Assault on England

Three

"Since time is so important," Heather York was saying across the intimacy of a table for two, "Brutus insisted we leave for Cornwall this evening. Actually, I rather like driving at night."

She was wearing a short, very short, green dress with shoes to match and an auburn wig styled in a shoulder-length hairdo. I told her when she picked me up at the hotel, "If that wig's supposed to be a disguise, it won't work — I'd know that figure anywhere."

She laughed, shaking her head. "No disguise, a girl just likes to change her personality once in a while."

On the way to the little restaurant on the outskirts of London, where we stopped for dinner before proceeding south to the coast, I described my run-in with Novosty's boys.

She chuckled. "Brutus must have loved that… you did call him?"

"I did."

The restaurant was charming, very Old English. The waiters had just brought our order when a man approached the table. He was tall and square with blond hair and a rugged face. Along the left side of his neck, almost hidden by his shirt, was a thin scar. He had hard dark brown eyes.

"Heather — Heather York?" he said as he stopped at the table. "Yes! I almost missed you with the wig. Very flattering."

Heather responded with a strained smile. "Elmo Jupiter! Nice to see you again."

"I was going to ask you and your friend to join us," he motioned toward a dark-haired girl at a table in the corner, "but I see you've been served."

"Yes," Heather said. "This is Richard Matthews… Elmo Jupiter, Richard."

I nodded. "My pleasure."

He studied me for a moment and the hard eyes were definitely hostile. "You're an American."

"Yes."

"Heather does have exotic tastes." He grinned, turning back to her. "In men and motorcars. Well, I must get back to my black ale. I'll see you about, Heather."

"Yes, of course," she said, still wearing the tight smile. "Have a good evening."

"I always do," Jupiter said, turning away.

As he walked back to his table. Heather glanced at the girl waiting for him there. "I don't like that man," she said abruptly. "I met him through a friend who's a clerk at SOE. He thinks I work in public health. He asked me out but I made an excuse. I don't like his eyes."

"I think he's jealous," I said.

"He probably resents my turning him down. He's used to getting what he wants, I hear. Makes automobiles, I believe. He'd be surprised to learn about the girl he's with. She has a long record for selling drugs."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"I worked at the Yard for almost a year before SOE offered me my job."

She said it casually, as if it were of no importance, but I was impressed. Lovely Heather, I suspected, was full of surprises.

We drove all that evening and into the night along winding, shrub-lined narrow roads at first, passing through villages with such names as Crownhill and Moorswater, then along the seacoast for a while. Heather drove her dated but custom-made S.O.C.E.M.A. Gregoire.

"It has a Ferodo type I'll clutch," she told me proudly as we roared around a tortuous curve in the blackness, the headlights scything two swaths of yellow through the night. She had abandoned the wig and her short blond hair was mussed by the wind. "And a Cotal type MK electromagnetic gearbox."

We stopped at a bed-and-breakfast inn long after midnight when Heather finally tired of driving. She asked for separate rooms. When we were given adjoining rooms and a wink by the old Scottish landlord, Heather offered no objection but no encouragement either. So I fell asleep in my own bed, trying not to think of her so close.

We arrived very early in Penzance where Novosty was reported to have been seen a couple of days before. Brutus had given us a detailed description of him and what was known of his cover. He was going under the name of John Ryder and his English was supposed to be flawless.

After some discreet inquiries at the local hotels and pubs, we learned that a man answering Novosty's description had indeed been in Penzance, at the Queens Hotel, with another man. He and his companion had checked out of the hotel the previous morning, but the desk clerk had overheard Novosty mention Land's End, the tip of Cornwall jutting into the sea.

"It's Land's End then," Heather said as we drove out of town. "A perfect place to hide and plot."

"Maybe," I said. "But we go slow from now on. Novosty probably knows we're looking for him."

"You're the boss." She smiled.

The road to Land's End was a bleak one, winding over rocky terrain dotted with heather and gorse, and passing through gray stone villages. About five miles from our destination, we stopped a fanner driving a wagon in the opposite direction and asked about visitors to the neighborhood.

He rubbed his ruddy cheeks with a thick hand. "Two gentlemen took up in the Heamoor cottage yesterday. The one chap give me a fiver for priming the well. Seemed nice enough gents."

The stench of manure rose from the wagon. Heather wrinkled her nose and gave me a smile.

"That wouldn't be our chap," I lied. "The man we're looking for is here with his family. Thanks, anyway."

The farmer flicked his horse into motion and we drove off slowly. When the wagon was out of sight, we took the first turn in the direction the farmer had indicated. About a hundred yards along the dirt road, I motioned for Heather to pull over to the side.

"The cottage can't be far," I said. "We'll walk the rest of the way."

A bird called out in irritation from the field beside us as we got out of the car. Otherwise the morning was sunny and silent. We followed the winding road for a couple hundred more yards before we saw the cottage.

I pushed Heather down behind some tall grass. "That must be it," I whispered.

The brown stone cottage squatted on a low hill covered with gorse, the yellow blossoms giving some relief to the stark scene. Parked beside the cottage was a small blue Sunbeam sedan. There had been no attempt to hide the car from the road. Apparently Novosty thought he was safe — from observation or else he wanted others to think he did.

I touched Heather's arm and indicated that we would circle around to the side of the cottage where we could approach it behind the cover of the car. I started off through the grass, Heather following.

As we crawled up to the parked Sunbeam, we could hear voices. There was a window open on that side of the cottage. I reached into my jacket for Wilhelmina and Heather took a small Sterling.380 PPL automatic out of her purse. I motioned for her to stay put and cover me. Slowly I crawled to the side of the cottage, stopped underneath the window.

The voices were very distinct now. I straightened up as high as the window ledge and took a quick glance inside. There were three men in the cottage: a tall, thin man with light brown hair and a bony face — Novosty apparently — was striding around the room speaking to two other men who looked British. I ducked back down and listened.

"When we return to London there will be no further contact except by prearranged dead-drop message," Novosty was saying. "Above all, none of us must be seen at the Defence Ministry prior to our target date. Is that understood?"

There was a mumbling of assent from the others.

"Good. On the target date, there will be a heavy guard at the Ministry. Our timing must be very nearly perfect. Our subject will be exposed to us for only seconds. We must make our move swiftly and efficiently."

"Don't worry about us, mate," one of the Englishmen said coolly.

"We'll give them a bleeding good show," his companion agreed.

Novosty lowered his voice. I leaned forward to get in a better position to hear him when there was a sound at the back of the cottage. Heather's whisper reached me almost simultaneously.

"Nick! Look out!"

It was too late. A stocky man came around the side of the cottage from the rear, carrying a pail of water. He had apparently been to the well out back. When he saw me, he swore in Russian and dropped the pail. He fit the description I had been given of a resident KGB operator for southern England. Spotting Wilhelmina, he reached desperately into his hip pocket for his own gun.

I aimed and fired the Luger in one motion; the shot echoed loudly in the quiet morning. The Russian grabbed at his chest and the gun he had pulled out went flying against the wall of the cottage. The KGB man stumbled backwards, landed spread-legged in the gorse, his hands clutching at empty air.

"Run for the tall grass!" I shouted at Heather. Then, without waiting for an acknowledgment, I ran headlong for the back of the cottage, hoping there was a door there.

I almost stumbled over the dropped pail as I rounded the corner. I saw the door, closed. I kicked out at it savagely and it crashed inward.

As I moved into the cottage, into a room behind the one where Novosty and the others had been talking, one of the Englishmen came through an open doorway, holding a Webley 455 Mark IV, and ran into me without breaking stride. His face reflected surprise as we hit. He was knocked back against the door jamb, time enough for me to aim Wilhelmina and open a hole in his gut. He slumped to the floor, eyes open, the surprised look still on his face.

I moved on into the front room of the cottage but it was empty. Then I heard shots from out front. Novosty and the other man were outside, exchanging fire with Heather. She was apparently keeping them away from the blue sedan with her small pistol. I started toward the front door, planning to come up behind them, when the second Briton came charging back into the cottage.

He fired first but the shot was wild. My Luger exploded twice and both shots scored. I didn't stop to watch him fall. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire outside and then I heard a car door slam. A second later, the engine roared. As I stepped out of the cottage, the Sunbeam skidded off across the open ground, heading for the road.

I could just barely see the top of Novosty's head as he crouched low over the wheel to avoid Heather's fire. Resting Wilhelmina on my forearm, I sighted along the barrel and aimed for the right rear tire. But just as I fired, the sedan bounced in and out of a rut, veering crazily. The shot missed the tire and dug up dirt instead. Then the car was gone down the road, hidden by high grass.

I dropped Wilhelmina to my side and sighed. The one man we really wanted had gotten away. He could find other agents within days, maybe even hours. And if Novosty was the assassin, we probably hadn't even slowed him down.

I remembered Heather then and turned toward the high brush. I found her reloading the Sterling PPL.

"Sorry he got past me," she apologized.

"Couldn't be helped," I said.

"I suppose there's little point in trying to follow him in my car."

He's got too big a start on us," I said.

"Yes." She sounded depressed.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm all right. And your?"

"The best of health," I told her. "I can't say the same for those two in there." I motioned toward the cottage.

We searched the two Britons and the cottage but found nothing. Then I went through the pockets of the dead KGB man. Nothing. Novosty was a real pro — with the pro's aversion to writing anything down.

"They were talking about the Defence Ministry," I told Heather. 'They were definitely planning something there.

"Novosty talked about 'our subject' and 'target date' and said they had to 'make their move swiftly. Novosty could be our man. We'd better presume that he is, and that he plans to kill again soon. If it's part of a grand plan, he'll just change time, date and method of operation for the next attempt."

"The Defence Ministry," Heather mused. "With Dumbarton already assassinated, who does that leave? His second in command?"

"Maybe, or maybe a general. Who knows?" I said. I was going through one of the dead men's wallet for the second time. I noticed a secret compartment I had missed the first time. Inside was a slip of paper. I pulled it out "Hey! What's this?"

Heather looked over my shoulder. "It's a telephone number."

"What's that written under it?"

She took it from me. "Lower Slaughter."

"Lower… What in the world is that?"

She looked up at me, her blue eyes smiling. "It's a town, a small village in the Cotswolds. This must be a number in the village."

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "maybe one of Novosty's boys made a small mistake."