Death's No Antidote Read online

  “Drop your guns,” shouted the Welshman. “The house is surrounded by police, so don’t try to resist.”

  Harry Brett and Susan obeyed immediately — but Finn reacted instinctively. He spun around, dropped to one knee and squeezed the trigger twice.

  The first bullet sang past Jones, waist high, and went out through the open door. The second went off at a tangent in C.P.’s direction when Finn’s fingers were smashed by a shot from Ritchie.

  It was an impressive display of marksmanship by the American, during which his jaws never ceased their rhythmical chewing action.

  “Anyone else want to argue?” he inquired casually in the sudden hush which followed the shooting.

  Nobody argued. And then the silence was broken by the sound of C.P.’s body thudding to the floor.

  That second stray bullet from Finn had missed C.P.’s ear by a hair’s breadth — and he had fainted.

  Gunney, Chance and Turner, all deathly pale, were still standing against the wall with Colonel Fu, who was smiling slightly. Jones ordered Finn and his party to sit on the floor in front of them.

  Only then, with the Americans standing guard, did the Welshman look at Dingle.

  “All right, Jim boyo.”

  “Fine. It’s beginning to get a bit crowded in here though. It’s time we left.”

  “You’re bloody right. Cut those ropes Willy.”

  “I must say,” Dingle added while Williams worked at his bonds, “you’re doing very well for a man who is supposed to be dead. I was told you were shot last night.”

  “Oh I was boyo. Got up off my sick bed to get you out of this jam.”

  Dingle grinned. “Thanks. What have you done with Dawes, by the way?”

  “He’s all right. We’ve left him tied up in the hangar… Hurry up Willy!”

  “Nearly done.”

  The rope fell free and Williams began to massage Dingle’s legs to restore the circulation.

  A moan came from Croome-Pugglesley as he struggled to sit up.

  “Hello Seepy,” said Jones. “You’re not dead after all. There’s lovely for you.” He turned to Dingle. “Whose side is he on now? I’m getting a bit confused.”

  “At the last roll-call he was with the Russians,” said Dingle.

  “Tut tut Seepy. There’s bad company you’re keeping. You do chop and change don’t you? You’d better come back to us.”

  Misery had temporarily swamped C.P.’s fear. He felt tired and ill. There was no hope for him now; he would rot in jail.

  “Damn you,” he muttered wretchedly. “It’s all your fault that I’m in this mess.”

  But Jones didn’t hear. He was watching Dingle, who was moving across the room to pick up one of the guns taken from the Russians.

  Dingle grinned. “I’m okay now.”

  “I’m not,” said Finn, who was sitting grimacing with pain, nursing his shattered hand. “I need medical attention.”

  “You’ll get it,” snapped Jones. “The prison doctor will have you as right as rain before you stand trial. In the meantime get your girl friend to wrap her scarf around it.”

  Susan snatched the silk square from her head and began to bind Finn’s wound.

  Dingle stood looking at the prisoners.

  “We’re going to need transport to cart this bunch off,” he said. “One of us had better find the phone and order a couple of black marias.”

  “Right,” agreed Jones. “But first of all, what about the films? Have you still got them, or has one of these jokers pinched them?”

  “I haven’t got them, but I know where they…”

  He didn’t complete the sentence. Nobody was listening anyway. Everyone else in the room was staring at something in the doorway behind him.

  Dingle turned — and looked into the eyes of a black Angel of Death.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Feet braced apart, left shoulder hunched forward, her black leather jacket and trousers gleaming from the light drizzle that had begun to fall outside, Marjorie Brett stood just inside the room.

  The instrument of death which she cradled with a disconcerting professionalism was a Schmeisser MP40.

  Dingle recognised it immediately and automatically catalogued it in his mind; sub-machine gun, 9mm., 28-round detachable magazine, folding metal stock, extended length 35 inches, loaded weight 10 lb.

  He looked carefully at the way she was holding it and guessed that, if she squeezed the trigger, it would pull to the right and slightly high; but only slightly. If she swung the gun in an arc, the stream of bullets would be low enough to scythe down every person standing in the room.

  Finn and his group might escape. They were all squatting on the floor.

  Dingle considered dropping flat. He could probably get away with it — alone. But before he could get a shot in that ugly black machine-pistol would be spurting death. He dismissed the idea. The risk to his friends was too great.

  All these thoughts flashed through his brain in the instant before Marjorie Brett spoke.

  “Drop your guns and remain exactly where you are.”

  Her tone brooked no argument. The words were spoken quietly, yet they had a crispness which jolted her listeners like an electric charge.

  Ritchie, like Dingle, had weighed up the possibilities. His gun thumped dully on to the carpet followed by Dingle’s, Gruber’s and Williams’s. Finally, Jones gave a tiny shrug of resignation, opened his fingers and allowed his revolver to fall.

  The Schmeisser was a powerful persuader.

  The tension in the room eased fractionally and, for the first time, Mrs. Brett looked at her leader.

  “I was guarding the main gate, like you said, when I heard shooting. So I ran to the car and fetched this.” She made a tiny movement with the Schmeisser.

  Finn’s triumphant smile masked his pain.

  “Well done Marjorie. I was relying on you — but Jones said the house was surrounded.”

  “He’s lying,” she replied confidently. “I went right round the place before I came in.”

  “Good. I’ll join you.”

  Finn crawled across the floor, keeping as low as possible, so that her arc of fire would not be interrupted. He collected Ritchie’s gun on the way, holding it in his left hand, and stood up when he reached her side. Then he ordered the rest of his group to do the same, one at a time — while the SS(O)S men and the Americans were herded back against the wall with Fu’s party.

  Mrs. Brett’s eyes flicked across the room.

  “Where’s Dawes?” she asked.

  “In the hangar, according to Jones, tied up,” answered Finn. He turned to the pilots and spoke in Russian. “Go to the hangar and bring back the man you will find there. Can I trust you to do the job properly this time?”

  The pilots grunted in reply, and went out.

  “Why fetch him?” asked Mrs. Brett.

  “Because he has the films. At least, that slit-eyed PLA colonel says he has…” He broke off and added urgently: “Hey! Get back! Come round this way, behind me.”

  Croome-Pugglesley, hope and strength rekindled, was trying to reach Sue’s side — and he had strayed into noman’s land. He stepped back quickly and made his way behind Finn and Mrs. Brett.

  “What are you doing over there Seepy?” Jones called out. “You’re on the wrong side man. Come over here with us.”

  Anger overruled the fear which still lurked inside C.P., the fear which he knew would not desert him until he was safely behind the protection of the Iron Curtain.

  “Leave me alone, damn you Jones. You’re responsible for my position. You’ve ruined my career, my life in this country. Now let me go and build a new future with Susan…” he put an arm around the girl’s shoulder… “We’re going to be married as soon as we get to Russia.”

  “Bloody ’ell man, don’t do it. Stay here. Get the girl to stay with you. The Director will work something out for you. Remember…” Jones searched
his memory, recalling C.P.’s predilection for Latin phrases… “coelum non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt — people who cross the sea change their sky but not their — affections. You wouldn’t be happy in Russia.”

  “You forget Jones. If I remain here, there will be no sky for me; only the ceiling of a prison cell. How many years do you think I would get for spying against my own country?”

  “Dammit Seepy, you’re not a real spy; not by choice anyway, only by default. We know that. The Director will probably get the charge reduced. You wouldn’t serve long…”

  “Blandae mendacia linguae.” C.P. cut him short. “The falsehoods of a smooth tongue. And, my God, Jones, you’ve got a smooth tongue; but you won’t talk me into anything else.”

  “All right, that’s enough you two,” said Finn, who had been listening to the exchange with amused interest. “Be quiet now. They’re coming back.”

  He turned to face the door, covering it with his revolver, and signalled Brett and Susan to do the same. He didn’t intend to be caught napping again. Marjorie Brett continued to menace the prisoners with the machine-pistol.

  The door swung open and Dawes came in between the Russian pilots. His hands were still tied behind his back.

  “Ah, Mr. Dawes. You have something for me, I hope.”

  Dawes blinked in the glare of the electric light.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The films, man! Give them to me.”

  “He doesn’t have them,” Fu’s smooth, precise voice came from the other side of the room.

  Finn whirled around to face him.

  “I’m afraid I must confess to an earlier deception,” the Chinese colonel continued blandly. “Merely a ploy to gain time in the hope that when Mr. Dawes arrived he would sense that something was wrong and find a way to regain the initiative for us. But now,” he shrugged and gave a curious half-smile, “I acknowledge defeat.

  “I have the films. I engineered the whole plan to steal the secrets of the DNA File — of whose existence I believe you knew nothing — and now it seems I must hand them over to you. It is most unfair. Do you think perhaps Russia would be willing to share the information with China?”

  “I’ll mention it when I’m next in the Kremlin,” said Finn sarcastically. “Now where are they?”

  Fu shrugged again. “In the wardrobe, in my overcoat pocket. I’ll get them for you.” He began to move forward.

  “No you don’t,” snapped Finn. “I’ll get them.”

  He moved quickly across to the wardrobe and opened the door.

  “This coat?”

  “Yes. In the left hand pocket.”

  Finn found it awkward to work with his damaged hand. He pocketed his gun and, with his left hand, pulled out the coat, still on its hanger. He hooked it over the wardrobe door. Eagerly, he groped for the nearest pocket.

  Fu’s expressionless eyes watched him intently.

  “No, not that one. I said the left hand pocket.”

  Finn pushed, suspicion darkening his face.

  “You seem a little too anxious, Fu. Why? It is booby-trapped?”

  “You’re being absurd. I offered to get them for you myself.”

  Finn wasn’t convinced.

  “Julian! Come here. Put your hand in this pocket.”

  “No! I…I…”

  The gun was back in Finn’s hand. It was pointed at Croome-Pugglesley’s chest.

  “If you’re coming with us, Julian, if you’re going to marry Susan, you must work for us.”

  C.P. moved forward slowly on shaking legs. His eyes were wide with terror, sweat streamed down his pallid face, and his inside was turning to water. He stopped beside the coat.

  Finn backed away.

  “Now Julian.”

  There was utter silence in the room. All eyes were focused upon C.P.’s trembling fingers as, with terrifying care, they found the slit at the top of the pocket. The fingers disappeared inside; then the hand; then the wrist. The cloth of the coat moved as the fingers groped inside. The movement ceased.

  “Anything there?” Finn’s question was an explosion in the quietness.

  C.P. closed his eyes and nodded dumbly. Then suddenly he withdrew his hand.

  “Well?”

  He unclenched his fist to reveal the tiny films nestling in his palm.

  Seconds later, they were safely in Finn’s pocket.

  The KGB agent was in a hurry now.

  “Right! We’ve got what we came for. Let’s go.”

  He turned to the pilots and ordered them to get the aircraft engines started.

  “Sue, Harry, Julian, you follow them and get aboard the plane quickly. But first, pick up all the guns that are lying around here and take them with you. Marjorie and I will stand guard until we hear the engines start.”

  “C.P.!” Jones called urgently. “Don’t go with them.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “For God’s sake man, stay here where you belong.” There was desperation in the Welshman’s voice. “We’ll get something worked out.”

  C.P. paused in the doorway and looked back at Jones. Then, without speaking, he turned and went out.

  “Come back!” yelled Jones. He took a pace forward.

  “Stay still,” snapped Finn.

  Mrs. Brett increased the pressure of her finger on the machine-pistol’s trigger. Jones saw the action and stepped back, with an anguished expression.

  An engine coughed and whined into life; then another.

  Finn and Mrs. Brett backed slowly into the hall. Then the door was slammed behind them.

  *

  Williams led the rush to the door. It was locked.

  Gunney went in the opposite direction. He ripped the heavy curtains aside — and screamed in agony when, for the second time in just over twenty-four hours, Dingle clipped him hard on the jaw.

  “Hold it!”

  Nick Gruber, the American NSA man, had backed into a corner from where he could survey the whole room. He had a gun in each hand; the ones he had picked up and put in his pockets after they had disarmed the Russian pilots outside.

  Colonel Fu broke the sudden silence.

  “I’m afraid you will have to relinquish your weapons. If you refuse, we shall all die. I have a plastic grenade.”

  He moved where everyone could see him. In his left hand he was holding his whisky flask. The cap, still attached to the chain on the side of the flask, had been unscrewed. This he held in his right hand.

  “Ingenious, isn’t it? I have only to pull the chain, if you’ll pardon the expression, to release the pin. A tube runs down from the neck and opens out at the bottom, like an inverted funnel. This section holds liquor and is designed to fool anyone who probes inside — as, indeed, it fooled that stupid Russian. The cavities are packed with a very powerful explosive.

  “And I’ll use it!” Fu’s voice rose sharply, and for the first time Dingle saw expression light up those evil, black eyes. It was the light of madness.

  “I’ve planned this mission, and I’d rather die than fail and return home in disgrace.” He was shouting now. The short silver chain was held taut between his fists. “I’ll give you three to lay those guns down on the floor. One…two…”

  Gruber shot a look of despair at Ritchie, who nodded.

  “…Three.”

  Gruber stooped quickly and set the guns down.

  “Now kick them into the middle of the room.”

  The NSA man obeyed.

  “Pick them up Mr. Chance and use one to shoot off the lock on the door.”

  Chance moved to the door. He fired twice, and the door swung open.

  “Good.” Fu was in control of himself again. “Mr. Dawes, go and start the plane.”

  “I will if someone unties these ropes,” the pilot replied. His hands were still bound behind his back.

  “Mr. Gunney!”

  Gunney stopped massaging his jaw and leapt to
obey. He began to work furiously on the knots.

  Outside, the engines of the Russian plane were still screaming.

  “Why haven’t they taken off yet?” asked Fu.

  Dawes’s experienced ear had been listening subconsciously to the aircraft for some time.

  “I think they’re having trouble with one of the engines, but it sounds sweeter now. They’ll be off in a minute.”

  The rope fell free.

  “Shall I go now?”

  Fu nodded. “I’ll join you very shortly. Mr. Gunney, Mr. Chance, Mr. Turner…thank you for your help. Take the car from the garage. Leave it somewhere in London and disperse. You will be contacted when we need you again.”

  The SS(O)S men and the Americans were left alone with Fu.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dingle, that I shall not be able to take you to Peking after all.”

  “Another time perhaps,” said Dingle lightly.

  Jason Ritchie spoke.

  “Colonel, you said just now you would rather die than fail in your mission — but the Russians have the films.”

  Fu smiled. “Explain, Mr. Dingle.”

  “They’ve got the wrong ones,” said Dingle. “They’ve taken the fakes I planted in Croome-Pugglesley’s flat.”

  “Exactly.” Fu moved across to the wardrobe.

  He had to release the cap of the flask for a moment while he reached into the right hand pocket of the overcoat. But the distance between him and the five agents was too great for them to try to rush him.

  The Chinaman held up the twin film cartridges for a moment before slipping them into his jacket and resuming his grip on the flask cap.

  “These are the real ones.”

  They could hear the Russian jet racing down the runway now. Added to its noise was the sound of more engines being run up. Dawes was ready for take-off.

  “And now I must leave you,” Fu continued.

  He crossed with a catlike tread to the doorway, his malignant black eyes never leaving them as he moved. When he reached the hallway he turned to run.

  But before he turned, he ripped the chain from the flask, releasing the pin.