm building up from the ocean chilled her, despite her heavy blue jeans and woollen sweater and windbreaker. Another giant wave lifted the sinister body near the shore. She calculated it would hit the coast at Octopus Cove.
Glancing round, she unzipped the windbreaker and grasped the .32 Browning tucked inside the top of her jeans. As she hurried down to the raging sea the roar of the boiling water became deafening. It hurled itself against craggy rocks, throwing up great bursts of surf.
The body was very close to the rocks she scrambled down, her clothes soaked with the ferocious surf. Her fear of the ocean's turmoil vanished as she watched the corpse thrown inside a deep gulch into shallow water.
Reaching down she grasped an ice-cold hand and saw it was the body of a woman.
Before the next wave could smash it against the rocks she hauled the dead woman upwards and out of the relentless ocean. In the moonlight she had a clear view of the woman's face, dark hair plastered against the skull, the body clad in a white dress clinging to her above the stomach. Round the left wrist she had used to haul her out Paula saw an ugly red abrasion. She looked at the right wrist and round it was a torn rope. Blood had earlier seeped from a large wound on the head and congealed. That was when Paula heard engines coming towards her at speed from the sea.
Looking up, she saw three large rubber dinghies powered by outboard motors racing towards Octopus Cove. Each craft contained a number of men, heads hooded and holding what appeared to be assault rifles. The lead dinghy had one of the largest men she had ever seen. Standing up, despite the savage swell, he held on to the side with one hand and removed his hood with the other. He was staring straight at her, a man with thick dark hair and a Roman nose. Paula crouched down, shifted the heavy corpse closer to the side of a rock and then ran, still crouching.
She started up the boardwalk, a series of parallel wooden planks, then turned off it onto the golf course. Some sixth sense warned her to find a hiding place. Her sodden trainers squelched as she ran across the trim grass of the rolling links. Where to hide, for God's sake? Stay cool.
She was well clear of the boardwalk when she literally ran into a hideaway - a large bunker of sand. Flopping down inside it, she wrenched out the Browning automatic she had shoved back down inside her jeans while hauling out the body of the woman. Cautiously she wriggled her way up to the rim of the bunker, looked over the top down to Octopus Cove.
Clouds were beginning to, drift over the moon but Paula now saw about half a mile offshore the silhouette of a huge luxury yacht. Stationary, swaying with the swell of the rising storm, she estimated it must be almost three hundred feet long. Above the main control cabin was a cluster of radar equipment and a Comsat dish, so it had communications via a satellite. No lights. Not even a starboard light. Very weird.
Hooded figures from the dinghies were scrambling ashore at Octopus Cove in wetsuits. Several bent down to where the corpse lay, lifted it, began carrying it through the turmoil of the wild ocean towards a dinghy. The giant with black hair stared round the golf links, made a sweeping gesture with his left hand. Six men, gripping their automatic rifles, advanced over the links, spread out. They were coming for her.
Lying deep inside the bunker in her soaking clothes, she heard the clumping feet of men prowling close to her. She kept her eyes on the rim where they would appear, the Browning clasped in both hands. Now and then their voices, some English, some American, came to her clearly.
'She has to be somewhere around here.' 'Buddy boy, she sure is. No time for her to reach the hotel. We'd have seen her...'
Later another couple came much closer to the bunker. 'Joel will spit in our faces if we don't get her.' 'No names, Loud Mouth. Keep searching...' By the illuminated hands of her wristwatch Paula knew she had lain in the bunker for an hour when she heard a distant sound of engines starting up. Gun in her right hand, she crawled to the rim, peered over. The three dinghies were leaving Octopus Cove, heading back to their mother ship, the long silhouette rocking from side to side. Then the moon was blotted out by dark clouds and she lost sight of them.
She scanned the links to make sure she was alone, knowing it could be a trap. They might have left one man behind to watch out for her. Only when she felt sure no one was about did Paula wearily plod back up the boardwalk to Spanish Bay Hotel, which overlooked the links and the Pacific beyond. Thanking heaven she had slipped out unseen from her magnificent ground floor suite, she slid back the tall glass windows, stepped inside, closed, locked them. She forced herself to draw the curtains, felt her way to the door to the splendidly equipped bathroom, closed that door and switched on the lights.
Placing the Browning on the edge of the Jacuzzi, Paula stripped off, stepped into the shower stall, and, still shivering, turned on the shower to hot. The glass was steamed up when she eventually left the shower, ignored the sodden clothes on the floor, towelled herself, went through another door past gleaming washbasins and into the large room with its double bed. Putting on pyjamas, she perched on the edge of the bed and drank hot coffee from a thermos she always had refi
lled by Roy's, the restaurant in the hotel.
Feeling able to cope, she dialled Tweed's number in London at Park Crescent, headquarters of the SIS. She had checked the time. 3 a.m. California was eight hours behind Britain, so it would be 11 a.m. London time.
'Monica, Paula here. Urgent I speak to him.'
'Hang on, he's here ...'
'Good to hear from you, Paula,' the familiar voice opened tersely. 'Anything to report?'
'No. The company is in excellent shape. I have ... nothing ... to tell you.'
'Better catch the next plane home, then. Looking forward to seeing you.'
'Cheerio for now ...'
Paula put down the phone and felt a burst of relief. There had been two coded messages in the way she had phrased her call. Use of the word excellent had told Tweed something was wrong. Plus her deliberate pause before nothing.
She tumbled into bed, feeling so far from home. Monterey, the pleasant town near Spanish Bay, together with Carmel, close by, were among the most peaceful parts of the States she had visited. At least on the surface. And until her recent ordeal.
Her head buried in the pillow she had an image of the mysterious yacht she had seen out at sea. Maybe in the morning she could wheedle out of the Harbormaster at Monterey the name of the vessel. Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep.
It was a brilliant sunny afternoon, temperature a perfect 70‹, when Paula left the yellow cab which dropped her near Monterey harbour. A large anchorage protected by enclosing jetties, it was full of shipping. Fishing craft were moored close to Coast Guard vessels at the southern end of the big harbour. Several expensive power cruisers bobbed gently by their pontoons.
"There's plenty of money round here.' Paula said to herself.
The cab driver had pointed out to her the Harbormaster's office. As she walked towards the building Paula blessed the fact that last night's storm had stayed out at sea. Had it come inland she would have had a much worse experience. Now the sky was a blue dome. In the distance beyond Monterey brown hills, scorched by the sun, rose to meet the blue.
She was near the building when she saw a stocky man leaving with an unbalanced walk. She paused by a restaurant with awnings where a man in whites was brushing the area outside.
'Excuse me, but is that person who has just left that building the Harbormaster?'
'Like your English accent.' The man smiled pleasantly. 'He is standing in for the Harbormaster, who returned from his vacation a few minutes ago.' He lowered his voice. 'That guy is Chuck Floorstone. Between the two of us he spends too much time lifting a glass. Done that myself. Been there. Now Coke is my drink.'
'Very sensible. Thank you.'
She hurried after the stocky figure whose T-shirt was hanging out over baggy trousers. She caught up with him at the moment he was entering a bar. Paula pushed in front of him, then apologized.
'I really am sorry.'
'No need, pretty lady. You on your own? I am. Buy you a drink.'
"Thank you. That would be nice.'
Chuck Floorstone guided her to a quiet table in a corner by a window overlooking the exit from the harbour. At that hour they were almost the only customers. Paula had asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Floorstone had shuffled to the far end of the bar so she couldn't hear what he was asking for. She had made herself very presentable for this hoped-for talk. She wore a form-fitting white silk blouse, high at the collar, and a blue skirt which hung just below her knees.
Floorstone was eyeing her as he shuffled back, spilling her wine over the rim of her glass. He saw a slim woman in her thirties, her dark well-brushed hair almost touching her shoulders. She had a good figure and shapely legs and the bone structure of her strong face expressed character. Her intelligent grey-blue eyes studied him as he approached, placed the wine in front of her, slumped into the next seat.
'We could hit the town, pretty lady.'
'Somebody told me you had an important job.' she replied.
'I'm the Harbormaster here.'
His weather-beaten face, lined with the tell-tale red veins of the hardened drinker, grinned with self importance, exposing bad teeth. Paula smiled, glanced out of the window, stopped herself stiffening. A huge luxury yacht was heading out of the harbour, a vessel with a complex of radar apparatus above the main control cabin with a Comsat dish.
'What's that vessel?' she asked.
"That little rowboat belongs to Vincent Bernard Moloch. Owns half the world. The Big Boy.'
'Really? What's it called?'
'Venetia V ...' Floorstone was slurring his words and he realized it. 'V ... e ... n ... e ... t... i... a ... Five.' he repeated carefully. 'Word is it's headed for Baja California in Mexico.' Taking another large gulp of his own drink, he leaned towards her. 'Moloch plays it close to the chest. My guess is it's headed for the Panama Canal, then through it into the Atlantic.'
'It's been here for a while?' she asked casually.
'Naah. Came in early morning, refuelled, now it's off again. You never know with Moloch. You're not drinking.'
'I'm a slow drinker.' Paula was suspicious about the ingredients of her glass, which tasted too potent. Ts this Moloch character on board the Venetia V?'
'Naah. His bully boy, Joel Brand, is the boss on this trip.'
Paula kept her face expressionless at the mention of the name. 'Bully boy?'
'Yeah. A Brit. An ugly customer. Does all Moloch's dirty work. Now about us going on the town?'
'This Joel Brand is just the skipper of the yacht?'
'Naah. He's Moloch's right arm. Was in the Navy. The Brit Navy. Now about...'
'What are you drinking?'
'Bourbon and soda. Need a freshener. Get you one. Back in a minute.' He waved a warning finger. 'Don't walk out on me.'
Paula watched him staggering back to the bar, slipped on her shoulder bag, quietly left the bar. She had already packed, paid her bill at Spanish Bay, hired a car to take her the two hour drive to San Francisco International and had reserved a first class seat.
As she rode back in a cab to the hotel she wished Bob Newman was with her. She could have found out more from Floorstone, but she had found out enough. Now for the endless eleven hour night flight back to Heathrow. Not a trip she relished, even though Tweed was generous in allowing her to travel first class.
On the drive north to San Francisco she was haunted by the image of the dead woman's face, the woman she had dragged out of the sea. Who was she?
Several weeks later she was in Cornwall with Bob Newman, sent there by Tweed with clear instructions.
Tweed had briefed them in his first-floor office at Park Crescent with its windows looking towards Regent's Park. A man of medium height and build, middle-aged, clean-shaven and wearing horn-rimmed glasses, he was someone you could pass in the street without noticing. This appearance had served him well as Deputy Director of the SIS.
Paula had sat at her desk in a corner of the large room, and close to the door Monica was ensconced behind her own desk, equipped with a press-button phone linked to the phone on Tweed's otherwise clear desk. She also had the latest fax machine and other sophisticated equipment.
Monica, a woman of uncertain age, with her grey hair tied in a bun, had been Tweed's assistant for years and was totally loyal and discreet. The fourth occupant of the room was Bob Newman, world-famous foreign correspondent who had long ago been vetted for security and intelligence work.
Newman was a well-built man in his forties, also clean-shaven, fair-haired, with a half-smile and a sense of humour which had appealed to many women. He sat with his arms folded, turned his head as someone tapped on the door and entered. Marler had arrived late as usual.
'Mornin', everyone. See the clan has gathered,' he drawled in his upper-crust voice. 'Something big brewing?'
He took up his normal position, leaning against a wall as he lit a king-size cigarette. Slimly built, in his late thirties, he was a snappy dresser - and the best marksman with a rifle in Western Europe. Tweed nodde
d to him and began speaking, leaning forward, his voice quiet but expressing great force of character.
'Paula returned from California several weeks ago after a three-week stay in the Monterey-Carmel area. She went to dig up any data she could on Vincent Bernard Moloch. She'll tell you in a minute about that trip so you, Marler, are up to date. Moloch has a large mansion out in the Cornish wilderness way behind Falmouth. I want you, Paula, to go down there with Bob and Marler to investigate Moloch. I've booked separate rooms for all of you at a very nice country hotel, Nansidwell, near a village called Mawnan Smith. I know the proprietor, a very likeable chap...'
'He doesn't know who you really are, I presume?' chimed in Paula.
'Of course not. I used our usual cover story - General & Cumbria Assurance. We investigate suspected insurance swindles on a large scale.'
'Isn't three people a large team even for that?' Marler enquired.
'I've told you that you'll occupy separate rooms. You'll eat at separate tables. You don't know each other. I got several friends at Special Branch to call the hotel to book in you and Bob. They phoned about the reservations on different days. I booked in Paula.' He switched his gaze to her. "The doctor has said you're suffering from a state of complete exhaustion. Convalescent leave.'
'Try to look exhausted.' Marler chaffed her. 'Make a real effort.'
'If I may continue.' Tweed said sharply. 'Moloch's mansion is called Mullion Towers. It's near a nowhere place called Stithians.'
'What I'd like to know.' Marler suggested, 'is why is this chap Moloch the target?'
'He may not be.' Tweed said cryptically. 'But his outfit AMBECO is so enormous - plus the fact he's in touch with certain Arabs - that it's worrying not only London but also Washington. He worries me - the amount of power he has set about accumulating.'
'And what is AMBECO?' Marler persisted. 'Heard of it but no idea what it does.'
'A,' began Tweed, 'is for Armaments. M is for Machine tools. B is for Banking. E is for Electronics. C is for Chemicals, could be biological. O is for Oil.'