Rhinoceros (5 page)

They were driving back along the A27, heading for the
distant turn-off towards Petworth. Newman was driving
the hatchback with Tweed beside him and Paula in
the rear. Behind them Butler was driving Tweed's car.
Unsettled by their visit to
Eagle's Nest,
the atmosphere up
on the Downs, they were silent for a few minutes. It was
shortly after they had moved on to the A27 when Paula peered through the rear window.

'There's a helicopter flying fairly high up behind us. The
odd thing is it looks as though it came from Lord Barford's
estate. Has he got a chopper?'

'No idea,' Tweed replied, his eyes half closed.

'Bob, what did you think of Mark Wendover?' Paula went on.

'Calls himself a freelance, which struck me as odd. What
is he like? Only a slight American accent. His mother was
English. Has a first-class brain, really knows his stuff. And
he doesn't miss
much. He's convinced Jason Schulz was murdered, then it was mocked up to make it look like
suicide.'

'Two fake suicides,' Tweed mused. 'Three and a half thousand miles apart. Both men in top government posts - so both had access to top secrets. What's the link? I've no idea, but as you know I don't believe in coincidence. Could the assassin be the same person?'

'Easily,' Newman replied. 'The deaths took place roughly
five days apart. Plenty of time for someone to do the job
in Washington, then catch a flight over here from Dulles
Airport.'

While they were descending the switchback road towards
the A27 a quiet voice spoke by radio-telephone to the pilot
of the chopper waiting by his machine.

'Follow two cars leaving Eagle's Nest. Report their route.
They are probably heading for Park Crescent in London.
Give regular reports of their position to Bronze . . .'

The owner of the same quiet voice then pressed fresh
numbers.

'Listen to me carefully. And don't make mistakes or
you know what will happen to you. A chopper pilot will
tell you at regular intervals the location of the two cars.
I'm sure their destination is Park Crescent. Bronze, move
fast. Steal an unusual vehicle - the target is smart. You have his description. Tell Zero to kill Tweed.'

'That chopper is still with us,' Paula said as they reached
the centre of London.

'Probably not the same one,' Newman told her. 'London
has them flying all the time. And Tweed is fast asleep.'

'Perhaps we had better stop chattering.'

'You stop chattering,' Newman suggested. 'Park Cres
cent is very close.'

'Look what's coming towards us. At this hour. 3 a.m. I
don't believe it.'

The vehicle moving towards them along an otherwise deserted street was an old-fashioned sightseeing bus with an open top. The notice above the driver's cabin seemed superfluous. NO'I IN SERVICE. Paula crouched down to get a better look as it crawled towards them. A pre-Second World War museum piece but tourists loved them. She saw the driver staring straight down the road, cap perched at a jaunty angle. Then she saw movement at the top of the bus, a man in the front seat aiming a barrel-shaped object.

'Look out!' she yelled. 'Gunman aboard . . .'

Newman turned the car across the path of the oncoming
bus. Two sharp reports split the silence. Bullets tore
holes in a side window, missing Tweed, who was slumped
in his seat. Two more holes appeared in the side win
dow opposite as the bullets continued their vicious track.
Newman braked as the car slammed into a wall.

'Are you all right?' Paula asked Tweed anxiously.

'Yes. So who phoned ahead from Alfriston? Or Barford
Manor?'

CHAPTER 1

Lisa woke for the fifth time and it was daylight. She had felt
exhausted when she had flopped on the bed in her clothes.
After sleeping an hour she had decided to explore her
room. Not daring to switch on the light again, she had crept
over to the curtained window, cautiously pulling aside one
curtain. What she had seen gave her the horrors.

Outside the window was a fire escape leading down into the wide alley where she had parked her car. She
could see the vehicle a few yards away below her. Anyone
who had managed to follow her could have mounted the
fire escape and climbed into her room. She no longer
felt safe. ,

Checking the feeble catch that locked the window, Lisa
risked turning on the light. Working quickly, she hauled
three cheap wooden chairs to the window, turned them
on their sides, scattered them. At least that way she might
have a warning of danger.

She thought of taking a shower and a wave of fatigue
swept over her. Before she flopped on the bed again she
tucked her Beretta automatic under the damp pillow,
fell asleep. It was seven in the morning when daylight,
penetrating the flimsy curtains, woke her again. She
decided to get up.

She thought once more of ta
king a shower in the tiny bathroom, then reluctantly dismissed the idea. If some
one came up the fire escape she'd be helpless, caught
in the shower. She washed quickly, brushed her mane
of red hair, put on a little make-up, felt better. The
phone rang.

She nearly jumped out of her skin but reacted quickly. Lifting the receiver, she said 'Yes' in a soft voice. It was
the old besom who had stood behind the reception counter when she arrived.

'Thought I'd better warn you. Coupla men are on the
way up to your room. Said they was police. Rude sods,
they are . . .'

'Thank you.'

She realized the woman had warned her because she'd
resented the way they'd spoken to her. And she had
obviously had doubts whether they were police, so they
weren't in uniform. As a precaution - and due to her
weariness when she'd arrived - she had opened the lid of
her case but had taken nothing out except her cosmetics bag. She ran into the bathroom, grabbed the bag, shoved it back into her case, closed the lid.

Lisa had the window open, had rested her case on a
metal tread outside, lifted one leg over the sill, when
she heard the hard rapping on the locked door to the
corridor.

'Police. We know you're in there. Open up. Police . . .'

The voice was hard, demanding. The rapping resumed.
She started down the fire escape, not hurrying for fear she'd have an accident. She heard the savage splintering of wood.
They were breaking down the door.

Two men had rushed into the room. Both wore dark
business suits. One was of medium height, fat, and his
black eyebrows, matching his hair, met over the bridge
of his boxer's nose. His companion was small, slim with
Slavic cheekbones, ponytail hair, a cruel narrow face and
sideburns. He held a large knife in his right hand. The
order had been it should be a quick
quiet
job.

'Not in bathroom,' the small man reported.

'Panko, the bloody window.'

Eyebrows rushed across, peered out. As he did so Lisa,
who had reached the bottom steps, looked up, saw him
clearly, ran to her car. Eyebrows swore.

'She's got transport. I'll get the car, you go after her. Pick you up in the jalopy . . .'

Lisa kept her cool, carefully inserted her ignition key
as Panko tore down the fire escape. She had the engine
going as he reached the bottom, stood in the middle of the
wide alley. Without hesitation she drove straight at him.
He jumped aside, brandishing his knife, pressing himself against the wall.

Lisa pressed her foot down, but travelling across the
cobbled surface of the alley slowed her down. In her
rear-view mirror she could see a large blue Ford pause at
the foot of the fire escape.
The little man jumped aboard,
then the Ford was coming after her.

'Those aren't detectives,' she said to herself. 'Not when
one of them is waving an evil-looking knife about. Girl,
you're in real trouble . . .'

She decided to head for Waterloo station, but soon ran
into heavy commuter traffic. The real danger loomed when
she was approaching die bridge crossing die Thames. An
amber light, which she hoped the car ahead would beat,
turned red, it stopped. She braked.

'Well, I'm surrounded by cars with people,' she comforted herself.

Glancing again in the mirror, her brief release from fear
vanished. She clenched her teeth. The small man had left the stationary Ford six cars behind her and was wending
his way between the traffic towards her. The car she was inside was an old model and there was no mechanism she
could use to lock all the doors.

All Skinny had to do when he reached her was to open
her door, then ram home his butcher's knife. She reached
for her Beretta, jammed
behind her belt under her coat.
Couldn't get to the damned thing. She alternately checked
her mirror, gazed at the red light.

'Green!'
she prayed. 'For Christ's sake, turn green . . .'

Skinny was coming closer and closer. The light obstinately
remained at red. Skinny was now one car behind her,
sidling forward fast. She still couldn't get her hand on the
Beretta. In any case, that would be a disaster. If she did manage to shoot him it would be a police case, probably keeping her out of action for ages. Skinny was grinning
now. Had his right hand under his windcheater.

'Oh,
please!'

Skinny had now arrived at the rear of her car, his hand half outside the unzipped windcheater. She could see the triumph in his evil eyes, the look of devilish anticipation.
The lights changed to amber, to green. The traffic surged
forward and she surged with it. She had a glimpse of him
caught up in the melee of traffic.

'Run the bastard down,' she said aloud between her
teeth.

Lisa parked the car in an underground garage near the
station. Carrying her case, she walked rapidly to Waterloo,
confident she had lost them. The large concourse was a
swirl of people,
hurrying to work after leaving their trains,
which suited her. You were easily lost in a crowd.

Spotting a row of phone booths, she went inside one
that had empty booths on both sides. Her first call was to
the car hire company. She told them where she'd parked
the car, that she wouldn't need it again.
They'll be happy,
she thought as she prepared to make another call - she
had paid for another two weeks' hire.

Taking out the card Tweed had given her from her handbag, she pressed numbers. A woman's voice answered. She spoke quickly.