The World in My Pocket

‘Yeah? Maybe it’s small, but don’t make any mistake about it not being tough,’ Morgan said.

He saw a gap in the traffic, touched the gas pedal and slid in front of the Lincoln. Ahead of him now was a low-slung sports car, and both men could get a clearer view of the rear of the truck.

Painted across the rear door was a sign that read: THE WELLING ARMOURED TRUCK SERVICE

You are looking at the safest truck ever invented.

If you have anything of value to transport, make use of us.

The safest and best trucking service in the world.

Bleck found he was breathing heavily as he stared at the truck that moved smoothly and fast through the morning’s traffic. It looked like a cube of solid steel on wheels. Instinctively he felt that this moving cube of steel not only offered a challenge to his future but also to his life.

‘On your right,’ Morgan said suddenly.

Bleck’s pale eyes swivelled to his right.

A traffic cop, sitting astride his motorcycle, had just started his engine and had steered his machine into the traffic.

‘Time we shoved off,’ Morgan said. ‘They’ll have this joker with them now until they leave town. If we hang on to them, he’ll want to know why.’

He swung the wheel and steered the Buick out of the flow of traffic and into a side street.

The last glimpse Bleck had of the truck was its steady movement forward with the speed cop riding at its side. He had a feeling of relief when he had lost sight of the truck.

Morgan slowed, swung to an empty parking space and pulled up.

‘Well, you’ve seen it now.’

‘Yes: a steel box. Seeing it doesn’t mean much. Did you get the exact time it left the Agency?’

‘Yes: eight forty-three.’ Morgan took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Three hours from now, it should go through the bottleneck. I bet Gypo and Kitson are sweating it out there in this heat, waiting for them.’

‘Seeing the truck and the two guys brings the job to life,’ Ed said, shifting lower in his seat. ‘You’re right, Frank: this is the big one and it’s going to be tough.’

‘If we get the breaks, it’ll be okay,’ Morgan said. ‘We’ll take a look at that all-night cafe now. I want to see what the escape route’s like. We may have to leave fast. This is the one job, Ed, where we mustn’t make a mistake.’

‘This and the big one,’ Bleck said, half closing his eyes. ‘From now on - no mistakes, huh?’

Morgan nodded, then moved the car out of the parking space and headed up town.

II

A little after eleven-thirty a.m., Kitson and Gypo arrived at the bottleneck two miles from the entrance to the Research Station in Gypo’s battered Lincoln. Kitson was driving and because Gypo loathed walking, he stopped at the bottleneck to let Gypo out, and then drove on for a quarter of a mile to a wooded thicket where he could hide the car. Leaving the car out of sight from the road, he walked back to the bottleneck.

The sun was hot and blazed down on his unprotected head, and, pretty soon, he was sweating.

He was wearing an open neck, navy blue shirt, a pair of jeans and sneakers. He moved easily, swinging his big fists, his head up, his breath coming in sharp snorts through his broken nose. He welcomed the chance to stretch his long, powerful legs, and as he walked, he examined the terrain either side of the dusty, rain-parched road.

It was certainly rugged country, he thought as he strode along, kicking up the dust and hunching his shoulders, taking a pride in the way his muscles rolled under the sweat-soaked shirt. But there was plenty of cover, and this bottleneck was a cinch for a pile-up.

Coming upon the bottleneck, he paused to examine it.

The road sharply narrowed at this point, hemmed in by two gigantic rocks that had come down off the sloping hill either side of the road. Either side of these rocks were shrubs and scrubland, offering excellent cover.

Looking over the ground, he could see no sign of Gypo, although he knew he was right there watching him. The fact that Gypo was able to conceal himself so well bolstered Kitson’s sagging confidence a little.

He was scared of this job. He was sure that before Dirkson and Thomas gave up someone was going to get hurt. For the past six months, since he had quitted the ring, Kitson had been under Morgan’s influence. Morgan had been the only one who had stayed with him in his dressing room after his ignominious beating by a man half his size and seventeen pounds lighter, but whose fighting brain was much superior to his own. That was when Kitson’s manager had tossed two ten-dollar bills on the rubbing table and had told Kitson he was through. His manager had walked out and Morgan had walked in. Morgan had helped him dress and had led him, half blinded still and stunned from the beating he had taken, out of the Stadium to Morgan’s car. Morgan had even taken him home.