The Enemy Page 16

  Henty pointed across the darkened street. 'In the hotel car park.'

  'Good enough. I want him inside it and ready to go as soon as Ashton moves. I want this whole bloody thing cleaned up before eight o'clock if possible. Now you can go in and wake the sleeping beauties.'

  When Henty had gone Larry regarded me curiously. 'I know you've been keeping out of sight,' he said. 'But if what you're doing ever comes out you're not going to be popular with the Ashton family.'

  'I know,' I said shortly. 'But this is the way Ogilvie wants it done. And I'm making bloody sure I do stay out of sight, not for Ogilvie's reasons but my own.' Christ! I thought. If Penny ever got to know about this she'd never forgive me in a thousand years.

  The time passed and we shared the flask of scotch coffee between us. Strangnas began to wake up and there was movement in the streets, and we occasioned a couple of curious glances from passers-by. I suppose it was strange for a couple of men to be sitting in a parked car so early in the morning so I told Larry to drive into the hotel car park which was more secluded.

  The hotel breakfast started at seven-thirty. I knew that because Jack Brent came on the air with a description of the breakfast he was eating. He described the herring and the boiled eggs and the cheese and the coffee and all the trimmings until I began to salivate. He was doing it deliberately, the bastard.

  Because I made no response he tired of the game and switched off, but at seven-fifty he said, 'They're here now-Ashton and Benson. Just sitting down two tables away. Benson looks dour but Ashton seems cheerful enough.'

  No one would know Brent was broadcasting; apparently he would be chatting animatedly to Michaelis, but every word was picked up by the throat microphone concealed beneath the knot of his tie. The throat microphone gave a peculiarly dead quality to the broadcast; there was no background noise-no clatter of cutlery or coffee cups to be heard-just Brent's voice and the rasp of his breathing greatly magnified. Even if he spoke in a whisper every word would come across clearly.

  I listened to his description and felt increasingly uneasy. Not about Ashton who, according to Brent, seemed fairly relaxed; I was uneasy about myself and my role in this charade. I would have given a lot to be able to walk into the Hotel Rogge, sit down at Ashton's table, and have a down-to-earth chat with him. I was convinced I could get him back to England just by talking to him, but Ogilvie wouldn't have that. He didn't want our cover blown.

  I was depressed when I turned to Larry, and said quietly, 'All right. Go in and have your breakfast.' He got out of the car and walked into the hotel.

  Brent said, 'Ashton's just poured himself another cup of coffee. He hasn't lost his appetite, that's for certain. Ho ho! Larry Godwin has just walked in. Ashton hasn't seen him yet, nor has Benson. Larry's talking to the waitress by the door. God, how he's mangling his Swedish-can hear him from here. So can Ashton. He's turned and he's looking at Larry. I can't see his face. He's turned back again and now he's nudging Benson. He's as white as a sheet. The waitress is coming forward with Larry now-showing him to a table. Larry is passing Ashton's table-he turns and speaks to him. Ashton has knocked over his coffee cup. Benson is looking bloody grim; if ever I saw a man capable of murder it's Benson right now. He's no oil painting at the best of times but you should see him now. Ashton wants to get up and leave, but Benson is holding him back.'

  I switched channels on my transmitter and Brent's voice abruptly stopped. I said, 'Henty, finish your breakfast and leave. Cover the front of the hotel. Michaelis, same for you, but get in your van and cover the back.'

  I reversed out of the hotel car park and drove a little way up Kallgatan and parked where I could see the front entrance of the hotel. When I switched back to Brent he was saying '… looks pretty shattered and Benson is talking to him urgently. I think he's having a hard job keeping control. You'd think it would be the other way round because Benson is only Ashton's servant. Anyway, that's what it looks like from here-Ashton wants to make a break and Benson is stopping him. Larry isn't doing much-just eating his breakfast-but every now and then he looks across at Ashton and smiles. I don't think Ashton can take much more of it. I'll have to stop now because Michaelis is leaving and I'll look bloody funny talking to myself.'

  He stopped speaking and the transmission hum ceased. I keyed my transmitter. 'Larry, when Ashton and Benson leave follow them from behind with Brent.' I saw Henty come out of the hotel and walk across the street. Michaelis came next and walked around to the car park where he disappeared from sight.

  Ten minutes later Ashton and Benson appeared, each carrying a bag. They stepped out on to the pavement and Ashton looked up and down the street uncertainly. He said something to Benson who shook his head, and it looked as though there was a difference of opinion. Behind them Larry appeared in the hotel entrance.

  I said, 'Larry, go and talk to Ashton. Ask him to follow you. If he agrees, take him to the van and put him in the back.'

  'And Benson?'

  'Him, too-if possible.'

  Ashton became aware that Larry was watching him and pulled at Benson's arm. Benson nodded and they began to walk away but stopped at Larry's call. Larry hurried over to them and began talking and, as he did so, Brent came out and stood close to them.

  I heard the one-way conversation. Larry talked fast in Russian and twice Ashton nodded, but Benson made interjections, each time accompanied by a headshake, and tried to get Ashton away. At last he succeeded and the pair of them walked off, leaving Larry flat. They were coming straight towards me so I ducked out of sight.

  While I was down on the car floor I spoke to Larry. 'What happened?'

  'Ashton nearly came, but Benson wouldn't have it. He spoiled it.'

  'Did Benson speak Russian?'

  'No, English; but he understood my Russian well enough.'

  'Where are they now?'

  'Going up the street-about thirty yards past your car.'

  I emerged from hiding and looked in the mirror. Ashton and Benson were walking away quickly in the direction of the railway station.

  After that it all became a little sick because we literally herded them out of town. They found the railway station blocked by Brent, and when they tried to duck back to the town centre they were confronted by Larry and Henty. They soon became aware they had a quartet of opponents and, twist and turn as they might, they found themselves being driven to the edge of town. And all the time I orchestrated the bizarre dance, manipulating them like puppets. I didn't like myself at all.

  At last we got to the main Stockholm-Eskilstuna road and they plunged across, Benson nearly being hit by a speeding car which went by with a wailing blast of horn. There were no more streets or houses on the other side-just an infinity of pine trees. I had Michaelis go back and pick up the van, and sent the other three into the forest while I parked my car before following. It seemed as though the chase was nearly over-you can't be more private than in a Swedish forest.

  They made better time over rough country than I would have expected of two elderly men. Ashton had already proved his fitness to me, but I hadn't expected Benson to have the stamina because he was a few years older than Ashton. Once in the trees you couldn't see far and they kept foxing us by changing direction. Twice we lost them; the first time we picked them up by sheer luck, and the second time, by finding their abandoned bags. And all the time I was leading from the rear, directing the operation by radio.

  We had gone perhaps three kilometres into the forest and the going was becoming rougher. Where the ground was not slippery with snow and ice it was even more slippery with pine needles. The ground rose and fell, not much but enough to take your breath away on the uphill slopes. I paused at the top of one such slope just as Brent said in my ear, 'What the hell was that?'

  'What?'

  'Listen!'

  I listened, trying to control my heavy breathing, and heard a rattle of shots in the distance. They seemed to come from somewhere ahead, deeper in the forest.

  'Someone hun
ting,' said Larry.

  Brent said incredulously, 'With a machinegun!'

  'Quiet!' I said. 'Is Ashton spotted?'

  'I'm standing looking into a little valley,' said Henty. 'Very few trees. I can see both Ashton and Benson-they're about four hundred yards away.'

  'That's all very well, but where the hell are you?'

  'Just keep coming ahead,' said Henty. 'It's a long valley-you can't miss it.'

  'Everybody move,' I said. Again came the sound of firing, this time a sporadic rattling of badly-spaced single shots. Certainly not a machinegun as Brent had suggested. It could have been the shootout at the OK Corral, and I wondered what was happening. Hunters certainly didn't pop off like that.

  I pressed on and presently came to a crest where I looked down into the valley. Henty was right; it was relatively treeless and the snow was thicker. In the distance I saw Ashton and Benson moving very slowly; perhaps they were hampered by the snow, but I thought the chase was telling on them. Henty was at the valley bottom below me, and Brent and Larry were together, bounding down the hillside, closing in on our quarry from an angle.

  Again came firing and, by God, this time it was machinegun fire, and from more than one machinegun. Then there came some deeper coughs, followed by thumping explosions. In the distance, not too far ahead, I saw a haze of smoke drifting above the trees on the far side of the valley.

  Henty had stopped. He looked back at me and waved, and said over the radio, 'I know what it is. This is an army exercise area. They're having war games.'

  'Live ammunition?'

  'Sounds like it. Those were mortars.'

  I began to run, bouncing and slithering down the slope. When I got to the bottom I saw that Brent and Larry were within fifty yards of Ashton and gaining on him fast. Ashton switched direction, and I yelled, 'Brent-Larry-fall back!'

  They hesitated momentarily but then went on, caught in the lust of the chase. I shouted again. 'Fall back! Don't drive him into the guns.'

  They checked, but I ran on. I was going to speak to Ashton myself, regardless of what Ogilvie had said. This was a sick game which had to be stopped before somebody was killed. Ashton was climbing the other side of the valley, heading towards the trees on the crest, but going very slowly. Benson was nowhere to be seen. I ran until I thought my chest would burst, and gained on Ashton.

  At last I was close enough, and I shouted, 'Ashton-George Ashton-stop!'

  He turned his head and looked back at me as a further burst of firing came, and more explosions of mortar bombs. I took off the fur hat I was wearing and threw it away so that he could get a good look at me. His eyes widened in surprise and he hesitated in his upward climb, then stopped and turned around. Brent and Larry were coming in on my left and Henty on the right.

  I was about to call out to him again when there was another single shot, this time from quite close, and Ashton stumbled forward as though he had tripped. I was within ten yards of him and heard him gasp. Then there was another shot and he whirled around and fell and came rolling down the slope towards me to stop at my feet.

  I was aware that Henty had passed me and momentarily saw a gun in his fist, then I bent over Ashton. He coughed once and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes still held surprise at the sight of me, and he said, 'Mal… colm… what…'

  I said, 'Take it easy, George,' and put my hand inside his coat. I felt a warm wetness.

  He scrabbled in his pocket for something, and said, 'The… the…' His hand came up before my face with the fist clenched. 'The… the…' Then he fell back, his eyes still open and looking at the sky with deeper surprise. A snowflake fell and settled on his left eyeball, but he didn't blink.

  In the distance mortars thumped and machineguns rattled, and there were more single shots, again from quite close. I looked down at Ashton and cursed quietly. Brent crunched over the snow. 'Dead?'

  I withdrew my hand and looked at the blood. Before wiping it clean on the snow I said, 'You try his pulse.'

  I stood up as Brent knelt and thought of the unholy mess we-I-had made of the operation. The snow around Ashton's body was changing colour from white to red. Brent looked up at me. 'Yes, he's dead. From the amount of blood here the aorta must have been cut. That's why he went so fast.'

  I had never felt so bad in all my life. We had driven Ashton towards the guns as beaters drive an animal. It was so stupid a thing to do. I didn't feel very human at that moment.

  Henty came crunching down the slope, carrying a pistol negligently in his right hand. 'I got him,' he said matter-of-factly.

  I could smell the faint reek of cordite as he came closer, 'Got who, for Christ's sake?'

  'Benson.'

  I stared at him. 'You shot Benson!'

  He looked at me in surprise. 'Well, he shot Ashton, didn't he?'

  I was stupefied. 'Did he?'

  'Of course he did. I saw him do it.' Henty turned and looked up the slope. 'Maybe you couldn't see him from this angle-but I did.'

  I was unable to take it in. 'Benson shot Ashton!'

  'He bloody nearly shot me,' said Henty. 'He took a crack at me as soon as I showed myself up there. And if anyone shoots at me I shoot back.'

  It had never occurred to me to ask Henty if he was armed. Nobody else was on Ogilvie's instructions, but Henty was from another department. I was still gaping at him when there was a grinding rattle from above and a tank pointed its nose over the crest and began to come down into the valley. Its nose was a 105 mm high-velocity tank gun which looked like a 16-incher as the turret swivelled to cover our small group. They wouldn't have bothered to use that, though; the machinegun in the turret of that Centurion was capable of taking care of us much more economically.

  As the tank stopped I dropped to my knees next to Ashton's body. The turret opened and a head popped out, followed by a torso. The officer raised his anti-flash goggles and surveyed us with slightly popping eyes. Henry moved, and the officer barked, 'Stopp!' With a sigh Henty tossed his pistol aside in the snow.

  I opened Ashton's clenched fist to look at what he had taken from his pocket. It was a crumpled railway timetable of the route from Stockholm to Goteborg.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I don't know what sort of heat was generated at a higher level but the Swedes never treated me with anything less than politeness-icy politeness. If I had thought about it at all that cold correctitude would have been more frightening than anything else, but I wasn't thinking during that period-I was dead inside and my brains were frozen solid.

  The Swedes had found two dead men and four live men on army territory. One of the dead men had two passports, one stolen and the other genuine; the other had three passports, all false. The passports of the four live men were all genuine. It was claimed that one of the dead men had shot the other and, in turn, was shot and killed by one of the live men, an Australian living and working in Sweden. He had no permit for a gun.

  It was all very messy.

  Ogilvie was out of it, of course, and so were Michaelis and Gregory. Michaelis had waited with the van at the road, but when a squad of infantry in full battle order debouched from the forest and systematically began to take my car to pieces he had tactfully departed. He drove back into Strangnas and rang Ogilvie who pulled him back to Stockholm. And what Ogilvie heard from the Embassy made him decide that the climate of London was more favourable than the chilliness of Stockholm. The three of them were back in London that night and Cutler was saying, 'I told you so.'

  The four of us were taken to the army barracks in Strangnas, HQ the Royal Sodermanland Regiment and HQ East Military Command. Here we were searched and eyebrows were lifted at the sight of our communication equipment. No doubt conclusions were duly drawn. We weren't treated badly; they fed us, and if what we ate was representative of army rations then the Swedish Army does a damned sight better than the British Army. But we were not allowed to talk; a stricture reinforced by two hefty Swedes armed with submachine-guns.

  A
fter that I was led into an empty room and, just as I thought the interrogation was about to begin, a civilian arrived and began being nasty to the military. At least, that's the impression I had judging by the rumble of voices from the office next door. Then an army colonel and a civilian came in to see me and, having seen me, went away without saying a word, and I was transferred into a cell in which I spent the next three weeks apart from an hour's exercise each day. During that time I didn't see the others at all, and the Swedes wouldn't give me the time of day, so I ought to have been pretty lonely, but I wasn't. I wasn't anything at all.

  I was awakened one morning at three A.M., taken into an ablutions block and told to take a shower. When I came out I found my own clothes-the army fatigues I had been wearing had disappeared. I dressed, checked my wallet and found everything there, and put on my watch. The only things missing were my passport and the radio.

  I was marched smartly across the dark and snow-covered parade ground and shown into an office where a man dressed in civilian clothes awaited me. He wasn't a civilian, though, because he said, 'I am Captain Morelius.' He had watchful grey eyes and a gun in a holster under his jacket 'You will come with me.'

  We went outside again to a chauffeur-driven Volvo, and Captain Morelius didn't say another word until we were standing on the apron of Arlanda Airport over three hours later. Then he pointed to a British Airways Trident, and said, 'There is your aircraft, Mr. Jaggard. You realize you are no longer welcome in Sweden.' And that is all he said.

  We walked to the gangway and he handed a ticket to a steward who took me inside and installed me in a first-class seat. Then they let on the common herd and twenty minutes later we were in the air. I had good service from that steward who must have thought I was a VIP, and I appreciated the first drink I had had for nearly a month.

  When we landed at Heathrow I wondered how I was going to get by without a passport; I certainly didn't feel like going into tedious explanations. But Ogilvie was waiting for me and we walked around Passport Control and Customs. Once in his car he asked, 'Are you all right, Malcolm?'