Cell (37 page)

'So the envelope is for cover?'

'Exactly. The trouble is we've observed where the motor
cyclist called, but we don't know which
individual he
delivered a verbal message to.'

'Maybe to all of them.' She handed Beaurain a mug of
coffee and sat down with him on a sofa, sipping from her own mug. 'All of them,' she repeated. 'Martin, Margesson,
Palfry, Drew Franklin and the Minister.'

'Doesn't sound likely. Not Drew Franklin, for example,
I'm sure. It's one individual, but which?'

'So we're back to square one . . .'

Beaurain lifted a finger to his lips and she stopped talking.
Paula had good hearing but Beaurain's was exceptional.
After a minute they heard the motor-cycle's engine start up, then the machine roared off away from the village. Paula drank the rest of her coffee, stood up.

'If you don't mind I'm going to snatch a bit more
kip.'

She went to a window at the front, lifted a blind. The
view had vanished. She was staring into a dense fog,
curling round the bungalow like an enormous snake. She told Jules, reminded him to wake her when the time came
for her watch, went back to bed. Nothing more was likely
to happen for the rest of the night.

Nestled in his observation point at the top of the pine tree,
Newman woke suddenly. His thick black coat had kept
out the bitter cold, had made him too comfortable. He
was appalled. He had fallen asleep on duty. Something
had woken him up. Stripping off his gloves, he reached
out, took hold of the Uzi. He moved very little, careful to
make no sound. He listened. Then he heard it. The stealthy
crunch of feet below, treading down dead bracken.

The trouble was a heavy mist had fogged his vision.
He put on the night-glasses, the mist turned green. Cau
tiously, he pulled aside a screen of foliage, gave himself a
window on the blurred world. Four of them, well spread
out across the field. Good tactics. No bunching to provide
one target.

They were crawling forward, almost as swift as ants on
the move. Four men with turbans wrapped round their
heads. He thought the turbans were black. Al-Qa'eda. What
was their target? He aimed his Uzi through his 'window',
waited.

The circle began closing. Heading for Billy Hogarth's
bungalow. Paula and Beaurain were their targets. Newman
waited no longer. Aiming at one figure in the middle, he fired a shot. It electrified the stalkers. One swung round,
raised his weapon, a Kalashnikov, began spraying the tree
tops with a hail of bullets. How he'd realized the single shot
had come from high up in the trees Newman had no idea. He no longer waited.

He let loose a stream of bullets. The man who had fired
rolled over sideways, lay deathly still. Newman swung the
muzzle to the next man, who had started shooting wildly
at Black Wood, crouched now on his knees. Newman fired
again. The shooter was riddled with bullets, dropped his weapon, fell forward. He didn't move again.

Newman turned his attention to the other two and
was alarmed when he found they had disappeared. They must have taken cover round the sides of the bungalow.
Newman hoped to God the fusillades had warned the
occupants.

Inside the bungalow Paula had hauled on her boots, grabbed
the Uzi she had placed on a table close to the bed. She flung
open the door to the living-room. Beaurain was standing
close to the front door, his weapon in his hands. He smiled
grimly.

'You watch the kitchen door. I'm taking the front
one . . .'

He unlocked the door, stood to one side, flung it wide
open. Mist drifted in. Not helpful. He listened.
The firing at the rear of the bungalow had ceased. The silence was
ominous.

No one in the alcove porch. He stepped into it, listened
once more. Nothing. He suspected the attackers could
move like mice. No warning they were coming. He peered
out of the alcove, checking both directions. No one. Then
he heard faintly but clearly a voice he just recognized.
Newman's, shouting a warning through hands cupped
round his mouth. The words, muffled by the mist, just
reached him.

'Two of them near you. I brought down other two in the
field behind . . .'

Two? Dangerous. If they both attacked at once. To make
himself a smaller target, Beaurain sat down outside the porch, a tactic he'd used successfully fighting terrorists
over the water. He heard the faint jostle of a pebble to his
right. A man appeared, a silhouette in the mist. Holding
a Kalashnikov. The barrel came up to kill Beaurain. The Belgian had his Uzi aimed in that direction, fired a long
burst. The figure jumped - under the shock of the bullets
hitting him - dropped his weapon, leaned against the
wall of the bungalow, slithered down it, lay very still. Beaurain's weapon was already aimed to his left. Nothing,
no sound.

Inside Paula had darted into the kitchen, paused, facing the heavy back door which she knew was bolted. No one was going to get in through that. She also was listening,
now the shooting from the front had ceased. She prayed
Beaurain was still alive.

They couldn't get in through the living-room windows -the shutters, closed, were heavy. Newman's shout had just
reached her. Difficult to hear but she'd caught the gist of his warning. Was there one more out there?

She wasn't frightened. She had been startled to be woken from a deep sleep by the sound of gunfire. Now her training came to her aid. Her nerves were cold, controlled. She was
ready to kill. She held her Uzi across her waist, ready to aim
it in any direction.

The back door was bolted top and bottom, but when they
arrived the key had been missing, although the door was locked. Billy must had slipped it into his pocket without
thinking. So she had no way of knowing a ferocious eye
was peering at her through the keyhole.

Some instinct made her back further away from the door.
Still she held the Uzi across her stomach, parallel to the
floor. Frequently she glanced back over her shoulder. When
she had rushed into the kitchen she had hauled down two large pans off hooks, had dropped them at the entrance to
the kitchen. She had used the dimmer to lower the lighting. If anyone came through the door from the living-room they
would, with luck, stumble over the pans, announcing their
presence.

When the attack came it was still a shock. The heavy back
door was smashed inwards, breaking free of its hinges, the bolts giving way. A huge figure stood in the doorway, the
biggest man she had ever seen. His weight had destroyed
the back door as though it were made of matchwood. On his
head he wore a black turban. His black beard was glistening
with moisture from the mist.

He was grinning savagely. His Kalashnikov was looped
over his shoulder. In his right hand he held a horrible-
looking curved knife. He was going to slash her to bits.
Quite confident - peering through the keyhole he'd seen
that her Uzi was held across her waist. His trunk-like legs
carried him forward like a juggernaut.

She swung the barrel of the Uzi through ninety degrees,
was pressing the trigger, kept on pressing it, emptied the magazine into him. Forty rounds. He stood perfectly still
for a mind-breaking moment, then fell forward. She had to
jump backwards to avoid this immense body hitting her. It
thudded to the floor, caused a shuddering vibration. She forced herself to bend over it, checking the carotid artery
in the bull-like neck. He was dead.

Before checking the artery she had hauled out the empty
mag, had inserted a fresh one. Behind her she heard a clatter
of pans.

She jumped up, her weapon aimed at the entrance into
the kitchen. Beaurain's voice shouted.

'Don't shoot. It's Jules . . .'

She smiled wearily, lowered her gun. He came forward
and stared, first at the smashed door, then down at the
body. He whistled.

'What a giant.'

'It was like something out of
Psycho.
He came in like
an express train, waving that knife. My training saved me.
He's dead as a dodo, thank God. What a brute.'

Beaurain looped his Uzi over his shoulder, put both hands on her shoulders, pulled her close. She was trem
bling. He held her like that until the trembling stopped and
she released herself.

'I'm OK now. What's the situation?' she asked briskly.

'There were four of them. Newman must have been
guarding us, hidden in Black Wood. He got two of them.

I got one. You brought down this bull, who was probably
the leader. They're al-Qa'eda. Look at the turban . . .'

He whipped his weapon off his shoulder as he heard someone outside the back door. A voice called in, cautiously. Newman's.

'Are you both all right? Heard you talking.'

'I think we'll let you in,' Paula called out impishly.

Newman appeared. He paused to look down at the intact door lying on the floor. Its heaviness had saved it from any
real damage. It had simply given way in one piece under
the massive onslaught.

'Tell you about that later,' Paula said with a smile. 'So
good to see you. Thanks for the back-up. Now, can we fix
the door before we freeze to death . . .'

Between them, Beaurain and Newman lifted the door,
slotted it back into place. Newman opened drawers, found
a collection of spatulas and large knives. They used these to
ram them into the edges of the door, which held it firmly in
place. It was a makeshift job but served the purpose.

Paula, who didn't fancy staying in the kitchen with the body on the floor, said she'd clear up her bedroom while
they worked. She'd jumped out of bed so quickly the
sheets and duvet were strewn over the floor. When she
came back Newman was having a long conversation with
Tweed on his mobile, reporting what had happened. He paused for a short time, then resumed the conversation
briefly.

'That's organized,' he told Beaurain.

'What is?' asked Paula, prodding him. 'I'm still here,
you know.'

'Tweed phoned Buchanan while I waited. Roy is rushing
ambulances up here to collect the bodies. He also wants to
know who up here has reacted - which is something Roy
and I have decided to check.'

'We'd better get outside now then . . .'

The mist was thinning when they all left the bungalow.

The lights were on in every house. Martin was already outside, using a flashlight to examine the killer Newman
had shot down. He looked up.