Doctor Who PDA01 - The Devil Goblins from Neptune (3rd) by Heith Topping; Martin Day

Author:Heith Topping; Martin Day
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-07-13T02:44:41+00:00

* * *

The hotel manager had been very obliging, not only lending the Brigadier his car when Lethbridge-Stewart explained that due to certain 'operational necessities' he was unable to use official UNIT transportation, but also in giving directions to the Rue Voltaire.

After slipping out of the back entrance of the hotel, the Brigadier drove through the narrow streets of Geneva's right bank. He found himself thinking about Aden, and Private Bull who had been condemned, on the orders of then Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart (with support from the Chief of General Staff), for cowardice in the face of the enemy. And the last thing he had said to Lethbridge-Stewart before sentence had been carried out. 'War is hell, Colonel. Death can't be worse than that.'

And then they shot him.

The Brigadier rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to massage away the pain. If the pain went then, perhaps, the doubt and the guilt would go, too.

He parked the car a street away from his target and prepared to execute his orders - unsigned, unconfirmed, worthless in international law.

When he reached number 73, he found it to be a huge old warehouse. A quick circumnavigation confirmed that the place was deserted. Puzzled, but knowing that he had little choice but to follow the trail he had been given, the Brigadier returned to the car and settled down to see if anyone would turn up. It could be a long wait.

Thomas Bruce knew he wouldn't get far in the stolen MG -

even the pinheads were capable of organising roadblocks.

The obvious route, south towards the Channel ports, would be swarming with cops and soldiers, so Bruce drove into Bedfordshire, keeping to the narrow country lanes. After thirty miles he passed a farmhouse. The sun was just rising over the horizon as Bruce pulled off the road and into a clump of bushes about half a mile from the farm entrance.

Quickly he changed out of the technician's clothes and into a pair of jeans and a thick navy-style woollen sweater.

Even in these surroundings he looked like a walking advert for Mainly for Men. He shaved, using the car wing mirror, and then removed a bottle of Chanel aftershave from his toiletries bag. There was no need, he thought, even in this uncivilised part of the world, to look and smell like a barbarian.

The farmhouse appeared to be deserted. Bruce banged on the door several times but, clearly, the farmer was in the pastures tilling the land, or whatever the hell he did. He turned, about to leave, but then saw a man striding across the yard from the milking sheds.

'Morning,' said the man.

'Hi.' said Bruce in a flat New York accent. 'I'm sorry to trouble you, but I appear to be having some difficulties with my car. Can't get the darn thing to go.'

'Well.' said the farmer brightly, walking towards his Land Rover, 'Let's see if we can sort the blighter out.'

During the short trip back to the MG, the man told Bruce his life story.

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