Blood Run East

by Philip McCutchan

  “You can’t kill him anyway,” she said, “till you find him. I don’t know where he is any more than you.”

  “All right,” he said, “that, I accept. But we know he’s in the vicinity — that’s for sure. So we’re going to find him. Half the army’s looking, not to mention the police. I say again, he doesn’t have to die. Maybe. It’s up to you. You can’t make it any worse for him now.”

  “Worse?”

  He said, “There’s a better side, Katie. There always is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, then?”

  “Think, Katie. No promises — but you yourself were down for the blood run. You know the authorities do it on occasions.” Shard dashed rain from his face, rain mixed now with sweat despite the cold of the high tor. “He could be let out, let to run.”

  She scoffed at that. “And take his know-how with him? That’s bloody likely!”

  “What use is secrecy after a country’s died, Katie?”

  “You’d still go back on it afterwards.” She tried a quote: “‘Put not your trust in princes.’ Still less coppers.” She almost spat at him then: “Go on, try and get him. You haven’t much time left, have you? I’m not saying another word.”

  “You’ll die with the rest of us,” he told her. “You didn’t expect to when you hopped the twig to Orly — but you’re going to. Try thinking about that one! I —”

  He broke off, sharply: his radio was bleeping him. He pulled it from his pocket, flicked and answered. “Field One answering, over.”

  He flicked again. Camelford control came up, loud and clear: “Control to Field One. Object got out from under, is believed back tracking, moving around the tor easterly. Orders, please, over.”

  “Where’s he heading?” Shard glanced at Katie Farrell: she had heard. Her face was tense, but there was the start of a gloat visible.

  The disembodied voice said, “Not known for sure, but could be Brown Willy. He could have seen our screens —”

  “Brown Willy … height?”

  “1375 feet.”

  “Right, we make the assumption. How far? I’m currently on the summit of Rough Tor, right by the Wessex Division memorial.”

  “One mile south as the crow flies, more like five if you follow round easterly. It’s all part of the same complex … but if you look down you’ll see a precipice. Then there’s the De Lanke River and a slow climb if you try the short hop —”

  “Okay,” Shard said. He turned to his police guide. “Got that, have you? You can lead the way?”

  “Yes, sir —”

  Shard spoke to control again. “Right, we follow round. We could be wrong about his destination anyway. In the meantime, just in case, I want the new target taken in advance of arrival, fastest means, I say again, fastest means, approach from south, all high points covered. Do you get me? Over.”

  The voice came back: “Understood, Field One, will do.”

  Shard switched off, reached out and grabbed Katie Farrell by the shoulder. “We’re going down fast. Get moving. Don’t fall. If you break a leg I’ll drag you.”

  They moved down, dangerously, back the way they had come but leaping from boulder to boulder, a faster progress than was offered by the twisting track, the easy path. It didn’t take them long. Where he had been left, they found Hedge, using Detective Sergeant Kenwood and the military escort as shelter from the wind and rain, a sorry sight, bedraggled and shivering.

  “Shard, Shard —”

  “Yes, Hedge?”

  “I shall get a chill.”

  “You won’t. You’ll be moving too fast.”

  “Where to?”

  Shard explained. “I’m going in now like a bull in a china shop and to hell with it. Lavington may have picked up Camelford’s transmission or he may not — we don’t know. What we do know is, time’s short. But I’ll be banking on him not jumping the gun before the deadline — for all he knows, the Prime Minister may be doing a brinkmanship act right to the end —”

  “With the intention of giving in, Shard?”

  “Lavington may think so. And it’s been done before, hasn’t it? It could happen again … if it does, our credibility as a nation goes for good. Meanwhile, I’ve asked for troops to be helicoptered in to Brown Willy. Get up. Hedge.” Shard bent and yanked unceremoniously. Hedge rose like a surfacing whale.

  “Using the open radio like that —”

  “Save your breath, Hedge. We have a long run ahead of us, and I mean run.” He passed the pursuit orders to Kenwood and the soldiers; they got moving without more delay, two of the troops manhandling Hedge, one on either arm, lifting and carrying as though he were some grotesque baby doing an assisted hop-walk between doting parents. As they left the lower slopes of the tor the mud was atrocious, sucking and pulling at their booted feet, making progress desperately, dangerously slow and heavy. To run was in fact impossible. Shard was drenched with sweat after twenty yards and breathing heavily: but knew that precisely similar conditions were slowing Lavington. Thanks to the weather, full dark had almost come: behind, the triple peaks of Rough Tor had again vanished, invisibly pointing to the skies. By now the troops should be on their way to Brown Willy, a welcoming committee of steel and lead for Lavington — but Brown Willy, like Rough Tor, was a wide area and he could be missed again. Shard plunged on doggedly behind the guiding policeman. Now they could see, as vaguely moving shapes, the troops and police of the in-closing screen, spread to either side, herding Lavington towards his destination. By now Lavington must be aware … Shard glanced at his wrist-watch: thirty-minutes left, not enough ground covered. But Lavington, too, was as yet way off his transmission point. He had to have height: some delay would no doubt be acceptable to the other side. It was even logical to suppose that the 2100 deadline would automatically be put ahead now, to give the Prime Minister a chance to back down on television. Logically, the villains were not likely to blow the moment he came on the screens; Lavington could have had fresh orders radioed to him after the Prime Ministerial broadcast had been announced: the fact that no interception had been reported was not conclusive.

  Hope was, as ever, refreshing.

  Feet dragged up through mud, moved forward, plunged down again, slid off rocky boulders, the widespread clitter from Rough Tor. This was what the men in the front line trenches had had to endure in the First World War: they had endured it, lived, slept, eaten, fought and died in it for four years … Shard gritted his teeth, felt the rain penetrate to his skin. If they had done it, so could he and Hedge, but you wouldn’t have thought so to look at poor Hedge, a-swing between the cursing soldiers, heave, flop, plunge, splosh and start again. His weight was bringing the two men down almost to their knee-caps. If ever they came out of this. Shard would never be forgiven. In front of his gun, with the army corporal on her left flank, moved Katie Farrell, lithe and sinuous still under the layers of mud. She had said nothing more: Shard would have given much to know her thoughts. What was she to Lavington, had they been lovers, was she more concerned about the men behind Lavington than about Lavington himself, more concerned with reward beyond the sea, the reward for which she’d tried to get out of Britain on that Orly flight? But not now, surely! As Shard had said, she was going to share in death, not riches. So what did she know? The answer could be: nothing. She was still a counter to be used, just the same. Whether or not her feelings for Lavington were deep, it had yet to be seen what Lavington’s feelings for her might be. After he’d blown the death dumps, after he’d got out ahead of the wind-whirled germs — and he had to have an escape route — maybe his plan for the future had involved a Middle Eastern love nest with Katie Farrell …

  One snag: it was all, basically, conjecture.

  *

  On the move, the reports reached Shard: contact, it seemed, had again been lost. Lavington was assuming the proportions of a will-o’-the-wisp, a bogle, a mere gremlin. To use the idiom of the Irish connexion, a leprechaun. The wider reports also came in: all was quiet at Nanceku
ke, at Porton Down, at Wiston House and Chanctonbury’s wooded slopes. No attack, no aircraft in the vicinities or on the radar screens, though RAF Strike Command was ready and waiting. The Prime Minister was all set to go to the cabinet room for his broadcast to the nation, but there was no availability as to what he was going to say. Behind the scenes, so said some spokesman unknown, the Press was in ferment: they had the story and they were red-hot to go but knew their headlines might be read only by a diminishing public if ever they got printed at all: there were union difficulties, and the Press was not the only employer to face that. The word had spread now and all London was panicking: all the unions were coming out unless the Prime Minister gave way, a general strike against a possible early death, God please take note and agree to negotiate. In these circumstances, could Martial Law cope? To Shard as he listened the answer came clear and unmistakable: no, it could not.

  Mud, mud, mud … where was Lavington? Three minutes to go, just three minutes apart from any extension, involuntary or otherwise. Two and a half minutes …

  The scream came like a banshee, away to the right of the onward-lurching party. Shard halted, shouted to the others to stop. Hedge quavered.

  “Shut up, Hedge! Listen …”

  They all listened, stock-still now. Another scream, then the will-o’-the-wisplike flicker of light, a despairing torch, only just seen. Shard caught it and turned towards it. “Come on,” he said. “Someone in trouble and it could be one of ours.” Or it could be Lavington. Hope, excitement, spurred him: he moved faster than before, his very feet feeling lighter even as he lifted and plunged and was sucked at by mud wetter than ever: these were bog conditions. He was holding on to Katie Farrell like a limpet, and she was crying now. Maybe, he thought, something has finally penetrated, maybe when she sees Lavington, if it is Lavington, she’ll talk. He went ahead: then the torch died and there was another scream, the most dreadful scream he had ever heard, a long-drawn sound that ripped the very night apart. Sweating, knowing what he had to see, Shard brought out his own torch and beamed it powerfully ahead. A few swings and it hit target: it showed a head, and it was Lavington’s, sticking just above the surface of the mud, lashing by wind and rain. The mouth was open in that sustained screaming, and one hand clawed at the air, clawed unbelievably in its duty, reaching maniacally towards some object wrapped in waterproof sheeting just beyond the arm’s reach.

  19

  SHARD COULD GO no further: only just in time, two men of the military escort grabbed him and pulled him clear of the bog. Mud, clinging and sucking, was above his knees.

  The screams had stopped now: Lavington’s eyes, clearly seen in the torchlight, stared insanely towards the object in its waterproof sheet: Shard had no doubts that this was the transmitter. He turned to the escort and Kenwood.

  “No shooting,” he said. “Without his box of tricks, he’s harmless. And he’s going to die anyway.”

  Kenwood’s voice was little more than a whisper. “A bullet’d be kinder, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would be murder, Harry. But if he looks like getting to that waterproof sheet … that’d be different.” Shard looked around, beaming his torch to try to pick out the perimeter of the bog. It seemed fairly well defined: a circular ridge of raised ground, fringing a pond-like area of soft mud. Lavington had been dead unlucky, but in fact he was not too far from the hard perimeter behind him. Shard moved round, followed by the others, watching his step carefully. From behind Lavington he beamed the torch again. Once more the screams had started up, and Lavington was again reaching towards the waterproof sheet. Shard understood why: this was not an act of duty, of dedication. Lavington had panicked utterly and saw the object on the bog as his salvation, something solid to reach for and cling to.

  From beside Shard came the voice of Hedge, hoarse, high, badly shaken. “Why doesn’t he use that pill, for God’s sake?”

  “He wouldn’t have it constantly in his mouth, Hedge.”

  “Where, then?”

  “H is pocket.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Shard said, “Probably nothing. This thing may be over, Hedge. He can’t transmit now —”

  “You could have been wrong all along, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes. But I’ve another shot left.” He turned. “Now, Katie. Have you anything to say?” There was no answer: the girl had her hands clamped over her ears, and her eyes were tight shut. Shard caught the sparkle of tears running from below the lids when he swung the torch onto her. Handing the torch to Kenwood, he tried again. He took Katie’s hands and wrenched them from her ears. “You’ve not got long,” he said harshly. “Look at him. Soon, he’ll submerge. He’ll give up. He doesn’t need to.”

  “What?” She stared back at him dully.

  “I said, look at him. He hasn’t gone down further since we’ve been here. I believe his feet are on hard ground. And he’s almost within reach. It won’t be easy, but he can be got out. Can be, Katie. Whether or not … that’s up to you. Do you understand me?”

  Her body seemed to sag: Kenwood caught her, held her upright. She said, “You’d let him stay there?”

  “Yes, I would. And will! If you’ve anything to say, say it fast. I want to know the facts —” He broke off: she was struggling in Kenwood’s arms, fighting like a tigress, her face contorted, eyes blazing, her whole body reacting to Laving-ton’s continuing screams. She seemed unable to speak: Shard lashed out at her, two stinging back-handers across the cheeks, and she checked suddenly.

  “You love him, don’t you?” Shard said.

  “Love him! God … those things you said earlier! You just have no idea, have you?” Her eyes stared, one glance more at the head on the mud, then away. “He’s my father. My mother’s dead … his wife never knew. He’s all I’ve got.” Shard was rocked by what she’d said. Her voice rose, cracking on a hideous high note that seemed to rip right through Shard’s sudden compunction. “Christ, you bastard! Get him out, for pity’s sake!”

  “He’ll keep. First — you talk. That waterproofed package. Does he transmit with it, or is there something else?” He reached out, took her face in both hands and rattled her head like a castanet. “Talk, Katie!” He stopped the shaking, held her still, staring into her eyes. “Well?”

  “He doesn’t transmit to blow,” she said. The words seemed to be forced from her, to come out against her will, slow and reluctant but inevitable. “He transmits to inhibit — that was the safeguard. And you need his set to do it. You haven’t got long. It’s timed for nine-thirty.”

  For a second Shard felt paralysed: then he swung into action, calling to the search parties, the troops and police who had now closed in. “Macs, coats, the lot. All of you — spread them out on the mud. Get that transmitter — leave Lavington till we’ve sent out the safe.” He turned back to Katie Farrell. “I want the frequency and the code for the safe. When I have that, when I’ve transmitted, we get him out. Not before.”

  *

  She hadn’t known the transmission details: it was Lavington himself who gave them once the transmitter had been safely brought to firm ground — Lavington with Shard pressing down on his head with the extended butt of a police marksman’s rifle. Immediately, Shard sent out the transmission: now they could do nothing more but hope and pray. The transmission made, Lavington was with difficulty heaved clear. Hedge, shaking like a man with St Vitus’ Dance, assisted: as the fattest, he was positioned flat on his stomach on the brink of the bog to act as a combined sandbag, lever and firm base. When allowed up, he had been impressed some six inches into the ground. When Lavington was out, Shard asked him one question: where had the charges been placed?

  “In VX gas containers … re-sealed afterwards.”

  “But not containing VX gas?”

  “No. High explosive, enough to shatter the buildings.”

  “And the deep stowages?”

  “Enough to break the surface.”

  Lavington was in no condition for any closer ques
tioning: there would be time for that later, hopefully. Shard used his own transmitter and called Camelford control with urgent messages for onforwarding to Whitehall and the military commands concerned. During their progress back through the mud and rain to base, inward messages came via Camelford: there had been no explosions, no disseminations of lethal stockpiles. The declaration of Martial Law had been avoided by little more than seconds; and a final touch had been nice: the Prime Minister, already launched into his television broadcast to the nation, had been handed the information on a slip of paper together with hastily-constructed hints on how to continue. Smoothly he had calmed national fears: “All I have just said was not intended to alarm … only to reassure you all that we in Government are always fully alert to protect your interests and those of Britain as a country … I have been speaking to you only as an essential part of the large-scale exercise that has been in progress …”

  Clever! It brought a small touch of lightness to the homeward trudge through the darkness of Bodmin Moor. And tonight the great British public would sleep soundly in their beds, unaware of the truth, unaware of brinkmanship that had succeeded against an appalling threat. Come morning, the criticisms would start up, loud and clear: the Establishment had had no right, et cetera, et cetera …

  *

  No sleep for Simon Shard: in Camelford he picked up his helicopter and was flown direct to Whitehall, touching down on Horse Guards Parade. Hedge was with him, Hedge in a clean suit that didn’t fit, provided by courtesy of Devon and Cornwall Police. The Head of Department was waiting: already the reports had come in. Porton Down, Wiston House, Nancekuke: all were safe. The VX gas containers were being removed and opened under safe conditions. Nancekuke was the first to report a finding: in one of the containers, an ingenious detonator and primer with a soundless time-mechanism that had stopped at 2116 hours, just fourteen minutes before the off. All this was packed into enough TNT to do what Lavington had predicted. Shard was released for a snatch of sleep on a shakedown in his office as dawn broke over London. He was still asleep at ten a.m. when Hedge came in and woke him, and he sat up bleary-eyed.