Cell (36 page)

A huge tall pine loomed above him. He began to climb,
using convenient branches as rungs in a ladder. He was high
up, near the top, when he found a natural settling place.
Sturdy branches splayed out, concealed by the foliage. He perched the Uzi in a safe place, took out the water
bottle from his satchel over his right shoulder, drank three
modest swallows, capped the bottle. Now he felt full of energy. Sitting down, he pulled aside some of the pine's
foliage.

There it was. About a hundred yards across a flat field.
The bungalow to his right - Martin Hogarth's - appeared
to have no lights. He extracted his monocular glass from the satchel, pressed it against his eye. Martin's bungalow
jumped at him, its rear side. All the windows had shutters
closed, but he saw gleams of light between the blades. Martin was still up.

He swivelled the glass to the next bungalow beyond the wide gap between the two buildings. Shutters
again closed
over all windows, but gleams of light filtering through them.
Beaurain and Paula had taken up residence.

'They'll know we're up here somewhere,' Paula warned as
she poured coffee. 'I know we drove slowly
before we parked
the car in Mrs Gobble's shed - where I parked mine when I
ended up trapped in that horrible cellar.'

'That's all right.' The tall Beaurain was smiling as he gripped her shoulder briefly. 'We want to stir them up, worry them. That's when they'll make a mistake.'

She found his smile attractive. His air of confidence was
also comforting. He'd taken off his windcheater and wore
a dark polo-necked sweater. For comfort and dark in case
he had to go outside. Made it more difficult to see him, as
long as he kept out of the moonlight.

Paula watched him as she drank her coffee. A very athletic
man, he couldn't keep still, kept striding round the large
living-room, checking the shutters, checking his Uzi which
he'd laid, loaded now, on a table near the front door.

'Don't get me wrong,' he said, turning round, 'but you
can handle your Uzi?'

'Reasonably well.' She smiled as she glanced at her own
weapon perched on the dining-table near the door into the kitchen. 'Barney, the instructor who gave me a refresher
course at the mansion down in Surrey, kept me at it until
I blew the bull's-eye area of the target to smithereens. Why
are they so keen on Uzis down there? They have an armoury
of other automatic weapons.'

Beaurain swallowed the coffee he was drinking. He
smiled again. 'Probably because the Israelis, who invented
the weapon, are so reliable.'

'Well, now you know,' she lectured him gently, 'you
won't have to worry about looking after me if the balloon goes up.'

'I regard you . . .' he bowed '. . . as a totally reliable
back-up. That is why, when we arrived, I gave you the key
Marler had obtained from Billy, then let you go inside first
while I kept an eye on the outside.'

'Just so long as you have confidence in me. I don't like
men to feel I'm a liability which needs protection.'

'If the balloon goes up, as you said, you'll damned well
have to look after yourself,' he told her with an engaging
grin. 'There are two bedrooms. Choose whichever suits you
and I'll take over the first watch.'

Ali was becoming bored with waiting inside yet another
quiet public phone-box. He snatched up the phone the
moment it began ringing.
'Yes?'

'Who is that?' the distorted voice demanded.

'Ali, of course . . .'

'Never again say "of course". You are a mere subordi
nate. So, who is that?'

'Ali.'

'Abdullah speaking. There are rumours the British army
is moving into London in five days from now. How is your
programme for the merger operation?'

'It is still two days from now . . .'

'Keep it that way. There is another problem, an emergency. Two members of the opposition have moved into the bungalow of Billy Hogarth. He was seen leaving, carrying cases to his car. He is staying at a small hotel in London. Since then two members of the opposition have arrived in the village and occupied Mr Billy Hogarth's bungalow. You have any extra men in the area?'

'Four. They are hidden in a deep hole in Black Wood.
They are not needed for the merger . . ,'

'You can communicate with them?'

'Of . . .' Ali hastily changed his wording. 'Yes, I can.'

'You know which bungalow I refer to? There are two bungalows.'

'I know which which one you mean . . .'

'Then alert the four men. Tell them to kill whoever is
inside.
Tonight
. . .'

The phone was slammed down.
Bastard!
It was an English word Ali liked. He would never dare to use it when talking to
Abdullah. He took out his mobile phone, pressed numbers
and gave the four hidden men their orders.

29

It was 1 a.m., when Beaurain, seated in an upright chair to
keep himself awake, heard the approaching motor-cycle.
It slowed, the engine was turned off as it reached Billy
Hogarth's bungalow, was followed by a hard thump as the
machine was propped against the side wall.

Unlocking the front door, his Smith & Wesson concealed
behind his back, Beaurain peered out. Strong moonlight. He walked to the end of the bungalow, looked round the corner. The rider was taking a large cardboard-backed envelope from his pannier. He wore the full outfit - black
leather jacket and trousers tucked inside his boots. His head
was masked by a large helmet.

'Don't park that damned thing there,' Beaurain ordered.

The man swung round, his right hand jumping to the
inside of his jacket. Beaurain waited. The man changed his mind, withdrawing his hand empty. Motoring gloves were
perched on the saddle.

'You say what?' the muffled voice behind the helmet
asked.

Beaurain waved his left hand, first at the machine, then over to the distant side of Martin Hogarth's bungalow. The
man hesitated, then spoke again.

'No hurt wall . . .'

'I said move the damned thing over there.'

Again Beaurain used his left hand to gesture at the machine, then at the side of Martin's bungalow. The man
shrugged, put on his gloves, tucked the envelope under his
arm and moved the machine, propping it against Martin's
end wall. He kept well away from Beaurain as he turned,
walked up to Martin's entrance. Beaurain walked quickly back to his own entrance, found the door open, the living-
room lights turned off. Paula stood framed in the gloom.

She had been woken by the sound of the motor-cycle arriving. When she slipped under the sheets she had only
divested herself of her windcheater and her boots and had
pulled up her thick woollen jumper out of her trousers. If
called, she wanted to be able to dress in half a minute. Now she stood in the dark, her right hand clutching her
new Browning. Gently, Beaurain pushed her back inside, followed her, closed the door.

'He's delivering a large envelope to someone,' he whis
pered.

'There won't be anything inside it. Accidentally, I'm
sure, one of those envelopes was delivered through the
letter-box to Mrs Gobble. I found it in a rubbish bin.
Nothing inside that one.'

'This gives us a chance to check on who he calls on . . .'

He opened the door quietly again and they stood shoulder
to shoulder, concealed inside the deep porch
alcove. Looking at Martin's bungalow, they saw the glare light come on,
heard the door opening. Martin's sarcastic voice could be
heard clearly.

'Go to hell! At this time of night!'

A door slammed shut. They stood very still as the messen
ger walked past, giving not so much as a glance at the alcove.
He had taken off his helmet. In the moonlight Paula thought
he was youngish, brown-skinned, hair trimmed very short.
An Egyptian? A Saudi?

Looking out, they saw him call at Margesson's Georgian
house. The reception was even more explosive. The glare
light came on. They heard Margesson's deep rumbling
voice.

'Frig off! Lunatic . . .'

Another door slammed. Paula was frowning as the mes
senger proceeded to the huge tub-shaped house where
Palfry lived. Another glare light. They could just catch
Palfry's smooth voice.

'Not here. Please go away . . .'

A door closed more quietly. The messenger now pro
ceeded round the far end of Carp Lake. The moon shone on the lake, making it appear like a sheet of black iron.
Then it was blotted out by clouds. Paula said, 'Damn! We
won't see what happens on the other side.'

'Yes, we will.'

Beaurain darted inside, felt round inside his satchel,
came back wearing night-glasses. His view through them
was a luminous green. Enough to see the motor-cyclist
walk past Mrs Gobble's residence, then on to Drew Frank
lin's cube house, where he stopped. Another glare light. Beaurain told Paula his impressions.

'Stayed longer there, then skulked off. Why longer there?'

'Because Drew is noted for his biting tongue. Or did he
hand him the envelope?'

'No, still got it under his arm. That just leaves Garda,
the Minister's palace. A tall man has opened the door. No
glare light. Think light from the moon which has just come
out again was reflected off glasses.'

'Pince-nez.' Paula shivered. It was a bitterly freezing night and the air was penetrating their bungalow. It had
been warm before, thanks to Billy's good central heating
system.

'What's happening now?' she asked impatiently.

'Warner has closed the door. The motor-cyclist is hoofing
it back over here. To collect his machine. Still has the
envelope under his arm.' He closed the door and Paula turned on the lights. 'Most mysterious.'

'What does it mean?' she asked from the kitchen as she
used the cafetiere to make them more coffee. She kept her
windcheater on until the central heating neutralized the icy
air which had drifted in.

'I discussed this with Tweed and he replied with one word. Communications.'

'Still not with you, Jules.'

'It hit me when he said that. You've probably read about
the attack in New York on the World Trade Center. No one
could understand why such an intricate plan hadn't leaked.
Now I'm confident I can guess why, what method was used
over there, and is being used here. Nothing is ever written
down, in case it gets into the wrong hands. All communi
cation and instructions are by
word of mouth.
That's why the
Americans had no warning about September 11 - and why
we're getting no warning about their plan for London.'