The Cauldron

COLIN FORBES

THE CAULDRON

PAN BOOKS

First published 1997 by Macmillan

This edition published 1998 by Pan Books an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd

25 Eccleston Place, London SW1W 9NF

Basingstoke and Oxford

Associated companies throughout the world

www.macmillan.com

ISBN 0 330 35209 1 Copyright © Colin Forbes 1997

The right of Colin Forbes to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance

with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in or introdued into a retrieval system, or

transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written

permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized

act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal

prosecution and civil claims for damages.

13 15 17 19 18 16 14 12

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by CentraCet, Cambridge

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Mackays of Chatham pic, Chatham, Kent

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,

or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

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Author's Note

All the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's imagination and bear no relationship to any living person. The same applies to all residences whether located in Cornwall or California. Again, they are invented out of the author's imagination.

FOR SUZANNE

Prologue

Paula Grey tensed as she saw the floating body crest a huge wave, carried close inshore across the Pacific Ocean like a surfer lying on its back in the lonely moonlight.

She had started on a night-time walk from the luxurious Californian Spanish Bay Hotel, down the boardwalks between the deserted golf links which swept away on either side. Depressed, because she had discovered nothing suspicious about Vincent Bernard Moloch, billionaire owner of the world's largest conglomerate, AMBECO - the mission Tweed had sent her on from London - she had decided to walk to clear her mind.

It was cold in July at this time of night and the storm building up from the ocean chilled her, despite her heavy blue jeans and woollen sweater and windbreaker. Another giant wave lifted the sinister body near the shore. She calculated it would hit the coast at Octopus Cove.

Glancing round, she unzipped the windbreaker and grasped the .32 Browning tucked inside the top of her jeans. As she hurried down to the raging sea the roar of the boiling water became deafening. It hurled itself against craggy rocks, throwing up great bursts of surf.

The body was very close to the rocks she scrambled down, her clothes soaked with the ferocious surf. Her fear of the ocean's turmoil vanished as she watched the corpse thrown inside a deep gulch into shallow water.

Reaching down she grasped an ice-cold hand and saw it was the body of a woman.

Before the next wave could smash it against the rocks she hauled the dead woman upwards and out of the relentless ocean. In the moonlight she had a clear view of the woman's face, dark hair plastered against the skull, the body clad in a white dress clinging to her above the stomach. Round the left wrist she had used to haul her out Paula saw an ugly red abrasion. She looked at the right wrist and round it was a torn rope. Blood had earlier seeped from a large wound on the head and congealed. That was when Paula heard engines coming towards her at speed from the sea.

Looking up, she saw three large rubber dinghies powered by outboard motors racing towards Octopus Cove. Each craft contained a number of men, heads hooded and holding what appeared to be assault rifles. The lead dinghy had one of the largest men she had ever seen. Standing up, despite the savage swell, he held on to the side with one hand and removed his hood with the other. He was staring straight at her, a man with thick dark hair and a Roman nose. Paula crouched down, shifted the heavy corpse closer to the side of a rock and then ran, still crouching.

She started up the boardwalk, a series of parallel wooden planks, then turned off it onto the golf course. Some sixth sense warned her to find a hiding place. Her sodden trainers squelched as she ran across the trim grass of the rolling links. Where to hide, for God's sake? Stay cool.

She was well clear of the boardwalk when she literally ran into a hideaway - a large bunker of sand. Flopping down inside it, she wrenched out the Browning automatic she had shoved back down inside her jeans while hauling out the body of the woman. Cautiously she wriggled her way up to the rim of the bunker, looked over the top down to Octopus Cove.

Clouds were beginning to, drift over the moon but Paula now saw about half a mile offshore the silhouette of a huge luxury yacht. Stationary, swaying with the swell of the rising storm, she estimated it must be almost three hundred feet long. Above the main control cabin was a cluster of radar equipment and a Comsat dish, so it had communications via a satellite. No lights. Not even a starboard light. Very weird.

Hooded figures from the dinghies were scrambling ashore at Octopus Cove in wetsuits. Several bent down to where the corpse lay, lifted it, began carrying it through the turmoil of the wild ocean towards a dinghy. The giant with black hair stared round the golf links, made a sweeping gesture with his left hand. Six men, gripping their automatic rifles, advanced over the links, spread out. They were coming for her.

Lying deep inside the bunker in her soaking clothes, she heard the clumping feet of men prowling close to her. She kept her eyes on the rim where they would appear, the Browning clasped in both hands. Now and then their voices, some English, some American, came to her clearly.

'She has to be somewhere around here.' 'Buddy boy, she sure is. No time for her to reach the hotel. We'd have seen her...'

Later another couple came much closer to the bunker. 'Joel will spit in our faces if we don't get her.' 'No names, Loud Mouth. Keep searching...' By the illuminated hands of her wristwatch Paula knew she had lain in the bunker for an hour when she heard a distant sound of engines starting up. Gun in her right hand, she crawled to the rim, peered over. The three dinghies were leaving Octopus Cove, heading back to their mother ship, the long silhouette rocking from side to side. Then the moon was blotted out by dark clouds and she lost sight of them.

She scanned the links to make sure she was alone, knowing it could be a trap. They might have left one man behind to watch out for her. Only when she felt sure no one was about did Paula wearily plod back up the boardwalk to Spanish Bay Hotel, which overlooked the links and the Pacific beyond. Thanking heaven she had slipped out unseen from her magnificent ground floor suite, she slid back the tall glass windows, stepped inside, closed, locked them. She forced herself to draw the curtains, felt her way to the door to the splendidly equipped bathroom, closed that door and switched on the lights.

Placing the Browning on the edge of the Jacuzzi, Paula stripped off, stepped into the shower stall, and, still shivering, turned on the shower to hot. The glass was steamed up when she eventually left the shower, ignored the sodden clothes on the floor, towelled herself, went through another door past gleaming washbasins and into the large room with its double bed. Putting on pyjamas, she perched on the edge of the bed and drank hot coffee from a thermos she always had refilled by Roy's, the restaurant in the hotel.

Feeling able to cope, she dialled Tweed's number in London at Park Crescent, headquarters of the SIS. She had checked the time. 3 a.m. California was eight hours behind Britain, so it would be 11 a.m. London time.

'Monica, Paula here. Urgent I speak to him.'

'Hang on, he's here ...'

'Good to hear from you, Paula,' the familiar voice opened tersely. 'Anything to report?'

'No. The company is in excellent shape. I have ... nothing ... to tell you.'

'Better catch the next plane home, then. Looking forward to seeing you.'

'Cheerio for now ...'

Paula put down the phone and felt a burst of relief. There had been two coded messages in the way she had phrased her call. Use of the word excellent had told Tweed something was wrong. Plus her deliberate pause before
nothing
.

She tumbled into bed, feeling so far from home. Monterey, the pleasant town near Spanish Bay, together with Carmel, close by, were among the most peaceful parts of the States she had visited. At least on the surface. And until her recent ordeal.

Her head buried in the pillow she had an image of the mysterious yacht she had seen out at sea. Maybe in the morning she could wheedle out of the Harbormaster at Monterey the name of the vessel. Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep.

It was a brilliant sunny afternoon, temperature a perfect 70‹, when Paula left the yellow cab which dropped her near Monterey harbour. A large anchorage protected by enclosing jetties, it was full of shipping. Fishing craft were moored close to Coast Guard vessels at the southern end of the big harbour. Several expensive power cruisers bobbed gently by their pontoons.

"There's plenty of money round here.' Paula said to herself.

The cab driver had pointed out to her the Harbormaster's office. As she walked towards the building Paula blessed the fact that last night's storm had stayed out at sea. Had it come inland she would have had a much worse experience. Now the sky was a blue dome. In the distance beyond Monterey brown hills, scorched by the sun, rose to meet the blue.

She was near the building when she saw a stocky man leaving with an unbalanced walk. She paused by a restaurant with awnings where a man in whites was brushing the area outside.

'Excuse me, but is that person who has just left that building the Harbormaster?'

'Like your English accent.' The man smiled pleasantly. 'He is standing in for the Harbormaster, who returned from his vacation a few minutes ago.' He lowered his voice. 'That guy is Chuck Floorstone. Between the two of us he spends too much time lifting a glass. Done that myself. Been there. Now Coke is my drink.'

'Very sensible. Thank you.'

She hurried after the stocky figure whose T-shirt was hanging out over baggy trousers. She caught up with him at the moment he was entering a bar. Paula pushed in front of him, then apologized.

'I really am sorry.'

'No need, pretty lady. You on your own? I am. Buy you a drink.'

"Thank you. That would be nice.'

Chuck Floorstone guided her to a quiet table in a corner by a window overlooking the exit from the harbour. At that hour they were almost the only customers. Paula had asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Floorstone had shuffled to the far end of the bar so she couldn't hear what he was asking for. She had made herself very presentable for this hoped-for talk. She wore a form-fitting white silk blouse, high at the collar, and a blue skirt which hung just below her knees.

Floorstone was eyeing her as he shuffled back, spilling her wine over the rim of her glass. He saw a slim woman in her thirties, her dark well-brushed hair almost touching her shoulders. She had a good figure and shapely legs and the bone structure of her strong face expressed character. Her intelligent grey-blue eyes studied him as he approached, placed the wine in front of her, slumped into the next seat.

'We could hit the town, pretty lady.'

'Somebody told me you had an important job.' she replied.

'I'm the Harbormaster here.'

His weather-beaten face, lined with the tell-tale red veins of the hardened drinker, grinned with self importance, exposing bad teeth. Paula smiled, glanced out of the window, stopped herself stiffening. A huge luxury yacht was heading out of the harbour, a vessel with a complex of radar apparatus above the main control cabin with a Comsat dish.

'What's that vessel?' she asked.

"That little rowboat belongs to Vincent Bernard Moloch. Owns half the world. The Big Boy.'