Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  The driver and the man who had been sitting beside him jumped down and two other men climbed out of the back. The four of them worked quietly, but without wasting any time. One of them walked to each of the posts which stood at the end of the beach, pulled out a compass and took a bearing out to sea; 225° magnetic from one post, 135° from the other.

  In the growing light the clump of seaweed bobbing about two hundred yards offshore was clearly visible. The right-hand man saw it first and signalled. The left-hand man signalled back. He had seen it too.

  By this time the ramp at the back of the van had been lowered and the third man, helped by the driver, had manhandled a dinghy down it and across the narrow strip of pebbled beach. It was a stout little craft of the type used in air-sea rescue operations, equipped both with oars and an outboard motor. The men climbed in. For the outward journey there was no need to risk the noise of the motor. One of the men took the oars. The other kept his eye on the watchers by the posts. They directed him by raising their right or left arms.

  The man at the oars pulled steadily. The ebb tide was helping him. As soon as it was clear that they had spotted the clump of seaweed, the two men left the posts and hurried back to the van, stripping off clothes as they went.

  When the boat reached the clump of seaweed, one of the men moved forward to maintain balance, the other leaned over the stern and felt for the hooks which held the lines to the rings under the steel mushroom. One by one and very carefully he unsnapped them and refixed them to the towing hooks, two on each side of the boat. When the last of the four boxes was secure, the second man started the outboard motor.

  The first part of the trip back was easy enough. The length of line attached to the boxes had been calculated to keep them off the bottom until they reached shallow water. When it became clear from the drag on the lines that the boxes were grounding, the boat was still twenty-five yards from the beach. The other two men, having stripped off their outer clothes, could now be seen to be wearing skin-divers’ rubber suits. They waded out through the surf until they could reach the boat and unhooked one line each. Dragging the cases ashore was a painstaking operation and it had to be done slowly, lifting them over projecting lumps of rock and taking great care not to damage them. When all four were on the beach, the driver looked at his watch. It was twenty past six. That part of the operation had overrun by ten minutes.

  The beach, as they knew, was used by occasional swimmers from the camp. Weeks of observation had shown that seven o’clock was the earliest that any of them arrived. There was a margin of safety, but it was a small one. The cases were stowed in the van. The boat, lifted by all four men, was hefted up and slung on top of them. The ramp was raised and bolted. Despite the cool breeze of early morning they were all sweating.

  The driver said to the two men in diving-suits, “We’re behind time. Can you dress as we go?”

  The men nodded. The driver started the engine and the men jumped in. They headed back up the track towards the camp.

  The ambush was laid with speed, efficiency and simplicity. From his point of vantage the fair-haired man observed it with a mixture of fury and the admiration of a professional for a professional job well done.

  At the last moment, when the van could be heard coming up from the sea, but was still out of sight round the final bend in the track, the three caravans started up their engines and drove out, completely filling the path which ran between the border-fences of the two caravan areas. The dawn was almost up, but the caravans, grey and unlit, were not easy to spot and the van was only twenty yards away when the driver realised that his way was barred. He stamped on his brakes and skidded to a halt. A man stood up on either side of the track. They were wearing combat jackets and were carrying Hechler and Koch MP5 machine pistols. The taller of the men said, “End of journey. All out.”

  The driver jerked the gear into reverse, but before the van could move a shot had slammed into the engine.

  The tall man said, “Don’t be stupid. The next one goes into the cab. It could be your unlucky day.”

  There was a short and brittle pause. Then the driver and his passenger climbed down. They had recovered from the shock and seemed to be more angry than frightened.

  “Some fucker sold us up the river,” said the driver.

  “Mustn’t jump to conclusions,” said the tall man. “You lot in the back, show a leg. We haven’t got all day. Some of us haven’t had our breakfast yet.”

  The canopy at the back was thrown open and the two other men climbed down.

  By this time the camp was stirring. The first people brought to the caravan doors by the sound of the shot were children. The next were their parents, trying to stop them getting out.

  The fair-haired man began to realise that he had not chosen a very sensible observation post.

  A carroty-haired boy, wearing a track suit that he probably slept in, had jumped down just beside him. A woman from above said, “Come back, Cedric.”

  Cedric took no notice. He advanced cautiously towards the fence.

  “Did you hear what I said? Come back this instant.”

  A man’s voice said, “Wassup?”

  The woman said, “Someone’s been shooting. Cedric’s outside. He’ll get shot.”

  “Serve him right.”

  Cedric said, in a loud clear voice, “There’s a man under our caravan. Oh, it’s all right. He’s going now.”

  The fair-haired man had been wriggling out backwards. Now he got to his feet and started to move away quickly, but Cedric’s observation had been picked up by the driver of the nearest of the blocking vans. He shouted something and the flank guards spun round.

  “One of the sods was under that van. Grab him.”

  The nearest flank guard said, “Damn.” He ran up to the fence, climbed it and started after the fair-haired man.

  The fugitive had two advantages. He had reconnoitred his escape route and he knew his way about. He was starting up the cliff path behind the camp before his pursuer had reached the back fence. The path was tricky, but he went up it confidently. His pursuer was not so lucky. Halfway up he put his foot into a hole and came down. By the time he was up again the fair-haired man was at the top. His pursuer thought about taking a shot at him, but before he could get his gun up the fugitive had cleared the crest. Too late now. He returned, limping, to report failure.

  The tall man said, “Bloody hell. He must be headed off.” He climbed into the rearmost of the grey caravans and started to talk urgently on the wireless.

  Meanwhile, the fair-haired man was making his way across the smooth turf of the cliff-top, keeping under cover as much as possible. He moved with the speed and ease of an athlete in training, partly jog-trotting, partly at a fast walk. He wasted no time, because he did not underestimate the efforts that would be made to stop him.

  In less than half an hour he was crossing the side road that ran down to Birling Gap and now he altered his course northwards towards the Eastbourne road. When he reached it, just before seven, there was already some traffic. He squatted behind the hedge to observe it. The first two vehicles to pass him were a Post Office van and a lorry with two men up front. Neither of them were what he wanted.

  Next came a Vauxhall Astra, with only the one driver. This looked more promising. He stepped into the road and waved.

  Mr. Crombie, who travelled in gentlemen’s socks, ties and underwear, had been visiting wholesalers in Brighton and had spent the night in Seaford. He had chosen one of the big hotels on the front, but it had not proved a good choice. The drag of waves on the shingle had kept him awake. Since he had followed his usual plan of paying his bill before he went to bed, there had been nothing to keep him. He had slipped away before the hotel was awake, planning to breakfast in Eastbourne which was his next port of call. Mr. Crombie had a weakness for youngsters with fair hair. He applied his brakes and said, “What can I do for you, son?”

  “I have to get to Eastbourne as quickly as possible.”

>   “Me too,” said Mr. Crombie. “Climb in. Been hiking?”

  “Sort of.”

  The fair-haired man – by no means a boy, as Mr. Crombie observed, now that he could see him more closely – was easing the knapsack off his shoulders. The car had started up the long hill to Eastdean Down and the road ahead was empty. His passenger said, “There’s one thing I ought to tell you. If we’re stopped, and we might be, I’m your nephew, Charles.”

  “Are you, indeed?” said Mr. Crombie doubtfully.

  “You picked me up off the London train in Lewes and we’ve been together ever since.”

  Mr. Crombie said, “I’m not sure—” and then stopped because he saw the gun.

  “You’d better be sure,” said the fair-haired man. “I don’t suppose it’ll be anything very much in the way of a stoppage. Could be a policeman on a motor-cycle, or at worst two of them in a patrol car. I’m a good enough shot to take out the three of you.”

  What had he done to deserve this? Why, oh why had he stopped?

  “Let’s hope,” said Mr. Crombie, he tried to speak lightly, but was hampered by the sudden dryness of his mouth, “that we shan’t be stopped again.”

  “Again?”

  “There was a road block the other side of ‘Friston.”

  “Was there, though? Then it looks as if we might get through without any more trouble.”

  Mr. Crombie spent the next ten minutes alternately cursing his luck and offering up prayers to a God he did not believe in.

  The car, directed by his passenger, who seemed relaxed, drew up in a quiet street behind Eastbourne main-line station.

  Now what? thought Mr. Crombie. His heart had started to double-beat and he felt choked.

  “Have you got a card?” said the fair-haired man politely.

  “A card. Yes, of course.” Mr. Crombie fumbled for his wallet. “Do you mean my business card, or personal?”

  “Both.”

  The fair-haired man examined the cards. He said, “I see you live in Roehampton. A nice quiet part of London?”

  “Oh, very.”

  “Nothing unpleasant ever happen there?”

  “Unpleasant?”

  “I mean, like petrol bombs thrown through doorways or people getting beaten to death by muggers.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Then,” said the fair-haired man, “let’s hope it stays that way. Which it will do, as long as you forget that you ever gave me a lift, forget what I look like, forget all about me.”

  “Oh, I will,” said Mr. Crombie. “I’ve got a terrible memory.” He gave what was meant to be a light laugh, but which finished as something close to a whimper.

  The fair-haired man picked up his knapsack, climbed out of the car and strolled away down the pavement. Mr. Crombie sat for five minutes before he could compose himself sufficiently to drive off.

  By the time he did so the fair-haired man was in one of the telephone booths in the forecourt of the station. He was relieved to see that most of the other booths were vacant. He dialled a London number. When a man’s voice answered he said, “Is that 0484 0406?”

  “I didn’t quite get that.”

  “I said, are you 0484 0406?”

  “No. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number.”

  “I’m sorry. I dialled in a great hurry.”

  He rang off. He reckoned that he might have to wait as much as ten minutes before Sean got to a public call box and rang him back at 0484 0406, which was the number of the box he was occupying. He came through in seven minutes.

  “Something wrong, Liam?”

  “Something very wrong,” said the fair-haired man. He described, in a few short sentences, what had happened.

  “So we were blown?”

  “Evidently.”

  “Then I can give you some information. The blowing did not take place at this end.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You say the opposition arrived at the camp at eight o’clock last night?”

  “About then, yes.”

  “Our pick-up team were only told the actual place and given the local details just before they started out. That was at midnight. Of course they knew what they had to do and they’d practised the drill. But until they started out the only people at this end who knew where and when the stuff was to be landed were you and me.”

  “I see. So the leak was on the other side of the Channel.”

  “Must have been.”

  Liam looked at his watch. He said, “It’s near eight o’clock now. If the boat was on schedule it will have started back to Belgium around two thirty. It’ll take them a good six hours to make Het Zoute. Seven or eight if they stop to fish. If you got straight through to Dr. Bernard he’d have plenty of time to arrange a reception committee.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Sean. “What about you?”

  “I’m coming up to London. This part of Sussex isn’t very healthy, and getting unhealthier every minute, I guess.”

  At ten o’clock Liam was sitting in the station buffet watching the people crowding through the ticket barrier for the 10.15, which was the fast train to Victoria. The changes in his appearance were simple, but decisive. The fair hair had disappeared. The excellently crafted wig which he had been wearing for the past few days was packed away in his knapsack which had, with all its contents, disappeared inside a suitcase. His hair was black and close-cropped. This, combined with a pair of plain-lens steel-rimmed glasses and a knee-length black raincoat, gave him the look of a serious young clergyman. When making these purchases he had chanced on a book of sermons in a tray outside a second-hand bookshop and had purchased it for five pence.

  As he sat turning the pages and sipping his coffee, his interest was concentrated on two men. One of them was examining the notice-board which showed the times of the trains; the other was scrutinising the magazines on sale at the station bookshop. The only odd thing about them was the length of time they spent on these harmless pursuits.

  The last-minute passengers hurried on to the platform, the ticket barrier clanged shut and the 10.15 departed for London. The two men moved towards the ticket collector, had a word with him and walked away. It seemed for a moment that they might be coming into the buffet, but they turned aside and disappeared through a door marked ‘Staff’.

  Liam finished his coffee and strolled across to the notice-board. He saw that a slow train, stopping at nearly all stations, left at a quarter to twelve. The first stop was Hassocks. He wandered out into the town and spent some time sitting in a shelter on the front, apparently absorbed in the pronouncements of Dr. Spurgeon. He had already located a taxi rank and at eleven o’clock he approached it diffidently.

  The driver of the cab at the head of the rank was young and honest. He explained to the cleric that if he wanted to go to Hassocks it would be cheaper and almost as quick to take the train. He’d have to charge for the journey out and back and that would be a fiver.

  Liam thanked him and explained that he was only in England for a short time and wanted to see something of the countryside.

  “It’s your money,” said the driver agreeably. “Hop in.”

  Hassocks station, when Liam reached it, was almost deserted. Two middle-aged ladies and a man who looked like a farmer were sitting on a bench on the platform talking to each other. Liam stayed in the waiting room until the last moment. When the train arrived he walked out quickly and climbed into the rear carriage.

  He chose the rear carriage so that when they reached Victoria he would have to walk along the whole length of the train. This would give him time to see whether there was going to be trouble at the barrier and plan accordingly. He did not think it was very likely, but it was attention to details like this that had enabled him to survive so long in his profession.

  It was six o’clock in the evening before MFV Petite Amie tied up at Het Zoute. They had stopped to fish on the way back and Meagher had found this a slow and difficult operation without hi
s regular crew. His nephew had known what to do, but Navy-trained Dirk had been more of a hindrance than a help.

  “Not much of a catch for a day and a night,” said the Port Captain, who had been making an inspection of the vessel.

  “The wind was wrong,” said Meagher.

  “For fishermen, the wind is always wrong,” said the Port Captain. “If it picked the fish up by their tails and threw them into the hold it would still be wrong.”

  Meagher grunted. He had no wish to exchange pleasantries with the Port Captain. He wanted only to make his report, collect the second half of his fee and get home to supper, drink and bed.

  “Some people are waiting for you,” said the Port Captain. “Down at the far end of the quay. They will without doubt be glad to see you. They have been waiting here since ten o’clock this morning.”

  It would be Wulfkind and perhaps also that smooth shyster Monnier who seemed to control the purse-strings. Meagher had met him only once and had disliked him. Let them wait. He was the one who did the work and took the risks. They sat back in comfort and pocketed the profits. And why, in the name of goodness, had they parked at the far end of the quay? To give him the trouble of walking two hundred yards, he supposed.

  He was starting out, demonstrating his displeasure by walking as slowly as possible, when the Port Captain said, “All of you. They were most insistent. They wished to speak to all of you.”

  Meagher was puzzled. Why should anything Wulfkind wished to say to him be said in the presence of Dirk and his nephew? It was a mystery and he disliked mysteries. For a moment he hesitated. Then he concluded that the quickest way of finding the answer was to do as he was told. He signalled to the two young men to follow him.

  It was a heavy car, a six-seater Cherokee Chief. He recognised neither of the two men who climbed out as he approached. They were both thick-set men with flat expressionless faces. One had slicked-down black hair; the other was nearly bald. They were wearing well-cut Brussels-style suits which should have made them look like businessmen, but somehow managed to convey quite a different impression. Policemen, perhaps, thought Meagher. He said, with a brusqueness intended to hide his uneasiness, “I was expecting Herr Wulfkind.”