Blood Storm (39 page)

'I could do with a tot of brandy,' Harry gasped.

He was making an effort to walk steadily. Monica jumped
up, opened a cupboard, grabbed a bottle of brandy and a
glass. She poured a stiff tot. He swallowed half of it, heaved
a sigh of relief. He swallowed the rest, stood up straight
from the hunched position Monica had noticed when he
had entered the office.

Marler, a sardonic smile on his face, had followed him in.

Harry assumed his favourite position, seated cross-legged on the floor. Marler walked past him, stood against the wall,
put a cigarette in his ivory holder, lit it.

'We've had a bit of an adventure,' he drawled.

'A bloody nightmare,' snapped Harry.

'I'll tell you what happened,' Marler began. 'Monica, you
might take this down. As a statement for Tweed . . .'

32

Marler drove them to a private airfield outside London
where his light aircraft was housed. The owner ordered his
team to trundle the machine on to the runway.

Marler was handing a helmet equipped with earphones to
Harry. He explained this was so they could communicate
with each other clearly in midair. Reluctantly Harry donned
the helmet.

Dazed with apprehension, Harry, who hated flying,
found himself seated next to Marler as the plane took off,
climbed. It was a brilliantly sunny day, warmish for April.
Not a cloud in the sky.

'Wobbles about a lot,' Harry complained.

'Actually, old chap, we are flying very steadily. Look out
at the scenery. Marvellous view.'

'Is it?'

Harry stubbornly stared straight ahead as Marler studied
the map, checking the route to Mountain High near
Peckham Mallet. Near General Macomber's cottage. He
glanced at Harry's ashen face.

'Shouldn't take long to get there.'

'Seems like forever already.'

'Relax. I once flew this plane down to Provence in the
south of France.'

'Thank Gawd I wasn't with you.'

'Harry, take this with that bottle of water I gave you. It's a Dramamine pill. Paula swears by them when she's
flying over the Atlantic. An eleven-hour flight to San
Francisco.'

'She takes one?' Harry stared dubiously at the small yellow tablet. Marler waited until he had swallowed it
before he replied.

'Actually, she doesn't. But she persuades Tweed to take one if he's flying or on a sea crossing.'

'Does it work for her - him?'

'Yes, it does. Every time.'

'Well, it's not working for me.'

'Give it a few minutes to get into your system.'

Harry sat very still, grimly silent. Marler was looking
down, admiring the beautiful countryside,
clear as crystal in the sunlight. Rolling downs like frozen green waves, dense
evergreen forests, cars looking like tiny models crawling
along motorways. They had crossed from Surrey into
Sussex.

'May be a bit of turbulence ahead,' Marler warned.

'What's turbulence?'

'Plane might rock a bit from side to side, up and down.'

'Take me home.'

'We always complete our missions,' Marler said sternly.

'Do these things ever crash?' Harry whispered.

'Not with me as pilot.'

The plane suddenly swayed from side to side. Then it
dropped, climbed again. Marler again glanced at Harry. He
had a dozy expression, was now looking out and down. The
plane was now flying on an even keel.

'Bit bumpy there for a moment,' Harry commented.

Glancing once more at Harry Marler noticed the colour
was coming back into his face. The Dramamine had
worked. Harry was taking an interest in his surroundings.
He pointed ahead.

'What's that big hill ahead? An alp?'

'You only get those in Switzerland. That's Mountain
High . . .'

'I can see a large truck in an empty field. That could be
it. A man's walking towards it. Keep this thing steady.'

Harry took out his powerful binoculars, focused them.
He could see the burly figure in denims and a windcheater quite clearly. Could see the man's ugly face under a peaked cap. He swore colourfully.

'What's the matter?' Marler asked.

'See that chap heading for the truck? That's Mugger
Morgan. A real villain. Been hauled up for two killings,
which he did. Got off on a technicality. Friend of Fitch.
He's looking up at us.'

'Have to trick him. We're joy-riders. Brace yourself.'

Marler looped the loop. Harry found himself staring at
the sky, then the earth above him. He yelled in terror.

'It's OK,' Marler called back.

He looped the loop a second time. Harry was staring up at earth again. They were crashing. He knew they were
crashing. The plane levelled out, the view became normal.
Harry let go of the breath he had been holding.

'What the hell did you do that for?'

'To fool Mugger Morgan. He'll think we're mad joy
riders.'

'Mad is the word!'

'Keep an eye on him. What's he doing now?'

'Stopped looking at us. He's climbing into the cab. He's
going to drive the truck off. We're well
away from him.'

They both looked down at the truck, which appeared
very small from their height. There was no one else about
anywhere.

The truck moved forward perhaps ten feet, then the
explosives detonated. The entire vehicle lifted off the field.
There was a blinding flash, a distant boom. The roof shot
skywards, split in two. The truck's sides blasted outwards.
The cab where Mugger Morgan had sat disintegrated. A
small crater appeared in the field. Fragments descended to
the field as debris fell inside the crater.

Inside the Park Crescent office Marler concluded his report
to Monica at about the time Tweed parked his car outside
Tolhaven.

It was a different ferryman who took him across to Black
Island in a calm sea. It was also a different route from the
one to the east he had travelled with the team. So he saw
the ugly globe-shaped structures of the oil refinery near the
western tip of the island.

He was totally unprepared for what happened when he
had walked past the village of Lydford.

33

Instead of turning left towards General Macomber's house
and the Crooked Village, Tweed turned right, walking
along the track towards where the brutal prison was being
built by the Slovaks. A glimpse through the trees showed him eight of the prison buildings had been erected. He was
appalled.

A glimpse to his right through a gap in the forest showed him the oil refinery. He stopped. He pressed his binoculars to his eyes. A tall slim man, clad in a camouflage outfit, including a cap, was detaching a rubber hose from an outlet. His hand, covered in a fireproof glove, checked to make sure the tap had turned off the outlet. Over his shoulder was slung a shotgun. The camouflaged figure began walking towards Tweed.

A few feet from where he stood Tweed saw a thick rubber
hose turning away, heading towards the
prison. A shaft of sunlight shone on its oily surface. Tweed smelt petrol. He
stepped well back away from it.

The figure was close now, moving briskly. The shotgun
was now in the figure's hands, aimed towards Tweed. He
grabbed the Walther from its holster, aimed it at the
approaching figure as it came close.

'General,' Tweed snapped, 'if we shoot each other I can't see it will help either of us.'

'You are right,' General Macomber replied, lowering the
weapon. 'Your timing is bad, but perfect.'

'Perfect?'

'From your point of view.'

'I've just come over by the ferry.'

'Which has a different ferry master. Perfect.'

'Why?'

'Because he won't recognize you when you go back. It
leaves for the mainland in ten minutes. Then leave for
London. By then you'll have seen the fireworks.'

'Fireworks?'

'That diabolical prison must go. I have also cancelled the
monthly allowance to my three evil offspring. Are you
ready, sir?'

'Ready for what?'

'The fireworks.'

Saying which, the General took out a cigarette lighter,
bent down, lit it, and with a quick movement let the flame touch the edge of the pipe which disappeared towards the prison. The flame flared along the outside of the pipe into the distance. The General stood up, stepped back close to
Tweed, put the lighter in his pocket.

'When it reaches the prison the pipe is full of petrol inside,' he explained. 'I once served a short spell with the Royal Engineers.'

Tweed was almost hypnotized, watching the low line of fire sweeping towards the prison. The General checked his
watch.

'You have five minutes to catch the ferry. Wait just a little
longer.'

'The Slovaks don't have explosives, do they?'

'I did notice they are careless about storing grenades.'

'In which case . . .'

'They will explode.'

'I suppose the Slovaks who built this place will be away at
lunch?'

'They have taken to eating lunch inside the prison. About
now.'

'So . . .'

'They will be on the premises.'

'You don't like the Slovaks?'

'Not the ones from the Tatra mountains. In Bratislava I
once met several I liked.'

Tweed was watching the progress of the flaring pipe. It
was getting close to the prison buildings. No sign of guards.
They were getting careless.

'The grenades may injure a few,' Tweed remarked.

'Oh, there's something else,' the General said casually.
'I've explored the place in the night. The Slovaks sleep
inside an encampment some distance away. I found a store of bricks of Semtex.'

'My God!'

'I think you should catch that ferry now. You were never
here. I was taking a nap in my house. Good luck with
finding that murdering animal. I'm sure you will. The fire
has reached the section of pipe filled with petrol. Go now.'