Colin Forbes - Cell

She found his smile attractive. His air of confidence was also comforting. He'd taken off his windcheater and wore a dark polo-necked sweater. For comfort and dark in case he had to go outside. Made it more difficult to see him, as long as he kept out of the moonlight.

Paula watched him as she drank her coffee. A very athletic man, he couldn't keep still, kept striding round the large living-room, checking the shutters, checking his Uzi which he'd laid, loaded now, on a table near the front door.

'Don't get me wrong,' he said, turning round, 'but you can handle your Uzi?'

'Reasonably well.' She smiled as she glanced at her own weapon perched on the dining-table near the door into the kitchen. 'Barney, the instructor who gave me a refresher course at the mansion down in Surrey, kept me at it until I blew the bull's-eye area of the target to smithereens. Why are they so keen on Uzis down there? They have an armoury of other automatic weapons.'

Beaurain swallowed the coffee he was drinking. He smiled again. 'Probably because the Israelis, who invented the weapon, are so reliable.'

'Well, now you know,' she lectured him gently, 'you won't have to worry about looking after me if the balloon goes up.'

'I regard you…' he bowed '… as a totally reliable back-up. That is why, when we arrived, I gave you the key Marler had obtained from Billy, then let you go inside first while I kept an eye on the outside.'

'Just so long as you have confidence in me. I don't like men to feel I'm a liability which needs protection.'

'If the balloon goes up, as you said, you'll damned well have to look after yourself,' he told her with an engaging grin. 'There are two bedrooms. Choose whichever suits you and I'll take over the first watch.'

Ali was becoming bored with waiting inside yet another quiet public phone-box. He snatched up the phone the moment it began ringing. 'Yes?'

'Who is that?' the distorted voice demanded.

'Ali, of course…'

'Never again say "of course". You are a mere subordinate. So, who is that?'

'Ali.'

'Abdullah speaking. There are rumours the British army is moving into London in five days from now. How is your programme for the merger operation?'

'It is still two days from now…'

'Keep it that way. There is another problem, an emergency. Two members of the opposition have moved into the bungalow of Billy Hogarth. He was seen leaving, carrying cases to his car. He is staying at a small hotel in London. Since then two members of the opposition have arrived in the village and occupied Mr Billy Hogarth's bungalow. You have any extra men in the area?'

'Four. They are hidden in a deep hole in Black Wood. They are not needed for the merger..,'

'You can communicate with them?'

'Of…' Ali hastily changed his wording. 'Yes, I can.'

'You know which bungalow I refer to? There are two bungalows.'

'I know which which one you mean…'

'Then alert the four men. Tell them to kill whoever is inside. Tonight…'

The phone was slammed down. Bastard! It was an English word Ali liked. He would never dare to use it when talking to Abdullah. He took out his mobile phone, pressed numbers and gave the four hidden men their orders.

It was 1 a.m., when Beaurain, seated in an upright chair to keep himself awake, heard the approaching motor-cycle. It slowed, the engine was turned off as it reached Billy Hogarth's bungalow, was followed by a hard thump as the machine was propped against the side wall.

Unlocking the front door, his Smith amp; Wesson concealed behind his back, Beaurain peered out. Strong moonlight. He walked to the end of the bungalow, looked round the corner. The rider was taking a large cardboard-backed envelope from his pannier. He wore the full outfit – black leather jacket and trousers tucked inside his boots. His head was masked by a large helmet.

'Don't park that damned thing there,' Beaurain ordered.

The man swung round, his right hand jumping to the inside of his jacket. Beaurain waited. The man changed his mind, withdrawing his hand empty. Motoring gloves were perched on the saddle.

'You say what?' the muffled voice behind the helmet asked.

Beaurain waved his left hand, first at the machine, then over to the distant side of Martin Hogarth's bungalow. The man hesitated, then spoke again.

'No hurt wall…'

'I said move the damned thing over there.'

Again Beaurain used his left hand to gesture at the machine, then at the side of Martin's bungalow. The man shrugged, put on his gloves, tucked the envelope under his arm and moved the machine, propping it against Martin's end wall. He kept well away from Beaurain as he turned, walked up to Martin's entrance. Beaurain walked quickly back to his own entrance, found the door open, the living-room lights turned off. Paula stood framed in the gloom.

She had been woken by the sound of the motor-cycle arriving. When she slipped under the sheets she had only divested herself of her windcheater and her boots and had pulled up her thick woollen jumper out of her trousers. If called, she wanted to be able to dress in half a minute. Now she stood in the dark, her right hand clutching her new Browning. Gently, Beaurain pushed her back inside, followed her, closed the door.

'He's delivering a large envelope to someone,' he whispered.

'There won't be anything inside it. Accidentally, I'm sure, one of those envelopes was delivered through the letter-box to Mrs Gobble. I found it in a rubbish bin. Nothing inside that one.'

'This gives us a chance to check on who he calls on…'

He opened the door quietly again and they stood shoulder to shoulder, concealed inside the deep porch alcove. Looking at Martin's bungalow, they saw the glare light come on, heard the door opening. Martin's sarcastic voice could be heard clearly.

'Go to hell! At this time of night!'

A door slammed shut. They stood very still as the messenger walked past, giving not so much as a glance at the alcove. He had taken off his helmet. In the moonlight Paula thought he was youngish, brown-skinned, hair trimmed very short. An Egyptian? A Saudi?

Looking out, they saw him call at Margesson's Georgian house. The reception was even more explosive. The glare light came on. They heard Margesson's deep rumbling voice.

'Frig off! Lunatic…'

Another door slammed. Paula was frowning as the messenger proceeded to the huge tub-shaped house where Palfry lived. Another glare light. They could just catch Palfry's smooth voice.

'Not here. Please go away…'

A door closed more quietly. The messenger now proceeded round the far end of Carp Lake. The moon shone on the lake, making it appear like a sheet of black iron. Then it was blotted out by clouds. Paula said, 'Damn! We won't see what happens on the other side.'

'Yes, we will.'

Beaurain darted inside, felt round inside his satchel, came back wearing night-glasses. His view through them was a luminous green. Enough to see the motor-cyclist walk past Mrs Gobble's residence, then on to Drew Franklin's cube house, where he stopped. Another glare light. Beaurain told Paula his impressions.

'Stayed longer there, then skulked off. Why longer there?'

'Because Drew is noted for his biting tongue. Or did he hand him the envelope?'

'No, still got it under his arm. That just leaves Garda, the Minister's palace. A tall man has opened the door. No glare light. Think light from the moon which has just come out again was reflected off glasses.'

'Pince-nez.' Paula shivered. It was a bitterly freezing night and the air was penetrating their bungalow. It had been warm before, thanks to Billy's good central heating system.

'What's happening now?' she asked impatiently.

'Warner has closed the door. The motor-cyclist is hoofing it back over here. To collect his machine. Still has the envelope under his arm.' He closed the door and Paula turned on the lights. 'Most mysterious.'