Assault on England (5 page)

The stench of manure rose from the wagon. Heather wrinkled her nose and gave me a smile.

"That wouldn't be our chap," I lied. "The man we're looking for is here with his family. Thanks, anyway."

The farmer flicked his horse into motion and we drove off slowly. When the wagon was out of sight, we took the first turn in the direction the farmer had indicated. About a hundred yards along the dirt road, I motioned for Heather to pull over to the side.

"The cottage can't be far," I said. "We'll walk the rest of the way."

A bird called out in irritation from the field beside us as we got out of the car. Otherwise the morning was sunny and silent. We followed the winding road for a couple hundred more yards before we saw the cottage.

I pushed Heather down behind some tall grass. "That must be it," I whispered.

The brown stone cottage squatted on a low hill covered with gorse, the yellow blossoms giving some relief to the stark scene. Parked beside the cottage was a small blue Sunbeam sedan. There had been no attempt to hide the car from the road. Apparently Novosty thought he was safe — from observation or else he wanted others to think he did.

I touched Heather's arm and indicated that we would circle around to the side of the cottage where we could approach it behind the cover of the car. I started off through the grass, Heather following.

As we crawled up to the parked Sunbeam, we could hear voices. There was a window open on that side of the cottage. I reached into my jacket for Wilhelmina and Heather took a small Sterling.380 PPL automatic out of her purse. I motioned for her to stay put and cover me. Slowly I crawled to the side of the cottage, stopped underneath the window.

The voices were very distinct now. I straightened up as high as the window ledge and took a quick glance inside. There were three men in the cottage: a tall, thin man with light brown hair and a bony face — Novosty apparently — was striding around the room speaking to two other men who looked British. I ducked back down and listened.

"When we return to London there will be no further contact except by prearranged dead-drop message," Novosty was saying. "Above all, none of us must be seen at the Defence Ministry prior to our target date. Is that understood?"

There was a mumbling of assent from the others.

"Good. On the target date, there will be a heavy guard at the Ministry. Our timing must be very nearly perfect. Our subject will be exposed to us for only seconds. We must make our move swiftly and efficiently."

"Don't worry about us, mate," one of the Englishmen said coolly.

"We'll give them a bleeding good show," his companion agreed.

Novosty lowered his voice. I leaned forward to get in a better position to hear him when there was a sound at the back of the cottage. Heather's whisper reached me almost simultaneously.

"Nick! Look out!"

It was too late. A stocky man came around the side of the cottage from the rear, carrying a pail of water. He had apparently been to the well out back. When he saw me, he swore in Russian and dropped the pail. He fit the description I had been given of a resident KGB operator for southern England. Spotting Wilhelmina, he reached desperately into his hip pocket for his own gun.

I aimed and fired the Luger in one motion; the shot echoed loudly in the quiet morning. The Russian grabbed at his chest and the gun he had pulled out went flying against the wall of the cottage. The KGB man stumbled backwards, landed spread-legged in the gorse, his hands clutching at empty air.

"Run for the tall grass!" I shouted at Heather. Then, without waiting for an acknowledgment, I ran headlong for the back of the cottage, hoping there was a door there.

I almost stumbled over the dropped pail as I rounded the corner. I saw the door, closed. I kicked out at it savagely and it crashed inward.

As I moved into the cottage, into a room behind the one where Novosty and the others had been talking, one of the Englishmen came through an open doorway, holding a Webley 455 Mark IV, and ran into me without breaking stride. His face reflected surprise as we hit. He was knocked back against the door jamb, time enough for me to aim Wilhelmina and open a hole in his gut. He slumped to the floor, eyes open, the surprised look still on his face.

I moved on into the front room of the cottage but it was empty. Then I heard shots from out front. Novosty and the other man were outside, exchanging fire with Heather. She was apparently keeping them away from the blue sedan with her small pistol. I started toward the front door, planning to come up behind them, when the second Briton came charging back into the cottage.

He fired first but the shot was wild. My Luger exploded twice and both shots scored. I didn't stop to watch him fall. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire outside and then I heard a car door slam. A second later, the engine roared. As I stepped out of the cottage, the Sunbeam skidded off across the open ground, heading for the road.

I could just barely see the top of Novosty's head as he crouched low over the wheel to avoid Heather's fire. Resting Wilhelmina on my forearm, I sighted along the barrel and aimed for the right rear tire. But just as I fired, the sedan bounced in and out of a rut, veering crazily. The shot missed the tire and dug up dirt instead. Then the car was gone down the road, hidden by high grass.

I dropped Wilhelmina to my side and sighed. The one man we really wanted had gotten away. He could find other agents within days, maybe even hours. And if Novosty was the assassin, we probably hadn't even slowed him down.

I remembered Heather then and turned toward the high brush. I found her reloading the Sterling PPL.

"Sorry he got past me," she apologized.

"Couldn't be helped," I said.

"I suppose there's little point in trying to follow him in my car."

He's got too big a start on us," I said.

"Yes." She sounded depressed.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm all right. And your?"

"The best of health," I told her. "I can't say the same for those two in there." I motioned toward the cottage.

We searched the two Britons and the cottage but found nothing. Then I went through the pockets of the dead KGB man. Nothing. Novosty was a real pro — with the pro's aversion to writing anything down.

"They were talking about the Defence Ministry," I told Heather. 'They were definitely planning something there.

"Novosty talked about 'our subject' and 'target date' and said they had to 'make their move swiftly. Novosty could be our man. We'd better presume that he is, and that he plans to kill again soon. If it's part of a grand plan, he'll just change time, date and method of operation for the next attempt."

"The Defence Ministry," Heather mused. "With Dumbarton already assassinated, who does that leave? His second in command?"

"Maybe, or maybe a general. Who knows?" I said. I was going through one of the dead men's wallet for the second time. I noticed a secret compartment I had missed the first time. Inside was a slip of paper. I pulled it out "Hey! What's this?"

Heather looked over my shoulder. "It's a telephone number."

"What's that written under it?"

She took it from me. "Lower Slaughter."

"Lower… What in the world is that?"

She looked up at me, her blue eyes smiling. "It's a town, a small village in the Cotswolds. This must be a number in the village."

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "maybe one of Novosty's boys made a small mistake."

"And the second note?" I asked, the phone cradled to my ear, photostatic copies of the assassination notes Brutus had made up for me spread out on the bed beside me. "Were there any differences?"

I was speaking to the graphoanalyst Brutus had given the assassination notes to. I listened intently to his reply.

"Well," I said as he finished, "I appreciate your help."

I hung up and turned to Heather, who sat on the other of the twin beds. We had registered at this Stratford hotel as husband and wife — at her suggestion.

"That's interesting," I said.

"What?" she asked.

I studied the photostats pensively. I had circled certain letters as I listened to the handwriting expert.

"Take a look at this," I told Heather. "Notice how the letters all slant at a sharp angle to the right side of the paper. The graphologist feels it means the writer is a very emotional person, possibly a disturbed personality."

"But our dossier on Novosty shows him to be a cool, systematic and efficient agent," Heather protested. "His records at Gaczyna all tell the same story." She was referring to stolen records from the Soviet spy school.

"Exactly. Now, look at the open A's and O's in this first note. A careful, precise man like Novosty would close those letters at the top.

"Secretive persons always close their O's," I continued "And there's more. See how the T is crossed in 'Britain? A strong, firm crossing line through the body of the letter, indicating a strength bordering on stubbornness and undue aggressiveness. Again, Novosty doesn't fit the pattern. Then, there's the hurried style of writing, suggesting irritability and impatience. Can you see the Soviets picking an impatient man for a master spy?"

Heather smiled. "I rather wish they would."

I returned the smile. 'That's not our luck, I'm afraid." I looked back down at the photostats and stopped smiling as I compared them. "Last but not least there's a pronounced slant downward to the lines in these notes. It's most evident in the second note. That shows the writer is seething with emotion, full of depressions and anxieties."

Heather regarded the notes ruefully. "A man like that would be found out very quickly in the KGB."

"And given a quick discharge," I agreed.

"Blimey!" Heather breathed, in one of her rare lapses into street slang. "It's a ruddy guessing game, it is!"

"With time running out on us," I added "In a few days, there will be another assassination."

"What do we do now?" She crossed her long legs, showing a flash of lace under the yellow mini dress she was wearing. She looked like a schoolgirl, wondering if she had passed an exam. But she had not behaved like a schoolgirl out there at the cottage at Land's End.

"We go on to Lower Slaughter and try to relocate Novosty while there is still time. Maybe all that phone number is a lead to somebody's girlfriend. But it could be Novosty's real headquarters. I just hope it's not a dead end."

In the morning we drove to Lower Slaughter along narrow roads, passing thatched-roofed, black and white cottages and signs directing the traveler to such places as Chipping Campden and Bourton-on-the-Water. Lower Slaughter itself was a serene old tree-shaded village of brown stone cottages with a stream running through it. We parked the car on a side street and walked to the address Brutus's research department had traced through the telephone number we'd given them. It was a small house on the edge of town and it appeared to be deserted. There was no blue sedan around and the door was locked.

We moved around to the back and I looked in through a small leaded-glass window. I saw no one. I took an adjustable key from my pocket, one of the many devices provided by Hawk's Special Effects and Editing boys, and manipulated the lock with it. In a moment, a tumbler clicked and the door opened. I pulled Wilhelmina out and stepped cautiously inside. I moved slowly through a rustic kitchen into a living room, then into a bedroom. When I returned to the living room, Heather was checking the house out for "bugs." There were none.

I had just about decided that there was little point in hanging around when I found the overnight case stashed in a small closet. It had all the necessary male toilet articles in it, and they had been recently used. I looked around some more and spotted a crumpled but fresh cigarette butt in a wastebasket. The cigarette was one of the three British brands preferred by Russians and other East Europeans.

"Novosty beat us here," I told Heather. "And he'll be back."

"Yes," she said, "and he's already had company." She showed me two liqueur glasses she had found in a kitchen cupboard, recently used and left unwashed.

I smiled, leaned down and brushed her cheek with my lips. "Very good," I said She looked at me as if she wanted more, then quickly looked around. I had a difficult time remembering what I was there for.

"There is a man named Koval," Heather said, her eyes on the glasses she was holding. "He's a Russian agent who has been seen in this area and who has a liking for this type of liqueur. Stanislas Koval."

"Apparently he's Novosty's new subordinate," I said "They may be out recruiting more agents right now."

"Koval would be able to call on a number of men he has already cleared," Heather said.

"That's right. But we have a small advantage now. We're here and they don't know it."

Heather was wearing a corduroy skirt and one of those braless jersey shirts — I could see the contours of her nipples through the clinging material. It was no different from what all the other girls were wearing in the new days of female emancipation, but on Heather — and under the circumstances — it was distracting and frustrating. I think she knew it bothered me and was rather enjoying it. I tore my eyes away from those nipples and went to the kitchen to relock the back door. Then I replaced the overnight case and cigarette butt while Heather put the dirty glasses back into the cupboard where she had found them.

"Now," I said, "we'll wait." Deliberately I let my gaze travel over the jersey blouse and down to where the short corduory shirt stopped at mid-thigh. "Do you have any suggestions as to where?"

She gave me just a hint of a smile. "The bedroom?"

I returned her smile. "Of course," I said.

We moved into the bedroom and closed the door. Heather went to the one window and looked outside. "Very quiet out there," she said, turning back to me and tossing her purse on the bed. "We just may have ourselves a long wait."