The Dark Side of the Street. Jack Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ likely to forget a thing like that. Your share of the Peterfield Airport Robbery was exactly £320,000. Where is it?’

      ‘How do I know I’m going to get a fair shake?’ Hoffa demanded.

      ‘Now don’t start that sort of nonsense, old man. The Baron can’t stand welshers. We’ve kept our part of the bargain – we’ve got you out. You tell us where the cash is and that completes what we call Phase One of the operation. Once we’ve got our hands on the money, we can start Phase Two.’

      ‘Which includes getting me out of the country?’

      ‘With a new identity nicely documented, plus half the money. I’d say that was a fair exchange for twenty years on the Moor.’

      ‘How can I be sure?’

      ‘You’d better be, old man. You aren’t going to get very far on your own.’

      ‘You’ve got a point there. Okay – the money’s in a steamer trunk at Prices’ Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker.’

      Smith gave him a look of blank amazement. ‘You must be joking.’

      ‘Why should I? They specialise in clients who are going overseas for a lengthy period. I paid five years in advance. Even if it isn’t collected on time it’s safe enough. They’ve got to hang on to it for ten years before they can do anything – that’s the law.’

      ‘Is there a receipt?’

      ‘You won’t get it without one.’

      ‘Who has it?’

      ‘Nobody – it’s at my mother’s place in Kentish Town. You’ll find an old Salvation Army Bible amongst my gear. The receipt’s hidden in the spine. Fair enough?’

      ‘It should be. I’ll pass the information along.’

      ‘And what happens to me?’

      ‘You’ll be taken care of. If everything goes according to plan they’ll start Phase Two, but not before the Baron has seen the colour of your money.’

      ‘Who is the Baron anyway? Anyone I know?’

      ‘That sort of question just isn’t healthy, old man.’ Smith shrugged and for the first time, the slight, characteristic smile was not in evidence. ‘You may meet him eventually – you may not. I honestly wouldn’t know.’

      The rest of the journey was passed in silence until twenty minutes later when they arrived at a crossroads and he slowed to a halt. ‘This is where we part company.’

      On either hand the main road was visible for a good quarter of a mile, a narrow ribbon of asphalt falling across wild and rugged uplands. It was completely deserted and Hoffa frowned.

      ‘What happens now?’

      ‘Stand at the edge of the road like any normal hitch-hiker and you’ll be picked up in approximately ten minutes if our man’s on time.’

      ‘What’s he driving?’

      ‘I haven’t the slightest idea. His opening words will be: “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?” You must answer: Babylon.’

      ‘For God’s sake, what is all this?’ Hoffa demanded angrily. ‘Some sort of game?’

      ‘Depends how you look at it, doesn’t it, old man? He’ll tell you Babylon’s too far for him, but he can take you part of the way.’

      ‘Then what happens?’

      ‘I wouldn’t know.’ He leaned across the opened the door. ‘On your way, there’s a good chap and the best of British luck to you.’

      A moment later Hoffa found himself standing at the side of the road, a bewildered frown on his face, the Zodiac a fast-dwindling noise in the distance.

      It was quiet after a while, the only sound the wind whispering through the long grass and a cloud passed across the face of the sun so that suddenly it was cold and he shivered. There was a desperate air of unreality to everything and the events of the afternoon seemed to form part of some privileged nightmare.

      He checked the watch Smith had given him on the helicopter. An hour and ten minutes since the ambush of the Land Rover. From now on anything might happen. There was sweat on his forehead in spite of the cool breeze and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. What if some well-meaning farmer drove by and decided to offer him a lift? What was he going to say?

      Somewhere in the distance, an engine sounded faintly and when he turned to look, a vehicle came over the crest of the hill. As it approached he saw that it was a tanker, a great six-wheeler, its body painted a brilliant red and it rolled to a halt beside him.

      The driver leaned out of the cab and looked down, a craggy-faced man of sixty or so in an old flying jacket and tweed cap, a grey stubble covering his chin. For a long moment there was silence and then he said with a pronounced Scottish accent, ‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?’

      ‘Babylon,’ Hoffa told him and the breath went out of him in a long sigh of relief.

      ‘Well, now, that’s a step too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.’

      He opened the door and stepped on to a ladder that gave access to the filling point on top of the tanker. To one side was a steel plate about two feet square painted black which carried the legend: Danger – Handle with care – Hydrochloric Acid. He felt for a hidden catch at the base of the plate and it swung open.

      Hoffa climbed up and peered inside. The compartment was about eight feet by three with a mattress as its base and he nodded briefly. ‘How long?’

      ‘Six hours,’ the driver said. ‘No light, I’m afraid, and you can’t smoke, but there’s coffee in the thermos and some sandwiches in a biscuit tin. Best I can do.’

      ‘Can I ask you where we’re going?’

      The driver shook his head, face impassive. ‘Not in the contract, that one.’

      ‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Let’s get rolling.’

      He went through the hatch head-first and as he turned to face the light, the cover clanged into place, plunging him into darkness. Panic moved inside him and his throat went dry and then the tanker started to roll forward and the mood passed. He lay back on the mattress, head pillowed on his hands and after a while his eyes closed and he slept.

      At that precise moment some ten miles away, the man who had called himself Smith braked to a halt in the High Street of the first village he came to, went into a public telephone box and dialled a London number.

      A woman answered him, her voice cool and impersonal. ‘Worldwide Exports Ltd.’

      ‘Simon Vaughan speaking from the West Country.’

      The voice didn’t change. ‘Nice to hear from you. How are things down there?’

      ‘Couldn’t СКАЧАТЬ