The Dark Side of the Street. Jack Higgins

Like his men, he wore a combat jacket and his face was darkened with camouflage cream. As the Land Rover rolled to a halt, the rest of the party moved in on the run, tough, determined looking men, each carrying a machine pistol.

      Parker opened the door of the cab and leaned out. ‘Look, what is this?’

      Hagen couldn’t see what happened, but Parker cried out in alarm, there was the sound of a scuffle, a blow and then silence.

      Boots crunched the dirt surface of the road as someone walked round the side of the vehicle. A moment later, the glass window at the top of the rear door was shattered and the young officer peered inside.

      ‘All out,’ he said pleasantly. ‘This is the end of the line.’

      Hagen glanced across at Hoffa, taking in the smile on his face, realising that the whole affair had been rigged from the start and the Alsatian leapt for the broken window, a growl rising in its throat. For a moment it stayed there, rearing up on its hind legs trying to force its way through, and then the top of its skull disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone as someone shot it through the head.

      The dog flopped back on the floor and the young officer smiled through the window at them, gently tapping his right cheek with the barrel of a .38 automatic.

      ‘Now don’t let’s have any more fuss, old man,’ he said to Hagen pleasantly. ‘We’re pushed for time as it is.’

      Hagen looked across at Hoffa, despair on his face. ‘You’ll never get away with this, Ben. All you’ll collect is another ten years.’

      ‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Hoffa said. ‘Now make it easy on yourself, Jack. These blokes mean business.’

      Hagen hesitated for only a moment longer and then he sighed. ‘All right – it’s your funeral.’

      He took the keys from his pocket, moved to the door and unlocked it. He was immediately pulled outside and Hoffa followed him. Parker was lying on his face unconscious, wrists handcuffed behind his back.

      From then on the whole affair rushed to its climax with the same military precision that had been a characteristic of the entire operation. Someone unlocked Hoffa’s handcuffs and transferred them to Hagen while someone else gagged him with a strip of surgical tape. Parker’s unconscious body had already been lifted into the rear of the Land Rover and Hagen was pushed in after him. The door closed, the key turned in the lock with a grim finality.

      There was blood on his face from the dead Alsatian and as he rolled away from it in disgust, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, the Land Rover started to move, lurching over the rough ground away from the road. Through the side window above his head he was aware of the trees as they moved into the wood, crashing through heavy undergrowth and then the vehicle braked suddenly so that he was thrown forward, striking his head against the wall.

      He lay there fighting the darkness that threatened to drown him, a strange roaring in his ears. It was a minute or so before he realised it was the helicopter taking off again and by the time he had managed to scramble to his knees and slump down on to the bench, the sound was already fading into the distance.

      It was fifteen minutes later and thirty miles on the side of the moor, when the helicopter put down briefly in a clearing in a heavily wooded valley. Hoffa and the young officer jumped to the ground and the helicopter lifted into the sky again and flew away to the west.

      Hoffa was dressed as a hiker in denim pants and green quilted anorak, a rucksack slung over one shoulder and the young officer wore an expensive grey flannel suit. Minus the camouflage cream, his face was pale and rather aristocratic and he had about him the air of a man who has long since decided that life is obviously a rather bad joke and not to be taken seriously.

      ‘How long have we got?’ Hoffa demanded.

      His companion shrugged. ‘An hour – two if we’re lucky. It depends how soon the party at the quarry notice how long it’s taking the Principal Officer to return.’

      ‘Is an hour long enough?’

      ‘Certainly, but it won’t be if we hang around here much longer.’

      ‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Just one more thing – what do I call you?’

      ‘Anything you like, old man.’ He grinned amiably. ‘What about Smith? Yes, I think I’d like that. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to be called Smith.’

      ‘And where in the hell did the Baron pick you up?’ Hoffa asked.

      Smith smiled again. ‘You’d be surprised, old man. You really would.’

      He led the way across the clearing into the wood, following a narrow path through the trees which later joined a broad dirt track. A few yards further on they came to a derelict water mill beside a stream and in a courtyard at the rear behind a broken wall, a black Zodiac was parked. A moment later they were driving away, bumping over the rutted track, finally energing into a narrow country road.

      ‘Let’s get one thing clear,’ Smith said as he changed into top gear and drove rapidly away. ‘We’ll be together in this car for approximately forty minutes. If anything goes wrong, you’re a hitch-hiker and I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

      ‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Where do we go from here?’

      ‘All in good time. We’ve some business to settle first.’

      ‘I was wondering when you’d get round to it.’

      ‘Hardly 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.’

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