Authors: Colin Forbes
He had just spoken when they heard the door being unlocked from the inside. When it opened a strong light shone from the large room inside. Madison sucked in his breath. Standing crouched in the doorway was the ugliest, most evil-looking man he'd ever seen.
Bernhard Yorcke had a high forehead and lank, greasy dark hair. His nose was hooked and the dark eyes which stared out strangely were black and menacing. Below the nose a wide, thin-lipped mouth was twisted at an odd angle, which gave the impression he was smiling permanently in a sneering way. A most unpleasant smile. Clean-shaven, his long face tapered to a pointed chin which increased his gnomelike look. His fingertips were black. They would always be black — with printer's ink.
'You are late,' he said nastily.
'Sorry 'bout that,' Ronstadt replied, smiling. 'Difficult drivin conditions. A lot of snow and ice.'
'You're still late. You had better come inside with your men. There will be no food for them. I cannot waste my valuable time looking after strange visitors.'
Yorcke spoke English slowly, with great precision, emphasizing syllables. His voice was high-pitched, which added to the sinister aura of his personality. He stood to one side as Ronstadt's thugs filed in, then locked the door with his left hand. In his right hand he held a long black iron bar which terminated at one end in a sharp point. At the top a small bar extended at right- angles. It gave Madison the feeling of a vicious dagger.
'You are wondering what I am holding in my hand,' Yorcke said to Madison. This horrible guy misses nothing, thought Madison; who had been glancing at the bar. 'It is an instrument of my trade.'
'Bernhard is the greatest printer in the whole world,' boomed Ronstadt. 'He gives you a date and the work is finished by that date.'
'Everything is ready now, Ronstadt,' Yorcke confirmed. 'I have even printed a greater quantity. It is running on the machines now. For that, of course, I expect a bigger fee.'
As he spoke he advanced very close to Ronstadt. The spiked bar was raised to his chest level as though about to strike. He stared hard at Ronstadt, who answered quickly, trying not to look at the nearness of the spike.
'You'll get a big extra fee. And I won't pay you in what you've produced.'
'Don't do that,' purred Yorcke. 'Life can be short.'
'It was a joke, Ronstadt assured him hastily. 'Can we start loading the trucks?'
'One truck is already loaded. The driver is waiting to leave.'
'Tell him to get moving, please.'
His men were exploring different rooms as Yorcke went to an old-fashioned phone attached to the wall. He used a turn-handle to ring the bell in the garage.
'Dave, take the truck to its destination. Yes, now.'
Newman, with a holdall he had borrowed from Marler, was starting his tour of the house. He grabbed a grenade from the holdall, hurled it with great force through an illuminated window. Glass cracked as the missile landed somewhere inside. It detonated. The window shattered, scattering glass all over the snow outside. Newman had already moved on, hurled another grenade. He continued throwing the grenades almost non-stop as he ran.
Below the wide ramp Tweed was crouched against the wall, Walther in his hand. He suddenly heard the sound of a powerful engine starting. Looking up, he saw the huge door of the garage elevating swiftly, automatically. A large white Mercedes truck roared out, sped down the ramp. He aimed his gun, fired. A useless shot. The driver inside his cab was way past him, had swung the vehicle round at the bottom, accelerated, headed for the track and thundered down it. Nield was by his side.
'We've lost it. I fired but hit nothing. Where could it be going?'
'Tell you in a minute …'
He watched the truck rushing along the track. In no time at all it reached the road, swung left, heading back the way they had come. Then it was gone.
'Freiburg for starters would be my guess,' said Tweed. 'There may be a way of stopping it later.'
Newman dashed past them. He was running round the house, hurling more grenades from the holdall slung over his shoulder. He aimed one well clear of Kent, crouched by the front wall at the top of the steps. There was a fresh detonation. More glass sprayed the outside, none of it coming near Tweed and Nield. He didn't stop running.
Half a minute earlier, the door at the top of the steps at the side of the house where Paula waited, was thrown open. Three thugs rushed out, down the steps, firing at random. Paula elevated her machine-pistol. She fired one long burst, lowering the weapon. The thugs on the steps tumbled over each other, fell in a heap, very still. She was reloading, expecting more, when Newman rushed round the corner, took in the situation at a glance.
'Great work. Don't go inside!'
He ran on. Paula waited. No one else emerged. She laid her machine-pistol on the ground. It would be difficult to manipulate inside the confines of the house. Holding her Walther gripped in both hands, she walked to the foot of the steps. Slowly she began to climb them, threading her way between the strewn corpses. Then she disappeared inside.
At the rear of the house Marler waited well back at the edge of the trees, holding his Armalite. Butler was standing nearby, crouched low behind some wild shrubbery.
'Keep your eyes on that door, Marler called out. 'They're doing that.'
When the assault came it was in an unexpected way — and from an unexpected direction. Without warning —they had heard, had seen, no sign of activity - a hail of smoke bombs arrived from inside the shattered windows. Marler and Butler were lost in a dense, choking fog.
The door opened quietly. Ronstadt led the way out, followed by Leo Madison, Chuck Venacki and Vernon Kolkowski. They had guns in their hands but they did not fire them. Instead they ran for Ronstadt's Audi, now parked in front and facing the track. Ronstadt opened the driver's door quietly, sat behind the wheel as he was joined by Chuck at his side with Madison and Vernon in the back. He started the engine, accelerated.
Marler, coughing, emerged from the smoke. He saw Newman appear round the side of the house. Ronstadt drove the car straight at him. Newman jumped clear just in time. Then the car had gone, vanishing down 'the gulley.
Newman clambered to his feet, realized he had sprained his ankle. He stared at the flat-topped rock where Paula had been sitting. He looked quickly up at the open door at the top of the steps, beyond the piled bodies.
'Marler!' he shouted. 'Paula's gone inside. Up those steps. For God's sake go after her.'
'On my way.'
When Paula reached the open doorway she paused, listened, then peered inside. She was looking up and down a lighted corridor. Deserted. She frowned. She could hear a strange noise. Clatter... clatter... clatter...
It went on and on and was coming from an open door further down the corridor to her right. As she walked down the corridor the noise became louder and louder. A slab-like door was open, pushed back against the wall. As she came closer she saw it was made of solid steel. She peered round it and suppressed a gasp of surprise. She was looking down into a vast basement which must run under the entire house.
She understood the noise now. The basement was occupied by an array of machines working like mad. Illumination came from fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceiling. Beyond the door a flight of concrete steps led down into the basement, with a metal rail on one side. She scanned the area as far as she could. No sign of anyone. Step by step she began to descend the flight. The noise of the clattering machines was hellish, trapped inside the basement.
Walking down stealthily, she caught glimpses of the battery of machines. At one end large reels of paper were being fed in. They became perfectly flat sheets as the first machine carried them along. Then they passed under a series of huge revolving rollers. They emerged, still flat, but now printed with what, at first, she thought were outsize postage stamps. A moment later she realized they were banknotes, row upon row of them. They continued their journey until they reached a series of very large metal plates which jumped up and down, slicing them.
She had almost reached the bottom step when she slipped on some spilt oil. Her legs collapsed under her as she grabbed for the rail. The hand was still holding the Walther and she bruised herself, dropping the gun. Picking herself up, she flexed her hands and legs. No damage - she always fell limply. But where was the Walther?
The light was bright enough for her to see clearly but there was no sign of the weapon. It must have slid under one of the machines. She swore. Shaking her head to clear her mind, she began walking towards where the printing process started. Near the end was a concrete platform, elevated about a foot high. She assumed it was an observation platform so a printer could check to make sure everything was functioning properly.
Suddenly she sensed a presence behind her. She swung round and let out a gasp of fear. The most hideous man she had ever seen was close to her. A gnome with a hunchback, his evil face twisted in a leer of anticipation of a pleasure to come. In his right hand, raised high, he held a ferocious-looking black spike.
'I am Bernhard Yorcke,' he called out above the noise of the machinery. 'The greatest printer in the world. You have come to sabotage my beautiful work.'
'I think your work is the most beautiful I've ever seen,' she said quickly.
'No, you don't. You have been sent to destroy it. So I will destroy you.'
'You're a genius,' she babbled.
'I am the greatest genius of them all,' he said, coming closer.
'That's why I came here. To see your wonderful work.'
'You lie,' he snarled. 'You came to destroy. Instead, I am going to destroy you.'
She knew he was going to drive the dreadful spike into her face. As she backed away her right hand was feeling desperately inside her shoulder bag. Her fall had pushed it behind her back. She missed the special pocket sewn in which held her Browning. Her hand plunged deep, felt a canister of hair spray. He was very close to her as she brought out the spray, aimed it, her own eyes dosed, ejected the spray.
'You foul whore.'
She opened her eyes, then realized the spray had only hit his left eye. His right eye stared into hers as he lifted the spike higher to jab it forward. Backing away from him she had come up against the wall. There was nowhere to go, to escape.
Marler came bounding down the steps like a rocket, Armalite in his right hand. He hadn't been able to shoot from the top for fear of hitting Paula. He saw the oil on the step which had brought down Paula, leapt over it.
'You ugly deformed little bastard!' he shouted.
The insult had the effect he had prayed for. Yorcke, about to jab the spike forward, turned round. Marler used the barrel of his Armalite like a club,, smashing it across Yorcke's forehead. Yorcke staggered back, still clutching the spike. He felt his legs press against the concrete platform. With incredible agility he jumped up on to the platform to give himself extra height. He was waving the spike when the Armalite hammered into him again, catching him across the hooked nose.
He lost his balance, fell backwards on to the moving machine. Sprawled on the paper, he was carried along to the rollers. They had a safety device, jumping up when something large hit them. The large object was Yorcke's head. The roller came crashing down and Marler turned Paula away so she couldn't see. Yorcke let out a ghastly scream, heard clearly above the noise of the machinery. His shoulders reached the roller which jumped up again, then down. There was no further scream and the rest of his body swept under as the immensely heavy roller crashed down again. The paper was stained with a spreading pool of blood. Marler spoke quickly.
'Don't look.'
He heard someone call down from the top of the steps. Newman stood there with Tweed. Newman, followed by Tweed, hobbled down the steps, stopped when Marler warned him about the oil. Marler, his arm round Paula, guided her to Newman.
'Take her to the car. Stay with her.'
'You've hurt your foot,' Paula observed. 'I'll tend to it in the car. I've got a first-aid kit. Let's go. Take your time.'
Tweed stared at the printed sheets still proceeding along the battery of machines. Then he looked at Marler.
'British twenty-pound notes, ten-pound notes and fivers. It was Lenin who said, "If you want to destroy a 'country debauch the currency." Something like that. It's quite fiendish. The Americans were going to flood Britain with forged banknotes. We'd lose all faith in the pound. Then the Americans would persuade the population to switch to dollars. Then they would have taken us over.'