Only by screwing up every muscle in his face did he manage to keep himself from blubbing like a kid. He had wrenched a muscle in his right thigh and his arm rippled with fiery pains where he’d landed on it.
He sat up. Through the stile he could see nothing. There was no bull. Not without difficulty, David managed to haul himself back to the vertical. The bull had changed position, but now he was unconcernedly plucking at a patch of long grass. David realized that for most of his sprint he had been chased by a phantom.
He wheeled around to catch sight of Juliet’s face contorted into a scowl. She backed away, fists clenching and unclenching by her sides.
“You say mum took a file. Stole it, you mean?”
“Look—”
“You’re accusing her of being a thief, stealing government papers.” Her eyes blinked, two tears jetted down her cheeks. “How can you do that, David? You … shit!”
She broke into a run, sobbing. When David tried to follow, another shaft of fire sprang up his leg, crippling him. Purple patches floated before his eyes. He swore, then limped after her in the direction of the farm.
By the time he got there the sun had mellowed to an orange disk, bathing the yard in flame. As he made his way around the gate he found himself confronted by a wrathful trio: Juliet, the girl called Fergie, and Timmy the deaf mute.
“Get in.” Fergie jerked a thumb toward his car. “Don’t stop till you hit the road.” She was seething with rage. “If you come back, we’ll call the police.”
“I want to talk to my stepdaughter,” he grated.
Sarah tapped Timmy on the arm, and when he looked at her she pointed toward David. The cobbler advanced slowly, still carrying his hammer.
“Are you threatening me?”
“We’re exercising the right to have you off our premises.”
“Your premises? Don’t make me laugh!”
“We’ve had enough of you. And your German friends. Tell them to stay away, d’you hear?”
“David …” Juliet’s voice sounded fearful. “Just … go.”
“Not until we’ve talked. Talked properly.”
Timmy was within a foot of David now. He stopped and uttered a selection of horrid grunts, culminating in a drawn-out moan. His eyes were fishlike, cold. He looked brutish.
“I want to talk to Juliet,” David said quietly, but with great force, and Timmy hit him.
He did not use the hammer, which was as well or David would have been killed. Instead, he dropped the tool on the cobbles and punched David’s jaw. David saw the blow coming and ducked, but Timmy’s fist landed on his forehead, setting off a fresh round of explosions in his already damaged skull. He swayed groggily, once more unable to see straight.
Timmy came at him again, butting into his stomach. David doubled up with an “ouf!” of pain and fell to his knees. While he fought to regain control he found himself looking up at Timmy, silhouetted against the sky. The deaf mute clasped his hands and raised them above his head.
Before the blow could connect, however, it was intercepted.
Another black figure had come to stand behind the first, with something long in his hands. This object swung through a horizontal plane into the small of Timmy’s back. The shape dissolved, reorganized itself, and the shaft came down vertically to land on the cobbler’s left shoulder. David heard a crack. Timmy collapsed to the ground, holding his neck while he rocked to and fro. Above him …
Above him, Albert was practicing off-drives with considerable élan, using for bat the fence post that had just broken Timmy’s collarbone. “Evening,” he said, catching David’s eye. “Get in the car, will you, be a good chap.”
As David staggered away he heard Albert ask engagingly, “Any more for any more? Come on, don’t be shy.” But the two girls backed off, numbed by the controlled, precisely directed violence radiating from this stranger. Albert threw away the stake and came around the front of the car to let himself in. “Right,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat. “Off sharpish, yes, mm?”
David put the Rover into gear. The last thing he saw through the rear-view mirror was Juliet running forward to help Timmy up while Sarah continued to stand rooted to the spot.
“You do get yourself into some scrapes. Ouch! As indeed … do I. What on earth …?” Albert felt underneath him. His hand emerged holding a white paper bag. “Chocolates?”
“Juliet’s favorites.” David sighed. “I didn’t even get a chance …”
“Never mind.”
Until this moment David had been driving on automatic pilot. Now he started to come to himself. “Er … thanks.” He paused, embarrassed by the inadequacy of his reaction. “You may have saved my life back there.”
It was true, he realized. If he was able to drive away from New Pendoggett Farm, it was all due to Albert. This man was going out of his way to help. He felt gratitude flood through him without knowing how to express it. “Do you have a car?” he asked awkwardly.
“Yes, I left it at the gate. There it is, beside the postbox.”
David pulled over next to Albert’s Morgan and switched off the engine. “It was really lucky you arrived when you did.”
“Coincidence, wasn’t it?”
“You were sent to interview Juliet, I suppose?”
“Mm-hm. Doesn’t seem much point now, does there?” Albert sighed. “David, David, David, what are we going to do with you?”
He was wearing cavalry twill trousers, a checked shirt, knitted tie and a riding jacket, while a tweed cap was pulled well forward over his eyes, its brim almost resting on the tops of his flattened spectacles. It occurred to David that it would be difficult for the communards to describe Albert’s face to the police.
“Do with me? I don’t understand. We agreed I ought to try and find out as much as I could.”
“Yes, but not by using the third degree.”
“They attacked me!”
He felt almost churlish, defending himself against his savior, but Albert seemed not to mind. “What did you manage to extract from Juliet, before the fracas?” he asked.
“Very little. She hasn’t seen Anna, nor heard from her.”
“Was she telling the truth, do you think?”
“Yes.” David opened his mouth to tell Albert what Juliet had said about the mysterious doctor, but to his surprise heard himself say instead, “Why did that girl mention German friends?”
“I wondered if you’d taken that on board. Mean anything to you?”
“No.” David knew he ought to tell Albert about the “psycho-whatsit,” as Juliet had called him. It was important. But because it was so important, he wanted to think about it first. To package it. Construct some way of passing on the information that wouldn’t make him out a complete idiot for not having known. “I don’t have any German friends.”
But Anna did! Brewster, the chairman of the Krysalis vetting committee, had said so.
“Did Juliet say if anybody else had been snooping around asking questions?”
“No.”
“German friends, now. Anna Lescombe, whatever are you up to?”
David wanted to ask what was going through Albert’s mind but the other man forestalled him by abruptly getting out of the car. “Be seeing you, then,” he said through the window.
As David watched him start the Morgan he suddenly resolved not to tell anyone about Anna’s psychiatrist.
CHAPTER
18
Barzel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he stared through the windshield down the road that Lescombe must surely use. He looked at his watch. Dusk already, soon it would be dark. He desperately wanted the by-now-familiar Rover to appear within the next ten minutes. Once night fell, he could easily miss it.
A mistake, wasting today. For two pfennigs he’d give up, now, and catch the next plane to Corfu … only then he remembered what was at stake, and resolved to give David those extra few minutes. He had to know if Lescombe was part of Kleist’s plot.
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br /> But things were going badly. If he had been a superstitious man he might have believed that some unseen power was on Kleist’s side. He’d had to use an HVA charter jet to fly back to London from Athens the night before. First they had run into headwinds, and then a thunderstorm. The pilot wanted to divert, until he saw Barzel’s gun. Then he changed his mind, which was all right in one way but Barzel’s stomach still heaved at the memory of their landing.
He’d driven down to Cornwall early, after snatching a couple of hours’ sleep, on the strength of an update that told him David Lescombe was planning to visit his stepdaughter. Before getting entangled with David, Barzel wanted to put to rest an ugly hunch that had occurred to him overnight: that the blonde woman with Kleist wasn’t Anna Lescombe at all, but a decoy, deliberately chosen to lead him away from his real quarry. The Cornish farm where Juliet lived was said to be out in the wilds. Suppose Anna was shacked up there, what in hell would that signify?
He’d prowled around the farm boundary, keeping out of sight. A lot of people seemed to live there, too many for Barzel’s liking. Anna wasn’t among them, or if she was, she certainly didn’t show herself.
He was making his way back to the Audi when two people stepped out into his path, a ferocious-looking dyke and a male humanoid who communicated only in grunts.
“What do you want?” the woman snapped. When he didn’t answer immediately, she’d asked the same question in fluent German, catching Barzel on the raw. He prided himself on how well he fitted into the landscape.
“You’re trespassing,” she went on. “Clear off or I’ll call the police.
“My dear young lady—”
“Shove that! Timmy …”
The humanoid had advanced threateningly. Barzel looked down and noticed for the first time that he was carrying a wicked-looking hammer. “Can I speak to Juliet?” he’d asked quickly. “That’s all I want to do. I’ve got a message from her mother.”
“Have you indeed?” the girl sneered. “You can give it to me, then.”
“It’s not written down.”
“Tell me what you want to say.”
“No. It’s private.”
“Timmy, junk this pig.”
The humanoid grunted in what sounded like satisfaction. Barzel swiftly weighed up the situation. The only sure way out was to draw his gun and he didn’t feel like doing that—too risky; once he’d gone they’d call the police for sure. Retreat.
Now, sitting in the Audi and waiting for David to drive around the corner, Barzel regretted that hasty departure. If only he’d been able to bring some muscle … but with Krysalis on the move, no one knew where, HVA’s London Station was stretched to its limit.
He looked at his watch. Something had to go right today. The thought of having wasted twenty-four hours was too terrifying to contemplate.
Where had Lescombe got to?
His question was answered almost immediately. A Rover came around the bend, accelerating past him. Barzel started the engine and pulled out of the side road where he’d been parked. Before long his Audi had settled down a hundred yards behind David’s tailgate. Barzel tried to remember the geography. They would go through a village—St. Breward, wasn’t it?—after which came a winding lane some half a mile long. That’s where he’d take him, before he got to the next main road.
The light was fading quickly now. David had his headlights on, but for the moment Barzel contented himself with parking lights, not wanting to draw attention to himself.
Here was the village … David picked up a little speed along the straight high street, then had to slow for an awkward turn beside a pub.
Now they were in the road that Barzel remembered. David’s lights fashioned a dull yellow aurora, which preceded the silhouette of his car down a dark tunnel. He came to the start of a twisting, narrow hill and braked, careful to protect his paintwork from the sheer stone walls, thick with moss, bounding what here was little wider than a single-track lane.
By this point it was dark. Barzel glanced in his mirror. No lights visible. His gaze darted back to the front. Now!
As the Audi overtook, David was forced to jam on his brakes. His reactions were swift, but not quite good enough: he went slamming into the offside wall. Stone shrieked against metal. Barzel left him no time in which to worry about the cost of a respray. He slammed the Audi to a halt diagonally across the lane a few yards ahead of Lescombe and opened the door.
He began to walk back toward the Rover, hand already moving to his pocket.
David wound down his window. “What do you want?”
Barzel made no reply. The Rover’s engine was still running. David suddenly engaged reverse and let off the handbrake. The car began to move backward. Barzel swore. He knew it wouldn’t be easy maneuvering the car up that hill, but he also recognized that as long as Lescombe kept his speed low he might manage it.
Then Lescombe made the mistake of revving the engine and the car jumped against the wall with another expensive-sounding crunch. He slammed on his brakes. The engine complained, telling Barzel that he’d wrenched the shift too hard, putting the Rover into third instead of first. The car lurched forward, came within an ace of a stall.
David let out the clutch, letting his Rover slide forward out of contact with the wall. He still had his headlights on. Barzel stood in the center of their beam with his legs apart and arms outstretched, knowing Lescombe would be able to see how his arms culminated in a point. A black, stubby point, with a barrel and a sight …
The Rover’s engine coughed and died. Barzel kept the gun leveled while he came alongside. “Get out.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me to—?”
Barzel yanked open the door and reached in with both hands to haul David out by the lapels, keeping the pistol rammed against his jaw. He spun him around and hurled him against the side of the Rover.
“Do what I tell you,” Barzel rasped. “If you do anything except what I tell you to do, you will be shot. Understand?”
David, still trying to catch his breath, nodded.
“You will stand upright—wait! I will tell you when to move. Stand upright, place your hands on top of your head, walk toward the Audi. Do not look at me. Look straight ahead until you reach the Audi. Then stop. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Move!”
David put his hands on top of his head and turned. “Do not look at me,” Barzel cautioned him again, his voice had risen in pitch, revealing how edgy he was.
David began to walk toward the other car. He stumbled, and Barzel knew he was afraid. Good! He swiveled in such a way as to keep his target permanently within range. Ten yards to the Audi. Five yards …
“Stop. Place your hands on the lid of the trunk. Keep them well apart.”
David complied.
Barzel was about to speak again when he heard something. He swung around, looking back past the Rover. Surely his ears hadn’t deceived him? Nothing mechanical, no engine, it wasn’t a car. Yet there was something….
He hesitated. While he was still trying to work out what to do, somewhere behind the Rover a horn hooted and lights came on. Barzel, looking straight at them through the windshield of David’s car, flinched. In the next split second he thought he saw a human figure rolling to one side of the road. Then—“David!” a voice yelled. “Get down!”
Three shots shattered the night peace in quick succession. Barzel flung himself to the ground and fired at random beneath the Rover.
Hopeless! No target, into the lights … out, out, out!
Next second Barzel had rolled to one side and was diving into his Audi. Mercifully he’d left the engine running. As his tires screeched and he disappeared around the next tight comer, his brain was already supplying him with a series of sickening truths.
Someone was “minding” Lescombe. That someone had switched off both engine and lights while still short of the Rover, coasting down to take up position in total silence. It was prescient, it was well executed,
and it betrayed a degree of professional daring when pitted against an armed assailant that Barzel found very frightening.
He struggled to keep the Audi on the road, but all the while his mind kept active. He didn’t like failure. The more people tried to stop him, the more determined to succeed he became. One thing was clear. David Lescombe couldn’t be the mere innocent cipher they’d taken him for up to now, not if MI5 went to such lengths to protect him. He was a key player.
Lescombe would have to be fixed.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER
19
Albert knew a great deal about butchery. He had been studying it, on and off, for years. Knives, they were the important thing: buy a good one and keep it sharp. His knife had saved him and the squadron more than once, on ops. Such delightful games their masters loved to play, drop a handful of bods into Libya, single ticket, find your own ways home, last one in’s a sissy…. “Fortnight of sun and sand, gentlemen, there’s them as would give their right hands …” Oh yes, it was a man’s life in the army. As long as you had a tempered steel blade, however, you need not starve. Albert’s Sabatier had lived with him since Oxford days, although it was much thinner than of yore. Now it resembled a bodkin rather than a kitchen knife. He kept the blade keen enough to kill, skin and chop a snake, but today ossi buchi were on the menu and veal required less of an edge. Albert had cultivated the same butcher for years, until he could be assured of getting meat from a calf under three months old. Later he would use the same knife to chop parsley for the gremolata, which strictly speaking was against the rules, but a well-honed knife would always forgive.
Krysalis: Krysalis Page 18