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#### The Makepeace Manifesto

By

Tony Nash

Copyright © Anthony Nash 2013

#### Published by Anthony Nash at Smashwords

Other works by this author:

Carve Up

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the Back Burner

Murder on the Chess Board

Murder on the High 'C'

Murder on Tiptoes

The Devil Deals Death – (A Black Magic Thriller)

Tripled Exposure

Coming soon:

The Last Laugh

The Keys of the Castle

###

This is a work of pure fiction, and any similarity between any character in it and any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Where actual places, buildings and locations are named, they are used fictionally.
Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, Auri sacra fames!

To what do you not drive human hearts, cursed craving for gold! (Virgil)

PROLOGUE

The lighting is subdued and silence surrounds me; the patients are heavily sedated; breakfast and bedpans far in the future. My one thousand three hundred and twenty second nightshift, caring for Stage Four cancer patients.

They tell me strange tales, these men and women who know they are about to make that final, terrifying journey into the unknown. Determined to confess their sins, they don't give a damn that I'm not a priest. Some of their stories are amusing, some hair curling, and others so sad they make me want to cry, but one was utterly incredible.

The old man, Jack Haldane, had only a few days to live when he came to us. His cancer had metastasized to all his major organs. Used to patients that are flabby, with no muscles left to speak of and completely out of condition, I was surprised by this silver-haired old man who stood erect and still had working muscles. He was unusual in other ways: he refused all pain-killing drugs, although the agonies of late-stage cancer must have been causing him untold suffering, but the most striking thing were his scars - all fully healed and years old, but signs of an unusual life.

He had a puckered scar on his upper left breast, where a bullet must have missed his heart by less than an inch, another low on his right side, and one in the fleshy part of his right thigh. There were what looked like old knife wounds on his arms, chest, and right cheek, and scars that I thought resembled cigarette burns all over his body. He spoke with an educated accent and was extremely polite.

He 'd been with us three days when he said, 'You like to write, I see. Would you like me to tell you a true story, that you can, perhaps, do something with?'

Expecting another tale no different from the hundreds I'd heard I heaved an inward sigh and decided to humour him, 'Why not? It'll help to pass the time for both of us, and I write shorthand.' I had no hope of it doing anything else, but if it kept his mind off the pain for just a little while it was worth it, and I certainly had the time to spare. It would make a change from the stuff from my own imagination that I scribbled down and usually threw away at the end of the day.

'You'll probably think it's just too far-fetched, but I can vouch for the fact that it is true in every respect. It happened before you were born, during the time that was referred to as the Cold War, when the world stood on the edge of a Third World War, and we were expecting to be annihilated by atom-bombs at any moment. There were other dangers to world peace – things the public never knew, and one of them concerns the man I am going to tell you about, who was a spy, when the word really meant what it said.

Of course, it was a much less sophisticated world then, and the public tended to believe what they were told, which in some cases tended to be very little. Everyone knows about the SIS nowadays, and books and films have extolled the James Bonds of that era, but although the fiction glorifies them and leaves out the dirtier side of the business, the fact is that they are based on reality.

The British secret services were, at that time, three separate entities, two of which I'm sure you know – MI5 and MI6. This man worked for the third one, which ceased to exist in 1973, when all its records were sealed for one hundred years. It has never been publicly acknowledged and was the most secret of the three. It was known only as 'The Department'. The name of the agent was John Hunter, and he was a killer.'

CHAPTER ONE – AN EYE FOR AN EYE

Waiting in line for customs the machine had misfired for just a few seconds. The way the russet-haired woman three ahead of him in the queue flicked her hair back took him back thirteen years to the evening when Claire Risslan, the psychiatrist Sir Michael had insisted on, pulled back the sheet, mounted him for the first time and helped herself to one of the few parts of his body still functioning perfectly after the crash. His broken arms had still been strapped to his sides.

John Hunter smiled, remembering how he'd kept silent until she'd recovered from her explosive orgasm and pulled back.

'Was that part of the treatment you give all your patients?'

'Would you believe me if I told you it was the first time I've ever cheated on my husband, and I have never had sex with another man?'

'Strangely enough I would, but what made you do it?'

She looked bewildered, 'I had a sudden compulsion---I really don't know. I must be going mad---'

She made a move to lift herself off him, but he told her, 'No, stay there for a bit longer.'

She felt him hardening again inside her---

She was wildly different from the type he normally bedded: forty-four, married with two grown-up children, a pleasant enough but rather dowdy, slightly overweight woman, with a long, horsy face and a somewhat overlarge nose, but with striking green eyes, youthfully clear skin and glossy russet hair that curled down over her shoulders.

The 'treatment' was repeated daily for the rest of the two months he remained in the private hospital, and with a perfect understanding of his needs and those of his job she'd finally laid all his ghosts to rest with a striking professional flair, remaking him into the perfect agent.

Before the enforced sojourn he'd so often been plagued with bad dreams and painful self-searching after a job, often close to ending it, one way or another. Conscience was something an agent could not afford. It could get you killed.

Spending hours every day, using hypnotism and meditation techniques, she'd convinced him he must no longer think of himself as a human being, but as a programmed machine, without feelings or conscience. She repaired his mind while his body repaired itself.

'Remember, John, even when you fuck, you're a fucking machine.' He'd been surprised at her use of the 'f'-word, and would have been even more surprised had he known it was the first time in her life she'd spoken it aloud. The important thing was that she had been right all along the line, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was the reason he was still alive and active.

Not for the first time he wondered if her husband had ever guessed. With a secret smile he thought of the surprise the guy must have had when his wife suddenly wanted a lot of sex after a long drought.

The woman with russet hair turned her head and he saw that there was no similarity at all. This one was beautiful.

Thirty-three minutes later he settled back into the deeply padded recliner, well satisfied with the way the operation had gone.

He'd come into Rio de Janeiro's main airport, Galeäo International, on the midday BOAC flight, shot the local red spymaster at twenty past one, returned the weapon to the left luggage box at the airport and caught the PANAM 747 to London at quarter past two.

It had been an unusual mission – a killing which, despite the popular, media-driven misconception, was the great exception, not only in the Department, but in the Secret Services of all the countries of the world. Such executions led only to reprisals and counter-reprisals, and interfered with the smooth course of espionage.

In this case it had been unavoidable.

Three days before Sir Michael had called him in.

'You know Nikolai Belyayevski, I believe?'

'Yes, I know him. Is he still around? We came close to killing each other once in Berlin.'

'You were wounded in the stomach.'

'And he took one in the shoulder. Not one of my best shots, but he was behind a pillar. What's he been up to lately?'

'He's been the Soviet spymaster in Rio for the last two years. For some reason that we can't fathom he shot James Dalton in cold blood and apparently without motive.'

Dalton had been a good agent, who'd done his initial training with Hunter and, like him, had also held the Alpha prefix, one of the few authorized assassins of the country's enemies, until his nerve had given out two years before, and he'd been reassigned to standard field duties.

'That's almost unbelievable. Dalton was out to grass, wasn't he?'

'Yes, he was, and inactive. There was no mission involved - he was shot leaving a nightclub. We received the usual Nothing To Report signal from him that afternoon and no unusual action was planned. In fact Rio has been exceptionally quiet for months. I had his deputy, Richard Melton, search through every piece of paper in Dalton's office and he found nothing to indicate that his boss had been pursuing any enquiry regarding the Russians. Melton told me, "Dalton's just been going through the motions in the job, avoiding doing anything that might make any waves." He said Dalton gave him the impression he was just marking time until his retirement. What you might call a 'grey' man.'

'Has there been anything unusual about Rio in the radio and teleprinter decrypts from intercepts at GCHQ and NSA stations?'

'No. Nor, in fact, anywhere in South America. The killing makes no sense, but Belyayevski was positively identified by two other Embassy officials who were with Dalton when he was killed. The Russian made no attempt to hide and laughed at them before walking away. Unfortunately neither of them was armed.'

'And he didn't shoot at them?'

'No.'

Hunter was puzzled, 'Belyayevski is a seasoned professional. It just doesn't sound like him at all.'

'I agree, but there seems to be no doubt. Perhaps there was something personal in it, although I've checked the records and they've never been anywhere near each other in the past. The only possibility is that Moscow ordered the hit.'

'But then Nikolai would have used one of the half dozen killers he's got on the payroll. He wouldn't do it himself.'

Sir Michael shrugged, 'Nevertheless, he did, and we can't let him get away with it. Would you like to volunteer for the job?'

'Of course, Sir.'

'Belyayevski has set himself up as a rich merchant-banker in the Avenido dos Tres Rios, half a mile from the University, using funds obtained from drug smuggling through official Soviet mail channels. He's living the high life. Amazing how these Communists forget their credo once they get a taste of Western freedom.'

'He won't enjoy it for much longer, Sir.'

'Good.'

After picking up the Luger pistol from the left luggage locker at the airport, Hunter took a taxi from the rank outside as far as the old Naval Building, then walked round the corner to the Touring Club of Brazil and hired a Hertz Rentacar, using a forged passport and driving licence in the name of Anthony Berkeley. From there he drove the length of the broad Avenida Rio Branca, its fancy, tessellated pavements shimmering in the noon heat, and turned into the Beira Mar, following that wide boulevard, with its royal palms, along the curve of the bay for over three miles, passing the exotic Praia Flamenco and the Praia de Botafogo en route. Finally he turned left into the Avenido Pasteur and parked the car in the car park of the University, on the northeastern slope of Babilnia Hill, just half a mile short of the golden sands and glittering high life of Copacabana Beach. He knew Rio well and knew the suburb on Botafogo Bay was one of the most sparsely populated in Rio, and inhabited mainly by 'Cariocas' – the well-to-do citizens.

He hired a taxi from the rank opposite the main building of the University complex and told the cab driver, 'Dezesseis Praia Cotunduba.' He'd checked on the large-scale map of the city in the airport and knew that number sixteen was just round the corner from Belyayevski's house. He told the cabbie to wait.

It was fourteen minutes past one.

He'd obtained from GCHQ the contact schedules of the Soviet clandestine transmissions from Rio before leaving London, and knew that Belyayevski would be inside the house at this moment, making his daily radio contact with Moscow. Today's times were one-twelve to one-seventeen local time. Hunter also knew from the Belyayevski dossier he'd been shown that the Russian, unusually for an agent of any country, had become a creature of habit living the high life in Rio, and always ate lunch at Kempinski's on Copacabana Beach, where they served the best borsch in South America. His table was permanently reserved for one o'clock and he would be in a hurry to get there.

Hunter stood under a brazilwood tree at the end of the driveway of the big house, twenty yards from the front door. Checking the files in London, he'd been astonished that the house was not permanently guarded, but then Rio was such an easygoing posting it was understandable that what would be normal procedure in somewhere like Paris or Berlin would not be necessary here. He loosened the Luger in its holster and eased the safety off and on, to make sure it moved freely.

He had only moments to wait.

Belyayevski pushed the door open. He turned, laughing, shouted, 'Da! Da!' at someone out of view, and turned to walk to his car in the drive.

Hunter stepped out from the shade of the big tree.

The Russian stopped, startled for a moment, then recognition dawned.

He and Hunter had been adversaries in many Cold War battles in the old days, when he had still been a humble triggerman, and though they'd only come face to face once he had studied Hunter's portrait often enough.

Now he smiled, 'John! Starii tovarisch. Kak vee pojivayetye?'

Hunter did not smile back. He said, grimly, 'Draw your gun, Nikolai Nikolaivitch! I won't shoot a defenceless man, even if he deserves it.'

Belyayevski, frowning, started to ask, 'Schto eta?' but saw that Hunter had started to move to draw his own weapon.

The Russian tried desperately hard, but was badly out of practice. He'd piled on weight and his reflexes had slowed from two years of living the dolce vita in Rio. He knew even as his hand touched the butt of the Makarov automatic pistol that it was no contest.

His gun had not yet reached the aim position before two slugs entered his heart – the 'double tap' used by all British agents, often followed by another two to the forehead.

Belyayevski's hand went to his breast, blood oozing out through his fingers. He went up on one leg. An uncomprehending look, a reproachful look, came into his eyes and he tried to shake his head.

He gasped, 'Nye snayo---' and fell, hard, on his face.

A woman appeared in the doorway.

She looked at the corpse, not believing what she saw, then at Hunter.

Realisation hit her. She screamed, over and over again.

Hunter turned, slipping the gun back into its holster. He walked quickly, but without undue haste, back to the waiting taxi.

Within twenty minutes he'd returned the rented car. Another ten saw him in the airport lounge, drinking the second of two well earned 'horse's necks'.

Now he glanced casually out of the window of the jetliner, relaxing, the adrenalin that always accompanied a job slowing draining out of his body.

The pilot had just finished the circle of the city for the sake of the tourists on board, and was giving a running commentary over the loudspeaker system:

'We are just passing the ninety-eight foot high statue of Christ the Redeemer, erected on the summit of Mount Corcovado, also known as 'The Hunchback'. Sugar Loaf Mountain can be seen over to the left; below us now is Botafogo Bay, with Copacobana Beach stretching away on the right.'

As they flew over the Bay at three thousand feet Hunter could see Belyayevski's house clearly. There were two police cars in the driveway, their strobe lights flashing, and three officers stood around the body lying on the step. As he watched, another vehicle with strobes came into view, nearing the scene, an ambulance.

'You may remove your safety belts and smoke.'

Hunter selected a Sobranie Black Russian from the packet he'd bought at the airport shop. It was a small parting gesture to a fellow creature. However bad he may have been, Belyayevski was in the same line of business, a victim of his training.

He must have had good reason to kill Dalton – no choice, in fact, if Moscow had ordered it, but Dalton had been out of the loop for a couple of years – it made no sense, unless it was something he'd done in the past.

Hunter would normally have dismissed the entire incident from his mind, but there had been something in the Russian's eyes when he had said those last words, 'I don't know---', which troubled the agent. If Belyayevski had murdered Dalton he would have known why he'd been targeted.

Hunter tried to shrug it off and think of other things, and became aware of one of the stewardesses.

She was big, blonde and beautiful, with an hourglass figure and hips that swayed invitingly, and she was giving him the eye, running the tip of her tongue over moist red lips.

She was a sensual girl and what she saw excited her. She felt the sudden warmth of desire dampen the crotch of her panties, and had to press her legs tightly together and breathe deeply to try to control the reactions of her body.

He was obviously a man among men; his face long and deeply tanned, with high cheekbones, dominated by steel-grey eyes flecked with green – eyes of an almost hypnotic quality – open, piercing eyes. Overlarge maxillary muscles betrayed part of an Irish/Gascon ancestry, of which he was proud. The nose was slightly hooked, but finely chiseled, lending weight to the overall faint suggestion of cruelty in the face. Fine, dark brown hair complemented the visage, and the slightest trace of a kiss-curl hung over the right temple. His figure was the kind that tailors and young girls dream about and rarely meet.

The inexperienced eye might have taken him for a light-hearted, easy living man-about-town, but the cold calculation in his glance told a different story. Had he been of an earlier age he would have walked in the shadow of the skull and crossbones, perhaps, or had at his side a long sword dangling from a leather baldric, striking the rough side of his horse as he rode into adventure. His whole air was that of the swashbuckler.

He was what he often felt himself to be – a throwback – an atavistic misfit in twentieth century society, more in keeping with his Gascon ancestors, who spent their lives seeking adventure and the fighting that went with it.

She managed to regain control of her shaking legs and sashayed down the gangway towards him.

'Is there anything you would like, Sir?' There was no doubt what she meant by the invitation, and for just a moment he considered the chances of renewing his membership of the 'Mile High Club.'

'Not just now, thank you.' His answer was equally meaningful.

'Are you changing aircraft in London, Sir?' It was the next move in the game.

He grinned, 'No. I shall be staying at the Carlton.'

'Really? What a coincidence. I always stay there too. Perhaps we shall bump into one another?'

'Yes. Who knows?' Pact signed and sealed. He wondered idly for a moment why this always happened to him. What the hell? Accept Fate gracefully. After all, why should he complain?

The aircraft lurched suddenly, and then again. He was sure that the even tenor of the motors had been broken.

Another lurch, followed by a fast turn onto a reciprocal heading.

Through the window he saw once again the skyline of the mountains over Rio, forming the rough outline of a reclining figure called the 'Sleeping Giant'.

He swore under his breath. What was going on?

The Captain's voice came over the loudspeaker again: 'Please re-fasten your safety belts and extinguish all cigarettes. We have slight engine trouble. There is absolutely no need for alarm, but for safety's sake we are returning to Rio de Janeiro. We shall land in five minutes.'

Damn! They would be looking all over Rio for the killer now, and if he could not get another flight out in a hurry he would be in serious trouble. They would certainly include the airport in their search.

He looked around. The passengers and even his pet stewardess, despite her attempt at a reassuring smile, looked worried, flustering with little possessions to cover their embarrassment at showing fright.

They need not have worried. The big jetliner came straight in onto the main runway and made a perfect landing.

Hunter kept his fingers crossed that they would allow the passengers to remain on board while the necessary repairs were carried out.

He was to be disappointed.

'Would all passengers please disembark and return to the departure lounge. The flight will be called again when repairs have been affected. An announcement will be made as soon as possible, telling you how long a delay is expected.'

The big blonde certainly knew her job, he thought. He waited until the other passengers had disembarked and went over to her.

'Couldn't we stay in the aircraft?'

She almost shook with anticipation, 'Perhaps we can--'

The captain had walked up behind them. He asked, 'Would you mind disembarking with the other passengers, Sir?' He knew Trixie of old. What would he do tonight, if this other guy got a look-in?

It was obviously not going to be one of Hunter's lucky days. He walked over to the terminal building, his mind working overtime.

### CHAPTER TWO – A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH

Just sitting around waiting to be arrested was not Hunter's idea of a clever move. He left the departure lounge and went to the information desk.

'What's the destination of the next flight out?'

'The two forty TWA flight to Lisbon, Sir. They are boarding now at gate seven.'

'Thanks.'

He glanced at his wristwatch. It was two thirty-three. He hurried over to the Trans-World Airlines desk.

'Any room on the two forty?'

'Yes, Sir, but you will have to hurry. Single or return?'

'Single, please. How much?'

'Two hundred and sixty-three dollars American, Sir.'

He threw three hundred-dollar bills onto the counter.

'Buy yourself some nice perfume with the change, beautiful.' He took the ticket and started to hurry away.

'But, Sir, your luggage?'

'No luggage, darling.' He blew her a kiss and hurried towards the departure lounge again.

At the entrance door the girl who handed out the boarding passes was talking to a tall man with a drooping moustache and a hint of hidden vitality.

Hunter smelled police. He slowed to an easy saunter, holding out his ticket to the girl and giving her a charming smile.

'Thank you, Sir. Your boarding pass. Gate seven. Please hurry, they are boarding now.'

'Momento, Senhor.'

It was too much to have hoped – he was not going to get away with it.

He flicked his glance around; was it worth trying to make a dash for it? He saw five uniformed police on duty in the hall, and guessed there were more not in uniform. He decided not.

'Is your luggage already on board, Senhor?'

'No, I'm traveling light. Just a short visit, you understand.'

'Yes, I understan', Senhor Berkeley, or should I say Hunter? I am Capitano Miguel Rodriguez. You will please come with me quietly. I noticed you observed the uniformed police. There are also eight of my men around you who are not in uniform. Now, into this room, please.'

It was a small customs search room. Three men stood waiting for him.

He was frisked expertly and his personal possessions taken from him. Finally, he was handcuffed to two of the plainclothes men.

Rodriguez shook his head slowly, looking at his captive, 'Well, Senhor Hunter, what an unfortunate trick fate has played on you today. You could have been well out over the Atlantic by now, over international waters and safe from the Brazilian authorities. I could have written 'Murder by person or persons unknown' on the file, and everyone would have been happy. Now I shall have much paperwork to fill in, and you, my fren', you will be shot. It is the law of the game. It is funny, is it not?'

Hunter replied cynically, 'I'd say absolutely bloody hilarious.'

'Ah, the English sense of humour we hear so much about. Excuse me a moment.' He picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

''Ola? Rodriguez. Si, nós tê-lo. Está bem. Si, em dez minutos.' He threw the receiver back on its cradle.

'Soon you will know, Senhor.'

Hunter was taken down to a waiting police car and driven to the new Municipal Building on the Avenida Rio Branca, where he was escorted into a small courtroom.

Rodriguez knocked on a side door.

A judge walked out, ignored the prisoner entirely and took his place on the bench.

He looked at Rodriguez and Hunter was surprised that he spoke in English, 'Present your case.'

'The prisoner is John Hunter, a British spy. He shot and killed a local citizen, Nikolai Belyayevski at one-twenty today.'

'Prisoner, do you plead guilty or not guilty?'

Hunter was amazed that no evidence of any sort had been produced. It was a complete farce of a trial, 'I have nothing to say, Your Honour.'

'Do you wish to call your ambassador?'

'No, Your Honour.' He knew it would be a complete waste of time. It would only cause the ambassador great embarrassment, and he would know the rules as well as Hunter: if an agent was caught, his country disowned him completely. He had to fend for himself.

'Do you wish to make any statement in your defence?'

'No, Your Honour.'

'Then you leave me little choice. In view of your silence, I must find you guilty of premeditated murder. Since you do not deny that you are a spy, you will be sentenced under the Terrorist Act, and not according to the Brazilian civil code. For an act of terrorism resulting in the death of a Brazilian resident, the penalty is clearly prescribed: death by military firing squad. The sentence will be carried out at dawn tomorrow.'

That was it then. What an ignominious end to a glorious career!

Hunter bore Rodriguez and the judge no malice. They were merely doing their duty. He had been amazed at the judge's command of English and asked his captor about it on the way out.

Rodriguez told him proudly, 'We have a policy of having at least one of our judges trained in every large country overseas. They work there for a number of years and perfect their knowledge of the language, then they come back. We can cover all the major languages of the world.'

'I'm impressed.' He was telling the truth. The English judiciary could learn some salutary lessons from their Brazilian counterparts. When foreigners were brought up before the beak in the UK an interpreter always had to be called in. The criminals always went for the 'No understand' ploy, and so often it worked in their favour.

At police headquarters he was given a large, comfortable, well-lit cell, which surprised him by having included in its furnishings a small table and an upright chair.

Rodriguez told him, 'I must go now to my other duties, Senhor Hunter. You will be comfortable, and I have taken the liberty of ordering a meal for you. Adeus.'

He turned to the desk sergeant, 'Give him anything he wants, within reason, but not his personal possessions! Even here in South America we have heard of these unpleasant little toys.'

Hunter had scarcely settled down when a waiter from a nearby restaurant came in bearing a large metal platter.

The sergeant opened the cell door and allowed the man to put the cloth-covered platter on the table. As well as the food there was a bottle of red wine, which the man opened. He poured a small amount for Hunter to taste.

He knew his wines and appreciated when something was special. He nodded approvingly and the waiter showed him the label. It was Brazilian, but from a single vineyard and was a special reserve, twelve years old. Rodriguez had good taste, and not just for the wine.

The starter was baby squid in a hot, spicy sauce; the main dish roast chicken cooked in a sauce with lots of nuts in it, something which Hunter had never eaten before but appreciated for its unusual flavour and delicacy. There were three vegetables accompanying it. The desert was a bowl of tasty mixed fruit with double cream.

Rodriguez came back at just after eight thirty.

'Well, how are you, Senhor Hunter?'

'I'd be better a few thousand miles from here, but I did enjoy your choice of food and wine.'

'I am glad. I unnerstan' how you feel. You know I had no choice but to arrest you?'

'Of course. Don't blame yourself.'

'Oh, I do not, Senhor, but I envy you your career. My job is the same sort of work but with no glamour. We have quite a record on your life, you know. It seems a shame that such a man should have to die the way you will in the morning.'

'Don't worry about it, Rodriguez. As you said, It's the law of the game.'

'You are right, Senhor. Well, até amanhã.'

'I guess that's what the Spanish call 'Hasta mañana'. I'd have liked to add that to my vocabulary, but it's a little late for that now. As you say, 'Till tomorrow'.'

He slept very well indeed on the hard bed and woke refreshed at four-thirty. The desk sergeant saw that he was awake and offered him a cup of coffee.

'I'll send for your breakfast right away, Senhor. The Capitano will be here at five.'

Hunter asked, 'Can I shave?'

'Sure, Senhor. I will find you an electric shaver.'

He came back with a battery-driven razor. They weren't taking any chances, in spite of the air of camaraderie.

When Rodriguez arrived at five Hunter had eaten well and felt ready for anything. Well – nearly anything. The fact of his impending death had not kept him awake, nor did it worry him now.

He'd played the game too long, staring death in the face for most of the time. It seemed impossible to believe, but the brain became inured to the fear of death after such long exposure to that fear. It was fate, and that was that. He would be prepared for any chance that might come along to escape but was too much of a realist to believe that he could take on the entire Brazilian police force with no weapon and with his hands manacled, and still win.

'Ha, Senhor Hunter, the weather forecast, she is good. A fine day for an execution. Ees a good sign, no?'

'If you're trying to cheer me up, Rodriguez, you'd better choose a different subject or save your breath.'

'We must hurry – the sun will not wait.'

'Where do we go – out into the yard?'

'Oh, no, Senhor. For you we have the best scenery in the world; in the mountains above Rio, at the army execution range. Here, you may wear your watch – the transmitter will not help you now.'

The drive out of Rio would have been pleasant under any other circumstances. The first pale traces of dawn showed over the mountain peaks, giving just enough light for landmarks to be picked out on the hillsides.

Rodriguez chattered on incessantly about his beloved Rio, and continually pointed out items of interest.

They followed the road up into the mountains, first of all traveling through several of the valleys that form the metropolis, connected by tunnels, then ascending steeply a winding mountain road, with a thick forest canopy, made up of cariniana, virola, and jacaratia, but with breathtaking scenic views from some of the bends in the pre-dawn light, before coming to a halt near the summit, close to a wooden hut by a small semi-circular, flattened area.

An ominous-looking post with a large metal ring at the top stood at the far end.

A dozen soldiers under the command of a sergeant and a captain of the militia stood around, smoking and leaning on their rifles.

Rodriguez told him, 'This is the end of the line, Senhor.'

He unlocked the handcuffs. 'At least you can walk as a free man to your death.'

Hunter got out of the car. Without being asked, he walked over to the post and turned, ready.

Rodriguez walked with him.

'Would you like a last cigarette, Senhor?'

Hunter shook his head. He felt no fear of death at that moment – just a cold resignation, but there was no way of knowing whether fear would enter his heart. He wanted it to be over as quickly as possible.

'You are a brave man, Senhor Hunter. I would like to shake your hand.'

Hunter obliged.

'Now, Senhor, I must blindfold you.'

Hunter started to object but Rodriguez interrupted him, 'I'm sorry, Senhor Hunter. I know you would rather face death like a man, but these are young soldiers, who have never killed a man before, and their Capitano is afraid that they could not shoot to kill a man who is looking at them. You could be wounded and die slowly. You will be kind to them, no?'

Hunter shrugged. After all, he would be just as dead either way. Rodriguez tied on the blindfold.

'I will leave your hands free, Senhor, as a special favour. Vai com deus.'

Hunter heard his steps recede and then the commands of the sergeant, lining up the soldiers and bringing them into the aim position.

'Pronto!'

Hunter waited for the final order.

'Atira!'

For a few seconds it sounded as if the whole world was alive with bullets tearing through the air and explosions everywhere.

Hunter stood waiting for the searing metal to rip his body to shreds and send him into the long sleep.

Not one bullet touched him.

He stood amazed, and then his ear told him it was not the sounds of rifle fire he'd heard but the more rapid firing of automatic weapons.

He ripped the blindfold off and could not believe his eyes.

Every soldier in the firing squad and their captain lay dead at their positions.

The sergeant, an old campaigner, had thrown himself behind two of his dead men and was valiantly trying to defend himself.

As Hunter watched, the NCO was hit by a spray of automatic fire that ran the length of his body, fired by a gunman behind the hut.

Rodriguez' men lay around the car and the Capitano himself was sliding down its wing, clutching a throat which had been punctured by two bullets, bloody spurting with each pulse beat over his hands and shirt-front.

'Basta, amigos!'

The shout came from the right and the firing ceased immediately.

From the rocks by the side of the flattened area stepped a well-built man whose face bore the unmistakable traces of Mongol ancestry.

He approached Hunter.

'Zdrastvoitchye, tovarich Hunter.'

'And just who the hell are you?' Hunter felt somehow angry with this man. He'd grown to like Rodriguez in the short time he had known him.

'Just let's say we are friends, comrade. You do not sound as grateful as I would have expected. If it were not for us, you would have gone for the---how do you say it?---vzdor?'

'The kibosh is the word you're looking for.' Hunter had to agree with him.

'Ah, yes, the kibosh. A strange word, but then you have many of them in your English language. It is the slang that is most difficult to master.'

'What's the show in aid of, anyway, and why did you have to kill all these young farm boys? Couldn't you have just held them up and forced them to hand me over, if in fact that was your object?'

'Of course we could. Comrade, but my men have so little chance to practise on live targets and it would have been a shame to miss the opportunity. You must excuse me for a moment - there is little time to lose.'

He called in Russian, 'Andrei Aleksandr, tell the helicopter to come in.'

Hunter looked around him. More than thirty men had now emerged from hiding, all equipped with Russian automatic weapons.

This was crazy, he told himself – he had come here to kill the Russian spymaster, had been caught and was just about to be executed for having done so, and now the Russians were releasing him. It just didn't add up. Had they saved him in order to take him to Moscow for one of those spectacular spy show trials they were so proud of putting on from time to time? There could be no other reason. Looking at the men around him he saw that most of them were natives of the country and must be either locally recruited communists or paid gunmen.

It was full daylight now and a large Mil Mi8 helicopter, fitted with long-range tanks, appeared round the side of the mountain and came in to land on the flat area.

The moment it touched down the door opened.

Though it probably went unheard, the Russian waved to his men and shouted, 'Doss vidanye', then signaled for Hunter to climb aboard with him.

The moment they were seated, and before they had time to pull on the belts the door was shut and they were off.

His new 'friend' said, 'I should relax, if I were you, Mr Hunter. You have a long journey ahead of you before we part company.'

Hunter tried again to pump him for more information but met with only a polite smile and silence.

He lapsed into his own thoughts. At least he was still alive to fight another day. Now he had only three possible adversaries, but they were acting mighty strangely for enemies.

He could only surmise as to their destination. From the angle of the sun it was obvious that they were heading southwest, in the direction of Montevideo, in Uruguay, but that was twelve hundred miles away. It had to be somewhere closer.

He was wrong; the helicopter landed over four hours later at a small helicopter pad near the coast.

They remained on board while the machine was refueled and then took off again, still on the same heading, landing yet again three hours later and repeating the procedure.

Sandwiches and coffee were passed round from time to time, but all Hunter's efforts to ascertain information were in vain. The Russian and the crew remained incommunicado, apart from conversation regarding the running of the aircraft.

Finally, just before seven o'clock in the evening, the Russian pointed out of the window, 'There. Your destination.'

They were about six miles from the city. Hunter could see quite clearly the vast, turbid stream of the Rio de la Plata and the landlocked Bay of Montevideo, the site of the end of the German pocket battleship, Graf Spee, when it was scuttled by its captain after being damaged in the first naval battle of the Second World War by the Royal Navy cruisers Exeter, Ajax and Achilles.

It was a city instantly recognizable, its streets all set out at right angles, and rising, one above another, like terraces.

Now what? He wondered. Russian warships visited here quite regularly. Would he be smuggled on board one and taken to Russia?

The helicopter swung into a small private landing pad on the outskirts and he could see a taxi waiting.

The Russian waved his hand, indicating that Hunter should get out. He held out his hand. In it was an envelope.

'Your air ticket to London, and some spending money. You are booked on the eight-twenty BOAC flight. Udachi!'

Completely stunned by the turn of events, and unable to believe it, Hunter took his hand. 'Good luck to you too, and thanks.'

He expected a bullet in the back, but heard the door close and the revs increase behind him as he walked to the taxi, his mind in a whirl.

The helicopter lifted off and soon became a speck in the evening sky.

Now he was really puzzled: in anybody's book the whole episode was crazy. Things like that never happened - to anyone!

There was only one possible explanation, and that was a bloody thin one: if Belyayevski had been double-crossing Moscow, or had been lining his pockets out of Party funds, and had killed Dalton without reason or permission, it was just, and only just, possible that the Russians would have acted in this way to show that the matter was settled to their satisfaction and that there would be no more killing, hoping that the British would see it their way and play the same game.

The only fly in that particular ointment was that he could not see them deliberately aggravating the Brazilian government in order to do it.

No. That had to be wrong. It made no sense however you looked at it, but there was nothing that he could do about it. He was alive and had an air ticket to London in his hand. The puzzle would have to remain.

Half expecting a shot to come at him from anywhere, he left the taxi, booked in at the BOAC counter and finally got on the plane.

The flight was uneventful and he daydreamed, wondering whether the big air hostess on the PANAM flight would reach London soon enough for their little party.

With that pleasant thought he fell into an untroubled sleep that lasted most of the way across the Atlantic. It had been quite a day.
CHAPTER THREE – THE BANKRUPT WORLD AFFAIR

Nine o'clock the next morning saw him turning into a small mews close to Green Park.

It was a cul-de-sac, lined on both sides with private garages, and at the blind end a telephone kiosk with three metal sides and a glass door that faced the far wall of the mews.

He entered the kiosk after making sure the mews was empty and dialled 'A6' without lifting the receiver.

The duty officer inside headquarters had watched his arrival on the television monitor and pressed a switch.

The floor of the kiosk descended, carrying Hunter down into the reception area of what was the main headquarters underground of the organization known simply as 'The Department' – headed personally by the overlord of the British Secret Service: Rear Admiral Sir Michael Caston R.N.Retd., known throughout the Service as 'MC', 'Big Mike', or, more disrespectfully, as 'The Chief' – a title he detested hearing – depending on the speaker's rank, position, familiarity or physical distance from him at the time of speaking.

The DO greeted Hunter cordially, 'Hello, John. Have a good time in Rio?'

'You might say that.'

'Glad you dropped by. The old boy's been asking to see you. Called three times in the last ten minutes.'

Hunter stepped into another lift and was whisked up into the innermost part of the headquarters. He walked through the outer office, where a pretty girl he didn't recognize sat typing, and knocked at the door.

He walked in, in response to a bellowed, 'Come!'

Hunter liked this room. It was sparsely but comfortably furnished and paneled all round in richly coloured, ornately carved mahogany.

At the far end a large, rather florid man in his late forties, with the unmistakable stamp of the Senior Service, sat behind a beautifully worked mahogany partner's desk.

He looked up irritably, 'Late as usual, Alpha-Six.'

'Better late than never, Sir.'

'Do I take it, Commander, that there is some hidden meaning in that remark?' Sir Michael was as sarcastic as ever.

Hunter narrated the whole story of the previous two days, leaving out only the blonde airhostess.

Sir Michael heard him out in silence, then told him, 'Give the DO details of the landing-pad in Montevideo when you leave the office, and look through our beauty gallery of Russian agents to see if you can recognize any of the crowd that rescued you. Include in your report any small details you think may help. I agree with you that it sounds most unlike the Russians – damn near unbelievable, in fact. Perhaps we've misjudged them all these years.'

He was silent for several moments, watching Hunter carefully, apparently trying to make up his mind about something. At last he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

'I have another assignment for you, Commander, if you are willing to volunteer for it.'

Hunter was puzzled: It was the second time he'd been asked to volunteer; agents were normally detailed.

Sir Michael continued, 'You've been on some tough cases before, but this will be the toughest ever. It is so urgent and top secret that we and our allies are restricting information on it to senior heads and the few agents who will be in the front line, as it were. Only those actively involved and the PM himself will know the codename - 'MSH'.'

We know very little about the organization we're up against, except that the company is perfectly legal, on paper, and is officially listed as the Directorate of Internationally Regulated Gold Exploitation. Naturally, with their love for abbreviations the CIA is calling the company DIRGE, as one would expect.'

Hunter knew Sir Michael's private views on the American secret services.

'It is ostensibly a legitimate private concern, set up three years ago; not listed on any stock exchange, but with offices in every major capital. They deal in the sale of anything from cotton to jet fighters, but, and this is the crux of the matter, they never sell anything unless the payment is in gold. The countries making the purchases are in dire need of the materials that Dirge is offering, and thus they are forced to pay by that method. It has led to some of the smaller countries running short of reserves of that metal. Britain, of course, has refused to allow payment in gold for any but the most necessary materials, but the Bank of England has had to approve it in a few cases where certain rare ores have been needed for special steels and alloys, and for spare parts for machines, such as dialysis and heart machines built abroad. Before anyone in business or government was aware of it, Dirge had cornered all those commodities that are in shortest supply. Another side to their business is the buying up of patent rights to particular important machines and processes, so that every country in the world must pay them in gold for replacement parts for machines under their patent. Whenever a particular material is becoming scarce they corner the whole world supply and then hold the market to ransom. There have even been cases where they have done this and deliberately 'arranged' a world shortage. For quite a while all this was accepted as slightly abnormal, but acceptable, business practice, but they have stepped up their activities to a level which has attracted the attention of all the major powers, and for some time now many attempts have been made to delve behind their 'front' – entirely without success. They seem to know every man we and our allies have. Even the Russians have had no luck with them. Agents from six countries have just disappeared.

In the last year their activities have escalated, and they have engineered via international bankers one currency crisis after another. The pound, the dollar, the mark, the franc and the yen have been under pressure time and time again. One country after another has had to sell reserves to maintain the parity of its currency.

We have little proof but good reason to believe that much of this bullion was purchased by Dirge – through hundreds of banks all over the world.

Their deals continue to force the price per ounce of gold up day by day, and it is not too much to say that they, almost exclusively, were responsible for the 'floating' of gold, after it had remained at a stable thirty-five dollars an ounce for almost forty years.

One other troubling aspect, and it may or may not have anything to do with Dirge, is that there have recently been a great many sudden and unexpected deaths of world leaders and financial experts.

Most of these deaths have been classified as 'natural causes', or 'accidental', but post-mortems have revealed some disturbing facts, with the suspicion of air embolisms in a number of cases.'

'The Russian method of injecting air into the blood stream by pushing the hypodermic up the nostril, so that the entry point can't be found. Most effective and virtually untraceable.'

'Exactly. As you know we have used it ourselves. The PM is extremely worried, and so is the President of the United States. I have been given carte blanche in fighting this menace, which will give you some idea of the seriousness with which the matter is viewed.

Over the three years that Dirge has been openly active, Britain, the USA, Russia and France have lost a considerable portion of their gold reserves in trading with them. Germany, with her policy of 'anything for expansion', has lost almost half hers.

Various governments, including our own, have tried holding out on payments for materials, but since the commodities are unobtainable anywhere else in the world they have always had to pay up eventually.

The first glimmer of light came when Russia attempted to obtain a quantity of dysprosium – a rare earth metal only obtainable from Southern China, after Dirge had insisted on payment in gold. China also demanded the same – or no dysprosium! It was from that moment that we began to try to connect Communist China with Dirge, without, I must add, a great deal of success.' He sighed deeply, 'You can see the danger: they will soon control the global supply of gold, and could cause the greatest financial collapse in the history of the world, far worse than the Wall Street crash. They must be stopped at whatever cost.'

Sir Michael paused to light his pipe. Hunter was all attention.

A large cloud of smoke preceded a contented sigh and the comment, 'Wonderful stuff, this Planter's Punchbowle.' Then, coming back to the matter in hand, he went on, 'We have found a few possible links. For instance, whenever payment is made by any country to Dirge, the gold is transported to the nearest port and placed on a merchant ship, of which that company has more than fifty, all registered in Panama, and all with mainly Chinese crews.

The 'officers' are a motley lot, of all sorts of nationalities. They rarely leave the ships when they are in port, and it has been difficult to get a lead on them.

We have done some long-distance telephotography on them and Scotland Yard and the FBI have checked their 'beauty galleries', with interesting results: every Eurasian officer we have photographed is a dangerous criminal, with a long record of violence in one country or another.

That is all interesting enough in its way, but it does not tie the operation in with the Chinese.

The trouble is that the ships never call at Chinese Communist ports. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the ships have called at ports in every major country in the world except Communist China.

The intelligence networks of many of the free nations have kept watch on the ships for the last eighteen months, and their movements have been plotted.' He flicked a switch on his desk and the picture on the screen was replaced by an illuminated map of the world, showing the normal shipping lanes in blue, and the plots of the Dirge ships in red.

'This is the plot to date. As you see their paths are very different, but there is one place where there is a focal point, here, two hundred miles from the Society Islands, to the northwest of Tahiti. It's a group of eleven tiny atolls, some just a few square yards of sand and coral reef, spread over a hundred square miles, seldom visited by white men and inhabited by just a few natives.

The Americans have sent in three men as traders and all three have disappeared without trace. We have no clear idea of just where the ships stop, except that it is within this circle, which has a radius of thirty-five miles.'

A small area in the Pacific was illuminated with a ring of white light.

'The islands are a long way off the normal shipping lanes, and every one of Dirge's ships which passes this way does so during the hours of darkness. Now, although the ships travel at a steady speed of eight to twelve knots for most of their journeys, for the night during which they pass this point their speed averages out to about four knots.

You will agree that it seems fairly obvious that they stop somewhere during that eight-hour period for at least four hours, and equally obviously they then unload whatever gold they have on board. Their other cargoes are loaded at all sorts of ports, wherever they have warehouse facilities.

Normally, the ships cruise with full lights at night, but for the night during which they are in this area, they switch all of them off.

We have tried tracking them with high-flying aircraft - unfortunately we have no satellite cover in that particular area – but lose them visually as soon as darkness sets in, and each ship uses all-band sweep radar jammers during the night hours while in this area, so we can't pin them down that way. Low-flying aircraft have not been used to avoid arousing their suspicions. We and the Americans have been intercepting their radio transmissions for months, much of it with low grade encryption, which contains details of fuel deliveries and cargo details, but we have a mountain of other intercept material, which has up to now baffled the best brains and computers at Langley and GCHQ. They have not been able to decipher a word of it. The Dirge operators are using one-time pads, and without the masters it is almost a waste of time.

Up to now, every effort to penetrate their organization has met with failure, and several good men from the various counter-espionage agencies have disappeared after being assigned to the job.

There seems to be only one way in which we might be able to infiltrate their organization. Aside from the ships' crews, they recruit most of their men from the world of crime, and this gives us one chance – that is for one of our men to be accepted as a wanted criminal, and be recruited by them.'

Hunter grinned. He knew what was coming and the idea amused him.

Sir Michael watched his expression with obvious relief.

'As it happens, there is at this moment a wanted American gangster lying low in Britain. He is British by birth, looks very much like you, apart from a couple of scars and slight facial differences, and hairstyle. When we are ready he will be arrested quietly and placed in a cell in this building for the duration of this operation.

You will have some minor plastic surgery carried out on your face, and in the meantime you will read this dossier, and memorize it completely.' He held up a file containing over three hundred typed foolscap sheets, 'It is the story of his life, habits, friends and criminal acquaintances, as accurate and complete as we could make it. He is called 'Gat' Slingsby, and his chosen profession is contract killer. He has, according to FBI calculations, at least two hundred murders to his account.

Since, of course, the easiest way of identifying him is by his fingerprints, your prints will be erased and a set of special plastic skin copies of his will be grafted onto your fingers. We have been assured that the graft will last for at least six weeks before the plastic skin starts to separate from your own.

When you have replaced him in his hideout, we will arrange for the newspapers to splash the news that he is in hiding in London, and wait for Dirge to do the rest.

I don't have to tell you how important it is to get to the bottom of this business. We believe that the Dirge organization already owns at least a quarter of the world's reserves of gold bullion, at a conservative estimate. As I said before, with this backing they can cause untold disruption to world trade. It seems obvious that they have not yet achieved their full objectives, and we must stop them before they do.

The worst scenario is that they would be able to force all the currencies of the free world to devalue, perhaps by several hundred per cent, thus making Communist China, if she is indeed behind Dirge, the strongest power in the world, financially speaking.

If that is their intention, then they have not yet begun their big offensive, because the Rand, the Orange Free State, the Canadian, Kalgoorlie and Russian gold mines are still producing at almost peak, and we have been stepping up research into the production of gold from sea water.'

He noticed Hunter's eyebrows lift a fraction.

'I can see you are surprised . You are probably unaware that a Professor Ernst Bayer of Tubingen University, using a chelate polymer of the amino-phenol group, containing sulphur, has already obtained gold from sea water. It is true that it was only 1.4 micrograms from one hundred litres, but the process worked. There is, in fact, approximately one gram of gold in every ton of sea water, and it has been estimated that man could produce over twenty million tons of gold from the waters of the oceans.

Obviously it is an uneconomic process at the moment, and one which may never been seen on a full scale, but Dirge seems to take the matter seriously: we in this country were on the verge of a breakthrough into the production of gold from sea water using chelate polymers when two of the top scientists on the project suddenly disappeared without trace and have not been seen or heard of again.

The most sinister development came last week, when an aircraft carrying eight hundred pounds weight of gold bullion, flying over New England, went off route and disappeared out to sea. A Dirge ship was seen later three hundred and fifty miles off the coast.

We feel they are about to branch out into other more illegal and more violent methods to achieve their ends.'

Hunter used the slight pause to ask a question which had been bothering him for some time, 'If Dirge's trading is legal, why can't they openly declare that it's a Chinese organization and take the gold direct to China? Why drop it off on some godforsaken island in the middle of the South Pacific? Or are the Chinese collecting it by submarine?'

Sir Michael smiled condescendingly, 'They cannot do that. If they did, it would precipitate open hostilities. As a matter of fact, so that they do not make an effort to remove the gold to the Chinese mainland, the leaders of the United States and the Kremlin are to make simultaneous announcements over the radio this week, accusing the Chinese of interfering with the money markets by manipulating currencies. They will both threaten that if China is proved to have made one attempt to interfere with other currencies it will be regarded as an act of open aggression, and the other nations will take whatever countermeasures are necessary, including direct force. For once, we and the Russians have a joint aim.

That should stop them from attempting to take the gold back to the mainland, at least long enough to give you a chance to get some sort of lead.

So that we know where you are at all times, a small radio beacon will be grafted under your scalp. The false hair, attached to the transmitter, is in fact a powerful aerial. Your watch transmitter will be left here, and you are not to attempt to communicate with us in any way, unless it is absolutely vital. You may be contacted from time to time by agents of other intelligence networks. The passwords are: 'Have you ever used a dogsled?' The answer, 'Yes, it's mush, mush, all the way.'

Sir Michael read the disdain in Hunter's expression. 'Yes, it is a trifle trite, but the Americans insisted, and you know how it is these days---'

Hunter did. On a combined operation the British were very much the poor relation.

'Now, Commander, are you prepared to take the assignment, and have you any questions before I hand you over to the research boffin?'

'Yes, and no, Sir.' He paused for a second and then added, 'Or perhaps there is one question.'

'Yes?'

'What's Chinese for 'gold'?'

Sir Michael smiled and pressed the buzzer to the outer office, 'I thought you'd never ask – 'huangjin' – but then you already knew that, of course.'

Almost immediately the door opened and a little round man of about fifty bustled into the room – a man of open, ingenuous countenance, with laughing brown eyes and cheeks as downy and rosy as a peach in the full ripeness of September. The laughter lines at the corners of the mouth and eyes bore witness that the smile he wore was an old and trusted friend. When he spoke the soft Aylesbury drawl made the perfect complement to the figure.

'Ah, Mr Hunter!' He had long ago won his fight with authority over his refusal to use code numbers. He was indispensable and they knew it. His obstinacy in this respect was a continual thorn in their side, but in spite of cajolery, threats and pleas he continued to use names, even addressing Big Mike as 'Mr. Caston'.

'Nice to see you again, Sir.'

'And you, Tibbins. How's the missus?'

'Fine, thank you, Sir. If you'll just come down to the workshop I'll show you what we've got for you.'

With an almost imperceptible whine the lift whisked them quickly down to the big workroom. Hunter's rotund companion picked up some footwear from the first bench.

'Rather special gadgets for you this time, Mr Hunter, in line with the requirements of the mission. We'll start with the shoes, the left one first. By taking it off and pressing the welt inwards from both sides, the bottom comes off in one piece to reveal a throwing knife and fifty yards of exceedingly strong but very fine wire, strong enough to bear the weight of a man. The heel unscrews, and if the wire is slotted in here, can be used as a slider, with built-in braking system. To apply the brake, just twist the heel at right-angles to the wire, like this.' Tibbins went through the procedure. 'Inside the heel and held firmly in place by this wing-nut is a small plastic explosive device with fuse and detonator, powerful enough to sink a ship or blow up a tank if correctly placed. Quite safe unless you join the red and black wires and set the dial.'

His grin became expansive, 'They tell me that it's foolproof, but it hasn't been tested in the field before. Don't join the wires before setting the dial, Sir. The results would be rather messy.'

'I'll try to remember.'

'The right shoe has five hidden poison darts, which shoot out one at a time from the toe if the back of the heel is struck hard on the ground twice in quick succession. There is a three-second delay after the second strike, to enable you to aim the dart.

He placed the shoe on his own foot and demonstrated. A dart shot out at the toe and impaled itself in the chest of a full-size man target hanging on the wall almost ten yards away. The efficacy of the weapon was immediately obvious.

This heel also unscrews and contains fifty tiny magnetic VHF radio beacons.'

He took one of the small beacons from the metal bench and placed it underneath, where it remained when he withdrew his hand.

'The soles of both shoes are made of leather-covered sprung steel and the edges are killing weapons of the highest order.'

He brought the edge of the left shoe down sharply on a foot-long piece of four-by-two timber, lying across two bricks. The wood parted as though struck by an axe.

Hunter was impressed. He would have to ask for that particular item to be issued as standard equipment to all agents.

Tibbins paused and picked up a sports jacket of typical American tourist check so loud that it almost screamed.

'Try this on for size, Sir.'

Hunter did so, wincing.

'Slingsby's taste in clothes is a little more flamboyant than your own, Sir. Is it a good fit?' As he spoke he half turned and now, as if from nowhere a Colt .357 Magnum had appeared in his hand, the barrel pointing unwaveringly at Hunter's chest.

Without further preamble he pulled the trigger six times.

Hunter had no time to move. The room echoed and re-echoed to the sound of the shots, fired at almost point-blank range, directly at him.

He felt the bullets strike his left breast as his body was thrown backwards and thought, 'So this is it. This is what it feels like---funny, I can still think---I seem to be standing here, and yet I must be dead. In a moment or two I'll be able to look down at my own dead body as I take off for the hereafter.'

Tibbin's smile had reached ear-to-ear proportions.

'How do you feel, Sir?'

For the second time in twenty-four hours Hunter's nostrils were assailed by the reek of cordite. His ears were pounding. So, strange to say, was his heart, which by rights should have stopped.

'I'm not sure. Bruised, definitely, but still alive.'

'Sorry about the histrionics, Mr Hunter, but in this case it was necessary to prove to you the efficacy of the material. This was the first time that it has been tested on a human being. It is much stronger than Kevlar and twenty times as expensive.'

'Charming, absolutely charming.'

Hunter put his hand under the jacket and massaged the area around his heart. He was going to be sore and bruised for several days, but it was a damned sight better than being dead.

'To complete your equipment, Sir, and this is my pièce de résistance, if I may say so, we have your motorcycle.'

Hunter's eyebrows shot up, 'Motorcycle?'

'Yes, Sir.' Tibbins led him over to a large black machine.

'Every man in Dirge, apart from the ordinary seamen, is issued with a motorcycle. All are of the same make and size, and all have the same standardized Dirge equipment.

Each man maintains his own machine and takes it with him wherever he goes around the world. All their operations on land are carried out using the machines; never, unless large amounts are to be carried, are cars, vans or lorries used. You, also, we hope, will be issued with one. As soon as we can, we shall arrange to exchange the one issued to you by Dirge for this machine, which I call 'Darling'.'

'Any particular reason?'

Tibbins looked embarrassed, 'Ah, yes. It was originally intended to be convertible into an autogyro, so – 'Drivable autogyro with retractable---'

Hunter guffawed, 'I'm bloody pleased you changed your mind! Flying motorbikes? What the hell next?'

'Yes, Sir, but it is not as far fetched as you might imagine. The prototype we built flew almost a quarter of a mile.'

'Before it crashed?'

Tibbins looked offended, 'Well, yes, but the principle is sound. It was decided not to attempt to convert this one, so with this you are earthbound.'

'So glad to hear it.'

'Now to details: this machine looks identical to the Dirge machines and even a close scrutiny of it would not reveal the differences. Your additional equipment is hidden behind the surface metal, and is operated by switches that are concealed beneath this metal cover behind the headlight. The cover can only be opened by twisting the front brake lever through 180 degrees from its normal position. In order to do this you must exert a pressure of over fifteen pounds to overcome a spring-loaded device, which is to stop the cover being opened inadvertently.' He demonstrated. 'With the cover open you will see these switches, which have protective covers. The first controls two forward-firing point three caliber machine-guns. The second must be twisted clockwise through 360 degrees to operate it. It feeds a heavy, extremely lethal poison gas into the exhaust pipe, in case you are being followed by any rather awkward opposition. I need hardly point out that it is inadvisable to use it while standing still.

The machine is fitted with the normal Dirge-type radio, tuned to their frequency, but yours, by holding down this third button, will transmit on a different frequency and scramble your transmissions. Only use the scrambler in extreme emergency. The usual Dirge grenades are carried in the tool compartment, and their standard dismantled, high-powered, infra-red-sighted rifle is below the tank. Now, if you'll give me your watch, Sir.'

Hunter handed it over with some reluctance. It was an old Rolex Oyster in a stainless-steel case and had been through many a battle with him. He had got used to it over the years and felt almost that he was saying goodbye to an old and trusted friend.

Tibbins handed over an Omega automatic calendar watch, new, but carefully made to look as if it had been worn for some time, by the addition of tiny scratches in the glass. It was a handsome stainless-steel timepiece, with matching strap.

'This is a quite ordinary watch, Sir, except for one small detail. The winder, which looks like stainless steel, is in fact a plastic capsule containing deadly poison. One bite and you're dead. Just in case.' He paused at last for breath, then finished, 'Well, Sir, any questions?'

'I'll let you know how effective it is if I ever have to use it, Tibbins. You know, you'll soon be making my friend James jealous.'

'Well, we can't send you out with less toys than the double-Os, Sir, can we? If there's nothing else, perhaps you'd be so good as to report to the transport section. They will make the arrangements for your conveyance to the hospital.'
CHAPTER FOUR – REFLECTION OF A KILLER

Six hours later Hunter was lying in a private room in a clinic, looking like the victim of a multiple car crash.

The journey to the clinic had been in a closed car, and his arrival had been unobserved and unannounced. The operations to give him the scar on the cheek, the facial padding and the transmitter implant were carried out within two hours of his arrival. The plastic fingerprint grafts followed.

Now he lay in bed, his fingers strapped down onto plastic plates so that he could not move them, and his arms strapped tightly to long splints. Someone had dressed him in a pair of pajama trousers three sizes too big for him. His chest was bare.

The doctor had made sure that he was comfortably installed in bed and was about to leave. Hunter saw him grin as he said, 'Stay with him, nurse, and give him anything he wants.'

He turned again at the door and winked at Hunter. 'Enjoy yourself, and remember, no violent movements with your facial muscles.'

As the door closed behind him, the nurse walked to the window.

She was a very shapely blonde, with wide-open, baby blue eyes and a wide, full-lipped, sensual mouth under a pert little snub nose.

Hunter thought that it was a long time since he had seen such an attractive girl. She must have been twenty-eight or –nine and in the very bloom of life.

The almost ethereal sunlight of early evening, streaming through the thin material of her uniform, allowed him to see her full contours; the cheeky uptilted breasts, not restricted by any invention of man.

He asked, 'Who put these pajama trousers on me?'

She grinned, 'Why? Don't you like them?'

'I haven't worn pajamas since I left school, and these are most uncomfortable.'

She needed no second bidding, 'Well, Doctor Liddle did say, 'anything'. I'll take them off again if you like.'

She came across the room like a cat approaching a bowl of cream and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

She leant down over his body, her face only inches from his. The uniform fell slightly open at the neck. He'd been right – she wore nothing underneath.

Slowly she pulled the bed coverings from his body. He arched his back as she slipped the pajama trousers down over his legs, the erection that had begun as he'd watched her in the sunlight becoming iron hard as she looked at his groin.

'My, you are a big boy, aren't you?'

She leant closer, and he detected the faint sweetness of her perfume. He tried to place it. Was it a Lancôme? No, too light. Ah, yes. Now he had it: Estee Lauder. He remembered a little brunette at the Chez Barbillon in Vancouver, and a hot summer night---how long ago was it?

He was not allowed to think about the brunette for long. The girl brushed her lips over his, very gently, before closing them firmly over his mouth, her tongue working furiously.

He felt her unbutton her tunic and felt her firm, naked breasts against his chest. It was a long moment before she withdrew slightly.

He gestured at his strapped-down arms and grinned, 'I'm afraid you'll have to help yourself.'

She stood up and the tunic slid to the floor. The sunlight behind her made a golden halo of her hair---

Twelve days later a closed Daimler collected him at eleven in the evening and drove him back to Headquarters. He was taken to an interrogation room and brought face to face with his double.

It was like looking into a mirror. The resemblance was startling.

Hunter's hairstyle had been altered, and with the facial padding and scar he now looked as dissolute and menacing as the man opposite.

He grinned amiably and received a scowl in response.

Slingsly was slightly heavier and out of condition, but otherwise his mother would not have been able to tell which was her son.

Hunter greeted the gangster with, 'How do you do, brother?'

'Go fuck yourself.' There was a slight trace of the Bronx overlying Slingsby's original English accent. He had been in the States for twelve years.

Hunter deliberately copied the accent, 'How's Mum?'

'Aaaah, shaddap!' Slingsby was obviously disgusted at his luck.

Hunter nodded to the jailers. 'I think that's enough; he doesn't seem to like himself very much.'

The gangster was led away and Hunter went back upstairs.

Sir Michael looked him over and nodded his approval. 'Now, Alpha Six, I don't have to repeat how important this is; you are our only chance. In the last ten days two more agents, one Russian, the other American, have gone missing. It is going to be extremely dangerous and you may not come out of it alive. Use your transmitter only if you have the whole case cracked and can clear the business up with one transmission. Best of luck.'

That was the nearest the Chief had ever come to emotion as far as Hunter knew. Normally he didn't bother to wish an agent luck. It was just a job, like any other, and if the job was killing a couple of human pests or being killed oneself, so what?

The Motor Transport section looked deserted, but a driver emerged from the dimly lit office and led him to a closed Ford Thames van.

'Climb aboard, Sir. Soon have you there.' Hunter groaned inwardly. Just his luck to have one of the gregarious types.

He was wrong, however. As they drove through the night, the driver, used to transporting agents, made no attempt at conversation.

Hunter appreciated it. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

He was not worried that he could be headed for sudden death or long, lingering pain, but he wanted to consider all the possible angles of the case again.

A portion of his brain registered the glare of the West End neon signs. It noticed when the transition came to poorly lit streets with almost no traffic, and made him look at his surroundings with more interest.

The van turned right into yet another drab-looking East End road.

Even in the insufficient, weak light thrown by the few grime-encrusted street lamps he could see that not a lick of paint had gone on any of the houses for years. It was a road where no woman would dare to walk alone at night.

Peeling stucco, faded curtains, and brickwork in desperate need of re-pointing, all covered in thick layers of smoky grime. The pattern was recurrent.

He thought of the people who lived there – mean little people in mean little houses, working out their mean little lives – the high-spots of the week a pint and a fag in the local, beating up the missus, and checking the pools on Saturday nights. He shuddered.

Halfway down the road the driver pointed to a dingy tenth-rate boarding house on the left-hand side, exactly like all the other drab houses in this drab street.

'That's yours, mate, third floor right. Number seventeen. All his clothes, false passport and so on are still there. I'll drop you round the corner.'

The van turned right and then right again into a warehouse entrance, and came to a halt behind a tall brick wall.

Hunter said, 'Thanks.' and got out. He walked stealthily to the entrance and made a careful observation of the street.

Not even an alley cat to be seen.

He emerged from the entrance and walked slowly and watchfully to the corner, where he paused to look at his watch. A quick glance told him that this street, also, was just as deserted. He walked quickly to the boarding house and pushed the front door open.

His foot had scarcely touched the mat when a side door, its long-faded blue paint flaking off around the panels, opened, and a slovenly grey-haired woman of about fifty appeared.

A cigarette-end drooped from thin, pinched-up lips, and a tatty, filthy grey housecoat, three of its four buttons missing, tried in vain to cover a faded cotton dress which bore clearly the crumpled, dirty appearance of having doubled as a nightdress for over a fortnight. He could distinctly smell stale urine and sweat behind the stench of the tobacco. The woman obviously saved on soap.

The apparition spoke, 'Oh, it's you, is it? You know you're a week behind with your rent. I don't want the likes of you in my place. This is a respectable establishment, I'll have you know, and---'

Hunter snarled, 'Aaaaah, shaddap!' and she withdrew quickly, slamming the door behind her.

He grinned. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

Room seventeen was exactly as he'd visualized it – a Victorian bed with springs that would wake the entire neighborhood every time he turned over; a broken-down rattan wooden chair and an oak-veneered chest of drawers that had seen far better days, with the inevitable floral-patterned Victorian wash-basin and jug on top of it – the only contribution to personal hygiene. The wallpaper, forty years ago a bright rose and tulip pattern, hung in muddy-grey strips, small pieces of plaster adhering to it, and the once-white ceiling was an uneven yellowish brown from the thousands of cigarettes that had been smoked in the room over the years. Hitler and his Luftwaffe had a lot to answer for in missing this street.

Hunter switched the light out, walked to the window and looked out into the night. No ledge and no fire escape – good. A flat-topped building twenty feet away gave a good line of fire into the room. He'd have to watch that. He looked down. It was a sheer drop to the concrete pavement below. No way out but the door, then.

He drew the tatty curtains and began to search systematically through the criminal's belongings. Slingsby must have been short of money. Three crumpled pound notes were all that had been found in his wallet, and underneath a pile of shirts Hunter found one twenty-dollar bill. Otherwise nothing.

Slingsby's gun now resided in a shoulder holster around Hunter's body. It was a good weapon – a Luger P08 automatic, very similar to his own, but slightly heavier. He wondered how many deaths it had caused. Slingsby was a syndicate killer. Had he really successfully completed the huge number of contracts they attributed to him in his twelve years in the United States? Two hundred plus? That was one every three weeks. It just didn't seem possible. Still, there were eighteen hundred murders a year in New York City alone. Slingsby could have had a field day there without leaving the city. What puzzled him was the shortage of money. Surely the man ought to be worth a million for what they paid for a contract over there. Possibly the States had a similar law as the UK, restricting the amount of money you could take out of the country with you. Or maybe Slingsby was a heavy, compulsive gambler.

His mind occupied with such matters, he turned the key in the lock and went to bed.
CHAPTER FIVE – TILL FOREVER DARLING

The next morning every national daily carried the headlines concerning Slingsby's presence in the United Kingdom:

'American killer in hiding in London', 'Scotland Yard in big manhunt', 'Multiple murderer at large', and many more. All carried photographs.

Hunter, wearing dark glasses and Slingsby's grey fedora, bought a selection. As he re-entered the guesthouse he saw the side door open half an inch and detected a movement through the gap. The opposition would know within a very short space of time that he was here. These landladies would sell their mothers, their brothers or their souls for a bottle of stout!

He went upstairs and lay down on the bed.

It was ten to one when the door burst open. He'd heard them coming up the stairs but pretended to be asleep.

He 'woke up' and turned towards the doorway.

Two 'hoods' stood framed there, each holding an automatic pistol, pointed unwaveringly at his chest.

He ran a mental tape measure over them, under a cloak of apparently casual disinterest.

They were both big men; one an ex-boxer, whose punch-drunk, jaundiced eye flickered continually in time with little twitches of the head and shoulders. His nose must once have been normal, but was now an almost flat blob on his face, broken, Hunter guessed, many times and not re-set once. His ears were misshapen and they, and his face, were covered in purple blotches due to capillary damage. The violent canary-yellow tie he sported did nothing to help him blend into anonymity.

The other man, slightly taller, was obviously in charge. His wide-shouldered, Manhatten check jacket was just outdone by the hand-painted three-inch-wide tie. From the colour of his complexion he was a lifetime heavy drinker.

Hunter reflected that they were not the well-trained, efficient men he had been led to expect from Dirge.

'Okay, mug, on your feet!' The larger of the two snarled. 'The boss has been waiting to plant you in the river for ten years, ever since you knocked off his brother in Louisville.'

Oh, no! Hunter's mind started to race – it was the wrong opposition. He stood up. This was unexpected, but he was on his own and had no option to do as he was told.

Expert fingers frisked him and relieved him of the Luger. The men might not be top quality, but they had done this sort of job before and were not taking chances.

'March!' Ordered the big man, 'And no tricks, or I'll plug ya, instead o' givin' the boss the pleasure.'

The little cavalcade moved down the stairs and out to the big black Chevrolet waiting at the kerb. As they passed the side door downstairs the 'punchie' pushed two banknotes under the door.

At the kerb Hunter turned his head and saw again behind the tattered lace at the downstairs window that sallow complexion common to those who consume too little sunlight and fresh air, and too much 'mother's ruin'.

Well, good luck to her this time. She'd done her part well, as expected, and could have a drink at his expense. He just hoped it would not be a funeral toast.

The Chevvy sighed softly away from the kerb and headed into the traffic. The whole time the larger man's gun was pointing directly at Hunter's head. The other man sat next to the driver, twitching gently every few seconds.

They'd traveled about a mile and had entered a better-class district, with large modern blocks of hotels and offices, re-built from the rubble of the Blitz, when the driver said, 'I think we've got a tail. A green Jag has been behind us for several blocks.'

The man with the gun glanced behind without moving the point of aim half an inch. He growled, 'Try to lose him.'

The next five minutes were hectic. The driver took side turnings on two wheels, shot traffic lights on red and drove down a one-way street the wrong way, to the absolute consternation of two motorists, a motor-cyclist and half a dozen cyclists coming in the opposite direction.

They went all ways. One of the cars, an old Morris 1000 shooting brake, ended up on the pavement, its nose buried in the shop window of a haberdasher's, its seventy-three year old lady driver almost having a fit..

The cyclists, having weaved all over the place to avoid the Chevrolet, had barely regained their composure when the Jaguar, an almost new Mark Ten in British racing green, shot down the street the wrong way, faster than the first car.

This time, the motorcyclist hurtled over the kerb and rammed a flower stall on the pavement, knocking the whole lot over into the gutter, just in time for two of the cyclists to run into it. One of them, an Irish night porter at St Mary's hospital, had been pub-crawling since they opened and was more than four sheets in the wind. As he sat in the midst of the wreckage, the last of the flowers – a large bunch of Arum lilies – landed in his lap.

He gazed down at them in a drunken stupor, uncomprehendingly, for a few seconds. Suddenly light dawned; a beatific grin creased his features as he slurred, 'Ah, sure, Holy Mother o' Jaysus! Oi've been sent for!'

A third cyclist fell off in the middle of the road. The green Jag went round him on the pavement, causing pedestrians to dive left and right – one of them diving through the window of a restaurant, straight into a plate of minestrone being consumed by a very quick-tempered Italian gentleman, who, far from being pleased by this delivery of extra meat ration, jumped to his feet and, forgetting that he had left the old country behind, went into the most beautiful string of original Roman oaths that the proprietor of the establishment had heard since his wife – a Neapolitan lady of doubtful reputation, whom he had married in a drunken mist during the VE celebrations in Rome – had left home to run a brothel with her two sisters.

Pandemonium reigned. As the Jaguar emerged from the one-way street behind them the big man in the Chevvy swore.

They took a sharp right turn round a blind corner and then bounced straight down into an underground garage below an hotel.

The car stopped abruptly. Both men in the front of the car drew their pistols and crouched lower in their seats.

Four or five minutes passed without a sign of the other car.

Hunter asked, 'May I have a last cigarette?'

'Okay, but no tricks!'

He took the case from his inside pocket and opened it. He proffered the case to the big man. As he did so, he pressed a hidden spring in the lid.

A jet of ammonia hit the man in the eyes. At the same instant, Hunter dived sideways at the door. The pistol spewed four shots where he had been sitting.

The big man was clawing at his eyes with his left hand, the right pumping bullets from the gun, and all the time swearing viciously.

Hunter was out of the door and running for the service stairs, dodging between parked cars. Bullets followed his progress, and he felt himself hit several times in the back, but the bulletproof material took the sting out of them.

He made the stairs and took them three at a time. Reaching the fourth floor he raced to the end of the corridor.

Damn! The first door was locked, but he had more luck with the second. He went in, closing the door behind him.

He found himself in a woman's apartment – the feminine touch was evident everywhere. There was fine lace on the sideboard and ornate velvet cushions scattered on the sofa. Deep pile sheepskin rugs lay on top of an expensive wall-to-wall carpet in old gold. A good copy of a Dégas, or possibly even an original, hung on one wall. It was obvious that this was no hotel room.

The lady must be stinking rich and had the suite as a permanent apartment. He detected a faint trace of perfume and recognised it instantly as Madame Rochat. The lady obviously had taste.

He quickly crossed the room and, pulling aside the heavy velvet drapes of a niche used for hanging clothes, stepped inside and let the curtain fall back into place.

He'd scarcely done so when the door at the far end of the room opened and Venus herself came into the room.

She was wearing nothing but a smile! A radio in the next room was playing Sinatra's version of 'Nancy with the Laughing Face' and she was humming the tune to herself, her body swaying slightly in time to the music, her full, moist lips slightly apart.

He watched her approaching through the small gap at the side of the curtain.

She moved with such grace that he thought she must have royal blood in her veins – head erect, perfectly-formed stomach drawn in, and firm young breasts thrown out proudly, their rose-pink nipples finely drawn. She was, he guessed, twenty-two or three.

Her hair shone like burnished gold and she seemed to be entirely at home in her nakedness.

He realised that she was coming to the niche.

As she pulled the curtain aside he grabbed her – one hand round her waist and the other over her mouth. He pulled her into the niche and let the curtain fall to behind her.

She was struggling violently.

He whispered urgently, 'I won't hurt you. Please keep very still. I'm in great danger!'

Her struggles ceased and he took his hand from her mouth. She was toxically exciting, so close. Femininity exuded from every pore – and every pore was open!

He still held her tightly and she breathed, 'If it's a 'line' it's the best one I've ever heard, and I don't thing that thing poking into me is a gun. Wouldn't it be more comfortable on the settee?'

Her voice was husky, like hot molasses, and she was breathing rapidly.

He had no time to answer – the words were hardly out of her moth when the outer door crashed open. They heard the two gangsters talking.

'But, Joe, this is the only door open! He must be here!'

'We got no time to search - gotta get outa here in a hurry – spray the room!'

Automatic weapons clattered and bullets thudded into the niche where they were hiding. The big man crossed the room, kicked open the inner door and sprayed bullets all over the bedroom. He looked in the bathroom and out onto the window-ledge.

'No one here! Let's go!'

The door slammed to behind them.

Hunter started to speak to the girl then realised she had gone limp in his arms. Her head lolled lifelessly to one side.

His fingers on her back felt warm and sticky.

Gently, he carried her out and laid her on the sofa.

Even in death she was gorgeous. He took a mink fur coat from the niche and covered her with it. He felt, momentarily, that deep sense of futility and red-hot burning anger that came to him every time some innocent was slain as a result of his activities.

He kissed the beautiful forehead, murmured, 'Till forever, darling', and turned away.

He inched the door open and peered out. As far as the end of the corridor the coast was clear. He pussyfooted along one wall and peered round the corner. Neatly laid out five feet away were the bodies of the two hoods, their necks obviously broken. He made as if to turn back, sensing rather than hearing a tiny movement behind him, and the world fell on his head!

There was a split-second of excruciating pain, and then beautiful, releasing blackness.
CHAPTER SIX – MAKEPEACE THE MENACE

Eons later, the whirling concentric circles of uneven, multi-coloured agony through which Hunter's tortured mind stumbled and staggered towards consciousness gradually smoothed and lost momentum. His eyelids flickered open. Immediately, blazing stars exploded in his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut again.

An educated, well-modulated voice penetrated the waves of pain.

'Ah, I see you have decided to join us at last, Mr Slingsby. A pleasure, I'm sure. Do allow me to introduce myself. My name is Aurelius Makepeace.'

'What the hell did you hit me with?'

'I really must apologise for Boris, here. He does not know his own strength. Drink this, you will soon feel much better.'

Hunter felt a glass pushed into his hand. He drank the contents down to the last drop.

It must have been a powerful painkiller – he began to feel better within seconds.

He opened one eye experimentally. No shooting pains. He opened the other – nothing but a dull ache.

He was sitting in a comfortable armchair. Before him and off to one side stood a big, muscular ape of a man – hairy and obviously of Mongol extraction. His complexion was almost yellow under the leathery skin. The squat, broad-based nose and almost slanting eyes over the heavy lips gave the face a most unprepossessing appearance. The whole was thatched with shocks of jet-black hair.

The thing Hunter noticed most, however, were the Russian's hands.

The skin on the edges below the little fingers were hard and horny. Calluses covered the fingers.

He recognised the signs: this man practiced hard and long at Karate. Those hands were killing weapons as deadly as a knife.

The Russian stood immobile, an almost vacuous expression on his unlovely face, waiting no doubt for his master's next command.

Immediately in front of Hunter sat a mountain of flesh. The man appeared to be in his early fifties.

The first thing that struck Hunter was the immediate impression of vast power. He had a most uncomfortable feeling – one he had not known since his schooldays. He felt insignificant beside this man – almost overawed. He tried to pull himself together – it must have been the knock on the head, he thought. It was the more strange since he was a destroyer, not a venerator, of false idols.

Nevertheless, the feeling remained, and was to stay with him in spite of himself. The man must have an aura. Hunter had read of such things, but never before experienced it. The man must be a living mountain of mental vitality, discharging almost measurable quantities of psychic electricity into the atmosphere around him.

His appearance certainly did not impress. Hunter thought that he could never remember having set eyes on a more saturnine countenance.

The body was ugly – squat, blunt legs and washerwoman's arms – the neck almost non-existent. And it was fat. No, he thought, not fat. What was the expression the Department's doctor had used on him when he put on ten pounds after a spell in hospital, following the Rhodes affair? Ah, yes. 'Bloody well obese!'

The man in front of him was obese. Hunter tried to estimate his height. Five foot two? Three? Certainly not more than five five. His girth must have been all of fifty inches. And yet, strangely, he seemed to be in the very pink of condition. His little round, almost black piggy eyes shone brightly, and his skin had a radiantly healthy glow. Crow-black hair sleeked back over a high forehead seemed incongruous over the equally black but unusually bushy eyebrows.

He was smiling – a set, frozen smile with big, flabby lips drawn back, showing a mouthful of gold teeth. Hunter realised, almost with a start, that they were all gold. The man hadn't a natural tooth in his head. It was not a pleasant smile, but authoritarian and malign.

The golden half-moon that was his mouth dangled beneath a nose that could only be described as a disaster. It seemed to be wider at the top than at the nostrils, and narrowed in the middle, where it had obviously been badly broken and incorrectly re-set. The jaw line and chin were remarkably firm for such a big man.

Hunter looked again at the body and realised he had been wrong – it was not flabby. This mountain of flesh was obviously extremely fit.

There was no trace of grey in the hair and, more importantly, no lines on the face and neck. The man could be as young as thirty-five or as old as sixty. It was impossible to tell.

Hunter tried to guess at Makepeace's background. Where had he come from, this powerhouse of dynamism, this huge man-mountain of a master-criminal? It was unlikely that he was a Eurasian, unless of mongrel parentage. That he was not English, behind that impeccable Oxford accent, was a certain fact.

He was too dark-skinned to be Scandinavian, but had no Latin blood in him either. Perhaps an exiled Russian Jew from one of the Far Eastern states? That he was a formidable force was obvious. The Chi-coms trusted no one, not even each other. And yet this man, if Sir Michael was right, had their complete confidence.

As he sat in the chair opposite, Hunter had the impression of a mountainous black leech, waiting to suck him, and the world, dry. He would not have been surprised to see a trickle of blood at the corner of the mouth, running down onto the carpet.

Makepeace's hands were like hams, but with no trace of hair, and he had on the second finger of his right hand a huge gold ring. The band was over half an inch wide and on top the flat, finely tooled surface was embossed with a large letter 'M' in white gold.

A slight movement on the extreme right made Hunter turn his head. For the second time in a few seconds he registered surprise.

In the corner, dressed in a one-piece, white, tunic-type garment, stood a tiny Chinese man, no more than three feet tall. On his face was an expression of unalloyed hero-worship. His little almond eyes almost devoured his master's body.

Hunter could not resist it, 'Who's that?'

Makepeace moved his eyes from their assessment of Hunter for a brief second to throw a glance at the little man.

'My constant companion. He cannot hear, neither can he talk. He is the perfect 'alter ego'. For good and sufficient reasons I call him Um Lei Tung.'

Hunter had great difficulty in keeping a straight face. 'I get it! Some kinda diversion, huh?' The deaf mute's doting gaze was fixed on the lower portion of his master's anatomy, and the way he constantly ran his little pink tongue over his round, fleshy lips left Hunter in no doubt as to what kind of diversion he was.

Hunter hoped, but wasn't sure, that he had got under Makepeace's

skin with the remark, but whether that caused the change in direction or not he would never know.

Makepeace decided there would be no more small talk.

'You are probably wondering why you were brought here and why you have been treated so roughly. The second question is easy to answer. You have a reputation for being, shall we say, a rather dangerous man, and we had no wish to take any chances with you. I do apologize for the treatment you received, but I think it was less potentially dangerous than that which the two other gentlemen who were following you had in mind.'

'You can say that ag---'

'To get on,' Makepeace cut him off in mid-sentence, 'with the explanation of why you are here. I should, first of all, explain my interest in your abilities. I am head of an organization dealing in gold bullion and many other commodities. It will, in the very near future, be the largest and most important trading organization in the world. Our profits will be astronomical. Already we control all the scarcest commodities. You may wonder why we should be interested in your talents, since we are, outwardly at least, a respectable trading organization.

Our methods are, shall we say, just a trifle unorthodox. Unorthodox to the extent that, when it becomes necessary to 'eliminate' competitors, we find that your methods of achieving that end are the most effective and certainly the most permanent. Also, although we maintain an aura of respectability, the organization has a great deal about it which must remain a secret to the world's police forces and security services. Hence, we employ exclusively crim---er, gentlemen of the underworld.'

Hunter was sure the slip was intentional.

'Gentlemen like yourself, who are not only much safer under our aegis, but who are not likely to want to leave our employ and run the risk of being captured or worse by the police.

There are only two conditions of employment: one, you may not leave us until we tell you that you are free to go - on pain of death; two, you may communicate with no one on the outside, again on pain of death. Before you complain at an imprisonment which you did not and do not want, let me explain at once that there are also advantages – distinct advantages – in working for us.

Firstly, we guarantee that your term of employment will not exceed two years. At the end of that time, if you have fulfilled your duties to our satisfaction, you will be given a gratuity of two hundred and fifty thousand American dollars in gold or, if you prefer, in any currency you desire, and a passport and free passage to any country in the world. Secondly, during the term of your employ, you will live in the lap of luxury. Your every need will be supplied.' He sneered slightly, 'I understand that you are something of a ladies' man. I can assure you that we can cater for your appetite and tastes, however perverted and bizarre they may be.'

Hunter reflected on pots calling kettles black, but said nothing.

'You will, like all our men, undergo a course of training at one of the special establishments we maintain for that purpose. Thereafter, you will live on board one of our ships as a ship's officer. There is no need to worry on that account – you will have no shipboard duties – we have experts to run the vessels. The only time you will come ashore will be to carry out a 'contract', as you so quaintly call it.

Each of our 'representatives' has his own motorcycle, which he must maintain himself, and on which he must become expert. Have you ever done any motorcycling, Mr Slingsby?'

'Yeah, some, I guess.'

'Very well. I will leave you now, but we will meet again very soon, when your initial training has been completed.'

He oozed off the chair, and only then did Hunter realize just how much bulk he carried around with him.

The man really was huge – probably well over twenty stone – and yet, as he moved away, there was something almost feline in his gait.

He moved with seemingly effortless ease, and Hunter could not help revising his first impression of a leech. From behind he resembled a spider; a great, hulking money-spider. The little 'fly' followed closely behind his lord.

The gorilla who had previously hit Hunter said, 'Okay, we go now.' in a thick Slav accent.

'Certainly, Doris, me auld darlin.' Hunter told him, hitting him with the triple Karate blow – the side of the right hand slashing at the throat, the fingers of the left hand dug straight into the pit of the stomach and the side of the right foot to the shin. He used every ounce of power in his body, and immediately repeated the blows, delivering the shin kick to the other leg, hoping to break the bone with the steel edge of the shoe.

As the Russian dropped, Hunter hit him with a rabbit punch behind the left ear that would have killed most men.

He went down in a heap and lay still.

Hunter walked over to the water cooler, ran a beaker of water, and threw it over the inert body.

Boris stirred and opened his eyes, growling. He reached for his gun.

Hunter kicked him hard in the chest, then dropped on top of him, his knee into the Adam's apple and his arms pinning those of the Russian.

'Now look, Doris, unless you're a good girl, you're going to get more of that medicine. What I gave you was merely repayment for the slug on the head you gave me in the hotel. If you want to, we can call it a truce. If not, shake your head and take the consequences.'

The Russian squirmed and grunted, then, seeing that he could not extricate himself from the vice-like grip, and realising that he had not drawn any air into his lungs for a full half-minute, he nodded, eyes rolling wildly.

Hunter removed his knee from the throat.

The big man gasped air hoarsely into his lungs. He had gone almost blue.

'Come along then, darling.' Hunter said cheerily, heading for the door.

Boris lumbered to his feet, his eyes blazing. 'I not forget! You got funny smell. You make bad for boss, I kill.'

Yes, Hunter thought, I just bet you would.
CHAPTER SEVEN – THE QUEEN OF THE BIRDS

It was dark in the alleyway outside the door. A limousine stood waiting. Hunter realised from the salty smell and the vague hooting of ships' sirens from afar that he must have been in one of Dirge's warehouses on some waterfront – probably the East India dock.

Boris got into the car with him and they moved off.

They were driven at a sedate pace through a dockland landscape, followed by two or three miles of some residential area that Hunter did not recognize and then out into the countryside. As they turned onto the main road he saw that it was the A20 and read a signboard, 'Maidstone 27 miles'.

Boris said, 'Now you get blindfold.'

He produced a large black scarf from his pocket and proceeded to blindfold Hunter effectively. Before he did so, the agent glanced at his watch: eleven thirty-two. He began counting under his breath. The car seemed to be cruising at its previous speed of about sixty miles per hour, and stayed on the main road for around twenty-two minutes before turning sharp right. That turn was followed immediately by a long left-hand bend. About a mile later his nostrils were assailed by a sharp chemical smell, which lasted for almost a minute.

They sped on for another ten and a half minutes by Hunter's reckoning, then took two left-hand turns in quick succession, followed by about one minute of straight, bumpy road, and then the car came to a halt. A pause of some twenty seconds, during which a low purring sound became audible, then they moved slowly forward for a further two minutes before coming to a halt again. The ignition was switched off and Boris grunted, 'Get out now.' He removed the blindfold.

Getting out of the car Hunter could see that they had pulled up in front of a building which looked like a country mansion. In the moonlight he could see that an armed guard stood at either corner of the house.

Boris walked to the door and opened it. A shaft of light splayed over the concrete drive.

They went in.

Dominating the sparsely furnished hall was a large picture of Makepeace. Boris led the way up the stairs, threw open the door of a room on the first floor and indicated that Hunter should go inside.

'You wake at five.' He growled, before leaving and slamming the door.

The room was furnished in Spartan fashion; a double bed, an upright chair and a chest of drawers were the total furnishings, except for the ubiquitous Makepeace, smiling down from his frame over the bed.

Hunter undressed. He was tired and decided that tomorrow was early enough to reconnoiter. No good blundering about in the dark with the armed guards on their own ground.

He found that all Slingsby's clothes and belongings were in the chest of drawers and slipped on a gaudy dressing gown.

There came a brief knock at the door and before he could call, 'Come in', it opened.

A rather blousy-looking but well-stacked blonde about twenty years old came in smiling. She was wearing a nylon mini-dress and, it was blatantly obvious, nothing else. The vee-neck of the dress came right down to the waist and left little to the imagination.

'Is there anything you would like?' Her husky voice and cheeky stance made it an open invitation.

She was a good looker, but the thought that she was probably communal property here made up his mind for him.

'There sure is – two fingers of Bourbon with ice, and a couple of cheese sandwiches – Edam, if you've got it.'

She seemed disappointed, but disappeared and returned less than two minutes later with the order. She tried again, 'Is that all for tonight?'

Hunter gave her a winning smile, 'Yeah, baby. Take the night off.'

She wiggled her way to the door, her well shaped behind playing havoc with his good intentions.

He grinned to himself as a fairground phrase from his youth came into his mind: 'Roll up, roll up! See the bearded lady – every time she walks, she wiggles. Roll up, roll up.'

The door closed behind her and he fell to on the cheese sandwiches, only now realising how hungry he was.

How long was it since he'd last eaten? Must be over twelve hours.

The door opened again and the girl looked round the jamb.

'If you want me, just ring.' She pointed to the bell push over the bed.

The girl was certainly a tryer. He grinned at her again and shook his head gently. She pouted and withdrew.

He turned off the light and, as he did so, a slight whirring noise he'd not noticed before stopped. So it was like that, eh? Hidden movie cameras. He must not underestimate the opposition. They obviously weren't taking any chances.

He'd scarcely laid his ear on the pillow when the door opened yet again and the light was switched on.

This time a red-haired giant of a man stood in the doorway. Dressed in the usual black trousers and vest, which Hunter had also seen the guards downstairs wearing, he stood over six feet three in his plimsoles.

He said, 'I'm Morgan, Slingsby. I should have met you when you arrived but I was otherwise engaged. I'm in charge here. Glad to have you aboard. Someone told me you were a ladies' man. I'm a little disappointed in you. Not half as disappointed as Mavis though.'

His voice lost some of its camaraderie, 'I see you've changed your drinking habits since you came back to England too!'

Damn! He should have been more careful. Slingsby wouldn't have turned the girl away and never drank anything but Scotch and water. He might have known they would know just as much about the hit man as the Department did.

'Got a bit of heartburn, and Scotch plays havoc with me when it's like that. Only happens once or twice a year, when life gets too hectic. After today, it's no wonder, I guess.' He hoped it sounded more convincing to the other man that it did to him.

'Well, let's hope it doesn't last too long, boyo. Even that could be fatal.'

He changed the subject, 'There's someone here who is glad you weren't too keen on Mavis. Specially imported to stop you from feeling homesick.'

As he spoke he stepped aside and a really delectable dish walked past him into the room.

She was a brunette, about five five, with a figure to dream of and a face to match.

Long lashes encased one of the most beautiful pair of brown eyes Hunter had ever seen. His mind raced. Was this a girlfriend of Slingsby's or just a girl from the States who did not know him?

'Hi, Gat! Gawd, it's noice to see yah, hon.'

The accent was unmistakably Fanny Bryce Brooklyn, and heavy on the mayo. What did he do now? He'd learnt the names of all Slingsby's known girlfriends, and a mighty formidable list it was too, but the Department had provided no photographs and only sketchy descriptions. Certainly none of them adequately described this luscious creature.

He had to say something, so he drawled, 'Hi, baby', hoping that she would take the conversation on from there.

She half-turned and gave an almost imperceptible nod to Morgan. Hunter did not mistake its meaning.

Morgan said, 'Well, I guess you've got a lot to talk over, so I'll say goodnight.' He left.

The girl came over and sat on the bed. She leant forward and kissed Hunter, long and passionately.

He let her, giving as good a performance as he could in response to what her tongue was doing.and hoping that Slingsby had done likewise. He could hear the camera whirring gently.

He leant over and switched off the light.

She protested, 'But, Gat – yah loikes tha loight on.'

'Sure,' he whispered, wondering just how long he could stand the accent, 'but I don't like an audience, and there's a movie camera tied to that light switch, and probably a tape recorder too.'

She just said, 'Oh!'

An hour later they lay in the dark smoking. Moonlight streamed through the window. She sighed, contentedly.

'Yah looks loik Gat, yah talks loik Gat, but yah sure don't make love loik Gat. You're so......gentle. And I always believed men didn't get any bigger down there after the age of twenty-one.'

He grinned, in spite of the seriousness of the situation. This girl could sink the whole project and get him killed. He had to get her on his side.

'You just got a bad memory, baby.'

'Yeah, an' tha's another thing, Gat. Yah ain't never called me baby. I don't think yah are Gat.' Her voice had taken on a serious tone. 'I don't think yah even know's my name.'

His mind had been working overtime since she first came into the room. He had an almost photographic mind, but in this case it didn't help much. He'd run through the list of Gat's girlfriends, mentally striking each one off as he discarded the possibility. Finally he was left with two names, Rose Conway, a brunette, and Fanny Beaucoup, a 'suicide'* blonde, both five five.

He played a hunch and took one of the biggest gambles of his life, 'I didn't think you really liked being called Fanny, honey.'

'But yah loikes it, doncha, hon?' She smiled and relaxed again. 'I sure thought yah wasn't Gat there for a whoil. They brung me here to check up on yah, yah know.'

'Let's make sure you really know who I am, then.' He pulled her to him again and kissed her, hard.'

She giggled, 'Yah always did loik a lot, Gat.'

*'Suicide blonde: 'Dyed by her own hand'
CHAPTER EIGHT – GRANNY SUCKS EGGS

Hunter woke, as he usually did, at four-thirty. He looked at the head on the pillow beside him

Fanny's hair was beautifully soft and burnished. He looked carefully at her face. Asleep or awake, there was not a single hard line on it, and he thought that it was very strange. These girls – gangsters' molls, as they were called – usually became hard-faced and prematurely aged.

This girl looked as though she had just come up from the country for the very first time. He brushed he hair from her face with his hand. She stirred and opened one sleepy eye.

'One more for the road?' She certainly lived up to her name.

He drew her to him, gently.

Prompt at five a bell rang for reveille. He kissed her once more and got out of bed.

He was taking a shower in the ablutions five minutes later when Morgan poked his head round the door.

'Breakfast in ten minutes in the mess – bottom of the stairs, first on the right.'

Hunter finished his toilet and went downstairs. Fanny had fallen asleep again, looking, if such a thing was possible, even more alluring than when she was awake.

The mess door stood open. He entered and found that the room was almost deserted.

Four men sat at a table at the far end of the room and the cook stood behind the serving counter. On the far wall hung a copy of the same picture of Makepeace.

He ordered, 'Ham and eggs, sunny side up.'

The cook bent down below the counter, came up with a plate of ham and eggs and---threw it straight at Hunter's face.

Trained to be on the alert for telltale movements, Hunter had begun to duck before the plate left the cook's hand. It sailed harmlessly over his head, to smash to pieces somewhere behind him.

The man jumped the counter and came at him with a large cook's knife. As he made the first lunge with it, Hunter side-stepped, smashed his right hand down on the cook's forearm, caught the back of his collar and, adding to the impetus he already had from his own forwards movement, pulled him past and then, planting his foot on the other man's buttocks, lunged forward as hard as he could with his leg.

The cook flew the ten feet to the far wall and his head struck it with a sickening thud. He fell and didn't move.

The four men at the table had been watching disinterestedly and now continued eating their breakfasts as though nothing had happened.

Hunter heard a movement behind him and turned, ready to defend himself again.

Morgan had appeared at the serving hatch. He had a plate in his hand.

'You asked for ham and eggs I believe.' He handed Hunter the plate. 'You handle yourself well. I see you are not unlearned in the gentle art of self-defence, but I think we can improve on your knowledge here. As soon as you've had breakfast we'll make a start on your training.'

'Was that some kinda joke?' Hunter made it sound like a protest.

'No, we always test our newcomers to see if they really are made of the stuff we require here. Before breakfast most men are still in a state of animated repose. You certainly are not.'

Hunter ate the ham and eggs and washed it down with two mugs of steaming coffee. Morgan sat silently opposite him throughout the meal.

The cook's body still lay where it had fallen, and no one had made any effort to check up on him.

Finally, Hunter rose and said, 'Lead on, MacDuff.'

Morgan told him, 'First of all I'll take you on an introductory tour of the school.' He led Hunter out into the hall and to some large doors at the end.

He said, 'These are soundproof. Our air-conditioned arsenal and explosive weapons training area is underground.'

He opened the doors and distant firing became audible.

They were in a room set out as a study. There were no windows. Morgan went over to the fireplace and pressed a button on the right of the mantlepiece.

Half the wall slid aside, revealing a long passageway. The sound of shots and the occasional louder explosion came clearly and the smell of cordite hung in the air. The door slid to behind them automatically.

'Electric eye.' Morgan explained laconically.

They followed the corridor down into an enormous underground cavern, which Hunter guessed must measure at least two hundred yards by fifty. The whole area was brilliantly lit and was divided by concrete partitions, each division specifically for one activity.

The first section was a training range for pistol, revolver and automatic. Half a dozen men were firing at fixed targets and they stopped to watch. Hunter was amazed at the high standard – every man had obtained a possible.

They then changed to snap targets and did just as well. The targets appeared for half a second at unequal intervals, ranging from a second to half a minute. Every time the target appeared each man was able to get off one shot; in the intervals the pistols had to be lowered to the knee.

Morgan said, 'You have a high reputation with an automatic, Slingsby. Would you like to show us just how good you are?' He picked up a Luger Parabellum. 'Your favourite weapon, I believe.'

Hunter took the gun and hefted it in his hand. He'd used such a weapon many times on target practice and felt at home with it.

'Would you like to try the fixed targets first?'

'No, start the snaps.'

Morgan pressed the button to activate the snap target apparatus.

Hunter cocked the pistol and held it at the knee, ready for the first target to appear. His reaction time had always been the fastest in the Department and today he felt particularly on top line.

Almost thirty seconds passed before a target appeared high on the extreme right. It was the cardboard replica of a man's head and had scarcely stopped moving when Hunter loosed off the first shot and a second followed before the target disappeared again. One second later another head came up low left, and again he got off two shots in the half-second that the target was visible. A third head appeared almost in the center of the range, and a fourth followed almost immediately high right. At each, he shot twice.

Morgan sent an assistant to bring the targets for inspection. The other shooters collected around them to see if the shots had been effective, surprised that this newcomer had managed to get two shots off at each target. As the assistant came up with an incredulous look on his face, he shuffled through them for the audience to see.

Murmurs of admiration and low whistles came from the assembly. Every shot had hit dead center of the forehead, and in two cases the two bullets had almost passed through the same hole.

Morgan nodded, 'I think we can dispense with your training in this field at least. We heard you were good, but I've never before seen shooting like that, and believe me, I've seen a lot of shooters.'

'Just say I got lucky.' Hunter drawled.

They moved on to the next range, where men were practicing with sub-machine guns.

Morgan said, 'Our records show that you can take one of these to pieces in twelve seconds in the back of a car moving at a hundred miles an hour, so unless you want to show off your skill we'll skip the SMG as well.'

Hunter nodded assent.

There followed practice ranges for grenade throwing and bazooka firing, and finally a gas-testing chamber.

Morgan stopped there.

'We'll fit you for a gas mask now. You may have to use it sooner than you think under operational conditions.'

Hunter made a mental note of that snippet of information. He was expertly fitted by the attendant and tested the mask out in the chamber. It was much more pleasant than his last experience of gas, and he couldn't help thinking how ironical it was that he should be gassed by his own side and issued with a mask by the opposition.

From the gas chamber they went on to the arsenal. The doors were massive and made of thick steel. An enormous wheel as large as the helm on a fishing smack opened the door after the correct combination had been dialled.

As Morgan selected the numbers, his body hiding the dial, Hunter listened to the clicks and watched Morgan's arm, to see which way he was spinning. It would give him a good start if he ever needed to try to crack the door.

They went inside. Hunter had never seen a private arsenal like it in all his time in the Service. There were enough weapons to arm a complete battalion to the teeth. Morgan was in his element, showing off the strength of the organization to this American killer, used only to the 'artillery' of the mobs.

They rounded a corner.

'Ever seen anything like that in Chicago?' Morgan's voice was full of pride.

He had stopped in front of a large bay, which housed everything from Oerlikons to multiple rocket firing tubes on trailers. A large stack of torpedoes lay against one wall, and rack upon rack of depth charges were stacked alongside.

Hunter put just the right amount of admiration in his voice, 'Jeez! You gonna take on the whole world?'

Morgan grinned enigmatically, 'Never know your luck, boyo.'

They'd come to the end of the arsenal and Morgan turned to go back to the door.

Hunter asked, 'What's in there?' He motioned towards another door the twin of that at the entrance to the arsenal.

Morgan seemed about to retort angrily but hesitated, then relaxed his expression. 'A few more expensive items, in case we ever have to use them.' He said, casually.

Hunter tried to look as disinterested as possible. 'Don't tell me you've got a couple of baby atom bombs as well.'

Morgan's smile disappeared. 'It doesn't pay to be too inquisitive, Slingsby. We have what we call the 'need to know' principle, and at the moment you don't need to know!'

Hunter shrugged, 'Who the hell cares anyway?'

Morgan relaxed. 'You'll get to know in plenty of time if we have to use what's behind that door.' He led the way back to the entrance to the training ground and through the dummy door.

'Now we'll take a look at the unarmed combat side.'

They entered the gardens via the French windows and walked across the huge lawn. A six-foot high privet hedge some two hundred yards long ran the whole width of the garden at the far end, with a tall wooden gate that gave entrance to the other side, from which came strange shouts and grunting noises.

Morgan opened the gate with a key hung on a chain round his neck. Hunter followed him through and was amazed to see over two hundred men engaged in, or watching, various types of hand-to-hand combat. He had had no idea that so many men were stationed here. This really was a private army to be reckoned with. He just hoped that the radio beacon in his scalp was working, and that the Department had a fix on his position.

Morgan told him, 'The initial training is jiu-jitsu, as you see here. Men are taught the basic holds and moves. Then they go on to karate. We don't teach the sport variety, of course – we teach them how to kill. Then they are taught how to use every non-explosive lethal weapon known to man and how to defend themselves against attack by men armed with such weapons. We turn out men tougher than any commando regiment does. They are all hand picked in the first place and have criminal records. They know they'll be well taken care of with our organization and well paid at the end. They also know that to double-cross the organization means certain death.' He made the threat obvious and personal. 'They therefore give us a kind of loyalty.'

They completed the tour of the unarmed combat classes and left by the same gate, Morgan carefully locking it after them. He then led the way to a black Jeep standing by the house and motioned for Hunter to get in with him.

Half a mile passed in silence. The road was well metalled and Morgan drove fast until turning left onto a short dirt road, which came to an abrupt end at a ten-foot high metal fence. He spoke into a microphone fitted on the dash and the gates opened for them to drive inside.

'This is the motorcycle training ground,' he explained, 'Here you will learn to handle a motorcycle as expertly as any circus performer.'

They had stopped alongside a small tower. On each of the four sides the usual picture of Makepeace beamed down.

Morgan continued, 'Over to the right you can see the beginners. They learn the basics of motorcycling here on the track. Following on that they have two weeks of concentrated instruction on the open road before specialized training commences. By the end of the sixth week, each man is an accomplished motorcyclist, capable of riding under any conditions. Naturally, some have experience already, and in that case the training can be completed in less time.'

Hunter looked around. On one side, riders were riding up a ramp and crashing through a blazing wall of fire formed from burning timbers, with a drop of four feet on the other side. He saw no spills. Further over, a group of riders were taking turns practicing staying in the saddle on a skidpan.

He realised that Morgan was watching his expression surreptitiously. He turned quickly, as if to speak. Morgan was not caught unawares. He smiled, 'How does or organization strike you for efficiency, Slingsby?'

Hunter showed just the right amount of appreciation. 'This Makepeace must sure be some organizer!'

'Mr Makepeace is a brilliant man – much more brilliant than some people give him credit for. He will make us all very rich.' He looked up at the picture above him with reverence and spoke with such conviction that Hunter knew he was dealing not just with a criminal agency, but one where there was more than a trace of fanaticism among the rank and file, making it infinitely more dangerous. He knew men would fight much harder for a cause than for money, and suffer much more without capitulation.

He gestured widely, 'Is this the whole of the organization?'

Morgan was too proud of the setup not to give him an answer. 'This is less than one-fiftieth of our total strength, not counting our ships and crews. We have a training school and barracks in every major country of the world, equipped identically with this one. All our equipment is standardized and is the best available.'

Hunter had to concur silently with that.

Morgan started the engine again. 'Well, enough of the sightseeing. You'll be wanting to get stuck into it, won't you?'

Hunter nodded, 'Might as well earn my keep, I suppose.'

They drove back to the house in silence. As they approached, Morgan sounded the horn and Boris appeared from the French windows.

'I'm assigning you to Boris. He'll be in charge of your training and will keep me posted on your progress.'

Hunter felt enchanted at the prospect.

'Hand grenades, bazooka and artillery today, Boris. If Slingsby can master them by this evening, hand-to-hand fighting tomorrow. Take him now to get kitted out with clothing. He'll be issued with his motorcycle later.'

Boris led the way back into the house and through the hall, where he saluted the photograph and mumbled something unintelligible.

Hunter grinned, 'Just like Adolf's Germany.'

Boris growled at him, 'First thing to learn, you salute photograph.'

'Take a running jump, old dear.' Hunter told him good-naturedly.

'I report you to Morgan.'

'Yeah, why don't you do that?' His equable smile lost none of its composure.

The day passed pleasantly for him. He was an expert on all forms of explosive device and enjoyed exhibiting his prowess, but was careful of showing too much ability with the larger pieces like the rocket-launchers, and allowed himself to be shown them twice.

Training continued until five o'clock, by which time they'd thoroughly covered every weapon in the armoury, and Hunter was appalled that there were so many used for distributing gas. It was obviously intended to be a major weapon in future Dirge operations, and these days only the military stocked gasmasks. Any other targets would be sitting ducks.

The large steel doors to the inner armoury remained locked all day.

After a well-cooked meal of Wiener schnitzel and mixed vegetables, with the mess hall full this time, Hunter decided to return to his room.

He'd hardly left the mess door when a Tannoy broadcast announced that all personnel were to come to the assembly room immediately.

He'd not been shown where the assembly room was, but followed the other men hastening towards it.

It was in the north wing of the house, a room large enough to hold three hundred men standing. Morgan was already there at a table at the far end. There was no talking among the men.

Hunter looked around him carefully. The thought that had been hovering around vaguely in his brain all day suddenly clarified: these men were like zombies – puppets on a string. He looked at the man standing next to him, and the next. Well, what did you know? Diluted pupils. They were all drugged. Then why not him?

He was brought back from his reverie by Morgan tapping the table for attention.

'Gentlemen, I give you our Director!' He half turned and raised his right hand and arm towards the large picture of Makepeace behind him.

'Gentlemen, general salute!'

Every man in the room, with the exception of Hunter lifted his right hand, palm facing forward at shoulder height, and shouted, 'Makepeace! Makepeace! Makepeace!' The hand was lowered again after the three shouts.

Hunter found it so incongruous that he wanted to laugh out loud, but held the impulse.

Morgan was looking at him.

'That was not very well executed. We will do it once more, and this time, everyone will salute.' He made no attempt to conceal the threat in his voice.

'Gentlemen, general salute!'

This time Hunter joined in, feeling extremely foolish.

Morgan said, 'Much better, gentlemen, dismiss.'

The men filed away silently.

Morgan used a raised finger to indicate that he wanted to speak to Hunter, and walked over to him.

'I should perhaps have explained the procedure to you before, Slingsby. Also, Boris tells me that you refused to salute the Director's picture when told to do so. In future you will salute it on every occasion.'

'And if I don't?'

Morgan eyed him shrewdly. 'I really wouldn't advise that, Slingsby. I have absolute power here, and every single one of you is dispensable. I have my orders, and they are that anyone who does not toe the line must---go.' He spoke quietly, but the very slight pause before the last word left no doubt in Hunter's mind what that implied.

'If necessary, salute merely out of formality. I cannot make you love the Director as the rest of us do, but I can make you salute. Understand?'

Hunter smiled disarmingly, 'Perfectly.'

'Good. You may go now. You will find a television lounge, billiard tables and a reading room on the ground floor. I must warn you that you are restricted to the house at night and anyone found outside will be shot on sight without warning. I'm afraid you girlfriend is no longer with us. If you complete the course successfully she will be returned to you when you report for duty on one of our ships.'

Hunter felt genuinely sad. He was going to miss her, and not just for the sex. She had somehow got under his skin. Though he kept telling himself that she was no better than she should be, it was no use – he definitely had a soft spot for her.
CHAPTER NINE – A LOOK AT THE OUTSIDE

With little else to occupy his time Hunter decided to have a good look round the house, on the pretext of looking for the library.

The results were disappointing. With the exception of the door to the secret room leading to the arsenal, the whole ground floor was an open secret. Every room was available for use by the 'inmates', and Hunter found trainees everywhere, playing billiards, darts, table tennis or chess. In the library twenty-odd men sat reading. There was obviously little to be gained by prolonging the investigation, so he chose a book from the library shelves. It was Eric Partridge's 'Usage and Abusage', a work he never tired of browsing through.

After a couple of hours of desultory reading he decided on a catnap before investigating the house further.

He woke at ten thirty-five. All was quiet and it was dark outside.

During the day he'd noticed a wireless mast on top of the building. From the size of the antenna it had to be connected to a powerful transmitter. Knowing where the wireless room was might conceivably come in handy sometime.

He knew he'd have to be careful. If there were monitor cameras in the bedrooms there would certainly be more in the corridors.

He decided on an outside approach as the safest and carefully raised the window, pleased to see a ledge running round the building just below the level of the windows.

He eased himself out onto the ledge and decided to try going to the right. The ledge was only four inches wide and the side of the building afforded no hand grips. It was slow, precarious work but he inched along carefully.

At the first three windows he drew a blank. They were all bedrooms, laid out like his own. In the fourth a white-coated doctor he'd not seen before was talking to someone out of sight, close to the outside wall.

The doctor was speaking, '---should be strong enough to ensure the continued efficacy of the hypnosis without further medication for at least three months. I'm worried about brain cell damage if the present dosage is kept up.'

A voice Hunter didn't recognise answered, 'As long as you can keep them on top line for another two months, I couldn't care less. We'll have no further use for them after that.'

The doctor answered, 'Very good, Sir. We'll continue the dosage.' He sounded reluctant.

Hunter hoped to see the other man as the doctor left the room but realised whoever it was intended to stay, probably sitting at a desk out of his sight.

Who was this new personality, he wondered; it was certainly not Makepeace, nor was it Morgan, and yet he seemed to be in charge here. This new man must be very high up in the organization and close to Makepeace. He spoke with absolute authority and, beyond that, Hunter was sure he was not English. There had been some hint of Teutonic inflection in some of his words. Not much, but just enough to be noticeable.

The enigma would have to remain for the time being. At least the snippet of information he had overheard was valuable. Within two months this large force of fighting men was to be redundant. Sir Michael had been right: things were about to start moving – fast.

He edged along to the next window. A blank. The next three were also in darkness and the two following were again bedrooms – the inmates reclining on their beds, reading. At the seventh he had more luck. A grill covered the whole window and it was of the non-opening type, with a Vent-Axia outlet fan at the top. The whole room was full of radio equipment, much of which he recognised. There was a SWAB-18 transmitter, capable of pushing out over one and a half kilowatts, standing in one corner, its valves glowing; a set powerful enough to give the operator a five-by-nine voice contact with the western states of North America. A Marconi 1523, obviously used as a standby, stood next to it.

The operator was sitting at a desk, his back to the window, working away at some document or other. To his left was the operating panel, with Morse key, a Creed machine for the automatic transmission of Morse perforated tapes, and a professional ribbon microphone.

The rear panel of the consol housed the control panel, with dozens of switches and lights. On the other side of the room was a duplex teleprinter circuit with sophisticated automatic sending equipment attached.

He recognised it as the latest German equipment, capable of being used to transmit at speeds of over four hundred words a minute.

Moving from that to the next piece of equipment was like going from the sublime to the ridiculous, he thought.

It was a Cyphex encoding machine, which had become obsolete in the British Secret Service in 1956. Sir Michael's code and cipher experts would have no trouble breaking any messages intercepted if they used that. The latest computerized decrypting equipment would make mincemeat of it inside two minutes. Those must be the messages the cryptographers at GCHQ were breaking – the non-secret stuff.

He needed to get inside that room and take a look at the working schedules and frequencies, and more importantly the one-time-pads they were using, but how?

There was nothing to be gained in prolonging the visit now, and he continued his way round the building. Another six windows revealed nothing interesting.

Passing across the sixth he must have sent a shadow to the ground. One of the guards walked out into the courtyard to look up.

From the other end of the building another guard called, 'What is it, Feodor?'

'Not sure. Thought I saw something move on the top floor. Get the searchlight.'

Hunter thought quickly. What options did he have? Try to get through the next window or go over the roof?

He decided on the roof. If he went through the window he would have to go down the corridors, with the certainty of being picked up by the cameras.

He jumped as hard as he dare from the ledge and just secured a hold with his hands on the guttering. Exerting every ounce of energy he possessed, he pulled himself up onto the roof, thanking his God for all the pull-ups he'd done every day of his life in preparation for just such an event as this one.

Luckily the house was an old one, with the gable ends that had been so popular in the Victorian era. There was plenty of cover on the roof.

He climbed steadily, hoping to reach the top before they could get the light on.

No such luck! He threw himself behind a multiple chimneystack just in time, as the powerful beam began its first sweep from one end of the roof to the other.

He was trapped unless he made a dash for it. They'd be searching the bedrooms within minutes, and if he wasn't back in his he would be finished.

The aerials loomed up out of the darkness only ten feet from him and he had a sudden thought. They had to service the aerials and there must be a fanlight somewhere close to them. His eyes searched the darkness for a different texture on the roof.

That must be it – a square patch slightly lighter than the rest, or were his eyes playing tricks? It was a hell of a chance. He had to leave the cover of his chimneystack and go straight across ten yards of open roof with no cover. And if the fanlight, if it was the fanlight, should be locked? Goodbye, Mr Hunter!

He had to chance it. The searchlight had just passed his chimneystack on its traverse. He stepped out as fast as he dared across the roof, sloping as it did at over forty degrees.

As he gained the fanlight, the light had reached the end of the roof and was commencing its return. There was confused shouting below, then, clearly, a shout of, 'There he is!'

'Where?'

'There, over to the right!'

The light moved fast and erratically over the roof. He bent down and gripped the sides of the fanlight, saying a prayer as he did so.

It seemed to be locked from underneath. He gave one last superhuman pull, full of the strength of desperation.

It gave. Thank God!

Without a thought for what might be underneath he jumped straight through the hole.

As he jumped the light caught him. An automatic weapon fired several shots and he heard them passing just above his head.

The drop was about eight feet. He fell awkwardly but without breaking anything. Scrambling to his feet he tried to pierce the gloom. He felt around the walls and then saw chinks of light coming through the edges of what was obviously the door.

Again he was in luck; it was not locked.

He opened it a couple of inches and peered through. A flight of steps led down to a corridor, which he estimated must be on the same level as his bedroom, which was at the far end.

How to get past those cameras without being recognised? He pulled his Dirge issue pullover up and over his head, thankful that the weave allowed him to see through the material.

Tearing the door open, he descended the steps three at a time and then ran as hard as he could along the corridor. Rounding a corner he saw one of the zombies coming towards him.

The man stepped into his path and went into a standard Karate stance.

Hunter kept going and as the man slashed at him he used the double slash parry and immediately followed it with a leap and kick into the man's groin'

As his adversary doubled up, Hunter delivered a rabbit punch to the seventh vertebra. He felt it give and realised that he'd hit too hard, but he wasted no time thinking about it.

His pullover had slipped down to the level of his eyes and he quickly pulled it up again and ran to the next corner.

The corridor beyond was clear, and there was the head of the stairs with his room on the right, but how was he to get there without a camera recording his every action?

The corridor was lit by strong neons in the ceiling and small wall lights. That was his only chance. Quickly he used his handkerchief to unscrew one of the red-hot bulbs, took out a small copper coin, wiped the fingerprints off its faces and held it by the edges.

He dropped the coin into the bulb socket and pushed the bulb back.

Instant darkness descended. Even if they had automatic switchover to standby it would blow again straight away.

He'd carefully marked where the door to his bedroom was and walked quickly across and opened it.

Outside everything was in uproar. Even the searchlight had gone out.

He closed the door behind him, threw his pullover on the bed and tousled his hair. Then he lay down on the bed and waited.

Confused noises and the muffled sound of men running on carpet came to him through the door.

Less than two minutes later light under the door told him the problem had been isolated and the fuse mended. He waited another couple of minutes then switched on the light. As he did so he heard the camera start running. He rubbed his eyes as if he had been asleep, got up off the bed and went to the door.

Leaving it ajar he went down the stairs and out into the courtyard in front of the house.

There must have been over a hundred and fifty men there. The searchlight was still sweeping the roof in vain.

He saw Morgan directing operations and walked up to him.

'What goes on?'

'Someone up on the roof. Where have you been till now?'

Hunter wondered if the suspicion in the voice was based on anything more than a hunch.

'Getting forty winks on my bed when I heard all this racket.'

Morgan looked at him searchingly, 'I see Well, you'd better get back to your room. We'll be doing a hundred per cent check in a few minutes.'

He called off the search and ordered everyone to return to their rooms.

Hunter climbed the stairs, entered his room and lay down on the bed. He picked up the book he'd been reading earlier and pretended to read, but his mind was not on the book. If they'd filmed the fight in the corridor, would they have recognised him from his hair and forehead? He would soon know. He wondered if the body had been found yet, and if it had, why had there been no commotion?
CHAPTER TEN – MORGAN THE PIRATE

A quarter of an hour passed. The house seemed so quiet that one would have believed it uninhabited. Hunter continued to pretend to read, knowing they would be watching him.

The door suddenly burst open and Boris stood there with two henchmen.

'You come!'

Hunter smiled winningly, 'Why, Doris, how nice of you to call.' He tried to make his voice sound completely nonchalant. Every nerve and sinew in his body was taut and ready for action. He might be headed for sudden extinction but he would take a couple of them with him!

He was led down to the large room where they had all gathered earlier. It was full and Morgan again stood at the front.

It seemed that Hunter was the last to arrive.

Morgan's voice was menacing, 'We have in our midst a traitor, or at least a man who is too inquisitive for his own good. I want you all to watch this film. It shows a man running down one of the corridors of the house and in a fight with another of our men who tried to stop him. This man was killed by a very expertly delivered Karate blow. You are all trained in Karate, so this does not help us. I want you all to try to identify the man who struck the blow.'

He made a sign with his hand and the room lights were extinguished.

The whirr of a projector broke the silence following his words. The film was projected onto the wall at the front of the room and started with Hunter's entrance onto the stairs after leaving the attic and his dash down the stairs and corridor. It was shown from both front and rear, proving that at least two cameras were installed in that corridor.

Hunter saw the man coming towards him again, and was able to watch the short-lived fight three times – once from the side of his approach, once from the opposite side, and then again in slow motion.

The film was stopped several times for Morgan to make some remark, such as, 'Look carefully at his Karate stance and the way he delivers the death blow.' Then, 'Can anyone recognise the hairstyle? And so on. The film continued up to the point when the wall light shorted out.

The lights came on again.

Morgan told them, 'We are looking for a man who knows exactly what he is doing. Has anyone anything to say?' There was silence.

'You can all go, except Slingsby.'

They trooped out.

Hunter stood in the center of the vast room, feeling very naked. Now for the denunciation and the quick end. Morgan must be positive that he was the killer, for all the other men were drugged and had no will of their own.

Morgan came off the dais and towards him.

'Well, Slingsby, I hope you enjoyed your post-prandial perambulation. It's a pity you had to kill one of our men. That makes it a much more serious matter. I had intended to have you shot out of hand, but I've been in touch with Mr Makepeace and he's told me that if I can obtain what I consider a satisfactory explanation from you, I may suspend the sentence. Let's have it.'

His words were matter-of-fact and held no more than his usual amount of venom.

Hunter smiled, although he felt far from light-hearted. He'd had to invent many a story in his years in the Service in order to extricate himself from sticky situations, but this would have to be the best he'd ever come up with.

He tried to hedge, 'You're not gonna believe this – yah see, I haven't been feeling too well---'

'Get on with the reason, man!' Morgan cut him of in mid-sentence.

Hunter's manner changed. He became the angry young man, 'Well, goddam, I didn't ask to be brought here! I was doin' okay in London. How do I know you ain't gonna use me for a coupla months an' then bump me off? I wanted to see if I could get outa here an' back to London. Then these guys down below start shootin' at me! Waddya expect me to do, stand there an' give 'em target practice?'

If he'd hoped to see some change in Morgan's expression he was disappointed.

He continued, 'As soon as I see that you got all these other guys doped up to the eyes, I begin to think it would be safer outa here! You ain't bin levellin' with me!'

Morgan's eyes narrowed at the mention of dope, but he ignored it in his reply, 'Why did you kill our man?'

'Hell, I didn't mean to kill him. He got in my way and I hit him!'

'You didn't just hit him. I've looked at that videotape very carefully. You've been trained in Karate by an expert. Your stance is perfect and the blows you delivered came out of the copybook. Where did you learn it?'

There was real menace in his voice. Slingsby had no record of any prowess at Karate, as both Hunter and Morgan knew. This was the thread on which Hunter's life now hung. If he could not find a satisfactory explanation he would be making a partner at his victim's funeral.

'Well, I guess not many people know this, but I had a buddy some ten years back in the States, a guy called 'Dutch' Houdman. He showed me the ropes in the syndicate business. I guess I was with him for about a year, workin' alternative contracts. He was a black strap or somethin' in this self-defence game. He'd bin taught by some Chinese buddy an' kept it a big secret how good he was. He taught me all he knew. Said it'd come in useful sometime. I ain't never killed anyone with it before. Ain't never had the need. Always had ol' Betsy, or a knife.' He grinned amiably. There was a distance of ten feet between them. Should he try to take Morgan and make a getaway? That would blow the whole thing. No, he had to try to bluff it out, even if he lost all. It was a fact that 'Dutch' Houdman has been associated with Slingsby about ten years before. He'd been gunned down by a rival gang as he got out of his car in front of a gin joint one fine July evening.

Hunter had no idea whether 'Dutch' had ever heard of Karate, but figured that using his name would at least gain him some time, and the opposition would have a difficult time of it disproving his allegation that 'Dutch' was a black belt, particularly since he had said that 'Dutch' had kept it quiet.

Morgan reflected, 'Can I take it that you have now decided not to try to 'escape' from us?'

'Oh, sure. I ain't that keen on bein' hunted down like a dog, but can you promise I won't be bumped off as soon as you've finished with me?'

'You have Mr Makepeace's word for that, and he is a gentleman who always keeps his word.'

My God, thought Hunter, Morgan actually believes that crap! And yet he knows the certain fate of these two or three hundred men stationed here – and was helping to ensure it.

'Okay, then, you got my word.'

'It isn't quite as simple as that.' Morgan's smile was like sugared poison, 'You'll be given a chance to live, but only a fighting chance. You will be required to 'walk the plank' in a manner of speaking. The 'plank' is a wire suspended between the two end wings of the mansion, and you must 'walk' it hand-over-hand.'

He saw what he recognised as relief on Hunter's face and quickly disillusioned him. 'But I'm afraid that it is not quite as simple as that – the wire is greased. It will also be floodlit, and there will be six marksmen with automatic rifles below, firing continuously at the wire, though not at you. Below you there will be a 'mat' of three-foot high steel spikes, spread the entire length of the wire. If you're ready, we'll begin. Everything has been prepared.'

He spoke matter-of-factly, and it was obvious that he held Hunter's life to be as good as worthless. Hunter was thinking that Morgan certainly lived up to his name – the old pirate.

Morgan led the way along the corridor, then through a bedroom, to a window overlooking the front of the house. Below, the bright steel spikes had been set out and men were milling about, forming ranks. Obviously this was to be a spectacle – the witnessing of a punishment by all.

'Right, Slingsby, out onto the ledge. The wire is above the window. Wait until I give the word to start.'

It was a precarious situation, with only one chance of overcoming the difficulties. Holding onto the wire with his left hand, Hunter very carefully drew up his left foot and quickly unscrewed the heel of the shoe. He clipped the sliding device over the wire and held it with his right hand. It was not intended for greased wire, and he'd just have to hope that the brake would work if the wire broke. At least, it would be easier to hold than the bare wire.

Not a moment too soon. The floodlights came on and made the scene as light as day. The powerful lights blinded him.

He was on a stage, in more senses than one - the only player and the audience invisible.

Morgan's voice boomed through a megaphone, 'Right, Slingsby – start now!'

Holding the slider with his right hand and using the left to pull himself along, Hunter pushed himself off the ledge.

The first two yards went easily enough, the slightest pull being enough to move his weight along on the slider. Even with the grease on the wire he managed to obtain sufficient grip with his left hand to pull. The men below were shooting now and he felt the shock as the wire was struck twice in quick succession.

His left hand went forward to pull again and his body began to slide, the momentum increasing as he slid down towards the center of the wire. Although taut, it sagged in the middle.

A loud, 'Aaaaah.' rose from the crowd below.

His speed slowed to a stop. The shooting below had become a continuous tattoo, and bullets were striking the wire all the time. He pulled himself forward again, one foot, two, three. Now it was not so easy. This was uphill.

As he realised what Morgan had done he couldn't resist a grim smile. It was a certain sentence of death, and he hadn't even recognized it as such. As soon as the weight of his body reached the center of the wire, it could not be pulled up to the other end; it would slide down to the middle again, waiting for the arms to become too tired to support it, or for the marksmen to cut the wire. Either way, it was only a matter of time before the tired body dropped onto those waiting spikes below. It was beautiful in its simplicity; he was as good as dead!

He hung for a moment without moving, savoring the situation; fit as he was, his arms were becoming tired.

Another bullet hit the wire and must have split one of the strands. He felt himself drop two or three inches. Time was running out. What could he do? Answer: nothing but wait. It was patently impossible to reach the other side, equally impossible to go back. This was it! Hunter used the old psychological trick of standing back, metaphorically speaking, and looking at his problem from the outside. He could certainly think of more pleasant ways to go. In bed, for instance, shot by a jealous husband.

As he hung motionless, the murmur of the crowd below had become a swell. Their blood lust was aroused and they were waiting for the kill. He couldn't blame them – it was the natural lust that is in every man, handed down over the centuries; an age-old throwback to distant ancestors who lived and died by the sword. The mob below were, after all, descendants of the ghouls who had crammed in around Gallows Hill to watch the public hangings not much more than a century ago.

He had a sudden fellow feeling for those countless thousands of Christians who had gone to their deaths in lions' dens, peasants thrown into bear-pits and others who had died to make entertainment for the crowd. He reflected grimly that it was a novel situation for him. Of all the many times he'd faced death, it had never before been in front of a crowd.

He pulled himself up short. If they wanted a spectacle, then they should have one! He was not just going to hang there and wait for death – wait for his arms to refuse to support the weight any longer, and just fall into those waiting spikes'

Taking his left hand from the wire, he groped for and found his handkerchief in his pocket. That would give more leverage than his bare hand. He began pulling himself forward again, towards the far wall. Each time that he reached the end of a pull he twisted the heel as much as possible, to set the brake. It was hard going, but gradually he was making progress, and the crowd below had become quiet again.

He'd covered half the remaining distance when another strand of the wire gave. Not long now. It should at least be quick! He redoubled his efforts and the wall came slowly nearer.

It was no more than twenty feet away when another bullet hit the wire, well behind him. More strands broke, and he could feel the wire twisting under his hand, as it began to part. Grimly he twisted the heel as hard as he could and kept the pressure on.

With a loud 'twang' the wire snapped.

Hunter felt himself dropping like a stone – straight onto the spikes. He waited for the cold steel to rip out his entrails and tear the life from his body.

A confused roar rose from the throats of the men below – this was their big moment.

His fall was brought up sharply with a snap and his right arm almost ripped out of its socket as it took the full weight of his falling body.

The braking device held! His trajectory changed. Now he was swinging on the wire at tremendous speed straight for the wall!

He closed his eyes, waiting for extinction.

Crash! He felt timber and glass shatter around him, and then came down to earth – on something warm and soft.

A terrified scream rose from close to his ear and something moved violently below him, as an arm flew out for the light switch.

A light snapped on.

He was lying on a large, ornate double bed – and a woman!

She was a striking redhead of about thirty-five – and she was stark naked!

His fall had ripped the bedclothes from the upper half of her body, and she was desperately trying to cover her full breasts again.

He'd not seen her before. She had to be one of the staff, or somebody's woman.

He smiled sweetly at her, 'I do apologize for dropping in unannounced like this.'

She had recovered some of her composure and reached out to switch the light off again.

'Will you please get off my bed and out of this room?' The accent was from the far south of Ireland.

'Aw, mo chuisle,' he said, imitating the accent, 'and I was just beginning to think you liked me.'

Her voice was much gentler, 'Oh, go on with you.'

He moved away and stood up. So that the woman should not see his action in the reflected light from outside, he bent down, removed the heel from the wire and screwed it back onto the shoe.

Outside pandemonium reigned. Men were running and shouting and orders were being passed.

Hunter walked over to the door, plainly visible in the reflected glare of the arc lights.

A little voice came from behind him, 'Slán a chur le duine.'

'Slán a thágáil ag duine,' he agreed, 'and I really am sorry for startling you like that.'

As he opened the door Morgan came pelting up the corridor towards him. He looked astounded and not a little disappointed to see Hunter on his feet, and obviously no worse off for his trial.

'Alright, Slingsby, you can go back to your room, but I warn you – you are to sleep with the light on for the rest of your stay here. Failure to obey will result in immediate death! Do I make myself clear?'

'Painfully so.'

'Good. Go!'

Hunter returned to his room. That was it, then. He would not be able to achieve anything else here. He undressed and went to bed, leaving on the small light by the door. The whirr of the camera lulled him to sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN – BORIS BITES THE DUST

He slept well and breakfasted heartily. Boris collected him from the mess and led him out to the unarmed combat area behind the tall hedge.

He took Hunter to an instructor – a giant of a man with an unruly mop of flaming red hair, who took Hunter's hand in a grip of iron.

'The name's MacDougal, laddie. Noo, I'm tellt ye ken a wee bit aboot this here game. To save us both some time, hoo aboot ye showing me what ye ken?'

'I don't know the names for any of this.' Hunter told him. 'Why don't you show me each movement and tell me it's name, and then see if I know it?'

'Okay, laddie, I dinnae mind that. Right! This is the fust thing tae learn – balancing and stretching exercises. Noo, stand here on ma right, and see if ye can follow ma movements.'

He went through the exercises. Hunter was able to follow him exactly.

'Gude, laddie. Ye're in better shape than one wud think, lookin' at ye.'

Hunter practiced these exercises every day of his life under normal circumstances but was not going to volunteer the information.

MacDougal covered exercises for tension, control, co-ordination, timing, footwork, breathing and feinting for distraction. He was well satisfied with Hunter's performance.

'Now to cover Ki-ya. Ye've probably ne'er heert tell on't, but p'raps ye've learned it wi'oot kennin' the name. It is, simply, a way o' usin' all, or almost all, of yeer potential energy in makin' a thrust.

Ye prepare yesel' mentally and physically for action an' then carry oot that action. Ye have the build-up an' then the blow. In the build-up ye take a deep breath an' tense the muscles o' the stomach. The deep breath injects meer oxygen intae the blood stream, an' thus meer energy intae the body for the moment o' stress, an' the tightening o' the abdominal muscles makes the body ready for that moment. These two notions bring the whole body intae an 'Alert One' stage o' readiness. Then comes the thrust, punch, kick or what have ye, accompanied by a sharp exhalation o' the breath, wi' or wi'oot shoutin'. The sudden exhalation increases the force o' the blow, an' the shout has an important psychologically detrimental effect on yeer opponent. Some exponents o' Ki-ya dinnae shout but control the exhalation wi' a hiss, or a grunt. Ye can use whiche'er method ye prefer. Noo, try it.'

Hunter went through the motions.

The Scot beamed, 'Excellent, laddie.'

The day passed pleasantly for Hunter. He enjoyed the physical and mental exercise and had been a sixth degree Black Belt in Karate for many years, as well as being expert in Judo, Savate, Aikido, and the stylistically different form of Karate – Kung Fu.

The Scot covered the complete field of practical Karate – fighting stances, open hand blows, finger stabs, elbow, fist and forearm blows, foot and knee blows, pressure points, basic and advanced defences against hand blows, slashing, leaping and kicking blows, combination blows, overhand, frontal, rear and side attacks with foot and hand, and defences against them. He was as good an instructor as Hunter had ever come across.

At the end of the day he admitted that there was nothing he could teach Hunter.

Boris, who had stood by impassively all day, watching, now spoke.

'Now, we fight! You think you good, we find out how good.'

The Scot tried to dissuade him, 'That's no on, Boris. He's good, but no expert. Ye're a Black Belt.'

Hunter told him, 'He wants to get his own back for the last time I floored him. Okay, Doris, my love, you're on.'

He took up the basic Karate fighting stance: knees bent slightly for better balance; the right hand, at face height, held open for counter-blows and slashing; the left hand bunched into a fist, with the elbow at right angles, held just above waist height and close in to the body, for blocking his opponent's blows and central countering.

Boris advanced, his knees also bent and hands and arms in more or less the same attitude as Hunter's. The agent waited. Let Boris make the first move. He wouldn't fall for the triple response this time.

Hunter had the advantage, however – Boris had hate in his eyes, and that would make him a little wild. It would be the angle to work on.

They circled each other warily for over a minute, each sizing up the other's guard, then Boris tried a high kick to the chest. It was amazing how this great bear of a man, chunky as a pillar-box, could move so well.

Hunter moved sideways just enough to cause the blow to miss, caught the foot with both hands and twisted mightily, dropping to one knee and turning his body, at the same time pulling on the leg.

Boris sailed over his head, but landed agilely and was up in an instant. Normally that move would have dislocated the leg and the fall would have completely winded an opponent. It was going to be no easy fight.

The man was coming in again. This time he tried combination hand and feet blows, throat slashes and finger stabs to the soft parts of the body. Hunter parried them all but could see no clear opening.

Boris was gradually moving him backwards under the sheer weight of the onslaught. It was time to attack.

Hunter pretended to stumble and allowed Boris to launch a blow intended to put him down for good. As the chopping blow fell, he parried it upwards with his forearm and butted Boris in the abdomen with his head. With the Russian off balance, he followed up with a high kick to the chin, which really hurt his opponent, but Boris made a quick recovery and came in to attack again. He was rattled, however, and too intent on hitting Hunter to be cool and collected. Hunter had gained the psychological advantage.

As Boris tried to hit him with a double arm blow, he parried both with forearm slashes, and followed up immediately with the triple response, and repeated it, twice.

The slash to the throat, the jab in the abdomen and the kick on the shin, delivered three times in rapid succession, weakened the Russian considerably, but did not put him down, as it had in the warehouse. The blows then had been unexpected, and he had been relaxed. Now his muscles were tensed. Nevertheless, he reeled.

Hunter had expected him to go down and tried to get behind him to finish him off, but Boris recovered sufficiently to thwart him. He had lost all sense of sport Karate and would have killed Hunter on the spot if he could have done so.

He came in, arms flailing like a windmill. Hunter sidestepped and, as Boris went by, hit him with a rabbit punch which had behind it every ounce of energy in his body. It had five times the force of the blow that had killed the man in the corridor.

Boris went down, but tried to get up again, mouthing imprecations in Russian.

Hunter grinned at him and asked, 'Shto eto, tovarich?'

Boris was on hands and knees, still trying to get up, when suddenly his eyes rolled and he fell face down on the ground.

MacDougal enthused, 'Well done, laddie! I didnae think tae see ye on yeer feet at the end o' that. We must have a match together sometime.' The praise was genuine, and Hunter wondered for a moment what such a man was doing with Dirge. Must have a criminal record, but he might be worth cultivating.

'We might have a match this evening, if you're free.'

'It's no possible this evenin', laddie, but I'll let ye know when.'

'Is there a tap handy?'

'Sure, laddie – one o'er there.' He pointed to a gardener's shed.

Hunter found a pail and filled it. He walked back and tossed the lot over the prostrate Boris.

'Wakey-wakey, Doris. The sun's shining fit to burn your eyeballs out, and here's you sleeping in.'

The Russian spluttered and coughed. Gradually his eyes focused.

'You bastard, I'll kill you!' He mouthed, in Russian.

'Naughty, naughty! Language, tovarich!' Hunter spoke Russian probably better than this native. He turned away, leaving Boris on the floor, making the most horrible threats. He knew he'd made a dangerous enemy, and was glad that Boris was not camp commandant.

After a dinner of escalope of turkey with fries, broccoli and carrots, followed by vanilla cheesecake, Hunter went early to bed and slept well. The next day was to be his 'introduction' to motorcycle handling. He hadn't been on a bike for years but had enjoyed it immensely as a lad.
CHAPTER TWELVE – DARLING DELIVERED

Boris came in at five as usual to wake him. Hunter was already awake.

'Hello, Doris, old girl, did you sleep well?'

The Russian glared balefully at him, 'One day soon I kill you.'

It was not a threat but a straightforward statement of intent.

'You can try, any time you like, but I don't think Mr Makepeace would like it.'

'One day soon.' He turned and left.

Hunter thought that Boris would have to get up early in the day to catch him napping in the ordinary course of events, and after a warning like that he would have to use some very nasty business indeed if he wanted to succeed. Thinking about it, he might just have to kill Boris. The thought brought no more revulsion than that associated with the killing of a mad dog. The Russian was a trained killer and dangerous to all free men while on the loose. A pity those blows yesterday hadn't done the trick. His neck muscles must be made of steel.

Hunter dressed leisurely and went down to breakfast, making a mocking salute to Makepeace in the downstairs hall as he went. He ate a hearty breakfast, then went outside to walk to the motorcycle training area.

Morgan sat in the drive in a Jeep and beckoned Hunter to join him. As the agent clambered in he was aware of Morgan appraising him.

Finally the Welshman spoke, as he let the clutch in and revved the powerful motor, 'You know, if I hadn't checked you out personally, fingerprints and all, I wouldn't believe you were for real – a Yankee gangster with the abilities that you possess. You're as good with weapons and at unarmed combat as a lot of secret agents I've known, and yet, from what we know of your past, you never exercised, except on a bed with some floozie. What's your secret, boyo?'

'Would you believe I'm an FBI agent in disguise, and all the guys I've knocked off in the past twelve years were enemies of the State.'

'No, I don't think I would.'

'Then you'll just have to accept me at face value, won't you?'

They turned in to the gateway of the training area and Morgan said, 'Well, let's see if you're as good on a bike as you are on a bed.'

He took Hunter over to a tall, rangy man with corn-yellow hair curling over his ears. High cheekbones dominated an open, ingenuous face that was long and brown. Cornflower-blue, intelligent eyes made the perfect complement to the hair. The fine long nose line flowed from those clear open eyes down to a genuine grin as the man watched their approach.

Hunter thought that if this had been the States, the man would have certainly been a Texan, and when Morgan spoke he found out he'd been right.

'This is your protégé, Tex. Teach him all you know.'

Morgan walked back towards the Jeep as the big man began to speak. 'Guess you heard. My handle's Tex. What's yours?

'Slingsby – Gat Slingsby.'

'Okay, Gat, we gotta lot to do in not much time. You ever ride a bike afore?'

'Some, when I was a lad.

'Good, then we don't need to waste time on controls. One thing though, these bikes are fitted with five forward gears for extra speed, so for fifth gear it's one more down after four. Let's see you ride this round the yard.

Hunter got astride the big black monster. He felt the old familiar thrill he always had when he had a really powerful motor at his fingertips, whether bike, powerful sports car or aircraft. He tried a couple of gear changes with the clutch in, just to get the feel of it. It was beautiful machinery, the engine one thousand cubic centimeters of harnessed power, engineered to extremely fine tolerances.

He slipped it into first and let out the clutch.

Keerist! It was like taking off for the moon! He was doing thirty in first within yards and already having to brake to avoid running into the area where some riders were playing polo on motorcycles. A trick from his youth came back to him automatically, as he leant the bike over almost horizontal and did a 'split-arse' turn, opening the throttle wide as the footrest touched the ground and almost spinning on the bike's own axis. It could be a dangerous manoevre, but this time he was lucky. As he came up straight again, opening the throttle and changing up a cog, he thought that he shouldn't have done that – it would have made him look extremely foolish had he come off in the first half-minute.

He started to ease up and then thought, 'Hell, why should I?'

He stopped alongside the Texan in a cloud of dust, at the end of a beautifully executed sideways skid.

The big blond head nodded, 'Not bad at all for an amateur. If'n yuh c'n stay in the saddle for a week, yuh should be okay. Take it easy to start with, though. This is your bike and if yuh damage it, you'll have to repair it! That's the rule.'

The days passed pleasantly enough. Hunter learnt the finesse of the circus wall of death rider and could almost make the machine talk by the end of the seven days. He knew its every mood and knew how to get the last ounce of power out of it, just making the valves bounce in each gear before changing up. He could jump a space between two roofs ten feet apart with a slight ramp take-off, and had learnt the secret of driving through a brick wall without injury to himself or the bike. He had been through fire and water, brick and wooden partitions, and on the skidpan. He'd been taught to fall off without hurting himself, and how to strip a machine to its separate component parts using the minimum of tools and the maximum knowledge, and how to recognize and correct running faults and defects.

It was a genuine pleasure to get away from his usual way of life and to learn something completely new. He could not afford to make any other nocturnal excursions, nor to appear too inquisitive outside the questions expected of him on the course. Sir Michael must by now have the place taped, and he could take care of its destruction in his own good time.

The Texan was an expert and did his best to ensure that Hunter was given a thorough training. All the roadwork on the bike had been done within the confines of the estate, however. Hunter had not been allowed outside.

One day, about four weeks after his arrival, the Texan said, 'Waal, I guess yuh know jest about as much as I do. I reckon you'll do. Ride the bike back to the house. You'll be leaving pretty soon now.'

As Hunter braked to a stop outside the mansion, Morgan appeared through the French windows.

'You'll be leaving first thing in the morning for your first assignment, Slingsby. Have breakfast at five-thirty and wait for me outside the main door at six. Park your motorcycle in the drive for the night. Pack your civilian clothes but leave them in the room. They'll be sent on to you.'

As a distant church clock struck six the next morning, Morgan and two men Hunter did not recognize, wearing black PVC motorcycling outfits, helmets, goggles and boots to match his own, walked out of the main door and came towards him in the drive. It was clear they were not about to take any chances with him. He was to go in convoy.

Morgan told him, 'As you see, there are three of you on this job. You've been assigned to help Semeonov and Turner here. You'll ride at quarter-mile intervals, Turner leading and Semeonov bringing up the rear. Turner knows your destination. Do not lose sight of each other. Any questions?'

Hunter shook his head.

'Off you go, then. Under no circumstances is any one of you to exceed a speed limit and in any case you are not to go above fifty miles per hour in open country.'

They got astride the machines and drove at a sedate pace along the drive and down to the electronically controlled gates, which opened as they approached. Then they were through and onto a narrow country lane, straight but bumpy, which Hunter remembered from the night they arrived. We'll turn right in about one mile, he thought, remembering that they had made two left turns in quick succession before getting onto the bumpy piece of road, but he was wrong. The man in front turned left at the crossroads to which they now came.

They were not taking the same route, so where were they headed?

It was a beautiful morning, without a cloud in the sky and no wind to speak of. Once they settled down to a general direction he would be able to tell the rough heading from the position of the sun in relation to their path.

Several more junctions followed and still they stayed on side roads. The signposts were of no help to him at all. He had never heard of the villages mentioned: Goose Green, Plaxtol, Ivy Hatch, Crouch, Claygate Cross.

They rode on. The sun was on his right shoulder, so they were heading more or less north, towards London.

After some ten minutes they crossed a main road. No signposts unfortunately, but then they crossed another which he thought he recognized as the A25, between Sevenoaks and Maidstone, close to the former.

A better piece of road came up, with a sharp left followed by a sharp right, then a few houses and a left turn onto a piece of road which he instantly recognized as the Pilgrim's Way, running between Wrotham and Otford. He'd driven this stretch for pleasure several times, on days when he was going to watch racing at Brands Hatch, about three miles away now, on the other side of the A20.

Turner only stayed on the Pilgrim's Way for a couple of hundred yards before taking the road off towards Eynsford, still heading for Town.

As they turned onto this stretch Hunter saw two helicopters spraying crops on either side of the road about three-quarters of a mile ahead of them. Two large furniture vans were also being driven along the road ahead. Strange that they should use this route instead of the main road, he thought. They must have a load for local delivery.

Turner was overtaking the vans and disappeared from Hunter's view. As the agent drew close to the rear van, its driver swerved out without indicating and took up position alongside the other van, blocking the entire road.

Hunter swore under his breath and sounded a long blast on his hooter. These heavy lorry drivers thought they owned the road, and because they were so big no one could contest their right of way.

The van was not overtaking, but keeping station with the other. A warning light began flashing in his brain – something about this was just not right.

He fell back a trifle. They were now passing the helicopters. There, too, something was out of kilter – the two aircraft were right opposite each other and were not spraying. His inner warning light went onto full alarm, and then another light began flashing – in the helicopter on the right. Dot dash, dash dot dot dot dot. A6! By all that was holy – the Department! But what were they up to? They couldn't do anything without it being seen by Semeonov.

Hunter looked in his rear-view mirror. The Russian was keeping station perfectly a quarter mile behind him. The vans had speeded up now to about forty-five miles an hour. He pulled up close again. In his mirror he noticed that the helicopters had descended almost to ground level.

Ah – now he had it. They were going to use the old wire trick, but this time it would be stretched between the two helicopters, and Semeonov was going to be on the receiving end.

As Hunter watched, the Russian seemed to be plucked out of his seat backwards, his head jerking back sharply. The motorcycle ran on alone into the ditch bordering the road. In the mirror it all seemed to happen in slow motion. Semeonov was lying in the roadway, not moving.

Looking to the front, Hunter saw that the van on the right had lowered its tailboard, making a ramp.

Tibbins and Sir Michael were standing inside, beckoning him to ride up. He changed down a cog and accelerated fast up the ramp, to come to a stop inside. Two mechanics got up from seats on the side of the van and began changing the number plates even before he got off the machine. Tibbins had an electronic gadget in his hand. He read the odometer reading on the Dirge machine, turned to the one he called Darling and dialled the same number, changing the odometer reading on the Department's machine to agree with that on the one from Dirge.

Sir Michael growled, 'Wasting taxpayer's money again, Alpha Six, gallivanting about the countryside on a motorcycle.' He didn't even smile, 'I hope you enjoyed your holiday – it has been deducted from your annual entitlement.'

Hunter smiled disarmingly, knowing that his boss was covering his concern with a put-on gruffness, 'Charming as always, Chief.'

His chief gritted his teeth at the hated epithet.

'Hrumph! Leave that motorcycle where it is and take Darling here. Done the odometer reading, Tibbins? Good.'

Hunter was impressed, 'That's a handy little gadget, Tibbins. You could make a fortune selling them to the secondhand motor trade.'

The little man gave him a self-satisfied smile, 'Good job I'm an honest man, eh, Sir?'

Plates apart, the machines looked identical. Hunter climbed aboard the Department machine, pushed it off its stand and kicked it into life.

He turned to Sir Michael, 'They have several transmitters at the training school, including a powerful SWAB, and their coding equipment is an old Cyphex, like those we used at the end of the war. Almost all the fighting men they have are drugged and will suffer brain damage as a result of taking the drugs within three months from now. I overheard a conversation that leads me to believe they will be used one month before that. They have a battalion-sized arsenal, including gas, torpedoes, bombs, field pieces and, I am almost sure, tactical nuclear weapons.'

Sir Michael's eyebrows lifted.

'I'm now being sent on some assignment or other but haven't any details.'

'Well done, Alpha Six. Better get off now and follow your leader.'

Hunter rode down the ramp onto the road, then made a split-arse turn to bring him round onto the correct heading again. As he did so, the outside van overtook the other and the ramp was drawn up.

Hunter accelerated past without acknowledgement and found that he was just entering the village of Romney Street. He went through the village at over sixty and on leaving the last houses and coming into the country again saw that Turner was some half-mile ahead. He quickly closed to half that distance.

When Turner reached the A225 he stopped and waited for the others to catch up.

Hunter pulled up alongside him and they both turned round to look back along the road, empty apart from the two furniture vans.

'Where's Ivan?'

'No idea. I had trouble getting past those two vans. One was trying to overtake the other and wouldn't let me pass. When I did overtake, Semeonov was still the normal distance behind me. Just after I passed the vans I rode into the village and haven't seen him since.'

'Blast the man! We'll have to go back and look for him.'

Turner put his machine into gear and began to turn the handlebars, 'From now on, stick close to me.'

He roared off, closely followed by Hunter. They rode through the village again and out the other side. At the fork leading to Otford they stopped.

'Was he as far as this when you last saw him?'

'No. As I entered the village, he was about two hundred yards farther back than this. If he'd broken down we would be able to see him from here.'

'We'd better go back to the last junction, just in case.' Turner was still unsuspicious. 'I always did say it was a mistake for the organization to employ foreigners.'

At the junction with the Pilgrim's Way there was still no sign of Semeonov, or his bike. The helicopters and the furniture vans had disappeared. Quick, neat work, typical of the Department.

'That stupid Russian must have taken the other fork, towards Otford.'

'That's the only thing he could have done, unless the ground opened up and swallowed him.'

'Well, he knows our destination, so he'll probably turn up sooner or later. We'd better press on. Stay right behind me – we'll be in heavy traffic from here on in.'

'Where are we heading?' Hunter didn't expect to be told, but it seemed like a normal question to ask under the circumstances. Strange to say, he was given the information.

'East India Docks, to the warehouse.' Obviously Turner had not been told that Hunter was under suspicion, or chose to ignore it. In any case, their destination would soon become obvious.

The traffic through the outskirts of London was particularly heavy for that time of the morning but, weaving and dodging, they arrived at the warehouse without undue delay.

There was nothing to distinguish it from the scores of others around it and no large nameplate decorated its façade.

Turner stopped outside the double doors and rang a bell. A small grille opened and a pair of eyes dominated by enormous bushy black eyebrows took stock of them.

They obviously passed muster, because almost immediately one of the two large steel doors slid aside to allow them to enter.

As he got off the bike, Hunter had the alarming thought that they might do a routine service on it, but then relaxed as he remembered that Tex had confirmed that every Dirge operative serviced his own machine.

Makepeace was descending the metal stairs from an office on the first floor, his little companion two steps behind him.

'Ah! Mr Slingsby. So pleased to see you again. You have exceeded our expectations so far, and now I have need of your special talents. By the way, where is Semeonov, still outside?'

Turner answered him, 'He was behind us as far as Romney Street, but when we got to the main road he was no longer there. We went back as far as the Pilgrim's Way, but no sign of him. Guess he took the wrong road at the junction. He'll probably turn up shortly.'

Makepeace looked uneasy.

'Too many things like this have been happening recently. He came to us as a deserter from the KGB. The story was that he'd been accumulating funds in foreign banks and they were onto him. They could have disposed of him, or it could be that he was spying on our organization for the Russians and the story was just a cover. I don't like it. It smells. Whatever else you might say about him, he is highly efficient and would not have taken a wrong turning on a route he has traveled at least ten times before. Just in case, I think we had better evacuate this warehouse and use the standby headquarters. He knows nothing of that.'

He walked to the wall, picked up a microphone and depressed the 'talk' button.

'All personnel will assemble inside the main doors immediately.'

Men began appearing from all directions and Makepeace waited until they had formed up into three ranks and were quiet.

'We are about to leave this headquarters and move to alternative accommodation. Every item is to be loaded onto the vehicles. The alternative headquarters is a yellow-painted warehouse on Dock Three. Go!'

He turned to Hunter and Turner, 'We will talk in the new HQ. Please proceed there immediately.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – HEADS I LOSE

Within one hour the move to the standby headquarters had been effected. Makepeace called Turner and Hunter into his office and had them sit down.

He regarded them thoughtfully for several seconds then began, 'To cases, gentlemen. There are two men who are being rather a nuisance to our organization, and we would like to ensure that we are troubled by them no more. Both are prominent men and in neither case must there be any suspicion of foul play. You are to eliminate them, Mr Slingsby, and make it appear that they died from natural causes. I shall expect you to explain your method of doing so in' he looked at his watch, 'fifteen minutes. You might have a cup of coffee while you are thinking. Turner will show you where you can obtain one.'

Turner led the way to one of the rooms tucked away at the side of the warehouse. A dozen or so plain wooden tables and matching chairs stood around the room, around half of them occupied by men drinking tea and coffee. An automat for dispensing hot and cold drinks beckoned to them with its 'Ready' light winking.

Turner asked, 'Black or white?'

Hunter scarcely heard him. He was going over in his mind every way of killing without trace that he'd ever heard of, and he had heard of many.

Turner repeated the question.

'Oh, white, please, with sugar.'

Makepeace tannoyed for them just as Hunter replaced his cup on the table. The man must have a stopwatch, he thought, or was there a hidden camera in the canteen too? They walked back up to the office in silence.

The door was open, and they'd hardly crossed the threshold when Makepeace asked, 'Well, Mr Slingsby, your method?'

Hunter told him, 'You must know this kinda deal ain't in my line exactly but I reckon my idea will work. Before I explain, can you tell me what sort of opportunity we'll have to get close to the contracts, and who they are?'

'That last piece of information will be given to you when I am ready, but I can tell you that the – er – objects of your attention will most probably be asleep in bed when you administer the coup de grace.'

'Okay. I suggest then that we first of all chloroform them, so that there's no evidence of a struggle, and then, while they're under the influence of the dope, I'll drive a long-bodied hypodermic syringe charged with air up the nostril into the brain and inject air. It'll seem like they died in their sleep from natural causes.'

'Excellent Mr Slingsby! I congratulate you on a most original and ingenious plan.'

Little you know, Hunter thought. The KGB had introduced that form of death several years before, and had killed a shedload of British and American agents by that means before one of their officials defected and betrayed the method. It had never received any publicity outside the Department and the CIA, however, both of which had adopted it for their own and given the Soviets a taste of their own medicine.

'Both contracts will be executed tonight. You will remain in the warehouse today and at 1630 you will report for final briefing.'

Walking back down the stairs Turner suggested a game of cards and Hunter agreed. There was nothing to be done until the briefing, and even then he would have to toe the line.

He was hoping the intended victims were criminals. If not, it would be almost impossible to save them if Turner was with him.

They played gin rummy in desultory fashion for a couple of hours and had lunch, which was brought in to them from a neighbouring cafeteria.

The hours dragged until the Tannoy sprang into life at twenty-five minutes past four: 'Turner and Slingsby to Mr Makepeace.'

This time Makepeace was absent when they entered. It was some five minutes later before he came in, through a door that had not before been apparent. Hunter wondered whether it was a secret chamber from which they could be watched. If it was Makepeace hadn't learnt anything. They'd sat in complete silence.

'Ah, gentlemen, you are ready I see.' He pressed a couple of switches on the desk control panel.

Dark curtains began to close over the windows and the lights dimmed. Another couple of switches and a projection screen lowered in front of the end wall.

'I shall show you the two gentlemen concerned separately, together with the details of their houses and sleeping quarters.' He took up a remote-control lead and pressed the operating button.

The wall sprang into life with a clear picture of a smartly dressed man in his late fifties. He was in the act of stepping into a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. Hunter knew he had seen him somewhere but could not immediately place him.

Makepeace said, 'Take a good look at this man. We do not want any mistakes. He is a great source of trouble to our organization and must be eliminated.'

Hunter studied what he could see of the building in the background of the picture. He knew that façade but again couldn't bring to mind where or when he'd last seen it.

Makepeace changed the slide. Now they were looking at the front of an elegant Regency-style house, of the type found in the Regent's Park area.

'This is the front of the house. As you will see, entrance from this side would not be easy without the front door key. We have a copy of that key, just in case, but it is known that the butler not only locks, but also chains the front door. You will be able to leave by the front if you have any trouble leaving by the back door. This is the rear entrance.'

He switched slides to show the back of the house and garden.

'Access to the garden is through a wrought-iron gate, which is kept locked. This is the key.' He held up a large old-fashioned key. 'The back door will also be locked,' a second key was held up, 'but will not be secured in any other way. After entering by the back door you will go along the passage in front of you,' The slides were being changed rapidly now, to keep pace with the dialogue, 'and up the stairs. Sir Joseph's room is the last but one on the left.'

Hunter mentally kicked himself. Of course he should have recognised that high forehead and bushy eyebrows immediately. Sir Joseph Bradbury, the Governor of the Bank of England! These people didn't believe in fooling around with minions. The building in the picture had been the Bank of England – the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.

They wanted him to cash in Sir Joseph's final account. How the hell was he going to get out of this one? The Chief certainly wouldn't sanction it and would probably have his 'A' rating withdrawn, if nothing worse.

He came back to the business in hand with a bump. Makepeace had changed the slide once again, and they were in Sir Joseph's bedroom.

It was a masculine bedchamber, furnished sparsely but well, with no-nonsense Georgian furniture and plain dark-brown velvet drapes. Hunter wondered how in hell Makepeace had got his photographs. Most probably from one of Sir Joseph's servants in his employ.

Makepeace was speaking again, and Hunter had missed a few words, '---leave again by the same way as you entered, locking both the back door and the gate behind you. You should have no problem from the servants, all of whom are of regular habits and retire shortly after ten-thirty. Any questions?'

There were none. It was all just too easy.

'Now to your second target. This time you will have a much more difficult task, since the man is closely guarded day and night by expertly trained men. His house is difficult of access from every direction, and there are many security devices fitted. Please pay great attention – your lives will certainly depend on your accurate remembrance of everything I am about to tell you.

Firstly, this is the man, a rather evil-looking fellow, I'm sure you will agree.' The slide changed as he spoke.

Hunter had to bite his lip to stop himself from gasping aloud. He wondered for a moment if he were dreaming.

The man in the picture on the wall in front of him was---Big Mike!

After the initial surprise he had the violent desire to dissolve into great guffaws of laughter. The situation was hilariously ironic: Sir Michael had sent him out on a mission – to murder Sir Michael! And if he succeeded, what would the new chief say? Give him a vote of thanks and a raise in salary, or have him hanged for high treason?

It was an interesting hypothesis and depended on which of the second chain was given the post. Geoffrey Harnwick, probably, in which case he'd better prepare himself for a long drop on a short rope. Harnwick had no sense of humour whatsoever and had always shown open dislike for both Hunter and his nonchalant attitude to authority.

Makepeace began to describe the house. 'He lives on the third floor of this building, which you will see has only one means of access in front at ground level - the door, where a so-called doorman, in reality a plain-clothes policeman, is on duty twenty-four hours a day. The rear entrance is similarly guarded by a policeman at a desk just inside the door. You will note that all the windows on the ground floor are heavily barred. Your only method of entry, therefore, is via the roof, which you will gain from the fanlight of the empty house next door. After crossing the roof you will use a rope ladder to descend to this window, here,' He used a light pointer to indicate the fourth window from the left on the fifth floor back, 'which leads into a small storeroom. We have arranged that this window shall be left unlatched.

You will attach the rope ladder onto this chimney, where the lightning conductor is fastened. Once inside the storeroom you will find that this key will unlock the door. Your task is still not an easy one. The fifth and fourth floors are unguarded, but a bodyguard is on duty at this point on the third floor.' He changed the slide to one showing the stairwell and entrance hall. A man sat at a desk just inside the hall.

'There is always a man on duty, and you must somehow devise a means of making him leave his post, so that you can get past him to this room, where our man sleeps. I reiterate, these deaths must appear natural. If you make the guard suspicious, you will have failed in your mission, and we do not accept failure.'

Hunter knew it was no idle threat. An organization like the one Makepeace was running could only survive if every man knew that to fail meant the death sentence. He had killed under more difficult circumstances, but in this case he was on a hiding to nothing. If he succeeded it meant death from his own side. If he failed he would die at the hands of the opposition. He sat trying to think of the Chinese for 'dilemna', remembering that it was 'kừnjìng'just as Makepeace told them that they must return the same way as they had entered.

'Good luck. Your equipment will be ready by your machines at midnight.'

The briefing was at an end.

Hunter decided to relax on one of the couches in the rest room for a few hours. Most men would have found it impossible to sleep under such conditions, but he had long ago accustomed himself to relaxing before a dangerous mission. He often wondered whether he would make his last fatal mistake through having no nerves.

In the early days, when he first became an agent, and before he'd been given authority to kill on his own initiative, he had always been tense before a job, only relaxing when actually in danger. Now he had no nerves at all. Death had ceased to mean anything to him, unless it was the death of an innocent party. When he gave it any serious thought it bothered him that he felt that way, because it meant that he had, thanks largely to the ministrations of Claire Risslan, become a machine, without feelings of pity, remorse, hate, emotion, or even love.

Of women he had had plenty, of all shapes, sizes, creeds and colours, but never had he felt more than a passing attraction for one. They came and went with great regularity. That alone would be worrying for any man in a normal occupation, because he would worry about being alone in his old age. John Hunter, with true 'Irish' reasoning, knew that if he continued his way of life for much longer, he would not continue it for much longer. He would make the one fatal mistake that most of the Department's older men made, and end up as a bar of soap or a bag of fertilizer on some remote Russian farm, or as food for fishes in some distant Asiatic sea.

Of course, one could leave the Department and take up farming or road sweeping. After twenty years, one could actually retire on a small pension – not enough to live on, of course, but sufficient to keep from actually starving to death. Hunter knew of not one operative who had remained an active agent and lived to draw the full pension at age sixty. Most often an agent's nerves broke after a few years and, if he managed to get out of the situation alive, Sir Michael would put him out to grass as a Field Officer somewhere, like Dalton, or if necessary as a clerk in one of the offices in Headquarters. To an active man it would be far worse than death. Hunter was sure that he would rather die swiftly in action than spend the rest of his life pushing a pen. It looked very much as if he would get that chance tonight!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – THE CHIEF TAKES A DIVE

The last stroke of midnight echoed across the darkened roofs of the City from Big Ben as they wheeled their motorcycles out of the warehouse doors and into drizzling rain.

Turner said it for both of them, 'Bloody great night for roof walking, Slingsby.'

Hunter had been thinking how unpleasant it would be, trying to keep his footing on old, slimy tiles.

A twenty minute ride through quiet streets brought them to the point where they were to leave the machines, a couple of hundred yards from the gate of Sir Joseph's residence, just in case any nosy policeman came along and remembered their presence.

They walked the short distance to the gate. Hunter opened it with the key provided and locked it behind them. The house was in complete darkness and as they crossed the back garden, which was just a large area of short mown grass, they were completely inconspicuous in their all-black outfits. The drizzle had stopped, but there was no moonlight, with the sky still covered by ten-tenths cloud, and only a small amount of ambient light from nearby street lamps and the ever-present light pollution.

The back door opened easily with the key and made no sound.

Hunter whispered, 'I suggest you stay down here, in case any of the servants wake up. They all sleep on the ground floor in these houses, and we would be caught like rats in a trap if one came up without warning. I'll go up and do the job and meet you back here.'

Turner was of a different opinion, 'My orders were to come with you and make sure the job is carried out successfully. I don't think Mr Makepeace would be happy if he knew I didn't do it.'

'When he reads tomorrow's obituary column he should be convinced enough!'

'Yeah. That's true. Okay then, you go ahead. I don't much care for cold-blooded killing like this, anyway. Give me a man shooting back and I'll kill him with pleasure, but murdering men in their sleep is not in my line.'

Hunter didn't give him a chance to change his mind. He climbed the stairs and went to the last room on the left. The door opened noiselessly at his touch, and he closed it again behind him. Tip-toeing over to the bed he used a pencil torch to see what attitude his target was lying in.

He slipped the torch back into his pocket, then, clapping his left hand firmly over Sir Joseph's mouth, he took a flying leap onto the bed, pinning down the body and arms of his rudely awakened 'victim' with his right hand and body. The banker was a big man and immediately began to struggle.

Hunter barked in a loud whisper, 'British Secret Service, Sir Joseph! Please keep still, and don't speak. I mean you no harm.'

The struggles ceased. Hunter climbed carefully off the bed, hoping Turner had not heard the slight noise.

Sir Joseph was fuming but kept silent. His eyes in the near dark spoke volumes however.

Hunter wasted no time. 'I'm on a secret mission and have infiltrated an enemy organization. They have sent me here tonight to kill you by chloroforming you and then injecting air into your brain. To protect me, you must, to all intents and purposes, 'die'. The newspapers, television and radio must carry the story tomorrow and a funeral must be held. Ring Whitehall 3333 as soon as I leave and tell the person who answers what I have just told you. Tell them also that Alpha One is my next target. My agent's number is Alpha Six and my code name is Alexander. It is vitally important. Do you agree?'

The man had not got to his high office by being slow on the uptake. He nodded.

'Right! Now there is another man downstairs, and he may want to see the body, so please play dead for a few minutes.'

He opened the bottle of chloroform from his pocket and poured a small quantity on the bedclothes, then walked quickly to the door, opened it and went to the top of the landing.

He whistled softly and Turner appeared in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. Hunter beckoned to him and he tiptoed up.

'Okay. It's all over. Wanna take a look?'

'Might as well, in case Makepeace asks if I checked.'

He followed Hunter into the bedroom and Turner looked down at Sir Joseph, who was holding his breath and hoping they wouldn't stay too long.

'Don't he look peaceful? You did a good job. No mess. Let's get the hell out of here – this job is giving me the creeps.'

Getting out of the house and garden was just as easy as entering.

They rode across London without speeding and stopped to leave the motorcycles in a mews just short of their second target.

Hunter looked around him. He'd always liked this part of Town. The houses, most of them dating from the late nineteenth century, were solid and had character. He thought of the bankers, successful lawyers and businessmen asleep after a good dinner in their warm, comfortable beds, in these warm, comfortable houses. Did he envy them? No, he did not! They could keep their comfortable, regular lives. Three weeks of that would stifle him to death.

In a few hours the pulse of these streets would quicken again with the early-morning traffic – the chars hurrying to clean deserted offices before the business of the day; milkmen and paperboys delivering; men dashing off to their work in Covent Garden and the Underground stations. The smog of petrol and diesel fumes would be thickening on the air with the increasing noise of transport, building up to the cacophonous crescendo of the day, but for now the night was almost silent, and sweet, and warm, and smelling of old stones and secondhand soot, as it only can in the center of Town after a light rain.

The two strolling players had the boards to themselves---

The operator on the direction-finding equipment used to home in on the beacon which had been implanted under Hunter's scalp began to get excited. Up to now, he and his fellow operators had maintained a twenty-four hour watch and had logged all the agent's movements impassively. Now, plotting on a large-scale street map of London, he could see that the agent was approaching Sir Michael's residence.

He called his supervisor, 'Sir! He's outside Big Mike's!'

He was rewarded with a dirty look from the Duty Officer, who was on the telephone, barking out orders. He'd just finished a ten-minute conversation with Sir Joseph, and was now putting the wheels into operation for the news to be given to the newspapers, and for a funeral to be organized. They had arranged for Sir Joseph to be accommodated at Headquarters, and to be taken there in complete secrecy. He was unmarried, so that one possible complication was removed. His personal servant would be the only one in the secret, since it was obvious that some person in the household was in the pay of the ungodly. Sir Joseph vouched personally for this man, who had been with him for over forty years.

Suddenly the D/F operator's words penetrated the Duty Officer's preoccupation. He whipped round. 'What? Already? Oh, my God!' He turned back sharply to the telephone, 'Give me Sir Michael, direct, and fast!'

He mentally crossed himself. Like all the other DOs he knew the story of one, Alan Salter, who ten years before had woken the Chief up in the middle of the night. As far as he knew, the same Alan Salter was still a Field Officer in one of the remote Portuguese jungle provinces of West Africa.

'Duty Officer here, Sir. Alpha Six broke into Sir Joseph Bradbury's house in order to murder him by injecting air into his brain---'

Sir Michael broke him off in mid-sentence, 'God! Has he gone mad? What in Halifax does he think he's playing at? Where did you get this information?'

The DO grinned and began again, 'Sir Joseph just rang me on Alpha Six's instructions. There is another man with him, but he left him downstairs and faked the job. Sir Joseph played dead for the benefit of the accomplice, and I've arranged the necessary funeral and so on, but what---'

'Funeral? Just what is going on? I---'

This time the DO broke in, '---I'm sorry, Sir, but you'll have to stop talking and listen.'

He could almost hear the Chief foaming at the mouth at the other end of the line. The D/F operator turned away to hide a huge grin. He wouldn't like to be the DO when Big Mike had him on the carpet the next day.

'What I have to tell you, Sir, is that Alpha Six is now right outside your house, and from his message via Sir Joseph it seems that you are next on the list to be killed.'

Several seconds passed with only unintelligible gurgling noises from the other end and the DO imagined Sir Michael having apoplexy.

Finally he croaked, 'Very well, thank you, Soames. I will take the necessary action.' He replaced the telephone and picked up the house intercom. 'Give me the front door.'

Hunter and Turner had reached the front door of the house next door and had tried to open it with the key provided. The key fitted the lock but would not turn. Several seconds passed while they both took turns trying to open it. They were so engrossed in the task that they didn't hear the approach of a third person.

Suddenly a powerful torch beam lit them up. Completely dazzled they could not tell what was behind the torch. The light took in their faces and then traveled down their bodies, finally returning to dazzle them once more. The man holding the torch was obviously taking careful stock of them.

'I'm the doorman of the house next door. Might I ask you gentlemen what you are doing here at this hour of the night?'

'We've leased an office on the third floor, and the estate agent gave us this key so that we could have a look at it.' Hunter had seen a notice in one of the windows, advertising offices to let on the third floor.

'Bit late at night for that, isn't it, Sir? And you don't exactly look much like two City gents, if you don't mind my saying so.'

'More like two 'rockers', you mean? We've had a long drive from Manchester, and my business partner and I compete quite a lot in motorcycle trials and prefer to use that form of transport when we don't have to use a car for business reasons.'

The man was obviously not satisfied, 'And just where are your motorcycles now, might I ask, Sir?'

Hunter was about to answer when a bell rang next door.

Before turning away the man said, 'I should like to see your credentials if you intend entering this house sir. I'll be back in a few moments.'

'It seems we are going to be unable to do that,' Hunter told him, 'so we will bid you goodnight.'

They started to walk away down the steps.

The doorman hastened to his telephone.

Hunter stopped and took out a packet of Benson and Hedges. They lit up and listened. The doorman's voice came through the cool night air very clearly, 'Roger, Sir, I'll come straight up.' He did not give them another glance, but went inside and closed the door behind him.

They turned quickly and ran back up to the door. Hunter rubbed the key on the stone edge of the step, one side after the other, then tried it in the lock once more. This time it half turned the tumblers.

'Put your fingers under that paneling and try lifting the whole door while I turn the key.'

Turner did what Hunter suggested and another twist of the key succeeded in unlocking the door. They almost fell inside in their haste.

Hunter locked the door behind them and left the key inserted in case they had to leave in a hurry.

The house seemed to be empty but they took the five flights of narrow stairs carefully, just in case. On the fifth floor landing they used the torch to locate the trapdoor into the attic. There were no steps, nor a ladder to reach it.

Hunter urged, 'Get up onto my shoulders.' He gave Turner his hand to step in and then supported the other man's weight on his shoulders while Turner pushed upwards to remove the trapdoor cover. He hoisted himself inside the loft.

'Okay, Slingsby, there's a ladder here.'

He let the ladder down, and Hunter joined him in the loft. They looked upwards, expecting to see the fanlight with faint light shining through it. They were disappointed – the loft was as black as the tomb.

They switched on their small torches and searched the large area. Finally, Turner found what they were looking for, 'I guess this must be it, but it's been boarded up.'

They had no tools with them and had seen nothing in the attic that could be of use in removing the two pieces of four-by-two, which had been nailed across the adjacent beams with several six-inch nails.

Hunter grinned in spite of the situation. 'We would have to come across the work of a 'brick-shithouse-engineer', wouldn't we? Stand back. I'll see what I can do.'

He took two paces backward and handed Turner his torch.

'Hold both torch beams steady on the lower plank. This is where that Ki-ya nonsense might come in handy.' He took in a deep breath.

From immobility he was suddenly a flurry of action. The fanlight was high, but so was the kick. He'd practiced it many thousands of times and it was one of his specialities.

The steel side of his shoe hit the lower plank with incredible force, splitting it asunder and smashing it through the glass of the window behind the boards.

Good old Tibbins! He'd been right – it was a good weapon.

Turner could only manage an astounded, 'Keerist!'

There was now enough leverage on the two split ends to enable them to be removed by the combined efforts of the two men. Using one of the removed pieces they were then able to lever off the top spar and what remained of the thin boards. There was no need to open the fanlight – only tiny fragments of the glass remained embedded in the putty.

Hunter used one of the pieces of wood to smash these small pieces and then levered himself through the aperture onto the roof. Had the noise attracted any undue attention, he wondered? He looked around and listened carefully. It seemed not.

Turner joined him and they both sat on the edge of the hole looking at the expanse of roof between them and the chimney from which they were to lower the rope ladder.

It was a much steeper angle than they'd anticipated – almost forty degrees from the horizontal. Under the dark sky of the small hours it looked even more threatening. Nothing for it, however – Dirge did not accept failure!

Hunter made a move. 'Stay here until I reach the first chimneystack, then join me, after throwing me the end of the ladder.'

He inched forward, moving almost imperceptibly, clinging with the tips of his fingers and with feet splayed out to give a better grip.

It took a tremendous amount of energy and almost four minutes of body-breaking tension before his fingers closed around the corner of the first chimneystack. He pulled himself up and sat with legs astride it.

Turner had been watching him, holding his breath, expecting any second to see Hunter falling to his death from the slippery tiles. When he saw Hunter's hand signal he threw one end of the ladder. It fell short. Again and again he tried, and it was only on the sixth attempt that the end came close enough to Hunter for him to grab it.

Turner started out on the journey across the tiles.

It seemed like an eternity to Hunter before the other man reached up with his hand for help and came to sit with him on the roof above the chimney.

Reaction had set in, and Hunter's arms and legs had gone numb from the exertion followed by inactivity. Unless they wanted to wait to be rescued by the fire brigade the next morning they would have to move on.

The distance to the second stack was roughly the same as that from the fanlight to the first. Hunter took a deep breath and set out again. His limbs were leaden, and it required a tremendous effort of will to move them. Progress was even slower than before. He tried to concentrate – the chimneystack was less than five feet away from him – left hand, left foot – right hand – right---his toe slipped! He tried again, in the same place. No hold! The tile seemed to be greased it was so slippery. He moved his foot farther across to the next tile. Same thing. There was nothing for it – the only thing he could do was to go back and try higher.

He tried to gain a foothold where the toe had previously held. It slipped. He began to get desperate – his fingers were cramped, and his left foot also.

He tried again. Still no good. There must be moss or something slippery on his shoe.

'Keep still – don't panic. Think.' The commands pounded out from his brain. He tried to stay absolutely still, but as he did so he realised that he had begun to slide – very slowly, but surely. His clothes were wringing wet and sweat poured down his face.

The slide became faster and faster, until he had no hold left at all.

Fingertips and toes were sliding over the tiles, and then he felt only a flurried bumping. Desperation was in him, but not fear. He'd faced death so many times that this was really an anticlimax.

His body shot over the edge, and as it did so he caught a glimpse of Turner's anxious face in the gloom.

As his stomach bounced on the guttering he made a desperate grab and caught the gutter with one hand. For a moment that seemed like eternity his whole weight was suspended by the one arm.

Searing pain tore through him as with a tremendous effort of will he tried to swing his body in pendulum fashion. On the third swing he managed to grab the gutter with his other hand.

It gave him breathing space of a few moments, and he used them to remuster his energies. On a bar he had thousands of times practiced hanging by his fingertips and then levered himself up by sheer force of arm to finally get astride the bar.

He took a deep breath and tried it now. Halfway but no farther. The journey across the tiles had taken too much out of him. He could not get his foot onto the guttering, and he could certainly not hang like this for many more seconds; fingertips were not made of steel.

Words fell like grit from his lips, 'Turner, I can't hang here for long before my fingers give out. Make your end of the ladder fast and try to throw the other end so that it overshoots me a little. I'll try to grab it on the return swing.' His voice held all the urgency of the situation, but was little above a whisper. Under his breath he was saying a prayer that Turner's aim would be better than the last time.

Turner tried to do Hunter's bidding, but the only way of making the rope fast at his end was to wrap it completely round the chimneystack, and when he did that the other end fell short by a couple of feet.

'You'll have to wrap it round your body and brace yourself to take my weight!' Hunter could feel his fingers losing their grip, slowly, relentlessly. It could only be seconds before he fell those five stories to certain death.

Turner began to panic. There was no way he wanted to condemn himself to death doing what Hunter asked, but it was the Devil or the Deep. If Hunter died and he returned to Dirge without having completed the mission he would not live the day out. If he tried to take Hunter's weight, it would pull him over too, but he had no choice.

He put the ladder around his body and threw it again. It fell beside Hunter, but three feet away.

Hunter knew there would be no time for another attempt – his fingertips were slipping - he could hold on no longer. He closed his eyes---

Suddenly he felt himself being lifted by what felt like steel bands around his ankles, and upward pressure applied under his shoes. He could maintain his position on the guttering with almost no strength of his own. Was he dreaming?

It took several seconds before his pain-torn brain could work it out.

Of course! Sir Michael would have had a twenty-four-hour 'tail' on him, and would have heard from Sir Joseph. It would not have taken long for him to put two and two together, with the information from his doorkeeper. There must be two of his men helping from the top window.

He flexed his fingers and took the pressure off his hands one at a time. Gradually life flowed back into stiff fingers and arms. He took the weight of his body again, to give the men down below a respite. As he did so, the rope ladder fell in just the right spot for him to grab with one hand. He hoped Turner had not seen with what ease he'd held onto the gutter with one hand as he did so.

He gently shook one foot to let the men below know that he wanted to move and hissed, 'Good shot, Turner!' His legs were being pushed upwards, taking much of the strain off the other man.

He was on the ladder and moving upwards. He hauled himself up until he was standing on the guttering. It seemed quite solid.

'I'll walk along down here until I'm in the right place over the window. You go up higher and try to reach the last chimneystack, then I'll throw the ladder up for you to make fast. Pay it out as I go along.'

He tested the guttering before taking each step but crossed the few remaining feet in a surprisingly short time. He pulled the rest of the ladder to him and coiled it ready, relaxing on the roof. He sensed rather than saw how petrified Turner was in the darkness above, and wondered whether the man would have the fortitude to take to the tiles after witnessing the near-catastrophe.

The seconds ticked away, but Turner made no move.

Hunter urged him, 'Come on! We haven't got all night!'

'Okay, okay! Just coming.' Turner was obviously more afraid of Makepeace than of death here. He began to move out from the safety of the chimneystack, gingerly at first, then with increasing confidence, taking a path above the line of stacks, and above the point where Hunter had begun to slip on the greasy tiles.

It took some minutes, but finally he reached the chimneystack immediately above Hunter – the stack on which they'd been instructed by Makepeace to fasten the ladder. Hunter gave him a moment or two to recover his breath and composure then threw him the coiled ladder. It was a good shot and Turner caught it first time. It was the work of only a few seconds to secure it.

'Okay, Turner. I'll go down first. You follow when I jerk the ladder.'

Hunter started down the ladder the few rungs necessary to reach the window. As he came level with it he found himself face-to-face with two of the resident guards.

They grinned at him, slid the window up and helped him in.

Quickly they walked into the corridor and pulled the door to behind them, so that they could talk without the possibility of Turner hearing the conversation. As fast as he could, Hunter told them everything about his mission for Makepeace.

'Now I'll 'do' the job here, as I did at Sir Joseph's house. What I want you to do is to tell the guard that when he hears a noise on the fifth floor he is to come up here and poke around, but not to come into this room. I'll bring Turner down now, so you'd better do a disappearing act.'

He went back into the storeroom and, leaning out, gave the ladder a couple of tugs.

The ladder shook for a while before Turner's feet appeared, framed in the window, followed shortly by the rest of his body. Hunter helped him climb in.

'I've had a quick look round. There's no one on this floor. I need you to make a distraction to get the bodyguard away from the third floor. Stay here in this storeroom and throw over a couple of boxes. The noise will be muffled, but he should come up to investigate. As soon as he passes the room I'm hiding in, I'll go down and do the job. We'll just have to hope the guard stays up here long enough for me to get out again. Give me thirty seconds before making the noise.'

He was expecting an argument, but none came. Turner seemed relieved to be left out. Hunter walked silently away down the corridor. At the stairs he looked back. No sign of Turner. He took the stairs down to the fourth and then the third floor. The guard had already been briefed and stood ready. Sir Michael was also standing in the corridor.

'Well, Alpha Six, I think we must have your warrant back for this. Treason at the very least – killing a superior officer.'

'I'm glad it's turned out as well as it has, Chief.' He saw Sir Michael wince at the title. 'If Turner had insisted on killing you himself and we had not already been to Sir Joseph's, things might have been very different. As it is they're going to be difficult enough. The 'funeral' and 'obituary' arrangements will have to be foolproof in order for Makepeace to accept them. He wouldn't trust his own grandmother.'

There came the sound of a muffled crash from upstairs. Sir Michael motioned to the guard to go and look.

'Don't worry about that; the newspapers have already been informed of Sir Joseph's 'death' and it has gone out on the wire services. Mine will appear in small print in the obit columns, with a few lines on a minor page, and his will be given small headlines. Both will be shown as from natural causes. The funeral arrangements will be foolproof. Sir Joseph is on his way to Headquarters at this moment, and will remain there until this business is finally settled. I shall leave in a coffin at first light and will also remain at Headquarters until the end. We shall ensure that there are no leaks. The affair is developing nicely, and I am pleased with your progress so far. I just hope that things continue in the same way.'

They heard the guard tramping loudly around upstairs and then the sound of him climbing the stairs to the fifth floor.

'You'd better be on your way now. Good luck, Alpha Six

That was the second time the old boy had wished him luck. He must be going gaga.

Hunter said simply, 'Thanks, Sir.'

He went swiftly back up to the fourth floor, found a room that was not locked, and stood in the doorway.

The guard was still clumping about upstairs, allowing him plenty of time. It was more than two minutes later when he finally came back down the stairs, making plenty of noise as warning.

Hunter waited until the guard had passed onto the next flight of stairs then quickly rejoined Turner.

To the other man's enquiry he answered, 'AOK – he just joined his forefathers. Let's get outa here.'

The journey up the ladder and back over the roof was completed without further incident as they both took the higher path that Turner had used, and within fifteen minutes they were riding back towards the warehouse.

Makepeace was waiting up for them and was as pleased as a little boy with a new toy when told that both missions had been carried out successfully. He remained suspicious, however and asked, 'Did you see the bodies, Turner?'

'Sir Joseph's, yes, but not the other one.'

Makepeace turned on Hunter, his eyes narrowing, 'I gave you strict instructions---'

Hunter interrupted him, 'Don't blame Turner. The only possible way we could play it was for him to cause a diversion upstairs, to get the guard off the third floor. That gave me a couple of minutes to do the job and get back to the fourth floor, so that I could get out when the guard went back down to the third. How in hell do you think Turner could get to see the body? He's dead, okay! Just buy a newspaper. When I 'hit' a guy, he's 'hit' for good – what do you think you got here – a bloody amateur?'

Makepeace managed a hint of a grin, seemingly mollified by Hunter's outburst.

'Well done, both of you. Now you had better get some sleep. I have another little job for you tomorrow, and then we are going for a cruise. I want you both here at ten hundred hours. You can sleep in that room – there are two beds made up for you, and I have arranged breakfast for you at nine o'clock.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – HUNTER THE HI-JACKER

Breakfast over they went to Makepeace's office, both curious to know what the day held in store for them in the way of skullduggery. The big man was waiting for them.

'Good morning, gentlemen. Please be seated. I will come straight to the point, since time is rather short.

You are both booked on a BEA internal flight from London Airport to Glasgow, leaving London at twelve thirty-two. The aircraft will be a normal passenger flight, but there will be eighteen million pounds worth of gold bullion aboard.

There will also be at least two Treasury agents among the passengers. You are to hi-jack the aircraft.'

He was looking sharply at the two men, checking their reactions to the outlandish proposal. Hunter thought Makepeace was disappointed at the sight of the two poker faces in front of him, both as inscrutable as the Sphinx. A scowl crossed the big man's face but he quickly recovered his savoir-faire and smiled at them again.

'It pleases me to see that you consider it such an everyday affair, gentlemen. Here is the plan: you, Mr Slingsby, at precisely twelve forty-seven, will quickly go through onto the flight deck. As you enter the cockpit door you will draw a gun and point it at the Captain's head. You will tell the crew that you have a partner on board who has a bomb in his briefcase and that he will detonate it if they do not follow your instructions. You will then tell the Captain he is to dive to one thousand feet as soon as possible and to steer two-seven-eight degrees, commencing at twelve forty-nine. You will put the transmitter out of action by pulling these two wires out of their sockets.' He passed over a photograph of the radio apparatus installed in the aircraft. Two of the wires were ringed in white ink.

You will order the electronics officer to tune his standby receiver to 143.4 Megaherz, over which channel you will receive further courses to steer.

The Captain is to make an announcement to the passengers to remain calm and to keep their seats. He is also to warn the Treasury agents that one false move will ensure the deaths of all on board. The aircraft will be brought down in the sea close to one of our ships and the gold transferred.

Hunter looked him straight in the eye, 'And the passengers and crew?'

'Will be given safe transport back to shore, of course.'

Hunter read another meaning in the snake-like eyes. Not one of those passengers or crew would ever see their homes again. What the hell could he do to prevent it, without giving away the greater game?

'Just in case anyone might recognise you at the airport, Mr Slingsby, you will wear a plaster on your cheek and a patch over one eye. The Home Office agents on the look out for you at the airport will not be watching internal flights. Have you any questions?'

Both men knew they needed to keep silent, but Hunter's brain was working furiously. He was about to put the lives of dozens of men and women in jeopardy, but what could he possibly do to prevent the disaster? If he declined, he would be put to death and another of Makepeace's men would take his place. He would just have to go through with the scheme and hope that at some point he could scotch it and still retain his credibility with Makepeace. He found himself in the same highly uncomfortable situation as Churchill, sitting with the readouts of the Enigma, and having to allow the killing of hundreds of his countrymen, so as not to give away our knowledge of the enemy's intentions. It was the rock and the hard place yet again.

~~~oOo~~~

The car entered the Heathrow complex and followed the twisting maze of flyovers, ramps and one-way circuits leading to Terminal Three.

Sir Michael had just been called to the Control Room.

'Alpha Six has just arrived at Heathrow, Sir.'

Sir Michael grunted, 'Hmmph! Now where's he off to? Find out what flights are scheduled and call me.'

'Yes, Sir.'

Hunter felt as conspicuous as the proverbial wart on the baby's bottom as he got out of the car under the watchful scrutiny of the three constables on door duty. The eye patch and sticking plaster only served to increase the feeling. He guessed he must look like some third-rate, out-of-work movie villain.

The photoelectric cell in the glass door did its duty; the panes slid silently aside and allowed them to progress into the reception hall.

Two men with very large feet and 'Scotland Yard' stamped all over them were studiously reading the instructions to travelers to 'Follow the Green if nothing to declare', and at the same time carefully observing every person entering the hall. Both gave Hunter more than his fair share of observation time.

After an agonizingly long quarter minute the taller of the two turned to the other with a quizzical lift of the eyebrows. The smaller man shook his head almost imperceptibly and both turned to pastures new.

The hi-jackers booked in at the BEA counter and a pert little blonde with over-developed breasts issued their boarding cards.

'Your flight is about to board at gate nineteen. Please go to the departure lounge now.' A carefully practiced wave of her manicured hand indicated the general direction.

Hunter's trained eye picked out the two Treasury men immediately. One of them he knew slightly by sight; the other was a stranger to him. What bothered him infinitely more was that he'd also noticed five other men dotted about the room, definitely not on the right side of the law, with boarding cards the same colour as his own. Those men all bore the same stamp – one he knew only two well – a slightly greasy and, to a practiced eye, visibly menacing appearance.

My God, he thought – Mafia! This was going to be one hell of an interesting trip.

The Controller had just put through a 'flash' call to Sir Michael.

'Sir, there is a BEA flight just about to leave Heathrow for Glasgow with bullion aboard.'

Sir Michael began to get up as he answered, 'This will be it. Get a helicopter up, now. Have them pick me up from the roof.'

Hunter took the seat nearest to the cockpit door in the BAC Super One-Eleven. Turner sat well down towards the tail of the aircraft.

Hunter noticed that the Treasury agents also took front and rear, and one of them sat immediately behind him. That was going to be decidedly awkward, he thought – he'd be likely to get shot before he'd gone two steps. Worse still, the Mafia men were all close to the front of the aircraft, although not sitting together. Every one of them had a seat next to the gangway.

One of the stewardesses, a shapely, tall brunette, with shoulder length hair that curled under at the shoulders and a ready smile, picked up a microphone and began the set routine, 'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I would like to welcome you on board flight BE238 to Glasgow on behalf on Captain Johnson and his crew. The bar will be open during the flight. Please fasten your safety straps now and please do not smoke during take-off.'

The aircraft went up like a rocket, reaching cruising height and leveling out within a very few minutes. They were well above the cloud in brilliant sunshine.

In spite of the gravity of the situation Hunter could not resist a few moments of quiet contemplation of the scene. He loved flying, and in particular he loved being above the clouds. It enabled a wonderful feeling of detachment from the ugliness of life below. The tops of the cumulous cloud were so brilliantly white and soft-looking, and the air so clear and azure-blue. For a short while nothing on Earth seemed to matter.

He came back to reality gently, refreshed in some mysterious, inner way, and turned his contemplative thinking inward on the immediate, pressing problem.

The thing that concerned him most was the certain knowledge that the Mafia intended to make a move to take over the aircraft during the trip, and he hadn't a clue when that might happen. If it was before the time for him to make his move he could wind up dead in a great hurry, with the whole operation blown.

The crackle of atmospherics indicated that another announcement was about to be made over the loudspeaker.

'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is the Captain speaking. I have a few flight details for your information. We shall be flying at twenty-six thousand feet at a speed of five hundred and fifty knots. Our flight time will be one hour and five minutes. The weather in Glasgow is warm and sunny. We wish you a pleasant flight.'

Little do you know, Hunter thought. He looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty-six.

The minutes ticked by interminably, each second seeming an eternity, as always immediately before expected action. If only he knew what was going on behind him.

At twelve forty-six the stewardess began delivering drinks. As she walked past with a tray on which two gin and tonics resided, Hunter deliberately tripped her, and, as she fell, caught her left arm, which held the tray, pulling it and its contents down on the agent behind him.

In the resulting confusion he gained the cockpit door. He glanced back to see the Treasury man struggling to draw his pistol and get up at the same time, and the Mafia men, all on their feet now and coming up the gangway.

He opened the door and closed it behind him, turning the catch. Both captain and co-pilot twisted round in their seats to see what was going on.

Hunter pointed the Luger at the captain's forehead.

'Please don't make me use this, Captain! Do as I say and no harm will come to anyone!' He wished he could believe it himself. 'Make this announcement: there is a bomb on board, which will be detonated if anyone makes a wrong move. All passengers are to remain calm, and in particular the Treasury agents are to take no action!'

In the passenger compartment anything but calm reigned.

At the sight of the gun in the Treasury agent's hand, two old ladies at the front had fainted. Women were screaming, children joining in from hysteria. Men were on their feet all over the cabin, trying frantically to see what was happening.

As the first Treasury man moved towards the cockpit door the nearest Mafia soldier slipped a stiletto into his back below the left shoulder blade. The agent died instantly. The other Treasury man at the back suffered a similar fate. The Syndicate had 'fingered' both agents before the flight.

The Mafia man who had used the knife tried the cockpit door. It was locked. He lifted his gun.

The captain had not reached his position of authority by being slow on the uptake. He lifted the microphone and repeated the message. As he did so, hammering came at the door and the sound of a shot, followed by the noise of smashing glass. Hunter saw the center of the instrument panel shatter in front of him and thanked his lucky stars he'd moved to the side, behind the Captain's seat, rather than standing in the aisle. The bullet would have got him in the middle back, with the possibility of the rest of his life as a cripple. Slingsby's gaudy jacket would have come in handy on this trip! The aircraft lurched and then regained level flight, as the Captain dropped the mike and fought the controls. Three more shots smashed through the door near the latch, and someone did a shoulder charge, trying to break it down.

'Repeat this message!' Hunter told him urgently, 'Tell them that any further disturbance will mean the immediate death of every person aboard.'

The Captain had lost his sang-froid but carried out the order.

The announcement had the required effect. Hunter wondered who had shot through the door and what was happening.

The senior Mafioso waved the rest of his men back into seats, but they all sat together at the front. The corpse of one Treasury man lay on the floor just in front of the toilet; the other was slumped in the seat he had occupied in life.

Turner had not moved and was sitting quietly, waiting.

Hunter watched the Captain regain control, thinking how lucky they were the shot hadn't gone through the skin of the aircraft – they would all have been sucked out through the opening like so much spaghetti, due to the difference in pressure. What a stupid idiot that Mafia guy was.

'Go down to one thousand feet and stay at that height. Make your descent as rapid as possible. Stay on the present heading' he looked at his watch, 'for another thirty-five seconds, then turn to two-seven-eight.' He turned to the electronics officer, 'Tune your stand-by receiver to one-four-three point four megs, and listen out.' He pulled the two wires Makepeace had pointed out from the transmitter.

As the man turned to his equipment a metallic voice poured into the cabin from the loudspeaker. 'Bealine two-three-eight, this is Midland Radar, over.'

The call came again, more urgently, 'Bealine two-three-eight, Bealine two-three-eight, this is Midland Radar, this is Midland Radar. You are losing height! You are losing height! There is danger of collision! There is danger of collision! Bealine two-three-eight, Bealine two-three-eight, this is Midland Radar, come in please, over.'

For a few moments the radio fell silent, then, 'MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY. This is Midland Radar, this is Midland Radar. All stations clear this frequency! I have an aircraft, Bealine two-three-eight, out of communication and losing height rapidly, present heading three-five-eight degrees, present height fifteen thousand, descending at three thousand feet per minute over Newark. All aircraft clear the area! All aircraft clear the area! MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!'

The radar controller looked at his number two and shrugged hopelessly, 'Bealine two-three-eight, Bealine two-three-eight, this is Midland Radar, this is Midland Radar, come in please Bealine two-three-eight, over!'

'Okay, Captain, turn onto two-seven-eight degrees---now!'

He waited until the turn was completed, then asked, 'What damage did that bullet do?'

The Captain's controlled anger came through clearly, but he was a professional, and the safety of his aircraft was his major concern, 'It smashed the glide path indicator, which isn't so bad, but I don't know what other damage it did behind the instrument board.'

Hunter spoke to the co-pilot, 'Try to remove the damaged instrument and let's see if anything else is damaged.'

'Sorry, we don't carry any tools in the cockpit. I can go back and get some---' He made a move to get up.

'Oh, no you don't!' Hunter told him, 'Just stay put.'

'Bealine two-three-eight, Bealine two-three-eight, Bealine two-three-eight, this is Midland Radar, this is Midland Radar. Your heading is two-seven-eight degrees. Are you in difficulties? Are you in difficulties? Come in please, Bealine two-three-eight. Over.'

The aircraft gave a sudden lurch and then another. The Captain fought the controls and managed to stop the worst effects, but through the door they could hear women screaming.

'What's wrong?'

The Captain looked worried, 'That bullet must have hit some electrical wiring behind the panel. The starboard engine keeps cutting out!'

'Will she fly on one?'

'Just about. I think I'd better put her down on the nearest airfield.' He reached for his map case.

'No! Keep her on this heading and get down to a thousand feet.'

'But we're just about to cross the west coast! If we crash in the sea, with the extra weight we have on board, we stand very little chance. Let me put her down!'

Hunter felt deep compassion for this man, who was so concerned for the lives of his passengers, but had no option.

'Do as I say!'

Sir Michael had been airborne for several minutes. The Controller had just finished passing him the message concerning the BEA aircraft's difficulties.

'Shall I scramble a jet fighter from the nearest RAF base, Sir?'

'No! Whatever happens we must let Alpha Six carry this thing through.'

Sir Michael did some quick calculation on the map he had on his knee, then addressed the pilot, 'Get onto two-nine-five.'

'Aye-aye, Sir.'

The warning light on Bealine two-three-eight's standby radio glowed and the loudspeaker crackled into life, 'Change course onto two-four-two degrees now.'

The Captain looked at Hunter for confirmation.

'Do as he says.'

The voice of the controller in Midland Radar continued his exhortations for them to answer, repeating over and over again his requests, then, 'Western Radar, Western Radar, I have lost Bealine two-three-eight from my radar horizon. I am passing control to you. Can you see the aircraft? Over.'

He was answered immediately, 'Midland Radar, this is Western Radar. I have Bealine two-thee-eight in radar contact, now heading two-four-two, position fifty-two fifty-three north, oh-four twelve west. I am alerting shipping and coastguard and will try to contact aircraft, out.

Bealine two-three-eight, Bealine two-three-eight, this is Western Radar. I have taken over control. Come in please.'

The message was repeated three times, then, 'Midland, this is Western. I am unable to contact Bealine two-three-eight. The aircraft is still losing height. I am alerting all rescue services in the area.'

As the rocky Welsh coastline passed below them, the standby radio came to life again, 'Change course to two-four-seven, two-four-seven.'

The pilot followed the instruction.

'Stay on this heading at four hundred knots for four minutes, then begin descent at two hundred and fifty feet per minute. You will see the landing area ahead of you three minutes later. You are to land in the sea on the area that has been marked out with yellow dye. Do not fear for your safety, we have buoyancy tanks ready to keep the aircraft afloat. Oh, and Captain, please do not try any heroics. Our agent will shoot you if you do not do precisely as you have been ordered.'

The pilot turned in mute appeal to Hunter, but the only reassurance he got was that the voice on the radio meant exactly what it said: Hunter's finger was on the trigger and the barrel of the Luger pointed directly at the pilot's forehead. The Captain reached for the intercom.

'This is the Captain. We are about to make a forced landing in the sea. It is quite calm and we should be able to make a landing without a great deal of difficulty. There will be a considerable jar when we touch down, so please strap yourselves into your seats tightly, and brace yourselves as much as possible. Miss Savage, please collect any loose items now and stow them securely.' He replaced the mike.

'Okay, Bill, thirty degrees flap, no undercarriage. I'll try to drop her on at exactly stalling speed.' He checked his watch, 'Reducing speed now to one-fifty knots.'

The patch of yellow sea was clearly visible ahead.

'Reducing to one hundred, height two hundred feet. Flaps fifty-five degrees now!

Speed ninety-five, height one-fifty. Full flaps, Bill!'

The waves were racing up to meet them. Hunter couldn't put the thought from his mind that they were likely to go straight in and straight down with the heavy cargo of gold in the luggage compartment, but it was too late to worry about it now. Thank God they had an experienced Captain.

Hunter looked at the sea around them. Not even a rowing boat was in sight. How the hell were they going to buoy the aircraft up before it sank if they were nowhere near?

The thought that the whole scheme was a 'sellout' hovered clearly in his mind, but there was no time to worry about the hypothesis. The edge of the yellow patch had already sped beneath them as the great silver bird dropped to just a few feet over the water. The Captain eased still further back on the throttle levers and lifted the nose of the aircraft slightly. Hunter braced himself behind the captain's seat, ready for the crash.

It seemed almost silent after the roar of the jets for so long.

The aircraft dropped gently onto the wave tops, and then came a terrific jolt, as it fell onto the main body of water.

Spray obliterated the outside world entirely for what seemed like minutes but was probably all of fifteen seconds. The deceleration was intense, but suddenly they had come to a full stop. The water cleared from the windscreen. They were on the surface.

The Captain, like most of the others on board, was sweating profusely. He made a rather forlorn gesture with his right hand, 'Well, there you are. Now what do we do?'

The radio crackled again, 'Do not leave your seats! Remain exactly where you are! Captain, tell the passengers that they are not to panic and are to remain seated.'

The pilot did as he was told.

After a few more seconds another message came over the loudspeaker, 'We shall be with you within a few moments. Until then, do not move.'

Hunter looked out of the window and gasped.

A submarine with no markings was surfacing just a few yards ahead of them.

The conning tower was scarcely above water when heads appeared above it and men began passing rubber dinghies and packages out.

The dinghies were in the water and manned as the submarine came level. Every man carried a sub-machinegun. Hunter recognised it as one of the old obsolescent W-class submarines, which were the mainstay of the Chinese Communist submarine fleet until they started building the G-class.

The dinghies were quickly rowed across to the aircraft and self-inflating heavy plastic bags placed underneath the wings and tailplane. As the bags inflated, the 'plane lifted appreciably in the water.

From the radio came further instructions. 'Tell your passengers to remain seated. Only one stewardess is to leave her seat and open the door of the aircraft. One wrong move by any passenger and he or she will be shot!'

The Captain relayed the information to the passengers.

The boats disappeared from Hunter's view, and he imagined the door being opened and the submarine's crew entering the aircraft.

Two minutes passed before the radio addressed him directly, 'You may open the door into the main compartment, Mr Slingsby. We have everything under control. You have done very well.'

Hunter opened the door and walked into the main body of the 'plane.

The sailors were there alright, but what he hadn't noticed through the windscreen was that they were all obviously Chinese. So, he thought, they have come out into the open. Although he had tried to delude himself before, for the sake of the 'game', he knew now that the lives of the people on the aircraft were not worth a plugged nickel. Makepeace was not about to let the world know the truth about this hi-jacking.

Turner was still seated, but as Hunter came into the passenger compartment he got up and grinned.

The Chinese sailor standing at the open door swung his machinegun and loosed a burst of fire in Turner's direction.

Turner fell back into his seat, blood spurting from chest and head. Five passengers around him also caught the full force of the onslaught, and died as they sat there. Dozens of passengers began to scream, until another burst was fired through the roof. They suddenly fell silent.

Hunter's first revulsion soon passed, as he realised that those people had been the lucky ones. At least their deaths had been quick and clean. The most the rest could look forward to was a slow death from drowning if he judged Makepeace correctly.

The worst of it was that he had engineered it, and there was nothing on Earth that he could have done or could do now to prevent it.

One of the submarine's crew approached him, 'You come with me, pliss.' It was not a request.

Without a look back, he left the aircraft, was rowed across to the submarine and entered the hatch, to be met at the bottom by an incredible sight.

A live tailor's dummy, was Hunter's first impression.

Before him, as a welcoming committee of one, stood the most immaculately dressed man Hunter had ever set eyes on. He looked as if he'd just been dressed by the best valet in Town for dinner at the Ritz Carlton.

He was a good six feet tall, with fine, short black hair, neatly plastered over an intellectual-looking high forehead. Although not thin, there was not the slightest trace of spare flesh on the face or body. His cheeks were firm but sallow, and the perfectly correct but unemotional expression in the dark brown eyes would have done credit to the most professional undertaker. Thin, bitter lips held the very faintest hint of a cold smile, and the finely chiseled nose and thin black eyebrows made the picture of icy control complete.

Hunter could visualize this man wearing a monocle. He would make the perfect pre-war cartoon German gentleman. What he might be in reality was a different matter.

The apparition spoke, 'Good afternoon, Mr Slingsby. Do let me introduce myself – Henry Dalgleish-Jones, at your service. I am the local representative of the Directorate.' His voice matched his clothes and manner perfectly. Hunter had the rather absurd thought that the man might be a refugee from the BBC. He put out his hand, and it was taken into a cold, damp, but remarkably firm piece of flesh, with beautifully manicured fingers. A slight, firm pressure was applied and his hand was released again almost at once.

He said, 'Hiya.'

The other man winced at the colloquialism, but asked, 'There were to have been two of you. Where is Turner, still in the aircraft?'

'What's left of him.'

'Why, what happened? Was there an accident?'

'If you can call one of your little yellow men filling his belly full of lead an accident – yeah, there was an accident!'

'Oh, dear. How terrible.'

Dalgleish-Jones' expression underwent the slightest change, showing the barest minimum of pained shock. Hunter was not deceived. Something at the back of the eyes – a vague something – gave him the feeling that the expression was far from sincere.

'Yeah, wasn't it?'

There was obviously no great mourning to be done, and the mannequin said, 'If you'll follow me, I'll take you to your quarters.'

It was the tiniest of cabins, but Hunter hadn't expected anything else.

'Hardly the Waldorf-Astoria, you understand, but perfectly adequate for the short time you will be on board.'

'And how long's that gonna be?'

'About four days. Then you will transfer to one of the organisation's ships. I am afraid we have been forbidden to enter the front section of the submarine, from the hatch forward, so I must ask you to refrain from doing so. We have no real control over the crew, as you can imagine.'

'I was wondering about that.' Hunter hoped he might be able to glean a little information if it looked as if he were playing the 'tourist' bit, while the other was off guard, 'Is this a Chicom sub or a freebooter?'

'I am afraid Mr Makepeace would not appreciate me answering that question explicitly, Mr Slingsby, but I feel you should be able to make a very shrewd guess, based on what you have seen today.'

'Sure can.'

'Do you play chess, Mr Slingsby?'

Hunter had to be careful here. He quickly ran through Slingsby's file again in his head.

'I hadda coupla games when I was a kid, but I reckon all I remember now are the moves. Guess I could learn it again, with four days to kill.' He was, in fact, a masterful player and really enjoyed the game, although he'd had little time to play during the last few years. He'd have to be careful at first, allowing the other man to win.

'Wonderful. I play an awful lot, you know.'

There came the muffled noise of machine-gun fire.

The bullion had been unloaded and transferred to the sub. The head Chinese honcho ordered the crew of the aircraft to close the door, and as soon as this had been done, all the sailors began firing at the plastic floats that had been keeping the aircraft afloat, and at the fuselage, to puncture the skin.

Inside the 'plane there was pandemonium, as the bullets ripped into men, women and children. Many dived for the floor.

A small explosive charge had been left in the cargo hold, large enough to blow a hole in the underside of the aircraft but not large enough to break it up, so as not to leave any surface debris to be found by the Air-Sea Rescue Service. It exploded, and the aircraft immediately began to settle in the water.

The door was thrown open and men began jumping into the water. The Chinese opened fire again on the open door and on those in the water, leaving none alive.

Meanwhile, Sir Michael was closing in on the scene, using Hunter's beacon as a homing device.

The operator on the submarine's air-surveillance radar picked up the helicopter at twenty miles and alerted the captain, who immediately ordered the rest of the sailors inside and made ready to crash dive.

Less than sixty seconds later they were at periscope depth.

The helicopter swung in low over the scene, just as the BAC one-eleven went down.

Sir Michael swore – a most unusual thing for him, 'Ten bloody seconds earlier and we might have saved them! See if you can pick anyone up.'

The ocean was returning to its original colouring, scarcely a trace of the yellow dye remaining, but tinted strangely off-key by the flecks of rusty red surrounding the painfully few pitiful pieces of human flotsam.

Valiant efforts by the helicopter pilot and winchman were in vain. No sooner did they hover over a body than it disappeared. The pattern was repeated three times, and each time, before the linesman could attach a line, the sea claimed the victim.

The co-pilot had been monitoring Hunter's beacon signal. He turned to the Director, 'Signal is becoming very faint, Sir.'

'Drop a couple of markers, so that the divers can find the aircraft!'

'Aye, aye, Sir.' The pilot was still as much a part of the Royal Navy as he had been when Sir Michael was walking the quarterdeck, and that had been several years ago.

'Then get us back to Headquarters. There's nothing more we can do here.' Sir Michael was grieving inside; Hunter had been the best man the Department had ever had, and he would be sorely missed. Worst of all, it meant that the one slim chance they'd had of stopping Makepeace had disappeared below the waves along with the agent.

The first rescue vessel arrived on the scene a few minutes before Sir Michael touched down at base.

The aircraft was in sixty-three fathoms – far below skin-diving depth. A diver made ready to dive using full diving equipment.

The conditions for the recovery could not have been better: the wind was a mere force two, as calm as one is ever likely to see it in the Irish Sea. In no time at all, Peter Burrell, the first diver, was descending through the upper layer of water, its colour changing continuously through the green arc of the colour spectrum, from the viridescence of the surface through dark sea green, to a jade-tinged Stygian gloom as the depth increased.

He switched on his lamp as the wheelman continued to lower him into the depths. A shoal of small whiting came to investigate the luminous intrusion, followed by several brightly coloured sea bream. A pair of marauding tope, weighing over sixty pounds apiece, each took a look at him, but scuttled off quickly, afraid in spite of their own vicious, shark-like appearance.

Burrell carried a small automatic receiver to pick up the agent's transmitter, but had seen no deflection of the needle, and assumed that the dive was a long way off target. He switched the receiver to fine tuning, without result.

Forty fathoms. No light now, save the tunnel carved through the velvety gloom by the diver's lamp. Fifty, fifty-five, sixty. Still no deflection on the needle. The markers must have moved with the tide after being dropped. His lead-lined feet touched bottom.

Drawing himself ponderously upright, Burrell turned, like a marionette in slow motion, beaming the light in a complete circle.

The seabed was smooth, scoured by the heavy tides that race up and down through the channel between the mainland and Ireland. Small rocks with the odd strand of seaweed, a few whelks and a couple of hermit crabs were the only things visible on the bottom.

Three quarters of the way round a reflection thirty or more yards away caught his eye and he began moving slowly towards it.

As he approached he could easily see that what he had caught sight of was the complete fuselage of the aircraft.

It lay on its belly on the hard bottom, looking not so very much out of place, as if it had decided to land there. At first sight there seemed to be nothing wrong with it.

Reaching it, the first thing he went to check was the cargo hold door. It was missing. Looking inside the hold the light showed the effects of the explosion – aluminium walls blackened and a gaping hole blown through into the main cabin. More important – the hold itself was entirely empty.

Burrell began to withdraw from the compartment and something touched his shoulder from behind, almost insistently, and then again.

He tried to turn to see what it was but found his vision blocked by something flimsy but opaque floating over his face-piece.

Panicking, he stepped backwards, tearing at the cloth over his helmet, and tripped over his breathing pipe, landing, in slow motion, flat on his back.

Above him, and hovering over him at full length, right arm outstretched in urgent request, was the captain of the aircraft, a neat bullet hole in the center of his forehead, the hair standing on end, and his BEA scarf streaming out in the flow of the tide.

The eyes of the corpse were wide open and were staring straight at him. In the light of the torch the body seemed more than alive, with a malignant urgency to bring him the same fate.

The body came closer, closer, the eyes burning with an almost blinding golden glow. Burrell's heart stopped.

~~~oOo~~~

The interview was not going at all well. Sir Michael felt like a schoolboy on the carpet. The PM had not stopped walking to and fro in the huge drawing room throughout the report.

This room, its walls so tastefully decorated in satin-finish ivory, highlighted by the wine-red embellishing strips round doors and windows, matching the deep Wilton carpet and heavy drape curtains, had seen many such interviews; some, no doubt, of considerable importance to the security of the State. Though both occupants of the room felt the gravity of the present situation, neither had an inkling of just how serious the affair was.

The sun was moving fast in eclipse behind the spire of the church opposite, and would disappear very soon. The last golden flush of daylight fell dustily into the room, glinting dully from the few really first-class pieces of Dresden scattered around the room on occasional tables and the mantelshelf.

The angle of the light rays brought into sharp relief the path trodden by the Prime Minister. Over the years he had walked dozens of miles on this stretch of carpet, and his mark would remain until the floor covering was put into superannuation.

Sir Michael struggled to find the right key, wishing he could light his old pipe and sit down.

'I'm sorry there is no better news, Prime Minister.'

'You say that from the evidence so far an explosion took place in the cargo hold and that this caused the crash, the gold being lost somewhere over the sea? Then what was the point of the hi-jack? Surely the last thing one would have expected them to use would be a bomb, which would cost them not only the gold, but also their lives? And what about these bullet holes, which seem to come from the outside? And the diver – it seems far-fetched to say that he died from a heart attack. Surely he had been medically checked. It all fails to add up to an acceptable pattern.'

'Well,' Sir Michael had hesitated before grasping this last straw, 'we are working on the possible theory that the IRA could have been concerned, and perhaps come at cross-purposes with the hi-jackers. It is just possible that the two factions shot it out in mid-air. We shall know more when we've salvaged the aircraft and subjected it to more searching tests.'

'You are absolutely sure that no Dirge ship was close enough to have had anything to do with this business?'

'Absolutely sure, Prime Minister. The nearest was over two hundred miles away at the time of the crash, in the North Atlantic. Incidentally, almost every ship owned by Dirge is in the Atlantic at this moment, and all seem to be on converging courses. We are watching their movements carefully.'

'Good. Keep me informed. The cause of the crash will officially be written up as suspected terrorist activity. You have not been able to ascertain whether your agent is still in the fuselage?'

'No, Sir. The signal is not present, and we feel he may have been one of those who exited the plane and was washed away.'

'Isn't he the one who prevented my assassination last year?'

'Yes, Prime Minister.'

'Hm. Have you any plans for infiltrating another agent?'

'No. I would say that such a thing is entirely out of the question. Infiltrating 'Alexander' was a one-off lucky chance. It is not feasible that such a move could be repeated successfully.' He paused, heaved a heart-felt sigh, and added, 'He will be a hard man to replace. We have not always seen eye-to-eye, but men of his caliber are extremely rare.' It was as near to sentiment that Sir Michael had ever come.

'I am not going to maintain that the gold is not important, Sir Michael, but it is not as important as so many peoples' lives. Could this affair, in your opinion, have been prevented?'

Metaphorically crossing his fingers, Sir Michael told him, 'As far as I can see, no, Sir.'

'Very well, then,' the PM was not convinced, 'let me have a full written report as soon as possible.' He stopped pacing and turned to the papers on his desk. The interview was obviously over.

Sir Michael bristled, but left without further comment. There would be a few heads rolling at Headquarters shortly!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – PAINTED SHIPS

Time dragged. The 'dolce far niente' had never held any charm for Hunter and by the end of the third day he would have given his right arm for a good fight or some other excitement.

He had allowed Dalgleish-Jones to show him the chess moves and teach him how to play, and had deliberately made an absolute hash of the games played on the first day. Just after lunch on the second he had checkmated his opponent in seven moves. Dalgleish-Jones' face had been a picture. Hunter let him win another two games before doing it again, in six. Thereafter Hunter had trounced him up and down the board and beaten him into the ground in every game, until the poor man was so rattled that he was unable to think straight.

Hunter looked at him as he once again, slowly and deliberately, moved his rook into the commanding position. 'Beginner's luck again, I guess.'

'Oh, dear. Mr Slingsby, are you sure that you have not played chess recently? I find it incredible that you could have learnt to play like this in so short a time.'

'Guess I just got that sorta weirdo mind.'

It was true, of course: he treated a game of chess in exactly the same way as the game of life and death which he played daily, weighing up not one but half a dozen moves ahead, judging possibilities and probabilities, making allowances for chance, so that at the end of the struggle it was he who left the field victorious, to fight again another day, often when the odds had been a hundred to one or more against him.

As chess players went, Dalgleish-Jones was well above average, but could only see two or three moves ahead. Hunter wondered for the thousandth time what such a man would be doing in the Makepeace empire. If he was a crook, the crime must have been embezzling. Surely he was incapable of anything more serious. Attempts to pump him for information had been unsuccessful.

'Let's give it a rest now, huh?'

'Very well, Mr Slingsby, if you wish.'

Hunter decided to get as much sleep as possible. There was no telling what the new day had in store. He rolled onto the bunk and used his usual self-hypnosis 'count to ten' routine to go to sleep. Claire had been useful in more than one way.

He was awoken rudely by the hooter-siren. His watch told him it was three twenty-five. What was going on?

His companion had also woken. 'I imagine we have arrived at the rendezvous, Mr Hunter.'

As he spoke, the door opened and a Chinese seaman, in plain white uniform without insignia, entered.

'You are to come to the conning-tower, gentlemen.'

His accent was impeccable – a match for that of Dalgleish-Jones. Probably took a first at Cambridge, was Hunter's assessment.

After four days of recirculated air the ozone-laden, cobweb-clearing freshness of the North Atlantic was the most welcome thing Hunter could have imagined, in spite of the acute chill, accentuated by the earliness of the hour.

At first the night seemed totally black, but once his eyes had accustomed themselves to the lack of direct light, the seascape around him presented a chiaroscuro – a painting in blacks and greys – the phosphorescence in the salt water sparkling with an almost silver whiteness in places, and larger patches of grey betraying the positions of ships around them – all riding without lights. The moon and stars were obscured completely by low stratus cloud.

As the first creeping fingers of a grey dawn began reaching out on the eastern horizon to embrace the new day, the chiaroscuro changed to a general canescence, the reflections of the dawn in the long rollers ranging in hue from the grey-blue of gunmetal through the dull lifelessness of lead to the bright sheen of polished metal.

Sitting on this metallic sea, rolling gently in the long swell, was a veritable armada of ships; merchantmen of all shapes and sizes; more than forty of them, and all painted black with yellow superstructure. The Dirge fleet.

Hunter was reminded of the line from 'The Ancient Mariner': '---for all the world like painted ships upon a painted ocean.'

In the center of the flotilla, nearest to the submarine, was the exception – the most imposing, the largest, and quite obviously the most expensive ocean-going yacht Hunter had ever seen.

As well as the Panamanian flag aft there hung from the masthead a large flag of pure gold colour, with a large red 'M' superimposed – Makepeace's floating home-from-home.

From the double line of portholes there were obviously a considerable number of cabins below deck level. The yacht was well over a hundred feet in length, and the deck was bare from midships to a few feet from the stern, where a low metal wall ran almost the width of the deck. The superstructure was of ultra-modern design, taking up only the wheelhouse and chart room, more spacious living quarters and, from the vast array of complex radar and radio aerials bristling out of the sides and top, a radio room, probably also with monitoring duties. Most unusual of all, a flat top deck ran the entire length of the yacht over the superstructure, supported at the stern and sides by heavy girders, with steel ladders joining it to the main deck. A helicopter landing pad. He noticed that two of the merchantmen had similar facilities. On each of the three decks there sat an unmarked, khaki-coloured helicopter. He was pretty sure they were Russian built Mil Mi8s.

So things were coming to a head, he thought. This must be the briefing for the final act in whatever drama Makepeace had dreamed up.

While Hunter was taking in the scene, crewmembers had been bringing up and inflating a large rubber dinghy, ready to transport him and Dalgleish-Jones across to the yacht.

Hunter wondered idly whether the Department was still monitoring his signals. He thought it unlikely. With no Dirge ship near the site of the BAC crash, Sir Michael would almost certainly believe him dead and would probably have called off the search for his signal. In any case, the maximum reception distance was something under two hundred miles and it was a fair bet they were presently a long way from an intercept station.

He was in no way sorry to leave his underwater home. The old tingle at the back of the neck foretold impending action, and he could hardly wait.

A single person stood at the top of the ladder on the yacht. It was full daylight now and Hunter recognised him at a glance – his Russian 'friend', Boris! Even at that distance he could imagine the Slavonic scowl on the unhandsome face, deepening no doubt at his approach.

As Hunter climbed the ladder, followed by Dalgleish-Jones, he saw that he'd been right – it was a scowl.

'Dobre dyen, tovarich Doris, i kak vee pojivayetye?'

The Russian glared hatred at him. A grunt was all that accompanied the pointed digit, 'Vot oni.'

Hunter hailed Makepeace, his extended fingers stopping abruptly one millimeter from the Russian's nose.

An explosion began somewhere deep in Boris' anatomy, gurgled and spluttered its semi-strangulated path upwards and surfaced with the sound of an apoplectic steam locomotive which has just been thrown into reverse gear while moving forward at ten miles an hour.

Hunter beheld Boris' visage with pleasure – the forehead showing the pinkish signs of things to come, and the colour changes following in rapid succession the farther down the face one looked, through the whole red/violet segment of the colour spectrum, with the most violent purple hue at the neck line, making a wonderful contrast with the bright green shirt.

Hunter grinned, imagining what colour the man's abdomen must be.

'Careful, Doris old girl, you'll blow a cylinder and ruin your digestion.' He sauntered off casually, turning his back nonchalantly on his dangerous enemy. Behind him the air turned Moscovite blue as Boris finally managed to expel meaningful sounds.

Hunter caught the words 'kill' and 'bastard' and a very vile remark concerning his mother's sexual predilections. His grin widened. Boris would be a dangerous assailant at any time, but any future attack would be hate-inspired and hotheaded, and the Russian would have a psychological disadvantage from the very beginning. That such a confrontation was programmed was a foregone conclusion.

The door to which Boris had pointed stood open. From inside came the confused sound of a large number of people talking in low voices, the sound becoming more audible as he entered, followed by Dalgleish-Jones, an empty saloon.

The sound was all around them, as if the saloon were filled with people.

Makepeace's photograph smiled down on them from the center of the room.

It spoke, or at least the sound of Makepeace's voice came from it: 'Do join us, gentlemen. Just stand on the golden carpet.'

The mat indicated was an exact replica of the flag, and lay in the center of the room. They walked into the center of it and as they came to a halt that part of the floor began a gentle descent.

The conversation stilled as they reached the room below. Hunter wondered whether it was due to Slingsby's reputation or whether Makepeace had signaled for silence.

Before the lift had come to its gentle stop Hunter had already taken in the scene. It was a completely windowless room, lit by a profusion of neon tubes, making it so light that it was almost painful to the eyes. It was laid out as a conference room, with a raised dais at one end, on which Makepeace stood.

Behind him was a large, backlit map of the world, almost filling the wall. In front of him a closed circuit television screen built into a control console showed a picture of the upper saloon. The room itself was entirely paneled in richly grained mahogany, with red plush carpet and deeply upholstered high-back chairs, all of which, save two at the front, were occupied by the most motley collection of men Hunter had ever set eyes on.

Some few he recognised from pictures in Slingsby's file. Two or three caught his eye and nodded recognition. He noticed the big blond Texan sitting at the left hand end of the second row, his corn-coloured hair reflecting the bright light.

Makepeace indicated the two vacant chairs, 'Please be seated, gentlemen.' He cleared his throat and swept his gaze over the whole assembly.

'Firstly, I wish to offer our congratulations to Mr Slingsby on his successful enterprises since joining our organization recently.' Murmurs of agreement came from the crowd.

'Now, gentlemen, we are approaching the end of our work and the termination of your contracts. You have all worked hard to make our operations successful and deserve your just rewards.'

Hunter wondered whether any one of them would get more than a bullet in the back.

'Our final operation will be worldwide, using all our resources. I would like your full attention now, while I go through the details of preparations for what I like to call 'M-Day'. Your own final missions will be discussed in full at the final briefing, which will take place ten days from today.' He paused, took a deep breath and continued, 'Each Head of Station will collect, on leaving, one of these sets of sealed Top Secret orders, in which the various assignments to be carried out are explained in great detail. Lists of those men who are to carry out the different operations are also attached. You will open those orders as soon as you arrive back on your own ships and you will commence with the training of the personnel named immediately. Any change in personnel is to be reported to me by radio, with the reason. The plans are foolproof if carried out to the letter. Details of the thinking behind these plans and the results of their being carried out will be given to you at the final briefing. For the moment they must remain secret. For security reasons all units will move from their present to their alternative headquarters. You will instruct your commandants accordingly in your next radio transmissions. The moves are to be completed by midnight GMT tonight. Any small operations which were scheduled for the next few days are to be cancelled. All personnel are to be kept in a state of full readiness and physical training will be kept at peak. Those not named for specific tasks are to be transported to the national dispatch terminals for onward transit to Sector Q. They must arrive there within two weeks from today and are to remain there, confined to the camps, awaiting further orders. One other point – as you know, our organization has been penetrated more than once by the security agencies.' His gaze singled out no one but passed piercingly over each man in turn. 'It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that one of you is a double agent.' Murmurs of dissent rose from all quarters. 'Let me say very clearly that if anything happens to me, those of you who are leaders are to open the sealed envelopes in your safes and proceed independently and immediately to carry out the full instructions contained therein.' He ended on a note of finality and added as an afterthought, 'Any questions?'

As usual, there were none.

'Macgowan!'

TheTexan stood up, his lanky frame in an attitude of easy repose, even when standing.

'You will leave the yacht before we sail at midday GMT and visit all vessels during the next two days to check on the operational efficiency of every motorcycle. Any defects must be remedied before the final rendezvous. You will remain on board the 'Amphora' until joining the yacht again at the next meeting point.' He addressed the audience, 'Dismiss.'

Hunter stood and saluted with the rest. He realised that Makepeace was looking at him and walked over to the Director.

'What are my orders?'

'As I said, Mr Slingsby, our mission is almost complete, and I have no need of your special abilities for the next few days. You may relax and enjoy yourself until we reach port. Your girlfriend is on board and you have been allocated a pleasant suite. You have the run of the upper deck of the yacht, but I would like you to restrict yourself to that. My crew prefers to keep amateur sailors in their place, and I fear they include me in that category. They are an excellent crew and extremely efficient, but do not like intruders in their domain and are likely to take extreme action against them, without warning. Do I make myself clear?'

'Perfectly.'

'Good. We shall speak again before we dock.'

'Can a guy ask where he's goin'?'

'Of course he can, Mr Slingsby. Of course he can.' He depressed an intercom switch, 'Kellerman!'

The door opened and a six-foot three blond giant of a man who would have fitted in well with Hitler's personal bodyguard came in.

'Show Mr Slingsby to his quarters, Kellerman.' Hunter had his answer. He could ask, but.....

The rest of the men had already left, using the lift, and they followed suit. The German led him through the door in the main saloon to the left of Makepeace's picture, into a well-lit, beautifully decorated corridor. If the slight movement of the boat had been absent, Hunter could easily have imagined himself in a corridor of the Waldorf-Astoria. Makepeace certainly knew how to live.

Kellerman indicated a door on the left and Hunter entered.

In the early morning light streaming in at the porthole he could see the girl lying asleep in the king-size bed, her gorgeous brown hair flowing over the pale-blue pillow, making the perfect frame for her beautiful countenance. Not for the firs time he wondered how she could possibly be what she was. He felt a straining at his loins; it had been a long time---

Disrobing took less than a minute and he slid gently under the sheets and moved carefully up to her body. He kissed her lips gently, moving his naked body tightly against hers – and suddenly found himself fighting off a fury. She was striking at him furiously, her eyes wide open, and then she woke up and stopped hitting him.

She was panting hard, tight breasts heaving, hair disarrayed. For a full half-minute she stared at him without speaking, collecting her thoughts, then finally stammered, 'Jeez, hon, yah sure surproises a goil!'

He looked deeply into her eyes, trying to read what lay behind them. There was something wrong here – she just didn't add up. Girls in her line of business didn't act that way – they were accustomed to being used at any hour and under any conditions.

He smiled at her and reached his arm out to stroke the hair from her eyes, where it had fallen in the brief attack.

'I need yah, Fanny!' He whispered.

'Sure, Gat, sure! Jeez, Oi'm sorry, hon.' She moved her naked body over his, pressing herself to him and kissing him wildly, her tongue squirming and contorting inside his mouth. He gave her all those pent-up days in a wild passion and did not find her wanting.

It was over far too soon. Both had such a head of steam that it could not be contained.

He held her, both bodies locked and still pulsating gently together. Looking at her beautiful face, sex apart, he thought how glad he was to be with her, and he knew somehow that she was genuinely glad to be with him – or was it Slingsby? One thing was sure – this girl was different.

He reached over and switched on the bedside radio. Sinatra was singing, 'Nancy with the Laughing Face'. He remembered vividly the last time he'd heard the tune and hoped it was not prophetic of the end that this girl would come to.

'She takes the winter and makes it summer---' The Guv'nor crooned out the song, pumping it full of adrenalin. Hunter thought how appropriate the words were for this beautiful piece of womanhood.

She was smiling; a secret, enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile, her look distant, as if she was thinking of another world a million miles away.

He asked, 'Penny for them?'

'Uh-uh.' She refocused on him and shook her head gently. If her look was a little sad he ignored it, nibbled the lobe of her left ear and whispered, 'Again?'

They slept for a little over half an hour, locked in each other's arms, before his brain told him it was time to be up and doing. He had to find out if possible what date Makepeace had in mind for what he'd called 'M-Day', and although no ready plan presented itself to him, he knew the information would not fall into his lap. There must be a safe somewhere, probably in Makepeace's quarters, wherever they were.

He had the run of the top deck of the vessel, and it would be worth making a recce. He would have to be bloody careful, knowing how Dirge loved to use concealed cameras and microphones, particularly since he must still be under some suspicion.

He left the girl at her toilet, saying he intended getting a little fresh air, and stepped out of the door as if he owned the yacht. Turning left he sauntered along the corridor, apparently absent-mindedly, but in fact observing every facet of the décor for signs of hidden cameras.

At the end of the corridor he came to a T-junction. There was still no sign of anything doubtful. Could it be that Makepeace felt safe, or had there been something he'd overlooked? None of the doors he'd passed had given a clue to the use of the cabins to which they gave entry. It seemed as if he was going to draw a blank, and then he came to a door that showed a hairline crack of light down the jamb.

He stopped, as if to tie his shoelace, leaning ever so gently against the door and it opened another inch, noiselessly, allowing him to see into the room.

It was fitted out as a day cabin, with a large desk and a comfortable, high-backed executive chair, but otherwise sparsely furnished as far as he could see.

He began to relax, so that the door could close again, when he heard a distinct whirring noise, followed by a slight 'click' from inside the room. A camera being used on long exposure.

He decided to take a chance and if it came to a showdown to bluff it out.

He opened the door, slowly and quietly. Built into the wall he'd not previously been able to see, opposite to the door, was a huge Millner safe. It was standing wide open, and in front of it, kneeling on the carpet, his back to Hunter, was a man whose straw-coloured hair the agent would have recognised anywhere – Tex!

He was holding something in his hand, over a sheaf of papers lying on the floor. The whirring noise and the click came again.

Hunter decided to act. He stalked up behind the Texan and poked the index finger of his right hand into the top of the man's spine.

'Freeze, and don't make the slightest move or sound, or you're a dead man. What are you doing here?'

'I should have thought it was pretty obvious. It's Slingsby, isn't it? Just do me one favour, pal – shoot me in the back, now, before Makepeace can get his hands on me. It's all the same in the end, and you could say I was trying to escape.'

'Who are you working for?'

'Don't ask silly questions you know I can't answer.'

'Have you ever used a dog-sled?'

The Texan let out an incredulous grunt, 'You mean---why, sure---It's mush, mush all the way.'

'Okay, you can get up, but let's keep it quiet. Now, what goes on, and what have you found out? Is the date for 'M-Day' here?'

'No, but the locations of two local headquarters are, and a list of all Dirge operatives.

Hunter had one of his timely, brilliant flashes of inspiration. 'Get it all back in there now as it came out, and shut the door. I've got a better idea.'

Tex did as he was bidden.

Hunter said, 'Now, let's get out of here and hope we haven't been spotted. Is there a 'can' anywhere near here?'

'Yeah, just the other end of the corridor, on the right.'

'Okay, I'll meet you there in two minutes.'

They left the room in opposite directions. Hunter went directly to the door of the toilet, opened it, went inside and gave the room a thorough check for hidden cameras and bugs. It appeared to be 'clean', but he turned the taps on full anyway, to fool any microphone.

The Texan came in, spoke softly and swiftly to him, and a small packet passed between them. They shook hands.

Hunter said, 'Good luck, Tex.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Fanny looked absolutely radiant and so beautiful as he pushed open the door that the Sinatra ballad came back to him again. The girl was doing something to him, in spite of himself. At the end of this job, if they both lived, she would disappear from his life and be more or less forgotten, like dozens of others, but for now he couldn't think of anyone he'd rather be with. He caught her in his arms and kissed her, hard and long, and his right hand behind her slowly slid the zip downward.

She broke off the kiss and gave him a 'you-naughty-little-boy' look. She sighed, gently, resignedly, but gratefully. She whispered, 'Not again?'

The question was all incredulity, with no hint of non-compliance. He looked into her eyes, his own sparkling, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

'Jeez, hon, didya hafta wait till oi'd dressed?'

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, smothering her feeble protests with kisses.

Kellerman called them for lunch at twelve thirty and they took it alone in the saloon – an excellent cold buffet, sufficient to feed thirty hungry men, with more than a dozen different meats, including pheasant and grouse, and an extremely good twenty-year old claret, for which Hunter was most grateful.

They both ate heartily, having worked up good appetites, but leisurely, taking more than an hour over the meal. Kellerman came back in as they were finishing.

'You will dine with Mr Makepeace at seven, yes.' There was no hint of question in the words. It was a royal command.

Hunter agreed, 'Sure thing, buddy.'

They took the afternoon air on deck for an hour or so, and then made leisurely love for the rest of the afternoon.

The saloon was empty when they entered it at five to seven. Hunter walked over to the well-stocked bar and mixed two Martinis.

'Yes, do help yourself, Mr Slingsby.' Makepeace had entered the room noiselessly, in spite of his bulk. He half turned and spoke to Kellerman over his shoulder, 'You may serve in five minutes.'

It was an excellent meal. The hors-d'oevre alone would have satisfied the most fastidious gourmet: a luxurious pâté of truffled goose liver à l'Alsacienne, and with it a small mountain of moules en salade and mollet eggs in a tarragon-flavoured aspic jelly, washed down by a 1945 Niersteiner Domthal, followed with perfect timing by dozens of small freshwater langoustes – superbly pink in their freshly-boiled shells, and a dozen highly-coloured salad dishes, each dressed differently, according to the chef's caprice. German Pilze swam in a paprika sauce, vying for pride of place with thinly sliced tomatoes in a simple dressing of virgin olive oil, lemon juice and freshly-ground black pepper, just salted to perfection. Courgettes à la Greque, olives, wafer thin slices of cucumber and freshly-crisped lettuce around the sliced saucisson 'd'Arles provided the splashes of green, the whole punctuated and complemented by the Beluga caviar and pickled walnuts, forming a truly mouthwatering blend upon the highly-polished rosewood table.

Each of the dishes was seasoned uniquely and each had its distinctive taste.

Hunter had eaten in most of the famous restaurants in France and recognised the touch of a master chef. It was no tremendous tour-de-force of insipid dishes but a carefully chosen and even more carefully prepared set of minor works of art; the chef's indication of things to come.

He was not to be disappointed. Dish followed dish with perfect timing, each accompanied by the great wines of France, the main course being a rather surprising one of paupiettes de veau Bourbonnaise, those stuffed escalopes of veal known quaintly as 'alouettes sans tête' in French households, accompanied by a 1929 Santenots, Cuvée Johan de Massol.

The desert was one of Hunter's favourites – ananas au kirsch. He noted with pleasure that the kirsch was Alsatian. One could tell by the slightly sharp 'edge', not found in other cherry-brandies.

Finally, a magnum of 1934 Château Lafitte-Rothschild appeared to make the perfect ending to a perfect meal.

Throughout Makepeace had deliberately steered the conversation away from business and into small talk, discussing at one point the migration of swallows to and from northern Europe, and at another the pros and cons of climate in the various countries of the world.

Only when they were puffing contentedly at huge Corona-Coronas over coffee and liqueur did he refer to the organization.

'I have one more operation in mind requiring your talents, Mr Slingsby. You, and a few other picked men, will be required to 'remove' a certain obstacle. You, my dear, will assist them by acting as a diversion. You are, of course, prepared to help in this way?'

'Oh, yes, of course.'

'Thank you. I was sure we could depend on you. The operation is quite a simple one – to eliminate the Canadian Premier.' He said it as matter-of-factly as if he were discussing the dispatch of a chicken for lunch. 'The entire operation has been planned in the most minute detail and cannot fail, providing orders are carried out to the letter. You will have no trouble with immigration, as the officials at the port are in my employ. The briefing will be in the conference room shortly before the mission. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some urgent business to attend to – no, please don't get up.' Neither of them had made the slightest move to do so.

Leaning over the ship's rail the next afternoon Hunter saw a coastline some six miles off on the port quarter. Even from that distance he could see that it was a rugged coast, with great rocky indentations and flying spray. They were steaming on a northerly heading at well over twenty knots and gradually getting closer to the coast, finally rounding a point where the land fell away sharply to westward and an island rose like a dolphin, just off the coast.

Hunter had been there once before. He recognised it as Glace Bay, on the northeastern tip of Nova Scotia.

When he woke next morning they were well down the Saint Lawrence waterway, heading towards Quebec. The speed had been reduced to about ten knots.

There had been no sign of Makepeace, or of any other person save Kellerman, since their dinner thirty-six hours before. The yacht could have been the Marie Celeste, were it not for the little yellow face peering out of the wheelhouse. Dalgleish-Jones and Boris seemed to have disappeared along with the rest of the crew.

After breakfast Hunter and Fanny went on deck. They had not yet reached Quebec and Hunter told her, 'You must watch the city's skyline approach. It really is impressive.'

'You been here before, hon?'

'Yeah, I know it well. That there's the Île d'Orléans. We'll soon see the city.'

Shortly after ten the growing mass of Cape Diamond was outlined against the sky, the dark lines ridging the summit, three hundred and thirty-three feet above the river, betraying the position of the massive fortifications of the old citadel.

As they came closer he asked, 'You see those huge walls halfway up the bluff? They separate the Upper Town from the old Lower Town. You'd love the weird cobbled streets on the waterfront if you could see them. What with them and the city walls and the old buildings you feel as if you've stepped back in time into a city of medieval France. Maybe not so far out, because they boast that the purest seventeenth century French in the world is spoken at Laval University.'

Hunter thought of the last time he'd been there, two years before, on the Oxidon case. He wanted to tell her how the first impression of the Lower Town is heightened when you enter the city, because nine-tenths of the inhabitants are French.

'You see nuns and priests in the costumes of two centuries ago, and the pupils of the seminary still wear the long blue coat, piped with white, with green sashes. They use the horse-drawn caleche, and the 'habitants' walking in the markets still live and dress like their ancestors, and they buy their tobacco from a shop labeled 'tabagie', not the modern 'tabac'.

'What were you doin' here, hon?'

'The usual – a hit.' That was at least true, he thought.

'Oh.'

The yacht passed miles of docks and wharves, much busier than when he'd been here last.

The Château Frontenac overlooking the river on the Dufferin Terrace, and the mighty Harbour Bridge, slumbering peacefully under a blue Canadian sky, slid past and were gone, leaving him with a feeling of unexplained loss. Quebec, a city he loved, was behind him once more.

Nostalgia made him tell her, 'Quebec is a special place. It's the first sight of metropolitan Canada for travelers, and the last for prospectors, lumbermen and geophysicists, heading into the muskeg and the bush of Northern Quebec. Those hills you can see to the northeast are the beginning of a huge hinterland that stretches to the Lake St John country, and from there, virtually deserted, right up to the shores of the Arctic Ocean at Davis Strait.'

She could see that he was moved by the sight, and wanted to ask him why, but refrained. She'd seen a new side to him, that was for sure.

The yacht steamed on.

Just before midnight the engines slowed to a tickover, the anchor chain rattled out and then, silence.

'Where are we, hon?' Fanny was looking out with him at the lights of a port a couple of hundred yards away to starboard. 'It ain't as big as Quebec.'

It was not, but it was no modest installation.

'I guess it must be Trois Rivières – that's the only one I know the name of past Quebec.' He was thinking that Makepeace would have less difficulty in ensuring that his paid agents would handle the yacht in this smaller port. Obviously nothing would happen tonight.

Fanny looked puzzled, 'Trois – that's French for three, ain't it? Why three rivers?'

'That's what the first settlers thought – that there were three rivers, except they were wrong – there are only two, the St Lawrence and the St Maurice, but there are a coupla islands in the middle of the entrance to the St Maurice, so it looks like three.'

'Oh, I get it.'

He laid a hand on her arm. 'Come on, let's go to bed.'

She grinned, 'You want to sleep, or what, hon?'

He grinned back, 'What.' It was not a question.

They ate a leisurely breakfast at eight-thirty and spent half an hour on deck, taking in the bustling harbour scene, before Kellerman approached and told them, 'Briefing in five minutes.'

They went into the saloon and down to the conference room.

Makepeace was there already, and seated round the stage were five men, none of whom Hunter recognised.

Makepeace began with scarcely a preamble. With a vague wave of the hand he completed the introductions, 'Miss Beaucoup, Slingsby, Miller, Hanson, Fauberge, Trébusson, Jones. You all know why you are here and the object of the operation. Now, to details: the Canadian Premier is to make a visit to a lumber mill on a tributary of the River Ottawa the day after tomorrow. He will be in his limousine with his personal detective, another plainclothes policeman, and the driver, and will be escorted by two motorcycle policemen preceding the car at some fifty yards. The Premier will leave Ottawa at fourteen hundred hours local time and will travel along the river road,' he illuminated a large wall map of the region around Ottawa and used a light pointer to indicate the route to be taken, 'until he reaches this point, where he will leave the main highway and take this private road to the lumber mill. This film will show you precisely the route from the junction off the main highway.'

The screen lit up and a projector in the far wall came into operation. It was a movie film of the road, taken as someone had driven along it, and lasted for some two minutes before stopping where the road ran through a boulder-strewn gully just before passing a place where there was a sheer drop of several hundred feet over the left hand side into a thickly-wooded valley.

The ambush spot could not have been better chosen. There was ample cover for a hundred men.

'You will leave your motorcycles just past this bend, out of sight. To make your task even simpler, it has been decided that there should be some distraction, to stop the car and its escort.

The easiest to set up and remove without trace is Miss Beaucoup, who will be lightly tied, naked, to this tree.' The light pointer indicated a particular tree on the right hand side. 'I am sure that no man worth the name could be so ungallant as to pass you by, my dear.'

His forced gallantry went unappreciated. Fanny was trying to look nonchalant, but Hunter knew her well enough by this time to notice the whiteness around her lips, where she was biting on her gums, and the tautness of the skin on her forehead. The idea obviously filled her with dread and once again he was puzzled by her reaction. Finally she managed a wan smile.

'As soon as the cavalcade stops, you will all open fire. There are six of you, and each of you has one target, as follows: Slingsby – the Premier; Miller – his personal detective; Hanson – the man alongside the driver; Fauberge – the driver; Trébusson – the left hand motorcyclist; Jones – the other policeman.

As soon as they are all dead, the motorcycles and riders, and the car, with its passengers, are to be pushed over the precipice. You will ride back to a point a hundred yards from the main road, where a large pantechnicon will be waiting to transport you and your machines to a spot where you will be picked up by helicopter.' He turned to Hunter, 'Your colleagues' He indicated the other five men, 'are from our local headquarters and will take you to the house that has been chosen as a temporary base for the operation. You will all leave that base at fourteen fifteen hours local and proceed to the ambush point. The Premier's car will take approximately one hour to reach there. After the assassination the helicopter will bring you and Miss Beaucoup to a dropping point some eight miles from Trois Rivières and will return the rest of the party to local headquarters. Are there any questions?'

There were not.

'Thank you. You will depart in thirty minutes. Your motorcycle,' he addressed the last remark to Hunter, 'is awaiting you on the dock. Miss Beaucoup will travel pillion with you, and a suitable set of protective clothing has been provided for her.'

He turned away. The meeting was at an end.

Hunter rose and said, 'Okay, fellahs, we'll see you on deck in twenty minutes.'
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – TOO MUCH, FANNY!

Customs was a mere formality. Forty minutes after leaving the yacht they'd left the outskirts of the town and were heading south on the Montreal highway, keeping steady station at fifty miles per hour. Fifty-three minutes later they turned right off the main Montreal road, heading towards Lachute and Ottawa.

It was countryside that Hunter loved – mile after mile of slopes covered with spruce and red pine, the heady balm of the sap almost overpowering on the morning air, and behind them the gaunt mountain peaks, seemingly stretching away into eternity.

He'd often thought that if he ever had a chance to retire he would rather do so here than anywhere else on Earth. It was God's own country, with practically every known natural resource. Not far from where they now were there existed the largest asbestos deposits in the world, supplying two-third's of the global requirements. Gold, copper, silver, mica, molybdenite, graphite and uranium were also there in plenty, and the fishing and hunting were probably the best to be had anywhere in the world. It was the only country where steelhead, the very cream of sportfish, ran in from the sea. The climate, though harsh in winter, suited an outdoor man, and the people were the friendliest he'd come across. He thought it was a pity that he would never retire. He would become careless, or the death wish that is in every man would reach the point where it overrode the natural instincts of self-preservation. Sir Michael repeated often enough that there was no room for sentimentality in the job. There was no use in self-analysis either. You did what you did because of an inner compulsion rather than from patriotism or a sense of righteousness.

The hundred and seventy mile ride passed pleasantly enough, with Fanny clinging tightly to him, the hundreds of tiny strip farms, often only a hundred and fifty yards wide, flashing past, making the countryside appear like a long line of small white houses, with curved red roofs and ribbon-like strips of land stretching away behind, backed by the high timber and beyond that the mountains.

They stopped just once, pulling off the road up to a farmhouse, where one man, obviously a Dirge operative, refueled their machines and gave them each a cup of coffee and some sandwiches.

Four hours and twenty minutes after leaving the port Jones, who'd been in the lead throughout, slowed and pointed to a side road off to the right as he rode past – the ambush road.

Finally, five minutes later, they came to a small settlement; just a few houses and a filling-station-cum-general store on the main Ottawa-Montreal road twenty or so miles from the capital.

Jones led them up a track alongside the filling station and rode up to a small white-painted wooden house with a large garage behind it some hundred yards off the road. He used a key to open the door.

It was a typical house of the province, sparsely furnished with well-made, unfussy wooden furniture and with homely red and white check curtains at the windows.

Jones, who seemed to be the accepted leader of the other men said, 'You and the girl can have the front bedroom, Slingsby. Right now we gotta check over the bikes and contact HQ on the R/T.'

'Oi'l go an' rest a whoil.' Fanny said, looking at Hunter.

'Okay, hon. See you later.' He could not afford to have the other men inspecting his motorcycle too closely, and told them, 'I'll check my bike over too.' He followed the others out to the garage, where they began going through the standard Dirge checking procedure. Fauberge mumbled something about distilled water and went outside. He was back within two seconds, shouting at Jones, 'La femme, elle va!'

Jones swore, 'For Chrissakes get her, quick!'

They all dived for the door, Hunter with his mind in a whirl. What the hell did she think was she up to? Did she just want something from the shop, or was there a deeper reason?

When he reached the corner of the house he saw her just entering the telephone kiosk next to the filling station.

He thought, 'She's just committed suicide, the silly bitch.'

The other five men were pounding along the track in front of him, Jones in the lead.

He wrenched the door of the kiosk open just as the girl was saying, 'Give me---'

He ripped the cord out of the box and whirled it round her neck.

'I'm gonna give you somethin' alright, sister!'

Her hands came up and tried to loosen the cord. Jones exerted more pressure and her eyes bulged with pressure.

'You dirty little slut!' Jones brought his knee up onto her stomach to get all the pressure he could to finish her off, and twisted his hands once more round the cable to get more leverage. As he did so, fingers seized both his ears and twisted them backwards in excruciating agony. His hold on the wire loosened gradually and then let go entirely. Fanny slid to the floor, almost unconscious, gasping for breath and retching at the same time, her face a deathly shade of greenish-white.

Hunter could no longer hold onto Jones' ears. From the moment he had dug his fingers in, the other four men had been on top of him, pounding fists into him from all directions. He let go of Jones and went down under their combined weight. Jones, hands on tortured ears, kicked him savagely in the ribs.

Two men and a boy had come out of the general store to see what the commotion was and a woman was looking out of her window from across the street.

Jones gritted, 'Okay, buddy, on your feet. One false move and I'll fill you so full of lead you won't need concrete shoes when we dump you in the river.' His voice was full of menace and pain. His ears were burning as if they were red hot.

Hunter knew that his life hung by the finest thread. Jones would have killed him a hundred times with the greatest of pleasure had it not been for the witnesses, and would still do so with the slightest provocation, witnesses and all.

Jones spat an order at Miller, 'Bring the girl.' He was white with fury, 'Okay, Slingsby, march.'

They surrounded Hunter as they walked the hundred yards back to the house. To gain time for Jones' anger to simmer down a little, Hunter stumbled several times and pretended to be hurt, holding his chest where Jones had kicked him, his breathing laboured. Each time he stumbled one of them punched him in the kidneys. Miller staggered along behind, supporting Fanny.

As they bundled Hunter inside the door Jones hit him across the head with his gun butt. Hunter staggered, dazed, and fell against the table. He lay across it, resting and collecting himself, taking deep breaths and wondering whether to lose his life in a last wonderful gamble against these five men. He might take one of them out with him.

He moved his head slightly, moaning, so that he could look through slit eyes at the men. No use – they stood in a group ten feet or more behind him, and Jones and Fauberge had pistols trained on him.

'Get up!' It was Jones again.

Hunter struggled, as if still almost unconscious, and turned, standing shakily against the table.

'Good. I need you to watch while you get it.' Jones lifted his automatic and his index finger whitened as he increased the pressure.

Hunter sighed. So this was it, and all for a gangster's moll. There was just one chance.

'Makepeace will kill all of you for failing. You know that as well as I do.' He grinned as he said it, trying to look nonchalant.

The gun in Jones' hand stayed locked on Hunter's heart for a full minute, the finger still white.

At last, after an eternity, the finger regained some of its colour, and Hunter began to breathe again. He knew that he had a reprieve, however short it might turn out to be.

'I'm gonna contact Mr Makepeace personally, and then, if he agrees, I'm gonna kill you both myself. You two,' he nodded to Trébusson and Fauberge, 'keep him covered, with two guns. We'll tie the girl to the bed upstairs and then contact headquarters. If he moves as much as a muscle, shoot to kill!'

Jones, Miller and Hanson moved away up the stairs. Hunter measured his chances. These men were born killers and highly trained. There was not the slightest chance of escape unless he could get both of them at once. If he didn't act now the odds would soon be back to five to one again, and the end in sight. There was just one trick he could try. It had worked for him before.

He began to sneeze, deep down near his navel. A long-drawn-out, 'Aaaaaaaaaahhh' with a slight bending forward of the body, followed by three shorter, staccato 'Aaahhs', each accompanied by a slight bowing motion with head and shoulders, and a fourth 'Aaaaaaaahh', continuing into a tremendous explosive expulsion of air, '--- TISHOO!'

On the 'tish' he jerked his head and shoulders forward with a mighty force. To the two men watching it had seemed as if his eyes were closed throughout the sneeze, but he had been watching every second through almost closed slits and now, while the distraction was at its peak, it was time for action. He gauged exactly the distance separating him from Fauberge, and the space between the men.

In throwing himself forward he had been able to shift his weight onto the ball of the left foot for the high kick, which now came with the speed of a rattlesnake strike. It had to be absolutely accurate.

The steel edge of the shoe struck Fauberge's gun hand just below the wrist, smashing the bone to pieces. His scream was punctuated by the sickening thud of metal on flesh, as the automatic hit Trébusson full on the bridge of the nose, the butt then smashing into his left eyeball. The gangster was knocked off balance and blinded, but his automatic spewed lead instantly at the spot where Hunter had been standing a split-second before.

Hunter was no longer there but was diving for Fauberge's gun.

Trébusson was still shooting, fanning round blindly to the right. One of the shots hit Fauberge just above the Adam's apple. Bright orange-red blood spurted from his mouth and from the wound over his collar.

Hunter hit the floor full length, his right hand on the gun. In one continuous movement he rolled and fired twice. Both shots hit Trébusson between the eyes. A heavy man, he fell like a pole-axed bull with a tremendous crash, just as Fauberge slid to the floor, his mouth still jerking open and closed and his fingers fluttering madly.

For one or two seconds there came the sound of tortured breath being dragged into the damaged windpipe, then a death rattle and silence.

A silence destroyed immediately by the sounds of men running downstairs.
CHAPTER NINETEEN – RIDE FOR LIFE

Hunter dived out of the door and sped round the corner of the house into the garage. The doors were still open. He was in the saddle with the engine running inside two seconds, the machine bucketing out of the door over the concrete ramp and round the corner on the unmade road just as the three Dirge men spilled out of the door hell-for-leather.

He had the throttle wide open and the machine almost taking off, heading straight for them. They each had one split-second to make a decision. Only Jones' reaction was fast enough. He continued his forward rush and turned it into a full-length dive. The bike missed him by inches.

Miller was not quite fully out of the doorway and also escaped, but Hanson had no chance. The left handlebar of the bike caught him full in the stomach and threw him to the ground, the gun in his hand flying through the kitchen window.

Hunter was through them, leaving behind a scene of confusion.

Miller had recovered sufficiently to send a hail of wild shots, but none came within yards of Hunter.

At the main road he turned right, heading back towards Montreal. Changing up through the gears he watched the speedometer needle pass the hundred on its way upward. The gaff was well and truly blown. All he could save now were the pieces.

His mind was working as furiously as the pistons of the huge engine, and just as accurately. If Jones had tipped off Makepeace or his local headquarters the game was up. They had not had time to call in yet, and he couldn't prevent them reporting without killing them first. They might even now be using the radio. He turned the receiver on.

There were at least two of them still fully active, and possibly three, depending on how badly Hanson was hurt. And the girl – what of her? Whom had she been telephoning? Was she on his side and an agent for one of the American agencies, or had she just been phoning a friend? Was she still alright, or had they killed her out of hand before coming after him?

He pulled out to overtake a heavy articulated lorry and immediately slammed the brakes hard on. A petrol tanker, its driver either asleep or drunk, was careering out of control across the road towards him. It hit the steel fence, slewed back onto the road and slid, sideways on, towards the oncoming traffic, which began diving left and right into the safety fences to avoid it.

The driver of the articulated lorry he'd been going to overtake saw the danger and stopped, but in vain. The bowser hit the other vehicle at speed. There was a tremendous explosion, and a sheet of flame leapt up and enveloped the entire road and its immediate environs. There was no path through.

Damn! There was no choice – he had to turn back. It would be no good waiting here – Jones would shoot on sight, even if it meant dying himself. He would know that if he failed it would be a Dirge death sentence.

It was no time for hesitation, they could not be far behind.

He spun the bike round and headed back the way he'd just come, remembering flashing past a rough track on the left about a mile back. Could he make it before the heavy mob?

There it was, between two small farms – and there were the three black-clad riders, closer to it than he was!

They hadn't yet seen him coming towards them, expecting him to be on the other side. He slowed fast and pulled in behind an old rusty-red Bedford Utilabrake.

Just a couple of seconds later they roared past, Jones in the lead.

The first two were staring straight ahead, but Hanson, probably because of the pain in his side from Hunter's handlebar, was hunched up to the left, riding awkwardly.

His head was also held down to the left, and he saw Hunter at the last second.

The squeal of his brakes made a cacophonous symphony with the wail of his hooter as he screamed to a halt.

Hunter accelerated hard past the Bedford and skidded into the track. It was rough and full of potholes and ruts up to a foot deep, and it took all his skill to keep on the machine, the jolting shaking his teeth together.

He glanced back over his shoulder. All three of the men were just entering the track two hundred yards behind him. At least they had made no radio report yet - the heat of the moment had taken the thought away.

It was still three against one, but it was time for Tibbins to come to the rescue. It would have to wait a bit until they were up in the tall timber, away from prying eyes, and he was already being shot at again. As they raced into the trees he heard three shots above the sound of the racing engine, but he knew they'd have to be lucky to come within twenty yards of him. They were just wasting ammunition, shooting with automatics in the prevailing conditions.

The mirrors were no help in seeing behind, bucketing about as the machine was. He glanced back again over his shoulder.

What had happened? There was only one rider behind him. Wait a minute though – wasn't that---? Yes, it was. Two of them, probably Jones and Miller, he thought, had stopped and taken the rifles out from under the tanks. He saw them taking aim. Damn! Now he was in trouble. If they were any good as sharpshooters he was dead meat. He started to weave as much as possible, though the ruts made it difficult, and leant forward over the tank.

Must get rid of the one close behind quickly, he thought. He pushed the front brake lever forward through a hundred and eighty degrees and the cover behind the headlight flipped open. Now, which button was it? He slipped the protective cover off and gave the button a quick twist clockwise. It moved through about a hundred and twenty degrees and then jammed. He fought with it, desperately trying to stay on the bucking motorcycle with one hand and his knees. Working the button furiously to and fro would not budge it past a third of the way. So much for boffins! He decided to leave it for the time being and concentrate on evasive action.

Glancing round again he was amazed to see Hanson suddenly stand upright in the saddle, both hand clawing at his throat. He toppled over backwards, the machine standing up on its rear wheel and, after just a couple of seconds, smashing into a big spruce at the side of the track. The gas had worked after all.

The picture was there before his eyes and then – nothing. The world went black.

How long he was out for the count he had no way of knowing. When he came to, the motorcycle was lying on his left leg, the motor still running and in gear, the rear wheel spinning furiously and his right leg still astride. Under him was a grassy bank.

His head hurt like hell, waves of pain threatening to engulf him again in unconsciousness. He knew he must not let that happen. A will that had saved him so many times before came to his aid again now. He felt terribly sick and wanted to retch. Forcing every nerve and sinew to obey him he dragged his top half almost upright on his elbow and tried to look back.

He couldn't see! He realised that his face was wet and that it was not water. Blood was running down his forehead and into his eyes. He brushed at it with the back of his right hand and tried again.

Through a bloody haze he could just make out the two riders about four hundred yards away, coming up the hill towards him.

Jones had hit him with a shot from the rifle. They had packed the weapons away again and were coming in to finish the job.

There was no time to assemble his own rifle. The only thing he could do was to get out as fast as possible and hope for another chance later.

Forcing his flagging will to submit, he held the clutch lever in and kicked the gears through into first. Then, with all his might, he drew his left foot up and pushed against the grass, letting the clutch out and opening the throttle at the same time.

The gamble came off and so did he – almost. It was the nearest thing imaginable. His knees being just too weak to exert much holding pressure, his departure was like nothing so much as the stunt man playing a drunken Indian who has been shot, his body falling first one way then the other, swaying forwards and backwards the whole time.

God, but he felt bloody lousy. Gradually, though, as the yards passed and he managed not to fall off, the strength began to flow back into limbs that had been the victims of shock. He began to control the motorcycle better and to think clearly again.

The track, which had led continuously upward, began to level out around the side of the mountain. The going was a little easier and, by blinking furiously, he had managed to clear the mist from his eyes. He could feel the back of his neck become wet and sticky and realised that his head was still bleeding. The rush of air was taking the blood backwards.

He hadn't dared turn round before to look backwards, for fear of vertigo. Now the track, although not smooth by any means, allowed him to obtain a reasonable image in the mirrors. The two men seemed very close to him, must be within twenty yards, but had no pistols in their hands. They seemed to be concentrating all their efforts into catching up with him. What they intended to do if they did catch up was anyone's guess.

Normally he would have welcomed a hand-to-hand clash with either or both of them, but weak as he was from loss of blood and shock it would have meant taking perhaps a fatal chance on their prowess.

They seemed to be taking their time and that puzzled him. Did they know something he didn't? What was waiting for him round the next bend?

Scarcely was the thought in his mind when he found out: a lake of soft mud, two or three hundred yards wide immediately in front of him! So that was why they were not bothered about catching him.

The burning question was – how deep was it? Certainly there was no way round it – he could see that immediately. There had to be a stream nearby overflowing onto soft ground.

There was no option – he had to keep on. If the mud was several feet deep he was about to come to a very sticky end.

He changed down into second gear and drove into it. The motorcycle immediately sank a foot but continued to go forward.

Now, he thought, what was the drill? Just as if it was a ford, if the mud was allowed to stop the exhaust gases from escaping, the engine would stall. He had to keep in low gear and keep the revs high.

The mud tore at his feet and legs. His path was like that of a drunken serpent, slithering and sliding from side to side, but somehow, miraculously, he kept more or less upright and on the bike. He dared not lose concentration by looking behind to see what the others were doing, and the mirrors were already covered in mud splashes. Maybe they were making ready to shoot at him with the rifles again. It was no good worrying about it in any case. Que sera, sera!

He found himself halfway across the mud field and the mud, instead of getting deeper, had actually become shallower, and was now only a couple of inches deep. It was rather like skidpan practice and so easy after the earlier struggle.

He risked a look over his shoulder. The other two had just entered the mud.

He accelerated out and onto the track again, changed up to third and went into the next bend.

Wham! He braked as hard as he could. Fifty yards ahead the track came to an abrupt end. Earthmovers had obviously dumped tons of earth and rock here for some reason. In front of him rose an almost vertical wall twelve feet high. On the left the hillside rose steeply through thick red pines. On the right it dropped off at one in two or worse.

As the trees moved in the breeze there came a glint, and then another. Could it be? Yes, it could! There was a metalled road on the other side of that heap, but how to get to the other side?

There was one, just one, minute hope. If he could imitate a fly he might just make it.

He slammed the gear down into first and leant over to the left, guiding the bike on full revs up the almost vertical bank. It seemed for a moment that the machine must fall backwards by the sheer force of gravity, but no – it made upward progress. Four feet, five, six, seven – at last his head was above the level of the mound of earth, and he almost fell sideways to guide the machine onto the top of it – across and down the smooth other side onto the made-up road.

As he turned left onto it he saw the other men on the top of the bank. He pushed the gear up another notch, opening out as far as the throttle would go. Almost immediately he realised that he knew the road.

It was the ambush route, a couple of hundred yards from the point where the ambush was to have taken place.

Just around the next bend was the precipice. If he could only knock Jones or Miller over it! He glanced into the mirror. They were only ten yards behind him. Had they also realised that this was the road? Of course they had – this was their home stomping ground. It was probably Jones who'd made the film.

He could even see eager anticipation in their expressions. They had the same idea. Alright then – let them think you are unsuspecting, and when one of them makes his move, you brake hard and let him go over the edge.

They were round the bend. Here he came! Miller forced another couple of miles an hour out of his bike, overtaking on the left. As his front wheel came level with Hunter's front wheel he swung the machine viciously to the right. The intention was to throw the agent and his machine into the void. Hunter had guessed right and braked hard.

Miller's motorcycle went out of control across the road and straight over the verge.

The machine plummeted down, but Miller was thrown up, and for a long moment seemed to hover in the air, arms and legs stretched out like a free-fall parachutist, his mouth wide open in an unheard scream. Then he was gone. Hunter gunned his machine forward again.

Now Jones made his move, using his rear wheel on Hunter's front wheel. He'd seen Miller's mistake and was not about to make the same one. They clashed three times before Hunter dropped a cog and opened the throttle wide to pull past. Jones' bike shot onto the unmade verge, the rear wheel spinning wildly and sending up showers of broken shale.

Hunter thought elatedly, 'There he goes!'

But he didn't. By a brilliant piece of balancing, Jones fought the machine back onto the roadway. Hunter was just ahead again and once more opened the throttle wide, accelerating away to fifty yards or more ahead before Jones could achieve the same speed.

The chase went on. Another mile, then another. The road ran upwards a short distance, alongside a mountain stream which was pouring down cataracts every few yards. Then gradually the road began to level out, and the stream to run more smoothly.

All at once, over a slight rise, they came to a high plain, stretching for miles and, in the center, and a few hundred yards in front of them, a lake from which the stream was fed.

At the far side of the lake and dominating the scene stood a lumber mill, its four tall chimneys belching light grey smoke. Several smaller buildings surrounded the main structure.

The lake itself was almost full of tree trunks, keeping fresh while awaiting their last ride up the chain-driven 'moving stairway' into the mill.

Three men were standing on the logs floating in the lake; one pushing trunks with the aid of a long pole onto the runway, where they rested against cleats on an endless chain, pulling them up into the mill for their hot-water bath before the huge band-saws carved them into planks. The other two men were out in the middle of the lake, using poles with spikes on one end to move the logs towards the mill. Until the two bikes roared into sight it was an idyllic scene.

Hunter raced along the lakeside road at over ninety miles an hour, Jones almost breathing down his neck.

Some sixth sense made Hunter throttle back. A slight movement had caught his eye. He stared into the trees ahead. Only fifty or so yards in front of him a huge spruce had been felled and was crashing down, its branches tearing twigs and small branches off every tree around it, its downward path seeming to be almost in slow motion. It was falling right across the roadway.

In a split-second decision, he urged the machine off the road onto the grass verge on the right.

The smooth grassy bank stood some four feet above water level. He made an almost instantaneous mental calculation: ninety miles per hour from four feet high. It was possible – the nearest logs in that huge floating 'raft' on the water were ten or twelve feet from the bank.

Almost before he had begun to calculate, the machine was in the air. As he landed, his foot slammed down on the gear change lever, slipping it down through three cogs and reducing his speed to just ten miles an hour.

It was rough going – the front wheel on one log and the back on another for most of the time, the momentum from the rear wheel setting each log into rolling motion as he passed.

He glanced back. Jones had followed him and was twenty or so logs behind him. He had to give it to him, the man could certainly ride a motorcycle.

Hunter sped past the two men in the middle of the lake – their mouths hanging open slackly. They were not quick enough to realise the consequences of his passing – the logs they were on started to revolve from contact with those over which his motorcycle had passed.

Both expert at 'burling' under normal circumstances – the sport where two men on one log try to dislodge each other by spinning the log rapidly with their spiked boots and then stopping suddenly – the sheer surprise of the moment robbed them of their expertise.

Staggering wildly, one of them fell backwards into the water, arms and legs flailing. The other, with one foot on each of two logs, slowly did the 'splits', shouting at the top of his voice, finally dropping into the water as the two trunks moved wider apart.

The one word, 'Bastard!' floated over the water.

Hunter took the scene in almost without thought, his sole objective the runway, or 'Jack ladder' up into the mill. As he approached, however, the old man at its foot raised his pole awkwardly into a threatening attitude, for all the world like some latter-day Don Quixote, minus Rosinante, who has just spotted another windmill.

Twenty feet from him, Hunter bravely took his left hand off the handlebar and pointed behind the man.

He shouted, 'Look!'

The oldster half turned, in doing so removing his 'lance' from Hunter's path.

The agent drove the machine onto the last log and, revving up along it, jumped the three-foot gap from it onto the bottom of the 'Jack-ladder'.

Now came the most dangerous part – avoiding the moving spikes! If a tyre caught one he would most likely be thrown over the side of the runway, which at the top was at least as high as a three-storey house.

His practice with Tex stood him in good stead. Riding in good 'Wall of Death' style, he used the side of the runway, leaning over at an impossible angle, the wheels running only two inches from a trip into space, with the likelihood of several broken bones at the very least if he misjudged by a fraction.

With ten feet to go to the mill he began to slow and drop into the bottom of the trough, ready for the tricky bit – the right turn and the dead stop on the tiny platform, which he was praying would be there.

Three years before a friend had shown him over a Canadian lumber mill, and there had been a small catwalk and inspection platform at the head of the log runway.

All he could see was blackness inside the opening. The sunlight outside was too strong.

As he hit the opening he blindly stood on everything for one split second then jumped the front wheel ninety degrees to the right, moving forward still but with much less impetus. Another split second and he braked hard again and stopped dead.

With instant relief he realised he was not falling. There was support beneath him. Even before his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he'd switched off the engine and got off the bike, pulling it up onto its stand in the same action.

Immediately, the music of the lumber mill surrounded him – the huge band-saws ripping along at fantastic speed forming the main orchestration, the regular base beat accompaniment coming from a donkey-engine beating time somewhere at the back of the mill, and the string section from the variety of smaller saws and planers working away at higher pitch.

Only one jarring note could be heard and it was getting closer and closer.

Jones had made it behind him! Hunter pulled himself close in to the outer wall and waited.

Being a local man, Jones would probably know more about the layout of a lumber mill than he. It was likely that he would follow Hunter's lead and stop on the inspection platform.

Hunter asked himself if he could handle Jones in his present condition. His head throbbed in time with the donkey engine, making normal thought processes painful luxuries.

The roar of the motorcycle engine in low gear, so recently plainly heard from only a yard or two outside, suddenly ceased.

In its place the shout of the old man from below, ---bloody hell d'ye think ye're doin'?'

There came a metallic scraping noise and an expensive-sounding crash, immediately preceded by a half-screamed, 'Jesus CHRIST!'

The sawdust-soaked sunlight streaming in the opening lost a little of its brilliance, then a little more.

A long shadow fell across the mill. Hunter was completely oblivious to the faces looking up. Every sinew in his body was strained to peak, ready for the struggle in which he knew he must win a very quick victory or perish. His back was wet down to his buttocks and he knew it was not sweat. He'd lost a lot of blood and was in no fit condition for hand-to-hand combat with an expert.

Even though he was expecting it, Jones' sudden appearance almost made Hunter jump. The Dirge man had sprung from outside to land squarely facing him. In his hand he held a wicked looking stiletto with a nine-inch blade, honed as sharp as any razor. He looked as if he knew how to use it. His eyes, always sadistic, now had the hard, icy viciousness of a striking rattler.

There was little time for thinking, but Hunter's brain passed one urgent message: 'This man knows all the moves and countermoves in knife attack and karate defence.'

Copybook defences would not stop Jones, who was making no mistake in his approach – no straightforward attack. The knife was held at a little above belt height and was being swung from side to side in an arc covering eighty degrees.

'Distract! Distract!' The urgent message pulsed through Hunter's skull.

Normal practice would be to jump to one side and past the assailant, attacking the knife arm from the side. Sure – but Jones would be expecting it and would not react as an untrained man would.

Hunter suddenly felt very weak. The exertions following the loss of blood had been just too much. He gave a little moan and his eyes rolled wildly. Slowly he began to buckle at the knees, collapsing over the tank of the motorcycle, his left arm twitching on the handlebars.

Jones was cautious, ever more so now that the front wheel of the motorcycle was between him and his intended victim.

Hunter's head was hanging down, and Jones could not see if his eyes were open, or if the man was unconscious, but he was not going to take a chance.

He lifted the knife over his right shoulder, took careful aim at the back of Hunter's neck and threw---

Hunter's fluttering finger found the firing button of the machineguns half a split second before the knife left Jones' hand. The bike pumped up and down as fifty-odd shells passed straight through the Dirge man's legs, smashing the bones to pieces and shredding the flesh, bespattering the wall with the gory mess, the force of their impact tearing Jones from the catwalk and hurling him backwards over it and onto the log runway. As he fell he screamed – a devilish, Banshee-like wail.

His body fell onto one of the metal spikes, impaling him through the buttocks and activating the automatic mechanism that held the logs as they passed through the high-speed steam jets. Twin metal arms came out and bit into his sides, holding him in a grip of steel, crushing his ribs on both sides. Again he screamed. The conveyor moved forward, carrying his writhing body into the cleaning section. Jets of high-pressure boiling steam came from all around him, scalding every inch of his skin from his frame. The steam, mixing with his blood, turned the water-laden atmosphere gory red. His screams were continuous and much, much weaker.

Relentlessly the conveyor belt moved on. Men were rushing to turn off machinery, but they had left it too late. Jones' eyes were still open and he had seen his fate. One last scream, a scream of utter terror, began---and was cut off abruptly as the twin band-saws, revolving at fantastic speed and capable of cutting through three feet of huge tree in one second, found his soft body---

Hunter turned away. He'd seen many men die; had killed not a few himself, in a great variety of ways, but he had never seen anything quite like this.

Of course, the man deserved to die, and there had been no choice in the matter. Kill or be killed – the law of the primeval jungle – the law of the small band of men like Hunter, who, working for one government or another all over the world, for good or evil, depending on the whims of their masters and the politics of their countries, lived or died as a result of split-second decisions made under the worst possible conditions.

Killing was his job and if he had a raison d'être, this was it. He knew agents who had grown to live for killing – to enjoy the thrill of ending a human life. Most of them lasted only a short time. Hunter had even known cases where they had been 'put down' by their own service, like mad dogs and had carried out one such elimination himself. Most agents became inured to killing, and he was in that club, but he'd never found any pleasure in it. When it became necessary he executed his duty with the same detachment as if he were ordering a drink. And afterwards? He erased, as far as he could, all memory of the victim.

Sir Michael's words, 'No room for sentiment' were his standby: killing reduced to a reflex-condition, but Jones would live in his mind for a very long time. If only the bullets could have struck higher up.

Men were surrounding him, pumping questions at him, 'Where? Why? How?'

He swung his head wearily in an arc, embracing his would-be audience. His eyelids seemed to have taken over and would not obey commands from the nerve center of his brain. They closed, fluttered a couple of times over fast-glazing eyes, then closed again. Two big lumbermen caught him as he fell.
CHAPTER TWENTY – INTRODUCING MISS HOLLIS

Consciousness was a small pinprick of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel – there for the briefest moment and then gone. For what seemed an eternity it came and went, with gradually increasing frequency, each appearance accompanied by a fiery yellow meteorite flashing painfully across the night sky of his tortured mind, its passage the means of its own recurrent extinction. Concentric waves of blood-red agony radiated from the nerve center of his brain with every pulse beat. Subconscious still struggled gamefully with semi-conscious torment.

Lightning flashed once in a blaze of clinical whiteness; was extinguished, and blazed again. Through a fast-clearing fog the brilliant white ceiling pulsed down at him, the twin bulbs in their pale blue glass shades advancing and receding with each beat of his heart. He closed his eyes – meteorites! He opened them again, slowly. The bulbs gradually slowed their dance, blurred edges sharpening, the two shapes merging into one.

He tried moving a hand. Everything seemed to work. He moved an arm. So far so good. His head. Pow! A sledgehammer buried itself deeply in his brain. His whole body twisted in agony. His eyes closed again.

He lay for several moments while the waves of searing pain receded to a bearable level and then tried again, but much more slowly. Eyes open – very gently move the head – gently – there.

A light-green door came into view, surmounted by a frosted glass lintel. In front of the door a figure in uniform sat facing the bed, a service revolver on his knee. The slightly balding forehead and greying hair could not belie the strength in the blue-grey eyes that were watching Hunter's every movement. The revolver barrel lifted slightly.

'Okay, son. Hold it right there.'

The man leant back slightly and knocked with the back of his left hand on the door.

Two men in plain clothes came in and walked over to the bed.

The taller of the two – an officious-looking man in his early forties, with a small, carefully-trimmed military moustache, spoke, his voice holding no sympathy whatsoever, 'I am Inspector Dickinson. I have to warn you---'

'Okay, Inspector,' Hunter interrupted him, 'I don't think we need to go through all that. I am a British Secret Service agent, number Alpha Six. Would you please, and as fast as you can, contact Whitehall for confirmation?' His voice sounded unutterably weary. 'If you need faster confirmation than that, see if you can contact Alex Manson of your Intelligence Department. He will vouch for me. Are we in Ottawa?'

The inspector did not look at all convinced, but nodded.

'I'll fill you in on the details, but at the moment it's desperately important I get out there again as soon as possible, so will you please start the ball rolling?'

Dickinson nodded to his aide and the man left silently.

'Right! Now supposing you start at the beginning---'

It was some twenty minutes later that the door opened and Manson's chubby face, topped by carroty red hair, breezed into the room. He took one look at Hunter and turned to the inspector, 'Never seen this joker before in my life.' He turned to leave.

Hunter suddenly remembered how he looked. He grinned, 'Still in the 'Circle', Alex?' It was a reference to a select association to which they had both once belonged.

Manson stopped in mid-stride at the door and turned, 'John? What in hell have they done to you? Man – I didn't recognise you at all.'

'It's a long story, Alex, and will have to wait for one of those winter nights in front of the fire. Can you positively identify me to the inspector?'

'Sure! Do you need any help?'

'To start with my motorcycle back in one piece, and then the use of a helicopter and your teleprinter link to London.'

Things began to move fast. The doctor tried to insist that he stay for at least a week. He could have saved his breath.

Twenty minutes later they were in the air. Alex piloted the helicopter with the motorcycle in the back. As they flew, Hunter was busy with a Dictaphone.

To avoid the possibility of nosy neighbours passing on gossip, they landed a mile away from the house, and Hunter rode the rest of the way. He was wearing the bloodstained clothes again, with the PVC suit over them.

He approached the house warily, on the off chance that the opposition might have sent reinforcements, but all was quiet.

He sidled up to the door, automatic in hand. Nothing. No hail of shots. The house was either unoccupied or the occupants were playing possum.

He crept back to the window and suddenly popped his head up. The bodies of Trébusson and Fauberge lay where they'd fallen, that of the latter lying in a huge pool of congealed blood. If the bad guys had been around they had done nothing for their dead, and Hunter was sure that the evidence would have been removed to avoid publicity had any of Makepeace's men come upon the scene.

Still not taking any chances he entered the house by the back door quietly, gun in hand, and climbed the stairs as silently as possible.

The door of the main bedroom was closed. He stood to one side, balancing on the ball of his left foot, pivoting slightly backwards and forwards to gain momentum and then, with all the force he could muster, kicked in the door and jumped to the other side of the jamb almost in one movement.

No shooting greeted the manoevre.

He called gently, 'Wire for Miss Beaucoup!'

'Oh, Gat!' Her voice was full of relief, 'Thank God!'

He moved swiftly into the room.

She didn't look exactly elegant, spread-eagled on the bed, hands and feet tied to the four corners, her skirt high over her waist, but she looked sweet – her hair forming a dark halo on the white expanse of pillow.

She gave him a huge smile. 'I began to think I was going to die in bed, and not exactly the way I would have chosen.'

'Well, I was going to make you a proposition, but I see you're all tied up.' He ran his eyes lasciviously down her well-formed body, stopping twice on the way.

'Just the time to take advantage of a girl.' He pretended to start slipping of the motorcycling jacket.

'Hey! At least untie me first!'

'I want some straight answers to some serious questions before I do that. Who were you trying to phone?'

'My mother in Pennsylvania.'

'Have to do better than that, honey. You knew the risk and the penalty.' He smiled grimly, 'You wouldn't have been trying to contact someone about driving a dog-sled, would you?'

She looked genuinely puzzled, 'How do you mean?'

He ignored the question and went on, 'Look, I'm going to put my cards on the table and I expect you to do the same. Who do you think I am?'

'Well, I know who you are not – Gat Slingsby! I knew from the first moment I set eyes on you. You could fool most people, but not me. Lots of little things and one bigger one betrayed you. Your most precious little part is double the size of his for a start.'

'Why didn't you give me away to Makepeace?'

'It suited my purpose not to.'

'And what is that purpose? Don't be afraid to talk. I am a friend, you know.'

'Yes, I know, and I do trust you, but I can't give you that information.' There was no trace now of the Brooklyn accent.

'Well, that's too bad.' He turned as if to go.

'No, wait! If I tell you whom I work for, would that be enough?'

'It'll do for a start.'

'Tell me first, are you on the side of law and order or not?'

'Definitely yes.' Hunter reflected that some people would consider his methods directly in opposition to law and order, considering actions like the BEA hi-jacking, but didn't want to enter into a philosophical argument about it right at that moment.

She hesitated for a second or two then seemed to make up her mind quickly. 'I'm a CIA field agent.' The words, held back for so long, came rushing out, tumbling over each other. 'You can't know how good it is to get rid of that dreadful Brooklyn accent. I must have sounded like some bad imitation of Barbara Streisand.'

Hunter grinned, 'I think our respective organizations might have let us know about each other, and they should have given you the passwords. After what we've been through together, I suppose I ought to introduce myself. I am John Hunter, British Secret Service, at your service.'

'Nancy Hollis – entirely at yours.' Her smile was a little wry.

'Nancy with the laughing face.' He smiled nostalgically, and reached out to cut her bonds. As soon as her arms were free she reached out for him, and he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. She kissed him back and whispered one word, 'John.'

He answered it, 'Nancy.'

'You're a wonderful darling and all that, and I'll fill you in on all the details in just a minute, but I'm busting for a pee!' She jumped off the bed and dashed out of the door.

He let his weariness overtake him for a few moments and lay back on the pillow, almost dozing, and might well have slept, had he not felt her body moving beside him.

He shook himself to full wakefulness, 'Were you after Makepeace too?'

'It's a long story, but no. I hadn't heard him mentioned when I was given the assignment. I was to watch Slingsby, try to get close to him, to get information about contract killings of important people, commissioned by men high up in the administration. I became his girlfriend.' She pulled a face. 'When he went to England I was supposed to join him as soon as he'd found somewhere for us. I went to bed in my flat one night and woke up on one of Makepeace's ships. So he wasn't my assignment, but as soon as I'd seen a little of his organization I knew that I was onto a bigger fish than Slingsby and decided to take the first chance to inform my chief of what I knew and guessed.'

'Devotion above and beyond the normal call of duty.' He said, a little sourly. 'How can they ask a girl to do that?'

'Someone has to do it. It isn't so bad if you can philosophize about it and pretend that it's just your body and not your mind that's involved, like having a manicure, or your hair cut. You don't feel sullied then.' She anticipated his remark, 'Of course, it wasn't like that with you.'

He wasn't fully convinced, but let it pass for the time being.

'At least that explains why you didn't know the passwords.'

She could see that the thought of her making love with Slingsby was repugnant to him and put up her hand to stroke his forehead.

He winced and drew in air sharply.

'What on earth---?'

'Oh, the mosquitoes around here are pretty fierce! Look, I've got a helicopter waiting for us. We've got to get back to the yacht and try to convince Makepeace that we're still on his side. I'll bring you up to date as we go.'

Passing through the room downstairs he pulled the free end of the carpet over the two bodies. 'Must get Alex to have the garbage men call.'

Manson set the helicopter down in a field six miles from Trois Rivières and Hunter unloaded the motorcycle again.

He shook Manson's hand, 'Thanks for everything, Alex.'

'Sure thing, John. Take care of yourselves. We'll try to keep tabs on you, along with everyone else.'

The 'copter lifted and swung away towards Ottawa.

As they turned into the road leading to the dock Boris stepped from a doorway onto the kerb. Hunter drew up alongside him.

'You are early. Why?'

Hunter gave him a big grin, 'Now, Doris, you know I don't discuss business with the hired help. Get us back on board.'

He could see he'd angered the Russian again, and half expected a refusal, but after a pause Boris growled, 'You wait here for signal' He strode off in the direction of the customs shed.

More than half an hour later he walked back out of the door, took out his brightly-coloured pocket handkerchief and with great melodrama dropped it on the ground before walking back into the shed.

Hunter and Nancy climbed back aboard the motorcycle and drove slowly down the street and into the reception bay.

The customs officer gave the most casual glance at their passports and vehicle documents then waved them through. The launch stood ready to ferry them out to the yacht.

Makepeace was waiting for them in the saloon. His unlovely face, usually softened by the trace of a set smile, now had no such relieving feature. He glared at them as they entered.

'I have had no report from local headquarters and nothing has been given out over the radio about the assassination. What has happened?'

Hunter pretended righteous indignation, 'You ask me that? I've always worked as a lone wolf, and I've always been safe – no one to stab me in the back. You got a stool-pigeon in your bunch – someone talked. We left two of the men in the house and went to reconnoiter. They were waiting for us near the ambush spot – dozens of them. I saw two of the men shot down like dogs; don't know if the other one was killed or got away. I got out by the skin o' my teeth, but not before I'd collected this---' He pulled the PVC suit to one side to show the blood on his clothes, and held his head down and pointed to the wound. 'I went back to the house and found the other two men shot dead and Fanny tied to the bed. She'd been grabbed from behind and doped. We lit out fast as we could and came back here.'

The story had the ring of truth, and Hunter put as much feeling into it as his not inconsiderable acting ability allowed. Boris, standing on one side, grunted unintelligibly and moved forward, his hand lifting.

Makepeace made a minute gesture with his right hand and the movement stopped. The Director was not convinced, Hunter was sure, and in this organization there was only one payment for failure.

Makepeace seemed to make up his mind. He smiled, the fat, blubbery lips moving just a fraction apart.

'Of course, Mr Slingby. These things do happen in the best-regulated circles. We must investigate the matter at once. In the meantime we must set sail and rejoin the fleet for our final conference. In view of what has happened I must ask you not to appear on deck until we have left the Canadian coast, and to restrict yourselves to your cabin. Meals will be served to you there.'

He turned to Boris and in fluent Russian told him, 'They are to be locked in but are not prisoners. It is for their own protection. Do you understand?'

'Da, horoscho.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – 'Huángjīn jiāng dăkāi suŏyŏu de mén'

It was much like a honeymoon, Hunter reflected, except that they couldn't leave their suite even if they wanted to. It was pleasant enough, in any case, and they could do nothing more until they knew of Makepeace's exact plans. Once he knew them, he would have to use every resource to kill the arch-criminal and scotch his intentions.

The engines stopped in the early hours of the fourth day out and Hunter slid off the bed and looked through the porthole. Under a brilliant full moon the silver sea was scattered with Dirge ships.

A heavy knock was the prelude to Boris' order through the door, 'Conference now!' They heard the key turning in the lock.

Hunter dressed quickly and went down to the conference room. The deck seemed to be full of sailors for once, and there was a great deal of movement out on the water, launches from the ships arriving at the yacht every few moments.

There were only three occupants of the conference room when Hunter entered: Makepeace himself, Boris, and Um Lei Tung. The Russian and Makepeace were talking together in low tones and stopped immediately Hunter entered, both of them turning to look at him. He knew he had been the subject of the conversation.

Almost immediately others started arriving, and within ten minutes the room was full. Makepeace wasted no time in getting down to business.

'This is the final briefing for our last operation.' He paused to take a deep breath, and then began, his voice inspired, almost fanatical, his little pig eyes shining pinpoints of black, 'We have, by various methods, acquired over eighteen billion dollars worth of gold at the present world price of thirty-six dollars and two cents an ounce.'

Astonished gasps greeted the astounding snippet of information. If Makepeace had used it to set his audience alight, he had certainly succeeded.

He went on, 'It is all safely hidden and guarded. However, in order to ensure that we are in a position to dominate the world and its various currencies, it is necessary that we take measures which will leave us the owners of most of the usable gold in the world – all-powerful – kings – able to buy and sell any human being, and anything else we might want!' His voice had risen to a crescendo.

He paused and then continued at a slightly lower pitch, 'There is only one way of accomplishing this end: to effectively destroy the major portion of the remaining gold in the world. The method: contaminating it with slow-ageing radioactivity. This may seem a tall order, but we have everything set up and ready to go. First, the national gold reserves of the various nations.' He depressed a switch on the console in front of him and illuminated red circles appeared all over the wall map.

'We have acquired from China their equivalent of the 'Honest John' missile and launcher in sufficient quantity to attack such of these deposits as cannot be dealt with by other means. The missiles are already programmed and ready to fire. They are all hidden underground and require only the throwing of master switches, such as this one.' He depressed another switch and a hidden projector threw a picture of the missile control panel onto the wall alongside the wall map. A red lever covered with a locked guard bar was ringed with white.

'Those of you who have been chosen for these missions know which targets you have and will be given the combination to unlock the guard bars, and the co-ordinates of the missile locations at the time arranged for the master plan to go into operation. The signal to fire will be given on forty-two point four Megaherz – the frequency to which your motorcycle radios are programmed. On receipt of the signal you will immediately go to the locations of the missiles and at exactly midnight GMT you will close the master switches.

All missiles must be fired at precisely the same time. Surprise is essential. There is the possibility that a limited atomic war could break out between the major world powers if they can be made to believe that the attacks are politically motivated. If such a thing happened, it could only aid our cause.

Hunter shuddered to think of the possible consequences of the diabolical action Makepeace was proposing.

'You will travel by motorcycle from your local headquarters to the missile sites. After firing the missiles, you will return to that local headquarters and await further instructions regarding your transportation to our final rendezvous.

For your information, the targets selected for these short-range missiles are as follows: First and foremost, Fort Knox. That warhead will be larger than most of the others. It will effectively contaminate an area of several miles radius, and the rocket is programmed to strike the central building of the complex. The rate of decline of the radioactivity will make the gold unusable for ninety-nine years, and gold which cannot be bought and sold is as good as worthless. The other targets are similar: the South African Reserve Bank in Pretoria, Bahnhofstrasse in Zűrich – the center of all the Swiss holding banks and the Swiss National Bank, which holds the fifth largest stock of gold in the world; in Canada the banks of Nova Scotia and the Imperial Bank of Commerce, which handle the major part of the country's free gold market,' He used the illuminated V-pointer to indicate each target as he spoke, 'The Noranda-owned Canadian Copper Refinery – over half a million ounces of gold are refined there every year as a by-product of copper mining; the United States mints at Philadelphia, Denver and San Francisco; the open mine at Bingam Canyon in Utah, a few miles south of Salt Lake City, which, although a copper mine, is the second largest source of gold in the United States; the Bank of England; the Bank of France; the German Federal Bank; the Russian gold hoard in Moscow and finally the Rand Refinery near Johannesburg, which handles eight million dollars worth of gold every day.

I considered the London bullion dealers and decided that their day-to-day holdings, although not inconsiderable, were not large enough to warrant special treatment.'

He paused and surveyed the crowd to see what effect his words were having. The atmosphere was electric. The jaws of many hardened criminals hung slackly, astonished as they were at the sheer audacity of the plan, each thinking of the 'big' jobs they'd pulled off in the past and what small fish they seemed in comparison with this gigantic coup.

Makepeace swelled visibly at the obviously admiring looks on the faces of these men. He continued, 'There is one hoard of gold which we have not covered. It is the largest single accumulation of gold anywhere in the world and contains over one third of all the non-Communist world's gold reserves under one roof. The value of this gold at today's price is almost seventy billion dollars, and it belongs not to the United States alone, but to more than seventy-five countries, as part of their gold reserve. I am referring, of course, to the vaults of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.'

Hunter's mind went back to the day when he had taken the lift down to level E and been escorted through the series of guarded gates along steel corridors into the vaults of the fantastic Aladdin's cave, hewn into the virgin rock of Manhattan island, each section holding the gold of a different nation, most of them stacked floor to ceiling with the glistening bars – squat, squarish ones from the American Mint, oblong bars with sloping sides from the South African, Canadian and European refineries; brighter, purer bars from the Russian Mint, refined to 999.9 pure gold – all protected by a revolving steel door weighing almost a hundred tons which, when in position, could be lowered slightly and secured by time-locked steel bars to effectively make it immovable until the time-lock reactivated and the door was lifted again. The Bank's officials were justly proud that their vault was completely thief-proof.

'You will understand how important this hoard is to us, when I tell you that there is less than twenty-five billion dollars worth of gold in Fort Knox. You will also see that there would be no point in attempting to attack this target with a rocket, since it could not blast its way down to the necessary depth, and the gold would be recoverable.

We have, however, devised a simpler and more effective method of ensuring the contamination of this gold. We purchased some three years ago the firm responsible for the maintenance of the air-conditioning plant in the building, and since then have built in a small 'dirty' atomic device in the air-conditioning unit. McGraw,' he indicated a small, grey-haired man of about sixty in the front row, 'engineered the operation, and his party will carry out the final arming of the device by insertion of the core as soon as he returns to his headquarters near New York. The device will be fired by radio at the same time as the main firing instructions are given. About eight billion dollars' worth of gold is held at the US Assay Office on the East River, and that will be dealt with by his group in the same way.'

Makepeace had really warmed to his subject and was sweating profusely, although the temperature in the room was no more than seventy degrees.

'Not only must we contaminate the gold reserves; we must also ensure that they cannot easily be replaced. In order to do this, we must put all the major gold mines out of use. Alexei Alexandrovitch!'

A huge man, built like a grizzly bear, with black, bushy eyebrows and florid countenance, lifted his hand at the back of the room and mumbled something unintelligible.

'Just so, comrade. When you receive the signal to commence, your group of men is to leave your standby headquarters on the Mongolian border and proceed to the mine on the southern shore of Lake Baikal. A small atomic device has been planted in the main shaft, in the lower winching gear. You will dispatch the guards and workers by gas attack in accordance with your earlier briefing and insert the core, which you will take with you, at precisely the time stated in your final orders, and set the timer to begin the chain reaction one hour later. You will then leave the mine and return to your headquarters, where you will be picked up by helicopter at 0700 Moscow time on the next day. Any questions?'

'Nyet, tovarich, everythink understood.'

Makepeace addressed the crowd again, 'That is the only Russian mine with a really appreciable output. Most Russian gold is taken from alluvial fields in the far east of Siberia, but those targets are unimportant when considered in the context of total world supplies of gold. Jakobs?'

'Ja!' This time a blond giant in the front row raised his hand.

'Your group will deal with the South African mines in the same way. Your men have maintained, and in some cases installed, the air conditioning plants in those mines, and small atomic devices have been incorporated in them. All mines are to be dealt with in a similar manner, your men entering as normal servicing teams, releasing gas throughout the mines, arming the devices, and setting the time clocks before leaving at the time stated in your final instructions. The mines to be contaminated are the Free State Geduld – the richest mine in the world – and the other six Orange Free State major mines, plus the Western Deep Levels, the West Driefontein, the Blyvooruitzicht, the Kloof, the Kinross, the Elsburg, the South Vaal, the new East Driefontein, Far West Rand, and the Kerksdorp. Four groups will travel by motorcycle from your headquarters. Your men already have full details of guard systems and have been trained in the use of the atomic mechanisms that they are to handle. Have you any queries?'

'Nay! Vee got it all goot, man!'

'Wilson?'

'You betcha!'

Hunter could almost visualize a slouch hat on the big Aussie, and a tucker-bag slung over his shoulder. He seemed completely out of place in this meeting. Unlike the others he bore no outward sign of being what he so obviously was – a crook. Hands fit for a lumberjack hung awkwardly at his side, and the smart black uniform singlet and trousers of the Dirge organization seemed incongruous on his huge frame. A mop of tousled ginger hair surmounted the great bulk and as he stood there with such an eager expression on his ingenuous face he resembled nothing so much as a great big dog, bursting to do the bidding of his master. Must be in the blood, Hunter thought: hereditary criminal traits from those long-dead ancestors of Botany Bay.

'The three mines your unit will attack are the Central Norseman, the Kalgoorlie Mine and the Lake View and Star Mine, using the same methods as those already detailed for the South African mines. Have you any problems?'

'Naoh. All spodon, Mister Mikepeace.'

'Goldson?'

'Here!'

Hunter closely inspected the man who spoke. A modern Al Capone, he was using the huge cigar in his mouth as chewing tobacco rather than as a smoke, his rat-like face a mass of muscular movement. Steel-grey eyes – the eyes of a cold-blooded killer – stared unflinchingly from deep sockets just above a thin, pinched-up nose, which every few seconds had to plough its way through a fresh smokescreen. He was around fifty years old and prematurely grey. Hunter thought that he'd never seen a more typical gangster outside of Hollywood movies. He would have looked much more the part in a sharp suit, loud tie, and striped shirt.

'You will attack the Homestake Mine at Lead, in South Dakota, and the recently opened mine at Carlin, Nevada. Your second section will deal with the two Canadian mines we have selected in similar fashion. Those are the Giant Yellowknife Mine on the shore of the Great Slave Lake and the Kerr Addison Mine at Larder Lake in Northern Ontario. You will make wind-borne gas attacks, thereafter carrying in and arming the atomic devices, which are concealed near the mines at the locations given in the sealed orders in your safe. They will be fired when the order is given. Your men will travel to the mines and return to standby headquarters by motorcycle. The rest of the Canadian mines produce so little gold now that they are not worth considering. The European and the Morro Velho mine in Brazil are also small business in comparison with the mines we have selected for destruction, and the South American gold mines are kept continually at a low level by attacks from the mazamoreos, whom we supply liberally with spirits and weapons. They stop the dredges and steal the best pieces of ore in Bolivia and Colombia, and make armed attacks on the mine at Frontino and on the International Mining Company's gold launches.'

He paused before enunciating slowly and carefully, 'The result of our efforts will see the price of gold rise dramatically from its long-time levels, and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that it could reach the unheard of price of one hundred dollars an ounce, tripling the value of our holdings. You see, gentlemen, we shall be the new rulers of the Earth, and will be able to prove the old Chinese proverb: 'Huángjīn jiāng dăkāi suŏyŏu de mén' – gold will open all doors!'

He paused again, not for breath, but in order to see what effect his words had had on the assembly. He was not disappointed. Murmurs of approval came from every man there, including Hunter, who thought it would look odd if he made no sound. Makepeace allowed the hubbub for a few seconds and then began again, 'All these attacks will take place on M-Day, which will be the eighteenth of this month. The exact time will be sometime after eight-thirty GMT and will be communicated to you shortly before commencement. All riders or heads of groups are to report in on forty-two point four Megaherz at ten-minute intervals to local headquarters throughout the duration of the missions, and I am to be kept informed of the progress of each group. Are there any questions concerning these missions?'

Stony silence. These men were used to absolute obedience. Hunter wondered how Makepeace intended to dispose of them and their assault parties. These soldiers were not drugged as the storm troopers were. They would be a problem, but no doubt Makepeace had something lined up for them. Tip-offs to the police of their implication in the attacks and the whereabouts of their hiding places? Could be, or just a firing squad awaiting their return home to base. What was certain was that not one of them would live to spend their 'reward'.

The plan was brilliantly organized and deserved to succeed. Hunter considered the thousands of men that Makepeace must have in his employ all over the world, in order to have achieved this level of preparation. How they had managed to secrete the bombs in the mines without arousing the suspicions of the mine managers and overseers was incredible. Unless he could get details of the scheme to Sir Michael, Makepeace would succeed where so many armies had failed: he would achieve world domination with comparatively little bloodshed.

How to get the message out?

Hunter knew he was under suspicion and would no doubt be watched continuously. The transmitter on his motorcycle was a possible solution, but the message would need to be a lengthy one, and he was sure that Makepeace would have a monitoring watch on twenty-four hour duty, sweeping the frequency bands for just such transmissions. The man took no chances whatsoever, and it would be foolish to underestimate him.

What other chance might there be? Where would they head after this briefing? He decided that he would just have to bide his time and seize the first opportunity, even if it meant blowing his cover.

Makepeace had begun again, '---another operation which concerns only one of you, but which you may be interested to hear about. The Walworth Castle leaves Durban on the fourteenth with over five hundred million dollars worth of gold in her strong room, on the regular bullion run to England. Waters,' he indicated a wiry, intelligent-looking man at the back, 'and two of his men will be on board. At nine-thirty GMT on the eighteenth, the ship will be here, over a depth of more than fifteen hundred fathoms. We have a submarine that will rendezvous with the ship and will come up to periscope depth on the port side at one thousand yards range, with torpedoes ready for firing. Waters will have arranged for a small amount of plastic explosive to be placed in the transmitter room of the Castle liner with a time switch set at nine twenty-five. As soon as this explosion occurs, he will inform the captain of the vessel of the presence of the submarine and will demand that the liner heave to and the gold be brought from the strong room and loaded onto the ship's boats, which are then to be lowered and left on the surface of the sea. In the event of any hesitation on the part of the captain, the submarine is to fire one torpedo just ahead of the liner. Should the captain be foolish enough to refuse to comply within fifteen minutes, he is to be told that the submarine will sink the liner, after allowing just fifteen minutes to evacuate the passengers – obviously not time enough for all to leave. This threat will be carried out precisely to the second, whether or not all passengers have left the ship.

Five hundred million would be a useful addition to our holdings, but its destruction would be almost as valuable to us.

This attack will be completely foolproof, since the ship will be too far from any air force base to call for help, even if she still had her radio facilities. The submarine will load the gold if the captain of the liner complies, and will disappear from the area submerged. The attack will take place within hours of the other attacks all over the world and will be such a relatively minor incident in comparison that almost no timely action will be taken.'

Hunter had to admit admiration for the cool audacity of the man. It was the most audacious, easiest way to steal five hundred million dollars that he had ever heard of. Anyone with a submarine could do it and get clean away with it. Amazing that one of the smaller powers hadn't thought of it already.

Makepeace hadn't finished, 'All personnel not engaged in actual attack operations are already embarked on our ships. All vessels are to proceed after this briefing to Sector Q,' he indicated the same area on the world map that Sir Michael had shown Hunter, where the Dirge ships spent their nights of darkness. 'There the gold, which is at present stored in our underground vaults, will be removed and loaded onto the three vessels, the Alida, the Sanseval, and the Tragonic. All personnel will receive their gratuities in gold and their false passports at that time and may embark on any of the remaining vessels, which will be steaming for destinations in thirty different countries. Loading of gold will commence at eight-thirty GMT on the eighteenth, and all ships will depart by twelve noon GMT on their various headings. Are there any questions?'

As usual there were none.

'Thank you. It has been a pleasure having you work with me. I wish you good luck in your future lives.' His voice was completely devoid of feeling – the words mere platitudes. Hunter was more sure than ever that Makepeace had no intention of leaving witnesses alive, and guessed that every one of those ships, apart from those with the gold, would have explosive charges rigged to send them to the bottom without trace before they had completed much of their journeys.

'Dismiss!'

Hunter saluted with the others and sauntered over to the lift. The eighteenth, he thought, and today was the second. In sixteen days the world as he knew it could fall apart – and only he could stop it! If no other way then by killing Makepeace, even if it meant committing suicide himself.

He opened the door of the cabin, deep in thought, and the sky fell in on him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – MAKEPEACE MAKES HIS MOVE

The throbbing in his head seemed to have taken over his entire body. Every sinew and fibre shook with the continuous vibrations, and it was either pitch dark or he had been blinded. Shooting pains ripped his brain apart with each throb.

The palpitations seemed to be coming from all around and not just from inside him, pounding and pounding at him until thought itself was impossible. Long minutes passed without relief, the waves of sound-pain raging over him, trying to drag him down with them into the depths of unconsciousness.

They failed, and as his thought processes gradually cleared there came an awareness that the throbbing was not always synchronized with his pulse – that in fact most of it came from without, and not within, his own head.

He felt it in the air around him, transmitted by the metal walls of his prison, which he could sense even without being able to see or feel them.

Finally he realised that he was imprisoned in the depths of a ship near the propeller shaft.

He explored a few inches of the floor under him with his fingers. It was absolutely smooth, with no trace of rust. Most probably the yacht, then, and not an old cargo ship. So they now knew that he was working for the other side, but if they had known that, why had they allowed him to attend the briefing and hear the entire plan? Obviously only one end was envisaged for him. What puzzled him was why the death sentence had not already been carried out.

New pains – hunger and thirst – replaced the old. He was parched and famished, lips bone dry and stomach reacting violently to spasms of muscle contractions with nothing to work on. In all his life he could not remember being as hungry as he was now, and he had gone entirely without food for three days once.

Had they locked him in here to die of hunger and thirst? It would be a particularly nasty way to go, and typical of Makepeace. Boris would have chosen to see him die and to torture him first. Another thought struck him – where was the girl? If they had the story on him, she would also be implicated.

It didn't help that it was so hot in his prison – probably well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. He was perspiring all the moisture in his body. A knock on the head surely couldn't have put him out for so long. They must also have drugged him.

Was that a shark in the darkness at the door or his imagination? There it was, clearer now, swimming towards him ready to attack, mouth open, teeth ready to rip the flesh from his bones. He subsided into delirium and then fainted away from weakness.

When next he opened his eyes it was light, and he was lying on carpet, hands still tied. He felt desperately weak.

A pair of large toecaps moved into view and came closer, until they were only a foot from his eyes. He fully expected a kick to follow but none came.

He turned his head just a trifle to look up. A hundred feet above him Boris' head looked down.

'He awake now.'

'Good. Lift him onto the chair.' There was no mistaking Makepeace's dulcet tones.

Boris manhandled Hunter up and onto a chair in front of a table set with one place. Beside the plate was a whole loaf, half a pound of butter and about the same amount of cheese. The knife was particularly blunt-ended.

Makepeace stood behind the table, smiling benevolently, although the pistol lying in front of him belied the smile. The little Um Lei Tung watched impassively just behind him.

Makepeace nodded to Boris and the bonds lacerating Hunter's wrists were cut.

As blood surged back into fingers long kept in short supply the exquisite pains of 'pins and needles' made Hunter squirm. He flexed his fingers continuously for several seconds but couldn't wait to get at the food.

He ate ravenously and washed the simple meal down with copious drafts of water. He couldn't remember when anything had ever tasted so good. The German proverb: 'Hunger macht die beste Sosse' came to him without bidding.

He suddenly realised he had made a mistake eating so much so fast – the food began to arrive in his stomach and he doubled up in pain again. Were they poisoning him and watching him die? He glared at Makepeace.

'Oh, no, Mr Hunter, we are not poisoning you.' Makepeace had read his thoughts. 'It is so long since you have eaten that your stomach has become accustomed to going without food, and is rebelling against the sudden over-abundance.'

Hunter believed him, but what then was their game? If they'd not intended that he should starve to death, then why starve him for so long? If they---Makepeace had called him 'Hunter'! The fact hit him between the eyes like a cannonball. How on earth had he found that out? Had they given him sodium pentathol while he'd been unconscious, and pumped it out of him?

Makepeace looked at Boris and then at Um Lei Tung. He jerked his head towards the door, 'Leave us!'

As the door closed behind them Makepeace began, 'No, we did not give you the truth drug, Mr Hunter.' He could read his mind! 'It was not necessary. You see, I have known from the very beginning that you were not Slingsby, but John Hunter, or Alpha Six, codename Alexander, of the British Secret Service. It will, I hope, astound you that I arranged not only for your presence in Brazil, but also for your release from the firing squad, and for your passage back to England, in order for you to be able to join my staff, for a particular reason I will explain shortly. It was because of your facial similarity that I contacted Mr Slingsby in the United States, making him an offer he could not refuse, to travel to the United Kingdom, knowing that your Sir Michael, whom I did not underestimate, would seize upon the chance to infiltrate my organization. You did a fine job of imitation, if I might say so. I also arranged for Miss Beaucoup, or should I say Miss Hollis, to join you. One of my agents in the CIA had given me the information on her, and it was extremely amusing to know that you were both acting out different parts without either of you being aware that the other was a friendly agent. Even more amusing was sending you out to murder your own chief. I don't suppose he shared the joke, and of course you managed to have the last laugh on that occasion, since I hear that he is still quite alive. Killing Sir Joseph Bradbury must have caused you enough pangs of conscience, or do you find that you can kill without any self-recrimination, as I can?'

Hunter spat it at him, 'Sir Joseph wasn't killed either!'

'But......' Makepeace almost lost his composure for a split-second, but recovered it immediately. 'So you fooled Turner?'

'It wasn't difficult.'

'For a man of your talent, no, I don't suppose it was. And it is because you are such an intelligent man that I wanted you particularly to be 'in at the kill', if I might make use of such an obvious cliché. I have hidden my light under a bushel for many years, amassing more and more gold, always remaining in the background. Very soon now I shall effectively 'disappear', and with me will go the gold. When I do, I want the full story of my brilliance to be known to the world – the greatest criminal in the history of the world!' He had swelled visibly.

'Don't you think Hitler might run you a close race?'

'Absolutely not, for two very good reasons: he had not the breadth of vision that I have, and what is more, he failed. I shall succeed.'

Hunter hated to agree with him, but had to admit to himself that Makepeace's chances were very good indeed. He was mad, of course, but fiendishly clever.

'You are to be my star witness. You will tell the world the story of this brilliant coup. Since I know your special qualities as well as your chief, I know that you, if left alive and well, would pursue me relentlessly to the ends of the Earth and beyond. Therefore, and unfortunately, it will be necessary to ensure that you are in no fit state to do so. I know how much your manhood means to you, so you will be emasculated. Also, you will be permanently blinded and the tendons and ligaments in all your limbs will be severed. Finally, we shall make you a dope addict. You will be able to tell my story, but beyond that you will be little better than a vegetable.' There was no venom in his voice as he spoke. It was as though he was discussing what they might have for lunch. He had decided on a course of action and would see that it was carried through, as always.

Hunter had gone ice-cold all over. He had stared his old enemy, Death, in the face so many times that he could think of it and laugh, but this---it was bestial.

He would cheat Makepeace, however. The poison capsule in his watch winder. He glanced down at his left wrist. The watch was gone.

'You didn't think I would be so foolish as to let you cheat me, did you, Mr Hunter?'

God, the man was psychic.

'No, Mr Hunter, just a good psychologist.'

'So you arranged for James Dalton to be shot?'

'Yes, of course. I had to set the train in action. Poor Mr Belyayevski. The NKVD lost a good man there.'

Despite himself Hunter was impressed. Makepeace was probably a chess master. He could see a dozen moves ahead. While the man was talkative he decided to try to get as much information as he could.

'You say that when you go, the gold will go with you, but what are your Chinese friends going to say about that? Or are you Chinese yourself?'

'Since not one of the Chinese on this yacht speaks a word of English, there is no harm in telling you of my full intentions. It was very observant of you to notice my nationality. I have passed for a Westerner for many years, since having a course of pigment injections, and an operation to remove the fold of skin from my eyelids. You are right, of course, that what your secret services are calling 'Dirge' is a Chinese Communist organization, and the crews of the Dirge ships are all special operatives, whose main purpose in life is to ensure that nothing happens to the gold after it is acquired by our organization. They load it onto their ships and unload it at our central depository, which, I suppose you have guessed, is under the ocean. It is stored in a massive underwater cavern, just off Atoroa Wai Atoll – a tiny speck in the Pacific Ocean.

There are five of our operatives stationed on the atoll permanently to keep watch for suspicious visitors or ships, and to make sure that the gold is not disturbed. They were very loyal Chinese, but the thought of one tenth of the hoard each was enough to make them become first-class capitalists.

We have already removed all the gold from the depository and I have transported it to my 'Shangri-La', where they fondly hope to join me one day soon.' He sneered, and it was obvious where he intended their Shangri-La should be.

'I shall disappear to my own kingdom, where every man will be my slave – the slave of the richest and most powerful man in the world.' Makepeace's voice reached a crescendo on the last word. Hunter knew then that the man really was mad. How a man of his obvious mental capacity could make a miscalculation of such magnitude as to imagine for one second that he could fool the Chinese and get away with it, Hunter could not begin to understand.

'And how long do you think you'll last? They'll find you in the farthest corners of the Earth. You can have a dozen regiments guarding you, and they'll still kill you.'

'You underestimate me again, Mr Hunter – seemingly a great failing of yours. You see, I shall already be dead, so why would they bother to look for me? Perhaps when I have explained the final act in the drama you will understand.

The date has been set for the final removal of all the gold from the depository by the Chinese. It is the same day as the attacks on the gold mines and the gold reserves of the free world. In this way, they hope to avoid retaliation, since the rest of the world will have enough to think about for a few days without worrying about what is going on underneath the Pacific Ocean on the other side of the world. With luck, they believe that a minor Third World War could start between Russia and America, if some trigger-happy general on one side or the other launches retaliatory missiles.

If that happened, by the time they resolved the matter, the gold would have been transported to safety on the Chinese mainland. Thus, all the Directorate's operatives, Chinese and others, will be below the waves at one time on the eighteenth. This yacht will be stationed almost over the cave. When all the men are massed below, waiting for the vault doors to be opened, I shall uncover my little toy at the stern and drop two depth charges into their midst. Every last one of them will die. The yacht will sink on the same spot shortly afterwards, along with my body.

The gold will have disappeared, but Makepeace will be known to be dead. I shall have thrown off this mortal coil, Mr Hunter, and if the yacht is subsequently searched, they will find what they believe to be my body. Your chief will believe you, but the Chinese will not. I know the Chinese mentality. The concrete facts will convince them. They have not the healthy skepticism of you Westerners, who, when faced with incontrovertible fact, will still persist in leaving a question open.

An explosive device has been buried under the atoll and will be exploded at the same time, neatly disposing of my five accomplices. The few men too indisposed to dive will all die the same day from an overdose of the drug which they have been taking for months.'

'You have left out the most important facts – how are you going to escape, and where to?'

Makepeace smiled enigmatically, 'Those are two pieces of information I shall have to keep from you, Mr Hunter.'

'And where shall I be? If I go down with the yacht you lose your witness.'

'Quite so. You will be left on a neighbouring atoll, where I have built a small workshop. There you will be operated on and left. I shall arrange for a message to be delivered to Sir Michael, explaining where you are.'

'And the girl? Have you---?'

'She is still quite well, Mr Hunter. She will be present when the operations are carried out upon your person. I believe she will find them interesting. However, I have promised her to Um Lei Tung afterwards. He likes full-size women, but I fear that he treats them somewhat savagely, vaunting his deformity upon them. I have never known one to emerge from his cabin alive.'

'You filthy bastard!'

'Sticks and stones, Mr Hunter, sticks and stones---' He pressed a button on the wall beside him and the door opened. Boris and Um Lei Tung came back into the room.

'Take him back.'

Hunter tried the old trick of forcing the wrists apart and flexing the hand muscles while his hands were being tied, but might as well have saved the effort. Boris slipped handcuffs on instead of rope.

He was bundled out of the door and pushed, kicked and rolled back down below to his prison. He took a good look at the door as Boris threw him inside. It was solid steel and without a lock. A huge hasp overlapped the plating at the side, and an efficient looking padlock completed the installation. He would never be able to open that from the inside. Even with the explosive in his shoe he was in no way going to be able to escape from the tiny locker, which he could see now was less than six feet by six.

The door slammed shut and he heard the key being turned in the padlock. The world had become dark once more.

He considered the possibilities. If he used his plastic explosive on the door he would kill himself in this minute space, achieving nothing but slight structural damage to the yacht. If he could be sure that the compartment was below the waterline he would have used the explosive to blow a hole in the side of the vessel and sink her, hoping to kill Makepeace in doing so. Since he had been brought down only one flight of steps, however, there was no guarantee that the compartment was below the waterline. If it were not, no great structural damage would result, and Makepeace would live to see his plans come to fruition.

The yacht had triple screws, so there was no point attempting to damage the propeller tube that probably ran below the compartment. In any case, if he escaped there was nothing he could do in mid-ocean. He finally decided on a masterly plan of inactivity, knowing that a better opportunity must present itself sooner or later.

He had no way of telling the time except by the level of hunger. He slept most of the time, conserving his energy. Every now and then – he thought about once every twenty-four hours – the same ceremony was performed: Boris would open the door and bundle him up to his bread and cheese feast, allowing him to relieve himself on the way back, but holding a gun on him all the time, Um Lei Tung then re-locking the handcuffs before they took him back to his prison. Makepeace did not appear during these feeding sessions.

As far as he could tell thirteen days passed in that way. He became so accustomed to the noise that it no longer intruded on his thoughts. He'd been over and over in his mind Makepeace's plans and could find no flaw in them unless he could throw a spanner in the works. Even though Sir Michael knew that he had been alive in Canada, the little transmitter would be way outside the range of the intercept stations now.

Finally, with nothing more to occupy his time, he spent many hours going over his life, analyzing causes and results, giving time to think about the many friends who had died for one or another good causes, wondering yet again why he had been spared, time and again, when escape seemed impossible and death inescapable.

At last the engines slowed to a tick over and the sound of the anchor chain rattling out resounded through the plates. They had arrived.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – TEX GETS THE NEEDLE

An hour passed, as far as Hunter could tell. He could faintly hear orders being passed in the engine room and the sounds of movement on deck, muted but audible now that the engines were silent.

Finally, Boris' heavy tread approached the door. The sound of the key turning the tumblers of the padlock came clear as a bell, and the door creaked open. The Russian's fat Slav face beamed at him.

'You come now.' He was obviously looking forward immensely to Hunter's fate. He held the usual huge revolver in his right hand, trained on Hunter's stomach.

The brilliant sunshine on the sparkling blue water of the South Pacific blinded Hunter completely for a few seconds, coming as he did from complete darkness, but it was good to be in the fresh air again after his enforced sojourn below.

It was hot – well over a hundred Fahrenheit – and the rail to which he clung for support in his blindness almost burnt his hands.

Gradually he opened his eyes again. The sky had no trace of cloud, and its deep azure blue was only a shade lighter than that of the sea. Close to the yacht, three small atolls rose from the ocean, two of them with just a few trees and a little vegetation, the larger of them possibly half a mile long. The third rose sheer out of the water to a height of over a hundred and fifty feet, like the back of a rhinoceros with its head under water. As far as Hunter could see from where he stood, about a mile from the island, there was not a trace of a foothold on its sheer bald sides. At the top there appeared to be two deep indentations in the rock, otherwise the whole atoll was as bare as the proverbial baby's bottom. Not the slightest vestige of vegetation relieved its smooth lines, and from the colour of the sea around it, the sides continued straight down for a long way beneath the waves.

He was not allowed to enjoy the scenery for long. Boris jabbed him viciously in the side with the revolver and inclined his head towards the saloon.

His heartbeat quickened when he saw Nancy. She sat in an easy chair facing him as he entered. Her hands were manacled.

She managed a wan smile. She looked well, if a little worried.

Makepeace sat with his back to them. He was watching a large coloured television screen. He spoke without turning round, 'Come in, Mr Hunter. You will see for yourself my underwater kingdom before losing your sight.'

The screen was bright with submarine life. Coral in hundreds of different bright shades made a kaleidoscope of colour, and the multifarious aquatic life completed the background to a breathtaking vista, rainbow coloured fish darting in huge shoals onto the screen and out again the other side.

On the bottom lay a large groper, his body half buried in the sand, the eyes in the ugly head watching, watching, waiting for his unwary lunch to swim by.

In the center of the screen was the dark entrance to a cave, into which heavy steel doors had been built. They stood closed at that moment, and in front of them patrolled three men in aqualung equipment, riding on the most bizarre vehicles Hunter had ever seen – three-wheeled underwater motorcycles, with huge balloon tyres and a flat tray about three feet square, with a surrounding lip, behind the driver.

'Yes, they do look ungainly, Mr Hunter, but for moving gold bars they are invaluable, and they have other advantages. If you look closely you will notice a nacelle on either side of the main frame – spear-gun tubes. Also, the sea-cycles can be used on difficult terrain on land. They are my own idea and design. The motor is powered by liquid oxygen. However, you did not come to watch television, but to say, 'Goodbye'. I trust that you will not bear me malice for what is about to happen to you. Mr Dalgleish-Jones will perform the operations, and I assure you that he is one of the best surgeons in the world. Had he not decided to use his skill on his wife, as a result of her unfaithfulness, he would no doubt today be doing heart transplants in one of the world's largest hospitals.'

So that was the story behind the man. That explained those long, carefully manicured fingers and the fussy manner, but what a way to find out.

'Um Lei Tung wishes to demonstrate to you what is to happen to Miss Hollis after he has satisfied his bestial lust upon her fair body. He is a true expert in the use of acupuncture and will give you a display of his skill.' Makepeace raised his voice, 'Bring in the other prisoner.'

Kellerman pushed open the door and Tex shuffled in, bare to the waist, handcuffed, and in leg irons. Hunter swore under his breath. Another one of the good guys down.

'Another of your allies, Mr Hunter, sent to spy on me.' He nodded to his little companion, who had busied himself at the table on which the shiny needles lay.

He took one up and inserted it, slowly, into the Texan's wrist. The man's legs buckled under him and he hit the floor. He tried to raise himself on his hands, but only partly succeeded. His eyes met Hunter's. They spoke only of despair.

'He has, with that one needle, permanently paralysed the legs.' Makepeace nodded again. A second needle was inserted into the lumbar region.

The big Texan collapsed again, his arms giving way.

'The arms are now out of action. You will note that he has felt not the slightest pain so far.' Makepeace lifted his hand to his eyes and a third needle went into the shoulder. The prisoner's facial expression changed, his eyes staring straight ahead, as he collapsed onto his right side, his right ear on the floor.

'His state now, Mr Hunter, is akin to that of the intelligence agencies when they pit themselves against me.' Makepeace gloated. 'He has lost the use of his legs, arms and eye muscles. He can still see, but only straight ahead.'

Hunter measured the distance to Makepeace. It would be a futile gesture, but if he had to die, it might as well be quick. He gathered his strength for the leap.

'I really wouldn't, if I were you, Mr Hunter.' Makepeace had the same sad disappointment in his voice as that of a schoolmaster, upset at the actions of a recalcitrant schoolboy. 'I would have to let Um Lei Tung experiment on you too, and that would disappoint Mr Dalgleish-Jones.'

It was amazing how the man knew what was in his mind almost as soon as he knew it himself. He relaxed his muscles.

'We are now reaching the interesting part of the show.' Makepeace nodded again. 'Whereas there has been no pain at all up to now, this time Um Lei Tung will send a signal to the nerve center of the brain, telling it that every nerve in the body is in great pain. The result should be amusing.'

The needle went home just below the left ear. Immediately the Texan arched his back, his head writhing – the only part of his body capable of any great degree of movement. A howl – the most distressing, wolf-like wail Hunter had ever heard in his life came from the man's throat, continuing for almost a minute, the intensity – at first so high – gradually lessening as the breath became exhausted from the body, ending in twenty seconds of terrible groans and, finally, a series of heart-rending sobs.

Tex lay heaving air into tortured lungs in great gulps.

Makepeace held his thumb down in the true tradition of the Caesars.

His small companion stuck the last needle in below Tex's left ankle. The body jerked convulsively, just once, and then was still.

'The coup-de-grace, Mr Hunter. At least he died quickly. Let us hope Miss Hollis is as lucky.'

Hunter was watching her. She had gone ashen, and seemed about to faint away. He forced a smile of reassurance, and she seemed to take strength from him, steeling herself to face her fate.

'For an admittedly brilliant man, you are the lowest, most contemptible, unprincipled bastard I've ever met. Do what you like with me, but let the girl go free. She wasn't even after you in the first place, and she can't do you any harm.'

'Sorry, Mr Hunter. I must not disappoint Um Lei Tung.' He turned to Boris, 'Take them away.'

The sound of a helicopter became audible, and as they left the saloon it swung in to hover over the landing platform aft and settled gently on the deck, its motors running at fast tick over. Boris escorted them up the steps and signified that they were to get in.

Nancy entered first, followed by Hunter. Boris came next, followed by Um Lei Tung. Dalgleish-Jones occupied the co-pilot's seat.

The prisoners sat in two adjoining seats at the front of the cabin, with the Russian and the little Chinaman behind them.

Hunter watched the pilot push forward on the collective to take off. It was a big aircraft, a Mil Mi4, the standard Chinese troop carrying helicopter, bought from the Russians, but it seemed to handle easily. Hunter had checked out on the American Bell Hu1, which the military liked to call a Huey - a similar sized machine, and this one seemed to have the same instrument layout - he guessed a steal from the American designs. A hand came between the front seats and fastened on Nancy's right breast, pinching the nipple hard. She winced. The hand traveled down her stomach, investigating as it went. Hunter brought his handcuffs down with all his force on the forearm. The hand disappeared fast, followed by a bellowed, 'Niet!' from the Russian.

Hunter grinned. That was one for Tex.

They were coming in to land. To Hunter's surprise it was not on one of the islands with vegetation, but on top of the huge mound.

As they touched down, Boris poked the gun into Hunter's ribs and forced him to alight.

Even had there been any point to it, there was nowhere to run. The top of the rock was smooth and had been artificially leveled for some distance, obviously as a landing-ground for the helicopter. The two fissures that Hunter had seen from the yacht were in fact splits in the rock, into which steps had been cut, leading downwards. Boris indicated that they should take the first set of steps.

At the bottom a steel door hung in a steel frame.

The Russian produced a kind of plastic disc from an inside pocket and held it against a coloured spot on the door, which immediately began to open.

He leered at the prisoners, 'Get in!'
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – HUNTER CUTS UP ROUGH

Neon lights blazed as the door opened, making a glare equal to that outside in the full sun. The faint hum of a diesel generator added an incongruous note to the natural sound of the shushing of the waves on the rocks below. Used to surprises, Hunter was astounded at what he saw before him: a fully equipped operating theatre, complete with hydraulically operated table, which could be raised or lowered at the surgeon's whim. Makepeace had obviously spoken the truth about Dalgleish-Jones. Not only had he known in advance that he was not Slingsby, and deliberately recruited him, but he had many months before had this operating theatre built for the sole purpose of carrying out this one operation. Despite being placed in the role of star actor for the forthcoming scene, Hunter was deeply impressed.

The whole idea would have been ludicrous if it were not so serious. Makepeace actually meant to carry out his threat.

Hunter shuddered as he considered his future. He was a sensual man and, handsome as he was, found no difficulty in playing the part of the busy honeybee around the female flowers. He thought of the scores of girls he knew and had known, and of not being able to satisfy their bodily desires. What must it be like to be a living vegetable? A less sentimental man would be difficult to find, but he had always shed an inward tear to see a victim of multiple sclerosis, or a serviceman whose vital young body had been turned into something almost non-human by some fiendish invention of homo sapiens.

No more sauntering casually into a bar for a cocktail, giving an unspoken invitation to a beautiful girl and savouring the delights to come. No more to enjoy watching the rising of the sun over the Alps, or its setting reflected in the ruddy golden waters of a beautiful lake.

No! It must not happen that way! If it had to be death, then better to be shot now. The decision taken, he began to turn to measure distances for a suicidal attack on Boris. His body had not moved two degrees into the turn when the Russian clubbed him with the butt of his pistol.

Nancy gave a little cry and made a movement towards him, but Boris pushed her roughly away and told the surgeon, 'Put him on the table.'

As Dalgleish-Jones moved to do so, the operating table sank gradually to the floor. He clicked deprecatingly with his tongue, 'The generator has not been running long enough to raise the pressure yet.'

Boris swore but bent down to fasten Hunter's wrists to the edges of the metal table with thick leather straps, and passed another around the table and over the legs just below the knee. He then bound the girl to two rings on the wall by leather wrist straps, so that she could watch the whole operation.

Boris gloated over the prostrate body and slapped Hunter's face several times to awaken him.

When his eyes flickered open, the Russian spat a large gob on his face. 'I like to watch, but got to go. You not go to be big man with women no more.' He made an obscene gesture at Nancy, nodding his head towards Hunter. 'Ho, ho, ho. I glad I not kill you before.'

To Dalgleish-Jones he said, 'Back in two hour for you.'

To Hunter's surprise Um Lei Tung did not move to follow the Russian, and the door closed behind Boris, leaving the little man in the room. He stood in the far corner, ogling the girl and running his little pink tongue over his lips.

Dalgleish-Jones looked down at his victim. His voice was as coldly clinical as his manner.

'Please do not think that I owe you any malice, Mr Hunter. I assure you I do not. What I am about to do contravenes my every desire, but as you know, I have no option in the matter. The operation will be painless for you, since I shall give you gas to send you to sleep for the duration. The damage will be irreversible, I'm afraid, and I really do feel sorry for you, but what can I do?'

Hunter gave him a scathing look, 'Call yourself a doctor? What happened to the Hippocratic oath and the bit where you promised, "Keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing?" If what you intend here doesn't contravene that, I don't know what would. Cut me loose, and I promise you I'll get you out alive if I can, and out of Makepeace's clutches.' He hoped it sounded convincing. 'Our little friend can't hear.'

The surgeon shook his head, 'I am sorry, Mr Hunter. My decision cannot be changed. I have no choice. I must begin, even if the table does not rise, because the operation must be over inside twenty minutes, since for the remaining one hour and forty minutes that we are to remain here the room will be flooded with very high-frequency ultra-violet light, which will induce permanent blindness in yourself and Miss Hollis, even though you keep your eyelids closed. Um Lei Tung and I have special protective goggles, but I could not see to operate properly once I am wearing them.'

As he finished speaking, the table began to rise on its central support, and started to swing from side to side.

Dalgleish-Jones stepped forward to steady it at the foot, leaning slightly over Hunter's legs to do so.

Hunter made up his mind quickly. Using every ounce of energy he had, he forced his right leg hard against the strap and brought his heel down sharply twice on the end of the operating table.

His judgment was perfect – the table had been at exactly the right level. The nine-inch blade shot out from the toe and penetrated the doctor's scrotum, entering his soft underbelly.

He screamed – a high-pitched scream, raising himself on tiptoe off the knife, only to fall forward in reflex action, the blade this time penetrating the rib-cage and entering the right auricle of the heart. Death was almost instantaneous.

He slid sideways off the knife, almost spraining Hunter's ankle.

Um Lei Tung had crouched, making him appear even smaller. The situation was obviously a new one for him. All his life major decisions had been made for him and now he had to decide a course of action himself. He had no weapon, except for his knowledge of the pressure points, and his master was a mile away on the yacht.

For a long minute stalemate reigned, and then the little man seemed to make up his mind. He had not known of the detailed plans for the prisoners, but his tiny mind had worked out that they were here for no good purpose, and since he saw things only in black and white, it was obvious that the man was to be put to death.

He'd seen the fate of the doctor, and moved warily. If this man could have knives in his foot, what other weapons might he produce from other parts of his body?

Moving closer to the tray of surgical tools, he suddenly pounced on the largest knife he could see and moved towards Hunter, the knife raised high in his right hand. If only he had his needles with him, but the knife would do. He lifted it another inch, flexing his muscles to strike with maximum power at Hunter's undefended chest, but he had forgotten the girl. She lifted her legs in the air, hanging from the leather straps, and kicked as hard as she could at the end of the operating table.

It spun on its polished bearings, the hard metal side catching the little man full in the chest and throwing him backwards at the wall.

As he hit it, his body doubled up like a jack-knife and the arm that held the knife descended, burying the weapon up to the hilt in his stomach.

Blood and gore spurted over his hand and the haft of the knife.

His slant eyes, full of shock, looked down at the mess uncomprehendingly. He staggered to his feet, his hand still on the hilt of the knife, and took a hesitating step forward. He looked at the two prisoners imploringly, like a child who has hurt itself, and wants a grown-up to soothe it and calm its fears.

He took another step, blood running from the weapon onto the floor. His poor, tortured speech organs tried their hardest to say what he felt.

'Urrgh! Errgh! Crrrr!'

His body slipped slowly to the floor, the usually narrow eyes wide with the terror of the unknown. With one final convulsion the soul left the body – a poor, bedraggled heap of nothing on the highly polished floor.

Hunter looked at Nancy. She seemed shaken, but defiant.

'That's what I call putting your best foot forward, Nancy. Thanks. I'll do the same for you one day.'

'What do we do now? We're still trapped, and still tied up, and the ultra-violet light will still blind us unless we can get free.'

She was right, of course.

'You reached the table before with your feet. Do you think you can do it again?'

'I'll try.'

She again raised her legs from the floor, hanging from the wrist-straps, and tried to stretch out her legs to reach the table. The gap was six inches at the nearest point.

'I can't do it. I only managed it before by kicking.'

'Don't worry, honey, there must be another way. Look, I'm going to lever my right shoe off and try to flick it close to you. Be careful, because the knife blade may cut you. If it lands close enough, take your shoe off and slip mine on, then try to lift your leg so that the knife comes close to my wrist strap.'

Levering the shoe off was no great problem, but casting it towards the girl was a horse of a different colour, with his legs strapped as they were.

It landed with the heel just a yard away from her foot and just two inches beyond her farthest reach. She tried for several minutes to reach it with her foot, gradually becoming desperate, and to no avail.

'It's no good! We're going to be blinded!'

As she spoke the lights changed. The neons went out, to be replaced by a diffused violet glow, flickering at great speed. He saw that she was close to panic and tried to calm her down.

'Now then, Nancy – don't forget we're in the Services. Stiff upper lip and all that.'

'Yes, I'm sorry, John.' It had had the desired effect.

'Look, there's just one chance. Take your shoe off and push it towards mine, with the heel away from you. When the heel touches mine, push on the toe and the heel may lift far enough to go inside the other shoe. If it does, you might be able to draw it closer.'

He watched her try and found he'd held his breath so long that he started to go dizzy. It was like watching Bruce and the spider, he thought, as she tried over and over again with painstaking care to manoevre the shoe into position, and then to insert the heel.

His eyes were beginning to feel as if they were burning. Was it already too late?

Just as he'd begun to give up hope entirely and she had reached the point of complete exhaustion the heel went in, but she struggled for several excruciating minutes before Hunter's shoe was finally close enough for her to slip on.

It looked ridiculous and clumsy on her dainty foot at the end of such a beautiful leg, but he'd never been more glad to see anything than the sight of that shoe being lifted towards his wrist.

He knew how razor sharp the knife was and how careful he would have to be. He couldn't help her much, except by straining his hand away from the edge of the bed, leaving her a small portion of strap to work on with the top inch of the knife.

Her legs and hips must be giving her hell, he reflected. She deserved a medal for this, apart from all the rest she'd done, and he knew what it would be – if they ever got out of there.

It was agonizingly slow work, and their minds were full of the worry of blindness, but gradually the knife ate through the thong.

At last his hand was free, and she could drop her aching foot to the floor with a sigh of relief.

He made short work of the other straps on his body, and quickly slipped over to her and released those around her wrists.

She fell into his arms and he kissed her hard for just a brief moment, pulling away to tell her, 'Have to save it till later, darling.'

He left her and fetched two pairs of goggles from a peg on the far wall.

'Put these on quickly. I just hope we're in time, before any permanent damage has been done. Now for the door.'

But it wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. It was a solid sheet of steel, with no handle and no lock.

So, he thought, it was an electronic lock, opened by the use of the transistorized circuit that Boris had used when they entered. Dalgleish-Jones must also have one. Hunter searched the body carefully. There was no trace of such a thing. With scant hope he tried the body of the little Chinaman. No joy.

It was a straight choice – get out somehow now, or wait and take a chance with Boris when he returned for Dalgleish-Jones and Um Lei Tung. If the latter, there would also be the crew of the helicopter to deal with. Better get out while the going was good.

He unscrewed the heel of his left shoe, withdrew the explosive device and screwed the heel back on again. Now – where to set the charge - that was the burning question.

If it was applied anywhere but over the locking bar the explosion would be ineffective, and they would be in an even worse mess. Trying to blow the door off its hinges was also likely to be fruitless. It was no ordinary door, but more like one on a vault.

He decided to take a chance and pushed the plastic explosive over the edge of the door and the jamb, halfway down the opening side. He set the clock for thirty seconds and connected the two wires.

He took Nancy's arm, 'Into the corner, quickly, and get down.'

The room erupted with billows of black smoke, shot through with dusty flashes of red, to the accompaniment of the tremendous noise of the explosion, confined as it was within the rock cavern. Lights burst and their glass and fittings scattered all over the floor. Part of the roof caved in and fell in a surging mass in the center of the floor, covering the operating table on which he had lain such a short time before.

The violet light went out, flickered on and off twice, adding to the bizarre underworld fantasy that the room had become, then came on steadily for a few seconds with increasing intensity, before blowing completely.

Darkness reigned – a dusty, smoke-filled, lung-irritating darkness.

He held Nancy close and stroked her forehead. How could he tell her the attempt had failed? He thought it would be kinder to stay in the corner with her for as long as possible, to stop her from realising that his efforts had been in vain.

At first he refused to believe his eyes, believing it was wishful thinking, but as the dust began to settle it did seem that the darkness over by the doorway was not quite as black as the rest of their prison. He eased himself away from Nancy and went to look, glass crunching under his feet at every step.

The door had not been blown completely open, but was leaning at a crazy angle, buckled out at the bottom and still firmly in place at the top. Nancy was slimmer than he and might just squeeze through, but he doubted if he could make it.

He called her over and suggested, 'See if you can slip through.'

If she couldn't there was no point in him trying.

She obeyed immediately, first lying flat on the floor and putting her arms through, then her head, and trying to pull her body through with arm pressure from the other side.

She got as far as her hips before she stuck. Jagged metal had torn her clothes and pulled tightly into the material. She could go no further.

'I'll help you if I can.' He hoped desperately that she would not panic, as so many people do when faced with such an ordeal. Trapped by some quite simple device, where extrication would be perfectly simple if a cool head was kept, the unreasoning powers of fear took over and forced a wild struggle, and the inevitable inextricable tangle.

Nancy Hollis was made of sterner stuff: she began to inch backwards into the room, and by carefully manipulating the material of her clothes where they were caught, Hunter finally managed to release her.

'When we get back I'm going to file a report for sexual assault. I'm sure I wasn't that tangled up.'

She couldn't see his grin in the dark, but he was thinking, 'What a girl.' He particularly liked her use of 'when', instead of 'if'.

'What are we going to do?' There was no trace of panic in her voice, just matter-of-factness.

'Take your clothes off – all of them.'

'Oh, come on, John. At a time like this? You've just got to be joking.'

She was grinning like a Cheshire cat and immediately started to strip. His eyes had got used to the weak light and he thought how comical she looked, with grey dust covering her face, hair all over the place, and those huge, weird-looking goggles pushed back on her forehead, and stark naked.

'You know, if we ever get back to civilization, I'm going to put you up for an advert for Kiwi shoe polish. You remember their slogan: 'There's nothing like it!'

'Oh, yes, very droll, John.'

He kissed her, lightly, on the bridge of her dusty nose. 'You can get rid of the goggles now, and throw your clothes as far as you can through the aperture.'

He'd stripped off his own clothes and fetched a large plastic container from the instrument trolley. Opening it, he found that it contained surgical jelly, as he'd suspected. He took a handful and began to rub it on her body. Less than three seconds later he had to change his mind.

'Here, you'd better do your front.' He told her gruffly.

She looked down and grinned, 'Guess I had, at that.'

Once they were smothered with jelly, head to toe, it was time to try again.

'Push the container of jelly through, then try again by the same method as before.'

This time she slid through with little difficulty, only receiving a small scratch on her right thigh.

Then it was his turn. It would not be so easy. He threw his clothes and shoes through.

He decided that the best chance lay in having his back to the jamb and levering his body through at forty-five degrees to the horizontal, utilizing the available space to the maximum. Arms first, then head and one shoulder. Then he stuck. The other shoulder was jammed solid. He pulled slowly back. It was no use, but a mental picture came to him of the thousands of miners who would be in a worse position than he was if he didn't get out and stop Makepeace.

'Put a handful of jelly where my shoulder stuck.' He called through the gap.

She did as he asked, but going through again he stuck at the same point.

'Pull my arm as hard as you can. Don't worry about hurting me.'

He drew his feet up inside and pushed with all his might. With a squelch his shoulder went through – but too fast. The jagged edge of the door stuck hard into his chest, ripping the flesh open to a depth of half an inch and leaving a wound three inches long, but there was no use in worrying about pain now.

'Keep pulling!' He gasped.

A few more seconds saw him through. There was no time for a breather – they had to get going. It might be worth a look at the other set of steps, he thought, in the other fissure.

The steel door was identical to the other – no handle, no keyhole. It would not give to pressure and would have to wait. He was intrigued as to what might lie behind it. Probably just the generating plant and electrics for the operating theatre. Not worth wasting time on now.

For a few seconds he hesitated about clothing, thinking that the long swim would be easier without clothes, but on the other hand he would have need of protection before the swim. He decided on shorts, trousers and shirt.

He unscrewed the heel of the left shoe again. Then removing the bottom of the shoe by pressing from both sides, he took out the coil of fine wire and clipped onto it the heel assembly as a sliding brake. The throwing knife he decided to take with him, and clenched it between his teeth, thinking that for the journey he was about to undertake that was the safest place.

The only firm anchorage point was the handrail by the side of the steps leading down the fissure.

He made one end of the wire secure on the rail and uncoiled the rest, dropping the free end over the side of the cliff.

'Lend me your girdle, Nancy.'

It was something of a misnomer to call the minute wisp of flesh-coloured material a girdle. 'Sure, but---'

'Of course – only for a while.' He punned, and slipped it up over his legs as far as it would go – as far as his thighs. Good. That would do fine. He hoped the wire and equipment were up to the Department's usual high standard. It was a long drop over the cliff – much too far to dive. Although he dived well, he had never attempted more than seventy-two feet.

He passed the wire behind his thighs over the material of the belt and, drawing it up to the right, set the brake in the handle by twisting it ninety degrees to the right.

'Stay down and don't show yourself on the skyline. I'll be back for you soon, and you'd better get some clothes on.' He grinned at her. Even after what they had just been through, and in the disheveled state she was, she looked gorgeous – like a wild Greek goddess on the bare rock. There was something truly noble in her unashamed nakedness under the blazing sun.

He hoped he would be able to keep the appointment, hoped she would accept the statement at face value, without thinking of the huge odds against him.

Ignoring sharks, which would be a real problem, bleeding as he was, he was about to tackle, virtually unarmed, the whole of the Dirge fleet.

Odds had never meant much to him – as in a game of cards, one made one's own luck, and he had the old fever in him – the fever of battle about to be joined, and with it as sense of invincibility, almost as if he were Siegfried, the hero of the Nibelungenlied, wearing his cloak of invisibility, in order to rob Makepeace not of his virginity, but of his self-assumed destiny.

'Au revoir.' He kissed her, long and gently, heaving a huge sigh as he drew away. He smiled as he began the easy part of the descent, over the round shoulder of the rock, out of sight of the yacht and the Dirge ships. He was thinking it was a pity it wasn't all as easy as this.

It was time for the acid test. With one movement he was over the edge and sitting in space on his flimsy trapeze. Would it hold?

It did. He held the slider locked for a few seconds, and then released the pressure on it slowly, feet out, keeping him from bumping his body into the rock. Movement downward began, a beautifully controlled, easy slide, like going down in a lift.

Fifty feet, sixty, a hundred. The distance to the water didn't look as forbidding now. Ten feet more. Suddenly a flame licked the hand holding the slider. The friction of the wire had been too much for the material. He had to get down quickly. The smell of burning flesh and the pain sensation were simultaneous.

Holding his nose with his left hand, he threw the handle underneath him with the right. It was all that was necessary in the way of remedial treatment: his body plummeted feet first into the warm blue Pacific water to a depth of more than ten feet.

The newly born flames died in their first birth pangs.

He began the swim up to the brighter blue surface above him, tearing off the remains of the suspender belt as he went.

The water was a tonic after the dust and heat of the last half hour.

Surfacing, he swam quickly round to the other side of the island. As he rounded the corner he could see the yacht again, sitting like a mother hen with its chicks, the sea now covered by Dirge ships, all concentrated in an area of about one square mile and, luckily, all on the far side of the yacht. It wasn't much, but it was a good omen if nothing else. If he'd had to swim through the entire fleet, it would have been impossible to escape detection. As it was, it would be no Sunday picnic.

The first twenty minutes or so were uneventful – nothing in the water to worry about. He swam powerfully but without splashing, using sidestroke, and taking a rest every few minutes, floating on his back.

He'd tried to think of a course of action if he managed to get on board undetected, but everything would depend on circumstances. If possible, he had to try to get to either his or another Dirge motorcycle and use the transmitter, hoping that someone, somewhere, would pick up the transmission and do something about it. Secondly, he had to try to kill Makepeace before the balloon went up. There was still a little time, because even now another Dirge vessel was arriving. The sound of her engines came clearly over the water, and he could see her moving into position.

He could make no other firm plans, and thought it would be much better to spend the time thinking about Nancy Hollis.

He could still visualize her as she stood naked on the island and oh, so beautifully bronzed, totally aware of her beauty and totally devoid of shame before him.

He'd known many beautiful women, but few could match her for looks, body, or strength of character. Most women, and a large proportion of men, would have cracked under the strain of what she had been through during the last few weeks.

She had been---sharks!

Three of them – their triangular fins cutting effortlessly through the water fifty yards off and heading straight for him.

He jackknifed and dived deeply, getting well below their path and swimming straight towards them.

As the distance narrowed, their close formation wavered. Hunter stopped moving, to throw the detector nerves along their flanks off the scent. They could no longer sense the vibrations that had attracted them originally, but the blood scent from his bleeding body told them lunch was close.

He slowly took the knife from his mouth and allowed the air in his lungs to lift his body towards the great silver monsters almost directly above him. They had slowed, having reached the center of attraction, and were just beginning to leave the surface to investigate further below as he came up to the middle one, slightly behind the other two. It was well over twenty feet in length – a magnificent marauding monster.

There was no possibility of a fight to the death against these odds. For one thing, he had been submerged for almost a full minute and couldn't last for more than a few seconds more below the surface.

With one final spurt, he came up to the shark's soft underbelly. The fish sensed him in the split-second before he plunged the knife into its belly just before the vent, but it was too late for it to do anything except begin to twist.

As the knife penetrated its stomach, the twisting action became a violent spin, almost wrenching the weapon out of his hand.

The shark leapt out of the water, spray covering the entire surface to the limit of Hunter's visibility. When it leapt again, with a tremendous crash, the other two, finding a stronger scent trail than before, turned on their fellow. The first tore a huge mouthful from the belly, where the knife had entered. The second fastened its jaws over the dorsal fin and the titanic struggle was on.

Hunter waited, lungs bursting, unmoving, as the battle moved away from him. He waited just long enough to ensure they were sufficiently engaged not to worry about him, and then rose quickly to the surface. Great gulps of air seemed like red-hot barbed wire to his oxygen-starved lungs.

It was time to get out. He got – putting as quickly as possible as much distance as he could between himself and the sub-marine death struggle.

The injured shark inflicted severe damage on both the others before it died, and the surface of the sea, boiling from the tremendous combat beneath, had turned bright red with blood.

'Sorry I couldn't stay for lunch, fellahs.' He quipped, and grinned at the thought that he must be going just a little mad, taking to himself.

Whoops! Two more sharks coming right for him, less than twenty yards away, and making at least twenty-five knots. No time to dive. Hunter put his head under water, grasped the knife hard and stopped swimming, waiting for the inevitable.

They were suddenly on top of him – less than five yards away. He wondered if he would have any chance at all, or whether they would both attack simultaneously.

They went straight past him like two out-of-control torpedoes, as if he didn't exist, heading for the big feast, their huge bodies glinting metallically as they passed.

He felt himself tossed aside by the surge of water caused by the displacement of the enormous predators.

He sighed with relief and trod water, looking over the surface as far as he could. There was a fin, over to the right two more, and yet more coming in, all converging on the fight. It seemed as if every shark in the Pacific was headed that way. At least they were leaving him alone, but it was no place to relax in.

The yacht was closer. He'd been swimming for over half an hour as far as he could judge, and there seemed to be no tide to speak of.

Drawing nearer he could see no sign of life on deck. Had they spotted him and were waiting out of sight to surprise him? There was not much he could do if they were. He had to get on board before he could achieve anything. God knew how close it was to zero hour now.

What would be the best approach? It was no use swimming underwater – Makepeace was probably watching the seabed on that television of his. No, he would have to swim up to the steps blatantly and walk on board as if he owned the boat.

Climbing the ladder was no problem, but as he pushed his head up over the top Kellerman came out of the saloon door, straight towards him. Hunter ducked out of sight.

A pailful of waste food sailed past his ear into the ocean, missing him by inches. Kellerman leant on the rail above, whistling 'Bei mir bist Du schön' completely off-key and gazing over at the island. Had the German looked down, Hunter would have been in full view.

After two tuneless choruses Kellerman tired of the vista and returned to the saloon.

Hunter lifted his head again. The main deck was empty and, miracle of miracles, five motorcycles had been brought up from the hold and were standing under the helicopter deck in a sort of cutaway section aft, close to Makepeace's depth charges.

He had to try to ensure he was not disturbed in his work. The only materials to hand were two marlin spikes and a coil of nylon rope, hung neatly on the rail by a life belt.

He rammed one of the marlin spikes through the U-shaped metal handles of the saloon door and the other through the handles on either side of the door leading to the corridor. Not content with that, he made sure of the job by tying the handles with nylon rope, taking the end not only through the handles of both doors but also over the rails at either side of the vessel, using up the entire coil of rope.

No time to stop and look at his handiwork – it was time to get on the air. He sprinted to the end of the deck and round the corner to where the motorcycles stood, straight into Boris, who had obviously come up from the rear hatch on the other side of the enclosed area.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – A MUSCOVITE'S FAREWELL

It was a moot point which of them was the most surprised. Hunter's shoulder hit the Russian's chest sufficiently hard to throw him against the motorcycles, knocking two of them over with a tremendous crash. Hunter was knocked sideways, almost straight over the side rail, his knife flying over the rail into the sea.

Pain, surprise and anger fought for supremacy in the Muscovite mind. Anger won.

Boris launched himself with every ounce of energy he could muster, hands out, clawing for Hunter's throat, forgetting every trick of his training.

The agent coolly sprang to the left and kicked the Russian in the stomach, following up with an outward slash to block the other's arms.

Boris' forward impetus carried him straight into the guardrail, knocking half the air out of his body. As his head and shoulders carried on forward over the rail, Hunter caught his ankles and lifted, intending that he should go into the water, but Boris was quicker than he'd anticipated. As the big man started to go over the rail he grabbed with both hands and did a complete forward roll round it.

As his head came round again Hunter kicked him hard on the temple. The blow with his naked foot seemed to have no effect whatsoever, and the Russian, surprisingly nimble, was on his feet inside another split-second, mouthing vile imprecations in his native tongue. Anger was still predominant, but the highly trained fighting machine had taken over.

'Seychas ya ub'yu tebya!'

Hunter grinned, it was not the first time the Russian had told him he was going to kill him, and he hadn't succeeded yet, but Boris was moving forward, slowly and inexorably.

It was like being attacked by a tank. Hunter would not have been surprised to hear the roar of the motors. The Russian was built like the proverbial brick shithouse and would take just as much knocking down.

He swung in towards Hunter, arms lifted in an easy Karate stance. Hunter dare not wait for the attack – he went straight into the triple defence – slash into the Adam's apple, finger stab into the stomach and side of foot into the shins. All he did was hurt himself. He tried it again. The Russian didn't even bother to try to parry the blows.

Hunter took two paces backwards and came up against the rail. He used every ounce of force in his body to draw himself up and kick into Boris' stomach, thinking how much he would give to have his shoes on now, and regretting bitterly the loss of his knife over the side.

The kick partly winded his opponent but made no appreciable difference to his forward movement. Hunter made a false movement to strike into the stomach with the left hand and followed up the feint with a two-fingered attack at the eyes. Only then did Boris bother to parry. His eyes were almost on fire with fanatical rage.

Hunter had never met anyone so big and apparently clumsily-built who was so nimble on his feet and in his actions. He tried to duck as the Russian reached out for his neck with those two hams he had for fists. The hands closed around his neck and began to choke the life out of him.

He used the normal defence against such an attack, striking slashing blows downwards at the Russian's forearms, alternating with slashing blows into the side of the neck – all to no avail. He was being shaken like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. Unconsciousness was not far away. Almost as a last reflex action he weakly smacked the palms of both hands against Boris' ears.

The effect was remarkable. He was instantly released. Boris staggered back, howling like a baying wolf and doubled up in great pain, his huge hands holding the sides of his head.

Hunter was in no great shape himself. The swim and the fight so far, coming after days of semi-starvation, had taken all his reserves of strength. He felt desperately weak, and wanted to retch from the pain in his throat, but there was no time to lick wounds. He'd found Boris' Achille's Heel, but the Russian was beginning to straighten up again. Before he could stand erect, Hunter kicked him as hard as his bare feet would allow on the nose.

He felt the bone break under the force of the blow.

Boris' head jerked backwards into the steel bulkhead, blood spewing out of his nostrils. He shook his head, making the blood run over his cheeks and down his neck.

He looked like some magnificent wild beast that has been hunted and blooded, ready for the kill, but Hunter was not deceived. Boris was still the most dangerous adversary he had ever fought, and the battle could still very easily be lost.

The Russian started for him again, not as steadily as before, but with bloody murder in his heart and every sinew. From a scabbard in his belt that Hunter had not previously noticed he drew a ten-inch stiletto.

Hunter knew there would be no mistake this time, not the slightest quarter given, no chance of escape. He backed – into a motorcycle. He reached behind him and unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank. He was in luck – it was full to the brim.

He scooped a palm full of the highly volatile mixture and threw it into the Russian's eyes.

With a roar like a wounded bear Boris lifted his hands to rub his eyes. Hunter jumped quickly aside, kicked the motorcycle off its stand and thrust it forward, the wheel between the Russian's legs, jamming his opponent against the ship's rail and hammering at his lower belly and scrotum with the headlamp and forks.

Again and again he rammed it forward, until the Russian finally fell forwards onto the tank in agony. Now there was a chance. Hunter grabbed the wrist of the knife hand and banged it over and over again on the frame of the bike, but he could not shake it loose. Gradually, Boris began forcing the weapon up ready to strike. He had pulled himself back into an almost upright position and was recovering some of his strength.

He struck at Hunter's chest. As he did so, Hunter released his hold on the knife arm, jumped back, and lifted the rear wheel of the motorcycle with all his remaining force. It threw the Russian back against the rail and petrol poured all over his front. His immediate reflex action was to grab the suddenly freezing, cold tender portion of his anatomy – but he forgot he was gripping the knife! It slid into his lower belly as if into butter. His head and shoulders sagged. A long-drawn-out, surprised exhalation came from his ox-like lungs, 'AAAaaaaaaAAAaaaah!'

'No need to get all cut up about it, Boris.' Hunter told him cheerfully, but wincing at the thought of Boris' discomfort.

The Russian fell onto the motorcycle, which was lying on its side, front wheel over the stern of the yacht. His twitching fingers inadvertently touched the auxiliary starter button, and the big engine began to turn over. There were two explosions – one inside the engine, the other outside. The high-grade fuel mixture had vaporized in the heat of the sun and the spark from the plug had been enough to ignite it. Boris lit up like a torch. He screamed, arms fluttering feebly. The motorcycle had been knocked into gear in the struggle and the spinning wheel pushed it, and Boris, who was lying on top of it, over the side.

Hunter leant back, almost totally exhausted. The opposition must now be fully aware that something was wrong, and when Makepeace saw what programme had just come onto his television screen: 'The Recently Extinguished, Burnt-up Muscovite in his Latest Daring Underwater Production', he would set the dogs on Hunter.

What a pity the motorcycle had not set fire to the yacht. Hunter could hear shouts and knocking from the saloon. It would only be a few seconds before they went round to the front hatch and up that way. What was there to do? Jump overboard and swim? Where to? Dirge owned the entire sea in that area.

Wearily he leant back, his hand on something round at the stern of the yacht. He turned to see what he was sitting on.

Of course. Makepeace's mass murder weapon. The depth charges. Hunter ripped off the covers and released the brake, swinging the projectile hurler to face the bows of the yacht. The explosion would probably kill him too, but what the hell.

He set the dials on the first tube to zero, switched to 'Fire' and pulled the lanyard. The tub hurtled out over the steel wall between him and the deck. He watched it strike and bounce down off the underside of the helicopter deck, and then the sound of smashing glass, followed immediately by a tremendous explosion, which shook the whole vessel and sent debris flying over him.

He stood upright and looked over the steel wall. Almost all the superstructure on the front half of the yacht was missing. Where the saloon, and, above it, the wheelhouse, had been, there was nothing but smoking, twisted girders. The helicopter deck looked like a huge sardine tin, at which someone had been at work with a tin opener – its edges jagged and crumpled. Hunter wondered whether he had got Makepeace or whether the arch-criminal was still alive. At least they were not going to send out any messages on this yacht's radio. The radio room and aerials were in millions of little pieces.

There was no use firing the second depth charge – it would fly straight over the bows of the yacht and explode harmlessly at some distance from the vessel.

He could hear men shouting below and orders being passed. The yacht was not sinking, and he was still in great danger of being caught. Time for action, but what action? Should he try to use one of the motorcycle transmitters to get off a message? What else could he possibly do?

He looked up again. The helicopter deck, although damaged at the edges, was still mainly intact, and the helicopter must still be up there. The steel ladder nearest to him had two bent steps but was still climbable. What the hell? He had no idea whether he'd be able to fly the bloody thing, or if it had been refueled, but it was another of those shit-or-bust situations he kept finding himself in.

A bullet ricocheted off the steel wall beside him. He jumped to the left. The rear hatch was open a few inches, and a little yellow man was again aiming at him. Hunter leapt onto the top of the hatch, the edge of it pinning the Chinaman's arms. The gun fell with a clatter and a shriek came from below. Hunter picked up the pistol, lifted the hatch and poured the whole magazine into the hold, spraying the bullets from side to side and top to bottom until the magazine was empty. Shouts and groans floated up. He slammed the hatch down before retaliatory action could be taken, and piled the other three motorcycles on top of it. That should hold them for long enough.

Now for the acid test!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – HUNTER HITS THE JACKPOT

Climbing the ladder made him realise just how weak he was, and he found himself staggering towards the door of the Mil. He pulled it open and hauled himself inside, closing it behind him, then almost collapsed into the pilot's seat.

The layout was similar to the Huey, with the throttle and starter button in the same places. He set the throttle at about one third open and jabbed his thumb on the starter. He was almost surprised to hear the motors start up. He was not a religious man and could not offer up a prayer to help him, but he closed his eyes for a second and thought, 'Please---' as he edged the collective forward. The nose lowered and before he knew it the big awkward-looking machine was beginning to lift.

Mentally crossing his fingers he opened the throttle to three quarters. The Mil started to move forward and left the helicopter pad behind, just as the Chinese crew began to spew out of the forward hatch near the bow – guns grasped in their hands.

Only one thing for it. He lowered the nose and flew at two or three feet straight into them. Five or six shots were loosed wildly in his direction before he felt the sickening crunch of metal on flesh as the runners tore through them.

The machine lurched crazily sideways and seemed as if it would throw him straight into the sea to an ignominious end. He fought frantically to keep upright, opening the throttle hard. As he roared over the edge of the yacht he began to gain height and stability.

From behind came the rapid clatter of submachine guns and automatic pistols. He heard shots hit the machine and ricochet off but everything continued to function correctly.

As soon as distance allowed he switched on the transmitter. He had no idea what frequency it was set to, but he guessed it was the normal Dirge setting.

'Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is an International Emergency. This is an International Emergency. This is an International Emergency. Calling CQ. Calling CQ, Calling CQ. Come in any station. Over.'

He switched to receive and turned the volume up to hear the usual crackle of atmospherics and then, loud and clear, and totally unbelievably, Sir Michael's cultured Oxford accent broke through the ether:

'Well, get on with it, Alpha Six. We can't wait all day.'

Hunter was not going to be taken in like that. It must be another of Makepeace's little tricks – a pre-planned tape recording reconstructed from several others made by his chief, or alternatively an excellent imitation.

He ignored it and made his message again, 'Mayday, Mayday, Mayday---'

The moment he switched to receive the air turned blue around him, 'What the blazes do you think you're playing at, Alpha Six? Get your message over and do it now, or I'll have the Navy shoot you down myself!'

Crazy or not, this was not Makepeace.

'Alpha Six here, Sir. Where are you?'

'Where am I, you blithering idiot, look to starboard!'

Hunter did so. The far horizon was literally covered with naval ships of all kinds, including an aircraft carrier. There must have been fifty or more, and all steaming fast towards him.

He wondered why Makepeace had seemed unaware of them, and then realised that the islands lay between the two fleets.

'What time is it GMT? Over.'

'Zero eight twelve. Why? Over.'

'Have you got a stenographer handy? Over.'

'Affirmative. Over.'

'Urgent. Red Flash. All Stations Emergency---'

Wasting as few words as possible, he detailed the plans for the Dirge local groups to leave their headquarters and proceed to their targets, which he listed; the proposed hi-jacking of the Castle liner, the removal of the gold by Makepeace, and finally the proposal to have all the Chinese crew members and the Dirge men outside the cave at eight-thirty GMT. He ended with, 'Got all that? Over'

'Roger. Do you need any assistance? Over.'

'Not just at the---'

The stutter of machineguns and the thud of striking bullets cut him off short. The instruments on the dashboard in front of him disintegrated. He threw the collective over and peeled off rapidly to starboard. Over the sound of the motor he could hear air hissing from somewhere

He threw the big machine into a tight turn, piling on the revs to regain height.

Two hundred yards from him and slightly above him, was another Mil, with men hanging out of the open door, pumping bullets all over the sky. He'd noticed when Boris was taking him to the helicopter before they flew to the island that it had rocket pods fitted to the sides of the fuselage. He had no idea if the pods were loaded, and if they were, whether the rockets were heat seeking or not, but would have to take a chance. What must be the firing switch was under a protective cover on the right side of the collective. He lifted the cover and pressed the button once. The helicopter seemed to leap backwards a yard in the air from the recoil and he watched the white trail as the rocket launched.

There had been no need to aim – the rocket curved around, seeking the motor of the other helicopter. A Dirge man hanging out of the door saw it coming and jumped – four hundred feet into the sea. He might just possibly have lived had he not miscalculated – they were close to one of the low atolls and the water was only four feet deep. His body was ripped to shreds by the reefs of jagged coral, staining the bright blue sea with blood and gore.

One moment the helicopter was there, the next – gone.

Hunter thought it looked like nothing so much as a clay pigeon hit by a shot from a twelve-gauge shotgun: a puff of smoke and tiny pieces dropping down to earth. Only a close inspection could show that some of the pieces had been parts of human beings.

Hunter looked over at the friendly ships again, now much closer, and saw a host of large helicopters begin to take off from the carrier. He could safely leave the marines to deal with the Dirge men and the Chinese. Nancy was his first concern, and the hump-backed atoll was close at hand.

He came in low over the top and hovered over the staircase to the operating theatre. There was no sign of her.

He tried the other staircase. Not there either. They must have picked her up with the other helicopter while he was busy with Sir Michael – and he had shot her down.

His heart turned over, and once more he had that momentary suicidal inclination that came every time he caused the death of some innocent person. For two pins he could have flown off as high as he could and let the machine crash into the atoll or the sea.

The moment passed and sense returned. He set the machine down on the flat top and turned off the motors.

The steady 'Thump, thump' of a diesel generator was plainly audible. It could only be coming from the other door. He raced across the intervening space and down the stairs.

Sure enough, the door that had seemed closed from above was standing slightly ajar.

He put his shoulder to it and slid through as it opened. A spiral staircase cut out of the rock led downwards, lit brightly by neon tubes on the walls. The noise of the generator was all pervading. He continued downwards, alert for trouble.

A slight scraping noise made him stop. A shadow appeared on the stairs below. He moved his weight onto the ball of his left foot, ready to jump onto the stranger.

Nancy's head and shoulders appeared round the corner.

'Well, I---'

She almost fell backwards with shock. 'Oh, John! You made me jump!'

'Sorry, love. What's downstairs?'

'You've got to see it to believe it. It's like Aladdin's Cave. Thousands and thousands of gold bars, stacked in racks on the walls, and at the bottom a pool with some sort of boat floating on it. It's ridiculous. Right in the middle of the island.'

'Let's take a look.'

She was right. There were thousands of bars. This was where Makepeace had moved the gold – not to his estate as he had said. And why the boat? It was an ocean-going racer, one of the most modern types, about thirty feet long, made entirely of fiberglass, with built-in buoyancy tanks and entirely closed in from the weather. Hunter had no doubt that it would be fitted with automatic pilot and self-setting sails, and would be of the self-righting type. Could this be part of Makepeace's getaway equipment? If so, how was he going to get it out of there? Come to think of it, how had he got it in here in the first place?

A different thought struck him. 'How did you manage to open that door at the top?'

'That's rather funny. A few minutes ago I was sitting close to the door we blew, when suddenly there was a buzzing noise in the door and it opened a little. I wondered whether this one had too, and went to check. Like the other one, it stood a little ajar.'

'Must be on a time switch. It could lock again before we can get out. Quick. Grab a gold bar and bring it with you.'

He picked up a bar himself and started up the stairs with as much speed as he could – weighed down as he was by the twenty-five pound dead weight of the bar.

As he rounded the last bend he could still see light between the door and the jamb. Thank God! He tried to force the bar into the gap. Not quite enough space. Worse still, he was sure he felt a slight closing movement.

He put his shoulder to the door and exerted all the strength he could muster. It was still no use. He extracted his fingers from the gap just in time to stop them being squashed. Inexorably, the door slid completely into place.

They were entombed again.

'Getting to be quite a habit, this, isn't it?' His tone was considerably more flippant than he felt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN – LES CASSE-COUS: I. THE MACHINE MANGLERS.

Not a thousand miles away Sir Michael was in his element issuing orders in a constant stream. It was not often, he reflected rather sadly, with one tiny corner of his very adroit brain, that he had the chance these days to use this rare power of clarity of vision, combined with instant and accurate decision-making. He lived for these moments. It was only for this reason that he had not retired gracefully many years before.

The helicopters had begun dropping their human loads over the area of the cave. It was exactly eight-thirty GMT. Each man jumped from a few feet into the sea wearing full NATO skin-diving equipment and carrying underwater spear gun, with extra spears, and commando knife.

The Chinese and the Dirge men were massed at the entrance to the cave, awaiting its opening by time-lock. Just at the time when the massive cave doors were supposed to swing open, the men of the free nations began their assault.

In the first minute over a thousand spears were loosed. All over and on both sides men were dying horrible deaths. One Dirge man convulsed out of the seat of his underwater motorcycle, a spear sticking in his navel and out of his back. The spears he had loosed from the cycle just before he was hit struck three of the NATO attackers, splitting the brain of one, cutting the air pipe of a second and catching the third full in the mouth, penetrating throat and gullet.

Above and below, to left and to right, behind and in front, everywhere the scene was the same – utter destruction. The sea turned a muddy shade of blood red as the bottom sand was stirred up by men fighting for their lives. Hand-to-hand combats with knives had taken the place of longer distance attacks with spears.

The first shark lanced in and snapped bloodthirsty jaws around a wounded, bleeding Chinese, disappearing out of sight with almost lightning speed, its helpless victim screaming silently with no one to hear.

As the helicopters began dropping, the five Chinese on Atoro Wai ran to the radio in their hut. A thousand pounds of high explosive detonated under it when they closed the door and they rose with great velocity to join their illustrious forefathers.

~~~oOo~~~

Just outside the little American town of Gort, Sheriff Joe Haldane sped past the town's newly equipped modern garbage-grinding wagon, siren wailing and lights flashing. Bill Sikorsky, the driver of the garbage truck, sighed and pulled the huge vehicle in to a stop at the kerb.

The police official leapt out of his vehicle and ran over.

'What'n hell am I s'posed to've done now, Sheriff?'

The sheriff, a deliberate man at all times, slowly moved the wad of chaw-tobacco to one side of his mouth. He spoke with a lazy drawl, which had caused more than a few men who had heard it to underestimate the speed and efficiency with which he could go into action when necessary.

'Take it easy, son. We jess gonna borrow yore li'l ol' buggy for a while. Follah me, fast as yuh can.'

Climbing back into his car, he sped off, leading the perplexed Sikorsky out to where the road ran through a three-quarter-mile long tunnel at the base of a mountain known affectionately to the locals as 'Ol' Smokey', due to the almost permanent wisps of cloud that hung around its peak throughout the year.

The unlit tunnel was a source of complaint to many motorists, but local taxes just wouldn't run to lighting. It was the main road running through the area and usually had a considerable amount of traffic on it. Sikorsky noticed the almost total absence of motor vehicles coming in the opposite direction.

The sheriff had already backed his car off the road close to the tunnel entrance, alongside three others belonging to his office and a lorry loaded with wood panels.

A roadblock was in operation, turning back all traffic from the direction of Gort. The sheriff loped over to the garbage truck as Sikorsky pulled up.

'Okay, son. Back yore truck into the mouth of the tunnel.' He saw Sikorsky's mouth begin to open, 'Now don't argue son. I'll explain later.'

Sikorsky did as he was bidden. Police officers immediately moved in and began to build a wooden ramp from the road surface up to the ten-foot wide mouth of the garbage grinding apparatus. It was the very latest model, capable of churning almost any metal or other waste at a rate of almost a ton a minute. Waste was deposited on a conveyor belt with upright spikes at the bottom, and was carried into the crusher – huge steel worm gears in series.

The conveyor belt was stopped and the ramp built above it. More wood was used to seal off all light from outside the tunnel. Finally the sheriff nodded his satisfaction.

'Okay now, son. Keep her turnin' over.'

One of his men shouted, 'Sheriff – Headquarters callin'.'

Haldane strode over to the car, listened to the radio message, chewing reflectively, spat the wad with great accuracy at a small coloured stone ten feet from him and answered laconically, 'Ten-four.' He turned to his officers, 'Okay, fellahs. They jest gone in th'other end.'

The officers fanned out around the entrance to the tunnel, guns drawn in readiness. The sheriff strolled across to the garbage lorry.

'Speed her up a little, son.'

The three Dirge men detailed for this particular assignment had already traveled fifty miles from base and were making good time, keeping well to schedule. Their destination was only twenty miles away now and they were in good spirits as they entered the tunnel.

Headlights blazing, they raced through the inky blackness. With the absence of other traffic, which they had noticed but not found alarming, they were able to stay in the middle of the road, following the painted white lines. The sudden ramp took them by surprise and they had no time to react.

The three metallic crashes from the rear were quite distinct over the monotonous roar of the grinders.

'Rev her up real hard now!'

Sikorsky obeyed.

'Okay, son, yuh c'n git back to work now, and thanks fer yore help.'

The sheriff climbed down from the truck and called to his men.

'Okay, fellahs – back to work. Clear up this mess 'n put the wood back on the lorry, then yuh c'n git back to yore posts around town.'

He rammed another plug of chaw-tobacco into his jaws and recommenced his slow, methodical chewing, then picked up the microphone and depressed the speak button.

'Ben? Sheriff here. Yuh c'n pass on the message that that li'l job has bin taken care of. No problem.'

He climbed back into the car and spoke to the police lieutenant in the front passenger seat, 'Yuh know, Frank, this here li'l incident has made me feel real religious.'

Frank Hissop showed obvious signs of disbelief – the Sheriff was the most confirmed atheist in town.

'Yep! Sure thing, Frank. Reminded me of the Bible.'

Frank was even more puzzled, 'The Bible, Sheriff? How come?'

'Aw – you know - that bit about the mills of Gort grindin' exceedin' slow, but grindin exceedin' fine.'

Not the slightest trace of a smile flickered over his face.

Hissop, who had ridden with the Sheriff for four years now and knew him no better than the day he had met him for the first time, mentally shook his head. He was wise enough not to do to openly, and made no comment. None was needed. For all he knew the Sheriff was absolutely in earnest.

~~~oOo~~~

LES CASSE-COUS: II – S'EXECUTION.

André Faldane of the Deuxième Bureau and his men ran from the Headquarters of the Département de Sécurité Suisse in Zűrich. With them ran Alexandre Dutelle and two compatriots of the latter organization. They piled into a marked police car and drove hell-for-leather the half mile along the shore of the lake to the police heliport, siren and light going continuously, causing the holiday traffic which was building up for the day to dive left and right onto the grass verges, drivers debating whether to turn and follow to see the accident or to pursue their original plans for the day.

Faldane and his colleagues tumbled out of the car and into a waiting helicopter.

Fifteen minutes later they were looking down at six small black dots beginning a long climb up a narrow mountain road. Another minute in the air brought them to the chosen point – a two hundred meter straight stretch of mountain road with a sheer drop of over a thousand feet into the valley on one side, and a reasonably flat area on the other, separated from the road by a low rock wall. Faldane set the 'copter down and the engines at tick over. From the rear compartment the men quickly collected the 'props', which they had used more than once for affairs of this sort, and carried them over to the roadway.

On a wooden framework, they built a plastic 'rock wall' diagonally across the surface of the roadway, roughly the same height as that at the side of the road. A long roll of grey plastic was unrolled along the road as far as the previous bend. The other end was dropped over the cliff edge into space. Small granite chippings thrown over its surface made it indistinguishable at a glance from the rest of the road surface. The scene was set for the actors to arrive.

The crew took the helicopter up another five thousand feet and watched developments. The six specks were appreciably higher up the mountain, only a mile or so from the new 'roadworks'.

Sixty seconds ticked away, the black specks moving nearer and nearer to their destiny. Finally, round the last bend, and then another – the very last---

From above, the six motorcyclists, riding in three pairs abreast, seemed to go over the edge in slow motion, thereafter disappearing with great speed into the chasm below. It was like watching a very old and bad movie, and there was no sense of death to the scene.

'Voilà, mes amis! C'est tout! C'est ce qu'on appelle "s'execution", n'est-ce pas?' Faldane grinned at his fellow plotters.

Dutelle grimaced and shrugged his shoulders in true Gallic fashion. 'Mais non, André! "S'EXecution" – c'est ce que tu fais le weekend avec cette petite blonde!'

Faldane's grin widened even further as he picked up the mike to pass in the report of mission accomplished.

~~~oOo~~~

LES CASSE-COUS: III – THE REFLECTION OF DEATH

The United Kingdom Dirge squad was on its way. They were traveling on a minor road leading from the A140 to the A11, some thirty miles south of Norwich.

The Department's Special Duties Squad had been given a fix on their movements. The same thing was happening all over the world, thanks to the tiny VHF radio beacons which Hunter had passed to Tex on the yacht, and which the big Texan had attached to each of the Dirge motorcycles he had inspected on that last grand check over. Each national security agency had been able to locate the standby headquarters and to trace the movements of all Dirge operatives on motorcycles since then. Tex had not died in vain.

The Special Duties Squad had borrowed a glass-moving van from a local glazing company, and also the largest mirror available, measuring fourteen feet by ten. A helicopter kept pace with them above.

They had chosen the second half of a sharp S-bend, with the curve running north-south. Tests for efficiency took only a few minutes. The driver backed the van out of sight round the corner and kept the engine running. The passenger kept in touch with the helicopter crew above by VHF walkie-talkie.

The commentator in the 'copter began to sound like a race commentator, with the horses in the last hundred yards: 'They're racing up now to the crossroads, over the crossroads, closing now to the bend, entering the first bend – NOW!'

On the word 'now' the driver let in the clutch and roared out onto the bend to the prearranged spot. The mirror was facing due east and at just the angle to reflect the full glare of the sun, straight into the eyes of the approaching riders.

The results were spectacular. One of the four riders threw up his hands to his eyes, throwing him off-balance into another of the band. The two became inextricably locked together, and at fifty miles an hour they somersaulted together over and over, both being thrown into the air. One of them hit the ground in front of the third rider, who rode straight over him, then over the verge and into the eight foot deep irrigation ditch by the side of the road, where he drowned under his motorcycle.

The last rider, completely blinded, skidded straight into the mirror, smashing it into a thousand pieces, one of which severed his jugular vein. He was not a pretty sight.

~~~oOo~~~

LES CASSE-COUS: IV. COMRADES CAN KILL

Alexei Alexandrovitch was uneasy. He had not seen a soldier or a 'government man', as the peasants in this area liked to call the NKVD agents, for a week. It was usual for someone to snoop round every village and farm in the length and breadth of Russia at least once a week, looking for the family that was hiding a pig or a goat or even a rabbit or chicken for their own use, or someone who had sold a spare cucumber, instead of handing it in to the co-operative, or a peasant reading a book – one of the hidden intelligentsia. Something was definitely wrong, but Alexei could not put a finger on it.

The Russian troops had surrounded the standby headquarters for some time now and had half a regiment of troops in a massive ring around it, all well concealed. It was a good military exercise, and the Russian general in command meant to see that no mistake was made. With their usual thoroughness and lack of finesse, the Russians had decided on the direct extermination method as soon as the starting signal had been transmitted.

Alexei was heartily relieved when the signal came through. He called his men together and gave them the few last minute instructions. It was a slightly larger contingent than some of the others, since they had several guards to kill at the mine. They would have to leave singly, since any large group of motorcyclists would immediately lead to investigation by the authorities.

The first man moved off.

As Alexei gave the signal for the second to leave, the sound of automatic weapons firing came from two miles away in the direction taken by the first man. The leader fetched his binoculars from the house and trained them into the forest. Within seconds he'd seen flashes from moving metal in several places through the branches on the tree-covered slopes. He looked in the opposite direction – same thing, and to the west and east. His worst fears were realised.

'Leave your motorcycles and get automatic weapons, then disperse into the woods as quickly as possible. Fire on sight – it's every man for himself.'

The action lasted almost an hour and at the end the 'vermin', as the general called them, were neatly laid out on the garden of the house. Not one of the bodies had less than a dozen bullets in it, and not one of the Dirge men had escaped. The general was well satisfied. He had been at Stalingrad. Vermin was vermin, and one got a keen sense of satisfaction from its destruction. It was just a great pity that it was not German vermin.

Two hours later the garden was back to normal, except that the good fairies had been in and cultivated a large part, which previously had been covered with weeds. They would grow much more luxurious when they came up again.

~~~oOo~~~

LES CASSE-COUS: V. THE BATTERED BUNDU-BASHERS.

The South African contingent had left headquarters fifteen minutes earlier and had just entered a small African township. As usual in such towns there was only one main street, lined on both sides with corrugated tin shanties and squalid-looking shops, which sold the usual trash-quality goods made especially for the natives. Here and there the odd dilapidated jacaranda tree made a brave attempt to hold up its few tattered branches over the dirty sidewalks. Mangy dogs of the most mixed mongrel breeds lay sleeping in dirty doorways. The hot African sun beat down mercilessly on the dust and squalor.

The riders slowed a trifle as they entered town. Two hundred yards down the street they came to the rear of a slow-moving crowd that was blocking the whole street.

Using the hooters on their motorcycles, and liberally kicking out with their feet, they cleared a passage until they were right in the middle of the crowd, and then they could hear the wailing and moaning from the women, and realised that the whole crowd was swaying, chanting, ululating gently, as well as moving forward slowly. Realisation dawned: it was a big native funeral procession.

The leader of the Dirge party was furious – the crowd stretched as far as he could see – at least to the edge of town half a mile away. At this rate they would be late and the whole operation would be in jeopardy. He tried to turn his machine, kicking out viciously. The crowd gave a little and then crushed in again. The leader drew an automatic.

The black faces around him took no notice at all. Almost beside himself with rage he began firing into the crowd. Bodies fell, red blood spurting over black skin. Again the crowd fell back momentarily, then closed again, much more firmly. Black hands reached up and plucked white bodies from the machines. The bodies disappeared under the crowd.

Ten minutes later the seething mass moved on from that part of the street, leaving grimy motorcycles lying in the dust, and the dirty, trampled remains of human garbage.

Six miles further on, the twelve agents of SASS, the South African National Secret Service, hidden in the roadside rocks waiting to ambush that particular band of riders, were puzzled by their non-appearance.

~~~oOo~~~

LES CASSE-COUS: VI. COLD COMFORT

Wilson and his men had made good time over the flat portion of their route and were starting the climb into the mountains. Wilson rode easily, dreaming of his future life of luxury.

He glanced at his watch. It was time for the next report. He switched on the transmitter, leant down and said, 'Aussie eight, OK.'

The crew of the helicopter that had been shadowing the party heard the transmission on their receiver, which had been tuned to the Dirge frequency, and grinned at each other. This was it.

They'd chosen a sharp bend in the road, which at that point ran through thick pinewoods, with a steep drop on the far side, covered in jagged rocks.

The pilot brought the machine down to fifteen feet above the road and hovered. The co-pilot pulled a small red lever.

From a large canister fitted below the 'copter a great white cloud of powdered ice fell onto the road, slithering and rolling in every direction to completely fill it to a depth of three inches. As the ice jettisoned, the pilot moved the machine slowly along the road to give a ten-yard long stretch covered in the white blanket.

Satisfied with their work, they climbed to fifteen hundred feet and waited.

The Dirge motorcyclists went into the bend at almost fifty miles per hour. Wilson saw the layer of ice and tried to brake before he hit it. He was too late. Both wheels locked, the bike accelerated on the slippery mass and crashed at breakneck speed into the trees on the far side of the bend. He was lifted out of his seat as if by some powerful, invisible hand, and shot far over the handlebars. He flew over two hundred feet down the side of the mountain before crashing headfirst into an outcrop of granite, and then bouncing from crag to crag the three thousand feet to the bottom.

The mortal remains of his men, and the torn fragments of their machines, followed him.

~~~oOo~~~

LES CASSE-COUS: VII. FOOD FOR THE FISHES

One by one the reports of the extermination of Dirge operatives were passed to Sir Michael. All was going well.

Out in the South Atlantic the Castle liner was rapidly approaching her rendezvous with the submarine. The Captain, on tip-off, had arrested Waters and his men, and was standing by as the seconds ticked off to nine-thirty GMT. All passengers and crew had been warned to be seated and braced until further notice, and all the watertight doors in the forward compartments of the liner had been closed.

At nine-twenty-six he spoke down the voice tube, 'Half speed ahead port engine, full speed ahead starboard engine.'

To the helmsman he ordered, 'Port your helm forty-five degrees.'

'Port forty-five, aye-aye, Sir.'

Two minutes later the turn had been executed.

'Full ahead both!'

Only seconds later, the special watch set by the Captain shouted, 'Conning tower breaking surface five degrees to starboard, Sir!'

'Starboard five degrees, helmsman!'

'Aye-aye, Sir. Five degrees to starboard.'

Through the periscope the submarine captain had observed the steady course and speed of the liner for several minutes before ordering his vessel to surface. He had correctly estimated his position in relation to that of the liner, had she held the same course.

As he now looked through the periscope at the position where he expected the Castle liner to be he was amazed to see nothing on the horizon.

He swung the periscope slightly, then more to starboard.

Suddenly he found himself staring straight up at the towering bows of the liner, coming right at him at over twenty knots.

He screamed, 'Dive! Dive! Dive!' and immediately had the equivalent of a nervous breakdown and an apoplectic fit rolled into one.

The craft had barely reached periscope depth before the liner hit her just aft of the conning tower. The knife-edged keel of the liner split the submarine open like a can of sardines.

The passengers on the liner felt the shock tremors through the plates, but for the big ship it was a glancing blow and not even enough to shake anyone out of their seats, except for two very inebriated gentlemen sitting on four-foot-high stools in the bar. The one on the left fell full length off the stool and lay, out to the wide, on the carpet. The other, a red-nosed gentleman obviously heading for an early grave from cirrhosis of the liver, steadied himself on the bar, peered through the alcoholic fog surrounding him at the barman and very carefully, and with great gravity, pronounced in impeccable English his verdict. 'Damien. I shall have a double of whatever he was drinking.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT – THE SARDINE CATCHERS

The Chinese had fought to the last man for their ideology. The Dirge men were not made of such stern stuff and, as soon as it was obvious that their situation was hopeless, surrendered – those few who remained.

The sea for several hundred yards around was dirty red – its surface littered with human flotsam. The sharks were having a field day, gorging themselves on the dead and dying, dashing in and out of the mêlée with great abandon. The sea bed by the cave was littered with the wreckage of those motorcycle monstrosities, their riders, corpses of both sides, oxygen bottles, pieces of aqualung equipment and spent spears. It was a scene of absolute carnage. All the remaining crews on the Dirge ships had been subdued, most of them dead.

With the extermination of the last small pocket of resistance below, Sir Michael's forces swam to the surface, shepherding their small flock of prisoners. The leader radioed in. 'Mission completed. All enemy forces wiped out or taken prisoner. Ready now for pick-up.'

Sir Michael gave himself a pat on the back. 'Excellent work.'

He turned to his aide-de-camp, 'Where the blazes is Alpha Six?'

'No idea, Sir.'

'Well, get a fix on his beacon!'

The aide left and returned less than a minute later.

'Well?'

'The radio monitoring section report that his signal faded out twenty minutes ago, and they have had no reading since.' His voice was full of apology.

'Hmmph. What's the silly fool gone and done now? Drowned himself?'

'They say that if he was down in the sea here they should still get some sort of a reading. Seems the only explanation is that he has been swallowed up by the earth.' He realised that it sounded ridiculous and wished he hadn't said it.

Sir Michael obviously agreed with him. His scorn had withered many a better man than this young lieutenant, 'What absolute tripe! Get down there and tell them I want an answer, and I want it quickly. It's enough to ruin my good mood.'

Hunter and Nancy had gone below again. He inspected the cave and its installations carefully.

The big diesel engine in the corner was totally encased in steel, with just the exhaust pipe – about six inches in diameter – and the high-tension wires coming out of the back. The exhaust pipe ran straight into the rock, so an outlet had obviously been provided to avoid a build-up of carbon monoxide in the cavern. The fuel tank must also be under the steel casing. At the front just one dial showed current output. There was no way into the thing without tools and nothing much he could have done even if he had been able to open it up.

They sat on the piles of gold bricks and he could see Nancy was feeling dejected.

He tried to cheer her up, 'You know, we stand a fair chance of dying the richest people in the world.'

The faintest trace of a weak smile moved fleetingly across her lovely face, followed almost instantly by sheer horror.

'John! Look!' Her voice was full of fear.

He turned. The dark pool on which the yacht rode had become a seething, boiling mass. In the center of the maelstrom the back, round, shiny head of some underwater monster broke the surface, gradually emerging more and more.

Nancy clung on tightly to him.

For a moment he was at a loss. He had no weapon. What was he to do?

There were two courses open to them: run back up the stairs, or stay and fight.

If the monster could follow them, the first alternative meant certain death like cornered rats. The second choice was little better – it was gold bricks or nothing. He picked one up and hefted it in his hand. It was not likely that he could throw the twenty-five pounds very far, but if it connected it would be felt.

The thing was eighteen inches out of the water and still rising. It was almost perfectly round at the top and had a metallic sheen. It was almost too round, he thought, to be a natural phenomenon. Another few seconds convinced him – it wasn't natural. It was man-made.

As he realised that, the full conning tower broke surface, and the main hull came into view. It was a miniature submarine, large enough for two men, and it was obviously Makepeace's getaway vehicle.

He pulled Nancy quickly behind a stack of gold bars and lifted his finger to his lips. He pointed down. She turned to look once more at the source of her fear and gasped.

He nodded and whispered, 'The arch-criminal himself.'

As he spoke the conning tower opened and Kellerman's blond head appeared.

It was now or never. The German had his right side towards them, looking down into the submarine. Hunter swung the bar a couple of times, trying to judge trajectory. Then, very quickly, he dodged out of hiding and threw it with all his might.

It was a good shot, but not quite good enough. It caught Kellerman on his right shoulder, obviously smashing the shoulder blade. He collapsed in pain over the opening, grimacing in pain and groaning, 'Aauwwgh! Zum Teufel!'

He half fell, half climbed back into the craft, and the conning-tower lid closed with a clang. Hunter picked up another brick and threw it at the submarine, denting the conning tower, then another, and another.

As he threw the third the craft began to submerge again. He continued throwing but it was obviously to no avail. The metal of the sub was just too good to be damaged in that way. It sank from view and all that was left was the disturbed surface again.

To Hunter's surprise, a few seconds after it disappeared from view, the whole side of the cavern began to slide to one side, making a huge opening out into the opens sea.

What a hideout! Makepeace must have had some first-class engineers working for him. Hunter decided he wouldn't give a bent nickel for their chances of still being alive once the job had been finished.

His brain was working like lightning – if the cavern wall was open, perhaps the door above had also opened. It was worth a try, and in any case he had to stop Makepeace escaping somehow, anyhow, if he could – if necessary with his last rocket.

He looked at Nancy, gave a saucy wink, and a seductive sideways motion of the head. He murmured huskily, 'Upstairs?' He grabbed her arm and ran at full tilt up to the top. Sure enough, the door stood ajar. To make sure, he placed the gold bricks they had left by the door where they would prevent it closing again, and ran out to where the helicopter stood waiting. He depressed the mike switch, 'Alpha Six to Sir Michael, over.'

'Alpha Six, where the blue blazes have you been?'

His boss' ulcer must be playing him up again, Hunter thought, and grinned.

'Sorry, Sir, that's classified information.'

'Alpha Six!'

'Just thought I'd let you know that Makepeace and another man have just left this tall, rocky atoll in a midget submarine. The gold is all here in a large cave. I am about to give chase with the helicopter, if it will start after all the damage it received. Can you scramble a helicopter with a magnetic grapple, in case I can find them and bring them to the surface?'

'Roger, Wilco, Alpha Six. Scrambling helicopter now. Maintain contact.'

'Roger, out.'

Hunter put his arm round Nancy and gently stroked her cheek. 'Don't go back down into the cave before I get back.'

She smiled a worried smile, 'John---be careful.' It was a plea of love. She was looking at all the damage visible on the machine he was about to fly.

'Aren't I always?'

'No.'

He climbed into the 'copter, not bothering to strap himself in, and pressed the starter. The engines turned over, spat fire out of the exhausts and died. He tried again. More minor explosions and more flame from the exhausts. He said a prayer and pressed the starter again. The engines caught. He listened for several moments. They were running ragged, and he knew there were serious problems somewhere, but there was enough power to take off and that was the only thing that mattered. What happened later was, as always, in the laps of the gods. Most of the instruments had been smashed by bullets in the attack by the other helicopter. He had no way of knowing what the height velocity curve was, and could remember his instructor's admonitions: 'Don't allow the 'copter to climb out early. You'll go through the height velocity curve's shaded area and you'll crash if the engine fails.' Oh, well, he thought, you'll have to excuse me ignoring your instructions on this occasion, Jim. Not even bothering to cross his fingers, he pushed forward on the collective and was in the air.

The water was deep around the atoll, but from two hundred feet it was possible to see over a hundred feet into the clear blue water. He didn't consider it likely that the midget sub would go below that depth. Since he had no idea which way Makepeace would head, he decided on a circular search around the island, flying in ever-increasing circles, like the Oozlum-bird, but in reverse gear.

He began the fourth circuit, listening to the misfiring of the engine. What was that over there? It looked like a trail of oily bubbles on the otherwise sparklingly clean surface of the water. The line streamed directly away from the atoll. Could be the down-tide from the generator, but it was worth a closer look.

Wait a minute! The line of bubbles was getting longer at the end farthest away from the island. He hadn't noticed it before because it was happening so slowly.

He reached the point over the area where the bubbles ceased.

Yes – there she was, clearly visible at about fifty feet below the surface, steaming very slowly away from Sir Michael's force eastwards.

The sub was moving so slowly, in fact, that Hunter had to hover to remain over it. What intrigued him were the bubbles. Were they rising from the propeller? Could it be---? He didn't let himself believe it – that his gold bricks had damaged the conning-tower so that it leaked a little? Better let Sir Michael know.

'Alpha Six to base, over.'

'Yes, Alpha Six?'

'Minisub heading east about fifty feet down, five hundred yards from the rocky atoll. Am tracking, but have some engine problems. Sub seems to be losing air. There is a trail of small bubbles on the surface.'

'Do you need help with a depth charge?'

'Stand by with them in case, but I have a heat-seeking rocket left in the launcher. If the impact with the water doesn't upset the gyro system on contact it should do the trick.'

'Don't forget the charge is cordite. The water may deactivate it.'

'Roger, but it's worth a try.'

'Roger. The other helicopter will be with you in one minute.'

'Wait! Yes. He's surfacing. I damaged the conning tower with some gold bricks.'

'With what? Have you been misusing Government funds again, Alpha Six?'

'I'll explain later, Sir. Is the other helicopter on this frequency?'

'We are, Commander.' The sound of the bigger aircraft's rotors came through quite clearly behind the pilot's soft Scots accent, and he could see the other 'copter coming in on his starboard side, a huge Sikorsky S65, one of the largest helicopters in production.

'Roger. Will you get your magnetic grapple ready to lift the sub as soon as she surfaces?'

'Wilco, Commander.'

Hunter flew off to one side to give the large machine room to manoevre.

The winchman began to lower the steel hawser with the three-foot diameter iron disc, containing a tremendously powerful electro-magnet.

As the sub broke the surface, the magnet descended with a resounding 'clang' onto the hull.

The winchman set the winding gear in operation and the sub began to lift clear of the water, its propeller thrashing madly in the unaccustomed environment.

Hunter pictured the occupants, probably thrown out of their seats by the violent movements of the craft.

As the strain increased on the hawser the helicopter pilot increased rotor speed, finally lifting the vessel clear of the surface and moving away westward with it towards the carrier, with Hunter bringing up the rear.

It was a strange-looking cortège that passed along that airway on that beautiful cloudless day.

Sir Michael awaited them on the flight deck. After the helicopter had set down its load, it landed close beside it. Hunter came in on the other side, switched off the engines, got out of the badly damaged 'copter and walked over to where the crowd was gathering around the small craft.

Sir Michael told four armed marines, 'Open it up, and be prepared for resistance.'

They moved forward. The leader, a burly marine sergeant, went right up to the vessel and placed the ladder he was carrying against the hull.

Hunter called, 'Hold on a minute, Sergeant.'

A new idea had entered his head – a wild, wonderful, wicked idea. He turned to Sir Michael.

'Have they launched that test rocket from Woomera yet?'

The project he mentioned was part of the western world's space programme. Several nations had combined to provide the money for the operation. The rocket was to carry a small nuclear device to be exploded in space, so that the effects could be measured on Earth.

'No. Day after tomorrow, I believe.'

'Didn't I read somewhere that they were sending quite a load of ballast up on it?'

'Yes,' Sir Michael's voice was hesitant, wondering just what Hunter was driving at, 'Why?'

'None of this action can ever reach the public's ears, can it?'

'It better not!'

'And Makepeace can never be brought to trial?'

'No, of course not.'

'That's what I thought. I just feel that if you could fix it, it would be a fitting end to the greatest criminal in the history of the world, give or take a Hitler or so.'

'Absolutely out of the qu---' Sir Michael suddenly beamed, 'D'you know, Alpha Six, that's quite an idea. The PM will like that.' Sir Michael turned to the fresh-faced lieutenant standing beside him, 'Send a couple of men for an oxy-acetylene welder, and have them weld that conning tower up so it can't be opened, then get me Woomera on the scrambler teleprinter and as soon as you've done that, have a light bomber brought up, ready to be loaded up with that sub and prepared for take off as soon as I give the word.'

'Aye-aye, Sir.'

Good old MC, Hunter thought. When it came to making decisions, he was in there with the best of them.

He turned to the Marine sergeant. 'Can you get my 'copter refueled.'

Sir Michael put his foot down, 'You are not to fly that machine again, Alpha Six. Just look at it.'

Hunter was adamant, 'I have to get back to the atoll, to pick Nancy up. She's waiting for me.'

The pilot of the Sikorsky told him, 'You can't fly that damned thing again, buddy. All that's good for is as a home for lobsters. We've got a nice little Sheutzow Model B down below. I'll have that brought up for you, and you can ride in style. That Mil needs to go over the edge. How it got you this far, God knows. He must have been riding on your shoulder.'

Sir Michael asked, 'How big is the landing area on top of that atoll? Is it big enough for two aircraft to land?'

Hunter nodded. 'You're thinking of the gold?'

'I am.' To the pilot of the Sikorsky he said, 'I want you to take eight marines with you, to begin loading the gold.'

Hunter told them, 'The door is on a time lock. I've jammed it open with two gold bricks, but you might need that oxy-acetylene torch to cut the door for access. There is a generator running with lights, but that may need refueling. Oh, and the yacht's mine'

He saw Sir Michael's look. It was telling him he should be so lucky.

He stood watching the bustling activity around the submarine and the jet aircraft, which had just emerged from the hangar below on the carrier's lift. Sir Michael had walked over to the 'island' and was issuing commands in his usual decisive manner. He was in his element, Hunter thought. The old boy hadn't had so much fun in years. Just being able to wear his uniform again on duty must have given him a tremendous kick. What did the other senior officers think, being under the command of a long-time land-based civilian? Having said that, the old boy had been held in great esteem by the Senior Service in his day, and the Navy types were renowned for being hidebound traditionalists. There were units of the American Seventh Fleet here too, as well as the British, Canadian, Australian and New Zealand navies, along with French, German and even a Russian frigate. They had certainly come prepared.

The bomber taxied to the end of the flight-deck, revved up for just a moment or two, bounded away like a scalded cat and was airborne in seconds.

As Makepeace's self-appointed coffin dwindled to a small speck and then into nothing, Hunter came back to the present. There was nothing for him to do here now. He'd done his bit. Nancy would be wondering if he was ever coming back for her. Sir Michael was still busy over by the 'island'. No use bothering him now. He headed for the pilot of the Sikorsky and took him to one side to ask him, 'Could you make sure you give me at least half an hour on the atoll before you take off please?'

The pilot grinned, 'Anything for you, after what you've done, Commander. Let's make it an hour – these bloody marines are notoriously difficult to get organized, and there's bound to be a small fault on the 'copter that needs attention.'

'Thanks. I appreciate it.'

He walked over to the little two-seater Sheutzow, an aircraft he'd never flown, and got into the cockpit. He liked new toys and this one seemed fairly straightforward. Better not make a cock-up of the take off, in front of all these flyers, he thought, and went through a textbook pre-flight check before starting the engines. The little craft handled like a dream, and his take off was perfect. A few interested men looked up from their tasks, but Sir Michael did not even notice his departure.

Nancy was waiting for him on top of the rock, lying in the sun, wearing only the slightest wisp of flesh-coloured see-through nylon over her lower body. She stirred as he landed, raised herself on one elbow, shielding her eyes from the sun's glare, and smiled invitingly.

'So glad you could drop in.' Her voice was full of husky promise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE – MAKEPEACE – NOT WAR

The huge rocket stood in its gantry, steaming gently at the sides from the temperature difference caused by the liquid hydrogen in its tanks. The pre-countdown checks had all been carried out. Everything was, in the parlance of the space age, 'AOK'.

The submarine had been unloaded from the bomber on the airfield attached to the rocket-launching site and transported on a low-loader to the launching area. It was being lifted by a crane into the ballast compartment of the rocket. It had been weighed, and ballast of the same weight had been removed from the payload area prior to its installation. Four or five minutes work and it was inside and the compartment door closed and sealed. Half an hour later the countdown began. Millions of people all over the world watched the final moments without being aware of the drama of the situation.

'---ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one – we have lift-off!' The controller's voice rose to a crescendo, try as he might to remain calm.

It was a beautiful sight after all the months of hard work and preparation.

The huge gantry, weighing over a hundred tons, fell away like a Meccano toy. The rocket sat for a few seconds, suspended over the launching pad on its tail of flame and then, slowly, but with rapidly increasing velocity, began lifting. With the increase in speed the howl of its motors waxed and then waned below. Within seconds it was a slim silver pencil in the sky, with a tail of blue and yellow flame. A few seconds more and it was gone from sight.

Miss Elaine Wooley, a thirty-two year old blonde, plain-Jane spinster, had been part of the project from the very beginning as a computer programmer. Terrified of men and sex all her life, she had long subconsciously identified the huge silver shape as her own private phallic symbol. As it lifted into the sky she felt her loins torn apart, her unsullied pudenda battered, and her soft, loveless body penetrated. The first orgasm of her life exploded inside her. She fainted – a beatific smile on her suddenly beautiful face.

Her fainting went unnoticed. Everyone else in the operating center was laughing out loud. Tears ran down some faces. It was their supreme moment. For many years Cape Kennedy had had all the fun. This was probably the last time that Woomera would have such a glory, and it had been a hundred per cent success.

The Operations Director called for order.

'Ladies and gentlemen! We have been successful. I thank you for all your work and enthusiasm. Detonation will be in one hour and---.' He glanced at the clock on the far wall, 'thirty-six minutes. In the meantime, the champagne is on the house!' He walked over to one of the girls. 'Shirley, would you just knock this out on the tape machine, please? We've been asked to change the detonation signal, and this is the new one.'

'Certainly, Sir.'

The pretty brunette took the piece of paper and quickly perforated a tape, passing it through a close-circuited Creed machine to check its accuracy on a local page-copy. The perforator was one of those clever little machines which, when one typed on the keyboard, produced a perforated tape in Morse characters, which could then be fed through an auto-head onto a radio carrier wave.

The party went with a swing, little notice being taken of the television pictures being sent back from the cameras installed in the space vehicle, but as the last minutes before detonation approached, the noise gradually subsided, giving way to a hushed expectancy.

'Four minutes to detonation, camera section breakaway.'

'Sixty seconds to detonation, fifty, forty, thirty, twenty, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one – detonation!' As he said the last word, the Director pressed the start button on the Creed auto-head.

At two hundred and forty words per minute the message in Morse code symbols passed over the ether. It was Sir Michael's final gesture: 'MAKEPEACE NOT WAR'

A long-drawn-out, 'Oooooooh.' rose from the watching crowd in the control room as the cameras on the rear section, which had been jettisoned just before detonation brought into the control room the awful beauty of the blast, without the noise. One second the rocket was there, suspended like a silver arrow on the screen. The next it had ceased to exist, and in its place a mushroom cloud spread its wings against the blue-black background of infinity. Miss Woolley, the crotch of her old maid's cotton knickers soaking wet with vaginal secretion, fainted again.
CHAPTER THIRTY – GONE AWAY

Sir Michael was at the final clearing-up stage. Most of the bodies had been recovered from the water and brought to the carrier. All the Dirge ships had been checked and stragglers rounded up. The yacht had been towed alongside and was being cleared. One body was that of a fat man in his early fifties, with jet-black hair and black bushy eyebrows. The mouth was closed, the big flabby lips hiding a mouthful of gold teeth.

Sir Michael looked over the bodies. As he came to the fat man he stopped thoughtfully. He looked around for Hunter but couldn't see him. The young lieutenant was close on his heels, looking a little sick. These were the first dead bodies he had ever seen, despite his service.

'Where's Alpha Six, lieutenant?'

'Took off over an hour ago and flew off towards the big atoll, Sir.'

'The blazes he did!' Sir Michael exploded, 'Get him on the R/T.'

The lieutenant disappeared into the 'island', returning five minutes later.

'Well?'

'I've been calling him for five minutes, Sir, without success.'

Sir Michael looked as if he would have a fit. 'Get that helicopter over there ready for take off, and get those bodies into cold storage – they won't last the day in this heat, and we want to try to identify them later on.'

Three minutes later Sir Michael lifted his right foot to climb into the helicopter. He heard a voice calling him. It was the doctor, running across the deck. 'Sir! Something very important. One of the bodies from the yacht is not normal.'

'What do you mean – not normal?'

'It is deteriorating much faster than the others and I have done some tests on the sub-tissue. It appears that the body has been dead for some considerable time, and from ice burns on the skin I believe that it has been frozen to maintain it in fresh condition for some reason, and recently thawed.'

'Which body is it?'

'The big Eurasian.'

'Mm. Refreeze the body, and we'll investigate further when we return to London.'

'Yes, Sir.'

When his helicopter landed, the first thing he saw was a new addition to the landing light on the little 'copter Hunter had flown – draped over the lens was a see-through, flesh-coloured pair of panties. Sir Michael pulled a face.

'Hmmph. Let's get below and see what he's up to.' He wasn't really sure he wanted to find out, and continued talking in a loud voice all the way down the stairs.

His voice became quieter with awe as they entered the cavern. Gold there was, in vast quantity, but an equally great dearth of secret agents.

'I'll have his licence if he doesn't show up soon! Where the blazes has he gone to?'

From the top of the rock, far over to the east, a small dot was just visible. The helicopter pilot had spotted it while Sir Michael had been below and had made out, through binoculars, the shape of a sail. He pointed it out and Sir Michael sighed resignedly, 'There he goes again.'

~~~oOo~~~

Hunter held Nancy tightly in his arms. The sails had been set for long-distance cruising; the automatic steering device programmed; provisions and water for at least two months checked. He'd battened down the hatch and from the outside now the yacht was one big buoyancy tank, completely sealed apart from air vents in the top deck, which sealed themselves automatically if under water. He'd tuned the radio to a station playing non-stop oldie love songs.

Nancy whispered in his ear, 'Will you always love me, John?'

He crossed his fingers behind her, 'Till forever, darling.'

'Oh, John. I'm so happy I feel like I'm floating on air'

Neither of them were aware of the big Sikorsky 65 whanging its way lazily across the sky towards them, its grab cable dangling below it.

EPILOGUE

Jack Haldane ltook his last breath at one minute past midnight on the third of August. He had said, 'Goodnight' to me just after ten, and seemed to sleep peacefully until a minute before midnight, when I noticed him move his arm, and went over to see if he was comfortable.

He opened his eyes, looked up, and said quite clearly, 'Don't forget, Tony - always watch your back.' He gave a knowing, crooked smile, and closed his eyes.

I reported the death to the desk and the duty doctor came up and confirmed it.

As he walked back out of the door I sighed heavily, picked up my shorthand pad and dropped it in the waste bin. It would never be published – the tale was just too way out to be believable.

Half an hour before going off duty I was surprised when three men I'd never seen before came in with a trolley. There were two youngish, hard-faced men, both almost six feet tall, dressed identically in dark suits, white shirts and grey ties, but leading them was an old silver-haired gentleman, walking heavily with the aid of a silver-topped ebony cane.

'Good morning,' he said, 'We have come to collect Mr Haldane.

I motioned with my hand to the bed where the corpse lay.

The two younger men pushed the trolley over to the bed, lifted Haldane's corpse onto their trolley with an expertise that told me they had done that particular job before, and covered it with what looked like a decorator's sheet that they'd brought with them.

They began to push the trolley towards the door, and the old gentleman smiled at me and said, 'Thank you', before turning to follow them.

When he was three paces from the door I called urgently, 'Sir Michael!'

He tried valiantly to cover up the brief hesitation in his step, but realised it must have been noticed and turned back, shaking his head sadly.

'Well done, young man. The oldest trick in the book, and I fell for it. I have obviously been out of the game for far too long.' He smiled again, 'You know in the old days that little trick could have cost you dearly.'

He stood pondering for several seconds, almost lost in thought and obviously trying to make a decision. Finally, he surprised me by chuckling, then said, 'I suppose whatever you know now doesn't matter. It's just history and no one would believe it anyway. Good luck.'

As the door closed behind him I hurried over to the waste bin.

~~~ _THE END~~~_

If you have enjoyed this book, please read the others by this author:

The DCI Tony Dyce murder mysteries:

Murder on Tiptoes

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the Chess Board

Murder on the High 'C'

Murder on the Back Burner

The Black Magic novel – The Devil Deals Death

Tripled Exposure – a family mystery

The first in a series of Detective Inspector John Hunter novels – 'Carve Up'

The companion work to this book – The Keys of the Castle (coming soon)
