by Colin Forbes
Dazed by the stun grenades, nine of Klein's team armed with Uzis attempted to aim their weapons. Swift, short fusillades of bullets hit them. They crumpled, fell to the ground in grotesque attitudes.
On the roof of the HQ building Blade's trooper holding the bazooka aimed it carefully, pulled the trigger. The missile hammered through the restaurant windows three hundred feet up, detonated inside.
On the platform Marler heard the whoosh of the missile coming, dived down behind the railing. The platform shook with the force of the explosion. Most of Klein's men at that level had been inside the restaurant. Marler pulled out his bright red scarf, let it fall over his jacket. He risked a glance over the rail. The Sikorsky was still on the barge, its rotors whirling.
Tweed, waiting by the side of the building the SAS troop had attacked from, also stood watching the helicopter. Someone came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder. A familiar voice spoke. Captain Nicholls. From the bomb disposal squad at Blakeney.
'Bellenger sent me to join you. I've just arrived. Balloon's gone up… '
'Klein must be dead. I'm worried about the control box he was carrying. It can…'
'I know. Bellenger explained. Why don't we walk over there?'
The Sikorsky had begun to lift off. Saur had panicked. As the machine climbed higher they had a clear view of the deck of the barge. Tweed saw the two bodies lying there.
'Let's move,' he said.
They walked at a normal pace towards the barge. From Euromast came the sound of desultory machine-pistol fire. A series of sharp cracks. No one else on the waterfront. Tweed kept an eye on the elevating helicopter. It was now turning, heading for the Maas above the docking basin.
On the platform Marler heard the Sikorsky taking off. Standing up, he raised his rifle. He aimed carefully for the section which held the petrol tanks. He waited, seeing Tweed walking with another man, far below – waited for the Sikorksy to get far enough away. It reached the end of the basin, flew on over the Maas. Marler pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.
Nothing happened for a few seconds. Marier estimated the Sikorsky was thirty feet above the water. A tongue of fire appeared, expanded into a flaring flame. Saur, his flying kit on fire, dived from the doorway. The fire enveloped him as he dropped into the river. The Sikorksy exploded, showering the air with fragments. In seconds it was a glowing fireball. It plunged into the Maas. The water sizzled. A second petrol tank exploded. A geyser of water as dramatic as one in Yellowstone Park rose from the river, then collapsed. The dark surface of the Maas became smooth and still as the grave.
Marler walked inside the entrance to Euromast, glanced round the lobby, holding the rifle he had reloaded. No one. He was watching the elevator – which had started to climb from the base of the tower. He sat at a table half-sheltered by an upended couch, took out from his pocket a wad of cotton wool he used to freshen himself up with eau-de-Cologne. Wetting two tufts with his tongue, he stuffed one in each ear,
He sat at the table with his forearms, leaning on it, his hands extended, fiat on the table's surface. The rifle he left on the floor. The elevator had arrived at the platform.
The doors opened. Inside, both men pressed against the wall, stood Blade with Eddie. The moment the doors opened they hurled the stun grenades. Despite the cotton wool, the sound was deafening. The two men jumped out, Ingrams aimed. Eddie saw Marler, swivelled his weapon. Blade saw the red scarf. A second before Eddie fired he yelled.
'Don't! Red scarf…!'
Eddie automatically approached the platform while Blade, his eyes slits behind the Balaclava, advanced on Marler, Ingram aimed. Marler gestured towards the British passport he had tossed earlier on the table.
'Don't shoot the pianist,' he said. 'He's doing his best.'
Blade flicked open the passport, compared photo with the man seated at the table. 'You nearly had it that time,' he said.
'Nearly is close enough. Look, I have to get down on to the waterfront. Tweed may need a little help. Satisfied? I've a rifle I'd like to take with me. Use that phone to warn the chaps below I'm coming down. And there's still one up in the Space Tower.'
There was a brief rattle of machine-pistol fire from where Eddie had gone. 'The bazooka must have missed a couple,' Marler commented. 'And the elevator went down, is coming up again.'
'More of my chaps. I'll send one down with you. No time to use phones…'
One of Klein's men appeared from nowhere. Marler nodded but Blade had seen him. He half-turned. The man, ashen-faced, had his hands up. Blade shot him twice.
On the waterfront Tweed waved a hand. The three policemen Marler had 'shot' stood up, raced off the launch ashore.
Tweed and Nicholls stepped on to the barge cautiously. The drizzle was still falling, the deck surface was coated with a greasy sheen. Then the two men froze. The Sikorsky over the Maas had just exploded.
There's the control box,' Tweed said, pointing.
'I see it. You wait here. I know how it works. Those blueprints from Switzerland you handed to Bellenger in London were shown to me by his naval chaps. Their bomb disposal lot is still waiting at Schiphol. I came on ahead in case you needed a spot of help…"
And he had used his loaf, Tweed thought. Nicholls was wearing civvies, dressed in a dark suit under a raincoat, carrying an executive case. He laid it on the deck, squatting on his haunches, opened it, took out a small leather pouch.
'Don't worry,' he assured Tweed.
'A lot of lives are connected to that damned box.'
'I know. Like I said, wait here…'
He walked across the deck which pitched slightly, moving to bump against the wharf, then drifting out to collide heavily with the barge moored alongside. Using a torch, Nicholls checked the neck pulses of both bodies, then walked slowly round the control box, which lay about four feet away from Klein's wrecked hands. Bending down, he used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to lift the box. He walked back to Tweed, asked him to hold the torch.
'You'll be surprised how simple this is…'
Tweed stared at the rows of numbered buttons, then his eyes locked on the red button. Using his left hand, Nicholls opened the leather pouch, selected a small screwdriver and shoved the pouch back inside his pocket. He unscrewed the screw at each corner of the top of the box, tucking them inside his pocket. The distant rattle of a machine-pistol drifted down to them from the Euromast platform. Nicholls ignored the sound, lifted the top of the box carefully and slid that into his pocket. A maze of wires led from what looked like a battery. Nicholls substituted a small pair of pliers for the screwdriver, snipped ten wires, including one coloured red. Lifting out the battery, he handed the box to Tweed.
'Press any button you like. Nothing will happen. The box is disarmed.'
Thanks, but no thanks,' Tweed replied, handing the box back to Nicholls.
He looked up as footsteps, a swift deliberate tread, came across to the barge. Marler. Rifle held loosely in both hands.
'I'd better get back,' Nicholls said. 'Next job is link up with the team waiting at Schiphol, get out to those ships…'
'I wonder how this happened,' Tweed enquired, pointing a foot to Klein's dead body.
'Slipped on the greasy deck. Made the mistake of wearing leather-soled shoes. Mine are rubber. If the drizzle hadn't come.. .' Marler shrugged. 'We'd have been up the creek. Gave me the few seconds I needed to shoot him – that control box slid out of his hand. Just the chance I was waiting for.'
'We have one more problem. While we're alone. Klein must not be identified.'
'Think I could help there.'
Marler glanced round, then walked to the other side of the barge. The barges were still bumping up against each other, then opening up a stretch of water about three feet wide before they began closing again. Marler strolled back, looked at Euromast. Deserted outside. He used his foot to roll the corpse of Klein across the deck, a task made easier by the slippery surface. When Klein was wedged against the g
unwale he looked round again as Tweed walked to where he stood. Marler placed his rifle on the deck, waited until the gap between the heavy barges was widest, then levered the body into the water.
It floated until the barge they stood on moved against it and pushed the body forward. The two barges met. There was an ugly cracking sound, the sound of bones being crushed between the makeshift vice. Marler peered over as the barges slowly parted company again.
'Skull crushed flat as a dinner plate…'
Tweed took his word for it. Marler picked up his rifle. In the distance was the sound of a chopper approaching. They stepped off the barge. It began to move towards the second barge again.
'He'll end up as the original thin man,' Marler remarked. 'I have one more job to do.'
'Which is?'
'Second Sikorsky coming in from the airport. To pick me up. So Klein said. A bullet in the back soon as I went aboard would be my guess. Then the long drop into the Maas. Here she comes…'
Marler aimed for the cockpit as the machine came downriver, began to turn in over the Maas, losing height. Later they hauled up the Sikorsky out of the river and found the pilot with a bullet between the eyes. Again Marler fired three times in quick succession. The helicopter, now hovering at the entrance to Parkhaven, began to gyrate as it dropped out of control. The rotors were still whirling as it hit the water. The Sikorsky settled, the fuselage vanished, the rotors whirling to a stop whipped up a foam and then they were gone.
As they walked back along the waterfront Tweed glanced up at Euromast. At least someone had pulled in out of sight the pathetic body of Lara Seagrave, thank God.
' Flashpoint!…! '
Van Gorp's warning came down the line clearly to Benoit at Findel. He dropped the phone, picked up his torch, went close to the window and flashed the torch on-off-on six times.
Newman had moved to a position midway along the runway between take-off point and where the Hercules transport was still stationary, revving its engines. He stepped off the runway on to the grass and backed a dozen yards.
It was still dark but his eyes had regained their night vision. As he had suspected, the plane was doing the wrong thing: it was revving up to full power. The transport began moving towards him. Slowly at first, then a steady increase in speed. He braced himself, shoved the stock of the rifle hard against his shoulder. He was aiming for the huge tyres on the machine's wheels.
As it came closer a door opened. Framed inside stood a man holding a machine-pistol with a long barrel. Probably a 9 mm Uzi. Forty rounds in the mag. The night was filled with the roar of the oncoming transport. Ignoring the gunman in the doorway, Newman aimed his night sight for the blur of a fast-revolving tyre. The gunman had begun to open up on him. A spray of bullets hit the grass fifty yards from where he stood. In seconds they'd be firing at him point-blank.
The sound of the transport's engines drowned the noise of the motor-cycle Butler was riding, coming up behind the tail of the plane. He held the handlebars with his left hand; in his right he gripped the Browning automatic. He came like a rocket, was suddenly alongside the machine. He raised the automatic, pressed the trigger, firing nonstop at the doorway.
Hipper toppled out of the plane, thudded down on the concrete runway. Newman fired several shots, moving the muzzle a fraction. The transport sheered past. Newman saw the port wheel collapse, metal grinding through rubber. The machine's starboard side swung through an angle of ninety degrees – carried on by its intact starboard wheels. The plane wobbled across the grass, stopped. Butler pulled up a few feet behind the open door, reloaded, aimed his Browning upwards. A ladder was dropped as Benoit arrived in a jeep driven by the chief security officer. Brand alighted first, climbing down with hesitant steps. Benoit was waiting for him. Before the banker could turn round Benoit clamped his hands behind him with a pair of handcuffs.
'Peter Brand, I have a warrant for your arrest…'
– – Epilogue
– – Two weeks later three men sat in Tweed's office at Park Crescent. Newman sat in the armchair, Marler stood by the window, Tweed occupied the seat behind his desk.
'So you've seen off Cord Dillon,' Newman remarked.
'He flew back to Washington yesterday,' Tweed answered. 'I took him up to Cockley Ford with the order to exhume the seventh grave in the church cemetery. When they opened it they found the body of Lee Foley. Dillon reacted well, said he didn't know who he was. Afterwards he told me he recognized the signet ring on the corpse's third right finger. My guess is Klein couldn't get it off and had the villagers dump the body in.'
'And our nice friend, Ned Grimes, confessed before he died?'
'Talked non-stop. Foley had explained the idea to the villagers with Klein and Dr Portch present. Offered them the earth if they would cooperate – let the tomb of Sir John Leinster be used to store a secret cargo. That was the bombs and sea-mines due for delivery by the Lesbos, of course.'
'But not everyone agreed?'
'No, now we come to the nasty bit. Six of them -egged on by a Mrs Rout, the postmistress – wouldn't play. Threatened to report the plan to the police. Enter Lee Foley one evening at The Bluebell, masked in a Balaclava when they'd manoeuvred all the six dissenters to be present. He mowed them down with a machine-pistol. Except Simple Eric. No one worried about him. No one would believe a word he said.'
'Why did the other villagers agree to go along?'
'Greed, pure greed, Foley offered them a fortune, handed out expensive presents – including a Rolex for Simple Eric. They had no idea what was going to be hidden in the tomb. I doubt if they cared. Portch by then had them in the palm of his hand. He took them off occasionally for holidays to distant places – and escorted them.'
'After they'd buried the bodies of their fellow-villagers,' Newman commented. 'What a macabre business.'
'I gathered from Grimes they were divided into two factions long before Foley and Portch appeared. That's not uncommon considering the isolated lives some of those tiny villages in Norfolk lead,' Tweed remarked.
'And afterwards Portch practically held them in quarantine – with very little contact with the outside world?'
'Again not uncommon – especially round Breckland. Some of them have never seen London. Portch would charter a flight to some lonely West Indian island out of season to stop them getting restless.'
'And what happened to Foley?' Newman enquired.
'He blundered. Panicked when Paula followed him. Decided he had better wipe her out. Hence the TNT – packed inside one of the smallest Soviet bombs. Klein was furious, drugged him at Cockley Ford, then cut his throat. Grimes helped dispose of him. Hence the seventh grave. I think Klein met Foley in New York during his UN posting. Like recognized like. Foley, Dillon told me, had contact with European arms dealers, probably supplied the weapons. Klein would have killed him anyway in due course, I'm sure.'
'And now they're all dead. Again, how macabre,' Marler drawled, 'that they died of anthrax, a rare disease.'
'Contracted, so the Special Branch doctor diagnosed,' Tweed explained, 'from old rags piled in Sir John Leinster's mausoleum. After the explosives had been moved Grimes used it to shelter cattle. If Dr Portch had stayed, had not been blown up with that coaster, I'm sure he'd never have allowed it. Ironic.'
'So,' Marler remarked, 'another touch of irony. Earlier Portch covered up the six murders of Foley's with a fake diagnosis of meningitis. Had the village quarantined. Now the accomplices to mass murder have died of anthrax the place is once again in quarantine. The strange death of a village cleansed with flame throwers.'
'All except Simple Eric,' Tweed reminded him. 'He survived – weak in the head, strong in the body. Now he's living at Cockley Cley. A lady there has given him shelter.'
'No trouble with the coroner?' Newman enquired.
'None at all. Special Branch has moved in. Matter of national security. And no one will believe Simple Eric if he talks.'
'Later I thought your Olympus was poor Lara,' Newm
an observed. 'Not Marler.'
Tricky when I had to "shoot" the three police,' Marler recalled. 'I aimed to miss, hoping to God Tweed had fixed it for them to fake death – which he had. Helped my status with Klein. On the Dames de Meuse I also aimed to miss Newman, nearly killed Tweed. He moved as I fired.'
'That was a bit of luck,' Tweed said. 'I'd earlier "created" a skilled assassin called The Monk – Marler's first job for us. With the help of a few friends on the continent we built up his "reputation". He's a marksman, as you now realize, Bob. But he never killed that German banker. We simply spread the rumour in the right quarters it was The Monk's work. The banker wanted to take a long holiday incognito – away from the press – in Honolulu. He agreed to cooperate with the German police. Same with the Italian police chief, who was killed, but not by Marler. Again we spread more rumours.'
'What was the idea?' Newman asked.
'We thought that sooner or later Marler would be approached by someone wanting a top statesman killed. Even a Secret Service chief. Marler would have warned us. As I said, it was sheer luck Klein hired him.'
'Trouble was I couldn't tell Tweed much,' Marler remarked. 'For the simple reason I didn't know the target until late on in the game. Then Klein stuck to me like glue. I'd have shot him inside Euromast when I knew his horrendous plan – but he carried his infernal control box everywhere. I nearly had kittens when he shoved that poor girl over the rail.'
'I'm attending the memorial service,' Tweed said. 'I paid a call on Lady Windermere when I got back. Incredible woman. Accused me of being responsible for the postponement of the wedding of her wretched son, Robin. She didn't realize her banker husband, Roily, was listening from the next room. He walked in and said he was leaving her. She blamed me for that.'
'What did you say?' Newman asked.
' "My pleasure." Then I left the old cat. I must be getting vicious…'