by Colin Forbes
'Well, sometimes I have a party. Maybe twenty guests. They can end up blotto so not fit to drive. Then I can give them sleeping accommodation for the night. Ask you up some time.'
'Drunken orgies aren't my style.'
'They're hardly that,' he protested. 'You could come up on your own one evening.' He smiled knowingly.
'That's not my style either. Now, getting back to why I asked you to meet me here. Victor is under great pressure and it's showing. He gets bad-tempered with me. Not that I can't handle that. I can. I thought you ought to know.' She leaned forward, 'And if you ever tell Victor about this meeting I'll see your job goes down the drain. Now, pay the tab and leave. We don't want anyone seeing us together outside. Go on.'
Meekly, Palfry paid the bill and walked out, looking baffled. He passed close to Marler's table without noticing him. Eva then stood up, put on her overcoat, walked towards the exit. She stopped by Marler's table.
'Why are you following me, Marler?'
'For protection. How did you know?'
'You're pretty good.' She gave him her warmest smile. 'I spotted you only once. Don't forget my time with Medfords. I was trained to follow people myself - and to know when someone was following me.' She smiled again. 'At least you weren't able to eavesdrop on our conversation.'
'Hardly close enough.'
'It would have bored you.' She picked up his hat, put it on his head back to front, giggled. 'You do look funny. Take care.' She bent down, kissed him on the cheek and was gone.
Marler didn't think it had been the moment to ask her out to dinner. In any case, he wanted to get back to report their conversation to Tweed.
* * *
At Park Crescent Tweed had decided to call Dixon, the millionaire owner of the power station. He had spoken to him earlier.
'I've just spoken to Harry,' Nield spoke up. 'He's happy to keep on guarding Billy Hogarth but maybe I ought to relieve him.'
'Stay here while I make this call . . . Mr Dixon, this is Tweed again. The drug dealers we thought might be near your power station are elsewhere. Everything all right at the wharf?'
'Proctor, the guard I mentioned to you, told me over the phone everything is normal. So nothing to worry about. After all-night duty he'll be glad to get back to his wife in Balham.'
'His wife lives in Balham? Give me a moment. . .'
Tweed sat thinking. He doodled on his pad, decided, picked up the phone again.
'Mr Dixon. This is highly confidential. The big operation to trap key drug dealers is taking place in Balham. Our men are armed. I don't want to risk upsetting Mrs Proctor. Would you mind giving me her address? Then we won't call at her house.'
'Very considerate. I will, of course, keep this under my hat, the one I never wear. I won't contact her but here is where she lives . . .'
'Thank you,' said Tweed, after writing down the address. 'I won't bother you again . . .'
He looked at Newman and Nield after showing them the address.
'I have spent a lot of time visualizing how I would conduct this spectacular operation, imagining I was the mastermind behind the planning. As regards Dick's wharf, they will have intimidated the guard, Proctor, so he said the right thing to the owner when he phoned Proctor this evening. These are the most ruthless and merciless enemies we have ever faced. I have little doubt they now hold Proctor's wife as hostage in his house. What will they do just before the operation is launched? Kill Proctor. They will also kill his wife. You know the area now you have the address?'
'I do,' Nield replied who had been studying a map of Balham. It's a side street, probably terraced houses.'
'We must try to save Mrs Proctor. I don't expect a hitman is holding her at this stage. It will be some al-Qa'eda terrorist. It will be tricky.'
'Even dangerous,' Newman said doubtfully. 'Supposing the man holding her has time to phone the leader at the wharf?'
'Go with Nield. Your job is to see he doesn't get the time to do that. Kill him . . .'
Newman drove across Albert Bridge with Nield, navigating, by his side. There was heavy mist and still a lot of traffic. Prior to leaving Park Crescent Nield had collected certain tools, had wrapped them in a leather sheet, now rolled up and in his lap.
'Going to take us all night to get there,' Newman grumbled.
'No, it won't,' Nield said cheerfully. 'You concentrate on driving while I deal with navigating. After my original training session down at the Surrey mansion when they half-murdered me they brought me up here to Balham. Learning to track a suspect, watch a house opposite for two days without falling asleep. All that stuff.'
'Understood, Pete,' agreed Newman.
They had left the bridge behind and the traffic began to thin out. Nield spoke suddenly.
'Slow down, turn right down the next side street. We can get there quicker . . .'
Nield directed him through a maze of turns past old terraced houses with dim street lighting outside. Without consulting the map, he guided Newman, ordered him" once again to turn right.
'Crawl,' he ordered after the turn. 'This is the street. So where is No. 12? There it is. Park further along and we'll walk back and do a recce.'
When they walked back in their rubber-soled shoes they found No. 12 was at the end of the terrace. A narrow alley led down its windowless end, since it was the last in this block. No mist here. Just a deadly silence.
Steps led up to the front door direct from the street, and the old front door had stained glass in its upper half. There were lights behind the front bay window, which had curtains drawn closed across it. The frontage was only one window wide and they could hear nothing inside. No lights in the upper window.
'I want to call at another house like this one,' Nield said.
'What on earth for?' whispered Newman.
'To get an idea of the interior plan. They'll all be alike. You keep out of sight. And tuck this tool-kit under your arm . . .'
He walked up the block five houses, paused while Newman took up a position across the road in the shadows. No street light for a distance. Nield pressed the bell hard. Nothing, until he saw through the stained-glass window a large figure approaching. The Yale lock was turned, the door opened. A man in his shirt sleeves with his collar open at the neck glared.
'If you're selling something you can shove off. I'm watching football on TV.'
'Sorry to bother you, sir,' Nield began with his engaging smile. 'I'm lost. Car parked down the road. Trying to find Albert Bridge.'
'You are bloody lost. . ,'The man gave swift instructions to reach Albert Bridge, then slammed the door shut.
While the door was open Nield had seen a lot. A narrow hall with a kitchen beyond an open door at the other end. A back door leading into the kitchen. A partial view into a living-room at the front.
He walked back and Newman joined him. Nield explained what he had grasped of the general layout. Under a street lamp he paused, took back the rolled-up leather case, spread it out on the bonnet of their parked car. He extracted pick-lock instruments, a small can of oil, handed them to Newman.
'You'll check, of course, but I think the front door has a Yale lock like the house I visited.'
'Of course,' Newman said sarcastically.
'First, let me dive down that alley and look at the back door. When I get to the other end I'll do a rehearsal - flash my torch twice quickly. That tells you I've checked the back door. Next time I flash the torch twice I'm ready to go in through the back door. Your cue to ring the bell. When Chummy opens it I'll be inside at the back. We'll get him in a crossfire. But if I've shot first you hold your fire. I don't want your bullet passing through him to hit me. Would spoil my breakfast. . .'
While Nield made his way down the alley, Newman went to the front door, used his small torch to check the lock. A Yale. His pick-lock could open that in no time. If there was also a chain he'd use his weight to smash the door down.
As on earlier expeditions with Nield, he was impressed with how cool Pete was. As t
hough he was on a training exercise. He darted back to the end of the alley. At the far end a torch flashed twice. He waited there. Less than half a minute later the torch-flash signals were repeated. Newman rushed to the front door, pressed his thumb against the bell, held it there. He'd decided on a better strategy.
A very large man appeared behind the stained glass, jerked the door open swiftly. Over six feet tall, wide-shouldered, his face was brown-skinned, his hair trimmed short. He was wearing a windcheater and corduroy slacks. His eyes were dead as he stared at the visitor.
'Been . . . drinkin' . . . I'm lost . . . wanna get to . . .'
The giant had his right hand behind his back. His expression became a sneer. A drunk. He sensed something happening in the kitchen, swung round, his right hand holding a Mauser with a long barrel. He aimed it at Nield. Newman's hand had appeared from behind his back. He fired his Smith & Wesson three times. The brute tried to turn round, the three bullets embedded in his body. Newman pulled the trigger twice more. The brute fell face down along the hall.
Newman jumped inside, closed the door behind him, bent down, checked the carotid artery. Nothing. Blood was welling out down the windcheater. Newman chopped his left hand down, indicating to his back-up that the al-Qa'eda thug was dead.
Nield ran into the living-room. Mrs Proctor was tied to a chair, scared witless. Nield smiled as he asked the question quickly.
'Was he the only one?'
She nodded, unable to speak. Nield smiled again. 'We were sent to rescue you. I'm going to cut the ropes round you with a knife. Just sit tight. Can't do much else, can you?'
They left when they were sure she had recovered quickly. No, she didn't want a neighbour to keep her company. Mrs Worthington would never stop talking all night long. Should she phone Vince, her husband? They persuaded her that wasn't necessary, would only worry him, so she agreed. They told her the intruder was a drug dealer they'd been after for months. They'd take him away.
'All I want,' Mrs Proctor said, 'is a cuppa tea, maybe two, then I'm off to bed. Probably sleep in, take a couple of pills. They'll knock me out. Would you like tea?'
'Thank you,' Nield said, 'but we're short of time.'
'Excuse me, must dash to the toilet. . .'
Newman had asked Nield to take over the wheel. There was something he had to do. Between them, after Newman had driven his car up to the house, they had carried the great weight of the dead Saudi - at least Newman thought he was - and arranged it in the boot.
They were approaching Albert Bridge when Newman told Nield to, turn left. He did so, raising his eyebrows.
Above the name of the road they had turned down was another sign. St Jude's Hospital. Nield said nothing until Newman took a medicine pack from the car pocket, removed his jacket, started wrapping a bandage round his forearm.
'You wouldn't like to tell me what this is in aid of?' he suggested.
'I'm walking wounded when I go into the hospital.'
'Tweed will skin you alive. We're supposed to keep well clear of that place.'
'You wait outside for me.'
Newman took a small non-flash camera from his pocket, an advanced version invented by the boffins in the basement at Park Crescent. Took very detailed pictures and no flash to give the photographer away. His mouth tight with foreboding, Nield parked near the hospital, which was a blaze of lights.
'See you soon,' Newman said, leaving the car.
Approaching the entrance, he had his jacket folded over one arm, the other exposing a lot of bandage. An ambulance had just pulled up and the rear doors were being opened. A lot of nursing staff, two men holding a stretcher waited, so no one was bothered when Newman walked into the entrance.
White-coated doctors hurrying, stethoscopes dangling from their necks. Newman moved to the right, the side nearest the power station. He walked down a long corridor, turned left when he realized he'd reached the end of the hospital building. He was now walking down a very long corridor with few lights and no one about except a grim-looking nurse coming towards him. She stopped as he reached her.
'Can I help you?'
'Not really, thank you. Just seen the doctor who fixed me up. Told me to take a good walk inside, then come back to him so he could make sure I was OK. He wasn't worried.'
He resumed his walk and she went her way. Near the end of the corridor he could see the power station and its wharf through large windows. He looked up and down the corridor. No one about except himself. He gazed down on the wharf. A huge canvas screen had been erected. As he watched, the screen was moved. A thin man in camouflage clothes stood on top of the roll-over cover drawn over the interior of a barge. He stood near a very large open hatch in the middle of the barge. The tide was still coming in, shifting the barge towards the hospital. Newman took seven quick shots. As he was doing so three more men in camouflage kit appeared after climbing up a ladder from inside the barge. Slipping the camera back inside his jacket pocket, he walked rapidly back the way he had come. The dragon of a nurse with the superior attitude appeared, asked him the name of the doctor attending him. He ignored her, walked out to where Nield had the car parked, the engine running.
'Drive like hell,' he said. 'Get us out of here.'
39
'What!' Tweed demanded fiercely. 'You disobeyed my order not to go near that hospital, St Jude's? What madness got into you? The key to the success of our operation was not to risk letting al-Qa'eda know we knew their location. You've taken leave of your . . .'
Newman, jaw jutting, eyes blazing, stood up from the chair he'd been sitting in. He had just started explaining what Nield and he had accomplished. He was furious. He leaned forward, put both hands on Tweed's desk.
'So tell me how you knew, really knew that al-Qa'eda were, at Dick's wharf? Positively and without doubt. You assumed they were there. You made a really dangerous assumption . . .'
'The white vans dumped in the river,' Tweed retorted.
'Those vans could have been dumped in the place least likely to be found. But al-Qa'eda could have been based miles away. The damned vans proved nothing . . .'
'You're forgetting,' Tweed fumed, 'Mrs Wharton saw them transferring a device on to their motorized trolley . . .'
'And what the hell did that prove?' Newman roared. 'Simply the movement of the device towards the river. There's a ramp at the end of that track. They could just as easily have been putting it aboard a vessel to transport it either further upriver — or downriver. Up to this moment there has been no absolute proof that al-Qa'eda was based on Dick's wharf. So every detail of your counter-operation was based on an unproven assumption. Right?'
Paula, seated behind her desk, was fascinated by the explosive confrontation between the two men. She had only once in the past seen Tweed and Newman at each other's throats. And what an audience they had. Buchanan had returned, was seated in front of her. Beaurain, perched calmly on a hard chair, was watching the two men with keen eyes. Nield, keeping quiet, was seated on a hard chair near Monica's desk. And at that moment Marler walked in. Sensing the atmosphere, he strolled over to lean against a wall. Now only Harry Butler was absent.
Newman was leaning forward over Tweed's desk, almost over his chief. Tweed, gazing up at Newman, sat back in his chair. He folded his arms. When he spoke his voice was normal, almost quiet.
'Based on an unproven assumption, you said. Actually, you could be right. I can see that now. Maybe you'd like to sit down and tell me what happened from the moment you left here with Pete Nield. I'll just listen.'
Newman sat down. He drank the glass of water Monica brought him, thanked her. In a controlled voice he explained where he had been with Nield, this time starting in the right sequence with their confrontation with Mrs Proctor's captor in Balham.
Tersely, he painted a vivid picture of their encounter with the al-Qa'eda killer. The aftermath when they had left Mrs Proctor calmed down. The body still in the boot of the car.
'It's downstairs,' he explained. 'Maybe Super
intendent Buchanan should send an ambulance to collect it. Take it to the best pathologist, Professor Saafeld, if I may suggest that.'
'Saafeld is a good idea,' agreed Buchanan. 'I'm using my mobile to call Warden to deal with it at once . . .'
Newman then explained their trip to St Jude's Hospital, his idea. His venturing inside the hospital, the taking of the photographs when the screen aboard the barge was moved. He took out of his pocket the self-developed prints, laid them out on Tweed's desk.
Everyone got up to gather round and study them. Tweed picked up one, the picture taken when the barge heeled over and gave a view down the main hatch. Taking out a magnifying glass, he studied it for several minutes. He then handed it to Buchanan and Beaurain with the glass.