1958 - The World in My Pocket (15 page)

The two men, Bleck carrying the rifle and Morgan a .45, got out of the caravan. They stood for a moment drawing in deep breaths of the fresh morning air, feeling the sun hot on their faces.

Morgan said to Kitson. ‘You know what to do. Listen for the whistle and then come fast.’

Kitson nodded.

‘Good luck,’ he said, staring first at Bleck and then at Morgan.

‘You slay me!’ Bleck sneered. ‘Don’t you imagine you need some luck yourself?’

Kitson shrugged, then shifted into gear and began to drive away when Morgan realized they had forgotten the crowbars.

‘Hey! Hey!’ he bawled. ‘Stop!’

Kitson pulled up and leaned out of the window.

‘Goddamn it!’ Morgan said, glaring at Bleck. ‘Do I have to think of everything? We haven’t the crowbars!’

Kitson opened the back of the caravan and Bleck got the crowbars out, then Morgan, his eyes glittering angrily, waved Kitson on. As the Buick and the caravan moved off, Morgan picked up one of the crowbars and carried it to the side of the road.

Bleck followed him.

Morgan had been over the ground around the bottleneck so often, he knew practically every shrub and bush by heart. He pointed out where Bleck was to be. He himself went to a position about six yards from Bleck.

Both men lay down and examined the road.

This was a good spot, Bleck thought, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder and squinting through the sights. He was completely hidden, and yet he had a clear field of fire with no obstructions.

He began to feel a little less uneasy, but he wished he had had a drink before leaving the caravan. The three shots of Scotch he had had before leaving his apartment were dying on him.

Although it was still early, the sun now was making him sweat and his mouth was dry.

‘Okay?’ Morgan called.

‘Great,’ Bleck said, and after adjusting the sights of the rifle, he put it down beside him, took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands.

Morgan took off his tie and opened his shirt. He glanced at his watch. The time now was five minutes to eleven. If the truck drove at its usual speed, it would be expected at the bottleneck at half-past eleven. Ginny should be here, Morgan decided, in a quarter of an hour.

There was time for a cigarette, and taking out his pack, he lit one.

Seeing him smoking, Bleck also lit a cigarette. He put his hand on the rifle, noticing his hand was still shaking and he grimaced. He was feeling tense and his heart was thumping. This hanging about was making him feel bad.

After five minutes of silence, Morgan suddenly lifted his head to listen.

‘Sounds like a car coming,’ he said.

Bleck scrambled to his feet.

‘Get down, you fool!’ Morgan snarled. ‘It can’t be her! Get out of sight!’

Hurriedly, Bleck slid under cover.

A half a mile down the road they saw some vehicle coming in a thick cloud of dust. As it drew nearer they could see it was a military truck. Three soldiers were sitting in the cab. The truck drove past and went on up the road.

‘That’s the mail run,’ Morgan said. ‘They’re late.’

The hands of his watch crawled on. At twenty minutes past eleven, he began to feel uneasy. Had Ginny met with a smash? Had she lost her nerve and run out on them?

Bleck said, ‘Sweet suffering Pete! How much longer is she going to be?’

‘Maybe the traffic was bad out of town,’ Morgan said, frowning uneasily.

‘Suppose they don’t let her overtake them?’ Bleck said, half sitting up. ‘What the hell do we do if they get here before she does?’

‘We do nothing. It’ll mean we try again tomorrow.’

‘But they’ll be suspicious if they see her on the road again,’ Bleck said. ‘It’ll box up the whole plan!’

‘Pipe down!’ Morgan growled. ‘There’s time yet.’

He broke off as he heard in the distance the deep-throated roar of a car coming fast.

‘Here she comes!’

A few seconds later they saw the MG flashing along the stretch of straight road a mile from them.

‘She’s driving like hell!’ Bleck exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. ‘Look at the way she’s coming!’

Morgan, also on his feet, looked down the road.

‘Maybe she’s got the truck right behind her. Come on! Get those crowbars ready.’

He pulled a length of rag from his pocket and began to twist it into a rope. Then, taking a can of benzine from another pocket, he stepped on to the road. He heard Ginny change down as she reached the bend in the road, then the next moment he saw the MG as it came through the bottleneck. He waved, pointing to where he wanted her to stop.

She swung the car to the edge of the road and pulled up. Her face pale and her eyes glittering with anger and excitement, Ginny jumped out of the car.

‘The devils wouldn’t let me pass! To get past them, I nearly went off the road! Hurry!’ Her voice was tense and her face white. ‘They’re right behind me!’ She snatched a gun from the glove compartment, then picked up the half-gallon jar of pigs’ blood that was on the floor of the car. ‘Where?’

Morgan pointed to a spot on the road.

As she pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle and began to pour the blood onto the road, Morgan and Bleck pushed the ends of the crowbars under the car and heaved upwards. The powerful leverage lifted the car easily. It hung for a moment, then crashed over into the ditch.

‘Take the crowbars and get under cover,’ Morgan said to Bleck, and he pulled off the cap on the gas tank.

Carrying the crowbars, Bleck got back to his place of hiding.

Ginny was splashing the blood on her left arm and over her skirt, grimacing with disgust.

Morgan poured the benzine on the long strip of rag, dipped one end into the gas tank and then laid the six-foot length of rag onto the road.

‘They’re coming! I can see them!’ Bleck shouted. ‘Hurry!’

Morgan looked quickly at Ginny.

She was now lying face down in the middle of the puddle of blood, and she looked up at him, her face white and tense.

‘Got your gun?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Take it easy. I’ll be with you, kid.’

As he struck a match, he suddenly wondered if the overturned car was too close to her. When it went up, the heat might scorch her, but it was too late now to do anything about that.

‘Hurry!’ Bleck shouted, panic in his voice.

Morgan touched the end of the rag with the lighted match, then ran past Ginny and dived behind his cover.

The flame ran up the rag and into the gas tank. There was an immediate explosion. A blast of scorching air struck Morgan, making him gasp.

Black smoke and a huge orange-coloured flame engulfed the road.

‘She’ll be fried!’ Bleck yelled, shielding his face against the heat.

Morgan knew there was nothing he could do for Ginny. He switched his mind from her and looked down the road. He caught sight of the truck as it came into the bend to the bottleneck.

‘Here they come!’

Bleck grabbed up the rifle and slammed the butt against his shoulder. The sight weaved before his eyes as he desperately tried to steady the rifle.

The big flame had died down now and the smoke had cleared a little. The car was still burning furiously, and the heat was scorching.

Ginny lay motionless in the middle of the road.

From where Bleck lay, the spectacle looked horribly realistic. The motionless girl, blood on her arms and her skirt, her long legs spread like those of a sawdust doll and the blazing car built up a convincing picture of a fatal accident.

Morgan cursed himself for not getting the car further away from the girl. Even where he lay, he found the heat intolerable. She was at least twenty feet closer to the blaze and he was sure she was being scorched alive. But she didn’t move nor show the slightest sign that she was suffering.

The truck came through the bottleneck.

Morgan’s fingers gripped the butt of his .45. He could see the driver and the guard. He watched their change of expressions when they saw the blazing car and the girl in the road. The driver slammed on his brakes, stopping the truck fifteen feet or so from where Ginny lay.

What was the next move to be? Morgan wondered. What were these two going to do? Everything now depended on this moment: his hopes and his plans hung in balance.

The guard was leaning forward, staring. The driver was shifting his gear stick into neutral.

Morgan saw both the side windows were open. At least that conformed to his planning.

There was a pause which seemed interminable to Morgan while the guard and the driver stared through the windshield at Ginny. Then the guard said something to the driver, who nodded.

This badly bothered Morgan. These two were too cool and unflustered by what they were seeing. Then he saw the guard reach forward and pick up a hand microphone.

For God’s sake! Morgan thought. He’s going to radio back for instructions!

He wondered if he should break cover and attempt to take them both. If he had thought they would have done this, he would have had Bleck on the other side of the road so they could come up on either side of the truck, but he dare not try a lone rush against these two.

He wondered how Ginny was feeling, lying there, being slowly scorched, not knowing what was happening, but aware that the truck had stopped within a few feet of her. Even in this crisis Morgan found time to admire the girl’s nerve. To lie there, waiting, not knowing what was happening, in the scorching heat, was a test for the strongest nerves.

He watched the guard talk into the microphone. He could hear his voice, but not what he was saying. This would mean their escape time would be cut down, Morgan thought. As soon as the truck went off the air, the Agency would know something was wrong and would set off the alarm.

The guard had now ceased talking and had hung up the microphone. He said something to the driver, then opened the truck door and got out. The driver remained where he was, watching through the windshield.

Morgan wondered what Bleck was doing. From where he lay, he couldn’t see him.

Bleck was sighting the rifle at the guard as he walked quickly towards Ginny, and he was cursing under his breath because his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t hold the rifle steady, and this threw him into a panic.

By now the guard was within ten feet of Ginny, and Bleck knew any moment Morgan would break cover.

The rifle sight wavered on the guard: on him a moment, off him the next.

Bleck heard a rustle of shrubs as Morgan came out on to the road. He did what he shouldn’t have done. He took his eyes off the guard and looked quickly to his right.

Morgan was moving fast and silently up to the on-side window of the truck, his .45 in his hand.

The guard was now bending over Ginny, but not touching her.

Perhaps he had a suspicion that there was something wrong with this setup. Perhaps he felt he was being watched. He suddenly looked back over his shoulder.

Morgan was now at the window, his gun pointing at the startled driver, who sat paralysed.

Ginny sat up abruptly.

The guard whipped around and his hand smashed down on her wrist as she was lifting her gun. His movement was unbelievably fast. With his left hand he hit her across her face, knocking her flat. With his right hand, he whipped his gun out of its holster.

The two movements were too quick for the eye to follow.

His breath rasping at the back of his throat, Bleck pulled the trigger of the rifle instead of squeezing it. The rifle sight jerked upwards as the gun went off. The bullet passed harmlessly over the guard’s head.

As Bleck fired, the driver who had been sitting motionless in the cab, staring at Morgan, suddenly threw himself sideways, his hand stabbing towards the three buttons on the dashboard.

Morgan shot him in the face.

The guard swung his gun on Morgan. As he fired, Ginny, still dazed by the blow she had received, struck at his arm, shifting his aim, but not enough.

Morgan felt a heavy blow against his ribs and then a burning pain. The shock sent him down on one knee, but he quickly recovered. He took a snap shot at the guard who had Ginny now hanging on his gun arm.

His shot hit the guard in the centre of his forehead, killing him instantly. His body slumped down on Ginny, flattening her on the road.

Morgan crawled to his feet, the pain in his side making him grit his teeth.

He was in time to see the driver’s hand creep towards one of the buttons on the dashboard. Before Morgan could move, the fumbling finger reached the button and pressed it.

Steel shutters, moving like the spring of a released mousetrap, snapped down over the windows and the windshield, turning the truck into a steel box.

Cursing, Morgan staggered upright and slammed his gun butt against the shutter, covering the driver’s window, in a vicious explosion of disappointment. As he stood there, panting, he heard through the shutter a sighing groan from the driver, and then the sound of his body rolling off the seat onto the floor.

Bleck came rushing out from behind his cover, clutching the automatic rifle, his face livid.

Morgan turned and stared at him. There was an expression in his eyes that brought Bleck to an abrupt standstill.

‘You yellow rat!’ Morgan snarled. ‘I’ve a mind to kill you!’

Bleck dropped the rifle and waved his hands imploringly.

‘I tried to hit him!’ he cried wildly. ‘I got the sights wrong and then the rifle jammed!’

Morgan suddenly realized he was bleeding, and opening his coat, he saw a great patch of blood on his shirt.

Ginny came unsteadily up to him. Her face was red from the heat of the burning car and her hair was singed.

‘Is it bad?’ she asked anxiously.

‘It’s nothing,’ Morgan said, but he was uneasy, as he was feeling cold and faint. He pushed the whistle into her hand. ‘Get Kitson fast.’

She blew the whistle: a long, shrill blast; paused and then blew it again.

‘The driver?’ she asked as Morgan leaned against the side of the truck, his breathing quick and light.

‘I fixed him. He managed to press one of the buttons, but I don’t think he touched the others. I heard him fall.’