through the air, penetrated the fat man's throat. He fell forward on the handle and the knife was driven through to the back of his fleshy neck. He lay very still.
Max turned, picked up his glass again, used a handkerchief to wipe off his fingerprints. Which was when four sinister apache types appeared all round him. Max was considering how to deal with them when the one in front of him lifted the palms of both hands in a peace gesture. `The chief was impressed with you. He wishes to talk with you. In that alcove over there…'
Which was how Max came to meet and eventually become second-in-command to the man now stepping carefully ashore from the dinghy held fast to the landing stage by its crew.
Calouste Doubenkian walked slowly towards Max. It was impossible to tell what he looked like as he cat- footed onto firm ground. He was short, but he wore a long black astrakhan overcoat which ended below his knees, a Russian-style fur hat which concealed his high forehead, and large dark glasses which concealed his eyes. Long fur gloves masked the shape of his hands. His soft-soled shoes made no sound as he approached Max. His voice was a quiet purr and he spoke in English very softly, which Max always found disturbing. `Is it safe?' he enquired. `It was when I last checked…' `Then perhaps you had better check again?' `Please wait here, Mr Doubenkian,' Max said nervously. `Have I not told you before never to speak my name?' `Sorry, sir. Very sorry.' `I will come with you while you check.' `If you would please follow my exact footsteps. There is deep marsh just beyond the stepping stones.' `Useful for hiding dead bodies, my dear Max.' `I'll lead the way, then, sir.'
The moon that had appeared from behind a cloud and had enabled Max to spot the approach of the large dinghy shed its eerie glow over the vast stretch of grass land behind the dyke. The silence pressed down on them now the faint purr of the dinghy as it headed back for the tramp had died away. The silence disturbed Calouste as he carefully trod from one stepping stone to the next small island of safety. He had a strong nerve but it was tested to the limit as he saw the acid-green grass floating on top of the deadly ooze on either side of the path. `You have made all the arrangements to eliminate Tweed before he reaches Hengistbury?' he asked softly. `In thirty-six hours he'll be as dead as mutton,' Max assured him cheerfully. 'I have a network now across Britain. Tweed is a goner.'
He stopped speaking suddenly as they came close to the solitary road where the cars were parked. A red- haired girl appeared standing just off the road. She wore a windcheater and jeans and was obviously waiting for them. Carol Lynton had lost her way after visiting her boyfriend in his cottage. As Max stopped, wondering whether she had heard what they had just said, Calouste caught up with him. `Get rid of her,' whispered Calouste. 'Sound carries in this silence.' `You don't mean…' Max began in a similar whisper. `Obey my order. Eliminate her.'
Max swallowed, gritted his teeth. She was a pretty girl, no more than eighteen. She came down towards him, smiling. He tried to smile back, couldn't. Calouste jabbed him in the back. Max took a deep breath of cold air.
When the girl reached him Max grasped her hard round the waist. She was quite small. As she opened her mouth to yell he uplifted her, swung her upside down, plunged her head-first deep into the ooze. He thought he heard a gurgle. Her legs were waving desperately, then they sank out of sight. A few muddy bubbles appeared on the surface of the green slime. Then nothing. `Village girls gossip,' Calouste remarked off-handedly.
Max glanced north where, under the moon's ghostly glow, the Wash had the atmosphere of a bleak and desolate desert. Max couldn't wait to leave the area. `Sorry we had to land you in a place like this,' he commented, 'but it's one of the loneliest spots in Britain' `Nothing wrong with it,' snapped Calouste, who had grown up in the wilderness of Central Asia. 'Where is the car?' `Only a short walk down the road here. I thought it unwise to park them too close to the path. There they are.'
Stepping onto the road Calouste stared. Parked by the roadside was a gleaming black stretch limousine. Beyond it was Max's second-hand Ford. Seeing their arrival a uniformed chauffeur opened the driver's door, stood to attention. `The limo is for you, of course,' Max explained. `Driver is one of my star turns. He's strangled at least one man. Name is Grogan…' `You idiot!' Calouste was apoplectic. 'I have told you before, I do not wish attention to be brought to me. Is that limo hired?' `Oh, yes.' Max was nervous. 'It is' `At least you got one thing right. Get rid of this Grogan,' Calouste almost screeched. 'Tell him to return the car to the hire firm instantly. If the police stop him he was to pick up a banker, a Mr Moran in Spalding, and couldn't find the address. I have to cover every bloody angle myself! I will travel beside you in your car. I will walk to it. Give me the keys now And send that limo off this moor toute suite. Move, damn you!'
Max felt in his pocket for his car keys. In his haste he dropped them, stooped, grabbed them. He ran to the limo, his legs unsteady. He was scared stiff of Calouste in his chief's present mood. `To the Green Dark Hotel in West Higham. Is that right, sir?' he asked as he drove off with Calouste beside him. `Correct.'
Max was relieved to find Calouste was in a better mood. He had no idea Calouste had pretended to be in a rage. It was a method he used occasionally on a subordinate to remind them who was boss. `I drove earlier to the Green Dark Hotel,' Max said casually. 'Just checking so I knew the route. I cruised past. No one seemed to be about. You have booked a suite there, sir?' `I own the damned place. Bought it through a series of small companies, staffed it with my own people. I will be the only guest. Getting there, avoid King's Lynn. It has a police HQ. I doubt if that peasant girl you had to deal with has yet been reported missing. Why take the risk?' `Very sensible, if I may say so. You think of everything.' `If I don't no one else will. Pull up somewhere very quiet before we reach the hotel. I wish to change my appearance.'
No more was said and they met hardly any traffic. No one would be out on such a bitterly cold night. When they pulled up in the middle of nowhere Calouste got out with the suitcase he had hugged on his lap. Max tactfully turned his back. When he turned round he had a shock.
He hardly recognized Calouste, who now wore a tweed overcoat, woollen scarf pulled up to his chin, smart leather gloves and a wide-brimmed trilby pulled well down over his face. The only similarity was a large pair of gold-rimmed dark glasses, different from the pair he'd worn when he had come ashore. His previous outfit was neatly packed in the suitcase. He handed Max a card, keeping his own card in his hand. `When we enter we go to reception, say nothing, just give the desk man your card. I am in suite three on the first floor. You are in suite four. There is an interconnecting door. In case of trouble use your fists or your beloved knife. No shooting. A passer-by might hear shots.' `You are expecting trouble?' Max enquired as they got back into the car. `Absolutely not, dear boy,' Calouste replied, speaking now in the perfect accent of an Old Etonian. 'But I once read that the maxim of the Boy Scouts' organization was 'Be prepared'. Here we are. Afterwards park the car out of sight in the garage at the back.'
The oddly named Green Dark Hotel was a large square building, its plaster walls painted in a light green. There was a spacious park area in front with a pebble drive. Inside, Calouste marched up to the desk, planted down his card next to Max's. `Parsons, I notice you have omitted an instruction. You really must do exactly as I tell you, please. Outside I want a No Vacancies sign erected immediately. I will have a meal in my suite in one hour. There is a menu in my suite? Excellent. I shall phone down my order. Mr Rogers here will make his own arrangements, again for a meal in his suite.' `Will do, Mr Pennington,' the smartly dressed receptionist assured his guest. 'Will get crackin' at once.' `The sign outside first, if you please. Immediately.' `I was goin' to escort you to your suite, sir…'
Not necessary,' Calouste replied in the same lordly manner. `So you are Mr Pennington,' Max whispered. 'And I'm Mr Rogers…' `Precisely. Kindly do not forget the names. Your suite is the next one. I shall not wish to be disturbed – I have some papers to check.'
Inside his suite Calouste dumped his case in a cupboard. Seated in an armchair he placed a highly sophisticated mobile on a side table. From an inside pocket he extracted several large sheets of paper. Unfolded, they were architect's plans of the intricate layout of Hengistbury Manor. The only section not shown was the labyrinth of cellars underneath the house. Calouste was unaware of their existence. The photostats of the plans had been sent to an address in Brussels by registered mail.
Even Calouste's agile brain had to concentrate hard to memorize the hallways, the large number of apartments, each complete with drawing room, dining room, two bathrooms, two large bedrooms, a spacious kitchen and a small library.
The names of the occupants had been added with a black biro, spelt out in peculiar block letters he suspected were in disguised writing. Hengistbury Manor was more complex and much larger than he'd expected. Removing his reading glasses he glanced at the mobile. It would be at least forty-eight hours before it rang, telling him the first phase of his plan had been completed.
Two days later at eight in the evening the mobile buzzed. Calouste grabbed it. `Yes, who is speaking?' `Orion here. The news is not good. Not good at all…'
