Death's No Antidote Page 9

  “Must be Dawes,” said the Welshman. “A bit earlier than he thought he’d be.”

  “Perhaps he…hullo! The runway lights have been switched on.”

  “Quickly, boyo. Let’s get behind the hangar,” Jones whispered urgently, starting to run.

  They reached the deep shadow at the rear of the hangar and peered round the corner, just in time to see the nose of the aircraft coming straight towards them, leaving the runway at an angle.

  “Christ, man! He’s going to park here, on the apron,” said Williams breathlessly.

  “The bushes. Over there,” said Jones, leading the way to the shrubbery at the edge of the apron.

  They reached cover and sank down on their haunches as the plane taxied round and halted in the shadows behind the hangar, where they had been a few seconds earlier. Gradually, the whine of the engines died away.

  “For Christ’s sake, be quiet,” hissed Jones. “You’re panting like a bloody steam engine.”

  “It’s all right for you,” retorted Williams, aggrieved. “I’m carrying all the damn gear. Remember?”

  “Well, I’m supposed to be convalescent, boyo. My neck’s giving me…ssh! Here comes the welcome home committee.”

  *

  Gunney and Chance ran along the side of the hangar.

  “Why the hell has he parked right up here?” asked Chance.

  “Dunno…probably wants to be out of the lights in case any other planes up top get curious. It’s an unscheduled stop, don’t forget.”

  The cabin door was open, the steps were folded down and the interior lights were out by the time they reached the aircraft. At the foot of the steps they paused uncertainly.

  “Here!” exclaimed Gunney. “This…”

  Two men appeared suddenly at the top of the steps.

  “Just be quiet and stand exactly where you are,” said the first slowly, in heavily accented English.

  “Who the hell are…?”

  “Quiet, I said, and don’t move.”

  Gunney and Chance kept very quiet; and they stayed very still.

  It was dark — but not too dark for them to see that the revolvers pointing at them were big enough to silence them forever and make movement impossible.

  Footsteps sounded behind them. Someone must have been waiting inside the hangar, Chance thought. More footsteps, running this time. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed three silhouettes, outlined by the landing lights, coming from direction of the runway.

  The footsteps behind him stopped; a voice called out something in a language Chance didn’t understand. The man on the steps laughed and answered in the same foreign tongue.

  Then the three others had joined them, out of breath after their run. In the darkness Gunney and Chance could just make out that one of them was a girl.

  The man behind them spoke again, in English this time.

  “You can turn around now, my friends,” said Finn.

  They turned, slowly, and saw that he had a gun, too. So did the girl and one of her two companions. The two men from the plane came down the steps and closed in behind them.

  Finn was smiling.

  “And now,” he said gently, “as they say in the best science fiction novels — take us to your leader.”

  *

  “Who the hell are that lot?” asked Williams as Chance, Gunney and their captors walked towards the bungalow and vanished from sight.

  “I don’t know — but they were speaking Russian, boyo.”

  “That’s all we need. Now we’re hopelessly outnumbered. I told you we should have attacked the house earlier. We might have had a chance then.”

  “Don’t start nagging me, Willie bach. I’m trying to bloody think. Let’s take a look at this plane.”

  They broke cover and walked softly across the apron. “It’s Russian all right, Willie. Look. No wonder the pilot’s parked it in the shadows.”

  In the darkness they could just make out the Russian markings.

  “Yes, I can see that. But what are we going to do?”

  “For a start you can hop aboard and make sure there’s nobody else inside. Then we’ll go over to the house and see what’s going on there.”

  Glyn Jones’s brain was working furiously, and he had the germ of an idea. He looked at his watch.

  “Dawes should be back any minute — if he’s coming. I think we might still be able to pull something out of the fire.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fu Chang-Sui’s welcoming smile froze, then faded as Gunney and Chance were propelled into the room.

  “On your feet, Colonel,” snapped Finn. He gestured towards Turner. “And you. Quickly.”

  Turner, sickly pale, jumped to obey. Fu rose more slowly. They stood quite still — looking into the business ends of five revolvers.

  “Turn round, line up over there and lean forward with your hands flat against the wall. All of you! No, feet further out than that…that’s better.”

  Finn moved behind them and ran his hands over them expertly. Quickly, he relieved Turner and Gunney of their automatics and Chance of his cosh. He found nothing on Fu.

  “I don’t carry weapons,” said the colonel.

  Finn grunted and jerked him upright by the back of his collar.

  “Over to the table and empty your pockets,” he ordered.

  As Fu crossed the room, Dingle, still lying tied to the bed, raised his head and grinned.

  “Unexpected company, eh Colonel Fu.” He craned his neck to look at Croome-Pugglesley. “Nice to see you C.P. old boy. Good of you to drop in.”

  C.P. didn’t reply. He knew that if he opened his mouth to speak he would be sick. He had lived with fear for days; but now it was spreading inside him like an incurable cancer. All he wanted to do was run…anywhere.

  Nervously, he eyed the guns that had been dumped on the table. He hoped Fu would not make a grab for one. Finn’s men would retaliate if Fu and his party decided to resist. Lead would fly; and if he got in the way of a stray bullet… Beads of cold sweat formed on his brow. He jerked at the sound of his name.

  “So, Mr. Croome-Pugglesley, you have been playing a double game,” said Fu. “And your friends have come to rescue you in the nick of time, Mr. Dingle.”

  Finn laughed.

  “Dingle is no friend of ours. You’re welcome to do what you like with him — after we’ve gone.”

  “Then who are you?” asked Fu slowly.

  “I and my colleagues are agents of the KGB. Mr. Croome-Pugglesley has decided to join us. And these two gentlemen are Russian pilots who have been recruited for the occasion.”

  “And what do you want? The films that Mr. Croome-Pugglesley obtained for me?”

  “How did you guess? Now stop wasting time and hand them over.”

  Fu shook his head slowly.

  “I haven’t got them.”

  Finn’s voice hardened.

  “I can shoot you first and search you afterwards. It’s up to you. Now, empty your pockets.”

  Fu shrugged and obeyed. There were no films among the items that littered the table after he had finished.

  “Now pull out the linings of your pockets so I can see them.”

  The linings were clean.

  Finn once more ran his hands over Fu’s clothing. He patted the colonel’s back pocket.

  “What’s this?”

  “Ah! I forgot that pocket.” There was a faint smile on the Chinaman’s lips. “It’s a hip flask.”

  Finn pulled it out roughly. He unscrewed the can and let it drop so that it hung by the short silver chain attached to the side of the flask.

  “A conveniently wide neck,” he said, sniffing the liquid inside.

  “It’s very good brandy,” said Fu. “Try some.”

  Calmly, Finn poured the drink over the carpet. Then he probed the inside of the flask with a thin pen.

  Fu sighed.

  “You’re wasting your
time. The films aren’t in there.”

  “Then where are they?”

  Finn was angry now.

  “In the plane. Dawes has them. He’ll be here soon, as you probably know, since you seem to be so well informed.”

  Finn took a pace forward. “Now look here…”

  “It’s true,” Dingle interrupted him.

  The British agent’s thoughts were racing. He knew the Chinese colonel had the films. They were in the pocket of his overcoat which was hanging inside the wardrobe. Any delay might be turned to advantage, he thought. When Dawes arrived, Fu and his gang might make a fight for it. Then anything could happen.

  “How do you know?” Finn’s voice was harsh.

  “I saw Fu give them to Dawes before he took off.”

  Finn hesitated. Then he looked at his watch and shrugged.

  “Very well. We’ll wait. He’s due any minute now.”

  Fu turned his black eyes on Dingle and gave a slight smile. Dingle knew that, once again, the colonel had read his thoughts.

  “Tell me Mr. er…?”

  “Finn.”

  “Mr. Finn. How did you know about my mission?” Fu asked. “And how did you know where to find me?”

  “It was easy. We’ve been keeping a close watch on Mr. Croome-Pugglesley, Julian, ever since your scheme with Coyle went wrong. Svet…er Susan here was assigned to the task.”

  Casually, Fu began to pick up his belongings and put them back into his pockets.

  “And how did you find me here?”

  “That, too, was easy. After we had persuaded Julian to join us, he identified Dawes for us, and all we had to do was…”

  “But I was assured that Mr. Croome-Pugglesley didn’t know Dawes’ name — and they only met once.”

  “That’s true. Dingle told Julian about Dawes.”

  “Ah! so! SS(O)S know about him? Dawes is…er…blown?” Again Fu turned his expressionless eyes on Dingle.

  “Blown wide open, my old china,” said Dingle cheerfully.

  “One more thing.” said Fu. “How were you able to get a Russian aircraft here so quickly and conveniently?”

  “A Soviet team is in this country at the moment taking part in the aerobatic championships. This plane is one of the team’s supply aircraft. I was able to arrange for it to leave Heathrow for Russia tonight to pick up some spare parts.

  “I and my colleagues were already down here, stationed on the landing strip with signalling lamps to guide it in. As it happened it didn’t matter; someone kindly switched on the runway lights and…”

  Finn broke off suddenly, listening intently. Then he added: “If I’m not mistaken, your Mr. Dawes has arrived.”

  He turned to the two pilots and spoke rapidly to them in Russian.

  The men nodded and left the room.

  “And you, Colonel,” Finn went on, “can rejoin your friends against the wall.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Williams and Glyn Jones had completed a circuit of the bungalow. They had seen a sliver of light through the heavy curtains of one window, and had heard the murmur of voices coming from inside the room. Now they stood near the path leading to the back door, in the shadow of a tree. The runway lamps were still burning — but their light didn’t reach this far.

  “Shall we go in?” whispered Williams. “They all seem to be in one room. We might find Jim in one of the other rooms.”

  “I doubt it. He’s probably in with them, where they can watch him. And Dawes isn’t here yet, don’t forget.”

  “We’ll hear the plane when…”

  “And so will the others. What do you think they’ll do then, boyo?”

  Williams thought for a moment.

  “Probably send a couple of men out to pick him up.”

  “That’s what I think. If we wait here, we can take them as they come up the path. Then we can go and take care of Dawes ourselves.”

  “Reduce the opposition you mean, before we go in?”

  “That’s it, boyo. We can just walk in then and surprise ’em. Take a leaf out of the Russians’ book; that’s what they did to the Chinks. Have you got any rope in that box of tricks you’re carrying, Willie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We’ll need it to…” he stopped speaking abruptly and gripped Williams’s arm. “Listen!”

  “I hear it. Coming in low.”

  “Must be Dawes. Someone will be out in a minute. Get behind that bush on the other side of the path. When they walk past we’ll take them from behind.”

  “Right.” Williams nodded and moved away.

  Only seconds later the back door opened, spilling a shaft of light on to the path. Two men came out and stood talking for a few moments, looking about them. Then the door was closed, shutting off the light.

  Now Jones could see the men only as vague shapes, but they didn’t come up the path. There was a porchway over the back door — and in the angle it formed with the bungalow wall was a large rainwater barrel. One of the men hid behind it. The other crouched behind the dustbin on the other side of the porch.

  Damn! Jones got down on his stomach and crawled across the path to Williams.

  “The bastards aren’t coming. They’re hiding one on each side of the porch. They aim to get Dawes as he goes through the door.”

  “What now?”

  “We’ll have to deal with Dawes first.” The noise from the aircraft was deafening now. “Come on! I think he’s touched down.”

  *

  Dawes noticed nothing amiss. He couldn’t see the Russian plane parked in the shadows behind the hangar.

  He landed rather heavily and then braked hard, using up less than half of the runway to bring the jet to a stop a hundred and fifty yards in front of the hangar.

  He taxied round and parked, as close to the bungalow as he could, ready for take-off. It would be a short takeoff, he thought. But there was no sense in wasting time. The sooner they were off the ground again, the better.

  He moved out of the cockpit, opened the cabin door, and unfolded the steps. As he came down he saw the two figures coming round the tail to meet him.

  “That you Gunney?”

  “’Fraid not,” answered Jones. “Just put your hands up, very high, and keep them there.”

  Dawes saw the gunmetal glinting in the light from the cabin doorway. He raised his hands.

  “Right. Check the plane Willie. Quick as you can.”

  Williams disappeared inside the aircraft. A few moments later he was back.

  “All okay. There’s nobody else aboard,” he reported.

  Jones pushed Dawes in the back.

  “Now move,” he ordered. “To the hangar, at the double.”

  The three of them began to trot, Williams still carrying his heavy bag.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Dawes as they entered the hangar.

  “Shut up! Willie, shine a light and get the rope.”

  Williams flicked on his torch, placed it on the floor so that it pointed at Dawes, and fished in his bag for the rope.

  “Lie on your belly, hands behind your back,” snapped Jones. “Come on! Move!”

  Williams tied the pilot’s hands and feet, then gagged him. It was all done very quickly and expertly.

  “Come on Willie bach, we mustn’t keep the reception committee waiting. You can leave your bag here. Pick up your torch. Shine it in front of you as you go up the path to keep their attention on you. They’ll think you’re Dawes. But give me time to approach the house from the garage side.

  “When you get to the back door, the two Ruskies will come up behind you. But then I’ll be behind them and have the drop on them. Got it?”

  Williams nodded.

  “Yes. But why me? Why don’t you walk up the path and let me take them from the rear?”

  “Because they might be planning to hit Dawes on the head, or shoot him or something.”

  “Oh.”

>   “Now get going.”

  Williams nodded again and began to walk. He stopped suddenly.

  “Hey!”

  But Jones had already gone.

  “You cunning bloody Welsh rarebit,” muttered Williams as he started to walk again.

  *

  Jones slipped silently around the back of the garage — then halted abruptly as something solid blocked his path. Something else, equally hard, jabbed him in the back.

  “Drop your gun and put your hands on your head.”

  The Welshman went cold. His gun dropped from nerveless fingers. Damn! They’d left it too late. They’d taken too long in dealing with Dawes and the Russians had come to investigate.

  A light flashed in his face.

  “Well, I’ll be… It’s that goddamn Limey.”

  In the reflected glow of the torch, Jones recognised Ritchie. He spun around and saw Gruber.

  “Thank God it’s you,” he said. “Come on! No time to explain — but my mate’s walking into trouble. Follow me, but don’t make any noise.”

  *

  Williams had his hand on the door handle before the Russians closed in on him, one on each side. He felt a small circle of cold metal pressed against his neck.

  “Be still with the arms high,” said a thickly-accented voice.

  The torch was taken from his hand; his clothing was patted until the automatic was located and removed from his shoulder holster.

  “And now be walking slow in front of we. Open door now.”

  Williams was bathed in a cold sweat. He shivered as he reached again for the door knob. Where the hell was Jones?

  “Drop your guns! You’re surrounded,” came the Welshman’s voice in perfect Russian.

  Two revolvers clattered to the ground and the pilots wheeled round in shocked surprise.

  Williams turned, too.

  “Right on cue Glyn,” he said. “Hullo! Who are they?” he added looking in astonishment at Gruber and Ritchie.

  “Friends,” replied Jones tersely as he leaned forward to push the door open. “Lead on MacTarovich,” he added to the bigger of the two Russians.

  Gruber picked up the discarded weapons and dropped them into his pockets as he followed the others into the bungalow.

  The pilots halted at the door of the room in which Finn was waiting for them. At a nod from Jones, one of the Russians opened the door; then the two of them were pushed in, followed quickly by their captors.