Assault on England (12 page)

He gave us a parting grin, then he and his man were gone.

When we could no longer hear them on the stairs, I turned to Heather. "Who do you think Jupiter has marked off now?"

"The Prime Minister, I'm afraid," she said. "But surely he can't get past the massive security!"

"He's done it twice before, not counting Wellsey," I said. "Damn, we have to get out of this place. It's obvious this isn't listed in Jupiter's name or Brutus would have been here by now."

"We're off toward Oxford somewhere," Heather said. "I could tell that much from watching where they drove," she said. "Maybe around Beaconsfield. There are a number of large estates in the area."

I moved over closer to her and looked at her hands. The metal cuffs were no longer cutting into her flesh but her hands were swollen. "Knead your hands," I said. "Rub them together."

"They're very sore, Nick."

"I know. But if we can get the swelling down, we'll try working on my belt buckle again. With your fingers functioning properly, you may be able to unsnap the clasp."

"All right," she said obediently. "I'll knead."

The hours passed. Soon the light through the small opening in the oak door exceeded the feeble sunlight coming through the barred window. It was almost dark outside.

The swelling had gradually gone down; Heather's hands were almost back to normal.

"Do you want to try the buckle again now?" I asked. "Or wait?"

Heather rubbed her hands behind her. "They feel fairly good, Nick. But I can't promise anything."

"I know," I said. "But let's try."

She backed up to me and found my belt. "Yes, higher," I told her. "Now pull the buckle toward you. Right. I can see the damned catch despite this lousy light. Now, move your index finger to your left."

"That's it, isn't it?"

"Right. Now it has to be pushed to your right."

"I remember. But the bloody thing is stuck somehow, Nick. Or else I'm doing it all wrong."

"Keep trying. Try depressing the button slightly before pushing it to the right."

I heard her grunt as she manipulated her hands awkwardly behind her. Suddenly, miraculously, there was a tiny clicking noise and I felt the belt loosen. I looked down and Heather turned her head questioningly.

"You did it!" I told her.

Heather took hold of the buckle and pulled the belt off. She turned back to me, holding the belt behind her. "Now what?"

"Now we turn back to back again and I open the back of the buckle, hopefully, using the same catch but this time moving it downward. We can use the blowgun for a lock pick, if I can get at it. The trouble will be avoiding the small dart. If I break the plastic wrapper on the tip accidentally and prick myself, the ball game will be over — it's poisoned."

My back to Heather's, I reached out for the buckle. I found the catch and, after some difficulty, moved it in the right direction. The back of the buckle popped off. I felt around inside gingerly, touched the dart and shied away from it. Then my fumbling fingers touched the larger-diametered half of the tiny two-part blowgun. Carefully I removed the other, narrower part from the buckle and twisted awkwardly to look at it.

"Okay," I told Heather. "Drop the belt and hold your cuffs close to my hands."

I touched the handcuffs and fumbled for the lock. With great difficulty I managed to insert the slender metal tube I was holding into the lock.

"This is going to be tricky," I said. "Hold as still as possible."

Working behind yourself and upside down, in a twisted, uncomfortable position, is not the easiest way to pick a lock. Just trying to keep in mind in what direction to move the pick against the tumbler was a challenge. But after fifteen minutes of it, the lock clicked and Heather's cuffs were loose. I sighed a heavy sigh of relief as she moved away and pulled her hands from the cuffs.

"Now
you
have to do it for me," I told her.

She moved around in back of me.

For her it was an easier job. Her hands were free and she could see what she was doing. In a few minutes she had my cuffs unlocked.

I dropped them to the floor.

Working quickly, in almost complete darkness now, I ripped the belt open. It was lined with explosives in plastic form, like putty. There was also a short fuse and a match. I wadded the plastic into a ball and stuck the fuse into it. Then I assembled the four-inch blowgun and unwrapped the tiny dart.

"Well," I said "We're ready, I guess. We have nothing to pick the door lock with so well have to blow it."

"But there's no place to get away from the explosion," Heather pointed out.

"I know. Lie down against the wall near the door, opposite the lock." I moved to the door and jammed the plastic against the lock; it stuck there, the fuse extending out of it toward me. "Cover your ears and head," I told Heather, "and open your mouth."

I took the match out "Well, this is it," I said. I struck the match and touched it to the fuse. I saw it start, then dived onto Heather, covering my head.

The explosion was not a loud one as explosions go, but it seemed thunderous in that small room. Our ears rang and our heads hurt and I was hit in the back with a sharp piece of flying wood. We staggered to our feet while the smoke was still clearing. The door stood open.

"That will bring anyone who's downstairs," I said.

And it did. They came rushing up the stairs. Heather stood on one side of the door and I stood on the other. There were two of them. Heather had the blowgun and was ready to use it. The first man to appear in the dim light of the landing was the thin gunman we had met before. He hesitated a second, then moved into the room.

I took him; I struck viciously at his gunhand, knocking the gun loose. Then I grabbed his arm, jerking him off his feet into the room. I met him in the middle of the floor as he struggled up, smashed a hard right into his face. The bone snapped in his nose and he spun heavily against the opposite wall.

The second man, the Rolls driver, was at the door now, aiming his gun at me. Heather raised the blowgun and sent the dart on its way. It struck him in the neck, buried half of its shaft. Startled, he forgot about shooting me. He plucked the dart out, looked at it, and suddenly his eyes rolled and he fell flat on his face in the doorway.

I delivered a karate chop to the thin man's larynx. He made a gurgling sound and collapsed.

"Let's get out of here!" I grabbed Heather by the elbow.

We dived down the circular staircase. We met no one else coming up and as we made our way along the ground floor toward the front door, the house appeared to be empty. We searched the rooms we passed quickly. No one. But I did find our guns and Hugo in a desk in the library.

There was a car in the drive but the keys weren't in it. I reached under the dash, crossed wires to start it. We slammed the doors shut and roared off.

"We have to get to Brutus," I said, as we turned out of the drive onto the main road.

"Let's hope we're not too late," Heather said.

Brutus strode up and down in front of his desk. He didn't have the pipe in his teeth for a change and that seemed to make him more excitable.

"What does the bloody devil want from us?" he said loudly. "He sent instructions which were very ambiguous about delivering the money in Switzerland. We needed clarification and couldn't get it. And then your disappearance made us wonder what the chap was really up to. Jupiter's office and home are under surveillance but he hasn't been to either place since you were kidnapped."

"He probably won't go back to that country place now either," I said. "And I think he's set on another assassination no matter what we do about the money."

Brutus had called the Prime Minister when we explained why we thought he might be Jupiter's next target, Brutus and the P.M. had agreed that the most likely occasion for the attempt would be at a foreign ministers' conference at the Ministry, the day after tomorrow.

"Will Sir Leslie call off the conference, do you think?" I asked.

Brutus sighed. "I'm afraid that Sir Leslie does not have the same regard for his own life that he has for other people's safety. He keeps talking about the importance of the conference and pointing out how tight security is now. He's to call me back after he confers with his other advisors. I told him, of course, to scrap the bloody conference until this thing blows over."

"Is Scotland Yard trying to locate Jupiter?" I asked.

"They're everywhere," Brutus said. "They've questioned everybody at Jupiter's plant and people he has been seen with socially. Our agents and MI5 and 6 are on it too, of course. But Mr. Jupiter has disappeared. We've sent men to the house you were taken to, but I'm sure it's too late."

"I imagine he'll turn up day after tomorrow," I said.

Brutus looked over at me glumly. "Yes, I daresay. Let's hope Sir Leslie decides to play it safe." He sat down at his desk. "Incidentally, I had to inform David Hawk when you two disappeared. He was very concerned about you. I'm to contact him now that you're back."

A buzzer sounded on Brutus' desk. "Oh, yes," he said, answering it. He flipped a switch and stood up. "It's Sir Leslie. I'll take it in the next room."

Heather got up from the corner of the desk, crushed a cigarette into an ashtray and moved over to me.

She was just about to kiss me when Brutus walked back in again.

"Well, that's it," he said, tensely, his big British Army chin jutting out grimly. "Sir Leslie will have the bloody conference, on schedule." He shook his head. "It appears we have our work cut out."

It was the afternoon of the ministers' conference. The morning had passed uneventfully and already the Yard and MI5 were saying that SOE had guessed wrong — there would be no assassination attempt, not today, not here.

I was positive there would be. The foreign ministers' conference was the perfect setup. If some of the ministers got killed along with Sir Leslie, Britain would not only lose her head of state but would suffer great international embarrassment. Jupiter would enjoy that.

I had not seen Heather since before the noon recess when we met at a cafeteria and had a sandwich together. Brutus had given us free reign on this security assignment, letting us move around as we liked and do what we thought was most important at the moment. Heather had spent much of the morning in the conference room while I patrolled the corridors of the building. I had resumed that activity now and she had accompanied the conference members to a luncheon served in another part of the building.

If Jupiter had been telling the truth about catching "other fish" in his fourth assassination attempt, all kinds of possibilities opened up regarding the method he might use. A tommy gun, for instance, or a small bomb or a grenade or poison gas.

The air conditioning system had been checked out by experts several times but I'd checked it myself again during the morning session. Teams of bomb and demolition experts had gone over the conference room before the morning session and during a mid-morning break and found nothing. The security men were beginning to relax and joke about the whole business.

I wasn't laughing; they didn't know Jupiter. Our failure to find anything so far probably only meant we hadn't looked in the right place — and Jupiter was likely to have the last laugh.

I came to the big doors of the conference room and was stopped by two MI5 men and a policeman.

"SOE," I said, showing them my I.D.

They checked the card with extreme care and finally let me pass. I moved into the room and looked around. Everything appeared normal. There was a spotter over at a window, watching nearby rooftops, a policeman with a pair of powerful binoculars. I went over to him and leaned on the sill of the open window as a security helicopter fluttered by overhead.

"May I have a look?" I asked the bobby.

"Don't mind if you do," he said, handing the glasses to me.

I studied the nearest rooftops. They were crawling with security people so there seemed little point in watching them. I refocused the glasses for infinity and scanned the further horizon. I focused on a broad roof with several rises of superstructure and saw movement there. A dark-haired man was walking about, probably a policeman. Yes, I could make out the uniform now.

I sighed and handed the glasses back. "Thanks," I said.

I moved back out into the corridor. The ministers were returning from the luncheon, straggling down the hall. The afternoon session, which was getting a late start, would soon be in progress.

I left the area and moved up to the roof, stopping to show my I.D. several times. Security certainly seemed tight, but remembering how easily Jupiter had gained access to the Foreign Minister's office, I wasn't reassured.

I met Heather on the roof. She was carrying a walkie-talkie with which she could communicate with the temporary SOE command post.

"Hello, Nick." She smiled at me. "Is everything quiet downstairs?"

"So far." I put my arm around her shoulders. "I wish I could figure him out, Heather. He's giving me an inferiority complex. If he's around today, he's…"

I stopped and stared at a man who was moving past us. He wore a white serving jacket and was carrying a plate of sandwiches. He was tall with dark hair and built like Jupiter. I grabbed his arm and reached for Wilhelmina.

The man turned, fear in his face when he saw the gun. The hair was real, he had a hooked nose and he was obviously genuine.

"Eh, what's this, gov'nor?" he said.

"Nothing," I said, embarrassed. "Sorry. Go ahead — it was a mistake."

He muttered something and hurried on. A couple of agents nearby who'd witnessed the scene grinned.

"I must be getting jumpy," I told Heather, wryly. "Although you've got to admit a waiter would be a good disguise and, after all, Jupiter did crash the Foreign Secretary's offices as a janitor. Still, this poor guy doesn't look like him at all. Except for the dark hair and the serving jacket…"