'The powerboat moored to the dock back there. I peered down inside it and neatly stacked next to each other inside the craft were grenades.'
'Do you think, if we survive, they could sink this barge?'
'I've no doubt they could.'
When their lives were in mortal danger Newman never concealed the situation from Paula. She was tough enough and experienced enough to face the truth. She looked back at Abe attending the engine behind them, just far enough away not to overhear them.
'There are three of those swine in black uniforms aboard it,' she mused. 'One is concentrating on steering and the other two are holding automatic weapons. I guess they could spray us with bullets.'
'They'll use the grenades.'
The breeze had dropped. The sea was now a calm sheet of blue. The roar of the oncoming powerboat was louder. Newman calculated it was a question of minutes before the killers arrived. He turned round to Abe.
'Abe, whatever you do don't increase speed.'
'I'm doing that. Don't like the look of that speed job coming straight for us.'
'Do not increase speed if you want to live,' Newman ordered.
Something in his tone, his expression, got through to Abe. Reluctantly he ceased powering up the motor, then looked back, his ancient face distorted with fear. Newman called out again.
'It's going to be all right. Maintain present speed.'
'Hope you knows what you's doin',' Abe shouted back.
Paula had lifted her gun, perched the muzzle on the side of the barge. Newman's tone was quiet but intense.
'Put that damned thing away. Stay very still.'
'If you say so,' she replied, obeying him.
Newman turned his head again, estimating the course the powerboat would take. Earlier it had been roaring towards the stern of the barge, now it veered to their port side; close enough when it was parallel to the barge to hurl grenades into the target, far enough away to elude the results of the expected detonation.
The powerboat was catching them up at a rate of knots. One minute hence and they'd have their craft alongside the barge, but far enough away for their own safety. Newman delved inside a pocket in the golf bag, brought out his clenched hand grasping something. He showed it to Paula. She stared at a large grenade.
'That's a biggie,' she commented.
'One of Harry's specials. Gets them made up by a pal working in an ironworks. Then Harry fills it himself with high explosive, inserts the four-second fuse.'
He held it up so Abe could see only a portion of it. Abe, whose gaze had been fixed on the nearby powerboat, stared, called out.
'What's that?'
'Firework,' Newman lied. 'Left over from Guy Fawkes' day.'
'Lot of friggin' use that will-'
He stopped speaking as Newman, seeing the powerboat had now drawn level with them, jumped swiftly to his feet after removing the grenade's pin. He was on his feet only seconds as he lobbed the grenade. Paula watched it curve in an arc, fall straight inside the powerboat. Newman dropped flat as the first bullets were fired, grabbing Paula, hauling her down with him.
The grenade detonated with an ear-splitting crack. This was nothing compared to the tremendous explosion as it detonated the explosives inside the enemy craft. The menacing prow soared into the air, followed by large fragments of the stern. Abe was knocked flat with the Shockwave.
Paula sat up, gazed at where the boat had been only moments before. The surface of the sea was boiling and bubbling. Small pieces of the enemy boat drifted on the surface, then sank. As the sea settled a large red lake spread. Blood. No sign of the recent occupants.
Abe clambered to his feet, a stunned expression on his face. He opened his mouth, burbled something. Then he regained control of his voice.
'What the 'ell was that?'
Newman stood up, walked back to him, laid one hand on his shoulder, showed him his folder with the other. Abe frowned, blinked, looked at Newman.
'Secret Service,' he gulped. 'Gawd!'
'So you don't mention that we were here – not to a soul. And if anyone heard that bang in Tolhaven, you simply say they're using explosives in Black Island's quarry. Got it?'
'Sure I 'ave, and I keeps me mouth closed tight. Now I'll get you both back to the mainland…'
'We're leaving for Park Crescent right away,' Newman decided as they approached the Monk's Head. 'Grab your stuff and I'll get mine, then we link up in the car park.'
They left Tolhaven behind, Newman in his Range Rover with Paula behind him in the Ford. Again she had to fight to stop the car running away from her. They paused for a quick tea at an old farmhouse, sitting in the garden despite the cold so no one could hear them.
'Where's Harber's Yard?' Paula wondered. 'We never found it.'
'Remember the old bridge we crossed where you peered over at the river? It flows on and widens into a lake. Then it continues on through woodland to the sea. I explored down there before you arrived, then took the ferry and found the prison. It was important to show you.'
'You're satisfied with our expedition?' she asked.
'I am.' He put his arm round her. 'You've been such a great help taking all those photos. We now have powerful evidence of the lengths to which the so-called State Security lot are going in plotting to turn Britain into a police state.
On top of that, at the battle of the ridges six of the bastards killed each other. Add to them the crew in the speedboat and that makes nine less of them to worry about. The first phase of the war went well.'
'You're right,' Paula agreed, 'it is a war. I wonder what's been going on in London while we were away in Dorset.'
9
The Cabal was holding yet another of its brain-storming sessions. All three men were seated round the strange triangular rosewood table. Outside dusk was falling and they had the lights on. Nelson was playing with his fountain pen, still wearing his Armani suit. As usual, Noel was holding forth.
'The Parrot has reported to me about the informant she sent to spy outside Tweed's office. He was still there, so the plan to involve him in that horrible murder in Fox Street didn't work.'
'What horrible murder?' enquired Nelson.
'Obviously you don't read the Daily Nation,' Noel sneered. 'It might help if you kept up with the news. There's a lurid article on the murder by that swine of a lead reporter, Drew Franklin. We ought to do something about him, put him out of action…'
'You've just made two mistakes in a few sentences,' Nelson said severely. 'First, you must call Miss Partridge by her proper name. If she ever heard you use the nickname Parrot we could lose her loyalty, which is important to us. And, in addition, don't try any of your funny tricks on Drew Franklin. He may be a nuisance but he has great influence. Just watch it, Horlick.'
Noel, his face livid, jumped up, ran round the table, his long hands reaching for Nelson's neck. 'Don't ever call me by that name again,' he screamed.
Benton stood up just in time to stop him reaching Nelson. He grasped Noel's outstretched arms, forced them down by his side. Breathing rapidly, Noel glared at Benton, who was smiling.
'Go back to your chair, Noel.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Nelson, I think you'd be wise to remember his name is now Macomber. An apology would help -otherwise I'm adjourning the meeting.'
'My sincere apologies, Noel,' Nelson said quickly. 'I made a blunder, which you can rest assured will never be repeated.'
