Paul pushed through the bushes surrounding the clearing at the end of a rutted track, and approached the van where his colleagues were waiting. He knocked on the driver’s window. No response. He put his hand on the door handle and slowly pressed the button. Click. It wasn’t locked. Then it started to push open. Paul stepped back, drawing his weapon. A dead man with his throat cut lurched halfway out of the door, restrained from falling to the ground by his lap belt. This was Jim Hart, the senior agent.
A jolt of shock, then his training kicked in. Paul whirled round in a firing position, scanning the trees. In a second he had whirled back, covering the dark interior of the van. Blood still trickled from Jim’s severed windpipe. Dead only minutes, Paul determined. For some reason his killers had left, but they could return at any second. Carefully, gun leveled, his forefinger lightly brushing the trigger, Paul moved to peer over Jim’s body into the van. A half-eaten cheese sandwich lay on the floor. Then another man came into view, Hank Wolnitz, father of three, sitting in front of the hi-tech equipment, his head rolled back, a screwdriver protruding from his left eye socket.
Ice spread through Paul’s body. The faces of Hank’s wife and daughters flashed into his mind. What could he say to them when he got back from this mission? If he got back. He had never been on a mission with casualties before. Rather his experience was of gentlemanly games of surveillance, deception, infiltration, putting the opponent in a corner where surrender, compliance or flight were the only rational options. Not this time. Paul was a virgin to wet work. He realized he was now the sole survivor of ambush by unknown assailants.
A realization came to him with instant clarity, as it sometimes does to people who stand resolute at a moment of crisis. This was what his education, his skills, his whole life had been building towards. Since childhood, Paul had believed in the concept of personal destiny. Now, it seemed, he had just run headlong into his own. He had stumbled onto a very serious secret. So serious that the rogue agents he was tracking would kill agents of a friendly power to protect it. Something bad was in the works that he was in a unique position to prevent. Inside him were two voices, one that gnawed at his self-esteem and asked Are you as good as you think you are? and one that said Yes, I am. Paul could fall apart, or he could pull himself together.
Through the rear window of the van, Paul saw distant headlights winding their way up the track to the clearing. He pushed Jim’s body back into the driver’s seat and shut the door. He scurried to the tree line unobserved. Paul watched as an SUV pulled up. A figure got out of the passenger seat, moved to the van, opened the driver’s door, and shoved Jim’s body into the back, revealing a blood-soaked seat. With the skill of a dry cleaner bagging a suit, the man covered the seat in plastic sheeting, then got in behind the wheel. Both vehicles drove away down the track. Paul was left hiding behind a tree, his mind in turmoil. These were professionals. The implications were ominous. A rogue was active within The Company.
CHAPTER 10
The Coracle, the Longboat and the Sloop
Back in the isolation ward, the swing shift Duty Nurse sat beside the screens that monitored the patients’ rooms, reading her Kindle. A news program played silently on her computer. A Harlequin Romance was unable to stop her ruminating on the scandal of the day, to which she had responded with a heady mixture of moral high dudgeon and prurient fascination. Her day shift counterpart, June Daly, had told her that that nice American doing an internship had been seen groping a patient and had been escorted off the premises. Hard to believe. Just goes to show you can’t tell anything about anybody these days. She glanced at the screen showing 5B, the room where the victim lay. Poor girl. That’s right, you sleep. Rest is what you need.
But Alice’s sleep was far from restful. She was panting as if engaged in strenuous exercise.
***
Breathing hard, Alice and James were paddling a coracle downriver, by the light of a three quarter moon. Resembling a round, black, upturned seashell, the coracle moved with the current swiftly, but would not outrun the longboat, full of soldiers, closing on them from behind.
James glanced back. He estimated that they would shortly come within range of crossbow or musket fire. He peered forward into the gloom. He saw the prow of a large sloop anchored at a bend mid-river, with swivel cannon mounted fore and aft. Excise men looking for smugglers. No sign of crew or watchmen. Perhaps they had not heard of his escape. Perhaps they were all asleep. With luck, there wouldn’t be a practiced gunner amongst them. It was a chance they would have to take. Alice knew that the means to escape could only come from one quarter, the Virgin Mother. Alice silently beseeched Her to intervene.
In the moonlight, a narrow tributary was coming into view feeding into the main river, with forest on either side. Could they reach it ahead of the longboat, Alice wondered, and disappear into the trees? Then torch bearing horsemen appeared along the riverbank. A quick exchange of looks. Now their best chance was to disappear from the pursuing longboat’s view round the starboard side of the anchored sloop, and hope that its crew did not see them till they had turned into the tributary and had reached a patch of total darkness under hanging fronds of trees.
Reward was on the mind of the Sergeant in charge of the longboat pursuing Alice and James. The gold coins promised for the capture of the felon and the witch would feed his family for years to come. A lifetime spent in the service of Sir Giles was about to pay off.
The Sergeant saw the coracle change course. He could guess what the fugitives were up to. This posed a dilemma. If he sounded the alarm, the excise sloop might capture them and claim the reward. But the risk of losing his quarry was too great. He pulled a sounding horn from his belt, and blew it with as much wind as his lungs could muster. James groaned as he heard it. The horn roused one watchmen, then another, and quickly the coracle was spotted as Alice and James paddled past the bow of the sloop. Its captain appeared on deck and bellowed to the coracle to stop. In a pig’s ear, thought Alice. She looked back toward the longboat. It was gaining.
A grizzled gunner had arrived at the starboard bow swivel cannon of the sloop. A naval veteran, he had fired every cannon in the arsenal, though he had not used a swivel cannon since a tangle with a Dutch privateer eight years before had robbed him of his left hand. He normally wore a wooden hand, gloved, with stiff outstretched fingers. He would take it off each night before sleeping, as he had tonight. But his pride would not let him leave his post to fetch it. He thrust his stump into the ring mounted on the left side of the barrel, placed his right hand on the other ring, and swung the barrel towards the coracle. It swiveled stiffly. Evidently the ball joints and shaft had not been greased for a while. This cannon was ideal for a moving target, such as the one paddling furiously towards the tributary at the bend. He reckoned that several moments must pass from when the fuse was lit until it ignited the powder in the barrel below. Throughout that process, the gunner must adjust the cannon to maintain his aim. He cursed the captain. A farthing’s worth of pig grease would have made for an easier shot. A crewman brought up a burning brand. The gunner called for the fuse to be lit.
Alice and James heard the call. They dug into the river with their paddles in a renewed effort to accelerate and throw off the gunner’s aim. The fuse, enhanced by grains of gunpowder, sizzled into life. As the flame came close to the ignition point, the coracle drifted from between the cannon’s sights. With a sudden jerk, the gunner swiveled too far ahead of his target. As he wrenched the handles back to correct, the cannon fired.
James and Alice turned, still paddling furiously. They could hear the whistling sound of the approaching cannonball. Doom was on the wing, thought Alice. Were they heading into the shot or away from it? James looked at Alice. No words were necessary. She knew what he needed her to do. Instantly they reversed their paddling to stay the coracle’s progress. James felt a glow of appreciation for how Alice’s instincts so closely mirrored his own. It boded well for
the kind of life they were going to be leading together. If they lived through this night. A spout of moonlit water erupted beside the coracle, just ahead of the bow, splashing them both. Perhaps the Blessed Virgin had chosen to intervene. Slashing at the water, they renewed their forward paddling. They shared a glance, then James started breathlessly chanting “Ave Maria gratia plena dominus...” Alice quickly joined in.
The gunner ran to the aft cannon. Just as stiff. Hang this ass of a captain! As he swung the barrel towards the disappearing coracle, he called again for the fuse to be lit. There was no time to waste; he would have to find his aim inside three seconds. A flaming arrow then slammed into the gunner’s back, puncturing his right lung. Other crew members turned to see a volley of more burning arrows rising up like a flock of glowing birds out of the wooded darkness, where a group of outlaws had been concealed awaiting James’ arrival. A practiced archer could loft a shaft every four seconds, and these men were experts. The gunner lurched against his cannon, as other arrows fell upon the sloop, splintering wood like the beaks of a dozen angry crows. A cry of agony indicated another victim, but the gunner could not see where, as crewman scurried about, shouting for pails of water, the escaping coracle forgotten.
The gunner knew from the blood in his mouth that his wound was mortal. Even if he survived the night, the apothecaries and doctors would finish him off for sure. This was an unexpected end, he thought. The excise business was meant to be a quiet life, ideal for an old salt who had survived the Battle of the Solent. He struggled to reach the arrow that extended from his shoulder. His hand gripped the burning oil rag knotted beneath the arrowhead, searing his fingers, but the pain was too great to pull out the shaft. Perhaps this was God’s final test for him. Perhaps it was his destiny, if he chose to ignore his pain, to sink this fugitive boat, about whose occupants he knew nothing. Surely their significance, if he stopped their flight, would be revealed to him at the Gates of St. Peter. He would perish doing his duty. The gunner set the barrel leveled at the dead center of the coracle, before sinking to his knees. The cannon fired. He died proudly, unaware that the ball had hit a choppy patch of water at an angle that had caused it to pass just above James’ head like a stone skipping over a pond.
In the pursuing longboat, the Sergeant’s final moments were a sorry contrast. A rain of arrows from the opposite bank pelted the boat from stem to stern. Panic ensued. The dead slumped, the wounded clutched at the biting shafts, others who could swim stood up, shedding breastplates and helmets before diving overboard ahead of the next volley. Too many lurched starboard, causing the longboat to capsize. The Sergeant clutched at the bow rope as he pitched into the cold dark water. His hand had managed to grip the thick hemp when the weight of the chainmail, which he wore to display his rank, disregarding its risk when navigating water at night, tore the bow rope from his grasp. He sank to the bottom, struggling to tear off the symbol of status that was killing him, all the while knowing that it was futile. It had seemed such a simple task to drive the fugitives towards the armed sloop at the bend in the river. The sloop would do the hard work. He would recover the outlaw and the witch, alive or dead, and take the credit. Now, within moments, the prospect of prosperity had been replaced by the agony of drowning. Worse, he would die unshriven.
Still paddling fast, Alice and James looked back and saw the longboat sinking, the sloop dotted with spots of flame. They were exultant.
“Gratia tibi Domine!” yelled James.
Alice truly believed her response: “The Lord of Hosts is with us!”
“And a few of my men!” added James. They laughed.
Alice scanned the looming shadows, then heard him call her name. She turned. Again she heard her name whispered quietly: “Alice...” Yet James was not speaking. He was breathing hard, concentrating on his paddling. Yet clearly she heard his voice call to her again. More insistently this time. “Alice!”
Alice opened her eyes to find a hand covering her mouth. A man was lying on top of her, holding down the sheet between them to imprison her arms. His face was beside her ear, his breath tickling the hairs on the nape of her neck. Then she heard his voice again: “Alice, you are in danger. Great danger.”
CHAPTER 11
Boys’ Clothes
This was not the James with whom she had been paddling with all her might down the River Wey, evading capture a few moments before. This was the new James. She was back in that unnatural world that she had seen in fragments since childhood. If not Heaven or Hell, was it indeed Purgatory?
Paul had thought hard about what he would say to her, and settled on simplicity. Securing her speedy cooperation was essential. He concealed a small spray canister in his palm. “You must leave this place now. I will help you, but you must trust me, because I truly care for you.” Paul knew which buttons to press, and her struggling ceased. Yet the words he had selected to cater to her pathology did not feel manipulative to him. He did truly care for her. His training suppressed but did not eliminate empathy. She was an innocent, and mentally ill at that, caught up in something beyond her comprehension. By taking control of Alice, he would flush out the person or persons who were behind the illegal activity at this hospital and the murder of his fellow agents. Removing her from the hospital was not only good strategy, but had the uplifting quality of rescue. Paul realized that there was an uncharacteristic emotional component to his decision; he would have to watch this in himself. If he had to abandon her for the sake of the mission, he would have to do it without compunction.
“I will explain later,” Paul continued, “but for now you must do everything, absolutely everything I say.” This was the critical first step if his plan were to succeed. To extract her willingly would be a major advantage in making it to the safe house in London.
With his canister he had gassed, then hidden, the unconscious bodies of every person he encountered on his swift re-entry to the building using his cloned access card. First the security guard patrolling the grounds, then two nurses in the corridor to the isolation ward. He had hidden them in a storeroom. Next the startled June Daly as she emerged late from her office, reviewing the events of the day and thinking that she had been right to report the new doctor’s interest in the hospital’s inner workings. Suddenly there he was, extending what looked like a cigarette lighter towards her face. Paul had sprayed her like a bug. June had gasped, then staggered, her vision narrowed to a point. Paul had caught her as she fell, then stashed her out of sight in her office. The gas was relatively harmless but brought about unconsciousness within seconds. The target would wake some time later with a headache, and the embarrassment of chemically induced incontinence, which had the added benefit of slowing down pursuit or retaliation. Paul hoped he would not have to spray Alice.
He lifted his head and looked down at her. “I want to take my hand away from your mouth. Do you promise not to scream?” Her eyes grew less wild. Alice responded with a nod. Paul slowly took his hand from her mouth and released his grip on her arms.
“You are indeed James, are you not?”
Paul decided to answer with a question. “Do you trust me?”
Alice nodded. “I have prayed and now grasp God’s will; you are here to set everything aright.”
Paul wondered what she meant, but did not want to pursue the matter and delay a rapid exit. He stood up and gestured at the leggings, tunic top and sneakers the hospital had given her, now scattered on the floor. He had brought a smart windbreaker and a cap that he had taken from a cupboard in the nurses’ recreation room. He gathered up all the clothing and handed it to her. “Put these on. They should be your size. Shoes may be a bit big, but they’ll do for now.”
Alice stared at the clothes.
“We must hurry,” Paul urged.
She fingered the leggings. “Breeches?” Then a realization hit her. It was to be a disguise. “Is this what your manservant wears? Aren’t you the clever one?” She pulled the h
ospital gown up over her shoulders. She felt no shame in exposing her body to James. Paul averted his gaze.
“You’ll have to clothe me,” said Alice, “I know nothing of a boy’s clothes.”
“Alice, put them on,” Paul said, facing resolutely away. He looked at his watch. Close to ten. The longer this took, the greater the potential for staff from another part of the hospital stumbling across his handiwork.
“Not without your aid, I can’t,” came Alice’s insistent reply.
It was quicker to comply than to argue. Paul turned and started dressing her as he would a child.
“What a handsome doublet!” Alice exclaimed as the tunic slipped over her hips. For a microsecond, Paul was struck by how beautiful she was in the night lighting of the cell. It was impossible not to notice the curves of her body. Paul pushed such thoughts aside as he struggled to help put on the leggings. As he slid socks over her toes, Alice marveled at their softness. Paul slipped a sneaker onto each foot and tied the laces. She liked the way the shoes gripped her toes and the arches of her feet.
Paul exited the cell with his spray cylinder in one hand and leading Alice out with the other. She looked with curiosity at the swing shift Nurse lying across her desk.
“Has the Lady taken ill?”
“Just sleeping.”
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