Stacked high against one wall of the room were flat rectangular packages that Illya guessed contained bank-note paper. Along the other wall were ranged crates bound with thin metal strips.
There was only one man in the room. He was sitting at the desk near the machine, studying a set of graphs. He wore a white laboratory coat over an open green shirt and cavalry twill slacks. His hands bore the yellow stain of acid. He looked up, did a double-take when he saw the poodle in Blodwen's arms, then returned to his work without a word.
Illya said, "Well, well! So this is the instant-currency plant. How does it work?"
"It's simple, really." Hugh ap Morgan spoke deprecatingly, in the way inventors do. "It was just a matter of applying automation to the job. The old-time forger was too slow — and too uncertain. It is not easy to copy a note by hand. The best of craftsmen made mistakes. And photo-reproduction had its drawbacks. There was the matter of numbering, for instance." His voice took on the singsong intonation of the North Welshman as he warmed to his lecture.
"Now we have cut out all that. My press works on the continuous process, and it is completely automatic. There is no place for human error. The press does everything — and does it perfectly. Only the paper is not quite right — and that is not our fault. It is made elsewhere, unfortunately. The heart of the machine, and the first stage, is the computer.
He took a pound note from his trousers pocket and called to the man in the white coat. "Mr. Jones, if you please, will you come and demonstrate?"
Jones got up from the desk, went to the ebonite control panel and made adjustments. He returned, took the note from Morgan's hand and crossed to the head of the machine.
Morgan said, "Now watch."
Jones fitted the note into what looked like the dark-slide of an old-fashioned plate camera. He dropped the slide into a slot and turned a switch. The hum of the electric motor rose to a higher pitch. Lights on the control panel danced crazily.
Morgan said, "The computer is scanning and absorbing every detail of the note. The knowledge will now be fed to the etching, printing and numbering sections. Now come with me."
He led them to the far end of the machine. They saw brand-new pound notes stacking themselves with lightning rapidity into a glass receiver.
Morgan signaled to the man in the white coat. The sound of the motor died to its original low humming. The stream of notes stopped.
Morgan picked the top dozen from the pile and splayed them fanwise. "You see? They are numbered individually — but not consecutively. When they go into circulation there'll be no chance of putting a warning out to block a series. The numbering is quite random."
"Very clever," Illya said. "It's almost a pity your boss will be picked up before the scheme has time to get under way."
"If he is," Morgan retorted surprisingly, "it won't matter. He's expendable, like the rest of us. What gave you the idea he was heading the operation?" He motioned toward the door. "You've seen all there is to see. It's time I put you to bed."
As they passed the man in the white coat he grinned and invited, "Come again."
"We should live so long," Blodwen said gloomily.
They went out through the hall and the kitchen into the yard.
Rafferty asked, "The usual?" and Morgan said, "Where else?" He led the way across the yard to the brick-built barn and opened the door. There was a warm smell of cows and hay. The concrete floor was newly washed.
A heavy oak door was set into the far wall of the barn. Morgan unlocked it and stood aside. Rafferty said, "In!" It seemed to be his favorite word. He jabbed Illya in the back with the muzzle of the tommy-gun. Illya stumbled over the threshold, almost sending Blodwen sprawling. The door slammed behind them and the key turned in the lock.
Blodwen looked around her. She said, "Charming, though perhaps a bit austere."
The chamber in which they were standing measured about ten feet by eight. Walls, ceiling and floor were smooth concrete and the inside surface of the door was a sheet of steel. There were no windows. The only light came from a low-wattage bulb behind a thick glass cover set into the ceiling. There was no furniture of any kind. The air smelled cold and damp.
Illya ran his hand down the wall. His fingers came away wet. He said, "If they keep us here long they won't need to send in the execution squad. We'll die of pneumonia."
"You say the nicest things," Blodwen told him. "I like a man who looks on the bright side." She rubbed the poodle's head. "I wish I had some food for this animal. The poor little soul must be starving."
Illya looked at his wristwatch. "It's half after one. I don't think they intend to bring us lunch, somehow."
"Ah, well. We mustn't expect too much. After all, like the man said, we're expendable."
He glanced at her, puzzled. "You seem to be taking things remarkably lightly."
She shrugged. "Not much point in doing anything else, is there? The next move is up to them." She took off her jacket, folded it as a cushion and settled herself as comfortably as could be expected in a corner of the cell. She said, " I wish that little horror in the blue jeans hadn't taken my handbag. I'm dying for a cigarette. You wouldn't have one, I suppose?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Never mind. It's a killing habit." She clasped the poodle tight and closed her eyes. Illya, looking down on her, thought she looked unbelievably young.
She slept for three hours. Then Illya shook her gently. She sat up, instantly alert. "What is it?"
"Somebody's coming."
She listened, heard the faint sounds of approaching footsteps. "Good!" she said. "It's time Dolly did her parlor trick. Let's hope it comes off."
She unbuckled the poodle's jeweled collar and tugged at it. The buckle came away from the strap, exposing a length of fine steel wire. She shook out her jacket and spread it over her knees, putting her hands holding the wire beneath it. As the key turned in the lock she slumped over, suddenly the picture of dejection.
The door opened and the teenager came in. He carried a tray with two tin mugs of tea and a plate of sandwiches. "You better make the most of it," he said. "It's all you'll get tonight." He looked at the girl huddled in the corner. "What's wrong with her?"
She gasped, "I'm ill."
"Too bad." He sneered. "I'm no bloody doctor."
She said painfully, "There must be someone."
"Not here, there ain't. You'll just have to suffer."
She looked up, pleading. "Well, can you give me a cigarette? Maybe that will ease the pain."
"Yes, I can manage that." He took a packet of Players from his jacket pocket and threw a cigarette into her lap. She picked it up, put it in her mouth, and put her hand back under the jacket, shuddering as if with cold. She said weakly, "I don't have a light."
"A proper little nuisance, aren't you?" He produced a lighter, flicked it into flame, and bent over her.
Her hands came up swiftly, expertly twisting the wire around his neck. He made a retching sound. His tongue came out and his eyes bulged. Illya completed the demolition with a swinging right to the jaw. The teenager fell forward in a heap.
Blodwen wriggled from under him and grabbed the poodle, which was yapping shrill encouragement. She said, "Nice work, pardner. Now all ashore that's going ashore. I think we've outlived our welcome."
They raced to the outer door of the barn. Illya peered out cautiously. The yard was empty. He said, "The boundary wall is on your left, about a hundred yards away. Keep low and sprint for it. The quicker we're among the bracken, the better."
Blodwen tucked the poodle under her arm like a parcel. She said, "Right, men! Hold on to your hats."
They ran.
They got across the yard unseen and scrambled over the wall. They were fifty yards up the hillside when there came a rattle of machine-gun fire and a bullet sang past Illya's ear like a hornet. He looked back over his shoulder. Rafferty was pounding across the yard from the house. Behind him were Morgan and the man in the white coat. Another man was racing toward the hill at a different angle.
Illya said, "Keep going. Our only chance is to lose them in the high fern."
"You believe in fairies, too?" Blodwen panted.
Another burst of slugs thudded into the ground uncomfortably close. She said, still struggling upward, "He's getting the range. It won't be long now."
"Save your breath," Illya advised. "And try to zigzag."
She said, "I haven't got enough troubles?"
They forged on, the stiff bracken stems whipping and cutting at their faces. The growth was getting thicker, affording them more protection, but the going got tougher by the minute. To add to their difficulties the short grass beneath the fern was slippery as a ballroom floor.
Illya risked another backward glance. Rafferty, legs straddled, was steadying himself for another burst. As he brought the tommy-gun up to position, a shot cracked from somewhere higher up the hill. Rafferty stumbled and went down slowly as if he were praying.
Three more shots came from the hidden marksman. The man in the white coat screamed and clutched his shoulder.
"Dear me!" Illya said mildly. "Now where did the Seventh Cavalry spring from?"
"Whoever it is, he's tucked away somewhere above us and to the right," Blodwen said. "We'd better try to reach him."
The gun cracked again. It sounded neared. Illya said, "Sit tight. He's coming this way."
They waited, listening to the sounds of somebody moving through the fern. After a while the bracken above them parted.
Solo said, "Having fun, my children?"
Blodwen smiled prettily, "How nice of you to drop in. Do you come here often?"
"Only for the shooting. And by the way, you'd better have this." He handed Illya a Luger pistol.
Illya hefted it, testing the balance. He said gravely, "Thank you. I was feeling underdressed." He sighted and pressed the trigger. A spurt of rock flew from the wall an inch from where Morgan was crouching. The Welshman's answering shots were wild.
"Next time," Illya said. He aimed carefully and fired. Morgan pitched sideways and lay still.
"That leaves one," Blodwen commented.
"If he has any sense, he'll keep going," Solo said. "I think it's time we moved in."
"Too late!" Illya pointed to the gray bulk of Cwm Carrog. Smoke was pouring from the upper windows. And as they watched the roof collapsed in a sheet of flame. Almost in the same instant a black Vauxhall nosed out of the garage and headed for the main drive at top speed.
"There goes Mr. Price Hughes," said Blodwen. "Ah, well! Back to the drawing board."
Solo and Illya parked the Cortina in an all-night garage off Leicester Square. They walked up Charing Cross Road past the Underground station, crossed the road and entered ill-lit Newport Street. About halfway down on the right-hand side a scarlet neon sign read GLORIANA. DANCING.
Illya looked at it doubtfully. He asked, "You sure this is the place?"
"That's what the number says," Solo confirmed. "The place is on the first floor. There's probably another way in."
A painted girl in a uniform of sequins eyed them from the doorway of the club. She switched on a mechanical smile and said, "You coming in, boys? Lots of girls and all very friendly." She looked about fifteen.
Illya said, "Not tonight. We're busy."
"Some other time, eh?" She returned indifferently to buffing her finger nails with a grubby handkerchief.
A plain street door adjoined the club. Above the letter-box a square board carried the message in gold letters: NEW BEGINNINGS, FIRST FLOOR, GO STRAIGHT UP.
"This is it," Solo said. He pressed against the wood. The door held firm.
Illya crossed the street, looked up and came back again. He said, "No lights showing anywhere."
"Fine!" Solo took a length of metal from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole and twisted. The lock clicked back. They slipped quickly into the musty-smelling hallway. Solo shut the door and pressed the button of his flashlight. The beam played over walls that needed repainting and came to rest on linoleum-covered stairs.
They stood listening for a few moments. Only the sounds of traffic outside disturbed the stillness. They went forward cautiously.
The stairs ended at a short landing. A door in the wall was marked: NEW BEGINNINGS. KNOCK AND ENTER.
"We won't bother to knock," Solo said. He tried the handle. It turned in his hand and the door opened. Reflected light from the uncurtained windows lit the room grayly. It was a small office, furnished only with a plain table, a filing cabinet and a couple of hard-seated chairs. A calendar from a religious publishing house hung over the filing cabinet. Above the mantelpiece of the empty grate there was a text that promised: "All things are possible to him that believeth."
Solo went over to the filing cabinet. It was unlocked. He went through the drawers rapidly. They contained nothing but case-histories of pathetically inept villains.
He said, "There's no joy here. It's obviously where Price Hughes interviewed the customers. Let's try up top.
Another stairway almost opposite the office led up to a white-enameled door. It had two locks that made Solo wince. He said, "These are going to be difficult." While Illya held the flashlight he worked on them with picks of a dozen designs. After five minutes he stood back, defeated.
Illya said consolingly, "You could always try a ferret."
"It could come to that. But we'll try brute force first." Solo lifted his right foot and turned the rubber heel on the shoe. He removed two plastic capsules from the cavity underneath, pinched the ends to points and inserted them in the keyholes of the locks. He said, "Stand clear," flicked a cigarette lighter and tipped the flame to the capsules. They went
phutt!
like damp cherry bombs. The door sagged and swung open.
The flashlight beam lit up a hall in almost shocking contrast to the office below. The floor was covered with thick carpet in a rich deep blue. The walls, like the door, were enameled white, with panels of glowing tapestry. A Regency sofa-table held a bowl of exquisite Chinese workmanship.