by Hilary Green
‘Right,’ said Mitch.
Nick opened the door of the van and stepped down onto the short turf of the clearing. Ahead of him the ground sloped away so steeply that he was looking over the tops of the oak and beech trees which clung to the escarpment. Beyond them lay the undulating farmland which stretched away to the distant, hazy whale-back humps of the South Downs; an ordered geometry of fields and woods dotted with villages and farms and crossed with roads, along which moving vehicles sent back sharp glints of reflected light from the westering sun. Somewhere, Nick thought, in that supremely civilized landscape, Stratos Zahran was holed up like a predatory animal with his prisoner—or prisoners. With every minute that passed Nick was becoming more certain that Stone and Leo must have been captured, or worse. If either of them was still free they would undoubtedly have found their way to a telephone by now and made contact. Nick bent his mind to the landscape in front of him as if some subtle antennae in his brain could pick up a signal which could not be transmitted by more conventional means.
To his left he could just make out the complex of buildings and runways which made up Gatwick airport, with a big jet slanting in well below the height at which he was standing. Immediately in front of him the land was not so flat, but somewhere in those gentle folds there must be a field large enough for an aircraft to take off. He turned back and climbed into the van.
‘Gatwick traffic control report no known movements of light aircraft in this area in the last two hours,’ Mitch said.
‘Well, maybe they’re still down there, somewhere,’ Nick said, ‘waiting to take off. Waiting for dark perhaps. Listen, get onto the local nick again and see if they can tell you whether any of the farmers around here use a light aircraft for crop-spraying or something. There must be some pretty big landowners in this part of the country and it’s not unusual for them to use private planes. Oh, and while you’re about it—just ask if any of the farms round here have been sold in the last year or so to Middle Eastern purchasers, or any foreign nationals for that matter.’
While Mitch went to work on that Nick picked up the mike and called the helicopter.
‘Firebird, this is Watchdog.’
‘Receiving you, Watchdog.’
‘Still no sign of either the Rolls or the Jag?’
‘Negative, Watchdog.’
‘OK. Here’s a new tack. Can you take a look at some of the farms and other large buildings down there and see if there is any sign of an airstrip, or anywhere an aircraft could take off?’
‘Roger, Watchdog,’ responded the pilot, ‘but it’ll have to be a quick look. Ten more minutes and I’ve got to push off to refuel.’
‘OK, Firebird,’ Nick replied. ‘I’ll see if I can organize a replacement for you. Let me know if you spot anything. Out.’
He made the necessary calls to arrange for another helicopter to take over. Just as he finished Mitch said,
‘Pascoe for you again.’
Nick took the phone.
‘Delta Two.’
‘The balloon’s gone up,’ Pascoe said. ‘The PM’s office had a call five minutes ago. They’re threatening to kill the boy unless the government announces by eight o’clock tomorrow morning that they have withdrawn all objections to a representative of the PLO attending the conference.’
‘Where did the call come from?’ Nick asked.
‘A phone-box in West London,’ Pascoe replied. ‘Obviously they must have had someone standing by to pass on the message.’ ‘Not a lot of help there,’ Nick commented. ‘What’s the official attitude?’
‘Officially,’ said Pascoe, ‘of course there’s no question of yielding to terrorist demands. But as long as we can keep the lid on this there is still room for the government to manoeuvre. If it becomes public knowledge on the other hand they will have no choice but to take a hard line if they want to maintain any credibility.’
‘Tricky,’ commented Nick.
‘It’s a good deal more than that!’ Pascoe said sharply. ‘It’s absolutely vital that no word of this should get out to the press before tomorrow morning. If you get the faintest hint of any reporters sniffing around, clobber them.’
‘Right,’ said Nick.
‘Any further developments at your end?’
Nick told him what there was to tell.
‘I’m on my way down,’ Pascoe said. ‘There’s no more I can do here.’
Nick had been aware of Mitch talking on the radio and when he put the phone down Mitch put a sheet of paper in front of him.
‘Bingo!’ he said.
‘What?’ Nick asked.
‘The local police have come up with an address. This place was sold a year back to a Mr Rashid, who claims to be from Kuwait.’
Nick looked at the address on the paper.
‘Huntersford Farm. Where is it?’
‘Here,’ Mitch pointed to the map.
Nick reached for the microphone.
‘Firebird, this is Watchdog. Come in please.’
‘Firebird here.’
‘Firebird, can you check a place called Huntersford Farm?’ He gave the map coordinates. ‘See if you can spot any sign of a light aircraft or possibly the two cars we’re looking for.’
‘Roger Watchdog. Firebird out.’
Nick went outside again. He could see the chopper beating away to the south-west. He lifted his binoculars and searched the ground in the same direction but it was impossible to pick out the farm at this distance. He saw the chopper swing round and then drop lower. Mitch called him from inside the van.
‘Watchdog, this is Firebird.’ The pilot’s voice came flatly from the loudspeaker. ‘I think this may be what you’re looking for. There is definitely an airstrip here. It’s only grass and I nearly missed it but there’s a windsock flying by the corner of a barn. No sign of an aircraft, or of the cars, but there would be plenty of room in the barns to hide them.’
‘Thank you Firebird,’ Nick said. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
‘OK, Watchdog. I’m off home to bye-byes. Oh, by the way, I don’t know if it’s any help, but there are a couple of bloody great skid marks down there on the runway. Looks like two vehicles of some kind nearly had a head-on collision.’
‘Very interesting,’ murmured Nick, ‘—but I don’t know what it means. Thanks for your help, Firebird. Out.’
He called Pascoe on the scrambler phone in his car and told him the news.
‘Don’t do anything until I get to you,’ Pascoe said. ‘I’ll rendezvous with you at…’ he gave a set of co-ordinates which identified a road junction about half a mile from the farm, ‘…in forty-five minutes. I will inform all other units. You just get down there and keep an eye on the place from a distance. Is that understood?’
‘Understood,’ Nick replied.
‘Marriot!’ Pascoe’s voice had a warning edge. ‘It’s obviously possible that Zahran may be holding Delta One and Omega. I don’t want any knight-errantry from you. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Nick heavily.
As they bumped away down the track which led to the road, the sun had set, leaving a banner of purple and crimson cloud above the western horizon; and the shadows deepened as they wound down off the hills. By the time they reached the rendezvous the long summer evening was almost over and when Pascoe joined them it was dark. He brought with him the two agents codenamed Kappa One and Two, Barney Lightfoot and ‘Viv’ Vivian, and a police car containing two of the top brass from the local force. Ten minutes later they were joined by an army staff car and a truck full of quiet men in dark clothing who wore no insignia or badges of rank. Pascoe conferred with the other officers and then called Nick over.
‘How sure are we that this is the place?’ one of them asked.
‘Not sure at all, sir,’ Nick replied. ‘We only know that it belongs to a man of Middle Eastern origin who apparently has a private plane; and we assume that as none of our road-blocks have picked up Zahran and the rest of them they must still be somewhere in this area
.’
‘Unless the birds have flown, literally,’ said another man.
‘That is possible,’ Pascoe conceded, ‘but there are no records of light aircraft movements in this area for the relevant time.’
‘Well,’ said the army officer, ‘this is your show, Pascoe. What do we do next?’
‘I shall pay a call on Mr Rashid,’ said Pascoe. ‘After all, he may be a perfectly law-abiding citizen. Marriot, you can come with me.’
Nick got into the driving seat of Pascoe’s car and they drove slowly up the lane and turned into the drive which led to the farm. The front of the house was dark. Nick wondered what would happen if they rang the doorbell and got no reply. His speculations were interrupted by the sudden chatter of a machine-pistol and a line of bullets kicked up the gravel just ahead of the car. Nick stood on the brake and the car skidded to a halt. A voice shouted to them from an upstairs window.
‘That’s far enough! Identify yourself.’
Pascoe wound down his window.
‘Commander James Pascoe of the Special Security Service. And you, I assume, are Stratos Zahran.’
‘Who I am is of no importance,’ came the answer. ‘What I have to say to you is. You know that we have a prisoner who is very important to your Prime Minister. We have also two of your agents—the man Stone and a girl who calls herself Leonora Carr. We have given your government until eight o’clock tomorrow morning to make the public announcement that they will accept the representative of the PLO at the Geneva conference; but now that you have found us I am tightening the deadline. Unless I have a personal assurance from your Prime Minister that our request will be met by midnight we shall shoot one of your agents. That will perhaps convince you that we mean business. You have one hour and a half, Mr Pascoe. That is all.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Pascoe exclaimed. ‘How can we possibly get a decision like that through in that time?’
‘That, Mr Pascoe,’ Zahran replied, ‘is, as you say, your problem. I need not point out, of course, that the slightest sign of any military or police activity in the vicinity of the house will result in the immediate deaths of both your agents. Now go back and deliver your message, before I shoot your driver!’
‘Let’s go,’ Pascoe said quietly.
Nick put the car into reverse and backed away slowly down the drive, then turned and drove back to the junction where the others were waiting. Pascoe went to report to his fellow officers and Nick joined Mitch, Barney and Viv by the communications van.
‘Well?’ Mitch asked.
‘It’s them all right,’ Nick said.
‘We guessed that when we heard the shots,’ commented Viv. ‘Either that—or they’ve got a very nasty way with trespassers down here.’
‘What about Stone and this Omega character?’ Barney asked.
‘They’ve got them too,’ Nick told him. There was a kind of leaden chill in his stomach. ‘They’re threatening to shoot one of them if they don’t get a personal undertaking from the PM by midnight.’
‘Midnight!’ said Viv, and Barney murmured softly, ‘Christ!’
Mitch silently offered Nick a hip-flask but he shook his head. Tonight, of all nights, he needed his brain as clear and quick as he could make it. They were all quiet for a while. Mitch and the other two knew and respected the long-standing partnership between Nick and Stone and understood what was going through his mind—or thought they did.
‘Who is Omega?’ Barney said again, after a while. ‘I’ve never heard of the guy.’
‘It’s not a guy, it’s a girl,’ Nick said unwillingly.
‘A girl!’ said Viv, and they all looked at Nick with new speculation in their eyes.
Pascoe came over.
‘We must know what’s going on in there,’ he said. ‘I want someone to plant listening devices near any window where there seems to be activity; but remember, if they catch a glimpse of you it could mean one or both of our people being shot. Zahran has a reputation for sticking to his word in an utterly ruthless manner.’
‘We’ll go,’ said Barney at once.
‘No!’ said Nick. ‘This one’s down to me— and I’ll do it on my own. Two people means twice the chance of being spotted.’
‘Very well,’ Pascoe agreed. ‘Keep in touch by radio, and try to find out where the hostages are being held. Good luck.’
Nick went into the van and collected the equipment he needed. Then he smeared his face with camouflage make-up, checked his gun and tucked a couple of spare clips into his pocket.
‘Do you want me to run you up as far as the entrance?’ Barney offered.
Nick shook his head. ‘No, on a still night like this they’d hear the car as soon as we started the engine. I’m going cross-country, on foot.’
He took a last look at the map, hung a pair of night-glasses round his neck and headed for a gate leading into a nearby field. Once over the gate he turned to his right and slunk along the bottom of a hedgerow like a fox on a nocturnal hunting expedition. It seemed to take a very long time to traverse the three fields which separated him from the farm, stopping every fifty yards or so to strain his eyes and ears into the darkness for any sign of someone on watch; but at last he found himself among the barns at the rear of the house. From here on he moved even more cautiously, checking every building before he passed it, until he came to the last of a straggling series of outbuildings, which appeared to be a woodshed. From here only a lawned garden area separated him from the house itself. There were lights in the windows of a room on the ground floor but the windows themselves appeared to be covered with shutters or blinds. Nick crouched in the shadow of the shed and studied the house and the space between it and himself. To his left a long wall ran the length of the garden and in the corner where it met the house there appeared to be a gate. Nick turned and worked his way back round the woodshed and across a small yard until he reached the far side of the wall. Sheltered by it from the view of anyone in the house he glided silently along it to the gate. A gentle pressure on the latch revealed the fact that it was locked. He looked up. Along the top of the wall there was some kind of creeper, sufficient to give a bit of cover. He reached up, got his fingers over the top of the brickwork and heaved himself up, scrabbling with his toes for crevices which would give him a purchase, until he was able to lie flat along the top of the wall. It was then that he realized that the sheltering creeper was a berberis, every branch of which was covered with needle-sharp thorns.
It took him several long, painful minutes to free himself from the grip of the branches, which clung like claws to his flesh. Then he lay still and inspected the house again. The upper windows were all dark but he was certain that there must be watchers in them, as there had been at the front of the house. How many men did Zahran have with him? There was Farnaby, of course, but Nick reckoned that he might be more a hindrance than a help to the terrorists in the present situation. Apart from that there was the man who had met Zahran when he arrived; the owner of the farm, presumably, and any men he happened to have working for him. Quite possibly there were no more than five or six of them. One at the front of the house, a couple at least to guard the hostages, Zahran himself—maybe only one watching the back. Nick wished he could be sure of that.
As he watched his eye caught a faint, metallic glint in the central window of the upper storey. He lifted the glasses to his eyes. Yes, there it was—the faint reflection of light from below on the barrel of a rifle. He searched the other windows but as far as he could tell they were empty. The man holding the gun was not visible, standing back a little presumably from the window itself. Nick eased himself along the wall to the corner. As long as he kept close to the house the man would not be able to see him unless he leaned out. In the corner was a small shrubbery. Nick swung his legs over the edge of the wall and let himself down among the bushes, suppressing a yelp of pain as the sharp thorns of the berberis found a gap between his jacket and the top of his trousers and clawed a weal across his stomach.
For a few minutes he crouched in the darkness among the bushes. There was no sign of movement in the garden. Stooping low he began to creep along the back of the house towards the lighted windows. When he reached the first of them he could hear a low murmur of voices from inside—two, no three voices; then, unmistakably, Farnaby’s high-pitched, protesting tones. Nick reached up and pressed the suction pad on the first listening device to the glass of the window. Then he slunk along to the second window and fixed another one there. Once satisfied that both were firmly attached he crept back to the shrubbery in the corner and worked his way in among the bushes. Securely hidden and far enough away from the upper window where the guard was posted he felt safe in using his radio.
‘Control—’ he spoke scarcely above a whisper, ‘—this is Delta Two.’
Pascoe himself answered.
‘This is Control. Well done, Delta Two. We have excellent reception. What have you to report?’
‘One man with a rifle in the central first floor window at the back,’ Nick murmured. ‘The rest seem to be in one room on the ground floor, also at the back. I think I heard three of them. Can you tell if the hostages are there?’
‘We think the main hostage is with them,’ Pascoe replied, ‘but there is no sign at the moment that Delta One and Omega are there.’
‘Do you want me to try and locate them?’ Nick asked.
‘Negative, Delta Two,’ came the instant response. ‘We can’t take any further risks. You can come back now.
‘Negative, Control,’ replied Nick in his turn. ‘I’m staying here. At least I’m close enough to do something in an emergency.’
There was a slight hesitation before Pascoe responded.
‘Very well, stay if you are quite sure that there is no risk of your being seen. But you are to take no action without prior instructions. Is that clear?’
‘Clear, Control,’ Nick said grudgingly. ‘Delta Two out.’
