The tractor was at the bottom of a large freight-elevator shaft, part of an underground bunker from which high driveways led off to dark transport bays. Men in black plastic suits and helmets stood around the tractor, most of them with holsters on their belts. Maitland recognized the uniforms he had seen in Marshall 's Park Lane basement.
As he swung down, a tall, rough-featured man with a white pyramid-shaped triangle on the front of his helmet stepped over to him.
"What are you clowns playing at?" he snapped. "Why the hell aren't you using your radio?"
His voice was a snarl of irritation and violence. He looked at Maitland, then grabbed him in surprise, glancing up at Halliday, who was helping the radio operator out of the turret.
"What's all this?" the big man snapped. He wrenched Maitland around roughly, fingering his navy weather jacket. "Where's Kroll? He was supposed to bring Symington. Who are all you people?"
"Isn't Symington here?" Maitland asked him.
The big man stared at him angrily, then looked over his shoulder and gestured toward a squad of guards who were encircling the tractor. At the same time he reached for his holster.
Halliday was still standing on the roof, gesturing back the radio operator, who was about to join Maitland on the ground.
The squad of black-suited guards closed in around the Titan, two or three of them swarming up its sides. Maitland found himself seized by the neck, jabbed an elbow into his attacker and fell backward with him against one of the tracks. He kicked himself loose from the man and struck out at two others who closed in on him, butting them with his head. One of them punched him hard in the face, the other grabbed him around the waist and pulled him downward onto the ground again. As he lay there struggling he saw the big guard backing away from the tractor, a heavy.45 automatic in his hand. Everyone seemed to be shouting, and then the.45 roared out twice, the flashes from its barrel lighting up the sides of the Titan.
A figure, apparently Halliday, came lurching down the ladder, stumbled a few feet across the floor and then fell onto its face.
Maitland slammed a fist into the back of one of the men lying across him, managed to free himself for a moment. He was trying to sit forward, when someone ran up and kicked him heavily in the side of the head.
His brain exploding like a roman candle, he fell backward into a deep roaring pool of darkness.
8 The Tower of Hardoon
As he woke his head was swinging like a piston from side to side.
A dozen arteries pounded angrily inside his skull, rivers of thudding pain. He opened his eyes and focussed them with an effort. A powerfully-built guard in a black plastic uniform, a large white triangle on his helmet, was leaning over him, slapping his face with a broad open hand.
When he saw Maitland's eyes were open, he gave him a final vicious backhand cut, then snapped at the two guards holding Maitland in his chair. They jerked him forward into a sitting position, then let go of his hands.
Gasping for air, Maitland tried to control himself, spread his legs apart and pressed his shoulders against the stiff backrest of the chair. Above, fluorescent lighting shone across a low bare ceiling. In a few seconds his face had stopped stinging, and he lowered his eyes slowly.
Directly in front of him, across a wide crocodile-skin desk, sat a squat, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit. His head was huge and bull-like; below a high domed forehead were two small eyes, a short stump of nose, a mouth like a scar, and a jutting chin. The expression was somber and menacing.
He surveyed Maitland coldly, ignoring the red-flecked saliva Maitland was wiping away from his bruised lips. Dimly, Maitland recognized a face he had seen in a few rare magazine photographs. This, he realized, was Hardoon. Wondering how long had elapsed since their arrival, Maitland began to glance around the room. He was aware of Hardoon sitting forward and tapping his knuckles on the desk.
"Are you completely with us again, Doctor?" he asked, his voice soft yet callous. He waited for Maitland to murmur, then nodded to the guards, who took up their positions against the rear wall.
"Good. While you were resting your companions have been telling me about your exploit. I'm sorry that your little outing has ended here. I must apologize for the stupidity of my traffic police. They should never have allowed you in. Unfortunately, Kroll-" he indicated the tall guard with the single helmet triangle, lounging against the wall beside the desk "-was somewhat delayed on his return, or you would have been able to continue your journey to Portsmouth unmolested."
He examined Maitland for a moment, taking a cigar from a silver ashtray on the pedestal behind the desk.
Puzzled why Hardoon was bothering to interrogate him, Maitland massaged his face, peering around the room.
He was in a large oak-paneled office, the heavy walls of which appeared to be completely solid, flatly absorbing the sounds of their voices. Behind him, where the guards stood, were high bookshelves, divided by a doorway. There were no windows, but on the far side of Hardoon's desk was a shoulder-high alcove sealed by high shutters.
Hardoon drew reflectively on his cigar. "I gather that once again I am personna non grata with the authorities," he went on in his slow leisurely voice. "It was foolish of Kroll to allow Marshall to broadcast our whereabouts to all and sundry. However, that is another matter."
Maitland sat forward, aware of the guards poised on their toes behind him, the huge figure of Kroll stiffening slightly. "What happened to Halliday?" he asked, tongue tripping inside his bruised mouth. "He was shot as we arrived."
Hardoon's face was blank, his eyes narrowing as he considered the interruption. "A tragic misunderstanding. Believe me, Doctor, I abhor violence as much as you. My traffic police assumed that you were Kroll. Your vehicles are of the same type, with identical markings. When they discovered their mistake they were naturally rather excited. These accidents happen."
His tone was matter-of-fact, but even though his eyes were fixed coldly on Maitland's face the latter had the distinct impression that most of Hardoon's attention was elsewhere. His voice seemed to be an agent that was automatically carrying out instructions given to it previously, like the guards standing behind Maitland.
"Where are the others?" Maitland asked. "The two Americans and the girl?"
Hardoon gestured with his cigar. "In the-" he searched for a suitable phrase "-visitors' quarters. They are perfectly comfortable. Mr. Symington was slightly injured en route, and is now resting in the sick bay. A useful man; let us hope he is soon recovered."
Maitland studied Hardoon's face. The millionaire was about fifty-five, still physically powerful, but with curious lusterless eyes. Despite its hard edge, his voice almost droned.
"Now, Doctor, to come to the point. The arrival here of you and your three companions presents me with an opportunity I have decided to make the most of." As Maitland frowned, Hardoon smiled deprecatingly. "No, I am not in need of medical attention; far from it. We have an ample number of doctors and nurses here. In fact, you will find this one of the most efficiently organized bastions against the wind in existence, if not the most efficient, my traffic police notwithstanding."
He pressed a button set into a small control panel on the desk in front of him, and then turned slightly in his chair to face the shutters, gesturing Maitland to do the same. The shutters began to retract. Behind Maitland the ceiling lights dimmed, and as the shutters slid into their housings they revealed an enormous block of plate glass, three feet deep and twice as wide, apparently set into the face of the pyramid.
Sloping away below was the east wall of the pyramid. At its base were the causeways and entrance passage they had taken to the elevator. Beyond, obscured by the storm, was the wide approach road. The wind stream swept directly toward them, the thousands of fragments carried past at incredible speeds, vaulting out of the lowering storm cloud on a thousand trajectories.