'A peat digger found a hand sticking out of the place where he was digging. When Inspector Farthing told me I had an idea. I asked to visit the mortuary. It was the cleaning woman from the bungalow estate. I showed Farthing the photo I'd taken. She'd been shot once in the back of the neck.'
They were cleaning up before they left. No macabre pun intended.'
'And Farthing has been very helpful. He's put two men in plain clothes to help me watch the commando trio. They're all still here. That's it.'
Take care. I have an important call to make.'
The four men sitting in his office and Monica watched him as he called the PM on scrambler. He listened, said he understood and put down the phone. He looked around at Newman, Marler, Butler and Nield.
'She's just heard from Moscow Gorbachev will be flying here in four Ilyushin 62s.'
'Four?' Newman enquired. 'I know he's unusual but how can he do that?'
'It's a clever Soviet precaution – security. No one will know which of the four machines Gorbachev and his wife will be aboard. Maybe the PM gave him a hint of possible trouble. I don't know. Now, we've eaten, so everyone get some sleep. Tomorrow is the day.'
53
Monday, 7 December. 7 a.m. Sully lay in the road covered with blood near the entrance to Cherry Farm. It was real blood: Foster, against Anton's protests, had used a knife to cut his forearm lightly. He had then smeared blood all over Sully's face and neck. Inside the farmhouse Seton-Charles was using sticking plaster to cover the flesh wound.
Nearby Sully the Austin Metro had its bonnet pushed against a tree trunk, positioned at an angle across the road. The driver's door was wide open. George Hobart, driving his Post Office van, slowed, then stopped as he saw the body sprawled in the road. He jumped out. Only twenty-two years old, he wore his Post Office cap, unlike the more veteran postmen who went bareheaded.
'Nasty accident,' said Foster, appearing from behind a tree. 'It just happened. Could you take him to hospital? We've no transport.'
'Of course I'll help.' Hobart approached the 'body' and swallowed. 'He looks in a bad way.'
'Something for your help…'
Foster reached into his breast pocket, hauled out his wallet, dropped it on the road at Hobart's feet. He was slow retrieving it and Hobart bent forward to pick up the wallet. Foster pressed the muzzle of his Luger against the back of Hobart's neck, pulled the trigger. The old method of execution used in the motherland when he'd been young. Hobart slumped to the ground.
Saunders appeared with a large wheelbarrow. Foster picked up the dead youngster and his cap, askew, dropped off. When he'd dumped the body inside the wheelbarrow and Saunders was taking it towards the farmhouse Foster picked up the cap. Climbing into the cab of the large van, he drove it off the road along a track into the woods opposite the farm entrance.
Then he checked his watch. They'd all better give Anton a hand to fill in the grave. He got behind the wheel of the Metro, closed the door, backed it on to the road and drove it back to the shed. They'd be on their way in fifteen minutes.
Tweed wore a thick woollen pullover, a heavy sports jacket, a woollen scarf round his neck, and corduroy trousers tucked inside knee-length boots with rubber-grip soles.
The Wessex chopper was again flying at eight hundred feet and Tweed sat in the same seat, map in his lap, binoculars looped round his neck. In front of him Newman sat holding the handle of the swivel-mounted machine- gun by the closed door. On the starboard side the airborne soldier, beret slanted at exactly the same angle, sat peering out of the window through his field glasses.
There had been very little conversation since the machine took off from Fairoaks. There was an atmosphere of rising tension inside the helicopter. Then the pilot passed on the message to Tweed through his earphones.
'Marler and Butler have landed. They are on the ground.'
'Thank you,' said Tweed.
Marler would now be driving the Land Rover waiting for him at the appointed rendezvous, a crossroads in the middle of nowhere near Ducklington village. Butler would be riding the BMW motorcycle which had been transported to the crossroads by truck during the night. All arranged by Tweed over the phone in the early hours. Nield was at Fairoaks, running the radio control room set up inside an administrative office.
Tweed studied the area he had circled on the map the previous day. He was gambling everything that the attack would be launched from somewhere in that area. It was logical. And Winterton had shown himself to be logical in everything he organized.
The second chopper would return to Fairoaks. At the last moment Security Control at Brize Norton had sanctioned one machine, not two. Tweed gathered they did not take Force Z too seriously. He raised his glasses as they crossed the Vale of White Horse. They were moving into the danger zone.
The furniture van driven by Foster, with Saunders alongside him, turned off the road into the worked-out chalk quarry. It had been carved out in a semi-circle. A chalk cliff enclosed it on the west, south and north sides. To the east it looked out across open country and the sky. Foster backed the vehicle until it was facing due east with the rear of the van a few feet away from the cliff. Then he stopped the engine.
They jumped out, went to the back, lowered the tailboard and went inside. Foster led the way, squeezing past the piles of old furniture. He climbed the steps to the platform, sat in the chair and pressed the switch. The panel in the roof slid back. He settled himself in the chair, picked up the Stinger launcher, inserted a missile.
He picked up the walkie-talkie Anton had specially amplified to increase its range. Holding it close to his mouth with his left hand, he spoke.
'Coastguard Number One in position.'
There was a crackle. Then he clearly heard Sully's voice.
'Coastguard Number Two in position…'
Marler drove the Land Rover along the narrow country lane at speed. He was moving through open country so he couldn't miss anything. He was following routes which Butler had not covered the previous day but which were inside Tweed's circle. Half a mile behind him Butler followed on his motorcycle.
He reached a crossroads and drove straight on. Round a bend he was confronted with a tarring machine taking up the whole road. A workman came up to him.
'Didn't you see the bloody diversion sign, mate?'
'No, because there wasn't one.'
'Must be blind as a bat. You can't pass.'
Marler swore, turned the Land Rover and went back to the crossroads. He turned right just as Butler appeared over a rise. He drove on, more slowly: there were clumps of trees on either side, clumps which became woodland. He turned a corner and saw a sign in the distance. Diversion. The sign pointed right at a point where the road forked. Marler frowned, then drove his vehicle straight at the sign, sending it into the ditch as he took the left fork.
On the floor lay his rifle, telescopic sight attached. They had installed a small transceiver, complete with microphone. He had tested it earlier and it was tuned to the waveband Nield was operating on at Fairoaks. He turned the wheel as the winding road curved round another bend. Then he slowed to a stop.
At the base of the chalk cliff Foster saw four Ilyushin 62s flying one behind another coming in from the east. He grabbed the microphone. 'Coastguard One reporting. Four blackbirds in view. Repeat, four blackbirds. I'll arrest three and four. You take one and two. Over.'
'Four blackbirds sighted,' Sully confirmed. 'Will take one and two. Over and out…'
Marler had stopped where the rear of a large furniture van was parked half inside a wood. Beyond, the trees had been felled by storms, leaving the sky open. On the tailboard sat Seton-Charles, eating a sandwich. A rug covered his lap. He threw back the rug and pointed an Uzi machine-pistol point blank at Marler. Somewhere beyond the pile of furniture Marler detected signs of further movement. Behind him he heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle.
