Blood Storm Page 14

  'Clever lady. What would I do without you?'

  'Get the paperwork in a proper mess,' she joked.

  'So where is Newman?' he asked.

  'Back at his flat in bed with Roma, would be my guess. She has lasted longer than any of her predecessors.'

  The Cabal had waited until they returned from lunch to

  talk about their visitors, and were seated at the three-sided

  table. Nelson set the ball rolling.

  'I don't think we're going to get Tweed to join us . . .' 'No doubt about that,' agreed Benton. 'So the next item

  on the agenda is: how do we stop him cold?'

  'By elimination,' Noel decided. 'I'll be thinking about the

  best method to deal with them - Paula has to go too - while I'm flying out to Aix. Best thing would be if they both disappeared for ever. Bodies never found. I've set the wheels in motion in case it comes to this.'

  'Won't involve Fitch, I hope,' mused Benton.

  'I'm the Planner,' snapped Noel, glaring at Benton. 'So you leave the problem to me. You don't want to know.'

  19

  Tweed was in a hurry. Monica had warned him they should leave soon or miss the Air France flight. He gave orders to Pete Nield to see Coral Flenton again, to extract more information from her - about the Parrot, about her friendship with Viola from their schooldays on.

  'Harry,' he called out. 'You are coming with us to Aix, flying tonight. At the special late request of Philip.'

  'Now we're in April,' Paula told him, 'it's warmer. I have checked Provence. It's warmer still down there. So in that bag you'll find lighter-weight clothes.'

  Monica walked over, handed Harry an envelope. 'There's a return ticket for you also,' she said. 'So make sure you come back.'

  'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' he replied.

  Within minutes they were all inside Newman's Range Rover, on their way to Heathrow. Tweed told Newman to park in Short Stay. Crossing the bridge from the car park to the airport they met Jim Corcoran.

  'You go aboard first,' he told them. 'Get a move on. I'll be with you until you're aboard . . .'

  At the check-in desk Paula became aware of a passenger behind her who appeared to have survived a car crash. He was a tall man, smartly dressed, but his head was covered with a bandage. He gazed round through dark tinted glasses. As Paula presented her ticket he muttered something like 'wrong check-in . . .'

  As he walked away Newman watched him and Paula did the same. The bandaged victim was standing near the exit talking into a sophisticated mobile. Newman grunted, smiled.

  'A spy reporting the flight we're on. Maybe a reception committee waiting for us.'

  'That was Mugger Morgan,' Harry said. 'Forgot to bandage his jaw. I broke it once.'

  They settled in their seats. Very quickly the engines built up power, they were rolling towards the departure slot, straight on to the runway, then taking off.

  Newman found two cushions, slipped one behind Paula's back, seated in front of him, the other behind her head. She rested her head, fell fast asleep. It was almost dark but in the seat beside her Tweed remained alert. He hated sleeping when flying.

  Paula woke suddenly, looked out of the window. A moon cast a luminous glow over a landscape with rows of sticks on a south-facing slope. Vineyards were beginning to show signs of life. The plane was dropping rapidly. She'd slept during the whole flight.

  'That man at the airport,' she whispered to Tweed. 'I wonder what will happen at Aix's airport?'

  'Philip will have foreseen that development. Never misses a trick. I don't understand his late request for Harry.'

  He kept his voice very low since Harry was seated across the aisle.

  'He'll have a reason,' she replied, gazing out of the window.

  In the distance she could see several new buildings. Beyond them nothing but a flat endless plain. Marignane was in the middle of nowhere. We have no weapons if there's trouble, Paula thought. Leave it all up to Philip.

  They disembarked down the staircase and walked to the airport buildings. Paula was immediately aware it was much warmer. Philip met them the moment they entered. He was accompanied by a small Frenchman in an elaborate uniform.

  'Armand,' Philip introduced. 'Chef du Securite. We must keep moving. Good flight?'

  'Must have been,' said Paula, trotting to keep up with the two men. Tweed by her side, Newman and Harry guarding their rear. Armand unlocked a door, led them down a long corridor well away from the arrivals hall. Outside again, Newman shook hands with Armand, hustled them inside a grey people-carrier with small windows. No one had checked their tickets or the small bags they were carrying.

  Behind the wheel, Philip Cardon smiled at Paula. He drove at speed along a narrow road, emerged on to an autoroute, pressed his foot down. Now they were really moving. Tweed, who had again given Paula the window seat, grunted.

  'When we stop somewhere I'll catch my breath.'

  'Soon,' Philip called back, 'we will stop briefly. So I can hand out cutlery, the weapons you're all used to.'

  'So it's that sort of a trip,' Harry called out behind Paula. 'I guessed it might be when I was hauled in at the last minute. Fair enough . . .'

  Paula gazed out of her window. The vineyards had disappeared. In their place were dense forests of evergreens. Between gaps she caught sight of high rolling hills, everything glowing in the luminous moonlight. Philip slowed down, glanced again in his rear-view mirror, then swung off the main road up a cutting fenced in by trees, arrived at a concrete circle. He turned round it, stopped, switched off headlights, engine.

  After telling everyone to stay in their seats, Philip pressed a button. The door opened and a small fat man with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder appeared. Philip called down in French, which Paula caught the gist of.

  'Pierre, everything clear? Nothing suspicious.'

  'You see no bodies. I haven't shot anyone yet tonight.'

  'Everyone out,' Philip ordered in English.

  He was delving into a large bag when they surrounded him. He carefully brought out what to Paula looked like the first of several metal pancakes.

  'Limpet mines, special type,' Philip explained. 'We'll need them later in Paris.'

  Paris? Paula thought.

  'They are switched off?' Harry asked as he took the first mine.

  'Of course,' snapped Philip. 'Turn that lever to the right and they're active.' He showed Harry three more mines, put them back in the leather bag with thick cloth between each one. From the next container he brought out a Browning, shoulder holster, a Beretta, a leg holster, spare mags. Handed them to Paula, grinned.

  'Feel dressed now?'

  'I do. What about registration?'

  'Don't worry. Dollars satisfy many officials. As they did Armand at the airport. Now, Tweed . . .'

  When he had finished distributing the 'cutlery', Harry also had a large automatic weapon and spare mags, concealed inside a golf bag; Newman had his beloved Smith & Wesson with holster and ammo. Philip handed Pierre two fat envelopes which Paula guessed were stuffed with banknotes, then clapped his hands.

  'All aboard. Must keep moving.'

  They had just settled in their seats when Philip was driving them down the side road back on to the main route. Paula was savouring the perfume from some plant on the side road. It had seeped into her clothes. She took deep breaths.

  'Be in Aix soon,' Philip called out. 'Tweed, you won't be staying at the Violette, which I know you favour. It's too obvious a place where Noel's friends might check to find you. Instead you're at the swish Negre-Coste on the famous Cours Mirabeau. They won't expect you to choose that. Both you and Paula have rooms overlooking the cours. A treat. Food's wonderful.'

  'So Noel has arrived?' asked Tweed.

  'Came in a few hours ago. Staying at a pokey little joint in the old town. Thinks it makes him inconspicuous. But it doesn't.'

  'And who are Noel's friends?' Paula wondered.

  'Not to be
recommended as dining companions. Bit of a mix,' he went on casually. 'Arabs and Slovaks. Need watching. Cut your throat for sixpence - or the equivalent in dollars.'

  'Can't wait to meet them,' said Paula.

  'Just pray you don't. We are now entering the ancient city of Aix, first built by the Romans. Getting back to Slovaks, Noel's lot come from the High Tatra mountains in Slovakia. I have been up there in the snow. Tweed, they have a training ground for those selected for the corps d'elite of State Security planned by Noel.'

  'What sort of training ground? I don't like the sound of this,' Tweed commented.

  'You shouldn't. It's well organized, has been created months ago. They are taught how to kill silently. Also they're taught English. Noel has fifty of them infiltrated inside Aix. I've heard he hopes to transport them to Britain tomorrow. I know the route. Here we are. The Cours Mirabeau.'

  Paula peered out of her window, alternating that with staring through the windscreen. She was impressed. The cours was a long wide straight street with plane trees along the pavements on both sides. The warmth was bringing out their leaves. It was a beautiful boulevard with huge old mansions to her right. Philip saw her looking at them.

  'Once they housed wealthy families. These days most are converted into company offices. This is the gem of Aix.'

  Gem was the right word, she thought. There was not much traffic at this hour, and locals were strolling, gazing at the mansions, the older ones remembering the grander days, she thought. Philip parked by the kerb outside a large imposing building.

  'Journey's end,' Philip announced. 'The Negre-Coste. I've booked front rooms overlooking the cours for Tweed and Paula. Very expensive. Let's explore.'

  The rooms were huge. Refurbished, as Philip explained, it still retained some of the character of the original mansion. Inside her first-floor room Paula revelled in the luxury as she swiftly unpacked her few things, including one evening dress protected with tissue.

  She walked to the windows, opened them, gazed down at the cours. They were double-glazed, probably to muffle the sound of daytime traffic. After showering, she dressed quickly, sat in front of an elegant mirror and applied the minimum of makeup. A tap on the door sent her to unlock it and Tweed, in a smart suit, walked in.

  'You look terrific,' he said and kissed her on both cheeks. 'It's lucky we all keep small cases packed at Park Crescent ready for instant departure. You have money?'

  'A stack of dollars. I tipped the chap who brought up my bag with a twenty-dollar bill and he was pleased. He doesn't like euros, said they were only good for lighting fires!'

  'Philip gave me this for you,' he said, producing an envelope from his pocket. 'Take a quick look.'

  She extracted a photo and pulled a face of distaste. 'Don't like the look of him. Who is he?'

  'Radek, boss of the fifty Slovaks Noel hopes to smuggle into Britain. Favours a knife for killing.'

  She studied the photo again. A small but well-built man, Slavic features, prominent cheekbones, dead-looking eyes, sharp nose, a pointed jaw. He had thick black hair, a curving moustache, a sneering expression.

  'Keep it in case you ever spot him. I've got a copy, so have Newman and Harry. Philip thinks of everything. Now we'd better get down to dinner . . .'

  The dining room was spacious and only a few of the large tables were occupied. Out of season. Philip complimented her on her dress and beauty, kissing her hand. It was something she normally disliked but with Philip she liked it. They drank aperitifs while studying the enormous menu.

  They had a table in the corner, so when they were eating and the waiters were distant, they could talk frankly. It was Tweed who got down to business.

  'Philip, how were you able to obtain this valuable information about the Tatra training camp?'

  'Oh, simple. I have a trustworthy contact who knows the Tatra well. We've skied quite a lot up there. My contact had a Slovak mother and a French father. The info cost me two thousand dollars - part of the funds you sent me months ago. Incidentally, their villainous chiefs name isn't really Radek. No idea of what his real name is. Doesn't matter.'

  After the meal, Philip, seated next to Paula, suggested she might like a short walk since it would still be warm outside. 'Freak weather,' he remarked.

  'We'll go north just a bit,' he said as they strolled in the cours. 'That's where the original houses are still standing. Just a bit, not far.'

  'I love the big fountains,' Paula said glancing down the cours.

  'They have them where we're going. Smaller efforts but I find the sound of running water soothing.'

  Down a side street they plunged into a different world. Narrow streets twisting and turning. Some illumination from ancient lamps but long dark areas of shadow between them. Paula was beginning to wonder whether this was a good idea. The occasional Arab in a long white gown drifted past them.

  They reached a deserted square and again there was the sound of running water. Paula darted away from Philip to see a small fountain spraying in from a stone well in the corner of the square.

  She never heard him coming or where he had been hiding. One arm wrapped round her breast from behind and a large knife just touched her throat. She glanced up, saw an Arab with only one eye grinning horribly at her. She was terrified. She had no chance of reaching for the Browning under her armpit, even less chance of hauling the Beretta from the holster strapped to her right leg. Any movement and this beast would slash her throat open. Where the hell was Philip?

  Philip appeared in front of them out of nowhere. In his right hand he held a revolver with a silencer attached. Pointing his weapon, Philip said something in Arabic.

  Her assailant's response was to move the blade closer in. Paula could feel the razor edge touching her skin. For some idiotic reason she wanted to sneeze. She suppressed it. Philip was speaking in Arabic again. The Arab replied, his tone vicious.

  Philip smiled, waved both hands as though accepting he could do nothing. Oh God, she thought. Philip's next movement was so swift she hardly saw it happen. Then he was pressing the tip of his weapon against the Arab's good eye. He snarled something in Arabic. She felt the Arab shudder. Then he removed the knife and stood back behind her.

  She was much smaller than her attacker so from where Philip stood his neck and head loomed well above Paula's. Phut! Philip had shot him in the head. The man fell over backwards, lay still on the cobbles.

  'You'd better take this gun for a moment,' Philip said, speaking quietly but rapidly. 'I have to dump the body in that huge rubbish bin over there. Just in case some of his chums arrive.'

  'I'm armed.'

  She had already grasped the Browning so Philip could see it. He nodded, stooped, grasped the corpse round the waist, began to hurry towards the bin. She followed him. Without being asked, she lifted the lid. It was heavy, but she managed to hold it high up.

  A foul smell drifted up from the interior, half full of rubbish. Philip heaved the body inside. She lowered the lid slowly to avoid a noise. Philip was already running away from her after a quick searching glance round the square. He had a glove on his hand as Paula ran after him, unwilling to be alone for another moment. Picking up the long blade by the handle, he dropped the knife down a nearby drain, then grabbed her arm.

  'Back to the cours now!'

  'How did you manage that?' she asked as they hurried.

  'He had one precious possession, his one good eye. Without that he'd be at the mercy of other Arabs. The thought of a bullet through it made him release you instantly.'

  'Quick thinking, thank God,' she replied. 'You saved my life.'

  'No, I endangered it with my stupid idea of showing you the old quarter. I'll never forgive myself. There's the cours. Pause just for a second.'

  He unscrewed the silencer, dropped it down a drain, holstered his weapon. She was puzzled as they entered the cours and civilization - as it seemed to Paula.

  'Why throw that away?' she wondered.

  'Silencers are tricky. One s
hot, OK. Then a silencer can jam a gun. I have more. Back to the hotel. You must tell Tweed what happened.'

  'I wasn't going to say a word . . .'

  'I insist. Promise me. He's my chief. He trusts me. So he's entitled to know everything that happens.'

  *

  Tweed was sitting in an armchair near the main reception area. Philip sent Paula off to brief him while he had a drink in the bar. She was beginning to feel rattled, her nerves playing her up. She was familiar with this reaction. With the Arab's knife at her throat she had been scared stiff but in control, staying quite still. When a danger was behind her, her nerves played her up.