By Stealth

11

Nield and Butler, tailing the camper, had to exercise all their skill in what turned out to be a tricky task. The camper had driven down the track, turned right, and headed through the night along the B3055 to Brockenhurst. Nield had driven his Sierra out of the copse in time to see it emerging from the track. He was soon glad he'd taken the precaution of keeping well back.

A Land-Rover, occupied only by the driver, appeared from an opening into a field and took up station a short distance behind the camper. It looked as though the tapes the camper was transporting were important – important enough to be guarded.

Arriving at an isolated straight stretch of country road, Butler, protecting Nield's rear, saw the Land-Rover as the moon came out briefly. And beyond it the camper trundling along. He came to the same conclusion as Nield.

`I wonder where the hell you two are going to,' he said out aloud to himself.

He had little inkling of where they would end up as the camper turned right on to the A337 at Brockenhurst and sped on north towards Lyndhurst. A long stretch of rolling straight road extended ahead. On either side they were passing through vast expanses of lonely moorland as the moon broke through again.

At that hour – and at that time of year – there was very little other traffic as they plunged on through belts of the New Forest. The trees were Christmas-like in the moonlight, their branches and foliage covered with a mantle of white frost.

Beyond Cadnam, heading north-east and later bypassing Winchester to turn on to the M3, Butler began to suspect the ultimate objective must be London. On the motorway Butler and Nield began to play the leapfrog game to confuse the targets, to avoid any suspicion they were being followed.

At times Butler overtook all three vehicles, driving on some distance ahead of the camper, watching its lights in his rear-view mirror. Where the devil were they going? Butler wondered again.

At other times Nield overtook all the vehicles, including the Cortina. Butler then slowed, allowed the camper and the Land-Rover to overtake him, dropping well back to the rear. They reversed positions several more times before they reached London.

Only then did both Butler and Nield drop back behind the Land-Rover. As they crossed the Albert Bridge it was very dark and late. Nield was trying to work out where he had seen the driver of the Land-Rover before.

`Because I know I've seen you, mate,' he said to himself. 'Something about the way you hold yourself.'

A little later they were driving along the Fulham Road, quickly turning off to the right and north. Butler slowed down as the Land-Rover pulled up behind the stationary camper. He ground his gears as he crawled past them, working on the psychology that no one following them would make so much noise. Nield pulled in to the kerb. They were in the middle of the curving Boltons, one of the most prestigious addresses in London.

Nield watched as the Land-Rover driver, still wearing his crash helmet, jumped out and walked up to the camper as the rear doors opened. By the illumination from a street lamp Nield saw a burly man hand over to the Land-Rover driver a stack of about half a dozen slim round cartons. Just the sort of containers to hold the tape reels which had recorded all the conversations in Sir Gerald Andover's house.

`So who lives there?' Nield asked himself.

The driver pushed open the wrought-iron gate, hurried along a path and up the stone steps to one of the magnificent mansions set back from the double curve of The Boltons. Dying for a cigarette, Nield waited patiently without reaching for the pack in his pocket.

The driver reappeared quickly. By now the camper had driven off. Climbing back up into the Land-Rover, he also left the area. Nield waited a little longer, then climbed out and strolled along to the mansion where the cartons had been delivered. No. 185. On the second pillar was a gleaming engraved plate. It carried the legend

MOONGLOW REFUGEE AID TRUST INTERNATIONAL.

He looked up as Butler appeared. Nield moved away from the entrance before he spoke.

`Moonglow. That's where a pile of cartons were delivered. My guess is they contained tape reels.'

`Then I'd better pay a call on them. Plenty of lights on inside the place. Better go back to your car. I'll let you know what happens..

Butler walked back to where he had parked his Cortina. Opening the rear door, he took out a grubby coat and a cap. Slipping on the coat over his windcheater, he donned the scruffy cap, pulling the peak down over his forehead. He picked up a large yellow canvas hold-all with a stack of newspapers protruding from the top. He slung the hold-all over his shoulder. It was a trick he had used before.

He walked back to No. 185, pushed open the gate, shuffled along the path – in case he was observed from inside. Climbing the steps, he pressed the bell and waited, one hand grasping the top of a newspaper. A porch lamp came on, there was the sound of three locks being unfastened: deadlocks, Butler noted. A chain was removed. When the door opened a tall and large middle-aged woman dressed in black and with a grim expression stared at him. She was holding a Walther aimed at his chest. He stepped back in apparent fear, speaking in a whining voice.

`No cause for alarm, lady. And guns make me nervy. If you shot me it'd be murder. I don't even carry a penknife…'

While he was rattling on he was looking at the lighted spacious hall behind her. At the back a curving staircase wound upwards. It was dimly lit. He could see a heavily built man walking slowly down the stairs. With a very deliberate tread. The vague figure reached the bottom and paused. The hall lights reflected off his gold pince-nez. The eyes behind the lenses were invisible, which was disconcerting.

`What do you want?' the woman with the gun demanded.

`Just delivering the local paper. It's free. Tells you what's goin' on round 'ere. New parkin' regulations. And a developer is tryin' to turn one of these 'ouses into a cheap 'otel. Wouldn't want that, would you?'

`What exactly is happening, Mrs Kramer?'

It was the man with the pince-nez who had spoken. His way of talking was strange – he pronounced each word with extreme precision and paused between each word he uttered. His voice was soft-spoken but every word had carried clearly to Butler. He found the voice as disconcerting as the way the man moved.

`Nothing, sir,' Mrs Kramer called back over her shoulder. 'Just a yobbo handing out free newspapers.'

`At this time of night?' the voiced continued. 'I really find that rather odd. Yes, very odd indeed.'

`I'm behind schedule, guy,' Butler whined, raising his voice. 'And in the mornin' I've got a different job.' `Send – him – packing – Mrs – Kramer.'

The word pauses were even more pronounced. Even more disturbing. And Butler was not a man easily unnerved by any situation.

`Go away!' snapped Mrs Kramer. 'And never call here again. We don't accept rubbish.'

The door was slammed in his face as Butler opened his mouth to say more. He stood there, listened to the three locks being turned, the chain replaced to its secure position. Then he shuffled back down the steps and along the path. A minute later he was relating his experience to Nield and they decided to drive straight to SIS headquarters at Park Crescent.