The dangerous stretch came when he arrived at the end of the track, climbed the little rise and went down the other side. He began to run along the narrow path leading to the dyke, which rose like a frozen green wave in the distance. Tweed only caught a glimpse of it. He had walked this way before, knew the risk. Behind him he heard the steady pounding of other feet. He kept his head down, placing his feet carefully, avoiding the hard tufts of grass which could bring him sprawling in a second. He'd never climb to his feet again.
He was getting out of breath, keeping his mouth closed as he evaded the treacherous tufts. Then he got his second wind. He increased speed a little, aware that the gap was still closing between himself and the man behind him. He was sweating like a bull with the effort. Sweat ran down his forehead, dribbled from his armpits. He reached the foot of the great dyke.
He scrambled up the inner side, reached the top, slithered down the far side. The vast expanse of the Wash spread away before him, well beyond the marshlands and the creeks. He had a brief view of a power cruiser moored to the landing-stage which had been reinforced with fresh timber. He was very close to the area he remembered, the patches of sand, the sinister acid green grass which seemed to float on top of the ooze. He turned at bay, breathing hard.
A man was charging down the outer side of the dyke, the ugly-looking knife grasped in his right hand. Still a macabre sight, half a black beard remaining on the left-hand side of his face, Hugh Grey stopped, eyes glaring wildly. Not really sane.
He moved towards Tweed, expecting him to turn away, to try and run. Tweed did the unexpected. He moved in close, brought the pestle down savagely on the wrist of the hand holding the knife. Grey dropped it, looked surprised and in that moment of indecision Tweed moved again. Grey was standing with his back to the marshy verge. Tweed lifted both fists, hammered them with all his strength into Grey's solar plexus. Again the look of surprise. He toppled backwards after stumbling a few paces. He sprawled across the surface of the ooze. He tried to sit up. His feet and legs began sinking first, disappearing rapidly. The ooze sucked him deeper. He was only half in view, from the waist up.
He panicked. Placing the flat of both hands on the mud, he tried to stop the suction hauling him down. He screamed obscenities at Tweed, then began pleading for help. Tweed stood without moving, silent, breathing heavily. The hands disappeared. Grey tried to haul them out, couldn't. The mud closed over his forearms. He let out a strange bleating noise. Nothing intelligible. Only his neck and head showed now. He stared at Tweed. He opened his mouth and took in a gulp of mud. The head sank slowly out of sight. There was a brief disturbance. Ripples and bubbles where he had gone down. Then the ooze settled to its normal smooth surface.
Tweed picked up the knife, tossed it into the quagmire. It landed on its point, disappeared in seconds. Tweed looked towards the cruiser and Newman was standing on the deck, watching.
Tweed and Newman were lying down on the landward side of the dyke, peering over the crest at the cruiser. Newman had released the mooring ropes and the vessel was drifting very slowly away from the landing stage as the tide went out.
`So, it was Hugh Grey,' Newman said.
`Yes. Diana told me. How did you get here?'
`Thought you might need a bit of assistance. I drove along the coast road, the A149. I saw you take that side road from Langham Airfield and guessed I wouldn't be far behind.' He held a Verey pistol in his right hand. He extended the index finger of his left hand. 'Taste that.'
`Heroin..
`And that cruiser is stacked to the gunwales with the stuff. A carpenter had even cut out special compartments to store it. It was under the deck planks. Everywhere. And it had much the same equipment as the Nordsee,' he added, raising the Verey pistol. 'You've seen its name?'
`The Seebeck. Dr Berlin – Hugh Grey – did have a third boat hidden away. What are you going to do?'
`I've emptied several of the fuel drums – again, like the Sudwind, it had plenty of spare fuel. I tumbled a couple down the companionway into the main cabin. It's drenched. And you see those two petrol cans perched on top of that locker? One is half-empty – I spilt it around. That is the trigger for my little atom bomb. Five hundred kilos. Regrettably, even in the Drug Squad there could be men who'd sell their souls for the money that lot would bring in. I do wish Gorbachev could see this. Keep your head well down, for God's sake.'
The Seebeck had been caught up in a strong current, was now drifting faster at least thirty feet from the shore. Newman took careful aim with the Verey pistol, his target the cans of petrol. He pulled the trigger.
Nothing much happened. There was a sizzle. Then Vesuvius erupted. A roar like thunder swept out across the Wash. The bow of the vessel headed skywards, trailing a tongue of flame like a Cape Canaveral rocket. It exploded into a thousand pieces. Followed by the main detonation. Tweed guessed the fire had reached the drums toppled into the cabin. Amidships the Seebeck came apart, blasting seawards, scores of fireballs. A plume of black smoke ascended vertically. The relic of the stern crackled. Flames spread round the rim. A third explosion. The stern soared out over the sea, ascending at an angle of about forty-five degrees. It blew up in mid-air. Fragments fell back into the water, hissed, disappeared. For a short time the sea had boiled where the Seebeck had drifted to, then it calmed down. There was a sudden silence. Gulls wheeled away inland. No trace remained of the cruiser.
`Grey went up with that,' Newman said. 'We saw him standing on deck just before the explosion. Technical hitch. They'll never find enough to work out what really happened. And I saw your tussle with Grey. I had my Luger ready. Just in case. You led him here deliberately.'
It was a statement. Tweed nodded, climbed slowly to his feet and brushed rubbish off his suit. 'That had better be what we tell them,' he agreed. 'And yes, I led him here on purpose. A mass murderer, a traitor. He had to disappear. The scandal would have destroyed the Service. We've done the job.'
`I do believe we have.'
'Except for driving back to the farm, making sure there are no traces of the beard he'd half-shaved off in the kitchen – things like that. His problem was he couldn't shave it off in Lubeck, and since he's had no chance until he reached the farm. Too busy steering that cruiser. Must have had stamina – the stamina of a madman. I suppose we'd also better call the police.'
Epilogue
Tweed was alone in his office when Harry Masterson came in. He gestured for his visitor to sit down in the chair opposite his desk and stared at him for a minute. It was Masterson, the irrepressible Harry, who broke the silence.
`I heard about the tragedy up in Norfolk. Poor old Hugh. I suppose it wasn't a time bomb?'
`That we'll never know. The Forensic people are going barmy. Can't find enough of the wreckage to tell what happened. The risk of the game. I wanted to ask you something. What were you doing in Lubeck – walking round all bandaged up and asking a lot of damn-fool questions?'
`I suppose I might as well own up. I had a hot tip – from one of my best informants inside the DDR – that Dr Berlin was also someone high up in London. So, I hared up there to check it out.'
`And what about the Nocturne? It was seen – by a highly reliable witness – berthed at Travemunde.'
`I am in the shit. Might as well own up to everything. A pal of mine brought it up to Lubeck from Chichester. You see, I needed somewhere I could hide out. I didn't trust a hotel. I sailed it from one marina to another along the Baltic while I went on checking out this Berlin character.'