Wyatt-Turner lined his Sten on Smith. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you now.”
“I can do that,” Smith nodded. “Why do you think that Admiral Rolland accompanied you to the airport. He never has before.”
“Go on.” Wyatt's voice was hard, abrupt, but his eyes were sick, sick with the sudden certainty of defeat and death.
“To make quite certain that you took that Sten and only that Sten with you. Tell me, can you see two parallel scores where the stock meets the barrel?”
Wyatt-Turner stared at him for a long moment then glanced down quickly at the Sten. There were two unmistakable parallel scratches exactly where Smith had said they would be. Wyatt-Turner looked up again, his face contorted, desperation replacing the sickness in his eyes.
“That's right,” Smith said. “I personally filed off the firing pin exactly thirty-six hours ago.” With his left hand Smith reached awkwardly under his tunic flap and brought out his silenced Luger. Wyatt-Turner, with his Sten lined up on Smith's head and the muzzle less than three feet from Smith's face, squeezed the trigger time and again, and each convulsive contraction of his forefinger was rewarded by a dry and empty click. With a stunned almost uncomprehending expression on his face, Wyatt-Turner slowly lowered the Sten to the floor, then quickly whirled in his seat, jerked open the door and threw the note-book out into the night. He turned and smiled bleakly at Smith.
“The most important document in Europe, I believe I called it.”
“So you did.” Smith handed his gun to Schaffer, reached under his tunic and brought out two more books. “Duplicates.”
“Duplicates!” The smile slowly faded from the heavily-jowled face, leaving it frozen in defeat. “Duplicates,” he whispered. He looked slowly around them all and then finally back at Smith, who had retrieved his gun from Schaffer. He said: “Are you going to shoot me?”
“No.”
Wyatt-Turner nodded, slid back the door to its widest extent and said: “Can you really see me in the Tower?” He stepped forward into the doorway.
“No.” Smith shook his head. “No, I can't see that.”
“Mind the step,” said Schaffer. His voice was cold and empty, his face was carved from stone.
“Well, now, time to make a call.” Smith slid shut the door, scrambled painfully into the co-pilot's seat and looked at Mary. “The Admiral must be getting worried by this time.”
“Time to make a call,” Mary repeated mechanically. She stared at him as if seeing a ghost. “How can you sit there—just after—how can you be so calm?”
“Because it's no shock to me, silly. I knew he was going to die.”
“You knew—of course, of course,” she murmured.
“Now then,” Smith went on, deliberately brisk-voiced as he took her hand. “You realise what this means, don't you?”
“Do I realise what what means?” She was still ashen-faced.
“You and I are all washed up,” Smith explained patiently. “Finished. In Italy, in north-west Europe. I won't even be allowed to fight as a soldier because if I were captured I'd still be shot as a spy.”
“So?”
“So, for us, the war is over. For the first time we can think of ourselves. O.K.?” He squeezed her hand and she smiled shakily in reply. “O.K. Wing Commander, may I use your radio?”
“So that's the way he went.” Admiral Rolland, telephone in hand and standing by the big transceiver in his London Operations H.Q., looked old and very very tired. “Maybe it's all for the best, Smith. And you have all the information you want?”
Smith's voice crackled over the earphone. “Everything, sir.”
“Magnificent, magnificent! I have all the police forces in the country alerted. As soon as we get that book ... There's a car waiting for you at the airport. See you in an hour.”
“Yes, sir. There's one thing, sir, a small thing. I want to get married this morning.”
“You what?” Grey bushy eyebrows lifted towards the mane of white hair.
“I want to get married,” Smith explained slowly and patiently. “To Miss Mary Ellison.”
“But you can't,” Rolland protested. “This morning! Impossible! There are such things as banns, permits, the registrar's office will be shut today—”
“After all I've done for you,” Smith interrupted reproachfully.
“Blackmail, sir! You play on an old man's gratitude. Downright blackmail!” Rolland banged down the phone, smiled tiredly and picked up another phone. “Operator? Put me through to the Forgery Section.”
Wing Commander Carpenter, his pipe well alight and by his elbow a cup of coffee newly poured from a vacuum flask, was his old imperturbable self again. Smith talked quietly to Mary while Jones had his eyes closed and appeared to be asleep. Farther aft in the fuselage, Schaffer had his arm around Heidi, who was making no attempt to fight him off.
“Right,” Schaffer said. “So we go to this pub tonight, see—”
“You said the Savoy Grill,” Heidi reminded him.
“A rose by any other name ... So we go to this pub, and we'll have pate, smoked trout, sirloin of Aberdeen-Angus—”
“Aberdeen-Angus!” Heidi looked at him in amusement. “Forgotten the war, haven't you? Forgotten rationing? More like a sirloin of horse meat.”
“Honey.” Schaffer took her hands and spoke severely and earnestly. “Honey, don't ever again mention that word to me. I'm allergic to horses.”
“You eat them?” Heidi gazed at him in astonishment. “In Montana?”
“I fall off them,” Schaffer said moodily. “Everywhere.”
The End
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Where Eagles Dare Page 25