In the tramcar the Eavesdropper whispered to Sir Charles that all was quiet inside the Monument. The Interrogator snored.
‘He’s gone to earth,’ said Mike. ‘I’ve had many a fox do that to me.’
‘Is it true, sir, that when they do that they eat their young?’ said Sergeant Small.
‘Only if they are not too busy shitting themselves.’
‘The fellow’s under a lot of pressure,’ said Sir Charles.
‘Don’t start feeling sorry for him.’
‘It is for dear George and Jack that I fret. The longer this goes on the greater the chance that Doyle will try something desperate. If only he’d talk to us. We must get him to trust us …to talk to us. I wonder what he’s thinking… perhaps we should contact Mr Freud and ask his advice.’
‘Who’s Mr Freud, sir?’ said Chronicle.
‘He’s a kind of scientist who looks into people’s minds.’
‘Like a mind reader, is he? I wonder if he’ll ever come to the Empire. I once saw a Memory Man there. He wasn’t top of the bill, but he should have been.’
‘I’ll tell you what Doyle is thinking,’ said Mike, ‘he’s thinking about the hangman’s noose. His collar will be feeling tight, you have my word on that.’
‘If he won’t answer the phone, post him a letter under the door. When the rent man knocks and I don’t answer, that’s what he does,’ said Chronicle.
‘A note under the door,’ said Sir Charles.
‘It’s worth a try, sir,’ said Sergeant Small. ‘I’ve known hardened villains what can hardly read come out with their hands up when you post them a billy-do, especially if you draw a hanging man under your signature.’
‘I’ll deliver the note,’ said Mike.
‘No, you will not. You have a bad leg. I will be the postman.’
Sir Charles addressed the note to ‘Mr Doyle’. It was a polite note, a one step at a time note, a food for thought note, no provocation, fatherly in tone. It offered food and water, promised that if this offer of goodwill was accepted that there would be no repeat of the attempt to storm the Monument. Also mentioned were the names of Doyle’s family and the address of the street in which they lived. The inclusion of this information would give Doyle something to chew on. Before he left to deliver the note, Sir Charles checked with the Eavesdropper.
‘All quiet, sir.’
He approached the tiny door from the side. If Doyle went berserk and started shooting blind, he would not be in the line of fire. Portable arc lights lit the scene. The door looked like a pepper pot. He bent down and skimmed the note through the gap between its bottom and thresh bar. The way he did this, with an assured flick of the wrist, reminded him of skimming pebbles across water to see how many times they’d bounce.
It would be dark inside the Monument. Had Doyle been able to see or hear the delivery? He looked over to the tramcar. The Eavesdropper gave him the signal that all was still quiet. In that case the time had come to waken the Irishman up.
His patience all but exhausted Sir Charles rapped on the door with his swagger stick.
‘Mr Doyle,’ he said, ‘I know you can hear me. I have delivered you a note. I beg you to read it.’
The shot through the door and the fellow’s oaths confirmed Sir Charles’s opinion that with this chap negotiation was pointless.
Back in the tramcar he told his team, ‘We give him time to read the note. We stick to our plan of ringing every fifteen minutes. We keep monitoring him.’
‘Sir,’ said the Eavesdropper, ‘he’s reading the letter … he’s reading it out loud. He’s screaming the names of his wife and child. I think he’s going mad, sir.’
‘He’s not doing anything to the boys?’
‘Don’t think so, sir. He’s screaming and crying. He’s smashing something against a wall.’
‘I repeat, we stick to our plan, regular as clockwork we ring him every fifteen minutes. Our regularity will make him think we have no other option but to negotiate. If we think he means to harm the boys, only then, do we go in with guns blazing. If he’d only talk, ask us for something we could give him … a repeat of his request for a car and an aeroplane to fly him to Ireland.’
‘The Chief Constable wouldn’t be happy seeing him fly off to Dublin, sir,’ said Sergeant Small.
‘Nor would I, nor would any of us … as for your Chief Constable the least said about him the better.’
‘Do you think O’Neil might be able to get him to talk?’ said Mike.
‘Before that can happen we have to get O’Neil to admit he’s an IRA courier.’
‘Marigold and Mario will make him talk.’
‘I would like to think that if O’Neil knew the lives of two children were at stake, he’d co-operate without someone having to twist his arm. And don’t forget, Marigold and Mario are Americans and so is O’Neil. He is one of their own. They may prefer to deal with him in a way that we might find less than satisfactory. I don’t know.’
‘O’Neil might be a hard nut to crack. He might be as fanatical as Doyle.’
‘He might indeed. Time, I think, to use our secret weapon.’
‘Moses,’ said Chronicle, ‘wake up.’
Sir Charles tied round the ferret’s neck a strip of black and white checked material cut from a scarf.
‘When George sees the Northumbrian tartan,’ said Sir Charles, ‘he’ll know help is on its way.’
‘And when he reads our message, he’ll know what to do when the balloon goes up,’ said Mike.
2
‘Still no answer, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper. ‘I can hear the phone ringing … no chatter from anyone.’
‘All of them will be exhausted,’ said Mike. ‘Once, in the trenches, I slept through a bombardment.’
‘Keep trying,’ said Sir Charles, ‘we stick to the routine … keep casting the fly. Maybe our persistence will be rewarded.’
‘Remember that day on the Tweed? We cast flies all day and caught nothing.’
‘Which is why, gentlemen, I am ordering the start of phase one of, “Operation Slugs on Melons” … Mike.’
Mike wound up a field telephone. Into its handset, without explanation, clearly expecting those he was ringing to know what he was talking about, he said, ‘Slugs on melons. I repeat, “Slugs on melons”.’
‘Chronicle, prepare Moses for action,’ said Sir Charles, ‘check the message he is carrying is secure. Unless Doyle does something stupid between now and sunrise, Moses goes in at first light. All we need is enough light for the boys to read our note.’
‘What if Moses doesn’t find Jack and George?’ said Mike.
‘He’s Jack’s pet. They went everywhere together. The lad was kind to the beast. Once he is inside the Monument I am certain he will seek out Jack. If he doesn’t and if, for whatever reason, the boys don’t get our message, we put everything on hold. We accept that once again Dole has the upper hand.’
3
‘When I say, push, lads,’ said the corporal in charge, ‘I bloody well mean push. Push!’
Ever so slowly, at least at first, the fire engine began to move.
‘This is how they built the pyramids,’ said one of the pushers, ‘bloody slave labour. Why don’t they use its engine? That’s what I want to know … bloody slave labour.’
‘Walters, come here,’ said the corporal.
‘You want me to stop pushing, Corporal?’
‘I want you where you can smell my breath. Walters, you are a Geordie Snot Gobbler. What are you, Walters?’
‘A Geordie Snot Gobbler, Corporal.’
‘I’ll tell you why we are not using the fire engine’s engine … it’s because we don’t want this geezer Doyle to know we’re going to use its ladder to rescue those young heroes held hostage, against their will, in the Monument. Now, if you don’t mind and it’s not t
oo much trouble, get back to building the pyramids afore Corporal Pharaoh, here, turns nasty and tears up your weekend pass. And keep your mouth shut otherwise we might as well use the bloody engine … the bloody noise you’re making. You’re a disgrace to the British Army, Walters.’
‘Yes, Corporal.’
At one hundred and thirty-five feet the monument’s railed platform was beyond the reach of any ladder. The plan was to use the fire engine’s turntable ladder as a stepping stone.
The fireman in charge kept the ladder just off the column. This was to enable the marine, tasked with getting to the top, to see the railings at which he’d be aiming his grappling iron. The ladder, so much thinner at its tip than at its base, now fully extended, resting against nothing, swayed.
Sir Charles had personally picked the officer for the job. Hamish was the best of the best: came from a good family, fit, a crack shot, an experienced mountaineer, a little mad and blessed with a sense of adventure that had led him to climb Ben Nevis, in winter, in a kilt and without wearing underpants.
At the top of the ladder, as if perched on the end of a wobbly fishing rod, Hamish swung the grappling iron.
‘He’s like one of those cowboys in the pictures,’ said the marksman, ‘when they swing their lassos over their heads.’
‘Bet he doesn’t do it first try,’ said the Photographer.
‘How much?’
‘A bob.’
‘Put your money on top of that ammunition box.’
‘I haven’t got a bob on me.’
‘Bugger that … if you lose you’ll be wanting to give me one of your dirty pictures. You’re a joke, you are.’
‘Look!’
The grappling iron soared.
‘It’s over the railings.’
‘It won’t hold.’
‘It will.’
‘How much?’
‘Piss off.’
‘He’s done it; good job you didn’t take my bet. If you had I’d be short of a bob.’
‘I did.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘My god, he’s fallen off the ladder.’
‘No, he hasn’t. He’s climbing up the rope … go on, lad, you can do it. Where’s my camera? Your blathering’s made me forget my profession.’
4
From the ledge at the top of the Monument Hamish let down a rope to a waiting fireman. To this thin rope a fireman tied a much heavier rope. Hand over hand Hamish now pulled this rope to the top.
When both its ends were secure – one end to the railings at the top of the monument, the other to a ratchet bolted to the fire engine – two firemen began to work a long steel pole backwards and forwards.
Ever so slowly the rope began to tighten, rising from the ground like one of those barrage balloons floating over Armstrong’s gun factory.
When its tension was judged to be correct a fireman gave Hamish a thumbs up.
To test the boys’ escape route, Hamish sent down a message on a hook. ‘Can you send me up a cup of tea? What a pity gravity only works one way!’
Sir Charles did his best to restrain his optimism. He was an old campaigner and knew everything there was to know about the cup and the lip. Still, it was a good start. If George and Jack were to be got out alive they needed luck by the bucketful.
Another piece of the jigsaw was in place. At a given signal Hamish would blow the door connecting the outside platform to the Monument’s internal stairs. The boys would run up those stairs, dash out onto the platform, slide down the rope and be back at The Hall in time for tea. That was the plan. Sir Charles was too aware of what could go wrong. But for the life of him he could not think of an alternative.
In the redoubt a team of five heavily armed soldiers joined the photographer and the marksman. When they were given the signal, it would be their job to blow open the door set into the base of the Monument.
5
In the trenches this was the time you blew your whistle and led your men over the top. The time when you committed yourself. He’d read the message tied to Moses’ collar without the aid of a candle. If he could do that, then so could Jack and George; no good sending a message to them when it was dark. He prayed the beast loved Jack enough to make it want to go straight to him. This was the part of the plan over which he had no control. He wasn’t a gambling man. He’d watched friends in Monte Carlo take the most enormous risks. Their gambling had been voluntary, done for the hell of it. He was gambling with lives, not money. He had no choice. Dawn was exciting the starlings. His mouth was dry.
For the umpteenth time he re-read the note attached to Moses’s collar. ‘GEORGE JACK When you get this note shout, “Slugs on Melons”. We will hear you. Never mind how, just shout. When the air raid sounds you must RUN up the stairs to the top of the Monument. And I mean RUN. Good luck, Egghead.’ He stroked the ferret’s back. ‘He’s very well behaved for a ferret.’
‘I’ve used fisherman’s knots,’ said Mike; ‘it won’t come off. Luggage labels are indestructible.’
Before sending Moses on his mission Sir Charles looked at the Eavesdropper.
‘All quiet, sir, nothing happening.’
‘I’ve been ringing as per orders, sir,’ said the Negotiator.
‘The line is working, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper. ‘I’ve heard it ring.’
‘But he’s not answered?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He’s not screamed or shouted?’
‘No, sir.’
Sir Charles made up his mind. ‘Are you ready, Chronicle?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Good man. You’re in charge of the beast. He likes you. I can tell. I’ll let you do the honours. He’s used to you handling him. Best to keep the wee chap as calm as possible. You know what to do?’
‘I take Moses to the soldier over there. He climbs the ladder, not the big ladder, but the ladder off the small fire engine.’
‘That’s right, the one we used to access the vent slit through which we inserted the Eavesdropper’s microphone.’
‘I give Moses to the soldier. He climbs the ladder, puts Moses, with his message for George and Jack, through the slit.’
‘And then we all cross our fingers,’ said Sir Charles. ‘If only animals could talk. Off you go, Chronicle. Good luck.’
6
Moses had been gone more than half an hour. What the hell was the ferret doing? The Eavesdropper, hands clapped to the earphones straddling his head, kept letting Sir Charles know that nothing was happening. Then …
‘Sir, I can hear the boys.’
‘Have they got the message?’
‘Too early to say, sir.’ The Eavesdropper concentrated, fell into his habit of placing a finger gently against each earphone. ‘They’re whispering, sir. Something’s happening in there that’s giving them something to talk about. It’s not Doyle … no sound coming from him. Jack’s whispering, “Hello” … Moses has found them, sir.’
Sir Charles picked up the spare head set, heard Jack say, ‘Moses, you’ve come back.’
It’s up to you, Jack. Take the lead, Jack. Read the note. Can you not see it? Show it to George. George, do you not see the Northumbrian tartan. It is your tartan. Talk. Tell me that you know what to do. That you’ve read the note. Say the code. Tell me that you are able to do all that the plan asks; that you are not tied up, that you are free and able to climb the stairs; reach the door at the top and you will be safe. Please, read the note.
‘Say the code,’ said Sir Charles, ‘say it … say it. Dear God, say it.’
‘Give them time,’ said Mike; ‘it’s a lot for them to take in. They are not in the best shape.’
Why was Doyle shouting? He’d a vile mouth. What was happening inside that hell hole? Had Moses bitten Doyle? If only he could see what was happening. Say the code, lads. Shout i
t out. Scream it out. Whisper it, but just say it. A lot of banging. What was Doyle doing now?
‘He’s done that before, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper. ‘I don’t think he’s hitting the boys, more like lashing out at walls or anything else that’s in his way.’
‘He’s very angry.’
‘He is that, sir.’
Jack’s voice, ‘Are you going to kill us?’
‘I might.’
‘Have you not made up your mind?’
‘Shut up! Shut up!’
‘Slugs on melons.’ George’s voice.
‘What was that? I’ve told you, shut up. Kids, you’re driving me mad.’
‘Slugs on melons.’ … George’s voice … shouting.
‘Slugs on melons.’ … Jack’s voice … shouting.
‘Slugs on melons … slugs on melons.’ … George and Jack together … shouting … shouting.
‘Damn you both. I will kill you … up the stairs out of my way or I will … I don’t trust you two … slugs on melons … you’re mad … all the English are mad … out of my way, up the stairs, you’re not going to take Doyle by surprise.’
‘Give the signal,’ said Sir Charles.
7
Into a cloudless morning sky Mike fired a flare. Before it had reached its zenith the soldiers in the redoubt were running towards their objective.
As they did so, the Photographer gave the marksman a thumbs up, as if to say, ‘The Irishman’s had it now … wouldn’t like to be in his shoes.’
On cue an air raid siren began to wail. In the tramcar the Eavesdropper told Sir Charles, ‘They’re on their way to the top, sir. I can hear them. They’ve heard the siren, sir, and are on their way. They know what to do. What a racket … wouldn’t like to get in their way, sir.’
From the top of the Monument … Bang!
‘He’s blown the door,’ said Sir Charles. He checked through binoculars. ‘Hamish is going in.’
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