Cell

29

It was 1 a.m., when Beaurain, seated in an upright chair to keep himself awake, heard the approaching motor-cycle. It slowed, the engine was turned off as it reached Billy Hogarth's bungalow, was followed by a hard thump as the machine was propped against the side wall.

Unlocking the front door, his Smith amp; Wesson concealed behind his back, Beaurain peered out. Strong moonlight. He walked to the end of the bungalow, looked round the corner. The rider was taking a large cardboard-backed envelope from his pannier. He wore the full outfit – black leather jacket and trousers tucked inside his boots. His head was masked by a large helmet.

'Don't park that damned thing there,' Beaurain ordered.

The man swung round, his right hand jumping to the inside of his jacket. Beaurain waited. The man changed his mind, withdrawing his hand empty. Motoring gloves were perched on the saddle.

'You say what?' the muffled voice behind the helmet asked.

Beaurain waved his left hand, first at the machine, then over to the distant side of Martin Hogarth's bungalow. The man hesitated, then spoke again.

'No hurt wall…'

'I said move the damned thing over there.'

Again Beaurain used his left hand to gesture at the machine, then at the side of Martin's bungalow. The man shrugged, put on his gloves, tucked the envelope under his arm and moved the machine, propping it against Martin's end wall. He kept well away from Beaurain as he turned, walked up to Martin's entrance. Beaurain walked quickly back to his own entrance, found the door open, the living-room lights turned off. Paula stood framed in the gloom.

She had been woken by the sound of the motor-cycle arriving. When she slipped under the sheets she had only divested herself of her windcheater and her boots and had pulled up her thick woollen jumper out of her trousers. If called, she wanted to be able to dress in half a minute. Now she stood in the dark, her right hand clutching her new Browning. Gently, Beaurain pushed her back inside, followed her, closed the door.

'He's delivering a large envelope to someone,' he whispered.

'There won't be anything inside it. Accidentally, I'm sure, one of those envelopes was delivered through the letter-box to Mrs Gobble. I found it in a rubbish bin. Nothing inside that one.'

'This gives us a chance to check on who he calls on…'

He opened the door quietly again and they stood shoulder to shoulder, concealed inside the deep porch alcove. Looking at Martin's bungalow, they saw the glare light come on, heard the door opening. Martin's sarcastic voice could be heard clearly.

'Go to hell! At this time of night!'

A door slammed shut. They stood very still as the messenger walked past, giving not so much as a glance at the alcove. He had taken off his helmet. In the moonlight Paula thought he was youngish, brown-skinned, hair trimmed very short. An Egyptian? A Saudi?

Looking out, they saw him call at Margesson's Georgian house. The reception was even more explosive. The glare light came on. They heard Margesson's deep rumbling voice.

'Frig off! Lunatic…'

Another door slammed. Paula was frowning as the messenger proceeded to the huge tub-shaped house where Palfry lived. Another glare light. They could just catch Palfry's smooth voice.

'Not here. Please go away…'

A door closed more quietly. The messenger now proceeded round the far end of Carp Lake. The moon shone on the lake, making it appear like a sheet of black iron. Then it was blotted out by clouds. Paula said, 'Damn! We won't see what happens on the other side.'

'Yes, we will.'

Beaurain darted inside, felt round inside his satchel, came back wearing night-glasses. His view through them was a luminous green. Enough to see the motor-cyclist walk past Mrs Gobble's residence, then on to Drew Franklin's cube house, where he stopped. Another glare light. Beaurain told Paula his impressions.

'Stayed longer there, then skulked off. Why longer there?'

'Because Drew is noted for his biting tongue. Or did he hand him the envelope?'

'No, still got it under his arm. That just leaves Garda, the Minister's palace. A tall man has opened the door. No glare light. Think light from the moon which has just come out again was reflected off glasses.'

'Pince-nez.' Paula shivered. It was a bitterly freezing night and the air was penetrating their bungalow. It had been warm before, thanks to Billy's good central heating system.

'What's happening now?' she asked impatiently.

'Warner has closed the door. The motor-cyclist is hoofing it back over here. To collect his machine. Still has the envelope under his arm.' He closed the door and Paula turned on the lights. 'Most mysterious.'

'What does it mean?' she asked from the kitchen as she used the cafetiere to make them more coffee. She kept her windcheater on until the central heating neutralized the icy air which had drifted in.

'I discussed this with Tweed and he replied with one word. Communications.'

'Still not with you, Jules.'

'It hit me when he said that. You've probably read about the attack in New York on the World Trade Center. No one could understand why such an intricate plan hadn't leaked. Now I'm confident I can guess why, what method was used over there, and is being used here. Nothing is ever written down, in case it gets into the wrong hands. All communication and instructions are by word of mouth. That's why the Americans had no warning about September 11 – and why we're getting no warning about their plan for London.'

'So the envelope is for cover?'

'Exactly. The trouble is we've observed where the motorcyclist called, but we don't know which individual he delivered a verbal message to.'

'Maybe to all of them.' She handed Beaurain a mug of coffee and sat down with him on a sofa, sipping from her own mug. 'All of them,' she repeated. 'Martin, Margesson, Palfry, Drew Franklin and the Minister.'

'Doesn't sound likely. Not Drew Franklin, for example, I'm sure. It's one individual, but which?'

'So we're back to square one…'

Beaurain lifted a finger to his lips and she stopped talking. Paula had good hearing but Beaurain's was exceptional. After a minute they heard the motor-cycle's engine start up, then the machine roared off away from the village. Paula drank the rest of her coffee, stood up.

'If you don't mind I'm going to snatch a bit more kip.'

She went to a window at the front, lifted a blind. The view had vanished. She was staring into a dense fog, curling round the bungalow like an enormous snake. She told Jules, reminded him to wake her when the time came for her watch, went back to bed. Nothing more was likely to happen for the rest of the night.

Nestled in his observation point at the top of the pine tree, Newman woke suddenly. His thick black coat had kept out the bitter cold, had made him too comfortable. He was appalled. He had fallen asleep on duty. Something had woken him up. Stripping off his gloves, he reached out, took hold of the Uzi. He moved very little, careful to make no sound. He listened. Then he heard it. The stealthy crunch of feet below, treading down dead bracken.

The trouble was a heavy mist had fogged his vision. He put on the night-glasses, the mist turned green. Cautiously, he pulled aside a screen of foliage, gave himself a window on the blurred world. Four of them, well spread out across the field. Good tactics. No bunching to provide one target.

They were crawling forward, almost as swift as ants on the move. Four men with turbans wrapped round their heads. He thought the turbans were black. Al-Qa'eda. What was their target? He aimed his Uzi through his 'window', waited.

The circle began closing. Heading for Billy Hogarth's bungalow. Paula and Beaurain were their targets. Newman waited no longer. Aiming at one figure in the middle, he fired a shot. It electrified the stalkers. One swung round, raised his weapon, a Kalashnikov, began spraying the tree tops with a hail of bullets. How he'd realized the single shot had come from high up in the trees Newman had no idea. He no longer waited.

He let loose a stream of bullets. The man who had fired rolled over sideways, lay deathly still. Newman swung the muzzle to the next man, who had started shooting wildly at Black Wood, crouched now on his knees. Newman fired again. The shooter was riddled with bullets, dropped his weapon, fell forward. He didn't move again.

Newman turned his attention to the other two and was alarmed when he found they had disappeared. They must have taken cover round the sides of the bungalow. Newman hoped to God the fusillades had warned the occupants.

Inside the bungalow Paula had hauled on her boots, grabbed the Uzi she had placed on a table close to the bed. She flung open the door to the living-room. Beaurain was standing close to the front door, his weapon in his hands. He smiled grimly.

'You watch the kitchen door. I'm taking the front one…'

He unlocked the door, stood to one side, flung it wide open. Mist drifted in. Not helpful. He listened. The firing at the rear of the bungalow had ceased. The silence was ominous.

No one in the alcove porch. He stepped into it, listened once more. Nothing. He suspected the attackers could move like mice. No warning they were coming. He peered out of the alcove, checking both directions. No one. Then he heard faintly but clearly a voice he just recognized. Newman's, shouting a warning through hands cupped round his mouth. The words, muffled by the mist, just reached him.

'Two of them near you. I brought down other two in the field behind…'

Two? Dangerous. If they both attacked at once. To make himself a smaller target, Beaurain sat down outside the porch, a tactic he'd used successfully fighting terrorists over the water. He heard the faint jostle of a pebble to his right. A man appeared, a silhouette in the mist. Holding a Kalashnikov. The barrel came up to kill Beaurain. The Belgian had his Uzi aimed in that direction, fired a long burst. The figure jumped – under the shock of the bullets hitting him – dropped his weapon, leaned against the wall of the bungalow, slithered down it, lay very still. Beaurain's weapon was already aimed to his left. Nothing, no sound.

Inside Paula had darted into the kitchen, paused, facing the heavy back door which she knew was bolted. No one was going to get in through that. She also was listening, now the shooting from the front had ceased. She prayed Beaurain was still alive.

They couldn't get in through the living-room windows -the shutters, closed, were heavy. Newman's shout had just reached her. Difficult to hear but she'd caught the gist of his warning. Was there one more out there?

She wasn't frightened. She had been startled to be woken from a deep sleep by the sound of gunfire. Now her training came to her aid. Her nerves were cold, controlled. She was ready to kill. She held her Uzi across her waist, ready to aim it in any direction.

The back door was bolted top and bottom, but when they arrived the key had been missing, although the door was locked. Billy must had slipped it into his pocket without thinking. So she had no way of knowing a ferocious eye was peering at her through the keyhole.

Some instinct made her back further away from the door. Still she held the Uzi across her stomach, parallel to the floor. Frequently she glanced back over her shoulder. When she had rushed into the kitchen she had hauled down two large pans off hooks, had dropped them at the entrance to the kitchen. She had used the dimmer to lower the lighting. If anyone came through the door from the living-room they would, with luck, stumble over the pans, announcing their presence.

When the attack came it was still a shock. The heavy back door was smashed inwards, breaking free of its hinges, the bolts giving way. A huge figure stood in the doorway, the biggest man she had ever seen. His weight had destroyed the back door as though it were made of matchwood. On his head he wore a black turban. His black beard was glistening with moisture from the mist.

He was grinning savagely. His Kalashnikov was looped over his shoulder. In his right hand he held a horrible-looking curved knife. He was going to slash her to bits. Quite confident – peering through the keyhole he'd seen that her Uzi was held across her waist. His trunk-like legs carried him forward like a juggernaut.

She swung the barrel of the Uzi through ninety degrees, was pressing the trigger, kept on pressing it, emptied the magazine into him. Forty rounds. He stood perfectly still for a mind-breaking moment, then fell forward. She had to jump backwards to avoid this immense body hitting her. It thudded to the floor, caused a shuddering vibration. She forced herself to bend over it, checking the carotid artery in the bull-like neck. He was dead.

Before checking the artery she had hauled out the empty mag, had inserted a fresh one. Behind her she heard a clatter of pans.

She jumped up, her weapon aimed at the entrance into the kitchen. Beaurain's voice shouted.

'Don't shoot. It's Jules…'

She smiled wearily, lowered her gun. He came forward and stared, first at the smashed door, then down at the body. He whistled.

'What a giant.'

'It was like something out of Psycho. He came in like an express train, waving that knife. My training saved me. He's dead as a dodo, thank God. What a brute.'

Beaurain looped his Uzi over his shoulder, put both hands on her shoulders, pulled her close. She was trembling. He held her like that until the trembling stopped and she released herself.

'I'm OK now. What's the situation?' she asked briskly.

'There were four of them. Newman must have been guarding us, hidden in Black Wood. He got two of them.

I got one. You brought down this bull, who was probably the leader. They're al-Qa'eda. Look at the turban…'

He whipped his weapon off his shoulder as he heard someone outside the back door. A voice called in, cautiously. Newman's.

'Are you both all right? Heard you talking.'

'I think we'll let you in,' Paula called out impishly.

Newman appeared. He paused to look down at the intact door lying on the floor. Its heaviness had saved it from any real damage. It had simply given way in one piece under the massive onslaught.

'Tell you about that later,' Paula said with a smile. 'So good to see you. Thanks for the back-up. Now, can we fix the door before we freeze to death…'

Between them, Beaurain and Newman lifted the door, slotted it back into place. Newman opened drawers, found a collection of spatulas and large knives. They used these to ram them into the edges of the door, which held it firmly in place. It was a makeshift job but served the purpose.

Paula, who didn't fancy staying in the kitchen with the body on the floor, said she'd clear up her bedroom while they worked. She'd jumped out of bed so quickly the sheets and duvet were strewn over the floor. When she came back Newman was having a long conversation with Tweed on his mobile, reporting what had happened. He paused for a short time, then resumed the conversation briefly.

'That's organized,' he told Beaurain.

'What is?' asked Paula, prodding him. 'I'm still here, you know.'

'Tweed phoned Buchanan while I waited. Roy is rushing ambulances up here to collect the bodies. He also wants to know who up here has reacted – which is something Roy and I have decided to check.'

'We'd better get outside now then…'

The mist was thinning when they all left the bungalow.

The lights were on in every house. Martin was already outside, using a flashlight to examine the killer Newman had shot down. He looked up.

'What the devil happened? Who is this guy? He looks dead.'

'He is,' Newman told him. 'We had a gang of burglars who came armed.'

'How long have you been out here?' Beaurain asked. 'And I see you're fully dressed at 3 a.m.'

'How observant of you,' Martin sneered as he stood up. 'I don't think we've met before.' He looked back at Paula. 'And what are you doing inside Billy's bungalow? Where is Billy?'

'He decided to take a holiday,' Paula said, smiling acidly. 'Loaned us his place – I don't think he wanted to leave it empty.'

'Didn't say a word to me.'

'Maybe he doesn't always tell you about his plans,' Paula suggested sweetly.

'The police will have to be informed,' Martin snapped. 'I'll call them

'Don't bother,' the Belgian told him. 'We have already done that. And I'm Commissioner Beaurain.'

'I see. And I dress quickly. Heard the gunshots.'

'Very quickly,' Beaurain commented. 'Down to inserting a clip in your tie.'

Tin going back to bed,' Martin snapped and walked back to his bungalow. He slammed the door shut once he was inside.

A tall figure came striding round the end of the lake. His eyes glared from behind his pince-nez. The Minister wore a heavy overcoat with an astrakhan collar and a silk scarf round his long bony neck. He stopped close to them, as tall as Beaurain. His hands were inside his coat pockets and his manner was regal.

'Will someone be so kind as to inform me what has happened? I heard gunfire. I also saw you come out of Billy Hogath's bungalow. So what is going on?'

'The police are on the way,' Newman told him. 'Al-Qa'eda sent four killers to attack us. They are all dead.'

'So,' Paula said pointedly, 'al-Qa'eda have arrived in Britain.. .'

'What proof have you that the men belong to that Organization? You'd better be careful before you spread that sort of speculation.'

'They have brown skins and were wearing black turbans,' Newman snapped. 'Didn't you know that is their favoured uniform?'

'Must have slipped through our net at Dover,' Warner asserted. 'I repeat, this must be kept very quiet. We don't want to start a panic in London. Incidentally, I have arranged a full security meeting for the morning. Ten o'clock at my place.'

'Penthouse or Whitehall guardhouse?' enquired Newman.

'I find your sense of humour rather crude.' He turned to Paula. 'As Tweed is coming I suppose you'll be there too,' he went on in a tone lacking enthusiasm. 'Then you can tell me what you were doing in Billy Hogarth's bungalow. I shall require a complete explanation of your presence here.'

He turned his back on them and strode off to Garda before anyone could reply. Newman looked furious, while Beaurain was smiling as though amused.

'I presume that is your Minister of Security. Not in the best of tempers.'

'Well, I really am not all that surprised,' a smarmy voice said behind Beaurain.

'Jules,' Paula said quickly, 'this is Peregrine Palfry, the Minister's personal assistant.'

'I was going on to say,' Palfry continued, annoyed at her intervention, 'that the Minister works all hours and gets very little sleep. On my way here I passed a nasty body. I was also woken by gunfire. What on earth has been going on?'

'Armed robbers, dear boy,' said Beaurain, who had taken an instant dislike to Palfry. 'It doesn't just happen in London. And before you ask, the police are on their way.'

'But what exactly happened?' Palfry insisted. 'You have told me nothing.'

'That burglar tried to shoot me. I shot him first,' Beaurain said in a bored tone.

'How absolutely frightful. How extremely mind-boggling. We thought we were safe here. The people who live in this village, I mean.'

Palfry was dressed as though he'd just got up. Below his overcoat, buttoned to the neck, protruded a pair of pink striped pyjamas. But Paula noticed that below them were were the cuffs of a dark suit. Did he really sleep in his suit under pyjamas? Palfry was lying.

'The gunfire woke you then?' she enquired.

'I'll say it did. Pretty awful way to start the day if you ask me.' He turned to Paula. 'I heard the Minister inviting you to come with Tweed to the meeting tomorrow morning at his Belgravia apartment. You'll be hungry when it's all over. Maybe you would join me for a little lunch afterwards?'

'Kind of you. Let's see how it goes.'

Palfry walked back towards his 'tub' house. Paula noticed he took a route which kept him well clear of the body lying outside the bungalow.

'I wonder whether he will come over to see us?' Beaurain said.

He pointed across the lake to the cube house. A red MG was emerging from a garage under one of the cubes. In the moonlight she could see the distinctive figure of Drew Franklin behind the wheel. The car sped round the end of the lake and drove at speed towards them. Drew braked feet before he reached them. As he alighted from the car he took off his hat and bowed to Paula.

'So, gentlemen, the war has started.'

'We shot a burglar…' Newman began.

'Burglar my foot.' His headlights were beamed on the body. 'Native clothes and a black turban? That's al-Qa'eda come to town. The lot of you could have been murdered.'

'Yes, we were lucky,' Beaurain said with a smile.

'That will light a fire under Victor Warner. I've called my editor, told him to delay my column twenty-four hours. The headline? Al-Qa'eda Strike in North Downs. How many of 'em?'

'You only see one body,' Beaurain pointed out.

'How many?' Drew demanded again. 'All that gunfire.'

'Four bodies – like that one,' Newman admitted.

'Bigger headline. Massacre of al-Qa'eda near London. The Minister will love that. None of you were hit?'

'We hit them,' Paula said.

'Good for you.' He put his arm round her. 'And I'll bet this lady scored a bull.'

'It was a bull – in every sense of the word,' Beaurain replied.

'I'm off. To rewrite my article. Might just bully the editor into reworking the paper so it will hit today's edition.'

He leapt back behind the wheel of his MG. The car roared off towards London and was gone. Beaurain looked thoughtful.

'That Drew Franklin could be the brightest brain up here. I think someone should interrogate him for a long time.'

'I could do that,' Newman said. 'We're both reporters…'

Paula packed quickly, remade the bed in her room, checked the interior of the bungalow to make sure it looked neat. Swift as she was, two ambulances arrived before dawn. Buchanan jumped out, listened while Beaurain and Newman gave him a quick description of what had happened, where the bodies were. Within twenty minutes, under Buchanan's urging, both ambulances were occupied with their cargo.

'I want to get these bodies out of this village, heading back to London before the inhabitants appear. I know they've been up once but from what you've told me they don't know all that much.'

'Except Drew Franklin,' Beaurain reminded him.

'That's great,' Buchanan said, smiling. 'He'll splash what has happened up here. Finally wake up people to the grim threat al-Qa'eda poses to London.'

'Tweed will be rubbing his hands,' Paula commented.

'And that idiot, Victor Warner, will be wringing his. You will all be leaving, I hope,' Buchanan went on, turning to get aboard one of the ambulances. 'You've done the trick. Rattled al-Qa'eda's cage – and that of the master planner…'

They were leaving. Beaurain locked the front door of Billy's bungalow. He paused, his satchel and 'violin' case looped over his shoulder, his case in his other hand.

'You going back to the Peacock?' Newman asked.

'No, I want to get to London. Paula's car is inside Mrs Goggle's shed. What about you?'

'I left my car at the triangle at the other end of what Paula calls the rabbit warren.'

'Then we'll all drive there in my car so you can pick up your car,' Paula decided. 'I wonder how Billy is getting on in some hotel in town?'