Cell tac-20

by Colin Forbes

  'I'm thirsty… Water… I need… water.'

  He nodded. Took the glass out of its protective covering, poured liquid which looked like water from the canister. He handed her the glass. She snarled at him.

  'I've… been drugged… you drink first.'

  'But of course.' He lifted the large container, drank from it. She still held on to the glass without drinking. 'You see,' he continued, 'just water. Nothing in it.'

  Her throat was crying out with thirst. She forced herself to drink slowly. When the glass was empty, she shoved it at him. Her movements were difficult with her hands tied together.

  'More… more,' she croaked.

  He refilled the glass, seated on the edge of the bed. She took it from him. Again she compelled herself to drink slowly. She was feeling half-alive now. Her brain ticked over. How to handle him. Every time he spoke his face had the awful blank expression. No emotion whatsoever.

  'Now you answer questions,' he told her. 'Information is what I need. What does Tweed know? How far has he got with his ridiculous investigation?'

  She stopped herself protesting at 'ridiculous'. Instead she sagged back. She moved slowly, as though completely worn out. She shook her head, slowly. She pretended to try and speak several times before the words came out.

  'Can't think… feel drugged… Mind not working. Sleep.. . must sleep.'

  'Then I come back later. Then you answer questions – if you want to leave your prison alive. Answer questions and you are released.. .'

  She was staring straight at him as he spoke, at his eyes, so blank of feeling. She knew he was lying. If she had given him information – which she had no intention of doing – she would then be killed. Would disappear like the others.

  'Later,' she said, 'I tell you… anything I can. Information.'

  Her unexpected agreement to cooperate diverted him, as was her intention. He stood up, a lithe athletic young man in the prime of condition. He took the glass from her, picked up the canister, headed towards the door. He was so smooth, his voice and his physical movements. It was frightening. He unlocked the door, took out the key, went out, closed and locked it behind him.

  She sagged further back, eyes closed – in case he took a second look through the window in the door. He didn't. She felt she had won a small victory. The flashlight which had rolled under the bed was still there. It might be so useful to her later. She wasn't sure how.

  She sat up again. Leaning forward, ignoring her aching body, she held her hands together, used one to feel down inside her boot. The sheathed knife was still there. She eased it out, pushed sheath and knife under her waist band. The Beretta was still inside the other boot, but firing that could be heard by Lord knew what other vicious thugs were inside this place.

  Where was she? She had asked herself a dozen times. Now her memory was clearing. The last person she had called on was Drew Franklin. It was shortly after she had left his house that she had been clubbed on the back of the head. Those concrete cubes could hide heaven knew what below the ground. But it could have been someone else.

  She began exercising. Drawing her knees up into a pyramid, forcing herself to do that twenty times. The exercise was seeming easier. Now for her hands. She clenched and unclenched her fingers thirty times. She worked her arms, drawing them up, pressing them down another thirty times. She thought of using the knife to weaken the ropes tying her hands, rejected the idea. He hadn't tested the rope yet, but he might do when he returned.

  She had worked out two options for dealing with him, according to the circumstances. One essential was to make him lose his temper, that cold-blooded control she'd seen in those eyes. What had worked wonders for her were the two glasses of water, removing the dehydration. Earlier, for a short time, she had experienced a sensation of overwhelming despair. Now she was feeling a sense of cold fury, an urge to kill if necessary. That was what they had planned for her.

  Then an alarming thought occurred. Supposing he came back with someone else? She could never tackle two of them. Maybe she did need the Beretta. No, she couldn't risk the noise of two shots. She relaxed as she heard the rusty key turning in the door. A matter of life or death.

  He came back alone, repeated the same drill, locking the door on the inside, leaving the key in the lock. No more water this time. As he came over to the bed she blinked, hoping to hide her drastic change of mood. He sat down again.

  'I am Mohammed. So you know who you are talking to. Best to be polite, friendly. What does Tweed know about us?'

  He'd thrown the question at her without warning. This was going to be different. She looked puzzled. His right hand reached forward, stroked her face, then suddenly slapped her with such force her head jerked sideways. Her controlled cold fury was not disturbed.

  'Who is us?' she asked quietly.

  'Who is he investigating?'

  'How would I know?'

  'I'll cut your face to ribbons. No man will ever want to look at you again.'

  The same smooth voice. No emotion. In his right hand he held a large curved knife. He raised it, the tip close to her face.

  She broke down. Her expression betrayed hideous fear. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. She swallowed. She opened her mouth again and this time she spoke in a shaky voice.

  'I will tell you everything I know. Give you all the information I have. But please… please… put that knife away. My brain is locked. Put the knife away.'

  He lifted the back of his T-shirt, slipped the weapon back inside the hidden scabbard. She sat up straight. Mohammed leaned closer to her, his eyes staring into hers. Now was the moment. As she'd sat up her right hand had slipped underneath her thigh, had grasped the stiletto-like knife. She leaned closer, rammed the knife into him, between his ribs, with all her force.

  For a moment he couldn't believe it. He glanced down at the handle protruding from his body, then he let out an agonized groan as blood spurted, poured down over his T-shirt. It was a large bed and she had been dumped on the side nearest the door, leaving half the bed unoccupied. She heaved her whole body upwards, lifting him, then swung sideways. They ended up with his body on the unoccupied area with her on top of him, her knee pressing the knife in deeper. Both her hands, close together, grasped him round the throat, pulled him towards her then shoved him backwards. One side of his head struck the plaque, the other side crashed into the stone wall. She heard an unpleasant sound – bone breaking against the stone. He lay motionless.

  Still kneeling on him, she used her knife, jerked savagely from his body, to sever the rope round her wrists, then the rope pinioning her boots. She was free. She was about to jump off the bed when she stared. Where one side of his head had struck the plaque there was a large hole, maybe three feet wide. The plaque had disappeared. She realized it was hinged, opened inwards.

  She wiped her knife clean on the coarse duvet she had lain on, climbed off, slithered under the bed, found the flashlight which had clicked off. She turned it on, stood on her side of the bed and peered down into a tunnel.

  She was startled by what she saw in the light's beam. A few feet below her was a stationary flatbed trolley on wheels. It was perched on a narrow rail line. She aimed the light down the tunnel, which was oval, built out of stone, sloping downwards until it reached a point where the angle of the rails became steeper. She switched off the flashlight and closed her eyes to accustom them to the dark. In the distance she saw a blurred glow, circular in shape, the end closed off with a wire screen. Presumably for ventilation.

  She had a brief thought that the escape route was via the heavy door Mohammed had entered by. The key was still on the inside of the lock. She rejected the thought. Attempting that route, she would probably run into a gang of armed thugs. She dropped through the three-foot wide opening on to the trolley. It remained stable as she landed, bending her knees, relieved to find them working normally.

  Switching on the flashlight, she examined the contents of the flatbed. Again she was startled. Old
bound books covered with mould. Tom Jones, Vanity Fair, etc. Old technical manuals on how to fly a jumbo jet, each one torn in two. It was a rubbish trolley – their method of getting rid of what was no longer needed. So where was the dump? Presumably beyond the end of the tunnel.

  She took the precaution of easing the Beretta out of her boot, pushed the weapon firmly down inside her denims, leaving the handle protruding. There was a large lever protruding from the side of the trolley. Taking hold of it, she moved it forward slowly. The trolley began sliding forward. Downhill. She pulled the lever back and the trolley again became stationary. She had only pushed it forward half-way.

  She settled herself in a seated position after making a space by pushing aside the rubbish. Then she pushed the lever forward and she was moving slowly downhill. In the space she had cleared she saw a large red stain which she was sure someone had attempted to clean. Blood.

  The cold was intense. As she approached the section where the line became a steeper gradient, she pulled the lever back, stopped the trolley moving. She aimed the flashlight at the bottom of the tunnel. The exit was barred by the screen of strong-looking wire. She would never get out past that. She felt she must escape quickly. As if to confirm her fears, she heard the distant sound of voices echoing down the tunnel. She looked back and her vision was hit by a blinding searchlight.

  'Damn you all to hell,' she said under her breath.

  She aimed the Beretta. One bullet did the trick. Above the eerie echo of her bullet she heard glass shattering. The searchlight went out. She swivelled sideways off the trolley into a narrow space between the rail and the wall of the tunnel. Her hand reached out, grasped the lever, shoved it forward as far as it would go. The trolley took off almost like a cannon-shell, racing down the much steeper gradient. It hit the wire screen, which swung open outwards. It must be hinged like the plaque.

  She crawled down the tunnel as fast as she could. Sooner than she'd expected she reached the opening. Icy cold. A dense fog. As she crawled into the open air a shaft of sunlight penetrated the fog. She saw the trolley bumping its way down a shallower slope. Below it was a gleaming lime pit. She was just in time to see the trolley plunge into the large pit, its rear wheels upended, sinking out of sight.

  Move! Where was she? Instinct told her to turn left. She stumbled over a branch. Picking it up, she used it to test the ground in front of her, walking parallel to where she thought the lime pit was located. The ground was rough but her boots helped her to keep her balance.

  She could see nothing beyond the fog. Then a broad beam of sunlight penetrated the fog below her, illuminating a huge abandoned quarry. She heard a rattle at the top of the quarry. Someone up there? She paused, watched as a large boulder slowly toppled from the summit, falling down to join a heap of large rocks at the quarry's base. No sign of anyone. The quarry was unstable.

  She plodded on, always using the branch to test the ground ahead. After a while she decided to move up the slope very cautiously. The fog was thinning, was soon a trailing mist. She saw an ancient one-storey building ahead. It seemed familiar. She climbed more quickly, paused, gasped with relief. It was the rear of Mrs Gobble's shed. She was still in Carpford.

  In her haste to reach the front she nearly stumbled, recovered her balance. Taking out the padlock, she threw open both doors, praying. Parked inside was her car. She nearly wept.

  25

  The car started first time. She drove out and turned left, the quickest way to leave Carpford. The mist had cleared from the plateau. If anyone tried to stop her she would drive straight over them. Between Mrs Gobble's shop and Drew Franklin's concrete cubes she saw two figures walking along the road towards her. Tweed, shoulders sagging, behind him Beaurain, erect. She jammed on the brakes, jumped out.

  Tweed was already rushing towards her, relief written all over his face. They met and he threw his arms round her. They stood there, hugging each other, her face buried against his chest. She was crying now as he stroked her hair.

  'Tweed,' Beaurain told her, 'has almost been out of his mind with anxiety.'

  She eased herself out of Tweed's grip and flung her arms round the Belgian. 'God! Am I glad to see you two.' Tweed produced a handkerchief. She released Beaurain and mopped her eyes, her face. She was shaking with relief.

  'How are you?' Tweed asked gently. 'Are you all right?'

  'I'm bloody hungry. Starving!'

  'That calls for a full breakfast at the Peacock,' Beaurain decided. 'I'll drive. You sit in the back with Tweed.'

  She had her arm round Tweed as Beaurain drove them in her car out of Carpford. At one point Newman, standing by the road, grinning, waved, one thumb up. She waved back and managed to smile. A few feet away Marler, smiling, gave her a little salute as they passed.

  Beyond Marler she saw Harry and Pete, who also waved and grinned. She was startled but waved back. Then they were out of Carpford, descending the hill and past the obtruding rock where Mrs Warner had disappeared.

  'How many of you were up here?' she asked.

  'Everyone.' Tweed was calmer now. 'When I got back from dinner with Eva Brand and read your note I sent up a rocket. I called Buchanan and he's up there, calling on people. I was going to rip the place apart.'

  'I'd better call Buchanan,' Beaurain suggested, 'and give him the good news…'

  Driving with one hand, he hauled his mobile out of his pocket, called the Scotland Yard man, gave him the news. He finished the call and spoke over his shoulder.

  'Buchanan is so relieved. Sends you his love, Paula. He said he'd need to question you, but I told him that could wait for later.'

  'He's such a nice man,' she said. 'And I've so much to tell you. .. I've found out things… Don't have the faintest idea where I was held after they grabbed me… I'd just left Drew Franklin's place

  …'

  'Later,' said Tweed. 'After you've had breakfast. Had any sleep?'

  'Only when I was drugged.' She pulled up the sleeve of her windcheater to show the patch. Beaurain was watching in his rear-view mirror.

  'After breakfast,' he said crisply, 'we'll take you to a top-flight consultant, a friend of mine who only recently retired. That needs checking.'

  'I feel OK. Just so hungry.'

  'Even so,' Beaurain insisted, 'when you've eaten we're taking you to see Mr Manderson. He lives near the Peacock. He can find out what they pumped into you. Don't argue.'

  'I won't. I think a minute ago I nearly got hysterical. Sorry.'

  'Concentrate on what you'd like to eat,' Tweed ordered.

  'Forget about Mr Manderson,' she said firmly. 'I'm OK. When we get back to Park Crescent, instead of burbling on I'm going to type a report about everything.'

  'That,' Tweed agreed, 'is a good idea. Then I can quietly read whoever you interviewed. But type your report only after you've had a good sleep.'

  'Don't want sleep. While they are fresh in my mind I need to type the record. Sleep can come later. I had a long conversation with Peregrin Palfry, an encounter with that "priest", Margesson, then a pleasant talk with Billy Hogarth, despite the presence of his nasty brother, Martin. My last conversation was with Drew Franklin. It was soon after leaving his house that someone clubbed me on the head. I'll elaborate later.'

  'So,' Beaurain said thoughtfully, 'the last person you saw before the attack was Drew Franklin. Interesting.'

  'No more,' Tweed ordered. 'Breakfast is the first item on the menu.'

  'Ali speaking,' the occupant of a quiet public phone-box answered as the phone had rung. He made a point of never using the same call-box twice. He carried a list of the numbers and addresses of the phone-boxes, a list the caller also held.

  'Abdullah here. We are running out of time on this business operation. Report!' the distorted voice demanded.

  'The consignments are ready to be transferred to the transporters.'

  The bombs are ready to be moved to their final destination.

  'Are the teams ready to be linked up with the consign
ments?'

  'They are in place. They are ready to be moved to handle the consignments when I give the order.'

  'You have decided the best time for the consignments to be delivered?' Abdullah rasped.

  'Five thirty in the evening is a perfect time. The conditions we require will be at a maximum.'

  The British casualties will run into thousands.

  'And zero hour is when?'

  'Three days from now I expect. Height is a factor.'

  Ali listened. Again the connection had been abruptly broken. He swore, left the phone-box. His car was parked just outside the sleepy village. He drove back to the farm.

  Behind her desk at Park Crescent Paula was operating her word-processor at top speed, preparing her reports for Tweed. She was surprised at how even small details of conversation came back easily. Not knowing what he would regard as important, she included every small item. Her ample breakfast at the Peacock had powered her up again. She looked up suddenly.

  'How long was I away?' she asked Tweed. 'I've no idea.'

  'About twelve hours.'

  'Seems like twelve days. I have ready folders with reports on my interviews with Peregrine Palfry and Margesson. Plus a brief description of my visit first to Mrs Gobble's.'

  'Please let me have them. I can start reading. I get the impression of Palfry that he starts talking with caution, then his tongue runs away with him. Right?'

  'My impression too,' she agreed as she placed the folders on his desk.

  Monica was enjoying one of her rare five-minute 'breaks' reading the newspaper. She grunted, folded a page to a small item, took it over to Tweed.

  'It's amazing the things people walk off with. Someone has stolen five of those huge milk wagons which distribute to various dairies. Vanished into thin air. What would anyone want with milk wagons?'

  'Let me see that,' Tweed said, his voice sharp. He read the item. 'Taken from three different depots in the Midlands. I hope the original drivers are still alive.'

  'What makes you say that?' Monica wondered.