greying, bullet-shaped head to pick up the receiver built into the back of the seat.
“Palfrey,” he said.
“This is Joyce,” said Joyce Morgan, his secretary and confidante for many years. She had recently married a man met in one of Palfrey’s investigations, and was back only temporarily to help with this particular task. “Some results from questioning the prisoners caught in the cars, Sap.”
“Ah. Good.”
“Only one talked,” went on Joyce. “He is an Italian named Mario Correlli with a criminal record, once involved in the bomb throwing in Italy during some riots there. He is an extreme right-winger – the kind who used to follow Mussolini.”
“Ah,” breathed Palfrey.
“He has worked for The Project for three years, as pilot and chauffeur to VIPs,” Joyce went on.
“Ah!” exclaimed Palfrey again, and his heart leapt with fresh hope.
“He names Ashley and Parsons and also a man who gives them orders and who appears to be in command at The Project. The man is known as Ramon – just Ramon. He is always disguised when he leaves The Project area, wearing a false auburn-coloured beard and moustache. His voice is very metallic and resonant. When going in and out of The Project’s plant he flies by a lift-off jet, they have three there, all used by VIPs.” That was something Philip hadn’t known. “And Sap—”
Palfrey said: “Yes,” but the word was drowned by the sudden roar of an engine close by him. McMurray shot the car forward, in case this was an attack, but it was a bareheaded youth with a pretty blonde beside him, obviously showing off. “Yes,” Palfrey repeated, more loudly.
“The VIPs fly to another underground plant in France and one in Western Germany. Correlli has also flown them across the Atlantic but they are taken to their destination by conventional plane from a private airfield near Boston, and he doesn’t know where they go.”
Palfrey’s teeth were gritting, as the full impact of this struck home – not one Project plant, but several. He had warned agents throughout the world to look out for such a plant but this was the first positive news that others existed.
“Go on,” he said.
“The last thing might be the most important,” Joyce said. “Philip Carr’s escape caused something like panic. He thinks they are planning to leave The Project. Correlli and seven other men sent after him had orders to try to find his destination and to kill him before he entered any house or building. We got him only just in time.” Joyce paused, and there was a change in the tone of her voice. “He said that Philip’s girlfriend was taken immediately to what he calls the Torture Room, but he left before she had been put under any pressure. He does not think there is much hope for her.”
“Keep that from Philip for the time being,” ordered Palfrey.
“Of course.”
“What made Correlli talk?” Palfrey asked. “Did we have to use much pressure?”
“Very little,” Joyce answered. “He says that he couldn’t stand the life there any longer, that he’s been thinking of escaping for months, but all the aircraft and all the cars they use can be destroyed by remote control. He doesn’t know why this one wasn’t – when our men raided it, he expected the car and everyone in it and nearby to be blown up. It was probably because they hadn’t the slightest indication that they were surrounded and the man in charge of the party didn’t send out an alarm.”
Palfrey wanted to ask: “Who is the man in charge?” but he stopped himself. There was now no shadow of doubt; they must try to raid The Project. They were driving along Birdcage Walk, with St James’ Park on one side looking fresh and colourful with huge beds of flowers, and the Guards’ Museum on the other, so they were nearly at Downing Street; a policeman, warned by walkie-talkie, was already holding up traffic so that McMurray could swing left, towards the Horse Guards. So he said: “Call me at
“Palfrey,” he said.
“This is Joyce,” said Joyce Morgan, his secretary and confidante for many years. She had recently married a man met in one of Palfrey’s investigations, and was back only temporarily to help with this particular task. “Some results from questioning the prisoners caught in the cars, Sap.”
“Ah. Good.”
“Only one talked,” went on Joyce. “He is an Italian named Mario Correlli with a criminal record, once involved in the bomb throwing in Italy during some riots there. He is an extreme right-winger – the kind who used to follow Mussolini.”
“Ah,” breathed Palfrey.
“He has worked for The Project for three years, as pilot and chauffeur to VIPs,” Joyce went on.
“Ah!” exclaimed Palfrey again, and his heart leapt with fresh hope.
“He names Ashley and Parsons and also a man who gives them orders and who appears to be in command at The Project. The man is known as Ramon – just Ramon. He is always disguised when he leaves The Project area, wearing a false auburn-coloured beard and moustache. His voice is very metallic and resonant. When going in and out of The Project’s plant he flies by a lift-off jet, they have three there, all used by VIPs.” That was something Philip hadn’t known. “And Sap—”
Palfrey said: “Yes,” but the word was drowned by the sudden roar of an engine close by him. McMurray shot the car forward, in case this was an attack, but it was a bareheaded youth with a pretty blonde beside him, obviously showing off. “Yes,” Palfrey repeated, more loudly.
“The VIPs fly to another underground plant in France and one in Western Germany. Correlli has also flown them across the Atlantic but they are taken to their destination by conventional plane from a private airfield near Boston, and he doesn’t know where they go.”
Palfrey’s teeth were gritting, as the full impact of this struck home – not one Project plant, but several. He had warned agents throughout the world to look out for such a plant but this was the first positive news that others existed.
“Go on,” he said.
“The last thing might be the most important,” Joyce said. “Philip Carr’s escape caused something like panic. He thinks they are planning to leave The Project. Correlli and seven other men sent after him had orders to try to find his destination and to kill him before he entered any house or building. We got him only just in time.” Joyce paused, and there was a change in the tone of her voice. “He said that Philip’s girlfriend was taken immediately to what he calls the Torture Room, but he left before she had been put under any pressure. He does not think there is much hope for her.”
“Keep that from Philip for the time being,” ordered Palfrey.
“Of course.”
“What made Correlli talk?” Palfrey asked. “Did we have to use much pressure?”
“Very little,” Joyce answered. “He says that he couldn’t stand the life there any longer, that he’s been thinking of escaping for months, but all the aircraft and all the cars they use can be destroyed by remote control. He doesn’t know why this one wasn’t – when our men raided it, he expected the car and everyone in it and nearby to be blown up. It was probably because they hadn’t the slightest indication that they were surrounded and the man in charge of the party didn’t send out an alarm.”
Palfrey wanted to ask: “Who is the man in charge?” but he stopped himself. There was now no shadow of doubt; they must try to raid The Project. They were driving along Birdcage Walk, with St James’ Park on one side looking fresh and colourful with huge beds of flowers, and the Guards’ Museum on the other, so they were nearly at Downing Street; a policeman, warned by walkie-talkie, was already holding up traffic so that McMurray could swing left, towards the Horse Guards. So he said: “Call me at
Similar Books
