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  TARGE'I FIVE

  COLIN FORBES

  PAN BOOKS LTD

  LONDON AND SYDNEY

  First published 1973 by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd

  This edition published 1974 by Pan Books Ltd, Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG

  ISBN 0 330 24023 4

  2nd Printing 1974 © Colin Forbes 1973

  Printed in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, London, Reading and Fakenham

  For Jane

  CONTENTS

  Opening Gambit:

  THE LOCOMOTIVE

  Running Game:

  THE FROZEN SEA

  Checkmate:

  THE KILLING GROUND

  =========================

  Opening Gambit

  THE LOCOMOTIVE

  Friday, 18 February 1972: Midnight

  Even in the year 1972, a year which will hardly be noted in the calendar of history as a year of peace, it Was not common for an express to be stopped in the middle of the night - in the middle of nowhere - while a passenger was dragged off it by armed men. Especially an American express.

  And this traumatic experience was certainly something that Keith Beaumont had no inkling of as he relaxed in bed inside a sleeping-car aboard the Florida Express; for one thing, the thirty-two-car train was roaring through the Carolinas at over ninety miles an hour, while outside the February storm beat at the curtained windows; for another thing, the next scheduled stop was over two hours away.

  With the windows sealed tight against the rising storm, with the central heating turned up to God knew how many degrees, it was hot and steamy and airless inside the sleeping-car, so hot that the large Englishman was having trouble sleeping as he eased himself up on one elbow and checked his watch. Close to midnight. Behind the zipped- curtain which shut him off from the corridor, he settled down again on his pillow and wrapped his hands behind his broad neck, dreaming with his eyes open.

  By morning he'd be in Miami, thousands of miles away from Greenland - away from guiding frightened dogs through screaming blizzards, away from hauling bucking sleds over tumbled ice, above all away from endless darkness and cold that paralysed the brain. It was also wonderful to be dry again; Beaumont pressed his stockinged feet hard against the end of the bed and revelled in the warmth.

  Twenty miles ahead of the express thundering through the storm-swept night three armed men were not so dry as they huddled in the pouring rain. Standing under the canopy of a whistle-stop station in the middle of nowhere, they waited for the oncoming express which wasn't scheduled to stop for another two hours. The signals were already changing against it, the driver of the huge diesel motor hauling the long, long train was already applying his massive brakes. The emergency was imminent.

  'I hope to God he's on board,' one of the raincoated men mumbled as he clenched a sodden cigarette between his teeth.,

  'He's on board,' the forty-year-old leader of the group assured his companion. 'And we're taking him off it.'

  'It could be tricky .. .'

  'This says it won't be tricky.' The older man extracted a .45 Colt revolver from his pocket, checked the cylinder, put it away again. 'And don't forget, Jo, we have to make it look good - real good.'

  Less than twenty miles up the track the driver of the Florida Express was staring anxiously into the night. The signal he had just passed had ordered a reduction of speed but the next stop was two hours away, so what the hell was happening? He went on cutting the speed, applying the great brakes slowly. Rain hammered his steel cab roof, trails of spume whipped off the roof and vanished in the dark. The next signal flashed by. Red for danger, for stop. What the devil was going on? He applied the brakes more strongly. They were close to Cedar Falls, an unscheduled stop.

  Two minutes later the train ground to a halt as a thunderclap burst and rain lashed the sides of the cars. Inside his roomette Beaumont settled down to sleep while the train was still, his large hands clasped outside the sheet. His eyes were closed when the curtains were torn open and a man with a sodden hat brim looked down at him while he checked a photograph in his left hand. 'It's him, Jo,' a quiet voice said.

  Beaumont opened his eyes and stared into the muzzle of a Colt .45 revolver.

  'Move that thing,' he murmured. 'It might go off - your hand's sticky.'

  When he opened his eyes Beaumont registered several swift impressions - the sodden raincoat the man holding the gun wore, the steam rising off the man's sleeves, the scared look on the face of the passenger in the roomette across the corridor, the second raincoated man standing in the background with one hand inside his pocket. The older American, who was feeling the heat - there were sweat beads on his forehead - replied in a flat tone.

  'Get dressed - you're getting off the train ...'

  'And who the hell might you be?' Beaumont demanded.

  Exhausted, tired out by his long trip from Greenland to Washington, he estimated his chances carefully. A hard chopping blow to knock the Colt out of the gunman's hand, a knee in the groin... No, it was too dangerous - with other passengers in the sleeping-car.

  'Dixon, FBI,' the man with the sweaty forehead snapped. 'And hurry it up - this train can't wait all night...'

  'It doesn't have to - it can get moving now as far as I'm concerned. With me on board. And you've made a very bad mistake - I'm British .. .' Beaumont reached towards his jacket hanging from a hook.

  'Watch it...' Dixon warned.

  The Englishman stared at him over the width of his very broad shoulders and Dixon felt uncomfortable. 'I'm showing you my passport, for God's sake,' Beaumont rumbled. He took it from the inner jacket pocket carefully, extracted it with his fingertips and handed it to Dixon. The American opened the passport expertly with one hand, studied it for a moment, then showed it to the man behind him. 'It's as phoney as hell, Jo.'

  Beaumont made no comment as he pushed back the bedclothes and showed that he was fully dressed except for tie, jacket and shoes. As the Englishman climbed out of bed and stood up Dixon backed away and stared. Keith Beaumont, thirty-two years old, was six foot two tall, broad-shouldered and weighed over fourteen stone. Not that Dixon was too impressed as he watched the Englishman quietly getting dressed; a big ox was slow-moving. After a minute he checked his watch.

  'Hurry it up,' Dixon repeated. He had been right: this man was slow in the reflexes.

  'Get stuffed.'

  The passenger in the roomette opposite was getting over his shock. 'I'm Andrew Phillipson from Minneapolis,' he informed Dixon in a glib voice. 'This guy said he was from Greenland - Greenland where all that ice is. I thought it was funny ...'

  'He'll be off the train in a minute,' Dixon broke in, 'then you can get back to sleep.' He looked at Beaumont who had finished dressing. 'That your bag? Good. Now, place both hands on the bed - close together.' There was a faint clink of metal as Dixon's companion took his hand out of his pocket. Beaumont shook his large head which was covered with thick dark hair and smiled grimly.

  'So your friend can slip handcuffs on me? I'm not playing, Dixon, so you'd better make up your mind - do I come as I am or do you shoot me?'

  They went down the corridor with Beaumont's hands still free, preceded by the man called Jo who carried the Englishman's suitcase while Dixon brought up the rear. Curtains screening the roomettes were pulled aside as passengers peered out at the little procession. Behind Dixon bare feet padded down the corridor as Phillipson hurried to catch him up. 'Who is the guy?' he called out excitedly. 'He talked to me so maybe I can help ...'

  'Break-out from Folsom,' Dixon told him tersely.

  Beaumont stumbled as he went down the steep steps at the end of the car, his shoulders sagging. Big, sleepy and clumsy, Dixon noted. At the bottom of the steps Beaumont paused on the track to button up his coat and pull
his hat down over his ears. Cedar Falls was a small, single-storey building at the edge of a forest with a side exit leading out into a road beyond. Beaumont saw this as lightning flashed, showing a brief, stark view of wind bending trees to the south, then a curtain of rain whooshed down the track and soaked him. A few yards away one of the train crew was watching with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity. A second railroad official stood under the station canopy. Dixon came down the steps behind him, nudged him with the Colt.

  'Get moving - through that exit.'

  They started walking with the other American still in front, carrying Beaumont's case. Then there was another flash which wasn't lightning at all: the railroad man under the canopy had just taken a picture of Beaumont with his Polaroid camera. 'Jo,' Dixon called out, 'get that picture.'*

  Jo cut away from them, heading for the station building as Beaumont plodded towards the exit. A second flash of lightning showed him the car beyond the exit they were moving towards, a big, red, expensive-looking car. Rain was bouncing off its roof. His shoulders sagged a little lower, he was careful not to alter pace, to show any reaction. But he was sure now - these men weren't FBI agents.

  They went through the exit into the dark, away from the blurred lights of the train, away from people, their feet tramping through pools of muddy water. Seen at close quarters the car was very big, very expensive-looking, and behind the wheel a third man had his head twisted round to watch them coming. Dixon opened the rear door for the Englishman as Beaumont fumbled inside his coat pocket, a coat Dixon had already checked before letting him put it on. Taking out a pack of cigarettes, Beaumont nodded towards the interior of the car.

  'It's all right, Dixon,' he said amiably. 'I've got the message - I'm coming with you.' He cupped a hand to shield the match he had struck, still standing on the far side of the half-open door. The American hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden change of mood. A moment later he revised air his ideas about Beaumont's size and clumsiness, a moment too late. The Englishman rammed his large body hard and brutally against the car door which closed - closed on Dixon's hand and arm.

  It was a reasonable risk, Beaumont had calculated - at the worst the gun would be fired harmlessly inside the car, at the best the Colt would drop into the mud in the gap between almost closed door and frame. He stooped so quickly Dixon saw the movement only as a blur, then he came up with the Colt in his hand, pulled the door open and hurled the injured man face down on the back seat. The muzzle of the Colt pointed at the man in the front seat who had had no time to move. 'Take it easy, sonny,' Beaumont warned. 'These things have been known to go bang.'

  In the mirror he saw Jo coming through the exit, holding the suitcase. Still watching the man behind the wheel, he roared out a command which easily reached Jo. 'Stand perfectly still - if you want your partners to live ...'

  'We're FBI, for God's sake,' the man behind the wheel said in a strained voice.

  'That's right, Beaumont...' Dixon choked out the words as he stayed sprawled on the back seat and hugged his right wrist with the other hand.

  'Prove it!' the Englishman snapped. 'And keep holding that bag - with both hands,' he shouted to Jo as he watched the third American in the rear-view mirror. Dixon repeated Beaumont's earlier performance, using his left hand to extract a card with his fingertips. 'Give me some light so I can see this thing,' Beaumont rasped. He watched the man behind the wheel press a switch and glanced quickly at the card. 'As phoney as hell,' he said cynically.

  'For this you could go behind bars,' the thirty-year-old man behind the wheel informed him tightly.

  'On what charge?' Beaumont inquired.

  'Resisting Federal officers ...'

  'Federal codswallop!' Beaumont stared bleakly at the man lying on the back seat. 'You come aboard a train and point a gun in my face when I'm asleep. You don't show me a shred of damned identification ...'

  'It had to be like that, Beaumont,' Dixon said wearily. 'It had to look good ...'

  'I haven't finished yet and I'm not satisfied yet. Since when did the FBI sport Lincoln Continentals - or have you all become millionaires suddenly?'

  'Does the name of General Lemuel Quincey Dawes mean something to you?' Dixon asked. 'And can I show you something else?'

  'I think I read the name in the paper once,' Beaumont informed him coldly, still holding the Colt pointed at the man behind the wheel, still keeping Jo standing with both hands clutching his suitcase. 'And you can show me something - if you're careful.'

  The something was a folded sheet of paper which, unfolded and held by Dixon under the light, showed a brief letter written in a weird scrawl he recognized. Keith - an emergency has come up, a real bad one. I need,you back in Washington fast. As a personal favour. Yours. Lemuel.

  'Bugger,' Beaumont said simply. 'I'm not coming - except in here out of the rain.' He climbed inside the car and settled back cautiously against the soft leather as Dixon moved over and seated himself, still holding on to his right hand. 'Is that busted?' the Englishman inquired. He looked at the American behind the wheel, who was still twisted round in his seat, studying Beaumont like a butcher about to carve up a slaughtered animal.

  'You're going to get a crick in your neck,' Beaumont remarked,

  'I'd like to break yours,' the man behind the wheel replied calmly.

  'OK, OK, Fred,' Dixon said irritably. 'But you know, Beaumont, you did a risky thing there ...'

  'Risky?' the Englishman exploded 'You wake me up with a gun in my teeth when my reflexes aren't functioning ...'

  'Then I just hope I'm not around when they are functioning,' Dixon said ruefully as he rubbed at his wrist. 'And I can see your point about the Lincoln Continental -my car broke down on the way from the airfield and this was the nearest one we could grab.' In the front seat Fred, who had turned his back on Beaumont, started the motor.

  'He can switch that off,' Beaumont snapped. 'We're not going anywhere.'

  'Switch her off, Fred.' Dixon sounded harassed. 'We're not going anywhere. Yet,' he added. 'Look, Mr Beaumont,' he said very politely, 'this was a bad night for us - even before we met you. We had to fly down from Washington through an electrical storm - no planes are flying tonight...'

  'I know,' Beaumont said crisply as he lit a fresh cigarette, 'I was all set to fly down to Miami when they told me everything was grounded - so I had to take the train.'

  'We had one hell of a trip to get to an airfield ahead of the train,' Dixon went on. 'Then we had to find a car to get us here in time to stop the express. That's how urgently they want you back in Washington. And another thing - in five years the Florida Express has never made an unscheduled stop before tonight...'

  'We all make an unscheduled stop sometime,' Beaumont replied. 'I'm making one now. And what was that business about a break-out from Folsom?'

  'It was cover,' Dixon sighed. 'The security on this thing is tighter than a steel trap. The other passengers will think we took a criminal off the train - just in case someone like that gabby Phillipson decides to contact the press. And I'm still holding that train,' Dixon added.

  'That's your problem. The security on what is tighter than a steel trap? Dawes tells me less than nothing in his note.'

  'I don't know anything about it .. .'

  'Goodnight!' Beaumont opened the door, then slammed it shut again as Dixon said something else. 'We know you've spent two years non-stop in the Arctic, that you were going on holiday, but I was told to tell you as a last resort that Sam Grayson and Horst Langer have agreed to help. I gather you know these men?'

  Beaumont sat upright in his seat and stared ahead at the rain slashing across the windscreen. Dixon watched him curiously, noting the short nose, the firm mouth, the jawline which expressed energy and great determination. It was the eyes which disturbed him most, he thought, the large brown eyes which looked at a man with an unblinking stare and seemed to look inside him. The Englishman took off his dripping hat, turned his large head and smiled grimly at Dixon. 'You had a
rough trip flying down here?' he inquired.

  'We were all air-sick,'

  'Pity. I'm afraid you're going to be air-sick again. I went through a lot with Grayson and Langer, so I suppose I'll have to go back to Washington. Let the train go - then get me to the airfield fast. It sounds as though Dawes has a little trouble on his hands.' As an afterthought he handed back the Colt.

  At three o'clock in the morning of Saturday, 19 February, lights were still burning on the top floor of the National Security Agency building in Washington. The NSA, which is far less well-known to the public than the CIA, is one of the most effective intelligence-gathering organizations in the world, partly because it doesn't capture the limelight like its more notorious counterpart. But it spends more money more effectively.