"Smith, Guy N - Crabs 01 - Night of the Crabs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'Go on.' Something decidedly menacing prodded Cliff in the small of his back. 'Walk slowly towards that gate over there. Don't try anything!'

Armed men appeared from all directions as he entered the enclosure. They weren't taking any chances. Vaguely Cliff wondered how he had been spotted. It certainly wasn't by the first guard. Probably somebody was scanning the area constantly from a concealed vantage point. In the distance he could see holiday-makers playing ball, pitching tents, cooking food, totally unaware of the drama which was being enacted only a few hundred yards away from them.

Still he walked on, dazed at the suddenness of it all. Every time he slowed up something hard and menacing bored into his back, forcing him to move again.

Now there was a uniformed man on either side of him. Nobody spoke. It was almost as if the arrest of an intruder was an everyday occurrence. Smooth efficiency. Merciless.

They were heading towards a concrete building that stood apart from the main block. It was completely square and flat-roofed rather like the kind of Foreign Legion detention blocks which one sees in the movies. Cliff had visions of men sweating within as the sun climbed higher and the temperature inside rose to intolerable heights.

A man came from behind and unlocked the door. It swung back on well-oiled hinges. For a second everybody paused in the doorway. Cliff noted the interior with some misgiving. Four walls, a ceiling and a floor, all drab, grey concrete. Not even a window. A sudden push sent him sprawling inside. He fell headlong and then, as he picked himself up, darkness closed in on him. The door swung shut and that same lock clicked hack into place. Boyhood dreams of the Foreign Legion suddenly started to become reality.










Chapter Three



CLIFF DAVENPORT sat with his back to the wall in total darkness. His surroundings had a claustrophobic effect on his mind. He couldn't think clearly. Maybe it was all a dream. Secret aircraft bases, giant crabs ... He stretched out a hand and ran his fingers along the concrete. No, the walls weren't padded. That discovery was a relief in some respects. It meant, too, that all this was horribly real!

Time dragged. The face of his watch was not luminous so he had no means of knowing what time of day it was. The useless watch merely emitted a continuous ticking that after a time began to have the same effect upon him as the infamous Chinese water-torture. He wanted to scream, call them all kinds of bastards under the sun. Instead he just remained silent. Waiting; for what, he knew not.

All the time he could hear the regular footsteps of a patrolling sentry. They were taking no chances. He thought of attracting the guard's attention, telling him who he was and why he had approached the base, but he knew it would do no good.

Eventually he lost track of time and just sat staring into the darkness. It was hot and stuffy.

At last there were more footsteps and the key turned in the lock again. The door was flung wide open and Cliff Davenport was momentarily blinded by the sudden sunlight He threw up his hands to cover his eyes, yet managed to notice the five men who stood in the doorway. They all carried .38 automatics.

'Step this way, please.' A tall man with a clipped moustache seemed to be in command. His voice was authoritative, and the other four evidently would act on such orders as he might give.

Cliff struggled to his feet, blinking and still unable to focus properly. A uniformed man moved to his side, both helping and pushing him at the same time. The cramped position in which he had been for some immeasurable time had numbed Davenport's leg, and now the pins and needles were agonising. He stumbled, almost fell, and then two of his captors seized him and dragged him across the compound.

Another squat building, only slightly more civilised in appearance, stood less than thirty yards away from where he had been imprisoned. At least it had windows.

One of the guards opened the door. Two more hustled him inside. The interior was neatly but sparsely furnished. Coconut matting lay on the floor, filing cabinets were ranged around the walls and a large mahogany desk dominated the centre. Cliff Davenport gazed at the man who sat behind it. He was well-built, totally bald and his clean-shaven face reminded the botanist of the typical Gestapo chief portrayed in films and books of World War II. Hard, ruthless, fish-like eyes that totally concealed his innermost thoughts. Above all, he wore no uniform. His light-grey, well-worn suit made his appearance all the more sinister.

Somebody shut the door.

'Who are you?' The man behind the desk had a flat, expressionless voice.

'My name is Professor Clifford Davenport.' Cliff drew himself up to his full height, his indignation beginning to return now thai he was no longer imprisoned in a darkened cell. 'I live in West Hampstead and I am staying with Mrs Jones of Llanbedr.'

'You were displaying interest in our aircraft,' his interrogator stated, holding up the pair of binoculars which had been confiscated on his capture. 'I want to know why you were so interested in them.'