`If we succeed,' said the farmer, `it won't be the end of the matter. We might have to hide Ellen and Vikki away somewhere safe. Perhaps for several weeks until something is done about Roscoe and Prescott. Prescott doesn't worry me so much. He's sensitive to political pressure. With even Diana Sheldon turning against him by defending Ellen and Vikki, he's certain to be feeling that his position is being undermined. But after watching Roscoe in court, I'm convinced that he's insane. He'd rather die than agree to any compromise. If he gets control of Pentworth, then God help us all.'
`You're right,' Malone conceded. `We'll need somewhere secure to hide Ellen and Vikki. We'd both better give it some hard thought.'
He flicked the reins and the pony moved off. As he drove away from Temple Farm, turning over David Weir's words, it occurred to Malone that what they were planning was more than just a rescue -- it could well be the opening shots in a bloody revolution.
Chapter 49.
TEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY, Roger Dayton's reaction to an enforced early retirement as director of a major yacht chandlery business in Chichester had been to fulfill a life-long ambition by renting out his house and paddock for two years and sailing around the world with his wife and cat. His 15 metre yacht didn't do any sailing now but sat on blocks in his paddock, its winter home that now looked permanent.
He was a cautious man and subjected Malone's warrant card to a detailed study before handing it back. He was short, stocky with a slow manner of speech. An unlikely long distance yachtsman.
`What can I do for you, Mr Malone?'
`The government order calling for the surrender of all firearms and explosives didn't make it clear that the order also covered marine pyrotechnics -- rockets, flares, and so forth. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, sir. But the oversight is entirely our fault and there is no penalty attached to their retention provided you surrender them.'
The sailor grunted. `I should think not indeed. This way.'
Malone followed him into a spacious garage occupied by a vintage Bentley. The sailor pointed to three steel fireproof safety lockers. `There they are. Help yourself. They all fall out of date this season. I was going replace them but for that damned Wall.'
Malone opened one of the lockers. It contained a selection of lethal-looking rockets and flares. `You say, out of date, sir. But they'd still work?'
`Sure. It's just that it's not worth putting your life at risk for the sake of replacing five year old rockets.'
Malone picked up one the rockets and feigned interest. It stood his height. `I've never seen such things before, sir. How on earth do you launch them?'
`Easy. Just yank the safety ring to release the ignitor lock, then pull the lanyard and whoosh -- they fire immediately. No messing about with wet matches and blue touch paper in a Force 8.'
`They look fearsome things.'
Dayton chuckled. `They are. They can climb to about 2000 metres. But they're safe enough to launch. You can hold them upright by the stick to launch them. A small rocket fires first to lift the thing clear of the vessel, and then the main rocket kicks in. The long cartridges are hand-fired parachute flares.'
`Thank you, sir. Perhaps you'd kindly give me a hand with these lockers.'
`I certainly won't. The order didn't say anything about handing over expensive lockers. They stay. The contents are yours.'
Chapter 50.
MALONE TOOK THE ROCKETS and flares back to Temple Farm in the trap, returning in time to catch David saddling up a horse for his visit to Dan Baldock. He helped Malone unload the pyrotechnics and hide them in an outhouse.
Malone's next call was on Bob Harding. The scientist was alone in his workshop with his hayfever and a supply of handkerchiefs, spending his lunch break tinkering with his model submersible. He listened to what Malone had to say and his red-rimmed eyes lit up in eager anticipation.
`Thank God -- we're actually going to do something. A disgusting travesty of justice. I thought it was going to be some sort of mock trial at first. I can't believe how naive we've all been to let Prescott and those Bode's Law loonies to run amuck with their crazy beliefs. If there is anything I can do... Anything at all.'
`There is, Mr Harding.'
`For God's sake call me Bob -- everyone does.'
Malone outlined his plan, but stuck to his need to know policy. The scientist's animated expression changed to one of deep concern as he listened.
`Mike -- it's suicide -- even ambushing at that point along the procession route. One blackshirt behind the cart with a pump-action shotgun will make mincemeat of all of you, and you won't be able to muster enough men there to be certain of over-running him.'
`You're right, Bob. But I wasn't thinking of a fire-fight. It's the last thing we want. We have only a few shotguns anyway. We need something that's quick and effective.'
`Like what?'
`Like a gas attack.'
The scientist regarded Malone steadily. His voice was low when he replied. `You're joking -- no, you're not joking.'
Malone explained the nature of the gas he wanted and its radius of effectiveness. When he had finished, Harding was deep in thought.
`It might be possible, Mike...' he said at length.
`How about the ingredients?'
`You'd be surprised at what I can lay my hands on this town. The problem is not so much the ingredients, it's the mixing and filling. How much will you need?'
`I was hoping you'd tell me.'
`Well... At a guess around 30 one-kilo bomblets ought to do the trick. Two problems: what do we put the stuff in, and how do we launch them? Some sort of spring gun? A modified clay pigeon gun?'
`That's not such a bad idea,' said Malone.
`It's a crap idea. It'll take an age to launch enough bomblets to do the trick -- you're going to have to fire clusters of them.'
`I've got a launching device in mind so leave that one to me. You've got enough on your plate.'
`Okay. So what do we put the stuff in? The containers have to be fragile enough to burst on impact, yet strong enough to withstand handling and being launched.'
Both men fell silent.
`Got it,' said Harding softly. He rose abruptly and disappeared into a store room. After a few minutes rummaging he returned with a glass flask. It was globular with a slender neck and a flattened bottom. `Old-fashioned 1 litre acid bottles,' he said, passing the flask to Malone. `Like miniature carboys. I bought them at junk sale some years ago. Never have found a use for them'
`How many have you got?' Malone asked, turning the vessel over in his hands. The glass was thicker than a laboratory flask.
`A case of 24. Actually, the more I think about, the more I realize that they'd be ideal. They can withstand about 5 bar pressure. It wouldn't be too much trouble to make up some seals and pressurize them so that go off with a bit of a bang when they burst. It would certainly help with the dispersal, but you'd have to be careful handling them. Wind's going to be a problem. At night the air at the highest point in the dome -- over Pentworth Lake -- tends to cool. As it descends, it displaces air away from the lake so that night breezes tend to blow away from lake. The reverse of what happens in the daytime. But it'll swirl and eddy -- get some of your gas back in your face and you could end up looking rather silly.'
It was a good point. Malone made some notes. He snapped his notebook closed and thanked the scientist.
`I'm only too pleased to be doing something.'
`Can you have them ready by tomorrow?'
Harding smiled. `They'll be ready. Save one for Roscoe.'
Malone stood and picked up the flask. `I'd better take this as a sample.' He shook the scientist's hand. `Thanks, Bob. I've a few more calls to make.'
It was only five minutes from Bob Harding's shop to the Pentworth Museum where Malone found the curator, Henry Foxley, at work in the basement making notes of the contents of his crates. He had less space for storage now that one end of the basement had been partitioned to provide a room for the telephone switch
board. Malone's request surprised him.
`Gas masks, Mr Malone?'
`Last year you staged an exhibition of World War II memorabilia. I seem to remember a tableau -- several tailors' dummies dressed up in 1940s clothes and wearing an assortment of gas masks.'
`Well -- yes -- we've got about a dozen. But they're well over half a century old -- the rubber's perishing which is why we keep them out of the light. The filter elements must be useless by now. What possible use could they be to the police?'
`We may need to use them as patterns to get new ones made. You'll get them back, sir.'
Malone left the museum 15 minutes later carrying a bulging cricket bag that was even older than its contents. He dumped it in the trap and was about to climb aboard when:
`You usually jog everywhere, Mr Malone.'
He turned. The speaker was Diana Sheldon, her expression impassive. `Good afternoon, Miss Sheldon. I'm rounding up clobber that might be useful to the police.'
She nodded to the Copper Kettle tearoom. `They do an excellent pot of nettle tea and homemade biscuits, Mr Malone. Won't you join me?'
Malone was pushed for time but it was obvious that the town clerk had something important to say. `I'd be only too delighted, Miss Sheldon.'
He left her thirty minutes later and decided to postphone weighing up what she had said until some other time. His next call promised to be his toughest assignment of all. The entire operation depended on the willing co-operation of the next person on his list.
Chapter 51.
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER 6:00pm and the sun had lost most of its spite when Malone returned to Temple Farm. He tethered the pony to the water trough and went off in search of David Weir. He found him in a large paddock riding a grass mower hauled by Titan. The big Suffolk horse had no difficulty pulling the 100-year-old machine even though the grass-cutter bars were at their lowest settings. Charlie's boys were raking the clippings from the scalped field into heaps and dumping them in a row of chicken folds. The occupants, hardly believing their luck, fought and created a clucking uproar over the bonanza. David relinquished his saddle on the mower to one of the boys and joined David.
`Fresh-mown grass,' he said. `Best chicken feed there is. We'll have eggs with yokes the colour of sunsets for a week. How did it go?'
Malone grinned. `We've got our gas bombs and a delivery system.'
In the kitchen over chicory coffee the two men exchanged accounts of their day although Malone made no mention of his meeting with Diana Sheldon.
`Dan Baldock's with us all the way,' David reported. `He's going to pick a group of the best lads and start drilling them tomorrow.'
`Good actors?'
`All farmers are good actors otherwise they'd never survive visits by VAT inspectors... Or the pollution and husbandry hygiene inspectors that we have to put up with these days.'
Malone smiled and produced the empty flask that Harding had given him. `Our bombs. 23 of them. Not only can Bob Harding find some effective ingredients, but he can pressurize them so that they explode on impact. Only a small explosion but enough to help disperse the contents. What we have to come up with is some sort of double rack system to mount them in.'
David took the flask and examined it critically. `That won't be any problem. Some sort of framework made of tubing. They'll slide easily. I'll get Charlie onto it first thing. He's a wizard at making lash-ups.'
`Any thoughts on the rockets?'
`They're easy,' David replied. `I actually had to fire a couple once in my younger days when I was crewing for my partner in the Fastnet. Plastic waste pipes with extension cords on the lanyards. No problem.'
`Won't the tubes melt?'
David grinned. `Probably -- but the rockets will be gone by the time they do. They only have to be used once.'
`Which leaves the question of where to hide Ellen and Vikki when we've rescued them.'
David looked pained. `Ah. I was coming to that. I could've kicked myself right after you left for not thinking of it before. I know an absolutely ideal place but we can't risk going there until after dark.'
Chapter 52.
Adrian Roscoe's team of sentinels waited until the area outside Mothercare in Market Square was in shadow before starting work. 20 of them rode into the square on a heavy goods wagon, all stripped to the waist and wearing shorts instead of their usual gowns. They split into two teams and set to work with pickaxes, lifting flagstones and breaking up two areas of asphalt, each about a metre square and separated by 5 metres.
The manager of Mothercare bustled out to remonstrate with the gang's foreman, arguing that they were digging too close to his shop. A small knot of curious onlookers gathered. Four blackshirts appeared to assure the shop manager that the holes were being dug in the right place and that everything would be restored on Sunday morning. The manager returned to his shop in a huff and the gang continued work. Once through the hardcore they started digging two holes. In less than an hour they were down 2 metres which their foreman decided was enough. Lying the length of their wagon were two massive baulks of timber -- each about 6 metres long. They had been intended as replacement roof purlins for Pentworth House but Roscoe had decided to use them for a more sinister purpose.
Diana joined Prescott at the window of his office and watched as the sentinels assembled an A-frame and used it to manoeuvre the end of the first timber to the rim of its hole. They hauled on a block and tackle and the timber began lifting to the vertical.
`Certainly doing a proper job of it,' Prescott commented.
`Mr Prescott,' said Diana coldly without preamble. `I want you to accept this letter. I've lodged copies with the bank and with my friends.'
Prescott took the envelope. `What is it?'
`It's a formal statement saying that I will work for the good of the people, but I will take no part in the organization of what I consider to be illegal activities. Nor will I permit any departments under my jurisdiction to take part in or contribute to such activities.'
Prescott was expecting something of the sort. Relations between them had been particularly strained since she had opted to defend Ellen and Vikki.
`What's been happening is hardly illegal, Diana. Judge Hooper's ruling--'
Diana self-control came near to breaking. She snapped, `Judge Hooper's ruling, as you insist on calling it, was a counsel's opinion. Nothing more. It carried no legal authority. It was a sensible analysis of the law and how it might be applied to the circumstances in Pentworth. But you treated it as some sort of carte blanche to do exactly as you pleased. I went along with you at first because you did focus on dealing with all the immediate problems in a sensible manner. I was confident that when the Wall went, as I'm sure it will and soon, that parliament would retrospectively endorse everything you have done. But never in a thousand years will parliament endorse the setting up of a private police force, the return of capital punishment, witch-hunts, mock trials for witchcraft, and now this ultimate obscenity: public burnings at the stake!'
As if to underline her point, the first stake dropped into its hole with a dull thud that sent a tremor through Government House.
`I have a clear duty to maintain religious harmony--' `Harmony!' Diana laughed bitterly. `Oh, that's rich. That really is. Who was it who instigated all those attacks on churches? That's your idea of preserving religious harmony, is it?'
Prescott wondered how much his chief executive officer knew. Quite a lot or she was bluffing. But Diana Sheldon wasn't given to deception. As they stared at each other, he wondered what had happened to the quiet, self-effacing, woman that he remembered. But everyone had changed, including himself.
`I'll tell you something, Prescott,' said Diana, addressing him by his surname for the first time. `When all this is over, not only will you be facing criminal charges, but I will help Brad Jackson's parents bring a civil action for the unlawful killing of their son. And the same applies if anything happens to Ellen Duncan and Vikki Taylor. The level of damages will be astronomi
cal. You'll lose everything -- your land -- the lot. That's if you live because you've brought this community to the brink of a civil war.'
`You're being over-dramatic. The Country Brigade are nothing but a disorganized rabble. They've done very little so far.'
`That in itself,' Diana replied, `suggests a high level of organization. Perhaps you saw their restraint during the trial as a sign of weakness. I saw it as a sign of strength. If they so choose, they could starve out the town.' She paused and regarded Prescott with icy contempt. `I only pray to God that your bodyguards do their job well so that you do survive, Prescott, so that I'll see you in dock.' She turned and left the office.
Vanessa Grossman was in the outer office, ostensibly working late on an urgent audio typing task, in reality listening to every word of the conversation between Diana and Prescott over her headphones because she had flipped Prescott's desk intercom to conference mode when she had last used the Mackintosh computer. She was the only one who had mastered the Mac therefore having free access to Prescott's office was proving very useful. She bade Diana goodnight as the Town Clerk hurried by, her face pale and drawn.
Vanessa experienced that sexual pulse-quickening tension of a lioness closing for the kill. It was a heady, addictive drug that she had been deprived of for many months. But it was too early to go for a fix just yet. Getting the timing right was part of the thrill of the pursuit of power.
From his office Prescott watched Diana leave Government House.
Another dull tremor shook the building as the second stake dropped into its hole.
Chapter 53.
MALONE NEARLY DROPPED his blazing torch when he saw the mural of the charging woolly mammoth. He muttered an uncharacteristic expletive and spent a few minutes studying each of the remarkable cave paintings in turn. His attention kept returning to the 3-D mammoth.
`Amazing,' he said. `Unbelievable.'
David chuckled. `You're the third person to see them in 40,000 years since the artists sealed this cave. They used the shape of the rockface to give a 3-D effect.'
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