Grey mist was curling over the high crests as Paula rode her horse over the high ground behind the bungalow estate. It lay about two hundred yards below her and from this angle she was able to observe features she had not seen before.
Behind the end of the cul-de-sac a path led down into a dip invisible from the road. An old barn-like structure huddled in the dip, a building with half-doors. Both upper halves were open and two horses' heads peered out. This was her first realization that someone living on the estate rode the moors.
She saw movement, the opening of a back door in Seton-Charles' bungalow. Lifting her glasses looped round her neck, she focused. It was the grey-haired cleaning woman, carrying a mop and a plastic bucket. Paula remained perfectly still: people rarely looked upwards.
The woman opened a gate in the back garden fence, walked into the next garden. She put down mop and bucket, fiddled with a bunch of keys, inserted one in the rear door of the bungalow and disappeared inside with her cleaning equipment.
Paula dropped her glasses, rode on, slowly circling the estate. As usual, no sign of cars. They had probably all driven off to their jobs. The cars she had seen earlier, arriving back in the evenings, were Jags and Fords. No Mercedes or Rolls-Royces, but the cars they drove still cost money. There seemed to be no shortage of that commodity.
She had watched them at weekends cutting their lawns with power mowers, big machines which did the job quickly. It was late November and she gave a little shiver: the cold clamminess of the approaching mist rolling down the slopes was making itself felt.
She kept moving slowly, like a rider out for a gentle morning bit of exercise. For the moment she was sheltered from the estate by a gorse-covered ridge. She guided her mount up the side and perched on a small rocky hilltop which gave a bird's-eye view. The two horsemen seemed to appear out of nowhere.
One moment she was alone on the hilltop, the next moment they rode out from behind a concealed ridge and confronted her. They stopped about two dozen feet away, staring at her. She noticed several things as she casually dropped her right hand over the holster.
They were experienced riders: neither had his feet inside the stirrups. Probably because they had mounted their horses in a hurry. She recognized their mounts as the horses which had peered over the half-doors. One man was tall, lean-faced and with jet-black hair. His cheekbones were prominent, almost Slavic. The other was short and heavily-built with an ugly round face and a mean mouth.
Both were in their forties, she estimated. Both wore windcheaters and slacks thrust into riding boots. The Slavic-faced man raised a hand, unzipped the front of his windcheater, left it open. The ugly man began guiding his horse, took up a position on her right side. She responded by turning her own horse.
'I like to face strangers,' she informed them and smiled.
'Why are you spying on us?' Slav-Face demanded.
'It's normal to introduce yourself in this part of the world,' she replied. 'I'm Paula…'
'And I'm Norton. Now, I'll ask you again – why are you spying on us?'
His right hand slipped inside his windcheater, emerged holding a gun. A 9mm Walther automatic as far as Paula could tell. She froze. The weapon was aimed point-blank between her breasts. Paula glanced to her left. A ridge higher than the hilltop masked the road. No help from that direction – even if Nield came driving along.
'This is moorland open to the public,' she snapped, 'You think you own Exmoor?'
'Gutsy, eh?' Norton commented. 'Now answer the question.'
'I ride all over the place. I don't know what you're talking about. And it's illegal to threaten someone with a weapon in this country.'
'She says it's illegal, Morle,' Norton said to his companion, still staring at Paula. 'She says she doesn't know what I'm talking about.'
His voice was cultured; high falutin' some would have called it. Almost a caricature of Marler's drawling way of speaking, but with an underlying sneer. Norton and Morle. Paula recalled the names she'd recorded while Butler examined the electoral register. These were two of them: she had all five names in her head.
'So if she doesn't know what I'm talking about,' Norton continued, 'how come she's been sitting in a parked car up the road day after day, watching the bungalows through field glasses?' He still held the gun levelled at her. 'I think maybe we will continue this discussion inside my bungalow, have a real cosy chat.'
Paula had been frightened when the two men first appeared. Now she remembered Newman putting her through her paces at a quiet spot on the North Downs. And he'd gone through the Special Air Services course before writing an article on the SAS. Faced with a gunman there's always something you can do – say – to distract him, if you're armed. .. And now, unsure of survival, she had gone as cold as ice.
'So you've confused me with someone else,' she said. 'Parked in a car, my foot. A horse is my form of transport here. You can tell the difference between a horse and a car? This is not very encouraging – when Foster asked me if I could take on the job of helping clean the bungalows.'
'He did what?' Norton's forehead crinkled with puzzlement. He turned to Morle. 'Do you know anything about this? He must be clean out of his…'
As he spoke the gun sagged, the muzzle aimed at the ground. It took seconds for Paula to haul the Browning from the holster, to grasp the butt in both hands, to aim it. Norton saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He began to lift his own gun. Paula fired twice. Norton slumped, was falling from his horse, when Morle ripped down his zipper, shoved his hand inside, began to haul out a gun. Paula had swivelled the Browning, her knees clamped to her horse to hold it steady. Twice more she fired.
Morle grabbed at his saddle with one hand, slowly toppled. A loud explosion echoed. Paula thought she was hit. Then she saw Norton had pulled the trigger in a reflex action as he hit the ground. The bullet winged across the moor.
The men's two horses galloped off in panicky freedom. Paula's mount threatened to rise up on its hindlegs. She pressed a firm hand on its neck, made soothing noises, dismounted, trailed the reins and approached Norton, still gripping her Browning. He lay unconscious, his fingers had dropped the gun. She bent down, felt his neck pulse. It beat steadily. Blood oozed from his right shoulder.
Standing up, she ran across to examine Morle. He also was unconscious. A red stain spread across his slacks close to his left hip. Again she checked the pulse. Again she felt its regular beat. Thank God, she thought and stood up, deciding what to do.
Two minutes later she was riding fast along the track which led to Exford, a four-mile trek. She left the horse at the riding stables she had hired it from. Nothing more to pay. Walking along the road, she entered the field where she had parked her Renault, got behind the wheel.
She drove across country, turned on to the A396 and arrived via Minehead at Porlock Weir half an hour later. To her infinite relief Newman and Marler had just returned to The Anchor.
Tweed drank three cups of coffee while he listened to Paula's story in his Park Crescent office. She spoke tersely, with not a wasted word. On his desk lay the sheet of handwritten names she had given him – the occupants of the six bungalows. He already knew them from the earlier report Butler had given him on the phone. He squeezed her hand as she concluded her account, stood up and went back behind his desk.
'So Newman and Marler cleaned up the mess,' he said.
'They were marvellous. I wondered if they'd say I'd made a mistake stopping at the first public phone box on my way back to Porlock Weir. That was when I phoned the police, refused to give a name and told them there'd been a shooting incident near the bungalow estate close to Simonsbath. That they'd better send an ambulance. I felt I couldn't just leave them there. Marler said he'd have done just that…'
'Marler would,' Tweed commented drily.
'But Bob said I'd done the right thing. He took the Browning, spare mags and my makeshift holster. They were going to end up in the sea. Bob also said it was lucky Norton's gun went off by chance. That would confuse the police investigation.'
'Eat your ham sandwiches,' said Monica. 'You need something inside you.'
'Now you mention it, I'm famished.' She devoured one sandwich and Tweed waited, glancing at his watch. 'Am I holding you up?' she asked.
'No. Our tame accountant is due soon. Butler reported that he had followed Foster twice to the Somerset and Cornwall Bank in Bristol. He saw him draw about a thousand pounds in cash each time. He heard the teller address him as Mr Foster. Perry has the details and is in the Engine Room phoning God knows who to trace where that money came from. It's so often the money which helps us find out who people really are.'
'Well, there is something wrong about that bungalow estate. I said it was funny when we first saw it,' Paula said defiantly.
Tweed nodded. He understood her attitude. She was bound to suffer a reaction from the experience sooner or later. And the sooner the better.
'It's the first time I've shot anyone,' Paula went on and sank her teeth into a fresh sandwich.
'They're only injured,' Tweed assured her. 'Newman drove over to the estate after you'd left in the Mercedes. He arrived as they were carting those two thugs into an ambulance. He showed his old press card and they recognized the name. He called the hospital later.'
Tweed omitted to tell her Norton was in a coma, that Morle was still unconscious. Police were waiting by their bedsides ready to take statements.
'More alarming,' he went on, switching her mind to another topic, 'Marler arrived at the estate and flourished his fake Special Branch card, so the police let him in. The bungalows are all empty. The cars have gone. Most sinister of all, they can find not a single fingerprint. Everything has been wiped clean. You were so right about that estate.'
'What does that mean – no fingerprints?' Paula asked.
'I think you discovered the secret base of sleepers established fifteen years ago by the Englishman who controls the Greek Key. A base which was recently activated – and has now been evacuated – thanks to your encounter with Norton and Morle. We have now made copies in the Engine Room of those photos you took – and circulated them to every police force in the country. We also have their names.' He glanced down at the list on his desk.
Foster, Saunders, Norton, Morle, Sully.
'Anything else?'
'Yes. Before I sent out the European alert I circulated the registration number of Seton-Charles' Volvo station wagon over here. And Newman visited Bristol University with a police artist. They used several students to build an Identikit picture of the professor. Copies of that have gone out.'
'Will anyone take much notice?'
'I think so,' Tweed said grimly. 'I named him suspected terrorist planner. Highly dangerous.'
Talking of terrorists,' Monica chimed in, 'there's an interesting story I cut from a recent copy of The Times. Two Shi-ite Muslim killers were air-lifted by a chopper from Gartree Prison exercise yard. Most audacious. They killed an Iraqi diplomat.'
Tweed wasn't listening. Paula had remembered a further incident.
There was a big landslip when Bob and I were walking from The Anchor one night along the coast…' She described the experience. They've put up a big notice. Warning. Keep clear. Danger of cliff falls.'
The phone rang. Monica answered, looked up at Tweed. 'Perry is ready to emerge from the basement with his report on the Foster bank account.'
Tell him to come up.'
Perry was a small, precise, neatly dressed man who wore pince-nez. Monica thought he was a giggle but he had a shrewd financial brain. Clutching a blue file, he sat on the edge of a chair facing Tweed. He glanced at Monica and Paula.
This is highly confidential.'
Tweed compressed his lips. 'You should realize by now Paula and Monica know more about what's going on than you ever will.'
Then I will commence.'
He opened his fat file but Tweed glanced at his watch. He had to leave soon for his appointment with the PM. And now Paula had brought information – facts – which made his interview well worthwhile.
'Just tell me in a few words what you've found out.'
'Very well, but I think you should read the file later. The enquiry took longer than I expected. It is a devious trail -and I had to get Walton, head of Special Branch, to vouch for me before the bank manager in Bristol would talk. Then I had to use your name for Europe
…'
'I know. Chief Inspector Kuhlmann of Wiesbaden in Germany called me. So did Beck in Zurich. Do get on with it.'
'Foster originally had twenty thousand pounds in his Bristol account. He's closed it now. The money was telexed from the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. They received it from the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Zurich. That's the end of the road.'
'What does that mean?'
'Zurcher Kredit received the funds from Liechtenstein. That's an iron door no one can open. Not much help, is it?'
'On the contrary, it fits into the pattern which is appearing so rapidly at last. Thank you, Perry. Yes, I suppose you'd better leave the file.'
He waited until they were alone. 'A secret Soviet base is set up fifteen years ago – in hardline Brezhnev's time -at that bungalow estate. It's screaming at us now. Those five men in their early forties would be in their mid-twenties when they slipped into this country. They'd have identities cooked up at Moscow Centre's Documents Section. A Colonel Winterton – whom no one ever met – bought a piece of land with an old house on it. Marler found that out from pub gossip. He had the house knocked down, the six bungalows built in its place. All ready for the Spetsnaz unit to move in…'
' Spetsnaz? '' Monica queried.
'You know – elite Soviet troops equivalent to our SAS. Trained to merge into the landscape of a foreign country. They were probably originally intended to assassinate specific key figures in the defence of this country. The leader of the Greek Key, an Englishman living on Exmoor, was their commander.'
'I know what they are,' Monica protested, 'but surely you're reaching, as the Americans would say. Guessing…'
'I'd sooner say I'm deducing the solution from clues now in our hands. They always kept to themselves. Foster visited The Royal Oak and chatted to the barman. Luckily barmen have good memories. Foster makes a point of telling him two wives have jobs abroad – which makes the place sound more natural, as opposed to six bachelors, including Seton-Charles. Having fed the barman that much – knowing it would be spread round the district – Foster never goes back there again. Paula finds one woman is cleaning all six bungalows…'
'In her forties, too, I'd say,' Paula interjected.
That's very peculiar,' Tweed continued. 'Six men, all strangers apparently when they buy their bungalows, use the same woman. In England? Not likely. Now Perry tells us Foster draws large sums from a fund which originated in Liechtenstein. So we can't trace where the money came from. Now we hear they've all disappeared, leaving not one fingerprint behind. Everything those men did is shrouded in secrecy. Except the two in hospital. It stinks of Spetsnaz.'
'And it wasn't due to the shooting incident Paula was involved in,' Monica stated. 'How do I know that? Because I know how long it takes to clean my flat. To erase all fingerprints from six bungalows must have taken days of meticulous work by that woman. They were leaving anyway. Doesn't that mean an operation is imminent?'
'It means we have very little time left to trace them,' Tweed said grimly. 'And I have very little time to keep my appointment with the PM.'
'Anything more we can do?' asked Monica as he put on his Burberry. It was typical November weather outside, a heavy drizzle.
'Only wait. And hope. We've thrown out across the country all the information we hold. I'm off.'
'One other thing while I remember,' Paula said. 'Nield heard this in a pub. Reams' dog kept on moping and whining for Jill. He shot it recently and buried it in the garden at the back of his house. Put up a wooden cross inscribed. In loving memory of Jill.''
'Damn!' Tweed hardly heard her as the phone began ringing and Monica picked it up. 'I can't talk to anyone…'
'It's Marler. Says it's very urgent.'
'Make it quick,' Tweed said after grabbing the receiver.
'Newman visited the hospital after hearing Morle was talking. Arrived, found Morle had a serious case of fever, high temperature. The policeman told Bob what Morle had mumbled. One word over and over. Then Newman heard it. Stinger. The police chap thought he was talking about the drink. Stinger. Do you get it?'
'Yes.' Tweed found he was gripping the receiver tightly. He said thank you and put down the phone.
'Bad news?' Paula asked.
'The worst. Now we know what Anton brought ashore. Stinger rocket launchers and missiles. God help us.'
He ran down the steps to the ground floor, forced himself to pause at the exit, glance round. Across the road stood the usual news seller. He stopped briefly to buy an Evening Standard. And this time he stared at the poster summarizing the main news.
Gorbachev To Meet Thatcher At Brize Norton En Route Washington.