He walked towards the door and then paused.
“Meanwhile,” he added, “you can join him in bed. Convince him that he’ll be better off in Russia. That’s an order.”
Chapter Eleven
A vague, unidentified noise roused Dingle from his deep, drugged sleep. Instinctively, he stayed perfectly still. A conditioned reflex warned him of danger, but his mind refused to specify it.
He sensed that he was not alone; somehow he knew it was important not to advertise the fact that he was awake. He listened carefully, and fancied he caught the sound of breathing, slow and regular, like someone sleeping.
Dingle tried to think; tried to remember where he was. He was lying on his back on something soft. A bed? But where? It certainly wasn’t his own bed. His arms were stretched out, above his head. They felt stiff.
Cautiously, he moved his arms — but not far. Something was restricting them. They were tied to the bedposts. He tried his legs and found that he could move them, but not separately. They were bound together at the ankles.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. But there was nothing but blackness. He was aware of a pressure round his head. Bandages…?
Memory flooded back like a shock-wave.
He recalled the events of the previous night…the fight in C.P.’s flat…coming round in the car…and his last despairing thought before succumbing to the drug.
He was blind.
He fought to control the panic that was rising again in him; and then stiffened at the sound of a door being opened.
“Morning Dave. Any trouble? Did you get any sleep?”
Dingle recognised the voice from the nightmare car journey.
Dave Chance, alias Cosh, yawned. “I dozed a bit. He’s still out cold. Hasn’t even moved. How’s your jaw?”
“Still hurts. I thought the bastard had broken it.”
Dave laughed. “He had a worse fright. He thought he was blind.”
Alf Gunney, alias Jaw, joined in the laughter.
“We needn’t have bothered with the blindfold. He was in no condition to see where we were taking him anyway.”
Relief flowed through Dingle. He wasn’t blind! He wasn’t blind after all. He suppressed an almost hysterical desire to echo his captors’ laughter.
“You’d better go to the kitchen and get some breakfast while it’s still hot,” said Gunney. “Turner’s just cooked it. I’ll watch the sleeping beauty for you while you’re away. I’ve had mine.”
“Thanks. Is the boss about?”
“Yes. He’s busy on the phone. I think he’s going up to…oh…here he is.”
The door opened and Dingle heard another voice. A voice with a familiar ring to it. He’d half recognised it in the car last night. He tried to remember where he’d heard it before. There had been something different about the pitch before, as if he’d been listening to it on the radio or…that was it! A tape recorder! He’d heard it in the Director’s office. The voice of the man who had blackmailed C.P. into working for him. William Dawes, the pilot.
“Everything all right in here, Chance?” asked Dawes.
“Yes boss,” said Dave.
“Had your breakfast?”
“I’ve just come to relieve him,” said Alf.
“Good. Before you go Chance, while you’re both here, I’ll give you your instructions. I’m going up to London soon to fetch the Colonel. While I’m there I’ll be making arrangements to fly to Athens tonight on a sales deal…”
Gunney chuckled. “Via Albania, boss?”
“Exactly. The Colonel thinks we should get away as quickly as possible, now that we have the films. We’ll be taking friend Dingle with us.”
“To China?” That was Chance’s voice.
“Yes. He’s wanted there for crimes against the People’s Republic. The Colonel is looking forward to meeting him; apparently he has an old score to settle.” Dawes paused, and then went on. “While I’m in London it will be up to you to guard Dingle very carefully. You’ll be in charge Gunney.”
“Yes boss.”
“Don’t take any chances. At least two of you must be with him at all times. Keep his wrists tied to the bedposts and keep his legs tied. If you give him any food, unfasten one hand only. If he wants to go to the lavatory, all three of you will go with him. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Turner isn’t driving you up to London then?”
“No. He’s putting my own number plates back on the car at the moment, then he’ll be coming in here. You might as well get your breakfast now, Chance. I’ll keep Gunney company until Turner gets here.”
“Right! I’m starving!”
Dingle heard Chance’s footsteps cross the room. The door opened and closed, then Dawes said:
“It’s time Dingle was coming round. Let’s get the blindfold off him and see if we can wake him up.”
Dingle waited until the blindfold had been torn away before he opened his eyes.
“I’m already awake Mr…” he bit off the rest of the sentence. No sense in letting Dawes know that he already knew his name; that he was blown. “I’m afraid you have the advantage. I don’t know your name,” he finished.
The pilot gave a mock bow. “Dawes. William Dawes,” he said. “Have you heard everything I’ve been saying?”
Dingle nodded.
“Then you will have gathered that tonight I shall be flying you to Albania, and from there you will be taken to China?”
Again Dingle nodded. “You’re not going to China yourself then?”
“No, just you and the Colonel. I’m an aircraft salesman, you see, and I’m flying to Athens on a perfectly legitimate business trip. I’ll make a refuelling stop at Rome — and then I’ll touch down briefly in Albania to drop you and the Colonel.”
“Ah, I see. Er…who is this Colonel you keep talking about?”
“Colonel Fu Chang-sui of the People’s Liberation Army.”
Dingle couldn’t hide his start of surprise.
“Colonel Fu? He’s here?”
He wondered what the deputy head of Red China’s Military Intelligence was doing in Britain.
Chapter Twelve
C.P. snatched his arm away from Susan and sat up in bed.
“You might have knocked,” he said irritably. “We might have been…”
“What, straight after breakfast?” said Finn. “Anyway, you weren’t…were you?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Finn, sitting heavily on the side of the bed, “and take a look at these.” He tossed a folder to C.P.
The Foreign Office man opened the folder and about a dozen photographs tumbled out. He picked them up carefully, wincing slightly. His fingertips were still sore from Finn’s attentions of the previous night.
“Who are these men?” he asked.
“Recognise any of them?”
C.P. studied the portraits, shaking his head as he discarded the first eight. But the ninth riveted his attention.
“That’s him…Dawes…the man who contacted me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
Finn took the photograph, smiling with satisfaction. “I thought that might be our bird.” He turned it over and read the notes on the back. “One of our agents in Peking found out that he was working for China. That was way back in the days when our relations with Mao were more amiable. We even used to co-operate then…up to a point. We keep our own file on known Chinese agents. Luckily for us Dawes is included.”
Susan sat up and took the photograph. C.P. noticed again that her nails were coloured deeply with red varnish, and he felt a renewed rush of tenderness for the girl. Obviously she was hiding the scars of Finn’s torture. Female vanity being what it was, she didn’t want the marks to show. Oddly, she seemed to bear Finn no malice. It had all been done for the good of the cause; to bring him to heel.
“Do we know where this Dawes lives?” she as
ked.
Finn nodded. “In Kent, near the coast. He has a private air-strip there.”
“An air-strip?”
“Yes. He’s a pilot.”
Susan gave a start. “Do you think…?”
“That he’s flown off with the prize? No, I don’t think so. Not yet. The fog’s only just clearing, for one thing. And he’ll probably have arrangements to make. He couldn’t have been a hundred per cent certain that Mr. Pugglesley would leave the film for him last night. If he’s going to fly the film out, my guess is that he’ll try tonight. I hope so, anyway. We’ll pop down to Romney this afternoon and take a look around.”
Finn stood up. “Meanwhile I have some arrangements of my own to make.”
Before he left the room he added: “And if you don’t want to be disturbed in future, you’d better lock the door.”
*
Ten-thirty. The fog had gone, but the sky was a uniform grey except for a few breaks in the cloud over the Channel.
Glyn Jones gently moved his head and shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness in his neck. He shivered, not because he was cold, but because this desolate corner of Kent always depressed him, even in the summer. As a winter resort it rated very low in his personal popularity chart.
He’d made fast time down to Romney Marsh. It was nearly eight o’clock and still dark when he’d left SS(O)S headquarters, heading south-east on the A20 to join the M20 at Wrotham.
He ignored the speed limit and took the Lotus up to a ton on the motorway, gritting his teeth against the pain from his wound. There was only one thought in his mind: to find Dingle. And after last night’s disaster he had only one lead: Dawes. If that lead frizzled out, if Dawes had vanished as effectively as everyone else… Jones had shut that possibility out of his thoughts.
Just past Bearsted he rejoined the A20, took the Ashford by-pass and, at Hythe, turned right along the coast road. He found the place between Dymchurch and St. Mary’s Bay, just off the New Romney road. He drove on for about a mile, parked the car off the road and walked back.
Now he stared thoughtfully at the roof of the house which was all he could see above the low trees and fence which surrounded the extensive property.
He walked past the entrance to the drive, climbed a gate into a field and approached from the rear. The boundary fence was only six feet high and presented no problem, even with his injury.
Jones dropped lightly into the bushes on the other side and moved forward. The house was out of sight at this point.
The bushes ended abruptly and gave way to a broad tarmac apron, and Jones found himself looking at the rear of a hangar. There was nobody in sight.
Swiftly he crossed the apron, ran alongside the hangar and looked into the gaping front doors. He was still alone.
The SS(O)S agent slipped inside and glanced at the gleaming twin-engined executive jet which was parked there. It was a best-seller of the company Dawes worked for — and Jones imagined that one of his sales gimmicks would be to give potential buyers demonstration flights.
He turned and looked out through the doorway. From here he had a much better idea of the layout of the property which ran from north-west to south-east in a broad oblong.
The runway ran straight ahead from the hangar to the south-east boundary, which bordered the coast road. On his left he could see a large garden which gave way to a small orchard in the south-east corner. Set into the garden, on his left and slightly in front of him was a garage. Beyond that was Dawes’s home. It wasn’t a house, Jones could see now, but a long L-shaped bungalow.
He ran towards the garage, which shielded him from the bungalow, and went inside.
The sight of the car stopped him short. He knew now that he was on the right track.
The car was the same model as the one he had seen outside C.P.’s flat. The same as the one into which he had seen Dingle being dragged…
He froze at the sound of footsteps on the path outside. Then he saw the ladder leading to the loft. When the man came into the garage, Jones was lying down, peering through a crack in the rough floorboards.
The man whistled softly under his breath as he worked, changing the number plates on the car. Then he cursed under his breath and spent some time searching through tin boxes on the shelves which lined the garage. Eventually he found what he wanted and resumed his work.
More footsteps sounded and someone else entered the garage but stopped outside Jones’s range of vision.
“You’ve been a hell of a long time, Turner. What’s keeping you?”
Jones stiffened as he recognised the voice. Dawes.
“Thread stripped on the bleedin’ bolt. Took me ages to find another one the right size. I’ve finished now though.”
“Good. I wanted to be in London by one. Doubt if I’ll make it before half-past now.”
Dawes moved into sight and climbed into the driving seat.
“Our friend Dingle is awake now. You’d better go across and help Gunney and Chance to keep an eye on him until I get back.”
When the car and Turner had left, Jones sat with his legs dangling through the loft entrance and considered the situation.
Dingle was here, but guarded by three men. Three against one — and an injured one at that — were not favourable odds. On the credit side, there seemed to be time to spare; at least until Dawes got back from London.
Jones clambered down into the garage and retraced his steps to the shrubbery behind the hangar. He reclimbed the fence, walked back to the Lotus and drove into New Romney to find a telephone.
“Is that you Willie?”
“Yes. Where are you Glyn?”
“New Romney.”
“Ah! I see. Any luck.”
“Yes. Jim’s here. I want you to come down straight away to give me a hand.”
“I can’t. I’m supposed to be looking for…”
“You’ve got some of your section working on that, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“Leave it to them then. I need you here.”
“But the Director…”
“Tell him I said so. He’s given me a free hand. Anyway, I don’t think the girl’s so important at the moment.”
Williams sighed. “ Okay, if you say so. I’ll tell him. Where shall I meet you?”
“At the railway museum in the miniature railway station. Know it?”
“Yes, I’ll leave as soon as I’ve seen the Director.”
“Good…don’t ring off. I want you to do something else first. Get on to SB and tell them we want Dawes’s car followed. It’s heading towards London now.”
He gave Williams a description of the car and its registration number.
“Tell them we want to know exactly where he goes and who he meets; but we don’t want him or any of his contacts to be approached or alerted in any way. SB will probably want quite a few men on the job to do it properly, so get a Priority One on it. The Director will authorise it for you.”
“Righto Glyn. Will do.”
“Oh! One more thing. We’re going to need some equipment down here, so you’ll have to draw it out of the stores and bring it down with you.”
He told Williams exactly what to fetch.
*
Marjorie Brett sped past four cars and then squeezed in behind a heavy lorry just in time to avoid an on-coming petrol tanker.
“Slow down a bit,” said Finn. “You might be suitably dressed, but I don’t want it to be my funeral you’re going to.”
Mrs. Brett was wearing black: leather trousers, jacket and peaked cap.
She gave a tight smile and spun the wheel expertly, pulling the Ford Zephyr out to overtake the lorry.
“Anyway,” Finn went on, “there’s no great hurry.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Harry Brett. He was sitting between his wife and Finn on the wide front bench seat. “I hope Dawes is still at his house. How can you be so sure?”
“I’ll tell you,” answered Finn, who was obviously in a good humour. “It was quite easy in the end. I simply rang up his secretary and asked to speak to him. She said he wasn’t in the office. He’d called in briefly earlier this afternoon, but he wouldn’t be back today. So I asked if she knew where I could get in touch with him, and she said no, she didn’t. Could she take a message?”
“Well, that doesn’t mean he’ll be at home,” said Harry Brett.
“So I then said I was a close friend of Dawes and I had some highly important news for him. Then I asked, casually, if she thought I’d be able to reach him at his place in New Romney. She talked then. She said he was flying to Athens tonight — but he wasn’t taking off from Heathrow until midnight.”
“Heathrow? But that’s…”
“But she happened to know his plane was still down in Kent this afternoon. He would be flying up from Kent this evening to evening to Heathrow to refuel and check through Customs and Immigration, or whatever it is they do, before leaving for Athens.”
Finn beamed. “So there you are. He won’t plan to leave Kent before eight at the earliest; and it’ll probably be much later.”
He chuckled and added: “My own arrangements should tie in very nicely. Friend Dawes is in for a big surprise.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Harry Brett for the second time. “And I hope we can find his house in the dark.”
“Oh, stop worrying and enjoy the drive,” said his wife, cutting in front of an indignant mini to avoid a head-on collision with a bus.
C.P., sitting in the back, shuddered and tightened his grip on Susan’s hand.
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Sue, how did you come to be a…to get mixed up in this business? Did they approach you when you went to Russia after your parents were…after the accident?”
She turned to face him.
“For heaven’s sake! Haven’t you realised yet, I’m not Susan Pike. When the real Susan Pike came to Russia one of my superiors noticed how alike we were. From then on it was simple. She was questioned closely about her life, her job, her habits…and then I came back in her place. Luckily her parents hadn’t lived long in Taunton, so they didn’t have many close friends there. But just to be on the safe side I moved to London and took the job with the BBC.”
Death's No Antidote Page 7