by David Laws
“Who is this impertinent fellow?”
“Never mind that!” Jake was getting agitated. “Let the man go after her.” Then to Harry: “We’ve sent the PM a text. Told him to run.”
Harry left them arguing. Snatches of their anger registered as he ran: “Where are the protection people?” and “That was outrageous…”
He put to the back of his mind the implications of any coming confrontation with Tresham. His immediate priority was to stop Erika. And now he knew her target: the Prime Minister.
The pain in his knees was slowing him down, but he ran through the house and out into the garden. The folly? He’d not clocked it before and no one was about to point him in the right direction. He ran through the rose garden and out into the greensward that surrounded the big house. There were some buildings, sheds and outhouses over to his left. He peered into one – mostly builders’ equipment – then skirted a long wall and came upon a circular brick building. It was stumpy, like someone had forgotten to build the top half. There was a large timber door and several windows at first-floor level. Was this a folly? He’d expected something taller, some kind of tower. The madman who built this place must have run out of bricks or money. Or perhaps he’d had a belated attack of common sense after completing the first floor. Harry ran to the door, rattled the big bar but found it locked, noticing several gouge marks in the timber.
He shouted, tried hailing whoever might be inside, but received no response. The whole place was deserted. Hardly the fraught drama he was expecting.
Feeling deflated and a little foolish, he stood, uncertain where to look next but knowing he must thwart Erika. That dreadful face, the awful hair and the muffled voice had spooked him. The more he thought about Erika, the worse it became. Not just her duplicity but his own sense of personal failure. That he had unknowingly played the dupe in a plot to assassinate the Prime Minister only made him more guilt-stricken. And angry. It was up to him to prevent it. It was his responsibility. If only he had not been such a blind fool…
He was walking around the base of the tower when a movement caught his eye in a curtain of trees close by. A large oak was nearest to the tower, and a bough leaned towards the brickwork.
Then all at once he had it. Another figure was on the ground close to the base of the little tower. This figure was male. He was manoeuvring a ladder. And the bough was moving. Another figure was lying prone on the bough, edging snake-like along it. No wonder Harry hadn’t been able to find Erika’s crampons back home. She had all her tree-climbing kit with her.
Harry stopped, anxious for the moment to remain unseen. So she had help. She was not alone. His anger rose.
So too did the ladder, hauled up to the tree. Open-mouthed, Harry watched, confused as to the purpose of this manoeuvre. If she wanted to attack the window, why not simply place the bottom of the ladder on the ground? Realisation came slowly. The ladder was too short, but the branch was long. Tied to the tree, the ladder would be a bridge along which she could crawl, and could then be used as a firing platform. She would creep to the window, hands free, and fire through the glass. Harry could imagine the Prime Minister, thinking he was safe, waiting for rescue in the top room. Would he see the danger in time? Could Harry thwart these two people on his own? Might there be a third or fourth lurking in the trees?
He retreated silently so as not to alert the assassins to his presence, and ran back toward the house. The police helicopter was still parked on the other side, but the pilot was absent. Probably drinking tea, relaxing somewhere in the house. By the back door he encountered Erskine.
“The protection boys are on their way,” the security man said.
“Too late. Where’s the chopper pilot?”
A shrug.
Harry ran to the security room. A man in blue flying overalls was talking into a mobile. Harry beckoned. “You’re needed!”
He kept his temper all through the next few seconds of the man’s doubt, reluctance and need for official permission before he grasped the urgency of the situation. Finally, he agreed.
“Get her up, get her up!” urged Harry, running to the grassy helipad. In his heightened state of excitement, time appeared telescoped. Every second was an hour, every minute a day. The pilot was taking an interminable time over his dials and switches, and the delay in getting the big rotors going was unbearable. Then at last they beat into life, and after another delay, presumably to warm up the motor, the helicopter began to rise and Harry was pointing to the tower. “Fly close, scare her to death, force her to abort.”
“What if she shoots?”
“Dodge. She’s only got a pistol.”
The tree, the tower and the ladder quickly came into view.
The pilot hovered.
“Closer.”
The second crewman grumbled but agreed under orders to exchange the rescue harness for a grappling hook, then worked the winch to pay out the rescue line, the hook swinging on a forty-foot length, trailing in the slipstream.
Harry had to give Erika reluctant credit. Dedicated, determined and lethal. By now she had crawled along the ladder, despite its instability, reaching the window. Perhaps she had already got off a shot through the windowpane, he couldn’t tell, and she didn’t look up when the helicopter approached. A mark of her single-minded determination.
They hovered over the ladder and still she didn’t look up.
“Make a pass,” Harry shouted, and the machine moved slowly past, the wire trailing, the level of the hook just below the ladder.
Harry, looking back, saw her glance upwards and grasp the ladder with both hands. At the same moment a small object fell to the ground, then the hook caught and lifted the ladder from its perch, the body at one end still clinging on. The dead weight forced the ladder into the vertical, wrenched it free from the tree and carried it off, back toward the house.
“Keep it level!” Harry studied her as the machine flew low and slow across the greensward, far from the tower, Erika clinging to the bottom rung. “She’s down!”
Her grip had failed.
The helicopter landed and Harry raced out, ducking under the still-turning blades, running back towards where the crumpled body lay.
He expected to find her unconscious, or dazed, or badly injured, but on his approach she sat up, wrenching something from a pocket. Then her arm came up, followed by a loud crack.
Harry was still standing, unharmed but shocked that she was still combative, that she regarded him as just another target. Then he remembered: she had two guns. She might have lost the Glock at the tower, but now he was facing the tiny hand-sized pistol she had threatened him with in Room 8B. He recalled reading about ‘a ladies’ gun’, but how many shots did she have in such a tiny magazine?
“You’re finished,” he called. “Put it down.”
Another crack and he stayed put, crouched, clearly out of range.
Looking behind, he saw several other figures approaching at a run.
“You’re finished,” he repeated in a loud voice. “They’ve got bigger weapons than yours. Give up now or become a target.”
Another crack. That was three.
Lucas was beside him.
Harry said, “Small ladies’ gun – how many shots, do you think?”
The security man shrugged. “How the heck should I know? Five, maybe six.”
“Form a circle, keep her guessing, draw some more fire.”
“Didn’t know I was in the suicide squad.”
“It’s only a pea-shooter.”
“Could still wound. Kills at close range.”
The others spread out, circling the crumpled figure. She responded, watching, swivelling her gaze, and Harry took that as a cue to move closer. She responded with another shot.
Four.
On the far side of her someone stood up, and she again responded with two quick sh
ots… and then a click.
“She’s all out,” Harry shouted. “Rush her.”
He darted forward, seeing her sitting up, frantically digging in a pocket, then another, searching for a fresh magazine. He saw her left hand move to the gun. An object was ejected, the new one banged into place. He saw all this in close focus because by now he was only two strides away. She moved her right arm in an arc towards him, then he was diving on top of her, pinning the arm outwards against the ground. He heard her gasp. Then other bodies piled in and the gun was wrenched away.
Chapter 55
3 hours to go
They’d half marched, half carried her into the security room and, given the number of people who crowded in to get a glimpse of her, the telltale ashtray and coffee cups had been speedily removed. Hands were probing at her neck. That face was not hers. Someone found a protruding lip against the skin and began to pull, and a sucking, fluttering noise erupted as plastic began to tear away. A face mask, it had to be, Harry realised, as it eventually came right over her head, revealing a dishevelled and blotchy-faced Erika below. Her hair was plastered in a disordered spray about her sweat-streaked skin. Several bruises and red patches were visible.
“Reality not a lot better then,” said Lucas.
Harry stared at her. He had expected to find a different Erika – hostile, combative, ruthless, a changed person from the one he had come to regard as a lover. When she didn’t spit venom or shout in that hoarse voice he had heard in Room 8B, he couldn’t equate this bedraggled figure with the ruthless assassin she had been just minutes before. Instead he faced a downcast, beaten and distraught figure who couldn’t look him in the eye.
He stared at her, then cupped her chin. He was shaking his head. “Why?” One word, one question, loaded with emotion –incredulity, betrayal, disappointment.
She licked her battered lips. “Did I get him?” The tone was almost pleading.
Harry sighed. “The PM? No, you didn’t. He’s a little shaken but otherwise intact. Had the good sense to duck down the stairs to avoid you.”
She sagged. What little force remained appeared to leave her. All resistance disappeared and she buried her head in her hands. He noted quiet sobs.
Lucas leaned forward. “Expected a tough guy, not this crybaby,” he said.
Harry elbowed him back and insisted, “I still want an answer.”
“Sorry, Harry,” Erika whispered.
“Sorry? You just tried to kill me. Four times.”
“Had to do it.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer, closing her eyes, not meeting his.
“Why, Erika?”
“Because of them.”
“The Kameraden?”
A tiny nod. “It was justified. It was right.” Her voice was still a whisper. Not a declaration of hate, more a plea for understanding. “A bad man. He was wrecking Europe, destroying a great cause.”
Harry spluttered. “You’re talking like a robot. You don’t really believe that… not enough to kill, surely? To shoot at me? To take a life?”
She began to shake and a voice in the watching group said shock had set in and she should be removed under guard to hospital.
Harry was confused. He didn’t understand this broken personality. He’d never seen her so beaten, could not have conceived that she would disintegrate before his eyes. “Wait! There’s something else.” He touched her shoulder. In the circumstances it was a strangely compassionate gesture. “What is it?” he asked in a different, softer tone.
This time she looked up at him, distraught and pleading. “They’ve got Stefan,” she said.
The truth dawned. She was under pressure. And another life was at stake.
“Where?” he asked, then saw her struggling with a decision. She was no longer the ruthless agent, now a distraught mother. With her mission a failure, the Kameraden were hardly likely to keep any promises made about the boy. Harry, like her, realised Stefan was in peril.
“Where?” he repeated, and could read her dilemma. By answering truthfully, would she be saving her boy – or putting him in even greater danger? “You need to tell me where, if I’m to get him back.”
She looked down and buried her head in her hands.
“Hospital!” demanded Lucas. “Enough of this.”
“Wait,” Harry said. “Time’s crucial. The Kameraden won’t know yet if the PM is alive or dead. They won’t act until they know.”
She lifted her head, pleading. “Fischer’s got him.”
“Where?”
She shook again, but stayed silent.
“Let’s get her to hospital and wrap this thing up,” Lucas said.
Harry ignored him and spoke again. “You must have some way of communicating. This can be used to save the boy.”
Her agonising indecision was still obvious on her battered face.
“Come on, Erika, it’s his only hope.”
She was gasping for breath, chest heaving. Then she screwed up her eyes and took the plunge. It was just a whisper: “Wycombe air park. He’s got a plane.”
They drove in convoy. Two police Land Rovers, a squad car and an old green Mercedes, driven far out in the front. They had collected the car from a forest lay-by. Erika had finally decided to give up the details of her escape plan – a bicycle hidden in the undergrowth at the back of the big house, a short ride to the lay-by, the Mercedes driven to the air park, a de Havilland Twin Otter waiting with Fischer and the boy ready to fly somewhere; she didn’t know the destination.
“Ireland, most likely,” Harry said, “given the short range of the Twin Otter and the ease of getting someone out of Dublin by a scheduled international flight.”
Time had been a crucial factor in their escape plan: it depended on a fast exit by air before the authorities could react to the assassination. First reaction would be checks at UK ports and airports; only later would they institute a clampdown on private flights.
A police commander from the protection squad and a detective inspector from Thames Valley were intent on taking Erika directly into immediate custody, but Harry’s status as the man who saved the Premier’s life gave him enough clout to insist she should be part of the rescue operation. The drive was fraught. If they were to fool Fischer, Erika had to arrive as if driving alone, but given her poor physical and mental state this was for the moment impossible.
Lucas insisted the next action was down to him, but Harry was needed as her mental prop. So Lucas drove and Harry sat in the back with Erika. She was still beside herself, wringing her hands, her head drooping. “You have to hold up – for his sake,” he said, then proceeded to coach her on what she had to do.
Half a mile from the landing ground they stopped for final instructions. They could hear aircraft engines in the distance. Erika took her place behind the wheel.
Harry put an encouraging hand on her arm. “This is for Stefan,” he said, and she nodded, calmer, some of her old spirit returning.
Lucas and Harry lay low in the car, peering over the rims of the windows, giving directions. She drove, jerkily at first, then with more assurance, on to the airfield perimeter track. The shapes of aircraft loomed up, silent and ghostly, along one hedge. Somewhere an engine was running. Erika gave her signal – two quick flashes on the headlight. Within seconds another light flashed twice, far to the right by a line of ash and maple trees.
Erika pulled the car off the track, across the grass. She drove at pace, the car bucking over the bumps, and didn’t keep a straight line. After a few hundred yards they could see the outline of a light aircraft. Harry identified it straight away. A somewhat beaten-up de Havilland Twin Otter. The screw was turning, just ticking over.
“Fine,” breathed Harry. “Just do as you would if you had succeeded. Remember, act excited – you’ve done the deed, you want to get away.”
&nbs
p; Erika drove a circuit, as instructed, so the driver’s side of the car came to a halt closest to the aircraft.
A figure immediately jumped down from the open hatchway of the plane. Erika wrenched open the car door, panting.
“Karl?”
“What’s happened?” An anxious voice from the darkness. “Is he dead?”
“Of course he is. Did you doubt it?”
The figure took a step closer, peering at her in the darkness, spooked by her appearance, perhaps suspicious since the mask had been removed. An arm pointed. “Why are you like this?”
“Couldn’t bear it any longer. Had to tear it off. Where’s Stefan?”
“In the plane. Get in. Five minutes more and I’d have been off. Why so long?”
“Had to wait to get to him in a room.”
While these exchanges were taking place, Lucas was easing open the opposite door, just wide enough to slide out and crawl round the side of the car. And from his concealed position, Harry could make out the details of the aircraft. Rust streaked a panel, another was buckled, a wheel looked worn. Stood to reason, he thought. Just like any other smuggler. Use an old aircraft you expect to dump or abandon. He saw Erika climbing through the hatchway and Fischer turning to follow.
This was Lucas’ chance. He stood up, ready to pounce, ready to shoot if need be – or to follow them into the plane, to hold a pistol to the pilot’s head.
Before he could act, however, the hatchway door closed fast and locked.
Lucas stood, stunned for a moment, then turned to Harry, still in the car, and shrugged. What to do? Reveal their hand and risk the pilot threatening the boy?
The engine note of the Twin Otter suddenly rose from tickover to a high pitch. Harry was out of the back of the Merc and into the driver’s seat. If Fischer was at the controls he wouldn’t have the time or opportunity to threaten either of his two passengers. All his concentration would be on the task of take-off. Getting a plane into the right position was no easy task across rough grass. This was Harry’s hope as the Otter jolted forward and Harry engaged gear, raced the Merc forward and tried to get ahead of the aircraft to cut off its path to the airstrip.