Blood Storm

'Possibly. Remember, we have perhaps only two days to prevent a third horror.'

In the afternoon Tweed was driving towards Tolhaven and the ferry to Black Island when Marler and Harry returned to the office from their trip. But they had flown there together with Marler as pilot of his light aircraft and Harry trembling beside him.

'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 joyriders.'

'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.'