LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter XXI

       'The Persuader'

       Table of Content

      Krebs echoed the maniac laugh with a high giggle. "A master-stroke, mein Kapitän. You should have seen them charge off down the hill. The one that burst. Wunderschön! Like the lavatory paper of a giant. That one will have made a pretty parcel of him. He was just coming round the bend. And the second salvo was as good as the first. Did you see the driver's face? Zum Kotzen! And the Firma Bowater! A fine paperchase they have got on their hands."

      "You did well," said Drax briefly, his mind elsewhere.

      Suddenly he pulled into the side of the road with a scream of protest from the tyres.

      "Donnerwetter," he said angrily, as he started to turn the car. "But we can't leave the man there. We must get him." The car was already hissing back down the road. "Gun," ordered Drax briefly.

      They passed the lorry at the top of the hill. It was stopped and there was no sign of the driver. Probably telephoning to the company, thought Drax, slowing up as they went round the first bend. There were lights on in the two or three houses and a group of people were standing round one of the rolls of newsprint that lay amongst the ruins of their front gate. There were more rolls in the hedge on the right side of the road. On the left a telegraph pole leant drunkenly, snapped in the middle. Then at the next bend was the beginning of a great confusion of paper stretching away down the long hill, festooning the hedges and the road like the sweepings of some elephantine fancy-dress ball.

      The Bentley had nearly broken through the railings that fenced off the right of the bend from a steep bank. Amidst a puzzle of twisted iron stanchions it hung, nose down, with one wheel, still attached to the broken back axle, poised crookedly over its rump like a surrealist umbrella.

      Drax pulled up and he and Krebs got out and stood quietly, listening.

      There was no sound except the distant rumination of a car travelling fast on the Ashford road and the chirrup of a sleepless cricket.

      With their guns out they walked cautiously over to the remains of the Bentley, their feet crunching the broken glass on the road. Deep furrows had been cut across the grass verge and there was a strong smell of petrol and burnt rubber in the air. The hot metal of the car ticked and crackled softly and steam was still fountaining from the shattered radiator.

      Bond was lying face downwards at the bottom of the bank twenty feet away from the car. Krebs turned him over. His face was covered with blood but he was breathing. They searched him thoroughly and Drax pocketed the slim Beretta. Then together they hauled him across the road and wedged him into the back seat of the Mercedes, half on top of Gala.

      When she realized who it was she gave a cry of horror.

      "Halt's Maul," snarled Drax. He got into the front seat and while he turned the car Krebs leant over from the front seat and busied himself with a long piece of flex. "Make a good job of it," said Drax. "I don't want any mistakes." He had an afterthought. "And then go back to the wreck and get the number plates. Hurry. I will watch the road."

      Krebs pulled the rug over the two inert bodies and jumped out of the car. Using his knife as a screwdriver he was soon back with the plates, and the big car started to move just as a group of the local residents appeared walking nervously down the hill shining their torches over the scene of devastation.

      Krebbs grinned happily to himself at the thought of the stupid English having to clean up all this mess. He settled himself back to enjoy the part of the drive he had always liked best, the spring woods full of bluebells and celandines on the way to Chilham.

      They had made him particularly happy at night. Lit up amongst the green torches of the young trees by the great headlamps of the Mercedes, they made him think of the beautiful forests of the Ardennes and of the devoted little band with which he had served, and of driving along in a captured American jeep with, just like tonight, his adored leader at the wheel. Der Tag had been a long time coming, but now it was here. With young Krebs in the van. At last the cheering crowds, the medals, the women, the flowers. He gazed out at the fleeting hosts of bluebells and felt warm and happy.

      Gala could taste Bond's blood. His face was beside hers on the leather seat and she shifted to give him more room. His breathing was heavy and irregular and she wondered how badly he was hurt. Tentatively she whispered into his ear. And then louder. He groaned and his breath came faster.

      "James," she whispered urgently. "James."

      He mumbled something and she pushed hard against him.

      He uttered a string of obscenities and his body heaved.

      He lay still again and she could almost feel him exploring his sensations.

      "It's me, Gala." She felt him stiffen.

      "Christ," he said. "Hell of a mess."

      "Are you all right? Is anything broken?"

      She felt him tense his arms and legs. "Seems all right," he said. "Crack on the head. Am I talking sense?"

      "Of course," said Gala. "Now listen."

      Hurriedly she told him all she knew, beginning with the notebook.

      His body was as rigid as a board against her, and he hardly breathed as he listened to the incredible story.

      Then they were running into Canterbury and Bond put his mouth to her ear. "Going to try and chuck myself over the back," he whispered. "Get to a telephone. Only hope."

      He started to heave himself up on his knees, his weight almost grinding the breath out of the girl.

      There was a sharp crack and he fell back on top of her.

      "Another move out of you and you're dead," said the voice of Krebs coming softly between the front seats.

      Only another twenty minutes to the site! Gala gritted her teeth and set about bringing Bond back to consciousness again.

      She had only just succeeded when the car drew up at the door of the launching-dome and Krebs, a gun in his hand, was undoing the bonds round their ankles.

      They had a glimpse of the familiar moonlit cement and of the semi-circle of guards some distance away before they were hustled through the door and, when their shoes had been torn off by Krebs, out on to the iron catwalk inside the launching-dome.

      There the gleaming rocket stood, beautiful, innocent, like a new toy for Cyclops.

      But there was a horrible smell

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