Colin Forbes - This United state

Behind them Marler drove the second car. Next to him sat Nield and in the back Butler sat very upright, scanning the traffic, looking frequently back through the rear window to see if there was any sign they were being followed. There wasn't.

'Thank you for letting me take the wheel,' Paula said as they left London behind.

'I thought it was your turn,' Tweed replied. 'And I know that you love driving. You realize you're humming a tune?'

'I know. It's such a lovely day. Not a cloud in the sky and the air is so crisp and fresh.'

'It will be a different atmosphere after dark,' Newman commented. 'Might be a bit too fresh for you, Paula.'

'Now don't you get fresh with her,' Tweed joked. 'I think she's safer with you in the back.'

'So she's safe with you in the front?'

'So far she is. I'm not making any promises about later.'

Tweed continued keeping up a bantering conversation. He knew that they wouldn't be able to avoid the growing tension once they had reached the Bunker. For as long as possible he wanted to create a holiday mood. The atmosphere changed when they were driving slowly through Parham.

'Sir Guy's village,' Paula recalled. 'And the poor chap will never again see Irongates. What guts – the way he offered his help when we were going on to the Black Forest. You know something? I could strangle the Phantom with my bare hands. And slowly.'

'He was a remarkable man,' agreed Tweed, 'both in his military career and in business. I share your sentiments, Paula.'

There was a brooding silence in the car as they continued on their way, south through Ashford, then the turn-off from the highway to Ivychurch. Paula had slowed down, was driving carefully as she negotiated the twists and turns of the narrow lanes.

She was approaching the farmhouse where the Bunker was located when she suddenly stopped, staring to her left. Tweed and Newman looked in the same direction.

'What is it?' Tweed asked.

'I think I saw something. Back in a minute.'

Before Tweed could protest she had jumped out of the car and plunged along a track leading to a large copse of evergreen trees, a rare sight on Romney Marsh. Newman dived out to follow her, his Smith amp; Wesson in his hand.

'What the hell are you doing?' he hissed as he caught up with her.

'I thought the sun flashed off something. Look.' She stopped. 'See where Alf parked all his cabs? That was clever. They can't be seen from the air.'

Newman stared. The cabs were arranged laager fashion, left in a small circle. All were sheltered from observation from the air under great evergreen spreading branches.

'No flies on Alf,' he said.

'I think he's a very astute man. Better get back to the car or Tweed will fret.'

Once inside the car, they told Tweed what they had found. He was intrigued. He agreed that Alf knew exactly what he was doing in any given situation. Paula lowered her window, switched off the engine. She had repeated this performance several times after leaving Parham behind.

'Why do you keep doing this?' Tweed enquired. 'Listening. For any sign of a chopper. Not a whisper. So we can drive on. We're nearly there.'

'I know;' Tweed said quietly.

She was crawling as the farmhouse came into view. Deliberately to give Mrs Carson time to observe them, then to open the automatic gate.

Tweed stared hard at the farmhouse. He kept his expression neutral to conceal his reaction. He spoke to himself without letting anyone hear a word.

'The battlefield.'

Paula was amazed by the complexity and the global reach of the communications system which had been created. Mrs Carson was taking her on a conducted tour. They had reached the underground rabbit warren of offices by first descending into the cellar beneath the farmhouse.

'We enter through here,' Mrs Carson explained.

She opened a slab-like steel door and they entered a long tunnel. The concrete roof above them was arched, illumination was by a series of fluorescent tubes suspended from above. She opened one door and Paula peered inside. A large number of men in shirtsleeves sat behind computers and radio terminals. All wore earphones and most were scribbling like mad on yellow pads.

'Coded messages coming through from all over the world,' Mrs C. explained.

'I didn't see any masts with aerials when we arrived,' Paula commented.

'Wait till We get back upstairs. Alf and Marler have redesigned the whole. reception before you got down to see us. Staggering what those two men – with helpers – achieved. This is the decoding room.'

She opened another door further along the corridor. Inside there were more men in shirtsleeves. They were working at desks with codebooks open while they deciphered messages, writing on more yellow pads.

Paula noticed that in both rooms no one had looked up when they stood in the doorways, such was the concentration on the work.

Mrs C. led Paula into another tunnel, running at right angles to the main one. Opening another door they peered inside a vast canteen. Paula recognized Mrs Payne, wearing whites and preparing large quantities of food. Guiding Paula further down the tunnel, Mrs C. opened yet another door. Beyond was a large, very clean and modem washroom.

'I think you've seen enough to give you the general idea,' Mrs C. decided. 'If you stay down here too long and you're not used to it you get a feeling of claustrophobia. And the rattle of the teleprinters gets on your nerves.'

'How can Mrs Payne possibly cope on her own?'

'She won't have to. Other cooks on the staff come on duty shortly. She was preparing lunch for you and the people who drove down in your two cars.'

'And all this converted out of what was once a major smugglers' haunt, ages ago.'

'Yes. And the main tunnel extended to close to the sea. They must have worked like madmen with the most primitive of tools.'

'Imagine the number of casks of brandy which must have travelled along these tunnels at one time.'

'Makes me feel tiddly just to think of it,' said Mrs C. leading them back into the farmhouse's cellar. 'Now I've shown you the system I can get back to reassembling my machine-pistol. I dismantled it this morning to clean it.'

'Machine-pistol?' Paula queried as they mounted the steps and arrived back in the farmhouse.

'Yes. Tweed phoned me earlier to warn me what's coming. It will be all hands to the pumps. I was trained by that nice man, Sarge, at the mansion in Surrey. Wonder why they call him Sarge?'

'He was a sergeant at one time, SAS I believe.'

Tweed sat drinking tea by himself at the large old wooden table in the living room. He put down his cup when they arrived.

'Well, Paula, what do you think?'

'They have much more space down there than in the second building they normally occupy in Park Crescent. Would it be an idea to keep them down here?'

'We're considering just that – if we survive tonight.' 'Of course we will,' scoffed Mrs C. blow hell out of them.'

Paula stared at Mrs C. Plump-figured, her apple-cheeked face was smiling. She was actually looking forward to what was coming.

'I'll go now,' she said.

'Put your coat on,' called out Mrs C., disappearing into another room. 'It's pretty nippy out there.'

She must have eyes in the back of her head,. Paula thought. She was slipping on her coat as she went out into the farmyard. Newman, standing at the entrance to a narrow passage between two old barns, beckoned to her. She followed him, emerged at the other end into the open. She gazed around. As on her previous visit, she thought she had never seen bleaker terrain.

To the south, until the ground belonging to the farm terminated at a hedge, the land was almost completely flat, covered with miserable tufts of grass. Like a desert, she said to herself. A chill wind, freezing her face, made her glad she'd taken Mrs C.'s advice.