He glanced back, and saw the Land Rover heading from the driveway and turning in his direction. He raced up the slope towards a large rock outcropping. As he climbed higher he could see down to the road, and for precious moments watched the speed duel between April's Aston Martin and the Jaguar.
"Good girl!" he muttered. Then he heard the helicopter. "Good old Sama!" He glanced back again. "And the hell with you lot!" he said, as the Land Rover bumped over the moor.
With his back to the rock he waited, gun ready. No sense in running any further. This golden light would fade soon, for already the moor was dark with shadow. Once beyond the rock on higher ground, he'd have as much chance as a pheasant against five or six guns. And not only guns. The moors looked lovely in this golden light. Like a woman full of promise, beckoning you to her scented embrace. And two men friends waiting behind the curtains with coshes. Shot, lost, stuck in a bog, or lying with a busted leg. Mark preferred the solid rock at his back and the gun in his hand.
He saw the helicopter sidle down to hover above the Aston Martin, saw the car jerking and slowing. He loosed a few accurately directed shots at the men who were now fanning out to surround him, having stopped their Land Rover on a hummock of soft ground. The range was almost at limit, but one of the men appeared to be hit in the arm.
A burst of fire from four guns spattered bullets near Mark. One or two spanged off boulders, but their range also was difficult. Suddenly came a bonanza! An orange-blue glow from the house basement sent eerie light waves over the darkening moor.
Mark's attackers turned as one man. The Jaguar careered off the road and turned over. The helicopter, ladder swaying, came tilting down towards him. The guards turned again in Mark's direction. The ladder swung down—end trailing backward.
Mark leapt, caught the third rung up, trapeze-spun his body to counteract the whip-lash effect of sudden weight, using the chopper's lift to climb swiftly up the rungs. In these seconds, the guards below him let loose a swathe of gunfire which pitted the rock face at what would have been stomach height. They swung to aim upward, but Sama Paru quickly dipped the chopper out of range.
As Mark reached the open hatch he looked down and back. The house on the moor was alight from end to end. An open truck was speeding away from it.
April had the night glasses to her eyes as Mark clambered into the chopper.
"They got her out," said April. "Sam and Greco too. Poor Ingrid!"
"I love you too," said Mark.
She grinned at him. "Firebug! I presume it was you?"
"Me and a few Noddys."
"A few what?"
"Forget it. Hi there, Sama!"
Sama Paru waved a hand. He was busy with radio contact as the chopper cleared the English coast.
"Where away?" said Mark.
"Le Havre." April tapped the bag.
"Ah! This is where we lose you to the boys in the back room. Do we recap about this little lot on yonder moor?"
"Not now. I'll see you in New York. This thing's only just begun. Sama wants to go to the help of Count Kazan."
"Without me?"
She patted his cheek. "You little boys go play while Momma does some homework."
"When Sama has finished his relay, I'd like to let Jeff know his Auntie's car is safe."
"You know the strangest people. I thought that super car was laid on by your British Special Branch friends?"
"So it was. Jeff's Auntie lives in Exeter. The old lady is a little mean. She doesn't like buying petrol. Did it run dry?"
"It did. Old Lady?"
Mark nodded. "The Duchess—they call her. I think she was a chum of Mata Hari. Jeff likes to make her feel she's wanted. The British S.B. boys don't run to Aston Martins. Besides, Jeff is a favorite nephew and Auntie can't last forever."
"How old is she, for Pete's sake?"
"I'm not sure whether it's seventy-two or eighty-two. Something like that."
"This will look bee-u-ti-ful in a report from S.B. to back up our expenses claim on U.N.C.L.E.!"
Sama Pam heard this last remark as he finished his radio contacts.
"Something else will look bee-u-ti-ful in your report," he observed. "Your London boys have lost Dr. Karadin—and his daughter. The clinic received a fake call in our code and released the girl. Karadin was picked up when he left his helicopter, but the squad car was rammed, the two guards coshed, and Karadin rescued."
"Oh, great!" said April. "Just great! Who runs the security back there?" She glared at Mark. "One of your Jeff's aunts?"
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE WRECKERS
OUTSIDE Le Havre they dropped April at the small heliport, where a car waited to take her to the laboratory.
"You'll contact Mr. Waverly?" said Mark. "And ask Paris to stand by? That will help us keep radio silence."
She nodded. "Watch yourself, lover boy. See you in New York."
"I hope so. And April, me old darling, try to have a quick word with Robbo in London and get him to send on my new gear, will you? I'm fresh out of new weskits."
She laughed. "Shame! Okay, I'll see what I can do. I've some clothes I need sending on too. 'Bye now!"
They watched her drive away. Sama Paru said:
"There goes one exceptional lady."
"Mmm," said Mark. "It's good English you speak, old boy, but deuced mild, if I may say so." Then he shrugged. "Not that I know any English words to really describe April Dancer." His manner became brisk. "Now—how about Kazan? Let's have some grub and take a look at maps while your chopper is being refueled."
"Ah!" said Sama. "The food and some rest are most necessary—but there is a night ban on helicopter flying, so we shall have to rest whether or not we need it."
"But it was dark when we flew in. The hell with bans."
"No, thank you," said Sama. "Choppers are easy targets for police bullets. I received permission to land by saying I had engine trouble over the Channel and could not turn back to England."
"I suppose you know your own red tape best. How about chartering a small plane?"
"By the time we get a plane it will be time to leave here. Kazan is somewhere among the forests back of the hills. A plane would not help us much. Not to worry, mon ami, it is the best way."
Mark didn't really regret the delay. Sama borrowed a tiny Renault car, drove like a demon for some six kilometers to a bistro where he was welcomed like a prodigal son by Madame and her three daughters. One was twelve and about to go to bed. The other two were of a more mature age. It was the most enjoyable night Mark had spent in a long while.
Sama Paru had known the family Lecheron since he was a boy. Adele and Lia shared an apartment in Paris, Adele, the eldest, working as a model, Lia still at University. They were a strangely happy family. Strange, because there was no bickering or jealousies which, in Mark's experience, usually beset families consisting only of women. Papa Lecheron had died two years ago.