Queen Victoria's Revenge (6 page)

“Aye.”

The farmer shook off the coils of rope, looked with some interest at the sprawled bodies, then started the tractor and trundled off down the road. Tony left Ramon sightlessly staring in the car, but dragged, not too gently, the other two to the side of the road. They were beginning to stir and moan as he tied their hands behind their backs with pieces of the discarded rope.

Within a few moments both skyjackers came to, moaning and complaining, shaking their bonds helplessly. They cursed at each other and at Castro, Scotland and life in particular while Tony nodded in appreciation of their vocabulary. Only when they started on him did he shake the gun in their direction so they cowered back, then he repeated with some warmth all the insults they had lavished on him during his captivity. It gave him a great deal of pleasure and did no harm so he was feeling much better by the time the police arrived.

Aroused by telephone, the local constable was the first to appear. He came down the lane on a large black bicycle, pedaling easily. After leaning the bicycle carefully against the hedge he took out a leather-covered note pad and a stub of pencil, carefully licking the pencil tip before he spoke.

“That is a gun you have in your possession, isn't it, sir?”

“I hope so since I am holding prisoner two men who are wanted for international skyjacking of a very expensive airplane, plus extortion of the sum of two million dollars.”

“Are they indeed!” The policeman nodded appreciatively and sternly. “Would you give me the gun, sir? Possession of a weapon is a crime with which I do not think you wish to be charged.” He stepped close and held out his hand. Tony passed it over.

“Quite right, Officer, since they are your prisoners now.”

“Indeed they are, sir.” He looked closely at the weapon, found the safety and flicked it in into place, then, before Tony's horrified gaze, put it into his pocket.

“I wouldn't do that…”

“That's all right, sir, I wouldn't worry if I were you. Now if I could have a statement. Time nine twenty-five
A.M
.” He entered this slowly and one of the skyjackers jumped to his feet and ran down the road.

With an easy motion the constable threw his nightstick so it went between the Cuban's legs, sending him sprawling. Before he could rise he was seized by the collar, pulled to his feet, marched back and dropped beside his companion. They both followed the loose-swinging club with their eyes and drew back.

“Now you don't want to cause any trouble, do you?”

“They don't speak English, Officer.”

“No matter, sir, there are other forms of communication.” The nightstick spoke this language sharply as he smacked it into his palm. Bells rang cheerily down the road and a moment later a police car with four occupants braked to a stop. The constable saluted as they poured out.

“Would anyone like to hear what happened?” Tony said brightly as they turned to face him. “Not half an hour ago a man was killed here and two million dollars carried away. I can attempt to describe the men who did it—if you are interested?”

They were, and he did, and with much hurried work on the radio the forces of law and order spread wide their search. Tony noticed that one of the policemen stayed very close to him for quite some time, until confirmation came in that he really was a kidnapped FBI man, not one of the skyjackers. With this information also came the order to get him to London as soon as possible. For this purpose a police car puttered up and was put at his disposal, something smaller and a good deal humbler than the car the sergeant had arrived in—a label on the hood said it was a Morris Minor—as well as a plainclothes detective named Finch. After a few miles Tony wished that a Morris Major had been provided, if there were a car by that name, as well as a driver who could say more than “ngh.” Finch, for all his undoubted sterling worth as a law enforcement officer, could not have talked less if he had had lockjaw. He bent forward firmly, tiny steering wheel clutched in brawny hands, brows beetling fiercely in concentration, and put all of his attention to the driving. After a few attempts at conversation Tony slumped, surly and uncomfortable, in his seat, looked out at the landscape—and began to cheer up.

He was in England! The reality finally slipped through. His first time here. An inadvertent trip, indeed, but at least the price was right. For him; the two million bucks was someone else's concern. He had braved danger and skyjackers, kept his cool in tight situations and apprehended two of the crooks. Not bad for a small-town Indian art major turned FBI man. All of this would look good in his civil service record. Another promotion might even be in order. And, since he was here against his will, they would have to transport him home as well. Perhaps he ought to stay and help with the investigation, that was a good idea, get in a little sightseeing at the same time. Mother of Parliaments, Runnymede, Stratford-on-Avon! There would be plenty to see and do. His numbed posterior was forgotten in the pleasures of anticipation.

The countryside, which until this moment had been completely pastoral, cows, copses, farmhouses, fields of grain, brooks and such, now changed abruptly as they swung with trepidation onto a sort of parkway. It was a miniaturized version of the Jersey Turnpike, which it greatly resembled, despite the fact that the cars were driving on the wrong side of the road. This seemed to work all right as long as all of the drivers were aware of the reversal. The police car hurled itself along at a dramatic thirty miles an hour through the landscape, which was about the same landscape you might see along any highway in the Western World. There were tantalizing glimpses of Olde England from time to time, but not many. Coming around a turn they had a good view, for a number of seconds, of a white stone building with a thatch roof, over the door of which hung a colorful signboard that read
GRAVEDIGGERS ARMS
. Memory of many British films struck him quickly and he groped around for the word, pointing a fluttering finger.

“That building, there, the white one with the sign. Is that, what do you call it, a
pub?”

Finch flicked a quick official eye in the direction of the building and after a ruminative moment produced a reluctant “aye.” Tony watched earnestly as it faded from sight.

“They have drinks there, don't they? Food too?”

After much thought, words failing him apparently, Finch nodded his head.

“That's really great. Listen, would you stop at the next one, I haven't eaten since yesterday sometime and could really use a drink too.”

“No pubs on motorway.”

“Well then pull off the motorway,” Tony said peevishly. “A few minutes won't make any difference to Scotland Yard but will make a big difference with me.”

Finch rolled the thought around for quite a while, looking at all sides of it with careful police scrutiny, yet could find no fault. The result was a final muttered “aye” as he turned off at the next exit. A few hundred yards down the road was a half-timbered establishment called The Royal Oak. It looked like he was in luck, royal! Here was a place where perhaps the king came to drink, or was it a queen now? They parked and entered a door labeled
SALOON BAR
, which certainly sounded like a step in the right direction.

The interior was all he had imagined and then some. Hum of low voices, rattle of glasses, bottles and glassware twinkling in the mirror behind the bar.

“Yes gentlemen, may I help you?” said a round, red, pleasant woman who stood framed by her wares.

“I'm for that,” Tony said. “What do you recommend, Mr. Finch?”

“Pint of bitter,” Finch said darkly. It didn't sound too optimistic but Tony went along and had one himself. The bar woman pumped industriously on a large black handle and filled two glass tubs with an amber liquid which, while being flatter and a bit warmer than the beer he knew, certainly was better in every other way.

“That will be thirty pence, if you please.”

“I'll get this,” Tony said, easily beating the policeman to the wallet draw. He pushed a five dollar bill across the dark wood and the woman looked at it dubiously.

“Only real money here, sir, I don't know what that is.”

Abraham Lincoln scowled up blackly from the bill, having been reduced by an air flight to a specie of Monopoly paper. Finch nodded somberly, as though he had expected no better, and placed a many-sided silver coin on the bar.

“Look, I'm sorry about that. If you'll pay for the drinks and lunch I'll pay you back, really I will.” Finch nodded again in obvious disbelief.

Mention of lunch stirred a gastric rumble of expectancy and an inquiry regarding food led him to the glass cabinet at the end of the same bar. Here, as though in a museum, a number of unfamiliar objects were on display. He did recognize the baked beans, but they were obviously cold and he did not even like them when hot. There was a plate bearing a number of fuzzy brown spheres resembling tinted tennis balls and he pointed them out to the bar woman, who hovered close with plate and knife.

“I'll have one of those. What are they?”

“Scotch eggs, sir. Bit of pickle with that?”

“Of course, whatever you say.” The object rested heavily on the plate set before him and he still had no idea what it was. He pressed on it with the knife and it skidded sideways without being dented. Finally, by holding it steady with his fingers, he managed to bisect it. A hard-boiled egg was revealed in the center surrounded by chopped meat of some kind. It was, however, quite delicious and he finished it quickly along with the tart relish and managed to down a second one with no difficulty. Finch drained his glass and looked pointedly at his watch. Tony very quickly gathered in the last crumb, emptied his glass and hurried out to the car.

After this the trip was most uneventful and Tony dozed, jumped on by the fatigue of the past hours. He awoke briefly when the motorway dumped them into city traffic, but this did not disturb him long. Mexico City traffic was more insane, Washington, D.C., more crowded. The only difference here was the fact the cars were all smaller so more could be crowded in. Which didn't make much difference since the streets were narrower too. He slept and awoke only when they pulled to a halt in a street that, appropriately, was labeled
GREAT SCOTLAND YARD
. With little ceremony he was ushered into the tiny, old-fashioned office of Inspector Smivey. The inspector, a thin jack-knife of a man, with a fringe of gray hair surrounding a polished bald head, tufts of the same hair sprouting elegantly from his ears and nostrils, rose long enough to shake his hand quickly, wave him to a chair, then sink back into his own again.

“I'm afraid you have been through a rather trying experience, Mr. Hawkin.”

“It could have been much worse. Has anything been found out about the stewardess, Jasmin Sotiraki? She wasn't in the truck when they found it, I was told.”

“I know you will be happy to hear that she was found, unhurt, not ten minutes ago. Here in London, in the suburbs. Now—would you mind terribly if I took a statement from you and had someone in to transcribe it?”

“No, of course not.”

The inspector muttered into an intercom. Over his shoulder, through the window, a square tower with a peaky top was clearly seen. It had a very large clock set into it which, at that moment, began to ring the hour of three. It sounded very familiar, like the recordings of Big Ben he had heard. Could it possibly be…?

“Now, Mr. Hawkin, if you could start with the moment you first boarded the plane in Washington.”

It was a simple enough tale, still frighteningly clear in memory, and he told it in a rush, the secretary's pencil skimming across the paper. When he was done, Inspector Smivey took him over the story again with some specific questions.

“You stated that one bundle of hundred dollar notes was taken away in the truck by one of the Cubans, Jorge, while Angus and his associates appear now to have the rest?”

“That's right.”

“Now what were these instructions you overheard when the leader, Ramon, gave the money to this Jorge?”

“He said something about taking these to show to the something-or-other. I couldn't quite make out the last word. It sounded like
emcubrilor
or
encubridor.”

“Would you write the word down here just as you heard it?”

Tony did and the paper was taken away. At the same time Jasmin was ushered in through the still open door.

“Tony! Then you are not dead. I was so worried.” She embraced him briefly, but before he could return the embrace she pulled away and sat down.

“I was more worried about you, it's been hours since they took you away.”

“There is not the need to tell me!
Cochons!
From one car to another, the blindfold, riding and riding until zip, I am in the street with runners in my best pantyhose. So I call 999 and am here.”

“Nine, nine, nine?”

“The emergency number anywhere in the British Isles,” Inspector Smivey patiently explained. “You might remember it for future reference. Now, if you would be so kind as to wait in the outer office one of my people will get back to you. We have contacted the American authorities about an emergency passport. In the meantime we are arranging for a room for you in a hotel nearby and would appreciate it if you were to go there and remain until we contact you.”

“I'm for that. It's been a long day—or days.”

Jasmin waved weakly when he left and in the outer office he found the copilot, Tubby Waterbury, sprawled on a sofa and reading a newspaper. A black headline read “SKYJACK MURDER VICTIM LOOTED.”

“Glad to see you got out of this in one piece, Hawkin.”

“I feel the same way. How's the plane?”

“Going no place fast. Haycroft refused to leave it except at gunpoint so I came down to brief them. That airport, Tilbury Hill, used to be a bomber base in the Second World War. No one's been near it since. That damned runway is no harder than baked mud.”