by Colin Forbes
53
Monday, 7 December. 7 a.m. Sully lay in the road covered with blood near the entrance to Cherry Farm. It was real blood: Foster, against Anton's protests, had used a knife to cut his forearm lightly. He had then smeared blood all over Sully's face and neck. Inside the farmhouse Seton-Charles was using sticking plaster to cover the flesh wound.
Nearby Sully the Austin Metro had its bonnet pushed against a tree trunk, positioned at an angle across the road. The driver's door was wide open. George Hobart, driving his Post Office van, slowed, then stopped as he saw the body sprawled in the road. He jumped out. Only twenty-two years old, he wore his Post Office cap, unlike the more veteran postmen who went bareheaded.
'Nasty accident,' said Foster, appearing from behind a tree. 'It just happened. Could you take him to hospital? We've no transport.'
'Of course I'll help.' Hobart approached the 'body' and swallowed. 'He looks in a bad way.'
'Something for your help…'
Foster reached into his breast pocket, hauled out his wallet, dropped it on the road at Hobart's feet. He was slow retrieving it and Hobart bent forward to pick up the wallet. Foster pressed the muzzle of his Luger against the back of Hobart's neck, pulled the trigger. The old method of execution used in the motherland when he'd been young. Hobart slumped to the ground.
Saunders appeared with a large wheelbarrow. Foster picked up the dead youngster and his cap, askew, dropped off. When he'd dumped the body inside the wheelbarrow and Saunders was taking it towards the farmhouse Foster picked up the cap. Climbing into the cab of the large van, he drove it off the road along a track into the woods opposite the farm entrance.
Then he checked his watch. They'd all better give Anton a hand to fill in the grave. He got behind the wheel of the Metro, closed the door, backed it on to the road and drove it back to the shed. They'd be on their way in fifteen minutes.
Tweed wore a thick woollen pullover, a heavy sports jacket, a woollen scarf round his neck, and corduroy trousers tucked inside knee-length boots with rubber-grip soles.
The Wessex chopper was again flying at eight hundred feet and Tweed sat in the same seat, map in his lap, binoculars looped round his neck. In front of him Newman sat holding the handle of the swivel-mounted machine-gun by the closed door. On the starboard side the airborne soldier, beret slanted at exactly the same angle, sat peering out of the window through his field glasses.
There had been very little conversation since the machine took off from Fairoaks. There was an atmosphere of rising tension inside the helicopter. Then the pilot passed on the message to Tweed through his earphones.
'Marler and Butler have landed. They are on the ground.'
'Thank you,' said Tweed.
Marler would now be driving the Land Rover waiting for him at the appointed rendezvous, a crossroads in the middle of nowhere near Ducklington village. Butler would be riding the BMW motorcycle which had been transported to the crossroads by truck during the night. All arranged by Tweed over the phone in the early hours. Nield was at Fairoaks, running the radio control room set up inside an administrative office.
Tweed studied the area he had circled on the map the previous day. He was gambling everything that the attack would be launched from somewhere in that area. It was logical. And Winterton had shown himself to be logical in everything he organized.
The second chopper would return to Fairoaks. At the last moment Security Control at Brize Norton had sanctioned one machine, not two. Tweed gathered they did not take Force Z too seriously. He raised his glasses as they crossed the Vale of White Horse. They were moving into the danger zone.
The furniture van driven by Foster, with Saunders alongside him, turned off the road into the worked-out chalk quarry. It had been carved out in a semi-circle. A chalk cliff enclosed it on the west, south and north sides. To the east it looked out across open country and the sky. Foster backed the vehicle until it was facing due east with the rear of the van a few feet away from the cliff. Then he stopped the engine.
They jumped out, went to the back, lowered the tailboard and went inside. Foster led the way, squeezing past the piles of old furniture. He climbed the steps to the platform, sat in the chair and pressed the switch. The panel in the roof slid back. He settled himself in the chair, picked up the Stinger launcher, inserted a missile.
He picked up the walkie-talkie Anton had specially amplified to increase its range. Holding it close to his mouth with his left hand, he spoke.
'Coastguard Number One in position.'
There was a crackle. Then he clearly heard Sully's voice.
'Coastguard Number Two in position…'
Marler drove the Land Rover along the narrow country lane at speed. He was moving through open country so he couldn't miss anything. He was following routes which Butler had not covered the previous day but which were inside Tweed's circle. Half a mile behind him Butler followed on his motorcycle.
He reached a crossroads and drove straight on. Round a bend he was confronted with a tarring machine taking up the whole road. A workman came up to him.
'Didn't you see the bloody diversion sign, mate?'
'No, because there wasn't one.'
'Must be blind as a bat. You can't pass.'
Marler swore, turned the Land Rover and went back to the crossroads. He turned right just as Butler appeared over a rise. He drove on, more slowly: there were clumps of trees on either side, clumps which became woodland. He turned a corner and saw a sign in the distance. Diversion. The sign pointed right at a point where the road forked. Marler frowned, then drove his vehicle straight at the sign, sending it into the ditch as he took the left fork.
On the floor lay his rifle, telescopic sight attached. They had installed a small transceiver, complete with microphone. He had tested it earlier and it was tuned to the waveband Nield was operating on at Fairoaks. He turned the wheel as the winding road curved round another bend. Then he slowed to a stop.
At the base of the chalk cliff Foster saw four Ilyushin 62s flying one behind another coming in from the east. He grabbed the microphone. 'Coastguard One reporting. Four blackbirds in view. Repeat, four blackbirds. I'll arrest three and four. You take one and two. Over.'
'Four blackbirds sighted,' Sully confirmed. 'Will take one and two. Over and out…'
Marler had stopped where the rear of a large furniture van was parked half inside a wood. Beyond, the trees had been felled by storms, leaving the sky open. On the tailboard sat Seton-Charles, eating a sandwich. A rug covered his lap. He threw back the rug and pointed an Uzi machine-pistol point blank at Marler. Somewhere beyond the pile of furniture Marler detected signs of further movement. Behind him he heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle.
'Stay very still. Hands in sight,' rasped Seton-Charles, dressed in overalls. 'Wait like that till the biker has gone.'
Marler raised both hands in the air. 'Drop them!' screamed the professor. 'In your lap.' Marler let his hands drop. The BMW was very close. He hoped Butler had seen his gesture. The BMW slowed down, turned out to pass Marler's stationary Land Rover.
As he cruised slowly past Butler tossed the grenade he'd extracted from his saddlebag into Seton-Charles' lap. Marler ducked, fell crouched on the floor. There was an ear-splitting crack! Marler's windscreen shattered.
He looked up, grabbing his rifle. Seton-Charles was plastered all over the furniture. Blood and flesh strips everywhere. Marler saw movement high up at the front of the van. The mass of ancient furniture had saved Sully. His head peered over the top. Marler shot him through the forehead.
He leapt out and ran to the right side as Butler ran to the left. They met on opposite sides of the cab. Empty. Somewhere beyond the trees a vehicle's engine started up, moved off. Marler ran to the rear, pushed his way inside, leapt up the steps. Sully, flopped over the back of the chair, was dying but not dead. He looked into Marler's eyes as the Englishman bent over him. His eyes were glazed. The bullet had missed the brain and his expression showed a
glimmer of hatred.
'Anton,' he whispered. 'Bastard ran for it. In Post Office van. Ex
…' Then he died.
****
Foster aimed his launcher to take out Ilyushin Number Three, the plane carrying Gorbachev. He waited for the first two machines to disintegrate. Then decided he could wait no longer. In his concentration he failed to hear the sound of the chopper.
Aboard the Wessex Tweed was scanning the countryside below. He swept over a chalk quarry, then swung his glasses back again. The van came up clearly in his high-powered glasses. So clearly he could see the open panel in the roof, the man seated inside holding something rammed into his shoulder.
'The chalk quarry!' he shouted into his mike. 'It's there…'
The airborne soldier swung open his door. Icy air blasted into the chopper. Newman aimed his gunsight, pressed the trigger, swept the opening in the roof with bullets. Inside Foster was training the Stinger's sophisticated gunsight on the third Ilyushin. The chopper pilot – at Tweed's urgent request – had earlier ignored regulations, descending to one hundred feet, and now he hovered. In response to Newman's shouted request. He held the trigger back in the firing position. A stream of bullets laced Foster's back and chest. Blood splotches burst out of his overalls. He sagged in the chair. His last reflex action was to fire the launcher's missile.
But as he'd slumped the barrel had dropped, was now aimed inside the vehicle. The heat-seeking missile whooshed from the launcher, sped the few feet towards the vehicle's engine, which was still warm.
'Climb!' Newman shouted.
The pilot reacted instantly, began to ascend vertically. Tweed was staring at the quarry. As the missile detonated there was a blinding flash, a low rumble like thunder. The climbing chopper rocked from side to side as the blast hit it, then steadied. Tweed and Newman gazed down.
The furniture van had disappeared, blown into a million fragments. A cloud of white chalk dust rose from the quarry. Tweed searched in vain for any debris which might be a relic of the van. His hands were sweating and he wiped them on his handkerchief as the airborne soldier hauled the door shut. The interior of the machine was like an ice box from the raw wind which had penetrated inside.
'Fairoaks reporting,' the pilot said, his tone calm. 'Marler has intercepted Vehicle One.'
'Thank God! Tell Fairoaks Vehicle Two also intercepted. Pass the message to Mailer,' Tweed told him
Overhead the four Ilyushin 62s were continuing their descent to Brize Norton. Tweed finished wiping his hands, put on a pair of gloves. He spoke again to the pilot.
'Please return to Fairoaks. We have unfinished business to attend to.'
54
Monday, 7 December.
'I will be driving down to interrogate Colonel Winterton,' Tweed told Monica, Newman, Butler and Nield in his Park Crescent office. 'Before he leaves the country.'
'On Exmoor?' Butler queried. 'You know who he is?' 'Yes. Monica has heard from Roberts at Lloyd's. The Shipping Index shows the only Iron Curtain vessel off our shores is an East German freighter, the Stralsund. At this moment it is unloading timber at Swansea. It sails for Rostock in the Baltic before the end of the day. That means it could heave to after dark at the mouth of the Bristol Channel. Ready to take aboard Wintertoh.'
'You really know who he is?' Monica asked. 'And he is one of the three ex-commandos?'
'Yes to both questions.' He turned to Butler. 'We left Fairoaks in a hurry. You talked with Marler. Why did he wait instead of coming with us?'
'Apparently just before Sully died he told Marler Anton had fled in a Post Office van. Heard the grenade I threw, then the shot Marler fired, I suppose. Ran for it. Headed for Exmoor, according to Marler. He's going after him. Trouble was the chopper we didn't use had a mechanical defect. And the pilot of our machine insisted on a thorough check-up before he'd fly Marler anywhere. That blast from the quarry really hit us.'
'Up to Marler, then. You heard me call Paula. She'll wait to meet us in the Mercedes by the call box in Minehead. Newman, you can come with me. Butler and Nield, you stay here. We're desperately understaffed if something else breaks.'
The phone rang. Monica said it was the call Tweed had booked to Arthur Beck at Federal Police headquarters in Berne. Tweed took the phone.
'Arthur. Check with Sarris, I suggest. But I think it's safe to send Christina back to Athens. Send me the bill.'
'No bill.' Beck chuckled. 'But now you owe me one. And don't think I won't call in the debt when it suits me 'Bye.'
Newman stood up. 'I'm ready to leave when you are. As it is, we won't reach Exmoor before dark. Winterton could be aboard the Stralsund if we don't move. I'll drive the Cortina.'
'We need to be armed.' Tweed opened a drawer, took out from it a Smith amp; Wesson short-barrelled. 38. Plus a shoulder holster. The armourer recommended this for me. You agree?'
'You never normally carry a gun. I'll give you some practice at a quiet spot on the way. Yes, that's OK. A hip holster would have been better. But it's short-barrelled, shouldn't snag if you have to snatch it out. I'm keeping the Magnum. 45.'
'That blows a hole as big as a cave through your target.'
'Which means it does the job.'
Newman had become harder since he first knew him, Tweed reflected. His experience behind the lines in East Germany. Newman seemed to read his mind.
'Why is Winterton boarding an East German vessel?'
'Because the East Germans are not sympathetic to glasnost. And I doubt he'll report precisely what he was involved in. We'd better go.'
'Do give us a clue,' Monica begged. 'About the identity of this Winterton.'
'He must have needed to keep contact with the Spetsnaz group when it moved to a new base close to Brize Norton, wherever that was. So, he needed a phone he could use which wasn't his own – in case we'd put a phone tap on it. Which I wouldn't risk. A phone, Monica…'
It was early evening, just before dark, when the Wessex carrying Marler approached Dunkeswell Airfield south of Exmoor. On his lap Marler nursed his rifle with the telescopic sight as he peered out of the window. 'Can you land somewhere close to Dunkeswell, but not on the airfield?' he asked the pilot.
'Might manage it. You spoke in time. Not yet dark. How long a walk do you fancy?'
'No more than five minutes. It's an emergency.'
'When isn't it? There's Dunkeswell.'
Marler looked out of the window, frowned. Two main runways crossed each other almost at right angles. One had lights on at either side. Ready for a plane to take off?
The chopper was descending towards a deserted country road. Marler grabbed his rifle, headed for the door after one last word.
'Land me on that road. Then you'd better take off, head back for Fairoaks…'
He tore off his headset, splaying his feet as he made for the door. The machine was rocking gently. He felt it touch down, opened the door, dropped to the ground. Ducking to keep clear of the rotors, he ran towards the main airport building. He reached the open gate at the main entrance as an old Rover driven by a middle-aged man appeared from the opposite direction. The car stopped, half-turned to drive through the entrance. The driver lowered his window, leaned out.
'Who are you?' he enquired, staring at the rifle Marler held in his right hand.
'Don't go in there,' Marler warned. He used his left hand to extract his Special Branch card, shoved it in the driver's face. 'And who are you?'
'I'm the controller of this airfield. Those damned gates should be kept closed. I've told Abbott before…'
'Who is Abbott? Quick. There's probably an armed terrorist inside.'
'Maintenance mechanic. Odd-job man. Really runs the place…'
'Where do I find this Abbott?'
'Should be inside that office with the lights on…'
'Drive off. Up the road. Unless you want to risk getting shot.'
Marler darted inside the entrance, crouched low as he ran, rifle gripped in both hands. He avoided the office d
oor, which was closed. Very carefully he raised his head, peered in through the window. Then he ran back to the door, turned the handle, threw it open. He had found Abbott.
The mechanic was sprawled forward over a desk. Blood was congealing from a hole in the side of his skull. Marler felt the neck pulse. Nothing. In the distance he heard the sound of a light aircraft starting up. He ran outside, keeping close to the side of the building, peered round the corner.
A Cessna was taxiing slowly along a runway. As he watched, it turned. The engine revolutions increased in speed. He raised his rifle, peered through the sight. Inside the cockpit a face wearing a pilot's helmet jumped at him. Anton Gavalas. The machine began to move forward along a course parallel to the building. Moving target. Marler held the crosshairs fixed on the Greek's head. He took the first pressure on the trigger, waited until the small plane was opposite him, pulled the trigger rapidly three times.
He saw the perspex craze. The aircraft proceeded on down the runway. Marler thought he'd missed. The machine began leaving the ground. It was gaining height when the nose dipped and plunged swiftly down on to the runway. The tail was poised in mid-air. Then the fuel tanks exploded. Fire enveloped the Cessna, a fierce blaze which was smothered with a cloud of the blackest smoke. Silence suddenly descended on Dunkeswell.
'Lord, I'm glad to see you.'
Paula jumped out of the Mercedes parked by the call box in Minehead as the Cortina driven by Newman pulled up. It was dark as Tweed stepped out and she hugged him. 'They go to bed early here,' Tweed commented, glancing along the deserted street. He squeezed her, let her go as Newman approached.
'Look what Inspector Farthing gave me.' She took them both by the arm, guided them to the Mercedes and pointed at the dashboard. A mobile phone unit had been attached. Tweed got in behind the wheel, pressed the switch which operated the aerial and watched it slide down out of sight in the wing mirror.
'No, elevate that,' Paula protested as she got in beside him and dropped her shoulder bag in her lap. 'It helps contact. Farthing has a policeman with a walkie-talkie watching each of the houses. Barrymore, Robson and Kearns. They report back to a radio car and I hear their observations over that phone. In a kind of code I can understand. They're all at home. Farthing has been marvellous.'