by Colin Forbes
A red-haired lad pushed his way between Beaurain and the seaman. He had a cunning smile as he slapped down an envelope, grubby all over.
'Interesting photos. Girls doing different things. You'd never believe it.'
'Shove off.'
Beaurain swept the envelope off the bar on to the floor. It burst open, spilling lewd photos. Redhair swore, using filthy language.
'Shouldna 'ave done that.'
His hand reached inside his soiled windcheater, came out with a knife. Beaurain grabbed his wrist, twisted. Redhair let out a scream. Beaurain released his grip and the hand was limp, the wrist at an unnatural angle. Broken. The barman appeared, holding a large leather-covered sap. He leaned over the counter.
'Get out of 'ere, scumbag, before I break the other wrist.'
Redhair used his shoulder to push his way through the crowd, out of the pub. The seaman got off his stool, picked up the photos, crammed them inside the envelope, pushed it over the counter to the barman.
'Dustbin.' He turned to Beaurain. 'You 'andled that well. He's dangerous.' He grinned. 'Was.'
'You're off the river?' Beaurain asked with a smile.
'That's right. I've worked freighters, ferries, barges, the lot.'
'I'm thinking of buying a barge for my business,' Beaurain continued. 'Saw what I need going upriver laden with coal dust.'
'They'd be goin' to the new powerhouse, other side of the river. Built by Dixon, Harrington and Mosley. We calls it the Dick powerhouse. Got a plant next to it for makin' machine tools. New design. And new design of barges. Made to order.'
'Could you do me a rough drawing of the design? Then I can get one for myself?'
Paula, who had sipped cautiously at her wine, surprised to find how good it was, pushed a fresh notebook along the counter to Beaurain. The seaman reached for it, took out a small stub of pencil, began drawing, talking as he worked.
'There's a sort of lid made of metal you can unroll to cover your cargo. From bow to stern. In the middle, 'ere, is a very big hatch you can open so a crane can lower bales into the 'old. A smaller hatch near both bow and stern. Like this. Control bridge is perched up at stern, of course. The skipper then 'as a good view of where 'e's goin', which is rather important.' He chuckled.
'Does the Dick director use the roll-over metal cover?'
'No. They needs as much coal as they can pile in.'
'Have I got this right?' Beaurain queried. 'Dick had both the powerhouse and the barges built?'
'Yes, 'e did. To keep down cost 'e gets a firm in Austria to build the barges. You could find out the name easy – name of the firm.'
'Austria makes sense. They have a lot of barge traffic on the Danube.'
'You're right there. I've taken barges all the way to the Black Sea.' He pushed the notebook with the barge plan over to Beaurain. 'Makes sense?' Beaurain nodded. 'I think the lady is interested,' the seaman said, pushing it further along the counter.
'Thank you,' said Paula. 'I'm Paula.'
'Never gave you my moniker. Sharkey.' He grinned, showing neat white teeth. 'Nothing personal. They call me Shark. On the river we've all got funny names. Got what you want? I'm not a dab hand at drawing.'
'The details you've given me are crystal clear. I see you like Black Jack.'
He ordered another one for Sharkey, his way of saying thanks. They touched tankards and Beaurain swallowed the little left in his glass.
'I was fortunate to sit next to you,' he remarked. 'Seeing as you've had all that experience with barges.'
'Not really. See that fat chap at that table by the wall with his mates? He's a bargee too. Good luck…'
As they walked outside Paula had a ten-pound note folded inside her fist. The gang of lads were still outside. One of them sat on the pavement, nursing a bloody nose. Jem appeared, his hand held out. She gave him the tenner.
'Thanks for looking after the car.'
'Good thing you hired me, 'e was goin' to use a coin to scratch your door.' He pointed towards the lad using a blood-stained handkerchief. 'Door's OK.'
'Oh dear,' said Paula.
'That's what you paid me for. Safe trip back to the smoke.'
Beaurain had to manoeuvre a three-point turn to go back the way they had come. He drove more quickly now the market stalls had been removed.
'What I'd like to have done now,' he said, 'was to visit Mrs Wharton, the lady who told us about those men carrying some kind of machine away on a motorized trolley. Down that track to nowhere. But we've no idea of her address.'
'Yes, we have.' Paula smiled, opened her shoulder-bag and extracted a small gilt-edged card from a side pocket. 'She gave me that on the quiet just before we left. 50 Upper Cheyne Lane. I could guide you there.'
'Do it. I want to persuade her to provide a drawing of that machine they put on the trolley. I'm a man for detail.'
'Where are we going with this?' she asked.
Looking at Beaurain, she saw his eyes were gleaming. He was excited about something.
'We're going to 50 Upper Cheyne Lane,' he replied, grinning at her. 'Calling at Park Crescent en route.'
She punched him gently on the arm. He was as bad as Tweed – wouldn't reveal what he was thinking until he knew he was right.
34
'All here
'Abdullah. Zero hour is close.'
'I know. We're on the site of the merger. We should be ready for the demonstration to our client.'
'The equipment is in position then?'
'We're at phase two. By tomorrow morning we'll be at phase three. Gives us a margin on timing of the demonstration.'
'The guard worries me. He knows his job?'
'He's ours. We know his wife too. A man followed the guard home yesterday. So Vince Proctor…'
'No names! So he is happy, knowing his wife has someone with her until he gets off his long spell of duty.'
'He is happy. His wife is happy. We are all happy.'
Abdullah once more slammed down the phone. Ali shrugged. He was getting used to it. He left the public phone-box and stepped into the heavy mist. He walked slowly back to the 'site'.
Inside a small terrace house in a side street in Balham, Mrs Proctor sat on a heavy chair in the kitchen. The chair had been brought from the parlour by the man who had earlier rung the bell, then forced his way in, holding a gun in one hand, the index finger of his other hand pressed to his lips.
She now sat with her wrists roped together, another rope imprisoning her ankles. A third rope was tied round her waist and to the back of the chair. A pleasant red-faced woman in her fifties, she was terrified.
When her captor had arrived he'd worn a waterproof slouch hat, concealing his face, and a long raincoat. Since then, after tying up Mrs Proctor, he had removed the hat and the raincoat. He was now clad in a camouflage suit and she could see his complexion was brown, his hair trimmed short. He was an Egyptian and his name was Haydar. Information he had not provided Mrs Proctor with.
'We have Peter,' he'd said when she was tied to the chair. 'As long as you do nothing silly he will not come to any harm. Do something silly, like trying to warn a neighbour, and he will be shot.'
Saying which, he produced a photo of her husband seated in a chair. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap and his expression was tense. A hand, holding a gun to his head, also appeared in the photo.
'Oh, no,' Mrs Proctor had gasped. She swallowed. 'Where is he? At the power station? Who are you?'
'Questions,' Haydar explained quietly, 'come under the heading of being silly. I shall feed you, give you something to drink. Sit quiet and all will be well when we have moved the drugs hidden on one of the barges. You will then be free, your husband will be freed and will come home unharmed. He is in a safe place. Does anyone come here at night?'
'Sometimes Mrs Wilkinson from next door visits for a chat. Not every night.'
'What will Mrs Wilkinson do if you don't answer the door?'
'She'll think I'm having a nap and go awa
y.'
'Then we have nothing to worry about,' Haydar went on lying.
The truth was Mrs Proctor would never leave the house alive. Once the operation was completed he would shoot her in the back of the head with his silenced gun. The same fate awaited her husband, trapped inside Dick's power station.
Haydar would know when the operation was completed. He had turned on the small TV set screwed to the wall with the sound turned down but still showing a programme.
He had been told that when the operation had taken place all normal programmes would cease. Breaking News would start. As it had done in New York on September 11.
35
Buchanan walked briskly into Tweed's office and sat in the armchair facing him. Paula could sense he had a lot to report, but before he could open his mouth Tweed spoke with emphasis.
'I've just closed down City Airport. I sent the Controller a copy of the PM's directive by hand yesterday. Now I need you to despatch a squad of armed men to guard it. Urgently.'
He waited while Buchanan used his mobile to pass the order to the Yard. Closing his mobile, he looked at Tweed.
'In thirty minutes the squad will have arrived. In patrol cars, sirens screaming, lights flashing.'
'Thank you. Now for a confrontation. I'm calling the Minister to inform him of what I've done. He'll be pleased, don't you think?'
'No, I don't
Tweed first had to go through the usual channels when he called the Ministry in Whitehall. Palfry took the call, started to dither, to say the Minister was in Cabinet.
'Then get him out, for God's sake. Now! Go on, do it.'
Tweed hadn't long to wait. The haughty voice of Victor Warner shouted down the phone.
'Tweed, I was in a Cabinet meeting
'Gabble, gabble, gabble – then no decision taken. I know what goes on there. Now, listen, please. I'm calling to tell you I've just closed down City Airport…'
'You've done what? Why? I can see absolutely no reason…'
'I can. We have to guard against al-Qa'eda landing a large body of men there. In aircraft seized from private flying schools. Heaven knows there are enough of them scattered outside London.'
'I'm outraged. You should have consulted me…'
Tin informing you now. Within minutes of the airport being shut down. Didn't you read the PM's mandate?'
'Tweed! I'm going straight back into Cabinet to report what you've just said. Including your gabble, gabble remark.'
'Please do. The PM has a sense of humour. Something I suspect you forget. Goodbye…
'Sorry about that, Roy,' Tweed said to Buchanan. 'I sense you have news. My turn to listen.'
'I've been tearing round like a cat chasing its tail. But to some purpose. First, I flew with some of my specialists to an airfield near Oldhurst Farm. Mrs Sharp, the lady who travelled all the way down here to see me – then I sent her on to you – has all her wits about her. We found the lane leading to the abandoned farm. It does have two monster barns. Guess what we found inside. Two missing milk tankers parked side by side in one barn, two more tankers inside the second barn. Attached to the place where you get inside each of them was a cable with a handle – to haul up what was concealed inside!'
'Any trace of al-Qa'eda?'
'Do let me tell this in my own way,' Buchanan insisted. 'Inside the smaller barn Mrs Sharp mentioned – not so small – we found a pile of used sleeping-bags.' He paused. 'Thirty of them.'
'Thirty?'
'You look taken aback. Thirty sleeping-bags – thirty men at least. They had cleaned up but we found this.'
Newman had been sitting in a hard-backed chair by Paula's desk. He had not spoken a word but he sat leaning forward, watching Buchanan intently. His mouth compressed when he'd heard this but he made no comment.
Tweed examined the torn piece of cloth inside the evidence envelope handed to him. Then he beckoned to Newman, who walked over, took the envelope. He pursed his lips, handed the envelope back to Tweed.
'I'd say that could have come off one of those black turbans worn by al-Qa'eda. Thirty is a powerful strike force.'
'That's my conclusion,' Buchanan agreed as Newman returned to his chair. 'We also found bits of food which I've sent for analysis. Bless Mrs Sharp. But there's more, down that track where we saw the white van and Mrs Wharton with Pooh.'
'How did you get there also in the time?'
'Flew back to City Airport.'Buchanan grinned. 'We must have landed just before you closed it down. Then waiting unmarked police cars took us to Mrs Wharton's bleak track. The white van is no longer there. Unfortunately a heavy mist was coming in off the river. We walked all the way down the track until we reached the Thames. There's a wide ramp leading to a long landing stage. Across the river, a bit further up it, we could just make out the new power station. Alongside it is a big wharf, Dick's wharf they call it.'
'See any trace of the enemy?'
'No, it was difficult. The mist was getting denser. I used night glasses but the result was a blur. I did see three huge barges moored on either side of the wharf.'
'You mean six barges altogether?'
'That's what I vaguely made out.'
'Any sign of activity at all?'
'None. Lights were on inside the power station, but you'd expect that.'
'I suggest we act at once,' Tweed said, standing up. 'You assemble a large force of heavily armed police, commandeer boats for us to cross…'
'Hold on. There were two big launches also moored to the wharf. And you don't know London as well as I do,' he said grimly.
'What's the matter? You don't look happy about my suggestion.'
'But,' said Buchanan, looking at Newman, 'you might like to see this.' He produced from his pocket a map which he unfolded and spread out across Tweed's desk. It showed the district they had visited when they encountered Mrs Wharton and her poodle. Beaurain stood looking over Buchanan's shoulder as the superintendent used a pencil to trace the track's route to the river.
'With me?' he asked.
'So far, yes,' Tweed replied.
'This building on the other side is the Dick power station. Now look at the large building very close to the station. It is St Jude's Hospital. Over four hundred patients, overflow from the collapsing NHS. When Dixon, the owner of the power station development, called Dick by the river men, obtained permission to build he had to sign an agreement that any smoke from the station would pass into the most sophisticated filter system. Nothing escapes. You see the problem?'
'I do,' said Beaurain. 'If al-Qa'eda have taken control of the power station we can be sure they have a vast amount of high explosives. If they see us coming they'll detonate those explosives. Can you imagine what they would do to that hospital? Over four hundred patients.'
'We can't risk it,' said Tweed grimly. 'We're checkmated.'
When Victor Warner returned to the Cabinet room he reported exactly what Tweed had said. To his great annoyance the PM was amused. He closed the folder on the table in front of him.
'Gentlemen, I think we ought to end this meeting now. No more gabble…'
Warner returned to his Ministry, fuming, a folder under his arm. He encountered Palfry just before entering his office.
'I'll complete this work at home. You do have my car ready for me, I presume…'
Arriving inside his penthouse, he walked straight into his large study. Eva was working at her own desk, decoding a signal as Warner plonked his file down on his own desk. Warner dragged a chair over and sat beside her. Clad in a black trouser suit, she sensed he was in a bad mood. She didn't feel at all prepared to put up with it. So his approach took her by surprise.
'When this crisis is all over I think we need a holiday.'
'Good idea. I'll be going off to France.'
'No you won't.' His strange mouth was twisted in a smile as though contemplating something pleasurable. 'Instead you'll be coming with me to Bermuda. How do you fancy that?'
He placed a hand on her forearm, sque
ezed it. She removed the predatory hand without looking at him.
'The Elbow Beach Hotel,' he coaxed. 'It's the height of luxury. Has an enormous swimming-pool. Two weeks.'
She gathered up her papers and the code-book. Standing up, she looked down at him, no expression on her face. She really is a beauty, he was thinking.
'I've booked for France,' she told him. 'They can take me whenever I phone them.'
'We can hire bicycles from the hotel,' he continued. 'Get away from cars for a change. Explore the scenic wonders.'
'I don't like cycling,' she replied.
'It's pretty flat. Not hard work. You glide along.'
'Sounds idyllic,' she said in an indifferent tone.
'You'll need new clothes. Just give me the bills and I'll cover the expense.'
'I'll have to think about it.'
'It's an expression of appreciation for how well you look after me. You are a decoding genius. In Arabic too. Has the missing code message turned up?'
'I think they've sent a second copy as requested. It's on your desk. Since it's marked highly confidential I've left it for you to decode.'
'Damn Embassy in Cairo is not very efficient. I'm going to complain to the Ambassador. Now, what we were talking about?'
'I'll have to think about it,' she repeated and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Warner moved his chair back to his desk to deal with the message. He was smiling to himself. Women were all alike. They played hard to get. She would come round to his viewpoint.
36
No. 50 Upper Cheyne Lane was secreted inside a short cul-de-sac of small houses. As they drove in Paula quickly realized they were all conversions.
'They used to be garages,' she told Beaurain. 'Now they're nice little houses which probably cost a fortune. I think she must be at the end – even numbers on our right, odd ones on our left.'
Beaurain drove very slowly, bumping over the cobbled lane. He pulled up at the end where No. 50 was on the right. Two storeys high, the frontage was slim and painted white. The front door was blue. It was a neat, well-cared-for house.