Алистер Маклин - Death Train

‘So what’s the price?’

‘All we ask is that we’re given a safe passage to our ultimate destination.’

‘And it’s up to me to pass on this demand?’

‘It’s a request, not a demand.’

‘And if you’re challenged you’ll sacrifice the lot?’

‘If I was cornered and saw no way out, yes.’ He closed the cap and slipped the chain around his neck, tucking the transmitter under his shirt. ‘Hypodermic?’

Hendrique fetched it from the adjoining compartment and handed it to Werner who rolled up Sabrina’s sleeve, found a vein in the crook of her arm, and gently inserted the needle into her flesh. He then eased the wimple from her head, allowing her blonde hair to fall on to her shoulders.

‘So angelic, so beautiful,’ he said wistfully, then put his hand against her cheek.

She jerked her head away.

‘Goodbye, my dear Sabrina.’

‘Until the next time,’ she rejoined, her already beginning to slur.

‘Stay with them,’ Hendrique told Kyle.

She shook her head, desperately trying to stave off the drowsiness, but her eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy. The compartment meshed into a kaleidoscope of hazy colours before she slumped sideways against Graham.

Whitlock could sum up his mood in one word. Despondent. What had he achieved in his three days in Mainz? His cover had been blown at the outset by a beautiful woman who just happened to have dated one of the New York Times ’s leading showbiz columnists (a fact corroborated by UNACO); he had nearly been run over by a Mercedes, the driver of which had subsequently drowned (or so he assumed); and although he tended to agree with Karen that Leitzig was involved in the diversion he didn’t have a shred of evidence against him. Each investigative avenue led to a dead end. He had to make the breakthrough, and quickly. But how?

The day could have started off better. He overslept, only waking at 9.30. Then, as he was reversing the Golf out of the driveway, the rain had started to fall, soon developing into a torrential downpour. After stopping off briefly at the hotel to change he drove to the plant on the old Frankfurt road, a route recommended to him by Karen the previous day. The traffic was negligible, most drivers preferring the spacious lanes of the A66 highway.

He stopped the Golf as close to the guards’ hut as possible and opened his window fractionally to display the pass Karen had organized for him on his first day at the plant. One of the guards pulled on a raincoat, tugged his peak cap over his head, then braved the sheeting rain to approach the car.

‘Morning. Whitlock, New York Times ,’ he announced.

The guard ran his finger down the plastic-protected clipboard. ‘We have orders not to admit you.’

‘Who revoked my pass?’ Whitlock asked angrily.

‘Dr Leitzig.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve no idea, call him when you get home.’

‘I want to speak to him now!’

‘Your pass has been revoked, there’s nothing more to say. You’re trespassing on Government property.’

Whitlock flung his pass on to the dashboard and shook his head in frustration. Leitzig had snookered him. No doubt he would have a perfectly valid reason if challenged on the revocation order. And he had effectively blocked Whitlock’s investigation from within the plant.

The guard rapped on the window. ‘I’ve told you, you’re trespassing on Government property.’

Whitlock knew the futility of arguing; the guard was probably in Leitzig’s back pocket anyway. He needed time to rethink his strategy, time that wasn’t on his side. He turned the Golf around in front of the boomgate and drove away.

The guard unclipped the radio from his belt and put it to his lips. ‘He’s on his way.’

Whitlock rejoined the old Mainz-Frankfurt road – even the potholes were preferable to the long tailback on the main highway. He switched on the radio and turned the tuner until he found a music station. It was playing a bland pop song which was still better than some agricultural or political discussion in German. Rosie, his fifteen-year-old niece, would probably have liked it. He still hankered after the music of the sixties when the singers, unlike those of today, had tuneful voices and their backing bands didn’t have to vie with each other to see who could make the loudest noise. As Rosie kept reminding him, ‘It must get increasingly difficult to keep up with the changing face of society the older you get.’ She had a knack of making him feel twice his age!

He snapped out of his reverie as a pair of dazzling headlights drew even closer in the reflection of the rearview mirror. He muttered about the lack of consideration shown by some motorists and signalled for the driver to pass. The headlights remained fixed on the back of the Golf, forcing him to tilt the rearview mirror towards the passenger seat. He opened his window and made a sweep with his arm to beckon the driver on. He even gave way, moving precariously close to the verge so that the driver could see the road ahead for himself. The headlights swung out from behind the Golf and he caught a brief glimpse of the red bonnet braided with strips of chrome. A Range Rover. It drew abreast of the Golf but Whitlock was unable to see the driver.

‘Go on, go on,’ he shouted and waved the driver forward.

The Range Rover swerved inwards, striking the Golf broadside.

‘Damn maniac,’ Whitlock yelled as he swung the wheel violently to prevent the Golf from veering off the road.

The gently sloping thirty-feet grass embankment to his left ended abruptly in an area of dense woodland which could easily rupture a car’s fuel tank on impact.

The Range Rover struck the side of the Golf a second time and he instinctively trod sharply on the brakes, knowing he could lose control of the wheel and plummet down the embankment. He knew, though, that the Range Rover was infinitely more powerful and it would be only a matter of time before it forced the Golf off the road. The back wheels slewed sideways, away from the verge, and the Golf ended up straddled across the road. The Range Rover stopped, then executed a careful U-turn to face the stalled Golf. He reached over and unfastened the glove compartment, feeling around inside it for the Browning. As his fingers curled around the butt the Range Rover hit the Golf a glancing blow, disintegrating the right headlight in a shower of broken glass. The Golf spun round a hundred and eighty degrees, the momentum of the turn snapping Whitlock’s head against the steering wheel. He struggled to sit up, his head pounding from the force of the blow. When he gingerly touched the gash across his eyebrow he could feel blood oozing on to his fingertips.

The Range Rover had turned to make another run. The Golf was immobile only a few feet from the edge of the road and the next buffet would almost certainly cartwheel it down the embankment. Whitlock tried unsuccessfully to start the engine then reached for the Browning lying on the passenger seat. The Range Rover came directly towards the Golf, aiming to strike it on the driver’s door to get the exact angle to spin it round so it would roll sideways down the embankment. He waited until the Range Rover was twenty feet away before gripping the Browning in both hands and extending it through the open window. He picked an imaginary spot in the centre of the darkened windscreen and fired twice. Both bullets pierced the glass, inches apart, and a myriad of threadlike cracks branched out from the resulting dimpled holes.

The Range Rover sheered off course, narrowly missing the back of the Golf, then continued down the road and disappeared around the first bend.

Then he saw the motorbike parked further up the road. It was a black Suzuki 1000cc. Its rider, dressed in white leather, kick-started the machine and streaked past the Golf.