The Cauldron

by Colin Forbes

  'They're clearing a path for us.' Tweed informed Paula as he pressed his face close to the window.

  'How are they doing that? They'll never get us through the crowd.'

  'They are doing it...'

  Alongside and ahead of the aircraft motorized open cargo trolleys carried troopers with their rifles. As the pilot edged the huge machine forward the trolley-loads of troopers were driving aside the mob, which was shaking fists, shouting abuse.

  Two men in the mob, crazed with fear and rage, ran ahead of the moving aircraft, lay down in its path. At the risk of their lives four troopers dived off the lead trolley, ran ahead, grabbed hold of the prone men, dragged them out of the way. Inwardly, Tweed heaved a sigh of relief. Then he felt the shudder of the second tremor coming.

  A slitlike crack appeared across the runway. Tweed compelled himself to show no reaction for fear of upsetting Paula. She had also felt the movement.

  'What was that?' she asked.

  'The pilot testing his brakes,' Tweed said quickly.

  In the moonlight he could see the crack. Were they heading for total disaster at the last moment? The pilot increased speed, sped over the crack before it widened. The plane was roaring down the runway and then Tweed felt it lift off, become airborne. He squeezed Paula's hand.

  'We've taken off.'

  "Thank Heaven. I'm drained of emotion.'

  Tm sure we all are.'

  Climbing steeply, the aircraft curved over towards the ocean. The manoeuvre gave Tweed a bird's-eye view of the magnificent city of San Francisco. As he gazed down he blinked. The cone-shaped AMBECO building was moving. The huge rollers it had been erected on to make it earthquake proof differed in design from those beneath the TransAmerica building. The giant cone began to spin slowly, then it keeled over, toppling slowly before the entire structure collapsed.

  The plane continued its great curving sweep, climbing all the time, giving Tweed a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The most famous bridge in the world was shaking from side to side. Awestruck, Tweed watched as a gap appeared in its centre and the highway crossing it fell into the moonlit waters below, sending up a massive splash. There had been no traffic on the bridge. It vanished from view as the aircraft went on gaining altitude, eventually levelling out at thirty-five thousand feet as it headed Polar Route for Heathrow.

  44

  Flying over the Canadian North-West Territories, the Lear jet sped onward through the night. In the luxurious passenger cabin Moloch sat alongside his new British personal assistant, Heather Lang. He had summoned her from her job at the Des Moines explosives plant to fly to San Francisco aboard another of his jets. She had been waiting for him in the cabin when he had landed from Black Ridge aboard the helicopter. After delivering her, the second jet had immediately returned to Des Moines.

  'When we get to Heathrow.' Moloch was explaining, 'we fly by Brymon Airways to Newquay in Cornwall. A car will be waiting to drive us from there to Mullion Towers.'

  'Your headquarters in Britain,' she had replied. 'Is that our new base?'

  Heather Lang, in her thirties, was an attractive brunette who had drive and competence. She wore a pale grey power suit over a white blouse. The suit showed off her good figure, had a short skirt revealing her long shapely legs. She had a Roman nose under blue eyes and good bone structure, tapering to a determined chin. She was a woman of great ambition.

  'No.' Moloch replied to her question. 'Soon we board my floating palace, the Venetia, lying off Falmouth. Then we sail for Beirut in the Lebanon. I have an exotic house high up in the Lebanon mountains. It is cool up there the whole year round.'

  'It sounds exciting.' Heather replied.

  'I am transferring my whole operation to the Middle East.' Moloch went on, after a swift glance at her. He was amused to see she was impressed by the description he had just given her - language he rarely used. 'Incidentally.' he went on casually, 'I am doubling your salary.'

  "That's very generous of you, VB. Thank you.'

  Yes, it was generous, he was thinking. But it was worth it. You bought loyalty in the crazy world which was emerging. He gave her the file he had been glancing through as he spoke. The name on the front had been erased earlier by his felt-tip pen - the name Ethan Benyon.

  'Shred that for me now, please.'

  The teleprinter, recording a bulletin from Reuters beamed to the jet by satellite, had spewed out a reel of paper. When she had finished shredding papers which meant nothing to her, she detached the Reuters report, brought it to Moloch.

  He read it quickly. More news about the great San Moreno earthquake. An item caught his attention and he smiled to himself.

  Among the devastated plants destroyed in Silicon Valley, California, were fifteen of the world's most advanced electronic companies...

  He checked the names and saw that the list included the five competitors who had combined to destroy his first business venture in the States years before. It gave him great satisfaction to read their names a second time.

  Also it meant that, with the two extra companies he had just bought up in the Thames Valley, he had three key companies which could almost monopolize the world supply of advanced microchips and other advanced equipment. His assistant sat beside him again. They had both recently eaten the excellent meal supplied by the chef included in the crew. He laid a hand on her knee.

  'If you are loyal to me - completely loyal - you could go a long way and earn a great deal of money.'

  She glanced at him without a hint of enticement on her pale face. He removed his hand.

  'I'm only interested in hard work.' she replied.

  "Then go and tell the radio op. to send a message to Heathrow. First, book two seats on the Brymon Airways flight to Newquay. One-way tickets. Then tell the pilot when we arrive at Heathrow he is to wait for two passengers he will fly to Newquay when they arrive from San Francisco. A Colonel Grenville and a Maurice Prendergast.'

  "They are officials in the company?' she enquired.

  'One of them establishes counter-espionage networks for me.'

  "That sounds exciting.'

  'It's a job like any other...'

  Tweed had returned to his seat aboard the British Airways plane forging its way through the night. He sat down as a steward began pulling out tables for a meal. Paula had just suppressed a yawn.

  'I don't know whether I can eat a thing after what we've experienced.'

  Try something,' Tweed urged. 'Otherwise you'll suddenly feel hungry in the middle of the night.'

  'I'll make the effort.'

  'Incidentally, when I went to the loo I peered into Club Class. Both Grenville and Maurice are occupying separate seats. They came aboard, of course, under the assumed names you booked tickets under.'

  'You make it sound as though they're important.'

  'One of three people aboard this aircraft is the spy Moloch uses to set up watcher networks. It has to be someone, as I mentioned before, who was in Cornwall and then arrived in California.' He glanced back. 'Newman and Vanity seem to be getting on well together.'

  They have done for some time. How are you going to detect this spy?'

  'By having all the suspects followed when we have landed at Heathrow. I'm sure Moloch will want to use the same person again. We must stop that...'

  He paused when he saw that on the TV screen Paula had erected there was a news flash, beamed in, he presumed, by satellite. Besides the spoken commentary in an American voice, there were graphic pictures of the devastation caused by the earthquake. Paula leaned forward.

  'Surely that was Big Sur? It's split into two islands -the sea now runs in between them. The lighthouse has gone.'

  'Point Sur,' Tweed corrected her. 'Lord, the whole coastline has been smashed up.'

  'And look! Black Ridge was on that hillside. It has just disappeared. I wonder if Moloch was inside it?'

  'VB is flying ahead of us in his Lear jet.'

  'Now he tells me.'

  'I saw the jet taking off
from San Francisco airport. Quite a while before we took to the air ...'

  He paused as the purser arrived with a sealed envelope which she handed to him.

  'This radio message just came in for you, Mr Tweed.'

  He thanked her, opened the envelope, unfolded the sheet inside, read it quickly and grunted with satisfaction. He handed it to Paula. She read it and looked at him.

  VB expected arrive here by jet this afternoon. Two tickets booked Newquay. The Blimp and the Morris travelling on to Newquay by jet. Cheltenham interception. Monica.

  'Which, translated,' Tweed said in a low voice, 'means that VB is going straight on to Cornwall soon after he arrives. I don't know who is accompanying him. Also Grenville and Maurice will be transported to Cornwall aboard Moloch's jet. The second message from the Lear jet ahead of us was intercepted by GCHQ at Cheltenham. At long last the authorities are waking up to the fact that VB is a deadly menace.'

  'That's what I gathered. Monica, as usual, has been clever in her wording. Does it affect our movements?'

  Tweed didn't reply. A steward had just brought them their first course. He looked at the two mini-bottles of opened champagne which were untouched.

  'Did you want something more to drink?'

  'What we have will do very nicely. For the moment,' Tweed replied.

  He poured Paula's bottle into her glass on the chair rest, then poured his own, much to Paula's surprise.

  'You hardly ever drink.'

  'It's been tension almost from the time we set foot in sunny California. Time to relax.'

  They clinked glasses and Tweed drank a whole glassful, then refilled both glasses. Paula looked at him.

  'You're going it a bit. For you, I mean.'

  'We'll get another couple of bottles. I've heard this stuff does you good.'

  'Great idea. We arrive tiddly at Heathrow. Best way to pass a night flight. I'm ravenous.' she said, sipping the chicken soup.

  'What did I tell you?'

  He glanced over his shoulder, as he had done a few minutes earlier.

  'Vanity and Bob are knocking back the champers as though there's no tomorrow.'

  'Not so long ago in California I thought there wouldn't be one. Look at the TV now. Silicon Valley has been obliterated.'

  'Which was the object of Moloch's titanic exercise. I'm sure he's congratulating himself now - regardless of the casualties. I think his character has undergone a transformation.'

  'How do you mean?'

  'I think he has had to fight so hard and for so long in America that the iron has entered his soul, as they used to say. And he now has so much power he can only go on to do one thing. To accumulate more power. And he can do it. Through the Arab connection.'

  'Those pictures we saw are grim.' Newman remarked.

  "The ones we saw on your little TV set?' Vanity queried.

  "Those pictures. And all the horror was caused by the ambition of one man - Moloch.'

  'He has a remarkable brain.' she said. 'While working for him I never ceased to be astonished at the speed with which he would take a major decision. It was a unique experience to work for such a man.'

  'Sounds as though you admire him.' Newman commented.

  'I admire his brain. That doesn't mean I admire the man. Stop twisting my words.'

  'I wasn't aware I was twisting anything,' snapped Newman.

  'You're like a bear with a sore head.'

  'Maybe it's the company I keep.' he fired back.

  'Change the company, then.' Vanity snapped.

  'I might just do that.' He glanced at her. 'I'd have thought that with a good meal inside you you'd be in a better temper.'

  'Nothing wrong with my temper. You keep provoking me.'

  'Not intentionally. Perhaps it's all in your mind.'

  'It would be in my mind, of course. Why do they have to pull the shutters down over the windows? I like to see out.'

  'Nothing to see. It's night-time.'

  Vanity rammed up the shutter with great force. She peered down into the darkness.

  'I can see lights. A small cluster. We're passing over southern Greenland.'

  'No one lives in Greenland.'

  'Yes they do. I think it's Godthaab. That's on the Polar Route. Next we'll pass over the southern rip of Iceland.'

  'Not a bad place to take a holiday. It's very unusual.'

  'I think I will take a holiday when we get back. On my own. I rather fancy going back to Cornwall...'.

  Grenville was sitting bolt upright in his seat. He didn't believe in slouching in public, even when going to sleep. In the seat behind him Maurice Prendergast had stretched out his comfortable chair so it formed a makeshift bed. He had a blanket over him and was just nodding off when a steward shook him gently by the arm.

  'Mr Prendergast? Sorry to disturb you. A message has come in for you via the radio operator.'

  'Really? Can't imagine who knows I'm aboard this flight.'

  He shook himself awake, took the sealed envelope handed to him by the steward. Opening it, he read the message.

  My Lear jet will be waiting for you at Heathrow. You are invited to join me at Mullion Towers, Cornwall. Please tell Col. Grenville the invitation is extended to him. 1 look forward to your company. VB .

  Maurice roused himself, stood up, looked along the Club Class. Everyone appeared to be fast asleep in the dimmed lights. He'd had to switch on his own personal light to read the message.

  He was going to tap Grenville on the shoulder, but from the motionless posture of the figure in front of him he decided Grenville must be fast asleep. He didn't fancy waking the often choleric colonel too abruptly. He walked to the side of the seat, gazed down. Grenville opened his eyes.

  'What is it, man? At this hour?'

  'Message for you. It's for me, too. Was addressed to me, as you'll see. Here it is.'

  Grenville took the sheet of paper, read it slowly, frowned. He looked up at Maurice with a distasteful expression.

  'What's all this about?'

  'Don't ask me.'

  'I just did. And keep your voice down. People are sleeping.'

  'So I have observed. I suppose it's an easy way to get back to Cornwall. Can't imagine why Moloch has bothered.'

  'Neither can I.'

  Both men regarded each other with mistrust as Grenville handed back the sheet of paper.

  45

  Arriving at Heathrow, Tweed headed straight for the office of Jim Corcoran, Security Chief. Its occupant looked up from his desk when Tweed walked in, closed the door.

  'I smell trouble. For myself,' Corcoran greeted him.

  Corcoran gestured to a chair, shook hands as Tweed remained standing.

  'It's an emergency. Two men, Grenville and Prendergast, are boarding Vincent Bernard Moloch's private jet. I want take-off of that jet delayed a few hours. Technical hitch - whatever.'

  "This time you're asking too much.' Corcoran spread his hands in resignation. 'I'd help you if I could but Moloch draws a lot of water these days.'

  'Can I use your phone? I want to speak to Howard.'

  'Be my guest...'

  Tweed got through to Monica who immediately transferred him to Howard, the pompous Director of the SIS. Tersely, Tweed explained the problem. Howard asked for Corcoran to be put on the line.

  'Howard here, Jim, old boy. Long time no see. I've just got back from a session with the PM. Yes, the PM himself. He wants total surveillance on Mr Moloch. You therefore have my authority - and by implication the PM's - to delay that jet, as Tweed has requested. Vital you assist us.'

  'I'll do it, then...'

  Later, Tweed had explained what had happened to Paula as they sat in the back of Newman's Merc.,

  retrieved from Long Stay parking where he had left it prior to their departure for California. Behind them Marler drove his own car with Butler and Nield as passengers.

  'So,' Paula commented, 'once again when the chips are down Howard turned up trumps - to mix metaphors.'

  'I
t's significant.' Tweed told her 'There's obviously been a dramatic sea change in the PM's attitude towards Moloch.'

  'We could have done with his backing earlier.' Paula commented. 'By the way, what has happened to Vanity? She disappeared pretty smartly after we disembarked.'

  'Vanity.' Newman called out, 'decided she wanted a holiday - on her own, as she put it. It was pretty stressful while we were in California.'

  'A holiday where?' Paula wanted to know.

  'Cornwall.'

  'How is she getting there?'

  'In her own car. Like us, she left hers at Heathrow when she flew to California.'

  Newman lapsed into silence as he drove well outside London. Paula pursed her lips. It was clear Vanity and Newman were no longer on the best of terms. They must have had a fight aboard the plane. She frowned, turned to Tweed.

  'Strange how everyone is rushing back to Cornwall. Moloch has returned there. We know from Monica that Grenville and Maurice are on their way - by courtesy of VB's private jet.' She lowered her voice. 'And now Vanity is also on her way to where it all started. Your three suspects, one of which may be Moloch's spy, the person who sets up his networks.'

  'I had noticed that.' Tweed said drily.

  'Moloch's spy is important, I should have thought.' she prodded.

  'Very. Has to be apprehended at all costs. But who is it?'

  It was the beginning of September. The two cars made good time, crossing the border into Cornwall, and Paula noticed the leaves were beginning to change colour. Green was being replaced by a mix of red, gold and orange.

  Autumn was on the way - under a clear blue sky with the sun glowing as brilliantly as anything they had seen in California. It was still warm. Paula gave a sigh of pleasure.

  'It's good to be home again. California may be a scenic marvel but there's nothing to beat Britain for the change of seasons.'

  'California was a scenic marvel,' Tweed corrected her. 'Now it's a shattered coast.' He held up the newspaper he had been glancing at. 'Look at these pictures of Carmel.'