A ruthless and well-organised plot which involves a network of Russian sleeper agents and a defector willing to sell out British spies in Eastern Europe revolves around the brutal kidnapping of the 13-year-old son of Major John Tarrant and the price for the boy’s return is £500,000 in uncut diamonds.
But Major Tarrant is only a minor cog in the General Purpose Intelligence Committee and the least likely target for extortion by the gang of kidnappers who operate under the code-name ‘Drabble’. It becomes clear that the stakes are much higher and Tarrant is an unwitting pawn in a diabolical and complex game, with just seven days to discover who can be trusted and get his son back alive. Suspected by his own side and dismissed by the opposition, Tarrant falls back on his training as a soldier and takes matters into his own hands….
The film rights to Seven Days To Killing were snapped up on first publication by legendary American director/producer Don Siegal (noted for classic thrillers such as The Killers and Dirty Harry). Originally shot under the working title Drabble, the film was released in 1974 as The Black Windmill after the decision to use the famous Clayton Windmills on the South Downs in West Sussex for the climactic shoot-out. Now regularly seen on television, The Black Windmill starred Michael Caine, Janet Suzman and Donald Pleasance.
Clive Frederick William Egleton (1927-2006), the only child of a truck driver, was born in South Harrow, Middlesex and claimed that ‘from the age of six’ he wanted to be a soldier. He enlisted, underage, on DDay 1944 and was assigned to the Royal Armoured Corps to be trained as a tank driver. He subsequently transferred to the infantry and was commissioned into the South Staffordshire Regiment, serving in India, Hong Kong, Germany, the Persian Gulf and East Africa before retiring as a Lieutenant-Colonel on the thirtieth anniversary of his enlistment. His years of experience in Intelligence and Counter- Intelligence work proved fruitful for his second career as a writer of thrillers, a career which began whilst he was still in the army. Seven Days To A Killing, his fourth novel, was the breakthrough book which propelled him into the front rank of British thriller writing and was to write forty more, including the international bestseller The October Plot (also published as a Top Notch Thriller).
Top Notch Thrillers
Ostara Publishing’s Top Notch Thrillers aim to revive Great British thrillers which do not deserve to be forgotten. Each title has been carefully selected not just for its plot or sense of adventure, but for the distinctiveness and sheer quality of its writing.
Other Top Notch Thrillers from Ostara Publishing:
John Blackburn The Young Man from Lima
David Brierley Cold War
David Brierley Big Bear, Little Bear
Brian Callison A Flock of Ships
Victor Canning The Rainbird Pattern
Desmond Cory Undertow
Francis Clifford Time is an Ambush
Francis Clifford The Grosvenor Square Goodbye
Clive Egleton The October Plot
John Gardner The Liquidator
Adam Hall The Ninth Directive
Adam Hall The Striker Portfolio
Geoffrey Household Watcher in the Shadows
Geoffrey Household Rogue Justice
Duncan Kyle A Cage of Ice
Duncan Kyle Black Camelot
Duncan Kyle Terror’s Cradle
Jessica Mann Funeral Sites
Berkely Mather The Pass Beyond Kashmir
Philip Purser Night of Glass
Geoffrey Rose A Clear Road to Archangel
George Sims The Terrible Door
Alan Williams Snake Water
Alan Williams The Tale of the Lazy Dog
Andrew York The Eliminator
Andrew York The Deviator
Andrew York The Predator
Seven Days to
a Killing
* * *
Clive Egleton
Ostara Publishing
First published 1973
Ostara Publishing Edition 2012
Copyright © 1973 by Clive Egleton
The characters in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any living person.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which this is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 9781906288 884
A CIP reference is available from the British Library
Printed and Bound in the United Kingdom
Ostara Publishing
13 King Coel Road
Colchester
CO3 9AG
www.ostarapublishing.co.uk
The Series Editor for Top Notch Thrillers is Mike Ripley, author of the award-winning ‘Angel’ comic thrillers, co-editor of the three Fresh Blood anthologies promoting new British crime writing and, for ten years, the crime fiction critic of the Daily Telegraph. He currently writes the ‘Getting Away With Murder’ column for the e-zine Shots on www.shotsmag.co.uk.
This book is for
Richard
Sunday
FIRST DAY
1
APIECE OF BROKEN GLASS CRUNCHED UNDER HIS FOOT AS MCKEE MOVED to get a clearer view of the car. The Hillman Avenger had stopped at the far end of the runway and it seemed that the driving lesson was now over, for, through the Zeiss binoculars, McKee saw that the man had turned to face the girl. He watched a protective right arm encircle her shoulders, and then in a chain reaction their heads came together and they slid downward until they were almost out of sight.
Unlike McKee, the two boys crouching in the long grass at the foot of the derelict Control Tower were not even mildly interested in the occupants of the car. They were both just thirteen years old and the object of their attention was a one twenty-fourth scaled model of a Spitfire Mark II, which rose from the concrete runway and, responding to the signal from the transmitter, banked sharply to the right as soon as it became airborne. The buzz-saw whine of its tiny petrol-driven engine disturbed the quiet countryside and roused the couple in the Hillman Avenger.
The woman surfaced, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, fumbled with the ignition key and fired the car into life. Under her uncertain touch it hopped forward like a kangaroo and stalled. she did a little better at the second attempt and the car moved off smoothly. It came down the runway towards the Control Tower, swung right on to the taxiing circuit and disappeared from sight between the Spider Huts on the western edge of the airfield.
McKee crossed over to the opposite side of the briefing hut and focused on the car again as it approached the gap in the hedgerow bordering the minor road. He waited to see which direction it would take, knowing that the man and the woman would have to be exterminated if they chose the seclusion of the abandoned Officers’ Mess which lay behind the clump of silver birch trees on the other side of the road. The prospect didn’t worry him for there had been previous occasions when McKee had found it necessary to kill, but as it happened, the problem was resolved for him. The woman put the wheel over to the right and drove off towards Sutton-on-the-Forest, and McKee resumed his watch on the two boys.
He was particularly interested in the taller one, a boy with fair hair and freckled face called David Tarrant. There wasn’t much McKee didn’t know about David Tarrant, or his parents for that matter. He checked his watch, took one final look around the airfield to satisfy himself that there were no unwanted witnesses about and then strode out of the hut. He moved unhurriedly and made no attempt to conceal his approach.
It was some time before David Tarrant noticed the man walking towards
them and even then he paid him little attention. He was endeavouring to put the Spitfire into an Immelmann turn and it would need all his concentration to effect the manoeuvre. James Stroud, his companion, had bet him tenpence that he couldn’t do it. To avoid looking into the sun, he put the Spitfire through a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and then sending it up into a steep climb, he waited for exactly the right moment before rolling it over and executing a perfect Immelmann. Flushed with success, he levelled out the diving aircraft and brought it in to land. Without a word being spoken, James Stroud handed over tenpence.
McKee said, ‘That was really something.’
David Tarrant looked up into the dark eyes of the tall paratrooper standing in front of him. His glance took in the red beret, the combat suit with its disruptive pattern camouflage, the thick rubber-soled boots and the black polished gaiters. He noticed that the man was a Lieutenant-Colonel and carried a walking stick in his right hand.
‘It was luck really,’ he said quietly.
McKee smiled easily. ‘If you say so,’ he said. ‘Personally, I think it was all skill.’ He passed behind the boys. ‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he said, ‘I’m just looking the place over to see if it would make a good DZ for my battalion.’
James Stroud said, ‘Do you think I might have a go now?’
David Tarrant watched the paratrooper walk away and then turned his back on him. ‘Yes, of course you can,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, if you can do an Immelmann you can have your money back.’
For a well-built man, McKee was very light on his feet, but then he had been trained to move with great stealth and he picked the right moment to strike. The noise of the tiny petrol engine masked the whoosh of the walking stick on its downward swing, and the nobbly end smashed into the base of James Stroud’s skull. As his companion slumped over the control unit, David Tarrant turned his head sharply and took the full force of the second blow on his temple. Out of control now, the Spitfire bounced on to the runway, flipped over on to its back and caught fire. McKee dropped his walking stick, ran forward twenty yards and stamped out the blaze, smashing the model in the process.
As he kicked the wreckage into the long grass, McKee reached into his jacket pocket, brought out the Pye radio transmitter and erected its aerial. In a flat, emotionless voice, he spoke into the mouthpiece and said, ‘This is Borodino, let’s make the pick up now.’ He waited for the brief acknowledgement, telescoped the aerial back into its socket and then slipped the radio into his jacket. McKee knew exactly where the boys had left their bicycles and he figured on hiding them in the disused control Tower.
The long-wheelbase Land-Rover came out from behind the officers’ Mess, shot across the road and headed straight for the runway. It was driven by a short, ginger-haired Lance-Corporal; the name tag on his combat jacket was Silk. Seated beside him was another paratrooper named Goring and squashed up in the back of the vehicle along with two packing crates was a private Findon. All three had been on edge, but now that the waiting was over, some of their tenseness and anxiety was slipping away.
Silk made directly for the tall figure standing beside the Control Tower and kept his speed down to fifty. It had been drummed into him that, although speed was essential, silence was paramount and McKee didn’t want to hear any squealing tyres. Judging it well, Silk put the Land-Rover into a long, gentle, right- handed curve, eased off the accelerator pedal and touching the brakes lightly, brought the vehicle to a halt. He whipped it into reverse, backed up to the edge of the runway, braked, and then cut the engine.
They moved in concert because each man knew precisely what he had to do. Goring jumped out, ran to the back, let down the tailboard and with Findon’s help, lifted the packing crates out and set them down on the grass. Silk walked over to the unconscious boys, and kneeling beside them, used his injection kits to give them a shot of Pentathol. Inside three minutes and in complete silence, they placed David Tarrant and James Stroud into the packing crates, replaced the lids and lifted them into the back of the Land-Rover. Findon scrambled in after them while Silk and Goring pushed the tailboard up and locked it into position, and then running to the front they tumbled into the vehicle. Almost leisurely, McKee strolled over and joined them.
He looked at Goring and said, ‘This vehicle can take three up front; you’ll have to sit with your legs astride the gear-box.’ He waited until Goring was settled and then got in and closed the door.
Goring said, ‘For Christ’s sake, let’s get out of here.’
McKee tapped his walking stick on the steel floor of the cab. ‘Now listen to me, everybody,’ he said firmly, ‘there is absolutely no need to panic. We are four members of the 10th Parachute Battalion of the Territorial Army Volunteer Reserve, we are correctly dressed, we are displaying the correct Unit signs on our vehicle, and we will be keeping to side roads which are little used by the great motoring public, even if it is a Sunday. No one is going to give us a second glance.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘now let’s move on.’
Their progress was a sedate forty-five miles an hour up through Stillington and Oswaldkirk and across to Ampleforth. Just before the village of Coxwold, they turned off the narrow country road and went up a lane which led to a disused gravel pit. Waiting for them farther up in the track in a natural bowl, were a Ford Zephyr towing a horse-box, a green-coloured Mini-Cooper and an Austin Maxi. Also waiting were two men and a woman.
The woman, Ruth Burroughs, was a blonde aged thirty-one, who had the sort of figure not usually associated with someone who spent most of her time around horses. She enjoyed dual nationality, and despite nine years in England, her voice still retained traces of an American accent. Her husband, twelve years her senior, looked almost old enough to be her father. Tall, thin, distinguished and balding, he gave the impression that he worked indoors; he was, in fact, a farmer. The last of the trio was Stephen Calvert, aged twenty-six, a salesman for Anglican Breweries.
The Land-Rover stopped abreast of them and McKee got out. Looking at Calvert, he said, ‘You have our clothes?’
Calvert jerked his thumb in the direction of a clump of bushes. ‘Over there,’ he said, ‘I thought you’d want some privacy.’
‘Can you unload the crates and make the transfer while we change?’
Calvert smiled; nicotine had stained his teeth a dull yellow. ‘I’m young, fit and healthy and I’ve got help. We’ll manage.’
‘See to it, then,’ McKee said curtly. ‘The taller of the two, the one with the freckles, goes into the boot of the Zephyr. The other is James Stroud; make sure you give him the Acid before you put him in the Maxi. When he comes round from the Pentathol, I want him to take off on a three-day trip. And when you’ve finished all that, I want the crates put back into the Land-Rover.’ He turned and walked away; Goring, Findon and Silk followed him into the bushes.
Four suitcases were lined up in a row and in silence they stripped off their uniforms and changed into civilian clothes. The discarded combat suits, khaki shirts, berets, boots, anklets and web belts were packed away into the now empty suitcases which were then carried back to and placed inside the Land-Rover. The switch was completed in a time which would have been a credit to a troupe of quick-change artists.
McKee said, ‘All right, we’ll move off at two-minute intervals, Goring and Findon in the Mini, then Calvert and Silk in the Austin, followed by Ruth, Paul and myself in the Zephyr.’
Goring said, ‘There’s a little matter of an advance of our fee.’
‘One hundred pounds each in used ten-, five- and one-pound notes—correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘The rest is waiting for you at the safe house.’
We hope,’ said Findon.
McKee said, ‘You may rely on it. Give them their envelopes, Calvert, and get them out of here. I’ve got work to do.’ He climbed into the Land-Rover and started the engine.
The lip of the gravel pit was another two hundred yards farther up the track and
McKee didn’t bother to shift out of first gear. He stopped the vehicle approximately thirty feet from the edge and walked forward to satisfy himself that the Land-Rover would have a clean drop into the water. It wasn’t as sheer as McKee would have wished but there was no danger of the vehicle getting stuck on a protruding shelf when it went over. He returned to the Land- Rover, took off in first gear and then, once it was rolling, set the hand throttle and jumped out. There was no last-minute hitch except that the vehicle took rather longer to sink beneath the dark waters than McKee had expected.
Burroughs was sitting in the front of the Zephyr and had the engine ticking over. His fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the steering wheel and he barely gave McKee time to close the rear door before he started moving.
Ruth said, ‘You’ll have to forgive my husband, waiting makes him nervous, and he’s worried in case there aren’t enough airholes in the boot.’
McKee ignored the comment; he knew the boy was in no danger of suffocating. ‘You know the way?’ he said to Burroughs.
‘Of course, through Coxwold and then south on the A19.’
‘Good. I see you’ve bought the horse, Ruth. Are you pleased with him?’
‘I suppose so, but it wasn’t the animal I was after.’
‘Let’s hope you won’t be disappointed in him.’
‘Why should you care?’ said Burroughs. ‘Thanks to you, our cover will be blown. I hope your friend is worth it.’
‘He isn’t my friend,’ McKee said coldly, ‘and I’ve never met him, but he’s worth it all right.’
‘What about Goring and Findon?’
‘What about them?’
‘They don’t fit in.’
‘Jarman hired them through a contractor.’
‘My God,’ said Burroughs, ‘you must be out of your mind. They’re just a couple of heavies and they probably have form. They’ll betray us all if they’re picked up.’
Seven Days to a Killing Page 1