Ник Картер - Assault on England

He was skidding crazily around every curve. My sports car was cornering beautifully and soon I was right on him. He had seen me and when I tried to pass him, to force him over, he pulled out to stop me. He managed this on several curves until he met a slow-moving horse-drawn wagon coming from the other direction.

Novosty wheeled the Simca to the right. It skidded and came back to the left, catching the back corner of the wagon which was loaded with bales of hay. The wagon tipped toward the ditch, then swayed back and tipped part of its contents into the road in front of me. I drove on through it with hay scattering in all directions and my view momentarily obscured.

When I came out of the hay cloud I was right on top of the Simca. I tried to come up alongside but Novosty pulled over in front of me. I yanked my wheel hard right and Novosty followed, as I thought he would, then I pulled hard to the left and shifted down. The S.O.C.E.M.A-Gregoire leaped ahead as my foot went down on the accelerator and moved up beside the Simca before Novosty could pull back over.

Novosty jerked hard on the wheel, crashed the Simca into the right side of the sports car, the driver’s side. I retaliated by slamming the sports car back against the Simca, edging Novosty toward the berm of the road. He almost lost control but recovered quickly, jumped momentarily ahead of me.

We tore around another curve, oblivious to what might be coming from the other direction. I pulled even with Novosty again, but before I could make my move, he slammed his Simca into my side.

Now it was my turn to lose control. The wheel jerked from my grasp and in the next instant the sports car rocketed off the road into a large open meadow. I saw Novosty’s car careering crazily toward the opposite berm and a twenty-foot drop-off to a rocky field, then I was hurtling through the air, the car beginning a roll before it hit.

I saw a flash of sky and then of brown earth. There was a jarring crash and the door on my side popped open and I was thrown out. I hit the ground, rolled twice and lay there stunned. The car kept on rolling and ended up, against a towering boulder.

I sat up slowly, moving gingerly. I ached, but there appeared to be no broken bones. Then I heard the explosion from across the road. I struggled to my feet. I had to save Novosty — if he could still be saved.

I stumbled up to the road and saw the Russian had gone over. Black smoke was spiraling up from below. I moved to the edge of the berm and looked down. The Simca was wrapped in flame. I could see Novosty, unconscious or dead, inside. I was too late; I couldn’t possibly get to him.

I stood there watching the Simca burn and couldn’t help wondering when my day would come and some Russian or Chicom agent would witness my death. No agent lived forever; most didn’t even make it to old age. That was why Hawk always said when we parted, “So long, Nick. Good luck. I’ll see you when I see you.” Which might be never.

I heard a car engine and turned just as a small white Lancia pulled over a few yards behind me. Heather jumped out and ran over to me. A bewildered Englishman crawled out of the other door of the car and stood staring wide-eyed at the burning Simca.

“Oh dear,” Heather said, looking down at the flaming wreck. Then she turned and looked across to where the S.O.C.E.M.A. lay upside-down in the field on the other side of the road. It was a mess.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“Oh, well,” she sighed. “It never shifted down very well, anyway.”

I grinned at her. “That Ferodo clutch must have needed adjusting”

“Rather Are you hurt?”

“Just my ego I wanted Novosty alive Now he can’t tell us anything.”

She gave me a small, smug smile. “Marsh talked before he died I promised him a doctor, poor chap. It seems these lads had nothing to do with the assassination. They planned to steal guided missile blueprints as they were transferred from the Defence Ministry to military headquarters.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said. So, I had been right about Novosty all along. But if the Russians weren’t behind the assassination plot then who was?

Brutus was seated behind his desk, fingering the photograph of Fergus’ commando unit. In front of him was a stack full of official Army records, each containing information on the men in the unit.

“We’ve managed to track all of them down,” Brutus said. “Twelve of them are dead, either killed in the war or died at home. This one,” he pointed at a man wearing a lieutenant’s insignia, “is a very interesting one. Lieutenant John Elmore. He had part of his skull crushed in a commando raid. Had a steel plate put in his head. After he left the service, he put his commando training to work for him. He became the most successful paid assassin in England. Mostly underworld assignments. The man was a genius at killing.”

I arched my eyebrows. Here, at last, was something.

Brutus shot my hopes down immediately. “He was killed years ago in a fight with Scotland Yard in a suburb of London.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Certain! Scotland Yard got a tip from one of its informers that Elmore was hiding in a service station. When they got there, he started shooting. One of the Yard men got a good look at him through the telescopic sights of a sniper’s rifle. The fight lasted 10 minutes, then the whole place went up in flames. One of the bullets must have hit a petrol pump. When it was all over they found Elmore’s body burned to a crisp. But there is no doubt that it was him.”

“So that leaves us with a killer still running loose.”

Brutus didn’t think so. “It’s twenty-four hours past the fortnight deadline,” Brutus was saying, walking back and forth before his massive desk, pulling on a heavy briar pipe clenched tightly between his teeth. “Which could mean your man Marsh was deliberately misled by Novosty so as not to give away the real purpose of the mission. In that case, my lad, the assassin died in that flaming car. And with the others dead or in custody, the plot has been frustrated.”

“But Koval has verified Marsh’s story,” Heather pointed out.

“But wouldn’t he do just that?” Brutus argued. “If you were Koval, would you rather be tried for stealing some documents or for murder?”

“A good point,” I said. “I can’t help thinking, though, that our killer is still out there somewhere.”

“The handwriting is bothering you, isn’t it?” Brutus said, sucking at his pipe.

“Yes, sir. And the way the killings were done. When you’ve been at this work for a while, you get a feeling about a man you’re after, whether you’ve ever met him or not. My idea of the killer just doesn’t match up with Novosty.”

“Well, I hope you’re wrong, Nick,” Brutus said heavily. “Because if you’re right, all we can do at this point is double our guard on all our high officials and wait.”

“I know,” I said gloomily.

Brutus suddenly stuck his big jaw out and grinned. “All right, my lad. Don’t look so down. You and Heather here go on about your work and check with me often.”

“We’re off, then,” Heather said. “We’ll divide up the work. I’ll take the Home Secretary and the Lord Privy Seal and Nick can start off with the Foreign Secretary. We’ll give you a ring tonight, Brutus.”

I walked down the wide corridor slowly. At first glance, the office building seemed to be humming in the ordinary way of a day’s work, the secretaries hurrying from one room to another, typewriters clacking behind closed doors. But if you knew what to look for, you saw the undercurrent of tension beneath the surface.

Those same secretaries avoided dark corridors and unused rooms. There were government agents and plainclothes Yard men everywhere. They stopped me every couple of minutes and made me flash the I.D. Brutus had given me. I wondered how difficult it might be to forge an SOE or MI5 I.D. card, probably not too hard for a knowledgeable operator.