Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

He felt himself slipping over the abyss of consciousness. The control panel blurred in front of him and he squeezed his eyes closed then opened them again. They were in focus again. Keep your mind active. He thought about Claudine. And Dario. Stay awake for them. If he pulled through this he’d take more notice of what Claudine had to say in future. That was a promise. He knew she wanted to go back to Italy. They could go. He’d take the post with the NOCS. But he had to stay awake. The dials blurred again. He blinked rapidly. This time they remained blurred. His hand slipped off the stick and the helicopter swiveled sharply to one side before he managed to regain control of it. The pads skimmed across the water. He couldn’t move his hands. They felt like lead. He wouldn’t make the docks. He was going to crash …

Graham was picked up by a police launch. He refused any medical attention but did accept a blanket which he threw around his shoulders. The water had been freezing. He was glad of the warmth. He remained on deck as the launch sped after the retreating helicopter. They lost sight of the helicopter as it disappeared around a bend in the river. Seconds later there was an ear-splitting explosion and they watched in horror as plumes of thick, black smoke spiraled hundreds of feet up into the sky. But it was only when the launch negotiated the bend that the full extent of the carnage became apparent. The helicopter had plowed into a mobile crane on the wharf where Paluzzi had hoped to put down. The helicopter had exploded on impact, and the twisted remains of the tail section now lay on the other side of the wharf. The fuselage was already a blackened shell as the flames continued to lick around it.

Graham sank slowly onto the bench behind him and buried his face in his hands. The captain put a consoling hand on Graham’s shoulder. Nobody could have survived that.

“Sir!” the look-out shouted to the captain from his vantage point above the bridge. “There’s someone in the water.”

Graham discarded the blanket and hurried over to the railing.

“My God, he’s right,” the captain said in disbelief, staring at the motionless figure floating in the water thirty yards away from the boat’s starboard bow.

Graham dived into the water before the captain had a chance to stop him. He swam with powerful strokes to where Paluzzi was floating, his head lolling on the front of his life jacket. He gently lifted Paluzzi’s head. Blood was streaming down his face from a gash under his hairline.

The police launch came alongside the two men and willing hands reached down to pull Paluzzi out of the water. He was already stretched out on the deck when Graham scrambled back onto the launch. A blanket was immediately thrown around Graham’s shoulders again.

“Is he alive?” Graham asked anxiously, standing over the inert figure.

“Yes, but he’s lost consciousness and his pulse is very weak,” the medic replied.

“He must have bailed out at the last possible moment,” the captain said, staring at Paluzzi.

“Yeah,” Graham agreed. “He could have put down earlier but he specifically made for that abandoned pier knowing that if he did pass out before he reached it there would be no risk of any innocent casualties.”

“And that’s obviously why he dumped you in the river first,” the captain said.

Graham nodded. “Where are we headed?”

“Cadogan Pier. I’ve already radioed ahead for an ambulance. He’ll be taken straight to Guy’s Hospital.”

The medic stood up. “His weak pulse is only to be expected due to the amount of blood he’s lost. The head wound’s my main concern. It’s a deep laceration. He’ll certainly need a brain scan once he reaches the hospital.”

“What about the bullet wound?” Graham asked.

“The bullet passed straight through him. It’s my guess he’s probably broken a couple of ribs as well, judging by the angle of the bullet. I can’t be sure, you understand, not without the proper equipment.” The medic indicated Graham’s wet clothes. “I suggest you change out of those. You’ll have pneumonia before you know it. There are clothes below. I’ll get one of the crew to show you.”

Graham looked at Paluzzi once more then followed the man down the hatchway.

Fiona had already adjusted the directional beacon detector before she went over the side of the barge. So, while the police divers scanned the area around the barge with powerful underwater lights, she had already made good her escape on the swimmer delivery vehicle. Her destination was a row of houseboats further down river. She had never intended to return to the warehouse. She knew the authorities could have stumbled on to the car while they were away. It would have been too risky.

She used the detector to home in on the beacon secured to the side of the houseboat belonging to a couple who, according to the directive, had been on holiday for the past ten days. They weren’t expected back for another week. She tethered the SDV to the anchor chain then unloaded the oxygen cylinders and flippers into the water before clambering onto the deck. It didn’t matter if she was seen. In the unlikely event of someone raising the alarm, she would be long gone before the authorities arrived.

She discarded the mask over the side then hurried down the stairs and used a duplicate key to get into the main cabin. Stripping off her wetsuit she went, as instructed, to the built-in cupboard. A holdall had been placed there, containing a pair of jeans, a sweater and a pair of moccasins. She dressed quickly, stuffed the wetsuit into the holdall and carried the bag down the gangplank to the shore. She walked to the nearest tube station where she boarded a train for Finsbury Park.

Graham got to his feet when he saw Whitlock hurrying down the hospital corridor toward him.

“I got here as fast as I could,” Whitlock said breathlessly. “How is he?”

“He’s going to be OK,” Graham replied, patting Whitlock’s arm reassuringly.

“What did the doctor say?”

“The bullet entered his side and exited through his back. Amazingly, there’s no real damage other than a couple of cracked ribs. And he needed twenty-two stitches for the gash on his head.”

“But no brain damage?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that,” Whitlock said with a relieved sigh. “So have you been in to see him yet?”

“No, not yet. He’s still under sedation. The nurse said she’d call me when he came around.”

Whitlock sat down on the bench and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’ve been on the phone to Sergei for the last forty minutes. That’s why I’m so late. He’s been taking some heavy flak since the news broke over there, and not only from the Secretary-General. He’s also had a call from the White House. The man himself.”

“You’d think Scoby was already worm bait judging by the reaction,” Graham snorted.

“Most of this is down to Tillman. He’s been on the phone ever since they got back to the hotel. And he’s not being very complimentary about UNACO.”

“What do you expect?” Graham retorted, his lips curled in disgust. “He’s been on our case from the start. But what can you expect from a lackey? He’s kissing butt wherever he can to keep on Scoby’s good side. He knows Scoby’s on the up. And he’ll do anything to stick with him.”

“The remains of the chopper have been found in the Thames,” Whitlock said. “But still no sign of Tanner and Falconer.”

“The missile scored a direct hit on the cockpit,” Graham said grimly. “There’s no chance they survived that.”

“I still don’t understand why she killed Mullen,” Whitlock said, scratching his head.

“All I know is that she must have pumped a good twelve rounds into him before she went over the side,” Graham replied. “But what got me was how cool she was. She just turned the Skorpion on him and gunned him down. Hell, he didn’t stand a chance.”