Colin Forbes - Deadlock

'Slipped on the greasy deck. Made the mistake of wearing leather-soled shoes. Mine are rubber. If the drizzle hadn't come.. .' Marler shrugged. 'We'd have been up the creek. Gave me the few seconds I needed to shoot him – that control box slid out of his hand. Just the chance I was waiting for.'

'We have one more problem. While we're alone. Klein must not be identified.'

'Think I could help there.'

Marler glanced round, then walked to the other side of the barge. The barges were still bumping up against each other, then opening up a stretch of water about three feet wide before they began closing again. Marler strolled back, looked at Euromast. Deserted outside. He used his foot to roll the corpse of Klein across the deck, a task made easier by the slippery surface. When Klein was wedged against the gunwale he looked round again as Tweed walked to where he stood. Marler placed his rifle on the deck, waited until the gap between the heavy barges was widest, then levered the body into the water.

It floated until the barge they stood on moved against it and pushed the body forward. The two barges met. There was an ugly cracking sound, the sound of bones being crushed between the makeshift vice. Marler peered over as the barges slowly parted company again.

'Skull crushed flat as a dinner plate…'

Tweed took his word for it. Marler picked up his rifle. In the distance was the sound of a chopper approaching. They stepped off the barge. It began to move towards the second barge again.

'He'll end up as the original thin man,' Marler remarked. 'I have one more job to do.'

'Which is?'

'Second Sikorsky coming in from the airport. To pick me up. So Klein said. A bullet in the back soon as I went aboard would be my guess. Then the long drop into the Maas. Here she comes…'

Marler aimed for the cockpit as the machine came downriver, began to turn in over the Maas, losing height. Later they hauled up the Sikorsky out of the river and found the pilot with a bullet between the eyes. Again Marler fired three times in quick succession. The helicopter, now hovering at the entrance to Parkhaven, began to gyrate as it dropped out of control. The rotors were still whirling as it hit the water. The Sikorsky settled, the fuselage vanished, the rotors whirling to a stop whipped up a foam and then they were gone.

As they walked back along the waterfront Tweed glanced up at Euromast. At least someone had pulled in out of sight the pathetic body of Lara Seagrave, thank God.

' Flashpoint!…! '

Van Gorp's warning came down the line clearly to Benoit at Findel. He dropped the phone, picked up his torch, went close to the window and flashed the torch on-off-on six times.

Newman had moved to a position midway along the runway between take-off point and where the Hercules transport was still stationary, revving its engines. He stepped off the runway on to the grass and backed a dozen yards.

It was still dark but his eyes had regained their night vision. As he had suspected, the plane was doing the wrong thing: it was revving up to full power. The transport began moving towards him. Slowly at first, then a steady increase in speed. He braced himself, shoved the stock of the rifle hard against his shoulder. He was aiming for the huge tyres on the machine's wheels.

As it came closer a door opened. Framed inside stood a man holding a machine-pistol with a long barrel. Probably a 9 mm Uzi. Forty rounds in the mag. The night was filled with the roar of the oncoming transport. Ignoring the gunman in the doorway, Newman aimed his night sight for the blur of a fast-revolving tyre. The gunman had begun to open up on him. A spray of bullets hit the grass fifty yards from where he stood. In seconds they'd be firing at him point-blank.

The sound of the transport's engines drowned the noise of the motor-cycle Butler was riding, coming up behind the tail of the plane. He held the handlebars with his left hand; in his right he gripped the Browning automatic. He came like a rocket, was suddenly alongside the machine. He raised the automatic, pressed the trigger, firing nonstop at the doorway.

Hipper toppled out of the plane, thudded down on the concrete runway. Newman fired several shots, moving the muzzle a fraction. The transport sheered past. Newman saw the port wheel collapse, metal grinding through rubber. The machine's starboard side swung through an angle of ninety degrees – carried on by its intact starboard wheels. The plane wobbled across the grass, stopped. Butler pulled up a few feet behind the open door, reloaded, aimed his Browning upwards. A ladder was dropped as Benoit arrived in a jeep driven by the chief security officer. Brand alighted first, climbing down with hesitant steps. Benoit was waiting for him. Before the banker could turn round Benoit clamped his hands behind him with a pair of handcuffs.

'Peter Brand, I have a warrant for your arrest…'

– – Epilogue

– – Two weeks later three men sat in Tweed's office at Park Crescent. Newman sat in the armchair, Marler stood by the window, Tweed occupied the seat behind his desk.

'So you've seen off Cord Dillon,' Newman remarked.

'He flew back to Washington yesterday,' Tweed answered. 'I took him up to Cockley Ford with the order to exhume the seventh grave in the church cemetery. When they opened it they found the body of Lee Foley. Dillon reacted well, said he didn't know who he was. Afterwards he told me he recognized the signet ring on the corpse's third right finger. My guess is Klein couldn't get it off and had the villagers dump the body in.'

'And our nice friend, Ned Grimes, confessed before he died?'

'Talked non-stop. Foley had explained the idea to the villagers with Klein and Dr Portch present. Offered them the earth if they would cooperate – let the tomb of Sir John Leinster be used to store a secret cargo. That was the bombs and sea-mines due for delivery by the Lesbos, of course.'

'But not everyone agreed?'

'No, now we come to the nasty bit. Six of them -egged on by a Mrs Rout, the postmistress – wouldn't play. Threatened to report the plan to the police. Enter Lee Foley one evening at The Bluebell, masked in a Balaclava when they'd manoeuvred all the six dissenters to be present. He mowed them down with a machine-pistol. Except Simple Eric. No one worried about him. No one would believe a word he said.'

'Why did the other villagers agree to go along?'

'Greed, pure greed, Foley offered them a fortune, handed out expensive presents – including a Rolex for Simple Eric. They had no idea what was going to be hidden in the tomb. I doubt if they cared. Portch by then had them in the palm of his hand. He took them off occasionally for holidays to distant places – and escorted them.'

'After they'd buried the bodies of their fellow-villagers,' Newman commented. 'What a macabre business.'

'I gathered from Grimes they were divided into two factions long before Foley and Portch appeared. That's not uncommon considering the isolated lives some of those tiny villages in Norfolk lead,' Tweed remarked.

'And afterwards Portch practically held them in quarantine – with very little contact with the outside world?'

'Again not uncommon – especially round Breckland. Some of them have never seen London. Portch would charter a flight to some lonely West Indian island out of season to stop them getting restless.'

'And what happened to Foley?' Newman enquired.

'He blundered. Panicked when Paula followed him. Decided he had better wipe her out. Hence the TNT – packed inside one of the smallest Soviet bombs. Klein was furious, drugged him at Cockley Ford, then cut his throat. Grimes helped dispose of him. Hence the seventh grave. I think Klein met Foley in New York during his UN posting. Like recognized like. Foley, Dillon told me, had contact with European arms dealers, probably supplied the weapons. Klein would have killed him anyway in due course, I'm sure.'