several yards away. 'Could he be Rhinoceros?' she said quietly.
'Possible, ^ but we simply don't know.'
'Here they come,' called out Lisa. 'Give me the glasses. Thanks.' She didn't change the focus and her next words were almost hissed. 'Simply don't believe it. Two men, carrying sledgehammers. Barton and Panko. The thugs who followed me in London. Just escaped them in Bedford Square.'
'Don't like the look of those Balkan-type thugs who are coming,' said Paula, binoculars pressed against her eyes.
'Shouldn't we go down and help?' Lisa demanded.
'How could you – against that lot?' Paula asked.
'Look what Marler gave me.' She had opened her shoulder bag. When Paula looked inside she saw a 6.35mm Beretta pistol. 'And he gave me ammo,' Lisa went on.
'Lisa has a Beretta,' Paula warned Tweed.
'We stay here,' Tweed ordered in a strong voice. 'Newman has ordered on no account is there to be a shooting party. Dead bodies in the city would pose a problem for Kuhlmann, who has enough on his hands.' He looked down. 'They'll cope.'
As Barton and Panko, leading the assault, approached, holding their sledgehammers, with the foreign thugs not far behind, Newman remained where he was, his arms folded. Mark attached something to the fingers of his right hand. Knuckleduster.
Barton reached the second car, was starting to lift his weapon when the rear door was flung open on the pavement side. It slammed into him, knocking him off balance as Butler jumped out. His right foot, booted, swung up like a spring being released, hit Barton a savage blow between the legs. Barton dropped the sledgehammer, groaned in agony, bent forward. Butler grabbed his hair, swung him round, rammed his head against the car. It sounded as though his skull had cracked.
Panko dropped his sledgehammer. A long-bladed knife appeared in his hand. He was grinning. Newman had skipped to the side of his attacker. His right hand, stiffened, struck Panko on the side of his scrawny neck. Karate chop. Panko dropped, lay motionless close to the unconscious Barton.
Then it became a melee as the foreign thugs rushed forward. Marler appeared behind them. Earlier, seconds before they parked, he'd seen an old metal railing sagging away from the pavement, probably hit by a car. His gloved hand had tugged at a rail, twisted it, forced it free. Running up behind the thugs, he stooped, swung the iron rail at the back of the legs of one thug, hitting him behind the knees. The thug screamed, sagged, wriggled on the pavement. Marler administered the same treatment to another thug.
A ferocious-looking bandit was wielding a vicious machete. He swung it behind him for the blow which would have taken Mark's head off his shoulders. Mark's knuckleduster smashed into his exposed face, broke his nose, a cheekbone. Blood streamed from his face. Mark hadn't finished – he hammered the knuckleduster into his jaw, broke that. Pete Nield had jumped out of the other side of the car, plunged into the gang. Two stood close together for protection, their backs to him. He took a swift, firm hold of them by their hair, jerked them apart, jerked them together, the heads colliding with tremendous force. Both men sank to the pavement.
Another bandit, holding a knife, had come up behind Newman, was preparing to drive the knife into his back. Marler hoisted his iron bar, brought it down, hitting the elbow of the thug, breaking it. There was a scream of pain, the knife clattered on the pavement. Newman swung round, hit the thug in the face. He staggered back, his right arm limp. Newman followed him, hit him again, then once more. He toppled over backwards.
The first bandit Marler had dealt with was still screaming, wriggling on the pavement.
'You're making too much noise, buddy,' Mark told him.
Stooping, he hit the culprit on the side of his head with the knuckleduster. The wriggling stopped, the bandit lay motionless, silent.
Newman rubbed his hands together, looked all round. No more. And there was not a single pedestrian in sight. He remembered reading in a magazine in the hotel lounge that an erotic exhibition was being held. One day only. This day. He pictured long crocodile queues waiting for ever to get into the place.
'Clearance time. Anyone know where they parked the BMWs?'
'Just round the corner,' Marler said. 'Follow me.*
'Harry,' Newman called out. 'Gloves. We're fetching the ambulances.'
Harry held up his hands, covered with latex gloves. He followed Marler and Newman. The cars were parked only a few yards out of sight. And in each they'd left the ignition keys. For a quick getaway, Newman guessed.
They worked quickly. The moment they had parked the BMWs a few yards behind their own cars, leaving the pavement side doors open, Operation Clearance began. The bodies, all alive but unconscious, were tumbled inside the BMWs without ceremony. The doors were closed. Butler suggested a refinement. Together with Pete, he picked up the sledgehammers that were then used to batter in the windscreens.
'Job's done,' Newman announced.
Gazing down from the cafe windows way up in the Turm, Lisa and Paula had watched, fearfully at first, then with astonishment, the scene below.
'Reefers Wharf was a children's party compared to that,' Lisa commented.
Tweed had been aiming his binoculars at Fat-Face, Pink Shirt, watching the debacle with his arms folded. As it ended he straightened his jacket, wandered out of sight. It was his expression that intrigued Tweed. Rage? No. Disappointment? No.
'We'd better get down,' Paula said. 'Newman's waving at us.'
'We'll go down and away from here as fast we as we can…'
When they arrived back at the hotel, Newman asked the porter to garage their cars. Tweed ran up the steps with Paula close behind him. He had checked his watch. Keith Kent stood in the hall, waiting for them.
'Welcome, Keith. I'll get the material out of the hotel safe.'
Then he noticed the man sitting at the back of the hall, facing the staircase up to the security room. The Brig sat erect in his chair, motionless as a graven image, observing their return.
'I've changed my mind,' he said suddenly. 'We'll go up to my suite
…'
Newman had joined them in the elevator and Lisa slipped in just before the doors closed. Kent carried a dispatch case, explained he'd occupied his room a few minutes before seeing Tweed arrive.
'That chap,' he continued as they walked to the suite, 'by himself in the lounge area. Surely it was Lord Barford?'
'It was.' Tweed turned to Lisa who said she was going to her room. 'Could I see you in about ten minutes? I'll call you in your room.'
'Can't wait…'
'She strikes me as excessively intelligent,' Kent remarked inside the suite. 'Quite a personality. Attractive, too.'
'Keep off the grass,' Newman said amiably, nudging him in the ribs.
'Lord Barford,' Tweed began.
'Hold on,' chided Paula. 'What would you like to drink, Keith? The management have put another bottle of champagne in a fresh bucket of ice. Care for a glass?'
'Nice of you. Just one glass, please.' He accepted Tweed's invitation to sit down, then raised the glass Paula handed him. 'Here's to success to your present enterprised – and damnation to the villains.'
'Had some of that last bit this morning,' Newman commented.
'Lord Barford,' Tweed began again. 'Sounded as though you know him.'
'Know about him,' Kent replied. 'Like me he's a member of a very select organization, the Institute of Corporate Security. Membership confined to twenty at anyone time – and you're vetted first. Can't imagine why they asked me.'
'Have you talked to Barford? We call him the Brig.'
'A bit – at meetings of the ICS. He puts up a front as the pukka Brigadier, a purely military type. But there's a lot more to him. He has a vast knowledge of what's going on in the world. Has some very top contacts back home, in Europe and in the States. I've heard he's consulted when there's a major crisis. Travels all over the place.'
'Shall I pop down and see if the coast's clear?' Newman suggested.
'If you would, Bob,' Tweed agreed.
