Cross of Fire (34 page)

'We'll soon know. Don't give them time to react...'

Inside the folded duvets each of them also carried
an extending metal ladder, attached to the duvet over a
plastic hook. Newman unhooked his ladder, extended it to
its full length, perched the top rubber-covered rung halfway
up the wire. Marler mounted the ladder, flung his duvet
higher up over the wire. Still carrying his own duvet, he swung over the duvet-covered wire, dropped to the ground
inside.

Swiftly he erected his own ladder, perched it against the inside for an easy retreat later, climbed back up, swung his own duvet over Newman's. The reporter was heavier than the slim Marler. Within seconds Newman was standing beside him. They were both inside enemy territory.

*

'Watch where you tread.' Newman warned. 'I'll lead. I have a funny feeling about this place. The lack of guards isn't natural...'

Part of his mind was going back to a memory over the
years. When he had trained with the SAS to write an
authorized article on that legendary elite of soldiers. Somehow he had survived the course. He heard the voice of the
SAS trainer he only knew as Sarge.
Approaching any security
area never forget the ground your feet are treading on may be the
greatest danger...

Newman shone his pencil flashlight, shielded with the
palm of his hand, downwards where he would tread next.
Behind him Marler, notorious for going his own way, was
carefully placing his feet where Newman had just placed his
own. Damp mushy ground with here and there a rock half-
embedded. The slow trudge uphill continued. Marler
wanted to call out 'For Christ's sake get a move on.' He kept
his mouth shut, deterred by Newman's slow, methodical
progress.

Frequently Marler glanced up, skimmed his gaze round the deserted wilderness - deserted except for one of the
single-storey concrete blockhouse-like buildings. All in dark
ness. No sign of movement, no sound. The sheer silence was
uncanny, disturbing. They were within thirty feet of one of the morgue-like buildings and this one had windows facing
them like black slit-eyes. Were they being watched? Would
the first indication that they had walked into a trap be a hail
of bullets?

Newman held up his other hand. Marler, eyes accustomed to the dark, saw the gesture, halted. Newman was
crouching down, flashlight in one hand, his other hand, also
gloveless - you couldn't fire a weapon wearing gloves -
feeling something on the ground. His fingers were frozen to
the bone but he continued his probing as Marler crouched
behind him.

'Trouble?' Marler whispered.

'Could be lethal.' Newman responded calmly.

'What is it?'

Newman patted the ground to his right gently, poked at the clumps of heather. He gestured for Marler to come
forward to that piece of ground. Now they crouched along
side each other. Marler glanced at Newman, saw his
expression was grim.

'Look at these.' Newman whispered.

He moved his flashlight slowly. In the beam Marler saw
metal prongs protruding from tufts of grass. As the beam
continued moving he counted seven prongs, protruding no more than half an inch. The metal was new. It gleamed in
the glow of the flashlight.

'Anti-personnel mines.' Newman said tersely. 'Tread on
one and if they're explosive you lose a leg. Maybe both legs.
It's too dangerous to move any closer. We are dealing with right bastards.'

'So?'

'We go back exactly the same way we came. Again, let me lead.'

'Can we wait for thirty seconds? Before I left London the
Engine Room boffins gave, me a new camera. Infra-red lens
and zoom. Miniaturized. I want to photograph the windows
in that building...'

'What are you waiting for? Thirty seconds. And I'll be
counting...'

Marler took a small oblong plastic box from his pocket,
aimed the lens at the windows of the building one by one,
taking six shots of each. They'd said the thing adjusted itself
to light conditions - even pitch dark. Just aim, press the button. He did so.

'Finish as soon as you can.' Newman warned. 'The clicks
are loud. They could have installed sensors. This lot is capable of any devilry ...'

'Ready, Commander.'

Marler gave a mock salute after he'd slipped the camera
back into his pocket. The way back seemed even more of an
ordeal than their way in. Newman again checked with his
flashlight - with even more care now he'd seen those sinister
prongs. Marler suppressed a sigh of relief as they arrived at the fence. Newman went over first. As he followed Marler
paused, stomach looped over the duvet, reached down the
inner side of the fence, grabbed hold of the metal ladder. As he landed on the road side Newman, the taller, stretched up
an arm, hauled down the duvets. Carrying both ladders,
they walked through the silence
of the night back to where the Volvo was parked.

'We didn't achieve much.' Newman mused. 'Can't win
them all.'

'We won't know that until the boffins in the Engine
Room have developed this film.' Marler pointed out.

They had stowed everything in the rear, were sitting in
the front. Newman, who liked driving, had asked Marler if he could take over the wheel.

'Be my guest...'

'Listen!'

Somewhere close behind them they heard a vehicle rum
bling over rough ground. The sound came from inside the
fenced off area: had it been driving along the road behind
them it wouldn't be making such heavy weather as they
listened to its slow progress.

'We
were
spotted.' Marler remarked.

'I don't think so. We checked the car thoroughly before
we got into it. No sign of someone fooling around with the
engine, no bombs attached underneath. And they'd have
come after us inside the wire. I'm driving off now to find a place we can hide. That vehicle will be coming this way.'

'Not the other?'

'Which leads only to Orford, a dead end? I think not....'

With headlights undimmed he drove on round two
bends, the beams sweeping over motionless trees. Then he
swung off the road to the right up a track into the forest,
made a U-turn, parked behind several trees with a view of
the road between them, switched off, waited.

A heavy truck, lights undimmed, drove past the entrance
to the track, heading for Snape Mailings. Newman drove after it without any headlights at all, keeping his distance
without losing sight of the red tail-lights. He turned effortlessly round a bend. Marler grunted.

'Without even side lights you'll end up in the ditch.'

'No I won't. You're forgetting - I drove the Merc on this
very road not long ago. I can remember.'

Marler was partially reassured. He remembered New
man had only to drive along a strange route once to be able
to return along the same route without missing his way
once. With the Armalite perched across his lap, he settled
more comfortably.

The truck turned right along the deserted road at Tun-
stall, still heading for the Maltings. Beyond the collection of
ancient warehouses which stages Benjamin Britten concerts
in summer the truck continued through the lonely country
side towards Snape village.

'Marler, I think there's only the driver with that vehicle.
I'm going to overtake, then stop him. You get out, pretend
you're some kind of authority, search his truck.'

'If you say so.'

Newman switched on his headlights full, pressed down his foot, raced past the truck for a short distance. Then he
slowed down, swung the wheel, positioned the Volvo across
the road as a barrier, his headlights blazing. He told Marler
to leave his door open so the courtesy light added to the
illumination. Marler nodded, climbed out, walked back,
stood on the grass verge.

The truck came on, moving at a fairish speed. Its own
headlights showed up the obstacle. The truck slowed,
stopped close to the Volvo. The driver was opening the door of his cab when Marler jerked it open further. He caught the
driver who was falling out. Shock tactics often worked.

'Bloody 'ell! What the 'ell do you think you're up to?'

He was a runt of a man, weatherbeaten face, aged
between forty and sixty, eyes bloodshot. He wore a padded
windcheater, brand new. Dawlish seemed to be a stickler
for his staff being well-fitted out. Marler smelt alcohol on his breath. Cognac? He waved his General & Cumbria Assurance identity card quickly in the runt's face.

'Ipswich CID. I want to look in the back of this truck. You can refuse - but then I'll report you for driving under
the influence. My colleague already has your registration
number.'

Marler saw a look of fear in the bloodshot eyes. Dawlish
must come down heavy on staff
who needed disciplining.
The driver led the way to the rear. As he walked behind
him Marler noticed the legend painted along the vehicle.
Dawlish Conservation.

He further noticed as the driver took out a bunch of keys
that the rear doors were fastened with two new padlocks.
He waited as the driver had trouble unlocking them, then
opened one door, stood back.

'You won't find no drugs if that's what you're after.'

'Just wait here. Don't try and lock me in - my colleague
will make mincemeat of you...'

Switching on his flashlight he swept it over the contents.
Stack upon stack of neatly piled canvas sacks. Each one tied
up with a simple metal clasp. He removed one, shone his
torch inside. It was full of Balaclava helmets. Not what he'd expected. He examined a number of other sacks at random.
All full of Balaclavas. Odd. Most odd.

'What are the Balaclavas for?' he asked as he jumped to the road.

'Big fancy dress party at Christmas...'

Marler grabbed him by the shirt collar exposed under the
windcheater. 'Don't fool with me. You could find yourself
occupying a cell at Ipswich police HQ.'

'It's Gawd's truth, mate. Christmas is coming. Didn't you know? We deliver early. A big
order. A palais do would be
my guess. Don't know who you're dancin' with until the
great moment comes. Midnight. Everyone takes off 'is or 'er mask.'

He was talking too much, giving too much detail. Marler
waved a hand, waited while the driver attended to the
padlocks.

'And your destination is?'

'... Lowestoft.'

There had been a brief hesitation before this question was
answered. First, he talked too much, then he only uttered one word. As he walked back with the driver to his cab
Marler slapped him on the rump. As he expected his hand
hit something hard in the driver's rear trouser pocket. A
flask of cognac.