Colin Forbes - Target 5

TARGE'I FIVE

COLIN FORBES

PAN BOOKS LTD

LONDON AND SYDNEY

First published 1973 by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd

This edition published 1974 by Pan Books Ltd, Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG

ISBN 0 330 24023 4

2nd Printing 1974 Colin Forbes 1973

Printed in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, London, Reading and Fakenham

For Jane

CONTENTS

Opening Gambit:

THE LOCOMOTIVE

Running Game:

THE FROZEN SEA

Checkmate:

THE KILLING GROUND

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Opening Gambit

THE LOCOMOTIVE

Friday, 18 February 1972: Midnight

Even in the year 1972, a year which will hardly be noted in the calendar of history as a year of peace, it Was not common for an express to be stopped in the middle of the night - in the middle of nowhere - while a passenger was dragged off it by armed men. Especially an American express.

And this traumatic experience was certainly something that Keith Beaumont had no inkling of as he relaxed in bed inside a sleeping-car aboard the Florida Express; for one thing, the thirty-two-car train was roaring through the Carolinas at over ninety miles an hour, while outside the February storm beat at the curtained windows; for another thing, the next scheduled stop was over two hours away.

With the windows sealed tight against the rising storm, with the central heating turned up to God knew how many degrees, it was hot and steamy and airless inside the sleeping- car, so hot that the large Englishman was having trouble sleeping as he eased himself up on one elbow and checked his watch. Close to midnight. Behind the zipped- curtain which shut him off from the corridor, he settled down again on his pillow and wrapped his hands behind his broad neck, dreaming with his eyes open.

By morning he'd be in Miami, thousands of miles away from Greenland - away from guiding frightened dogs through screaming blizzards, away from hauling bucking sleds over tumbled ice, above all away from endless darkness and cold that paralysed the brain. It was also wonderful to be dry again; Beaumont pressed his stockinged feet hard against the end of the bed and revelled in the warmth.

Twenty miles ahead of the express thundering through the storm-swept night three armed men were not so dry as they huddled in the pouring rain. Standing under the canopy of a whistle-stop station in the middle of nowhere, they waited for the oncoming express which wasn't scheduled to stop for another two hours. The signals were already changing against it, the driver of the huge diesel motor hauling the long, long train was already applying his massive brakes. The emergency was imminent.

'I hope to God he's on board,' one of the raincoated men mumbled as he clenched a sodden cigarette between his teeth.,

'He's on board,' the forty-year-old leader of the group assured his companion. 'And we're taking him off it.'

'It could be tricky ...'

'This says it won't be tricky.' The older man extracted a .45 Colt revolver from his pocket, checked the cylinder, put it away again. 'And don't forget, Jo, we have to make it look good - real good.'

Less than twenty miles up the track the driver of the Florida Express was staring anxiously into the night. The signal he had just passed had ordered a reduction of speed but the next stop was two hours away, so what the hell was happening? He went on cutting the speed, applying the great brakes slowly. Rain hammered his steel cab roof, trails of spume whipped off the roof and vanished in the dark. The next signal flashed by. Red for danger, for stop. What the devil was going on? He applied the brakes more strongly. They were close to Cedar Falls, an unscheduled stop.

Two minutes later the train ground to a halt as a thunderclap burst and rain lashed the sides of the cars. Inside his roomette Beaumont settled down to sleep while the train was still, his large hands clasped outside the sheet. His eyes were closed when the curtains were torn open and a man with a sodden hat brim looked down at him while he checked a photograph in his left hand. 'It's him, Jo,' a quiet voice said.

Beaumont opened his eyes and stared into the muzzle of a Colt .45 revolver.

'Move that thing,' he murmured. 'It might go off - your hand's sticky.'

When he opened his eyes Beaumont registered several swift impressions - the sodden raincoat the man holding the gun wore, the steam rising off the man's sleeves, the scared look on the face of the passenger in the roomette across the corridor, the second raincoated man standing in the back ground with one hand inside his pocket. The older American, who was feeling the heat - there were sweat beads on his forehead - replied in a flat tone.

'Get dressed - you're getting off the train ...'

'And who the hell might you be?' Beaumont demanded.

Exhausted, tired out by his long trip from Greenland to Washington, he estimated his chances carefully. A hard chopping blow to knock the Colt out of the gunman's hand, a knee in the groin... No, it was too dangerous - with other passengers in the sleeping-car.

'Dixon, FBI,' the man with the sweaty forehead snapped. 'And hurry it up - this train can't wait all night...'

'It doesn't have to - it can get moving now as far as I'm concerned. With me on board. And you've made a very bad mistake - I'm British ...' Beaumont reached towards his jacket hanging from a hook.

'Watch it...' Dixon warned.

The Englishman stared at him over the width of his very broad shoulders and Dixon felt uncomfortable. 'I'm showing you my passport, for God's sake,' Beaumont rumbled. He took it from the inner jacket pocket carefully, extracted it with his fingertips and handed it to Dixon. The American opened the passport expertly with one hand, studied it for a moment, then showed it to the man behind him. 'It's as phoney as hell, Jo.'

Beaumont made no comment as he pushed back the bed clothes and showed that he was fully dressed except for tie, jacket and shoes. As the Englishman climbed out of bed and stood up Dixon backed away and stared. Keith Beaumont, thirty-two years old, was six foot two tall, broad-shouldered and weighed over fourteen stone. Not that Dixon was too impressed as he watched the Englishman quietly getting dressed; a big ox was slow-moving. After a minute he checked his watch.

'Hurry it up,' Dixon repeated. He had been right: this man was slow in the reflexes.

'Get stuffed.'

The passenger in the roomette opposite was getting over his shock. 'I'm Andrew Phillipson from Minneapolis,' he informed Dixon in a glib voice. 'This guy said he was from Greenland - Greenland where all that ice is. I thought it was funny ...'

'He'll be off the train in a minute,' Dixon broke in, 'then you can get back to sleep.' He looked at Beaumont who had finished dressing. 'That your bag? Good. Now, place both hands on the bed - close together.' There was a faint clink of metal as Dixon's companion took his hand out of his pocket. Beaumont shook his large head which was covered with thick dark hair and smiled grimly.

'So your friend can slip handcuffs on me? I'm not playing, Dixon, so you'd better make up your mind - do I come as I am or do you shoot me?'

They went down the corridor with Beaumont's hands still free, preceded by the man called Jo who carried the Englishman's suitcase while Dixon brought up the rear. Curtains screening the roomettes were pulled aside as passengers peered out at the little procession. Behind Dixon bare feet padded down the corridor as Phillipson hurried to catch him up. 'Who is the guy?' he called out excitedly. 'He talked to me so maybe I can help ...'

'Break-out from Folsom,' Dixon told him tersely.

Beaumont stumbled as he went down the steep steps at the end of the car, his shoulders sagging. Big, sleepy and clumsy, Dixon noted. At the bottom of the steps Beaumont paused on the track to button up his coat and pull his hat down over his ears. Cedar Falls was a small, single-storey building at the edge of a forest with a side exit leading out into a road beyond. Beaumont saw this as lightning flashed, showing a brief, stark view of wind bending trees to the south, then a curtain of rain whooshed down the track and soaked him. A few yards away one of the train crew was watching with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity. A second railroad official stood under the station canopy. Dixon came down the steps behind him, nudged him with the Colt.