Colin Forbes - Cell

'What does it mean?' she asked from the kitchen as she used the cafetiere to make them more coffee. She kept her windcheater on until the central heating neutralized the icy air which had drifted in.

'I discussed this with Tweed and he replied with one word. Communications.'

'Still not with you, Jules.'

'It hit me when he said that. You've probably read about the attack in New York on the World Trade Center. No one could understand why such an intricate plan hadn't leaked. Now I'm confident I can guess why, what method was used over there, and is being used here. Nothing is ever written down, in case it gets into the wrong hands. All communication and instructions are by word of mouth. That's why the Americans had no warning about September 11 – and why we're getting no warning about their plan for London.'

'So the envelope is for cover?'

'Exactly. The trouble is we've observed where the motorcyclist called, but we don't know which individual he delivered a verbal message to.'

'Maybe to all of them.' She handed Beaurain a mug of coffee and sat down with him on a sofa, sipping from her own mug. 'All of them,' she repeated. 'Martin, Margesson, Palfry, Drew Franklin and the Minister.'

'Doesn't sound likely. Not Drew Franklin, for example, I'm sure. It's one individual, but which?'

'So we're back to square one…'

Beaurain lifted a finger to his lips and she stopped talking. Paula had good hearing but Beaurain's was exceptional. After a minute they heard the motor-cycle's engine start up, then the machine roared off away from the village. Paula drank the rest of her coffee, stood up.

'If you don't mind I'm going to snatch a bit more kip.'

She went to a window at the front, lifted a blind. The view had vanished. She was staring into a dense fog, curling round the bungalow like an enormous snake. She told Jules, reminded him to wake her when the time came for her watch, went back to bed. Nothing more was likely to happen for the rest of the night.

Nestled in his observation point at the top of the pine tree, Newman woke suddenly. His thick black coat had kept out the bitter cold, had made him too comfortable. He was appalled. He had fallen asleep on duty. Something had woken him up. Stripping off his gloves, he reached out, took hold of the Uzi. He moved very little, careful to make no sound. He listened. Then he heard it. The stealthy crunch of feet below, treading down dead bracken.

The trouble was a heavy mist had fogged his vision. He put on the night-glasses, the mist turned green. Cautiously, he pulled aside a screen of foliage, gave himself a window on the blurred world. Four of them, well spread out across the field. Good tactics. No bunching to provide one target.

They were crawling forward, almost as swift as ants on the move. Four men with turbans wrapped round their heads. He thought the turbans were black. Al-Qa'eda. What was their target? He aimed his Uzi through his 'window', waited.

The circle began closing. Heading for Billy Hogarth's bungalow. Paula and Beaurain were their targets. Newman waited no longer. Aiming at one figure in the middle, he fired a shot. It electrified the stalkers. One swung round, raised his weapon, a Kalashnikov, began spraying the tree tops with a hail of bullets. How he'd realized the single shot had come from high up in the trees Newman had no idea. He no longer waited.

He let loose a stream of bullets. The man who had fired rolled over sideways, lay deathly still. Newman swung the muzzle to the next man, who had started shooting wildly at Black Wood, crouched now on his knees. Newman fired again. The shooter was riddled with bullets, dropped his weapon, fell forward. He didn't move again.

Newman turned his attention to the other two and was alarmed when he found they had disappeared. They must have taken cover round the sides of the bungalow. Newman hoped to God the fusillades had warned the occupants.

Inside the bungalow Paula had hauled on her boots, grabbed the Uzi she had placed on a table close to the bed. She flung open the door to the living-room. Beaurain was standing close to the front door, his weapon in his hands. He smiled grimly.

'You watch the kitchen door. I'm taking the front one…'

He unlocked the door, stood to one side, flung it wide open. Mist drifted in. Not helpful. He listened. The firing at the rear of the bungalow had ceased. The silence was ominous.

No one in the alcove porch. He stepped into it, listened once more. Nothing. He suspected the attackers could move like mice. No warning they were coming. He peered out of the alcove, checking both directions. No one. Then he heard faintly but clearly a voice he just recognized. Newman's, shouting a warning through hands cupped round his mouth. The words, muffled by the mist, just reached him.

'Two of them near you. I brought down other two in the field behind…'

Two? Dangerous. If they both attacked at once. To make himself a smaller target, Beaurain sat down outside the porch, a tactic he'd used successfully fighting terrorists over the water. He heard the faint jostle of a pebble to his right. A man appeared, a silhouette in the mist. Holding a Kalashnikov. The barrel came up to kill Beaurain. The Belgian had his Uzi aimed in that direction, fired a long burst. The figure jumped – under the shock of the bullets hitting him – dropped his weapon, leaned against the wall of the bungalow, slithered down it, lay very still. Beaurain's weapon was already aimed to his left. Nothing, no sound.

Inside Paula had darted into the kitchen, paused, facing the heavy back door which she knew was bolted. No one was going to get in through that. She also was listening, now the shooting from the front had ceased. She prayed Beaurain was still alive.

They couldn't get in through the living-room windows -the shutters, closed, were heavy. Newman's shout had just reached her. Difficult to hear but she'd caught the gist of his warning. Was there one more out there?

She wasn't frightened. She had been startled to be woken from a deep sleep by the sound of gunfire. Now her training came to her aid. Her nerves were cold, controlled. She was ready to kill. She held her Uzi across her waist, ready to aim it in any direction.

The back door was bolted top and bottom, but when they arrived the key had been missing, although the door was locked. Billy must had slipped it into his pocket without thinking. So she had no way of knowing a ferocious eye was peering at her through the keyhole.

Some instinct made her back further away from the door. Still she held the Uzi across her stomach, parallel to the floor. Frequently she glanced back over her shoulder. When she had rushed into the kitchen she had hauled down two large pans off hooks, had dropped them at the entrance to the kitchen. She had used the dimmer to lower the lighting. If anyone came through the door from the living-room they would, with luck, stumble over the pans, announcing their presence.

When the attack came it was still a shock. The heavy back door was smashed inwards, breaking free of its hinges, the bolts giving way. A huge figure stood in the doorway, the biggest man she had ever seen. His weight had destroyed the back door as though it were made of matchwood. On his head he wore a black turban. His black beard was glistening with moisture from the mist.

He was grinning savagely. His Kalashnikov was looped over his shoulder. In his right hand he held a horrible-looking curved knife. He was going to slash her to bits. Quite confident – peering through the keyhole he'd seen that her Uzi was held across her waist. His trunk-like legs carried him forward like a juggernaut.

She swung the barrel of the Uzi through ninety degrees, was pressing the trigger, kept on pressing it, emptied the magazine into him. Forty rounds. He stood perfectly still for a mind-breaking moment, then fell forward. She had to jump backwards to avoid this immense body hitting her. It thudded to the floor, caused a shuddering vibration. She forced herself to bend over it, checking the carotid artery in the bull-like neck. He was dead.