Assault on England

Nine

The phone rang just minutes after we'd finished. Heather put the receiver to her ear, listened a few moments, then gasped. "Yes sir, right away," she said, then hung up.

"Brutus?" I asked.

"Yes," her head bobbed up and down. "Jupiter has disappeared. He's nowhere to be found, not at his office or his home."

"Maybe he is just out."

"Brutus doesn't think so," she said. "He believes Jupiter suspects we know about him."

I pondered that for a second. Brutus was probably right. A man with Jupiter's intelligence would suspect something about our sudden visit to his place. After thinking about it he'd probably decided to play it safe, to hide out somewhere.

I got off the sofa and started to dress. Heather headed for the bedroom. "Brutus wants to see us immediately, if not sooner, at his office," she said over her shoulder.

We were ready in ten minutes and walked down the stairs from Heather's flat to the street. It was late afternoon and the early autumn sun was already setting. The sleek Porsche 911 was parked around the corner on a cobblestoned side street. Just as we reached the car, two men stepped out of a building entrance and confronted us. Each held a revolver in his right hand.

"Blimey!" Heather said softly.

"Hold it just there," the man closest to us said. He was a narrow-shouldered, thin-faced character whose pale blue eyes never left my face. His buddy was stockier with a soccer player's legs. "Search the girl," the thin man told him, then, to me, "Stand still."

He patted me down and he did a good job — he found Wilhelmina and Hugo.

"What's all this?" I asked, though I could make a good guess.

"Never mind," the soccer player said, shoving Heather's little purse with the Sterling in his pocket. He nodded toward the curb where a black Rolls-Royce was pulling up in front of the Porsche. "Just hop in."

We didn't seem to have much choice. Heather went first, the thin man moving up beside her. I followed with his pal.

"Where are you taking us?" Heather asked.

"You'll find out," the thin man said. We were at the curb now. "Get in."

"And no funny business," the man beside me added.

The driver of the Rolls made no move to get out of the car. I had my eye on the gun my man was holding on me, but I didn't know if Heather was tuned in to the possibility of moving against them. In the next second, I found out.

"Nick!" she shouted, and chopped sidewise at the thin man's gun hand. His revolver clattered to the sidewalk as Heather hit him again, this time in the face.

In the meantime, I'd kicked out at the soccer player's knee and connected with a loud crack. He yelled and doubled over, grabbing the leg. While he was distracted, I grabbed for his gun.

Heather now had a good hold on the thin man. She let his own momentum carry him off-balance then, using her body as a lever, threw him violently across the hood of the Rolls. He landed on his back.

Heather moved after the gun he'd dropped but had trouble locating it. I was still trying to wrestle the gun away from the soccer player who was putting up quite a fight.

I heard Heather shout, "Got it!" as she finally came up with the thin man's gun… too late.

"Drop it or I'll blow a bleeding hole through you." The driver of the Rolls had joined the act with a big ugly revolver he was holding aimed at Heather's back.

Heather groaned, glanced over at me and saw that I was in no position to help and dropped the gun.

"Now," the driver said, swinging his gun toward me, "you stay right there. You come here, birdie."

Heather moved to him. He slapped her hard and almost knocked her down. 'Turn and put your arms behind you," he said.

He nodded to the thin man who'd limped over to retrieve the gun Heather had dropped. He came over, took a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and slipped them around Heather's slender wrists. She gasped as he pressed them closed, far too tight. I cursed him under my breath.

The driver came over to me now. He was a heavy man with a slightly flabby face. He gave me a very nasty look and swung his revolver against my head. I grunted and went down, bleeding from a cut forehead. Then he and the soccer player jerked my hands behind me and locked a pair of cuffs on my wrists. They hauled me to my feet and shoved me into the Rolls. The thin man pushed Heather in beside me.

We drove for over an hour, the lights of London gradually fading behind us. It was black night when we turned into the drive of a country estate and the Rolls stopped at the main door of a large stone house. The three thugs got out of the car.

"All right, you two. Out" The thin man was giving the orders again.

They dragged us out of the back seat. "Inside," the thin man said, indicating the house.

The place was very elegant, with the look and feel of Old England. We stepped into a high-ceilinged reception hall. Lights were on but nobody met us.

"He said to take them to the tower," the driver reminded the others.

They marched us along a corridor to a narrow circular stairwell. It had a dank, musty smell. We climbed slowly up worn stone steps by the light of dim bulbs set at sparse intervals. At the top, the thin man stuck an iron key into the rusty lock of a heavy oak door and pushed the door open. We entered a circular stone room with a single barred window.

"Well, this is it Rest well." The thin man grinned.

There was no furniture in the room.

"How about taking the cuffs off the girl?" I asked.

The thin man turned back to me. "Cuffs off the bird, you say?"

"That's right," I said. "Look how red her wrists are, you're cutting the circulation off."

"Ah! Circulation, is it?" he said. "Is that what's worrying you?"

He hauled off and slugged me. I dropped to one knee and he lacked me in the side. I grunted and fell over.

"There you are, Yank!" he said. "That should improve your ruddy circulation!" He laughed and so did the soccer player. The driver just looked bored.

They left the room. We heard the key turn in the lock and then their footsteps, growing fainter and fainter, as they went back down the stairs.