Famine by John Creasey Page B

that the secret of the rabbit men and the midgets might be found before too much damage was done. In the early evening he was standing and studying the spines of some of the leather bound books in his study, when Joyce telephoned. He snatched up the receiver.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThe tape from the Lozanian Embassy is on the way. Baretta is bringing it.”
    â€œThank God for that,” Palfrey said. “It’s almost certain that Lozania’s involved.”
    â€œHow can you be so sure?” demanded Joyce.
    â€œNo other message has gone to Lozan today. It is the only Embassy which has not sent coded messages back to the government at home.”
    â€œI see what you mean,” Joyce said. “Do you want to take extra copies of the tape?”
    â€œYes” said Palfrey. “And I would like you, Galsworthy and Bonifacio to be present.” Bonifacio could make a simultaneous translation into English, both for his, Palfrey’s benefit and for the recordings which might be essential. He waited for the tape to reach Z5 headquarters with almost feverish anxiety. Baretta was one of the best agents, he would have a man in front and two behind him for protection, each wearing a plastic strip round his throat. There was every reason to believe they were strongly safeguarded.
    Â 
    Certainly Jim Baretta was not worried. This short powerful Italian had steel bracelets round his wrists and neck, aware that he might have to fight off one of the creatures.
    Outside the Lozanian Embassy he noticed as did the men watching him, a small post office van pulled up near the house as the driver walked to a pillar box, opened it, and took out letters. None of the Z5 men gave this man any further thought. The agent who had planted the tape came out and placed it quite casually on the wing of a car parked nearby. Baretta strolled along and picked it up, slipped it into his pocket and got into the green/white Mini-Cooper. One agent in front was on a motor-cycle, two behind were in an open T.R.3, vivid scarlet; there were times when the best way to hide was to draw attention to oneself.
    The little cavalcade moved off.
    When Baretta stopped, opposite Green Park underground station, a post office van drew up, not far behind. Its driver got out, and opened the back doors.
    A furry streak leapt past him; a second, a third, a fourth.
    Two men and a girl, almost level with the van, gaped as the four cat-like creatures leapt past the van towards Baretta. He heard a scream and a honking on the horn of the T.R.3. He swung round, hands up to protect his face, but four of the creatures leapt at him at once, and as he felt their impact, others raced from the post office van. The motor-cyclist jumped off his machine and ran forward – and four of the creatures hurtled at him. He went crashing down. As the other two men jumped up from the T.R.3, four more of the rabbit men sprang at them.
    By now, a medley of people were rushing to help, women were screaming, men shouting, a woman cried “Police, police!” Huge red buses groaned to a stop, tyres screeched, cars and taxis slithered or jolted to a standstill, a cyclist fell so heavily that he lay stunned.
    And more of the creatures came.
    They snarled as they leapt at hands and bodies, eyes and faces, until in front of the horrified gaze of hundreds of people, human beings were torn to shreds, mangled, ripped, left unrecognisable. Two policemen, truncheons drawn, rushed up to try to save Baretta, but each was attacked savagely, each felt talons sink into his throat, each fell, dying. A small boy, terrified, turned and ran, slipped – and was suddenly buried by the seething fury of the creatures who looked like cats.
    Now, police whistles were screeching, men from buses, cars and taxis recognised the danger, mobile police and the more responsible civilians began to draw the crowd away. One man arranged for a barrier of cars across Piccadilly in one