'Two vehicles heading for the pebble beach,' he reported.
'I know. It was Robson…'
'Robson?' Paula gasped. 'I thought it was Kearns.'
They had driven along the track, began bouncing across the pebble-strewn beach. Something jumped up under the Mercedes, there was a loud clang. The car stopped. Tweed jumped out, began running over the pebbles, careful not to lose his footing. In the distance both vehicles had also been stopped by the terrain. He glimpsed two running figures, a hundred yards between them. Behind him Newman ran with Paula, ready to catch her arm if she slipped. Then the searchlight beam came on, aimed at the foot of the looming cliffs. The light shone from the edge of the sea.
It took Newman a moment to grasp the searchlight was mounted at the bow of a motorboat which had been driven up on to the edge of the beach. Tweed ran on past the sign reading, Warning. Keep clear. Danger of cliff falls. He passed an empty Renault, then the four-wheel drive vehicle.
Robson was caught in the searchlight beam as he kept to the lee of the cliffs. A shot rang out. The bullet sang past Newman's head. Paula was fumbling for her Browning when Newman saw inside the beached boat a bulky figure, clad like a seaman, aiming a gun. He swung up the Magnum, gripped in both hands, fired two shots. The seaman was hurled back, tried to recover his balance, toppled, fell over the stern of the boat. His body drifted with the outgoing tide.
Robson, hair awry, flung up a hand to shield his eyes against the glare of the light supposed to lead him to the boat. Tweed saw the tall figure a hundred yards from Robson reach inside a satchel slung from his shoulder. He hoisted his right arm like a cricket bowler, threw an object high up the cliff.
His hand delved again inside the satchel, came out and his arm hoisted a second time. There was a deafening crack on the cliff top above Robson. Tweed stopped, grabbed Paula by the forearm to halt her. She was gasping for breath as the second grenade detonated.
From high up on the cliff they heard a muttering rumble, prelude to a cataclysm. A vast slab of cliff broke free, slowly slid downwards, then faster. Robson looked up, opened his mouth. A cascade of rocks roared towards him. He turned to flee. The cascade engulfed him, like a rising tide, swallowing him up to the waist. In the searchlight beam he was a man half buried alive. He opened his mouth again and screamed and screamed, waving his arms. Then a Niagara of boulders stormed down, bounding against each other. One struck his head and seemed to telescope it deep into his body. Paula gulped.
A fresh fall of massive rocks poured down, tumbling over each other like some mad race. The head vanished. The boulders piled over the invisible corpse, building a grisly funeral pyre. Slowly the noise receded, the cliff settled, returned to stability as a great cloud of dust, a dense fog, spread over the whole ghastly scene.
Kearns, still carrying the satchel, walked back to Tweed, his wrists held out, as though waiting for handcuffs.
'He killed Jill,' he said in a choked voice. 'It had to be one of them. I've lived with the conviction Robson or Barrymore killed those Greeks during the war. But we were afraid of Petros, so we stuck together. I followed you the previous walk you took along here, saw the landslip. I kept several Mills hand grenades when I left the Army. I tested one up at Dunkery Beacon the other night – to make sure they were still working. I'm ready to go.'
Two questions,' Tweed replied. He opened his hand, exposing the stick of French chalk he'd taken from his pocket. 'Paula picked that up in your house – you used it to simulate grief, to chalk your face. Why?'
Kearns walked a few slow paces until they were on their own. 'When Barrymore phoned, asked me to come and meet you at his house, I'd been sobbing like a child -because of Jill. So I had to clean up my face somehow. I used that stick of French chalk – the one Jill used when she occasionally did a bit of dressmaking.'
'I see.' Tweed changed the subject. 'During the raid on Siros, why land below a German lookout post?'
'Bravado. Barrymore's. And because of the lookout there were few German patrols at that point. Made tactical sense – we relied on a sea mist to cover us, which it did most of the way. Now, I'm ready to go.'
'Then go,' said Tweed. 'I don't recall ever seeing you here. Leave Exmoor. Petros is in prison. Go,' he repeated, 'build yourself a new life.'
'Thank you…'
'I said go!'
As Kearns walked slowly away Tweed stared towards Porlock Weir. No sign of activity: they were too far west for the thunder of the falling cliff to have been heard. 'Poor devil,' he commented. He glanced at the pile of rocks where the dust was settling. 'It will be months before they find out what is under that lot, if ever. Now, let's get rid of that boat.'
Standing on either side of the motorboat, Tweed and Newman exerted all their strength. They heaved it upside down, pushed it over the pebbles, which made a grinding noise. The craft slid over the edge, floated for some distance half-submerged, drifted out to sea.
Kearns had managed to start up his Renault while they were occupied and it disappeared into the distance. Between them they tackled the Land Rover which still had the key in the ignition. Within ten minutes Newman had driven it to the water's brink. One final shove propelled it off the pebbles and it sank from view.
'Back to The Anchor,' Tweed ordered. He put an arm round Paula who was shivering with reaction. 'You need a good stiff drink. It's all over. Detente is intact-for better or worse. And I'll report to the PM on the quiet about Lucharsky and his allies. It's up to her what she does after that.'
– – Epilogue
– – It is reported that Deputy Chief of General Staff, Andrei Lucharsky, General Budienny, and a third unnamed general, together with their aides, Colonels Rykovsky and Volkov, perished while flying in a helicopter over the Caspian Sea. The pilot saved himself by parachuting from the machine. No further details are available of this tragic accident.
Extract from December issue of PRAVDA.
'Odd that so much top brass should be committed to one chopper,' Tweed commented after reading the report. He handed it back to Monica. 'File it.'
