He took the cab on a network of minor roads that more or less encircled Leyfield Hall at distances up to twenty miles. He told the cabbie he was looking for land to buy. In fact he , was looking for a large held preferably with a pond or stream in it He found what he was looking for about twenty miles north-north-west of Leyfield Hall, according to the Ordnance map. A large flat field with a stream running through it — perhaps the same stream that ran through the grounds of the Hall.

  At one point the stream widened out or had been deliberately widened to make a drinking-pool for cattle. The gleam of that pool in the dark would make an excellent landmark.

  He noted the position of another landmark, a church spire about a mile away, and almost directly behind it the ruins of a castle. He checked their bearings with the compass, then noted the position of Leyfield Hall on the map and marked the position of the field and its stream.

  So all he would have to do was fly north-north-west from file Hall ‘I’ll l he saw the church spire with the ruined castle beyond, then follow his compass bearing to the field. The gleam of water would identify it

  There were one or two other preliminary things to do, and file first was to steal a Post Office van.

  He found one in a car park near Petersfield station. The door was locked, but he forced the quarter-light with the screwdriver and managed to reach the release button. He got In, pulled the wires away from the ignition switch and tied them together. This turned the engine over but she wouldn't start Without the choke. She was a little cold.

  He drove her to a lane near the field with the stream and hid her just off the road in some bushes.

  He knew the theft would be reported to Shepherd at Leyfield Hall. All crimes or suspicious actions in the area, however trivial, would be reported to him. That was the way Shepherd worked, and his unrelenting collection of detail was one of his strong points. Abbott believed that a man’s strong points, as in judo, should be used against him.

  He started to walk back to Petersfield and after a mile managed to hitch a lift the rest of the way. Not that he was in a hurry. There was nothing much he could do before dusk. Dusk’s a funny time, a dangerous time. A time, for instance, that car-drivers, in England anyway, ignore. It is a time when it is difficult to decide if objects are stationary or moving, alive or dead. An in-between time. A time for lovers because they are always in between times except when together.

  Njala rang Doris well before dusk.

  ‘I’ll have an embassy car take you to the heliport and you can be here in an hour.’

  ’But you said tomorrow or the next day. I’ve only just got up. I’m half-dead'.

  ‘I tell you what you do: you come down here, you have some smoked salmon and a bottle of champagne. Then you go to bed for two hours, three hours if you like. And when you wake up, all nice and fresh, you have a bath and. . .

  ’No, love, I can’t, honest. I’m coming apart at the seams.’

  ’And there will be a little present of five hundred pounds for you.’

  ’Oh hell.'

  Just before dusk Abbott went into a hotel and rang the Petersfield telephone exchange.

  'I want to report a fault on Petersfield 8548. Yes, that’s right. It’s a Ministry of Defence priority line, so could you attend to it right away, please? Thank you.’

  He took a cab to within half a mile of Leyfield Hall, slipped into ‘he meadow and, keeping under cover, made his way through the trees and bushes along the bank of the stream ‘I’ll l he found a place where he could hide but still have a good view of the main gates and the lodge.

  Dusk was dropping now but the floodlights would not be switched on for at least half an hour, according to Doris.

  Abbott wrapped his watch, his compass, his gun, the holster and a spare clip of ammunition in plastic bags, which he secured tightly with wire fasteners and stuffed into the pockets of his raincoat. Then he waited.

  Within about ten minutes a Post Office van drew up at the main gates and honked.

  The gates opened and three Special Branch men came out, led by the bright Sergeant Roberts.

  The van driver, a thick-set aggressive-looking young man, wound down the window.

  'Yes?’ said Roberts.

  Telephone,’ said the driver. ‘You reported a fault on the line up at the house.’

  'Just a moment, please.’

  'I haven’t got all bleed’n night.'

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment, sir.'

  He turned to one of the other Special Branch men and said in a low voice, 'Check with the house.'

  The driver got out of the van.

  'Look,’ he said, 'this is supposed to be an emergency, Ministry of Defence priority line or something. And I want to get out of here as quick as I can, see? I got a date. With a bird.'

  The other Special Branch man came back and whispered something into Roberts’s ear.

  'Would you mind stepping into the lodge for a moment, sir? There are one or two questions we’d like to ask you.’

  ’Questions? What questions? What are you talking about?’

  'A van answering this description was stolen this afternoon.'

  'Stolen? You suggesting this van was stolen? Look at the number-plates, you great berk.’

  'Easy enough to change number-plates, sir. Now, would you mind stepping this way?'

  Roberts already had a hand on his arm.

  ‘Yes, I bloody would,’ said the driver, jerking free. The other two Special Branch men closed with him.

  As all three hustled him, still struggling, through the gates. Abbott slipped across the road in the deepening dusk and slid down into the narrow ditch leading to the archway. The water was icy.

  He moved very carefully and slowly up to the archway and examined it carefully. Embedded in the brickwork on either side of the arch about an inch or so above the water-line were two electronic eyes, as Abbot had expected.

  He took a deep breath, ducked under the water and crawled along the muddy bottom ‘I’ll l he was clear of the archway. Then he surfaced and climbed silently out of the stream into the shelter of some bushes. He dried his hands on a handkerchief and waited ‘I’ll l he had stopped shivering. Then he took his compass, watch, gun, holster and ammunition out of their plastic bags, which he weighted with stones and put into the stream. Perhaps he was being overcautious, but he was a very cautious man. He took the raincoat off and hid it under a bush and covered it with leaves.

  He strapped on the holster and examined the gun and the ammunition carefully. Both were dry. So were the watch and the compass. He slipped the gun into its holster, the ammunition and the compass into his pocket, strapped the watch to his wrist.

  He crept along the bank of the stream, keeping to the bushes and lying still when he heard a dog patrol approach. Once he had reached the rhododendrons lining part of the gravel forecourt in front of the house he lay and waited for the next dog patrol to pass. They went by at about fifteen-minute intervals, Doris had said.

  Good old Doris.

  He was now about a quarter of a mile from the bushes where he had hidden the raincoat. In the distance he heard a dog bark and wondered if it had found the coat. Then other dogs took up the barking.

  In the summer-house Sergeant Clifford said to a Special Branch man who had just come in, ‘Something’s up - and they don’t like it.'

  ’They bark at any bloody thing. Besides there’s a bit of aggro at the main gate.’

  There was a short silence, then more barking. One of the dogs could be heard howling.

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ said Clifford. ’I’m going out to have a butcher’s.’

  From the rhododendrons Abbott watched Clifford circle the house. Then a dog patrol went by. Clifford exchanged a few words with the handler, then returned to the summer-house,

  By now the dogs had stopped barking and howling. But even the silence bothered Clifford. There seemed to be a sort of sinister expectancy about it.

  ’Something’s up,’ he said. ’I don’t know what the bloody hell it is, but something’s up.’

  ’Feel it in your water, can you? said the Special Branch man, who didn’t like Clifford. Hardly anyone did.

  As soon as Clifford and the dog patrol were out of sight Abbott crossed the gravel forecourt quickly, ran up the three steps to the massive oak front door - and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by Shepherd.

  ’Good evening,’ Abbott said politely.

  Shepherd found himself looking down the barrel of a Combat Magnum .357, held in a very steady hand. It would have chilled a braver man than Shepherd - and he was no coward.

  Abbott stepped inside, closed the door behind him.

  ’Give me your gun,’ he said. ‘With two fingers, you know, just like they do on the telly.’

  Shepherd gave him the gun, which he put in his pocket.

  ‘Now let’s go up to Njala’s suite. I’ll be about two paces behind you, so don’t try that unarmed-combat trick they teach you on all those courses, unless you want a shattered spine.’

  Shepherd went upstairs like a man stepping on thin ice. Abbott followed.

  The Special Branch guard who was sitting on a chair by the entrance to Njala’s suite saw Shepherd and that someone was following behind him. He did not see the gun - ‘till Abbott told Shepherd to move aside.

  'Don’t be brave, son.’ Abbott said. 'Just stand up and keep still.’

  The Special Branch man did as he was told.

  'Take his gun and his handcuffs and give them to me,’ Abbott told Shepherd. 'And whatever you do don’t make me nervous.’

  Shepherd took the gun and handcuffs and gave them to Abbott.

  ’Move well away from the door, gentlemen - and no drama, please.’

  They moved away. Abbott went to the door and listened. He didn’t want Njala alarmed. Then he turned and stepped delicately towards Shepherd, measured his distance and with explosive suddenness kicked him in the solar plexus.

  Shepherd gasped like a balloon losing air and sank to the floor with hardly a sound, just that strangled gasping as he fought for breath and his face turned a dirty shade of mottled blue.

  Abbott leant over him.

  ‘My wife,’ he said softly, 'wished to be remembered to you.’

  He went to the door, listened again, then opened it and went in. He shut the door quietly behind him and locked it

  Njala was working at his desk by the west window. He did not look up. He was absorbed in his work and though he knew someone had entered he paid no attention. He did not even hear the door being locked, or if he did the significance did not register.

  'Put it down on the side table, Arthur, and pour yourself a cup.’

  He went on working.

  After a moment Abbott said, 'I am not Arthur.’

  Njala looked up, saw the man, saw the gun.

  'You must be Wilson,’ he said. 'Or the one we know as Wilson. The one who’s come to kill me.’

  He paused, half -smiled.

  ’What can I do for you?’ he said, ’Apart from dropping dead?’

  Whatever qualities Njala lacked, courage wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Pull the blind down.’

  It was getting dark outside and Njala already had the lights on.

  While Njala pulled the blind down over the west window, Abbott did the same for the south windows. He didn’t want anyone looking in from the outside.

  'Sit down and keep both hands on the desk.’

  Njala did so. In the middle drawer of the desk was a gun. With painful slowness he began to tease it open with his knee. At the same time he kept talking to cover any slight noise the drawer might make.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he said brightly. 'Gin, whisky, vodka, anything... ?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Abbott. 'Not even a glass of water.’

  21

  Within a few minutes Shepherd had recovered his breathing and most of his colour. He had a purple bruise on his belly and an aching gut that caught him like a knife if he breathed deeply or made an awkward movement.

  He phoned the Controller, who phoned the Minister and Smith, telling Smith to have an RAF helicopter standing by at the London Heliport as soon as possible, preferably sooner.

  The Controller then phoned Shepherd back.

  'Can you talk to him?’

  ’Of course. On one of the extension phones.’

  Then talk to him. And stall.’

  ’How?’

  'I don’t know. Tell him I want a word with him. Tell him I’ll be down in half an hour. And for Christ’s sake don’t try any tricks.’

  The Controller could hardly know that Shepherd was not in the mood for tricks as he sat by the phone sadly rubbing his aching belly and trying to keep his breathing shallow. The prospect of an early retirement, which he had once spurned, grew more attractive with each painful breath.

  He spoke to Abbott, trying to keep the hate out of his voice.

  Yes, Abbott would wait for the Controller if in the meantime Shepherd managed to get a helicopter to the house - not one of the big RAF types but a small two-seater. He wanted it landed on the forecourt in front of the house and as near the steps as possible. He also wanted it surrounded with floodlights pointing away from the helicopter.

  ’I’ll do my best, but choppers don’t grow on trees. And where would I get one of those two-seater jobs?’

  'That’s your problem. But get it. And start fixing up those floodlights now. But don't switch ’em on till I tell you.’

  Abbott had no intention of waiting for the Controller. If the two-seater helicopter arrived first he would take it - and Njala with him.

  Shepherd gave instructions to move the floodlights to the forecourt, then went to the summer-house. He walked slowly and back on his heels like a pregnant woman. He was beginning to feel like one too, only worse.

  ’So he’s done it, the bastard’s done it,’ said Clifford bitterly. 'If I’d’ve gone out for my look-around a couple of minutes later I’d’ve got him.’

  'Or alternatively,’ said Shepherd, 'he’d have got you.'

  Njala was playing it the only way he could - cool. And still trying to ease that desk drawer open a millimetre at a time.

  ‘You were sent to kill me once before, weren’t you? By your government.’

  'You knew?’

  'It wasn’t very hard to work out. They’d bought most of the secret information they wanted - our officials are very corrupt, I’m afraid. So what else was there? Except murder.’

  'My masters called it assassination. It was only later they called it murder.’

  'What do you call it? Execution? Justifiable homicide?'

  Abbott shrugged. 'Does it matter?’

  'Only insofar as it has to be justified once more - even to me, the victim.’ The drawer was now open at least an inch. ‘Which, as Euclid would say, is absurd.’

  Keep talking to them, get them relaxed, make friends with them as far as possible. That was the technique with terrorists, but of course Abbott would know about that technique too.

  'I wasn’t aware your death needed justifying.’

  'It didn’t once — when you were first sent to kill me. Then you’d have shot me on sight, with the silent approval of your government. Now you no longer have that approval. Or anyone’s approval.’

  Abbott smiled one of his small smiles. ‘Ihave my own approval.’

  ‘Then why don't you shoot me instead of talking about it? Ah, of course, the helicopter.'

  Abbott nodded. 'That's right. I’m going to take you somewhere else and shoot you.'

  ‘That might set you problems.’

  ‘I’ve solved them so far.’

  ‘Oh yes, you’re a resourceful man. May I?’

  He pointed to a cigarette-box on the desk.

  ‘As long as there's not a gun in it.’

  Njala opened the box so that Abbott could see it contained nothing but cigarettes.

  ‘Something just as lethal, I’m told.'

  ‘You won’t die of it.’

  The Controller, the Minister, the belly-rubbing Shepherd and Smith, who had to suppress a tendency to smile whenever he looked at Shepherd, were in conference in the summer-house. Clifford was as motionless as a spider, watching the lighted west window.

  'How the hell he ever got past the main gate beats me,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘As easily as he got into the house, I expect,’ said Smith.

  ‘Now wait a minute, who’d’ve thought he’d walk right up and ring the bloody front-door bell? I mean, that’s for official visitors.’

  ‘Perhaps the poor bastard didn’t know any better. You should’ve put a notice up.’

  ‘Look, don’t get smart with me—’

  ‘The point is, gentlemen,’ said the Controller, ‘what are we going to do?'

  ‘What can we do?’ said the Minister. ‘He’s got us by the balls, hasn’t he? Like a hijacker on a plane.’

  A phone had been installed in the summer-house. The Controller pointed to it.

  ‘Can I get him on this?'

  ‘The switchboard in the house’ll connect you,’ said Shepherd.

  The Controller picked the phone up.

  ‘Put me through to President Njala's room.'

  Abbott came on the line.

  ‘Yes?’

  This is the Controller.’

  ‘Have you got the chopper I asked for?’

  'We’ve got one of those big RAF jobs.’

  I asked for a two-seater. And don’t tell me they don’t grow on trees. Get it.’

  'I’m doing my best.’

  You don’t imagine I’m going to wait till daylight, do you? I want it here while it’s still dark. And I’ll give you half an hour. From now. Otherwise Njala’s a dead man.’

  Abbott hung up.

  'What does he want with the two-seater?' said the Controller. ‘What’s his plan?'

  'I think I can tell you,’ said Smith. 'With Njala as hostage he’s going to fly a few miles to some place where he has a car waiting, with or without an accomplice, kill Njala - and then make his way back to his hide-out by a mixture of car, train, bus and whatever other form of transport he’s dreamed up or manages to find available. He’s a great improviser.’

 

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