Seawitch (5 page)

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is under threat. They want to know where you got this secret information, and what your proposed movements are."

"Why didn't the FBI come directly to me?'*

"Because you wouldn't have told them any more than you told the State Department. If, that is to say, you'd even let them over the threshold of your house. But they know—Bentley told us this—that we come across here now and again, so I suppose they figured you'd be less off your guard with us."

"So Bentley figures that you'd craftily wring some careless talk from me without my being aware that I was talking carelessly."

"Something like that."

"But doesn't this put you in a somewhat invidious position?"

"Not really."

"But you're supposed to uphold the law, no?"

"Yes." Mitchell spoke with some feeling. "But not organized law. Or have you forgotten, Lord Worth, that we're a couple of ex-cops because we wouldn't go along with your so-called organized law? Our only responsibility is to our clients."

Tm not your client."

"No."

**Would you like me to be your client?"

Roomer said: "What on earth for?"

"It's never something for nothing in this world, John. Services have to be rewarded."

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"Failure of a mission." Mitchell was on his feet. "Nice of you to see us, Lord Worth."

"I apologize." Lord Worth sounded genuinely contrite. 'Tm afraid I rather stepped out of line there." He paused ruminatively, then smiled. "Just trying to recall when last I apologized to anybody. I seem to have a short memory. BJess my lovely daughters. Information for our friends of the FBI? First, I received my information in context of several anonymous threats—telephone calls—on the lives of my daughters. A double-barreled threat, if you will, against the girls if I didn't stop the flow of oil. As they pointed out, I can't hide them forever and there's nothing one can do against a sniper's bullet—and if I were too difficult they'd have the Seawitch blown out of the water. As for my future movements, I'm going out to the Seawitch tomorrow afternoon and will remain there for twenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight."

Roomer said: "Any truth in either of those two statements?"

"Don't be preposterous., Of course not. I am going out to the rig—but before dawn. I don't want those beady-eyed bandits watching me from the undergrowth at my heliport as I take off."

"You are referring to the FBI, sir?"

"Who else? Will that do for the moment?"

"Splendidly."

They walked back to  the lane in silence.

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Roomer got in behind the wheel of the car, Mitchell beside him.

Roomer said: "Well, well, well."

"Well, as you say, well, well, well. Crafty old devil."

Marina's voice came from the back. "Crafty he may be, but—"

She broke off in a gasp as Mitchell whirled hi his seat and Roomer switched on his interior lights. The barrel of MitchelFs .38 was lined up between her eyes, eyes at the moment wide with shock and fear.

Mitchell said in a soft voice: "Don't ever do that to me again. Next time it may be too late."

She licked her lips. She was normally as high-spirited and independent as she was beautiful, but it is a rather disconcerting thing to look down the muzzle of a pistol for the first time in your life. "I was just going to say that he may be crafty but he's neither old nor a devil. Will you please put that gun away? You don't point guns at people you love."

MitchelTs gun disappeared. He said: "You shouldn't fall in love with crazy young fools."

"Or spies." Roomer was looking at Melinda. "What are you two doing here?"

Melinda was more composed than her sister. After all, she hadn't had to look down the barrel of a pistol. She said: "And you, John Roomer, are a crafty young devil. You're just stalling for time." Which was quite true.

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"What's that supposed to mean?'*

"It means you're thinking furiously of the answer to the same question we're about to ask you. What are you two doing here?"

"That's none of your business." Roomer's normally soft-spoken voice was unaccustomedly and deliberately harsh.

There was a silence from the back seat, both girls realizing that there was more to the men than they had thought, and the gap between their social and professional lives wider than they had thought.

Mitchell sighed. "Let's cool it, John. An ungrateful child is sharper than a serpent's tooth."

"Jesus!" Roomer shook his head. "You can say that again." He hadn't the faintest idea what Mitchell was talking about.

Mitchell said: "Why don't you go to your father and ask him? I'm sure he'll tell you— along with the roughest chewing-out you've ever had for interfering in his private business." He got out, opened the rear door, waited until the sisters got out, closed the rear door, said 'Goodnight' and returned to his seat, leaving the girls standing uncertainly at the side of the road.

Roomer drove off. He said: "Very masterful, though I didn't like our doing it. God knows, they meant no harm. In any case, it may stand us in good stead in the future."

"It'll stand us in even better stead if we get

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to the phone booth right around the corner as soon as we can."

They reached the booth in fifteen seconds, and one minute later Mitchell emerged from it. As he took his seat Roomer said: "What was all that about?"

"Sorry, private matter." Mitchell handed Roomer a piece of paper. Roomer switched on the overhead light. On the paper Mitchell had scrawled: "This car bugged?"

Roomer said: "Okay by me." They drove home in sitence. Standing in his carport Roomer said: "What makes you think my car's bugged?"

"Nothing. How far do you trust Bentley?"

"You know how far. But he—or one of his men—wouldn't have had time."

"Five seconds isn't a long time. That's all the tune it takes to attach a magnetic clamp."

They searched the car, then MitchelTs. Both were clean. In Mitchell's kitchen Roomer said: "Your phone call?"

'The old boy, of course. I got to him before the girls did. Told him what had happened and that he was to tell them he'd received threats against their lives, that he knew the source, that he didn't trust the local law and so had sent for us to deal with the matter. Caught on at once. Also to give them hell for interfering."

Roomer said: "He'll convince them."

"More importantly, did he convince you?'*

"No. He thinks fast on his feet and lies even

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faster. He wanted to find out how seriously he would be taken in the case of a real emergency. He now has the preliminary evidence that he is being taken seriously. You have to hand it to him—as devious as they come. I suppose we tell Bentley exactly what he told us to tell him?"

"What else?"

"Do you believe what he told us?"

"That he has his own private intelligence corps? I wouldn't question it for a moment. That he's going out to the Seawitch? I believe that, too. I'm not so sure about his timing, though. We're to tell Bentley that he's leaving in the afternoon. He told us he's leaving about dawn. If he can lie to Bentley he can lie to us. I don't know why he should think it necessary to lie to us, probably just his second nature. I think he's going to leave much sooner than that."

Roomer said: "Me, too, I'm afraid. If I intended to be up at dawn's early light I'd be in bed by now or heading that way. He showed no sign of going to bed, so I conclude he has no intention of going to bed, because it wouldn't be worth his while." He paused. "So. A double stake-out?"

"I thought so. Up by Lord Worth's house and down by his heliport. You for the heliport, me for the tail job?"

"What else?" Mitchell was possessed of phenomenal night-sight. Except on the very blackest of nights he could drive without any lights at all.

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'Til hole up behind the west spinney. You know it?"

"I know it. How about you feeding the story to Bentley while I make a couple of thermoses of coffee and some sandwiches?"

"Fine." Roomer reached for the phone, then paused. "Listen, why are we doing all this? We don't owe the FBI anything. We have no authority from anyone to do anything. You said it yourself: we and organized law walk in different directions. I don't feel I'm under any obligation to save my country from a nonexistent threat. We've got no client, no commission, no prospect of fees. Why should we care if Lord Worth sticks his head into a noose?"

Mitchell paused in slicing bread. "As far as your last question is concerned, why don't you call up Melinda and ask her?"

Roomer gave him a long, quizzical look, sighed and reached for the telephone.

ss

Chapter 3

&COFFIELD had been wrong in his guess. Lord Worth was possessed of no private arsenal. But the United States armed services were, and in their dozens, at that.

The two break-ins were accomplished with the professional expertise born of a long and arduous practice that precluded any possibility of mistakes. The targets in both cases were government arsenals, one army and one naval. Both, naturally, were manned by round-the-clock guards, none of whom was killed or even injured if one were to disregard the cranial contusions—and those were few—caused by sandbagging and

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sapping: Lord Worth had been very explicit on the use of minimal violence.

Giuseppe Palermo, who looked and dressed like a successful Wall Street broker, had the more difficult task of the two, although, as a man who held the Mafia in tolerant contempt, he regarded the exercise as almost childishly easy. Accompanied by nine almost equally respectable men—sartorially respectable, that is—three of whom were dressed as army majors, he arrived at the Florida arms depot at fifteen minutes to midnight. The six young guards, none of whom had even seen or heard a shot fired in anger, were at their drowsiest and expecting nothing but their midnight reliefs. Only two were really fully awake—the other four had dozed away—and those two, responding to a heavy and peremptory hammering on the main entrance door, were disturbed, not to say highly alarmed, by the appearance of three army officers who announced that they were making a snap inspection to test security and alertness. Five minutes later all six were bound and gagged—two of them uncon-cious and due to wake up with very sore heads because of their misguided attempts to put up a show of resistance—and safely locked up in one of the many so-called secure rooms in the depot.

During this period and the next twenty minutes, one of Palermo's men, an electronics expert called Jamieson, made a thorough search for all the external alarm signals to both the police and

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nearest military HQ. He either bypassed or disconnected them all.

It was when he was engaged in this that the relief guards, almost as drowsy as those whom they had been expecting to find, made their appearance and were highly disconcerted to find themselves looking at the muzzles of three machine carbines. Within minutes, securely bound but not gagged, they had joined the previous guards, whose gags were now removed. They could now shout until doomsday, as the nearest habitation was more than a mile away: the temporary gagging of the first six guards had been merely for the purpose of preventing their warning off their reliefs.

Palermo now had almost eight hours before the break-in could be discovered.

He sent one of his men, Watkins, to bring round to the front the concealed minibus in which they had arrived. All of them, Watkins excepted, changed from their conservative clothing and military uniforms into rough workclothes, which resulted in rather remarkable changes in their appearance and character. While they were doing this, Watkins went to the depot garage, picked a surprisingly ineffectual lock, selected a two-ton truck, hot-wired the ignition—the keys were, understandably, missing—and drove out to the already open main loading doors of the depot.

Palermo had brought along with him one by

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the name of Jacobson who, between sojourns in various penitentiaries, had developed to a remarkable degree the fine art of opening any type of lock, combination or otherwise. Fortunately his services were not needed, for nobody, curiously enough, had taken the trouble to conceal some score of keys hanging on the wall in the main office.

In less than half an hour Palermo and his men had loaded aboard the truck—chosen because it was a covered-van type—a staggering variety of weaponry, ranging from bazookas to machine pistols, together with sufficient ammunition for a battalion and a considerable amount of high explosives. Then they relocked the doors and took the keys with them—when the next relief arrived at eight in the morning it would take them that much longer to discover what had actually happened. After that, they locked the loading and main entrance doors.

Watkins drove the minibus, with its load of discarded clothes, back to its place of concealment, returned to the truck and drove off. The other nine sat or lay in varying degrees of discomfort among the weaponry in the back. It was as well for them that it was only twenty minutes' drive to Lord Worth's private, isolated and deserted heliport—deserted, that is, except for two helicopters, their pilots and copilots.

The truck,  using only  its  sidelights,  came

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through the gates of the heliport and drew up alongside one of the helicopters. Discreet portable loading lights were switched on, casting hardly more than a dull glow, but sufficient for a man only eighty yards away and equipped with a pair of night glasses to distinguish clearly what was going on. And Roomer, prone in the spinney with the binoculars to his eyes, was only eighty yards away. No attempt had been made to wrap or in any way to disguise the nature of the cargo. It took only twenty minutes to unload the truck and stow its contents away in the helicopter under the watchful eye of a pilot with a keen regard for weight distribution.