Soldiers of God

by Harold Porter

© copyright by Harold Porter, October 2000
Cover Art by Jenny Dioon
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

CHAPTER 1

The iron gallows supported a loading gauge painted red and white. Mark turned his van in to the entrance of the supermarket carpark and ducked his head involuntarily as he passed underneath. He edged it over the speed hump, and when he was clear of the steel barrier, steered to park neatly eight rows back from the store’s front and twenty three spaces to the left of the main door. He placed the van precisely, as he had parked it precisely seven times before for rehearsal.

After switching off the engine, he swallowed hard. His mouth was already dry, his tee shirt showing a dark streak down his chest where his sweat was soaking the cotton material. The dashboard clock showed eight seventeen. Mark smiled. Four hours three minutes to wait. He locked both doors and wound up both windows, then settled back in the seat with the pistol on his lap and his hands lying relaxed on top of it.

Three hours and thirty six minutes later, and Mark had not moved. Keeping motionless, like watching, was a self-imposed discipline essential to survival. Even the tickle of the sweat trickling down his cheeks could not provoke him into moving.

"When the sun touches the next frame in the window, he’ll arrive," he told himself. He watched. If he watched carefully, he could see the sun sliding down the smoked glass of the supermarket wall. Because of the heat coiling from the concrete of the car park, the image was shimmering as if the sun was alive. Mark liked living things. Even the pistol under his fingers came alive, sometimes.

Belfast was wilting under its third week of Saharan summer. Yellow haze filled the streets with the taste of yesterday’s cars. It had become a city of open windows and closed curtains, where dogs shuffled only to follow the shift of the shade and the few pedestrians slouched along as if the bones had been sucked from their shoulders.

He was nearly passing out - maybe that was why he missed seeing the woman park her car and walk inside the store. The plastic of the cheap seat was welded to his back and thighs, itching and giving off a smell which reminded him of bargain price perfume. For a second, he closed his eyes and whispered, "Thank you, Lord." Behind the tinted glass, unmoving, he was invisible. Invisibility spelled life. Only if he stayed alive could he serve.

The charcoal sun touched the bar of the window. Mark smiled to himself and fondled the pistol with the tips of his fingers, then relaxed. He remained motionless - the smile had been a compromise with his self discipline. Only his eyes moved, darting from window to mirror to windscreen. He watched the cars in the car park, the occasional shoppers as they straggled for the shade inside the supermarket, the traffic on the main road behind. He was all seeing, all unseen. Like God.

Mark was God’s tool. New minted, maybe, but a tool waiting for the call, eager to do God’s work with others of his kind. He sighed and watched the sun in the glass.

The call was coming. Excitement was catching in his throat. The sweat slick on his tee shirt had spread to cover his skinny midriff. "Please, Lord, bring him to me," he prayed. "Please!"

He was staring at the main road. A dull red, family hatchback was slowing as if to turn in. Anonymous, Mark noticed. He approved. ‘Never shout when you can stay silent,’ was a tenet of his trade. Hence his unmarked van. Hence his preference for invisibility.

Mark watched. The car ducked under the yellow and black load gauge, then bounced cautiously over the speed hump. "The General," he whispered, and squirmed in his seat. Delight had him dizzy. Suppressing the emotion, he took hold of the pistol. Only the dead can afford emotion.

The car swept round and came creeping towards him. Mark memorized the registration number out of habit. "Lord," he prayed, "let me pass the test. Choose me. Let me join the ranks of Your Holy saints."

He glanced into the mirrors again - a last check. A woman was pushing a grimy buggy along the pavement behind him. As he took in the rat’s tails of her blond hair, the ridge where her tee shirt stretched taut across the peaks of her sagging breasts, he thought, "You don’t know it, darling, but the whole world’s about to change." His chest tightened. His breath came short. "For you and vermin like you."

The car stopped in a space not far from Mark’s van, parking almost in with the shopping herd but sufficiently withdrawn from it to drive out unhindered. A position, too, where the driver could observe his vehicle while he was out of it. Mark nodded approval. In Mark’s paradise, everyone was professional. He felt the pistol, checking the safety catch, then wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans. He took hold of the butt, curling his forefinger round the trigger. "Just let me see you," he whispered.

The car door opened. The driver seemed to extrude from the steel, a mountain of a man with jet black hair as well groomed as a coconut and a matching beard which covered most of his face. Mark gazed in awe. "It is the General," he breathed. "He’s come!"

The General gazed about him with the air of a man untouchable as he locked the car door. When he straightened to slide the car keys into his pocket, the supermarket with its concrete lawn and maggot customers shrank to insignificance.

"The Lord’s anointed," Mark whispered. He had heard the rumors, of course. He knew the reputation. But he had never seen the flesh. He nodded his pleasure and placed both of his hands on the steering wheel where the General could see them through the glass when he came closer. The General had shown himself to be a careful man. The General would be watching for the signs.

Mark shrank in his seat. The General was rolling his massive shoulders to throw off the constriction of the car while he gazed unhurriedly around. Satisfied, he eased his shirt collar from his neck with his forefinger, then began to saunter directly across the open space towards Mark’s van.

A fearless man, thought Mark. There’s few enough would stroll towards this van, knowing that I’m sitting inside it. He reached across to unlock the door, then resumed his staring at the supermarket. He did not look round as he heard the passenger door open. He felt the van sag as the General forced his bulk into the cockpit. When he did turn to look at his guest, he saw that the General had opened the window and was fiddling with the door mirror so that he could watch behind the vehicle from the cab.

When he was satisfied with his precautions, the General breathed, "Aye!" and turned to look at Mark. "Brother!" he said. "It is delighted I am to be meeting you at last. Can you not open your window, man, or must we all expire of the heat stroke?" He spoke in the gentle lilt of the Scottish Isles.

Mark wound down his window, then offered his hand in greeting. "General," he croaked.

"Mark, now," said the General, ignoring the outstretched hand and staring at the Ulsterman through flat agate eyes, "let me look, brother. I feel I know you so well."

"So you should, General," said Mark, his hand drooping. "We’ve been watching each other for long enough."

"Aye," acknowledged the General. He chuckled. "Metaphorically, so we have." He enclosed Mark’s delicate, almost feminine hand in his own great paw. "Yes, you and I have wasted too many years glaring at each other through the barbed wire of ideology."

"Amen to that, sir," agreed Mark.

For a while, the General sat silent, ruminating on the passage of time. After a while, he said, "But you are now come to our way of thinking, I’m told?"

"I have so," said Mark.

"Then," asked the General, "why the pistol, Mark?"

"Safety, sir," said Mark. "You can never tell these days... " and as his voice trailed off, he laid the weapon on the worn rubber mat by his feet.

"The safety catch, brother," said the General in mild reproof.

"Sure, sure," said Mark. He reached down, felt for the catch and set it to safe.

"Aye." The General nodded. "Trust amongst brethren. It is The Laird’s way."

"Amen," said Mark.

"You have enjoyed a long career. Now I know why." The General smiled. "I have always admired your work," he continued. "You are truly talented, praise be. I rate you as one of the best in the world, in your line. Yet so far, you have always chosen to employ your gifts in a false cause."

"From you, General, that is high praise and a just reprimand, sir," said Mark.

The General nodded. After a glance in the mirror, he turned back to face the Ulsterman. "Mark," he said, "believe me, I have given thanks to the Laird every waking hour since I heard that you wished to join our struggle. It may sound strange to you, but there is a lack of men with your skills who are also of our persuasion. Have you been told what will be required of you, now?"

"Some of it, sure." Mark was cagey. The General in the flesh was a more powerful figure than he had expected, not a man to trifle with. Uncertainty had him hesitating to make the final commitment. He blurted, "Really, General, I’m waiting for a sign. What would we be doing?"

"You are a wise man," the General sighed, "indeed, you are. True belief only comes through doubt and torment."

Mark waited for an explanation. The silence stretched out. Mark turned to look. The General seemed to have fallen into a trance. He was gazing in the direction of the supermarket. "Brother," he breathed, "there is your sign."

Mark followed the look. A woman had just come out of the door. She had stopped and was leaning against a trolley piled high with groceries. She gazed down into her handbag, her eyes screwed up against the glare. Mark felt a stab of fear. "How did she pass me?" he wondered. He glanced at the General.

The big man was watching the woman with the rapt expression of a witness to the Great Revelation. His eyes were glowing, the tip of his fleshy tongue showing shocking pink from the jungle of his beard. Mark chilled.

He looked back to Maeve. She was trying to stuff her purse into the handbag, and as usual, the handbag was already full. When at last she forced the clasp shut, she straightened, revealing her familiar square, open face.

"Does he think she’s here as a backup?" Mark wondered. "Does the General think I’ve led him into a trap? But surely he wouldn’t come alone either? Surely, he has backup within calling?"

Maeve had reached her car. She unlocked the boot and began to heft the bags of shopping into it. The General stared. He might never have seen a week’s shopping placed in a car before, he found the sight so fascinating. Mark shivered. The General was almost drooling. His hands writhed about each other and his breath came in short, sibilant gasps.

With her bags stowed, Maeve trundled the trolley back to the compound by the store front, then walked listlessly back to her car. She looks worn down, Mark thought. What’s the matter with her, these days? She’s exhausted, in need of a good rest.

She closed the boot and squeezed down the gap between the cars to the driver’s door. Again, she fumbled in her handbag to find the key. Why put it away when you know you’ll need it in a minute? thought Mark. I keep telling you not to.

She found the key and unlocked the door. Instead of squeezing inside, though, Maeve stood holding the door open while, Mark assumed, the interior cooled. "Stop wasting time, woman!" he thought. "Clear off, so’s I can get on talking with the General."

Maeve obediently slid inside the car and opened the windows before she closed the door. The engine started with the peculiar growl it always made. Mark stole a glance at the General. He had heard the sound, too. He was beaming, a man verging on ecstasy. "If he’s going to be snide about the car," thought Mark, "then I’ll tell him. Micky Doyle’s going to look at it, so he is, and Micky Doyle’s the best. And sure, she’s only a woman who bought a car second hand, so she is."

The car was moving. Maeve reversed out of the parking space, then turned it and made for the exit. The General was smiling as he watched, the smile of a man calculating his next move in some long laid plan.

Mark squirmed in his seat. His stomach churned. The sweat beading his forehead turned to ice, as it did when he was on a job and sensed something had gone wrong. He looked away, looked at Maeve, at the supermarket, at anything to avoid the General’s hard glinting eyes.

Maeve reached the main road. She stopped. As she sat waiting for a gap in the traffic, she turned her head this way and that. A slight frown creased her forehead. "Go home, woman," thought Mark. "Go to bed. Sure, and you look all done in." Then the General was crushing him back in his seat as he leaned across to watch through Mark’s window.

As if she had heard him, Maeve looked straight at the van. Mark saw her relax as she recognized it. She lifted her hand to wave to him. Then, the gesture froze in mid air, her face paled and the car leapt out into the road.

Rubber shrieked. Brakes howled. The distinctive sound of Maeve’s engine bellowed up to full revs as the car shot past the rear of the van.

The General subsided into his seat then, allowing Mark to settle himself back into his driving position. "Och!" he said. "She must have recognized me." He chuckled. "It was the red hair that had me fooled." He shook his head. "Well, well," he mused, "the Good Laird sent women to deceive men, as the Book itself tells us. Now Mark, tell me. You wouldn’t happen to know the lady, would you?"

Mark chilled more. "Eh?" he said. "Know her?" He wondered, "Is the question a trap? The General has a fine reputation as a setter of traps. A godly man does not lie, not like in the old days." He shrugged himself erect in his seat. "Sure an’ I know her," he blustered. "Why should I not? She’s been my wife for the best part o’ twenty years."

"Is that a fact, now?" breathed the General. "Your wife, is it?" He seemed surprised, though whether at the information or the admission, Mark could not tell. He began to twist a lock of his beard round his forefinger. "What would she be calling herself these days?"

"Maeve."

The General nodded. "So am I to assume, now," he asked, "that the groceries she put in the car were yours?"

"Sure an’ they were," said Mark. "But I didn’t risk a meet wi’ you in broad daylight to discuss my domestic arrangements."

"No, no," said the General. "I appreciate that." He sniggered darkly. "But it’s little hope, I am thinking, you have of getting your supper tonight."

"How so?" asked Mark.

The General nodded. "It is most pleased I am to have met you," he said. "I am thinking this meeting is blessed by the Laird. Seeing your wife, Mark, has answered questions which have plagued me for two decades. You cannot guess what a relief that is. Particularly at this moment." He reached out and hugged the small Ulsterman to him. "Aye, Mark, you are an honest man. It is said truly that the Laird moves in mysterious ways." As he let go his grip, and said, "Brother, your wife is the sign. The Laird Himself has just been speaking to the both of us. He’s telling me to move swiftly to prepare for His again coming, and to you to say that you must march in the front rank. I’ll be saying farewell to you for the now. There’s a call I must be making. Fear nothing, Mark. Your instructions will come by the usual source within the day. Pack your bag, son. Burnish your sword and gird up your loins. Prepare to answer the call of the Laird’s bugle."

* * * * *

The traffic light showed red. Maeve jammed on the brakes. Having risked stopping, she held the car with its gear engaged, ready for a quick start. All the time that the traffic was streaming across the junction in front of her, she searched in the mirrors. Mark’s van did not appear, but then, she did not expect it to. McKendrick’s car, possibly, (what was he driving?) or more likely a local ghost, she thought. She huddled down in the seat, waiting, revving the engine.

Amber showed. Maeve lurched forward and turned left without indicating. Her foot rammed down on the accelerator pedal. The car’s tail sagged and snaked under the thrust. As she worked up through the gears, she watched behind through the mirror.

Two other vehicles followed her round, a small tipper lorry, a grimy white colour, and a blue hatchback. The next lights showed green and she made a right in a controlled drift. The tipper followed belatedly, cutting across the track of a bus with a suicidal verve as the lights were changing to red. The hatchback stopped. Law abiding? Or confident, because there was more than one?

They were quick, she thought. They’re good.

The street ran between grimy brick warehouses. She controlled her speed and watched the lorry. It was increasing speed, a plume of black smoke jetting from the exhaust.

Who would follow a car in a lorry? she wondered. Where’s McKendrick coming from? Panic seized her. Acid burned in her throat. She jammed on the brakes and swerved for the curb. The car lurched as the tires rubbed along the stones. When it stopped, Maeve huddled down in the seat.

The tipper trundled up. As it passed her, she looked up. The young man in the passenger seat was staring down. He met her gaze and grinned. Maeve shivered. Should she jump out and run? No. High brick walls. locked doors. Nowhere to hide. Certain death.

"It’ll happen fast," Tom had warned, "just when yer least expecting it. They’ll all be followin’ yer." He had patted her arm. "Don’t fret. Keep cool. Ignore the obvious ones. Look out for t’others."

Tom was twenty years ago. At this remove, Maeve could remember his flat, Lancashire accent better than his words. Not that Tom wasted words. He spoke few, and each was worth its weight in her own flesh.

There had been endless practices, in those days. Maeve had become the star. Tom was impressed, and later, Uncle came to share his admiration. Uncle had picked her for the team. Maeve had been proud. In the ignorance of youth, being picked was the full extent of her ambition. They told her and she knew; she had the instinct.

Instincts dulled with time, though. Tom had warned her against that, she remembered now, but she had never believed him. Until she cowered in the driving seat of a car in a Belfast side street watching a grimy lorry trundle past. Until, after all the years of watchfulness, after all the years of being prepared to run, her guard had slipped as she was waiting to leave a supermarket car park after buying the week’s shopping.

Clamped with fear, Maeve watched the lorry drive on. Far down the road, it turned off left. Maeve started the car again, waiting for a break in the trickle of traffic before pulling out and driving on. She took the next right, trying to control the tide of panic threatening to swamp her.

The warehouses ended. A mean street running straight between terraces of uniform houses. Maeve gazed around. She was lost. The panic spread through her belly. She glared at the houses with a blind hatred. Think, you silly bitch, she told herself, then realized she was driving in the wrong direction and must turn round to head in the direction the lorry had taken.

Her foot hovered over the brake pedal. "Whatever yer do, keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t give them the chance to aim steady." Tom’s words dribbling back, whispering in her head across the great rip in the cloth of time. She’d already fluffed that one. "Sorry, Tom," she said.

Realizing her mistake steadied her. The lore spelling safety began to reassert itself. She drove round the block, swinging round to head in the direction she needed to go. She crossed the main road again.

"That’s better, girl," she was telling herself, when she saw the lorry again. It was parked just round a corner, two blocks on. The passenger was out of the cab, staring about as if he was lost. Tee shirt, spotty face, dirty jeans. New boots?

"Too obvious," she told herself. "Ignore the obvious."

But what if the tactics had changed?

The panic flooded back. Maeve tried to crush it, while her heart tried to burst through her ribs and her stomach knotted with cramp. She found she was wiping her hands down her dress to hold her grip on the steering wheel.

She drove on. The lorry wasn’t following - at least, she could not see it in her mirror. But she knew the alternatives. McKendrick might have a second ghost - a third, a fourth - called in by radio. The lorry could be cruising along a road parallel and fooling her with superior local knowledge.

Houses lined the street, rows of proud Victorian terraces with lace shrouded windows. Other, narrower streets cris-crossed. As she passed each junction, Maeve searched both sides. No white lorry.

She glanced at the dashboard and forced her foot to relax off the accelerator. Fifty eight miles an hour was too much. The last thing she needed was attention from the police. She slowed more when she reached the first of the speed bumps. A posy of dead flowers leaned against a bullet pocked curb. Maeve began to feel sick.

Then she was in a modern council estate with neat rows of semi-detached houses standing behind tiny front gardens. Four women gossiped by a bus stop. Behind them, a foot patrol of soldiers straggled along, the rear man walking backwards and awkward as he guarded his mates’ backs.

To Maeve, the flak jackets and self loading rifles seemed more in keeping with the place than the bright domesticity struck by the summer frocks and shopping bags of the women. Further on, children were playing on a solitary patch of grass.

"Bang bang, you’re dead!"

"My da’s coming to get youse, you bastard... "

"What the hell have we created?" asked Maeve, but there was no one in the car to tell her. There was no one in the world could tell her. A mood of desolation settled on her.

Out of the estate and back among the terraces. Past the corner where Swiss Television paid children to bombard soldiers with bricks and insults one night when the world was at peace. Tragedy selling breakfast cereal.

There are other ways of keeping regular than eating mueslix, thought Maeve. I’m sick of it all; sick of the hypocrisy, sick of the blood filled gutters and sick of the fear filled nights. I’m sick of seeing the black balaclavas clench-fisting over the coffins. I’m sick of soldiers burning while bigots preach. Thank God McKendrick saw me. It’s all done with. Now I can go home.

But not finished. She still had to reach Uncle.

She checked the mirrors. Clear behind. She gripped the wheel. Two miles to go. Five minutes before Maeve disappeared for good.

She clamped a lid on her panic and concentrated on the road. She tried to drive as a normal person would drive while all the time her buttocks were clenched and her throat was gravel. Except that her eyes seemed locked on the rear view mirror and every side road she passed.

She drove into a quieter neighborhood of thirties houses. Chintz curtains drawn tight to protect precious furniture from the glare of the sun. She could see the bend where her journey would end. How carefully she had chosen this place. She slowed down. As she swung round the sweep of the road, she slowed more.

The row of shops came into view with the side road leading off immediately before it. Maeve stopped. A car was coming towards her. As she waited for it to pass, she saw the man.

He was leaning in the shade of a news agent’s door. The newspaper he was holding up to read covered his face. All Maeve could see was his legs. As the car passed, and Maeve began to move again, the man lowered the paper and stared at her.

For one second longer, she had choice - drive down the side road and run for the border, or ease in to the narrow opening in the high brick wall. Maeve made for the opening.

After the glare of the road, the shade was cool and tasted of soot and cat. Broken glass scrunched under the tires.

Maeve drove slowly. The car creaked over the pot holes. Maeve ignored the protests, her eyes fixed on the far end, watching for any sign of movement where the walls ended and the sun blasted down on empty space.

A courtyard opened out, paved in cinders, wide, deserted. Along one side, a high brick wall topped with broken glass, bounded the shops. Smart wooden doors glinting with state of the art locks gave access to the back yards. On the other side, a row of lock-up garages.

Maeve drove the full length as fast as she dared, then skidded round to face the entrance. Brake off, gear engaged, she peered through the dust she had raised.

"If you know the subject suspects an ambush," Tom had said - she remembered how he had scratched his head as he spoke - "you wait. Let ‘em get on with what they’ve come along to do. Then act while they’re distracted."

"What if you’re the victim, Tom?"

"Confuse ‘em," said Tom. "Anythin’ irrational helps. Give ‘em six minutes, maybe - five’s too predictable."

She’d give them six minutes from her safety margin. After that, she must act.

Maeve checked the clock on the dashboard. She was in the perfect trap, surrounded by bricks and cement, overlooked by bland, sun black windows. The car was her only weapon. She sat, staring, searching, swallowing bile. The red second hand hesitated by the four, jerked on. One minute gone. The engine idled, a faint summer sound giving life to the womb of the car.

As soon as she stepped out, she might feel the smack of a bullet. Worse, it might be hooded men `inviting’ her to talk. Her hands started to shake on the wheel.

"This is no good, girl," she said. "You always knew it would be like this. Come on. The longer you wait, the longer they have to find you. Get out of the car, you stupid cow. Move! MOVE!"

"Give ‘em time to show themselves."

"And do what, Tom? When they block the entrance with a lorry, what do I do? When they lift one of those windows an inch and line up a semi-automatic, what do I do?"

She wanted this last second of life. She wanted one last instant free of pain. She wanted to gaze at the clouds, to sit back and rest. She wanted peace and a life to live.

"MOVE!"

"Wait. Let ‘em show."

"That’s when I had a gun, Tom."

Two minutes gone. Four more minutes. She undid her seat belt and lifted her handbag from the passenger seat - don’t take out the keys. Don’t make it easy for them. She wound up the windows and locked the doors. Then she opened the driver’s door and lowered her foot to the cinders of the yard.

The lack of a bullet took her by surprise. She had so expected to be shot. She was screwed up in anticipation, muscles tense, heart racing. Not being hit pumped at her panic - somehow, being intact added to the pressure on her. Her head began to pound.

"Tension," she told herself. "Breath slow and deep."

She breathed deep of the warm air. Her heart thumped. Again, she glanced round, sweeping the empty windows and the empty yard for signs of life.

They’re waiting, she thought. I know they’re waiting. They want me to lead them to it before they swoop. They might not kill me here, anyway. They might take me away. Somewhere no one will hear me dying. Please God, not that.

Her head pounded harder. Blood rattled in her ears. "Sod it," she said. "Carry on until they show."

But she knew she might never see them. She stepped away from the car.

The garage door had two locks, a Chubb and a Yale. She fumbled the keys from her handbag. Her hands were shaking as she aimed at the first lock and slid one into the keyhole. Then a new thought: what if McKendrick’s ahead? What if the locks are rigged - the tumblers wired to detonators? Is that why I’ve seen no sign of them?

She was almost sick. She let go the key.

"Turn it, you stupid cow!" she howled.

She forced her fingers to grip the key’s lug. Looking up to the sky, she prayed. Then a deep breath as she turned it, listening for any false sound. Nothing. No flash, no shock of agony, no oblivion. Then the realization. Of course, a sophisticated trap required both tumblers to be wired. She pulled the key from the Chubb, selected the Yale and slid it into its lock. "This time, girl," she said. She crossed her fingers and turned the key.

CHAPTER 2

Harris Clough turned off the motorway at half past midnight and headed west for home with the lights of Penrith fading in his mirror and the Lakeland peaks chunky across his front. He blinked away the tears and snarled, "Stop sniveling! So you’re broke. So you hate your wife. So you met a sympathetic woman in a motorway cafe. Face the facts; you’re a middle aged failure!"

The heat of the night filled the cockpit to suffocating, despite the open windows and sunroof. Haze hid the lesser stars in the sky above. Not that he cared. He drove slowly on with his brain roaring and his determination growing.

"I know the perfect place to do it," he muttered.

"So drive easy. Take your time. Think of the woman."

"I can’t go on. How can I face the lads to tell them they’re sacked? And how can I face the Blob?"

"You’re a coward."

Harris undid his seat belt. "Sure I’m a coward. But I’m a well insured coward. One second - less - and I’m through with it all. Then the men’ll get paid and the Blob will have a pension. I know the place, too. The rock outcrop at the beginning of the dual carriage way along by Bass Lake. There’s a good two miles of straight to build up the speed. What an end, after all that work. I always thought that hard work and honesty would see me through."

"Then you’re a fool. And stop sniveling!"

He saw the rear lights ahead, a crimson flicker snuffed out by a rise in the road.

"Don’t involve anyone else, mind!"

"I won’t."

"Promise!"

"I promise. If there’s another car likely to be involved, I’ll carry on to the concrete posts at Embleton."

"Yes. If you wind the car up on the straight, you should reach a hundred and fifteen, maybe a hundred and twenty."

"Yes."

"They’ll say you fell asleep."

"That’s right. I’ve been on the road since four o’clock this morning. They should believe it."

The car ahead was closer when he topped the rise. Harris ignored it. Cars no longer mattered. He thought of the woman. An hour longer and there would be no more thoughts, just rest. Peace. Until then he would dream of what if and hate the wasted years which brought him to this road on this night.

The Renault rolled on for another twenty minutes, with Harris unaware of their passage.

He saw the rear lights again as the he topped a rise, and again, ignored them. They showed no more than another driver traveling home through the night. Younger than Harris? If he were lucky. With a lover beside him? If so, he was to be envied. Harris neither knew nor cared.

Harris followed the sweep of a bend. A moderate climb began where the road straightened. He saw the lights half way up and snapped back to being a competent, if miserable, driver.

He still did not concentrate. He knew the road to boredom, and anyway, the tarmac ribbon showed clear gray against the shades of the land. Cat’s eyes gleamed in his headlights marking the edges. What more could a driver need? On the right, a low bank reared progressively higher as the road climbed, whilst on the left, the verge fell away to a broad stretch of silvered moorland. The high fells to the south, he noticed, were hidden behind the opalescent pearl heat haze. He slowed a little and weighed the situation.

His choice was simple. He could stab the accelerator and surge past the car ahead, or he could slow more and loiter behind it at its speed. If he passed, then there was the risk that the car would pick up speed and be close behind when he reached the rock half an hour later. If he stayed behind, then he would need to stop after he passed Keswick to allow the car to gain sufficient ground before he started to build up speed.

"It’s typical of you to choose to get stuck behind the only other car in the county that’s moving," he sneered.

He slumped back in his seat. The car ahead - a large American limo, he noticed - was laboring. Harris slowed more. "Come on, turnip!" he muttered. "Get a move on. I have things to do and I don’t want you around when I do them."

By the time he realized that the car ahead was slowing more, he was too close to pull out. He knew then that the driver was playing silly devils. Harris glared into the blood red smear of the rear lights. "Stupid pillock," he snarled. "Stop playing games."

The car ahead crawled on with all the vigor of a maimed beetle. Harris sat close behind, idly studying it. "Some wealthy prat with a brain dead chauffeur," Harris decided. "They’re probably snorting coke together. Come on! I don’t have all night to waste staring at your back end."

By the time they were reaching the top, Harris had passed from fidgeting to fury. He knew that the road widened to make room for a waiting lane by the junction of the Troutbeck road. Past the junction, he knew the road curved to the right in a blind bend before plunging down to the foot of Blencathra. Harris gambled. He stabbed down the accelerator and swung out to overtake.

The limo responded. Instead of edging to the left to make room for him, as Harris expected, it, too, sidled to the right.

"Arsehole!" Harris shouted. "Stop playing games. Let me past!"

He stood on the throttle. The Renault was quick off the mark. It was abreast the unseen driver before the limo threatened to side swipe it off the road. Harris glared at the blacked out windows, shaking his fist. Only when he was certain he could pass clear did he look ahead again.

"Oh, shit!" he yelled.

The profile of the earth bank on the right was sharp in the lights of an oncoming vehicle. The glow also showed a second, unlit, limo twenty yards ahead of the first.

Harris chilled. He pushed the Renault across the front of the limo he was overtaking. The approaching car zoomed past. "He’s going fast," Harris was thinking, when the brake lights of the car ahead exploded into a blinding glare.

He stamped on the brakes. The peace of the night was shredded by the screeching of his tires. He knew he stood no chance. He knew, too, that the crash to come was engineered by the limo’s drivers. He braced for the impact.

The Renault slid into the rear of the car in front. Harris felt it shuddering violently as the metal crumpled. Then the car behind steamed into the Renault’s rear. Shards of glass peppered Harris’s neck. He felt the pedals pushing upwards against his feet.

"Bastards," he exploded. "You did this on purpose."

He was fixed in his seat by the force. Before the cars were completely stopped, he was wrenching at his door and screaming "I’ll bloody kill you, you stupid... !"

The door was jammed. Fire risk. Get out. "Are you trying to kill me?" Harris roared. He looked up. The front, offside door of the limo ahead yawned. A man stepped out. Harris had a snap glimpse of flowing white robes. The man pirouetted neatly to face him and fell into a half crouch. His hands were clasped. He raised both arms until they were pointing straight at Harris. The muzzle flash and the report were simultaneous with the windscreen shattering. A millisecond later and the Renault’s radiator exploded and hot, angry steam blotted out the scene.

Harris acted without thought. He launched himself through the sunroof. Leaping from the roof, he hit the grass verge running. The verge angled steeply down. Three paces and he was vaulting the wire fence. He head butted the first tree, a springy, immature fir. Staggering back, he swerved and picked up his stride again. Branches whipped his face. A million pine needles clawed at his clothes. Panic powered him on.

The coppice was narrow, little more than a belt planted to hide the road from the moor. Harris had scarcely gained momentum before he charged headlong in to the stock-proof fence on the far side. The wires’ tension threw him back a pace or two. He recovered and sprang at the barrier again, vaulting over the barbed wire top strands with the aid of the nearest post. As he fell onto the grass of the moor, he heard his trouser leg ripping.

He was on his feet and running. Across the open grass he saw a second plantation, more substantial than the cover behind him. "If I can reach that intact," he thought, "I stand a chance of surviving."

He had a mile of rough turf to cross. The memory of the muzzle flash was fresh and frightening. He settled into a hard sprint.

A couple of hundred yards on, he risked a glance over his shoulder. He saw the a dozen robed men standing grouped around the cars on the road above the trees. They seemed to be arguing. Harris smiled. "The longer you argue, the better my chances," he muttered.

His breath was already short. Sweat soaked his clothes. He slowed a little. In minutes, they would be in chase, all twelve of them. One was armed, therefore all would be armed. Guns, like plague, are contagious.

Three hundred yards and he was verging on collapse. Fifty five years old, a smoker, a man with a long sedentary history, he was out of condition. He staggered on, mouth sagging, air rattling in his chest. By the half mile, he was agonized by a stitch and fearing he was having a heart attack.

The plantation he was making for seemed no closer. "Keep going," he gasped. "Keep going and you’ll live." He had a choice: death from heart failure or death from gunshot.

He stumbled on a tussock. Picking himself up, he spurred forward. Then he was falling through space.

* * * * *

There were two men in the cafe. When Lydia Goodwood bought her coffee, each was sitting alone and each was reading a newspaper. They sat next to the glass wall, shoulders hunched and frowning down when either could so easily have turned his head and gazed out at the dramatic nightscape of the Lune Gorge.

Lydia eyed them as she handed her money to the limp girl at the cash till. "Lorry drivers," she thought - there were two wagons in the car park, and no cars, so what else were two men doing in a motorway service cafe? They were sitting with their backs to her, their indifference so absolute that she suspected them of interest in her. Her suspicion was so firmly rooted that she did not fasten the clasp of her handbag when she carried her cup back to her table. Access to the pistol was quicker with the clasp unfastened.

She had been sitting in the far corner. She crossed the fake stream which divided the cafe by the fake bridge provided and was facing them again when she sat down. They still had their backs to her. Only when she placed the cup on the table did she notice the blue jacket draped over the chair opposite. She eyed it and wondered. Another ploy? Another test? Yet the man had seemed above suspicion when she talked to him.

She was smiling as she stirred sugar into her drink, then frowning as she replaced the spoon on the saucer.

"You’re slipping," she told herself. She watched the two drivers from under her eyelids. Each appeared to be reading. One even turned a page as she watched. Then she looked at the till on the counter. The girl had retreated to the nether regions, leaving the bright timber-clad interior to the sad gathering of the migrant night birds. "The Hall after the orgy," she thought, "except the king has left his doublet."

She reached across the table. "I’m a fool," she thought furiously. "He picked me up. Of course he’s one of them."

She lifted the jacket off the chair and spread it over her knees. A modestly expensive jacket, she noticed, as she felt the lightweight mohair, a modestly expensive jacket to match a modestly prosperous businessman. She began feeling along each seam and hem, round the collar, all the places likely to hide any device (a tracker-transmitter? A microphone? she wondered) and the places not so likely. She felt relief when she found nothing hidden. She searched the pockets. Those at the side were empty, too, but the breast held half a dozen business cards and the inside pocket, a wallet. Lydia reached in and slid it out.

The black morocco showed white at the corners from wear. Lydia laid it on the table top and gazed at it, fondling the soft texture, smiling at the gloss on the belly before she opened it. Inside, she found a first class stamp in one compartment, a driver’s license in the name of Clough, Harris, Mister, in another.

She replaced both with scarcely a glance. Stamps were plentiful at post office counters. Driving licenses were cheaper over pub counters, if you knew where to ask.

A zip down the spine gave access to a large pocket when she slid it open. Feeling inside, she felt a photograph. When she drew it out and slanted it to catch the cafe’s lights, she saw a group of young boys dressed in sea officer’s uniform. Harris, aged about fifteen and easily recognizable by his grin, was standing in the second row, fourth from the left, his cap set well back on his head.

The sight of him brought back her smile. He looked so confident, one of the boys, staring out at the future knowing he could smile his way out of any mischief. "Poor devil," she thought. "Whatever went wrong? You told me all about yourself, remember?"

Once over the difficulty of the introduction, he had talked so freely - a spate of words, at times - that she knew he could not possibly have been schooled. He was who he said he was; or else he was the best actor in the world.

She had interrogated him as a matter of course. They had chatted like old friends (no, she corrected herself, like would-be lovers skirmishing) for six hours, after all. But there could be no denying that he had picked her up.

She was fumbling with her purse at the check out at the time, trying to balance her food on a tray while she paid for it. Clough was standing behind her in the queue. She had been watching his reflection in the glass wall. He had been ogling her unashamedly. When she turned, he grinned and she saw a shadow of the young man in the snap shot. He took hold of her tray, saying, Here, let me. Lydia said thanks, and handed her money to the girl. When she made to take the tray from him, Clough said for her to grab the cutlery from the stand by the window, then to find a table. He would bring the tray.

Lydia shrugged. You want it, boy, you get it, she thought, and chose a table in the furthest corner. When she reached it, she spread her jacket over the back of the chair in the angle of the walls. Opening her handbag, she laid it on the chair by her right hand and waited. Harris arrived and laid the trays on the table.

"I don’t usually help ladies," he said. "Deep down, I’m a hardened male chauvinist pig."

Not a bad opener. "And I’m a hardened female chauvinist sow," she replied. She did not respond to his smile. Make him work, she thought.

He took off his jacket and sat down. Lydia arranged her plate and cutlery, and started to eat as if he did not exist.

How will he start? she wondered.

She had a plate of chips and a meat pie submerged in gravy. The gravy, she found, had the consistency of wall paper paste, and hid peas were hard enough to be archaeological specimens. He had a coffee eclair and a cup of tea.

"If they try to pick you up," Tom had said, "go along with it. Act innocent. Let them think you’re stupid. Then interrogate ‘em, but don’t let them realize what you’re doing. There’s a knack to it." He taught her the knack.

She used the time it took for her to eat - how hungry she was - to plan her campaign. When she finished, she wiped her lips with her napkin, steeled herself and looked up at him. Harris was licking coffee icing from his fingers. A blob of cream was edging down his tie. She pointed to it. He glanced down. "Oh, shit!" he muttered.

"Is that all you’re eating?" she asked.

"It’s all I can afford," he said. "You look tired."

"I am. But what do you mean, that’s all you can afford?" He had to be lying.

He looked at her. She thought he was about to cry, but he mastered his emotion and stared at her. Then he sighed. "You’re a stranger," he said. "Why shouldn’t I tell the truth? We’re never going to meet again, and quite honestly, it’ll be a relief to talk. Can you stand a confession?"

"Try me," she said. "I can always stand up and leave if you become boring."

"So you can," he said. He smiled then. "It’s a free country, or so they tell me." His smile faded. "How the hell I’ll live this one down, though," he said, "I don’t know." And for a moment, the tears were lurking behind his eyes again. He slurped at his tea. "Bloody woman," he snarled.

"Who?" she asked.

"My wife."

"You mean she doesn’t understand you?" she mocked.

"Worse than that," he said. "I’ve come to understand her. The situation’s not all her fault, of course, but a little moral support would have been appreciated."

"Tell me."

"Interrogation without coercion," said Tom. "One, gain the victim’s confidence. Two, don’t, that is DO NOT, empathize. In plain English, make the victim think you’re sympathetic, but stay aloof inside. Don’t get involved emotionally."

"Fine, Tom. But what do you do when a stranger sits next to you in a cafe and suddenly dumps the whole of his life’s problems on your plate? And worse, you sit there and proceed to swallow it whole?"

So the story unfolded. Harris Clough seemed a decent enough man, a good man, she judged. Listening to him, she could not avoid feeling sympathy. He revealed himself as a lonely man enclosed in a husk of marriage and gazing with envy at the world outside. The old story, true, and one scripted for lantern jawed heroes and bust enhanced heroines on the box every day. But Lydia knew loneliness too well not to sense the stark honesty behind the bitterness of his words. She, too, longed for company she could trust. She, too, longed to relax. Above all, she too longed to feel free to speak without worrying whether the listener was sifting her words for hints that could form the basis for `a little talk.’

She recalled, too, how Harris had looked up from wiping his tie. His glance had met her gaze. Lydia had felt the charge flash between them and flinched from the shock. Later, when he reached out spontaneously and touched the back of her hand, he snatched his fingers away and for a while had been silent. It was she then who had prompted him to go on.

By the time he rose to continue his journey home, she felt that she knew him better than the Blob, as he referred to his wife, and that, could she meet the woman, she would cheerfully beat some sense into her.

Lydia gazed at the photograph of the boy and remembered the man. She found she was fondling the jacket. The boy might have been her own son, she felt such a bond between them. She could read his soul in his face. He was honest, honorable, humorous and gentle. And might have grown to be a plant despite her instincts. If he was a plant, then they were ahead of her and knew exactly where she was going. If they knew that, then they might already have reached Uncle, in which case, she had nowhere to go. Therefore, the Clough investigation must be completed before she moved on.

The jacket provided the perfect excuse - maybe that was why he had left it. At one point he had described the location of his home in detail, lingering on its isolation. Lydia knew exactly where it was. She would find her way there, make a quick reconnaissance and, if Clough was not the bait in some elaborate trap, leave the jacket hanging over the car or the gatepost. If he was a bait.....

Her glance flicked to the butt of the pistol showing in the maw of her bag. "Oh, God!" she sighed, "why this complication? Why can’t I drive to Uncle’s, lie down and rest?"

The photograph lay on the table. The boy Clough smiled invitation at her. "You’d better be innocent," she muttered, "otherwise the Blob’s going to hear things about you she most certainly will not like." Then she snatched the picture up and tucked it into her purse.

She slid the wallet back into its pocket. Under the pretext of draining her cup, she glanced at the lorry drivers. They seemed not to have moved. Picking up the jacket, she looped her handbag over her wrist under it, and walked to the door. One man looked up as she passed. He was rolling a cigarette, and his fingers continued working as he leered at her. Lydia flung a glacial look at him, then marched out through the doors.

She sniffed the mountain air while she searched the shadows from the steps. Despite the heat loitering from the day, there was a crispness which lifted her spirits. "Of course," she told herself, "if Clough is innocent, then we’ll never meet again." But there was the faint chance that Clough could be her life line to the world which existed beyond the bombings and knee-cappings of Belfast. She craved a life line.

Her hire car was sitting alone in the car park. She strolled towards it, searching the shadows of the Scots Pines which half camouflaged the two articulated vans behind it.

Lydia unlocked the door. Her map lay open on the passenger seat. In between checking her route, she watched the two lorry drivers through the cafe window. They never glanced up from their papers. And the cottage was marked as Clough had told her, a tiny black square sitting astride the four hundred feet contour line half a mile outside the village. She started the engine.

The lorry drivers might have been a pair of cows ruminating in a field. Neither looked up at the sound. Neither displayed any interest in the car. Lydia eased away towards the exit. On the motorway, she brightened as she powered the car up the flank of Shap Fell. "Don’t get too cocky," she warned herself. "It can still be a trap."

She powered north. Beyond the summit, she drove down into the head of the Eden

valley. At Penrith, she turned off onto the A66 west, making for Cockermouth.

It was just after half past one when she topped the rise by the Troutbeck turn off. Her instinct had her slowing so that when her headlights picked up the montage by the road side, she was in complete control and hardly surprised. She braked and reached for the pistol lying on the passenger seat.

At first, she could only make out two cars. On the grass beside them, a dozen men in flowing robes were watching her approach. "An accident," she thought. "Nobody looks too bothered. Don’t just stand there, you stupid things, do something. Find a phone. Call the police. Get the wreckage sorted out and off the road."

It was only when she pulled out to pass that she saw there was a third car crushed between the other two.

"How do three cars manage to collide on a clear road in perfect visibility?" she wondered. "Idiots!"

She was abreast the middle one before she realized that it was a petrol blue Renault and that Harris Clough had been driving a petrol blue Renault. At the same time, she saw the lights in the valley, four vehicles in a tight disciplined line driving fast from the west.

"Police," she thought. "They, I don’t need." She was accelerating again when she thought, "Four patrol cars? For one crash? And all in convoy? What the hell’s going on?"

Instinct held her foot off the brake pedal. A blaze of brake lights would be a give away, she reasoned. Instead, she slowed her car on the gears while she wondered what to do next.

"Bloody training," she snorted. "I’m getting too old for this. Turn round. Get yourself off to Scotland."

But Uncle would want to know. He would ask questions. She could not face his dismissive gesture when he felt he had been let down. And he deserved to win after fighting for a lifetime and coming so close to success.

Lydia was still debating when she rolled in to a lay-by a mile further on and stopped on the hand brake. The convoy roared past, four slate blue Range Rovers, prickly as hedgehogs with whipping aerials. She watched them go. Men crammed their cockpits. In the driving seat of the last, she saw the bulk of a bearded man in the dashboard lights, a giant of a man who glowered through the windscreen in ferocious concentration on the car ahead.

She shivered, squirming round in her seat to follow the convoy’s progress. The Rovers were already slowing. When they reached the crash scene, two pulled onto the verge in front of the wrecked cars, then two pulled in behind.

Lydia frowned. She started to analyze the evidence. A `crash’ with all the hallmarks of a classic protective ambush. A party of middle eastern men traveling in limousines and presumably feeling themselves threatened. By Clough? Then McKendrick to hand. How convenient. How is he involved?

But Clough a threat? He picks me up in the cafe. We talk for six hours. An hour after he leaves me, he’s caught in a trap. He couldn’t have timed it so well. So was he jumped. Because he’d been seen talking to me? Has McKendrick been called in to interrogate him? And why is McKendrick up here in the wilds of Lakeland? Uncle will certainly want to know the answer to that.

She found she was trembling and gnawed at her lip to control herself. "I’m too old for all this," she repeated. "I’ve forgotten how. I can drive on. I can forget Clough, forget the whole incident. Uncle needn’t know."

But she knew what Uncle expected of her, and exactly what she must do. Otherwise, why the striving of the last twenty years?

CHAPTER 3

Harris lay draped face down over a boulder. His mouth was filled with the taste of bile and gore, his ears with the rushing of his blood and his breath was rattling in his throat. His ribs hurt so much that he assumed he had been shot.

After some time, though, when his breathing steadied and his heart rate reduced, he began to pay attention to the rock under his cheek and hands. He took comfort from its warmth. It exuded a gritty friendliness. "I’m not dead," he told himself. "Maybe I haven’t been shot."

He opened an eye to look at his surroundings and saw that he was sprawled in a deep trench or ravine. In the fall, his head had twisted so that he was looking to his right, "West," as he thought. "I was running south, so the gully leads west."

West was important to him. Ten miles west lay Keswick, and Andy worked in Keswick. "All I need is a telephone," he thought. "One call to Andy, and I’m safe."

He levered himself up, only to be felled by dizziness and a violent feeling of nausea. He slumped down, but this time with his back to the boulder and his legs splayed in front of him.

"I might as well see the bastards when they come to finish me off," he muttered through his agony, and tilted his head to watch.

A wall of earth rose almost vertically for twenty feet. Turf overhung the lip in a shaggy fringe. High above, faint in the haze of the night, he could make out Ursa Major and followed the line until he imagined he could see the Pole Star. Keswick now lay to his left. "Well!" he said. "Come on. Come and finish me, you bastards!" He gazed up, waiting for the men to appear.

"I won’t beg, whatever they do," he vowed. "I’ll die with dignity. I owe myself that - I am English, after all."

Then he laughed as the irony struck him. He laughed despite the renewed surge of agony in his chest. Tears of pain and mirth mixed with the sweat on his face. Up to the meeting with the limos, he had been driving with suicide in mind. Now, with death likely to appear over the skyline at any moment, he was cranking himself up to spit defiance with his last breath. He laughed until he felt empty, then looked up at the cliff top and felt the chill of fear.

"I’m not sitting here waiting to be killed," he decided. "They want me, they’ll have to find me."

He hauled himself to his feet and stood swaying for a moment whilst he found his balance. Then, he turned to face west and set off shambling towards a telephone. With motion, the pains eased. After tramping a half mile or so, he found he was stepping out with his feet keeping time to the marching tune rattling round in his head. Nobody had challenged him. Nobody had fired at him. "Maybe," he thought, "I’ll reach that phone and be able to call Andy after all."

He paced steadily on. Two thoughts nagged at him through his fear. What was the ravine - he knew the area well enough, but could not think what it was - and who had set up the ambush? If he was certain of nothing else, he knew the `crash’ had been engineered and was therefore an ambush. A man had tried to kill him, therefore someone had set up a trap with the intention of murdering him. But who? Who hated him so much? Who knew he would be driving along that road at that time?

The first question was answered when he reached the river. He stopped dead and stared down. One more step, and he would have fallen down the bank straight into the water.

He looked around. Behind him, the ravine ended half a mile back. He had been walking along a low embankment completely exposed. He ducked down. "Idiot!" he snarled. "If you want to live, watch what you’re doing!"

He looked down again. The river was narrow. Immediately downstream of where he was standing, the water boiled white about a mass of twisted girders. Then Harris realized where he was.

The girders were the remains of a bridge. He remembered that once, a railway had linked Penrith to the coastal towns. It passed through Keswick, therefore ran across the moor. The trench Harris had fallen in to was a cutting. Now, the river barred his march west. He eyed it. It was not too wide, probably less than twenty feet. A small strip of shingle rose to a low bank on the far side, giving easy access to the moorland again. He shrugged, then launched himself down the bank.

He hit the water with his knees balled up against his chest. After dowsing himself to his armpits, he found the bed and stood upright. The water scarcely reached his above his knees. He started wading across.

On the far bank, the line of the railway continued to cross the moor, again on a low embankment. Harris walked beside it, keeping the earthwork between him and the search. The going was harder. Tussocks of grass snatched at his feet. His shoes were soaked and rubbing at his feet. And somehow, the fear of being seen killed any triumphant thoughts he might have had.

The urge to telephone Andy dominated his mind. "Safety!" he muttered. "Once Andy knows, I’ll be safe" He was concentrating so much that, despite his keeping a sharp lookout for the murderers, he almost walked past the station.

He climbed over a barbed wire fence, thinking what a stupid place it was to string a fence, and failed to notice the smoothness of the ground. When he came to a second fence fifty yards on, he stopped and looked around.

Lawn covered the line of the track, terraced up to what must have once been the platform. Behind the terrace, the buildings were camouflaged by a backing of mature beech and a covering of creeper. Nonetheless, a station it had once been and it was inhabited, for when Harris scrambled up to the buildings, he stumbled against a bicycle leaning against the creeper. Better, when he stood back and looked along the line of the gutter, he saw the telephone wires extending from the insulators under the eaves on the corner where a lane led off northwards.

Harris fumbled amongst the leaves until he found the front door. "Andy," he thought, "get ready to act."

With safety, as he imagined, a mere door thickness distant, he felt panic. The killers were closing in to finish him off. Shrubs became hunters, every rustling vole, footsteps. A bird shifting on its perch in the trees became a sniper lining up his sights.

Sweat oozed into Harris’s damp clothes. His hands shook. He knocked on the door so softly that even he failed to hear the sound. Then he stepped back and waited for a response. After a year - two years - when nothing happened and the sweat was dripping off his chin, he knocked again. More boldly, this time, and even harder the next, while his head swiveled and twisted and his eyes searched in every direction from which a robed killer might approach.

His head was thumping, his heart pounding. He felt sick, and suddenly exhausted. Hammering on the door was almost beyond his strength. He leaned against it and beat on it with both fists, praying that when the bullet hit him, he would feel no pain.

A long, spine shivering screech ripped the night apart. Harris almost dropped from the shock.

"Aye?" said a voice from somewhere above.

"Hello," croaked Harris.

"Eh?" asked a man’s voice, high pitched. "Who’s that?" Then a woman’s, muffled and gruff, asked, "Who is it knockin’ this time o’ night?" in a complaining, filter tip whine.

"I’s finding out," answered the man.

"My name’s Clough," said Harris, pressing himself against the door. "I’ve had an accident on the road. May I use your phone to call the police?"

"Aye?" said the man. "Stand away from the door so’s I can see you."

Harris stepped far enough on to the lawn to be able to see the man leaning out of an upstairs window.

The man shaded his eyes. "Aye! I can see thee," he said, after a careful scrutiny. "Right. Don’t go away. I’ll come down."

Harris dived back to the shelter of the door recess and cringed against the panels while he searched the night around him. After what seemed to be an age, he heard the scraping of bolts. Three, he counted, then silence.

"Aye," called the man, his voice muffled by the thickness of the door. "You can come in, now, lad. Just ‘oo lift the latch."

Harris groped about until he found the latch, and pressed down on it. The latch refused to shift. "It’s jammed," he called.

"Jiggle it about," said the man. "The door’s a bit warped. It’s the heat."

Harris shook the door and suddenly, the latch shifted. "Thank goodness," Harris breathed, and pushed the door open. The hall was in darkness.

"Step inside," said the man.

Harris stepped forward and tripped. "Aye. Mind the step," said the man, then a light switch clicked and Harris found himself dazzled by the low wattage bulb.

He was standing in a stone floored hall with two tattered scraps of rug shielding its modesty. Patches of damp showed through the faded roses on the wallpaper. Facing him, a staircase of bare wood led up to the first floor. The man was standing near the top. He was wearing a vest. Dark chest hair curled over the neck line, adding a black fringe to the gray of the wool. The cord of his pajama trousers was drawn tight, puckering the paunch beneath. Tucked against it, the polished beech stock of a shot gun.

"You can never be too sure," said the man, gesturing with the gun. "Some right queer folk pass by here." He squinted down at Harris. "Eh!" he breathed, "ye have been in the wars."

"You should see the other chap," said Harris.

"He’s all right, all right," called the man over his shoulder. "He looks right cut up, but he’s walking."

"Don’t let him bleed on my carpet. Tell ‘im to phone and get out so’s decent folk can sleep."

The man grinned at Harris, then shrugged. "The wife," he said. "Phone’s by thee elbow."

Harris saw the telephone squatting on an unpainted shelf by the door. "Thanks," he said. He picked up the receiver, dialed the number of Keswick police station, then smiled up at the man.

He had not dialed the emergency 999, but the station’s wife line. He heard the phone ring several times, before it was picked up. "Yes!" snarled a voice with thick Glaswegian overtones.

"Andy!" said Harris. "Thank heaven it’s you. Listen! I’m in a spot of bother." He glanced at the householder. "I’ve crashed just the Keswick side of the Troutbeck road end on the Penrith road."

Andy said nothing. Harris could hear turmoil roaring in the background. "Andy?" he said. "Are you still there?"

"Aye," said Andy - Harris could tell he begrudged the effort. "There’s probably no need for alarm, madam. If you’re frightened, then I’d call a neighbor and ask them to pick you up, or to sit with you. Try not to be seen when you go out. No, madam, no trouble. Good night."

The line went dead. Harris stared at the instrument, then placed the receiver on the cradle.

"All right, is it?" asked the man. "Is they coming?"

"Yes," said Harris. "Everything’s in hand. They’re on their way, he said."

"Then thee better go and meet ‘em at the end of the lonnin’," said the man, gesturing towards the door with his shot gun.

"Yes," said Harris. "I’d better be going." He stared at the darkness beyond the door, then at the barrels of the twelve bore. "Yes. Right."

"Go on then," said the man. "We’re country folk. We get up early."

"Yes. Of course."

Harris pulled himself out by the door posts and stood on the oblong of light spilling over the grass. Beyond the light, he could see nothing but a black void peopled with regiments of gunmen. He half crouched and stared about, blinking to restore his night vision. The door slammed shut behind him. He heard the scrape of the bolts going home. In the thick reek of the creeper, Harris smelled death and for the first time, began to think more about the future than about the immediate past.

He crept along the facade to the lane in case the helpful householder was still watching from the bedroom window. There, he looked along it through a void of despair.

"Why not?" he muttered. He began plodding along the ridge of grass in the middle. He could not think of anything else to do. "Why struggle?" he wondered. "Why fight to survive when my best mate, a sergeant of police, no less, refuses to help me even when I’m up to my earlobes in the stinky stuff? I’m alone on a moor. An army of gunmen is searching for me. The police, and not merely the police but Andy, my old domino partner from the pub, refuse to help me. What the hell’s gone wrong with the world? What’s Harris Clough done to deserve this?"

He was too tired to think any more, too battered to care overmuch about what happened to him. He realized he was walking towards danger, towards the road where, presumably, some of the killers still lingered. He realized, too, that before very long, dawn would come and his shield of darkness would be gobbled up by the sun. Anyone who wished to, would see him and shoot at him. The game was up. Whoever wanted him dead had won. What was the point of struggling any more?

When he could see the junction with the main road, he stopped. Veering to his right, he slumped against the roots of a twisted thorn bush with his feet in the dry ditch which ran alongside the track. "Useless bunch of.. . I’ll wait here and see who finds me first," he muttered.

He dug into his trouser pocket and grabbed the soggy mess which had been his packet of cigarettes. As he hauled them out, he could feel the water oozing between his fingers. "Shit!" he roared, hurling the mess from him. "I can’t even have a smoke!"

CHAPTER 4

Lydia sat in the car for the time it took to smoke a cigarette while she debated her options. She knew that she had no choice. Clough in a car crash might allow her some latitude, but McKendrick’s presence removed it. As she stubbed out her cigarette, ice cubes of fear were slithering down her spine.

"I’m out of practice," she muttered as she climbed out of her car. "Going to look risks blowing the whole show."

Her main reservation lay with Blencathra. A plump spur of the mountain reared almost sheer from the far side of the road. Its bulk blotted out the whole of the northern sky. If McKendrick had an ounce of common sense, one of his men would already be scrambling up there. After half an hour’s climb, he would command the whole scene and miles beyond.

Lydia walked to the rear of the car and opened the boot. She could not feel the presence of a lookout, but then, she could no longer trust her instincts as she used to. She unzipped the larger of the two holdalls. As she rummaged inside for the clothes she needed, she kept glancing up the mountain. Her neck tingled.

"You’re scared," she thought.

"I’m entitled to be," she snapped.

She laid the clothes on the mat beside the bag, then straightened to make a thorough study of the landscape. First, a long look up the incline of the road towards the scene of the crash. "I don’t have to do this," she muttered again. Then she shrugged. Duty was duty.

"If there’s a man up there, you’re exposed," she warned. "This will be the end."

"There isn’t a man up there," she said.

She stripped the white silk blouse, black tailored skirt and silk underskirt of her business uniform. As she took off each garment, she folded it then laid it neatly on the bag. For a moment, she stood in her underclothes, staring into the boot and frowning as she ran through her mental check list. Then she pulled a lightweight high necked black sweater over her head and tugged it smooth. "Your figure isn’t too bad, for your age," she thought.

"Keep your mind on the job!" she replied.

Step in to the loose black trousers next, then swap her black court shoes for a pair of boots with commando soles, and she was dressed for the mission.

She stood straight from tying the laces, stamped her feet comfortable, then began her final reconnaissance. First, the crash site by the coppice and the best part of a mile up the road. Little to be seen because of the trees. She turned her attention to the moor. Rough turf, she decided, with no areas of dead ground that she could see. "They’ll be there, though," she muttered. "They always are. A hundred trained men could be lying out there, and I can’t see one."

As she studied the landscape in the strange translucent light of the summer’s night, she felt her neck pricking with apprehension. She had already answered the question, `What would I do if I were McKendrick?’ as best she could without knowing why McKendrick was involved. Yet when she searched for the signs of McKendrick’s reaction, she failed to find them.

"My life depends on McKendrick’s reaction," she thought. "I should be able to feel it. I used to have the instinct, but now that I really need it, it’s packed up and left me." She stared over the sweep of moorland. "There should be men out there and at least one up the mountain - McKendrick has enough, for Heaven’s sake - yet I can’t sense them."

Had she not known Uncle’s inevitable question, `What did you find out?’ she would have climbed back into the car and driven off. But Uncle would ask and Uncle would be hurt if she did not press home her assumed advantage.

She sighed, picked up the pistol and fitted it into her ankle holster. Her senses were sharpening as her mind slid into its necessary set. She placed the two spare clips of ammunition one in each trouser pocket. If she needed one bullet, let alone the thirty six she was carrying, she would have failed.

She closed the boot lid. Deep breaths, she told herself. "Pump the oxygen into the blood. Psyche yourself. Concentrate on the target. I don’t exist. I am a shadow. I am becoming invisible. My eyes can see through walls. My ears can hear a rabbit cough at ten miles. The enemy don’t know I’m here, and I am worth fifty of them. Come on, girl. Time to go."

A hundred yards ahead of the car, a track led into the road from the moors. She walked to its end and squatted for a while, looking along it and listening. Nothing moved. She rose and began to pad along it. Fifty yards in, and she stopped again using a wind sculpted thorn as cover while she searched the land in the direction of the crash. If there was a man watching from the mountain, a reception committee would already be forming by the cars.

She ducked into the wiry grass and eeled under the rusting wire of the fence. "That’s it, girl," she thought. "You’re committed. You’re fair game, now, so stay awake."

As she searched for signs of movement, she felt the fear creeping through her resolution. "I’m too old," she complained. "It’s twenty years since I last practiced a field operation. God! How we used to laugh at the term `deep penetration’ before we understood what it meant."

"So turn round and go home," she sneered.

"I have no home."

"Then get on with the job. Go on. One last time. For Uncle."

"It’s a trap. It has to be a trap. McKendrick, Clough, the coat, then a standard text book ambush. Clough’s the bait."

"But Clough’s innocent. You know that. He forgot the jacket. You were taking it home for him. Won’t you help him now he’s in trouble?"

"I’m not a bloody nursemaid for feeble minded males."

"Aren’t you?" she mocked.

Wearily, she hoisted herself to her feet. The woman in her whispered that if Clough had been ambushed, then it was because he had been seen in her company. All that remained was to see whether or not he was alive and how McKendrick was involved in the affair.

This one’s for me as well as Uncle, she decided. Part of being normal’s doing things for yourself.

The fear began to subside. She struck across the tufty grass, following the line of the fence bordering the main road but keeping fifty or so yards inside it and moving at a jerky half crouch. She focused on the coppice ahead.

Once she was in motion, her fear subsided. She was on the attack. She became an automaton devoted to gathering intelligence, nothing more, a machine unprogrammed for feelings or emotions. Uncle needed to know. Uncle would be told.

After two hundred yards, her concentration was absolute, her movements fluent as a hunting stoat. Her stride lengthened. The grass tussocks swished steadily under her boots.

Quarter of a mile from the edge of the trees, she slowed and sank lower against the earth. A hundred yards further, and she stopped and lay down to catch her breath and observe.

The first picket was standing just inside the trees at the southern corner of the wood. Despite his cover, Lydia picked him out easily enough and settled to watch him. He was staring out over the moor to the south and smoking a cigarette. A glow of satisfaction spread through her.

"Amateur!" she spat. "It’s no use shielding the flame from your boss by the cars, when I can see it from here."

He was fidgeting, too, swatting at the midges, jigging his feet, relying on his presence to deter prowlers rather than looking out to detect them.

"Get a job at the Ritz!" she sneered. "You’re no better than a hotel commissionaire."

She transferred her attention to the northern corner, the corner where the coppice fringed the road. No guard was on duty that she could see. Why not? she wondered, and opened the door on her fear again. Warily, she started crawling, making for the corner against the road and searching for the guard as she went. "There must be a man there," she thought. "But he’s good, a professional." A corner of her mind registered admiration for the man’s dedication.

"Very professional," she thought, quarter of an hour later, when she arrived within a yard of the fence unchallenged. She raised her head a trifle and searched the trunk-pillared space beneath the boughs. "So professional, I don’t believe he exists."

She flowed over the wire, then lay flat. Again, she searched amongst the low branches of the firs before she began to edge forward about two yards in from the fence bordering the road side verge.

The road surface was higher than the level of the coppice floor. It was gaining height as she made for the nearest Range Rovers. When she reached within fifty yards of them, she began to make sense of the crash site.

Two of the Range Rovers stood on the grass verge, leaning heavily on the slope. Beyond them, the first of the crashed limos. Around its rear, a crowd of men.

"Poor Clough’s sitting in a car crushed between two others, yet no one seems bothered about getting him out," she thought. "And where are the emergency services, the police, ambulance and the fire engines? There’s been plenty of time to call them out. What the hell’s going on?" Just as Uncle would ask, when she reported. She noted, too, the general carelessness in the disposition of the pickets and their poor training, the sort of unconnected information which might be of vital importance for some undefined future encounter. The observations added to her confidence in her rusty skills as she watched through the slits between the pine trunks.

She wormed closer. From hard against the wire immediately below the crowd, she looked up.

McKendrick’s bulk was unmistakable. She recognized him immediately. There was a babble of talk through which the quiet, Island accent sliced silkily. "So who was it driving the lead car, now?" he inquired.

The talk died away. A smaller figure was pushed forward. "I was, General." Lydia gasped as she recognized her husband, then froze and buried her face in the grass. "What the devil is Mark doing here?" she wondered.

"So Mark, what made you trigger defense mode?" asked McKendrick.

"Sure, I thought we had an assassin coming in, General. He made all the classic moves, sure an’ he did. Scraped past Jackie, there, even when Jackie tried to block him, then muscled in when we tried to close up. I reckoned he had a gun - he rested his arm on the door mirror to steady it, so he did. I radioed the signal and when we’d stopped, Raschid jumped out and fired at him."

The General looked down on the small Ulsterman. "It’s a brave wee fellow you are, Mark, and honest," he said. He wrapped his arm around Mark’s shoulders. "Just a wee word in private with you, now," he breathed.

He led the Ulsterman down the verge until they were standing no more than a yard from Lydia. She buried her face amongst the pine litter on the ground. "There’s not many," McKendrick said, "would take that degree of risk on a public highway." His hand let go the shoulder and rested against the driver’s neck. "But you see, Mark, yon fellow got away, and now there’s bound to be questions asked."

"What questions would they be, General?" asked Mark.

"Questions such as," said the General in his soft lilting voice, "where’s the man from the car? If you’d be thinking for a moment, Mark, you would realize than when the police arrive, we must have the driver to show them."

Mark looked up at the big, bearded face. "Sure, an’ I never thought of that," he said. "General, I’m sorry. What can we do?"

Lydia heard the faint crack and looked up again. Mark’s knees were buckling. "The Laird has just claimed His first martyr," said McKendrick to the men by the cars. He caught Mark around the waist before he slid to the ground. "Aye." he said. "May He have mercy on your soul, brother, but the crusade is no place for those whose heart is filled with impetuosity, I’m thinking."

Lydia made to drag the pistol from its holster. "Freeze," hissed Tom. She froze, quelling her nausea, stifling her urge to jump up and gun McKendrick down. Intelligence, not vengeance, she reminded herself.

Mark’s body was doubled up over McKendrick’s arm, the limp fingers brushing the ground. The other men watched, dead still and silent, as the big man scaled the bank with his burden. When he reached the road side verge, and stood to confront them, one man cleared his throat noisily and hawked on the ground.

Lydia reached for her pistol then. The fact that Harris had escaped gave her some relief, but set her a problem, too. How could an innocent escape from the men whose acceptance of killing seemed to be so casual?

She watched. The men were debating in guttural whispers - some form of Arabic, she suspected - their arms tucked into their sleeves. McKendrick stood silent in the background, a mountain of judgmental calm planted in the turmoil of lesser man, and still clutching the corpse around its waist.

Her gun hand was shaking. Lydia watched it. "I’m no longer tough enough," she thought. "I’m finished." For a second, she felt a rising panic. "Time to go," she decided. "Time to get out while I can. Tom always said that the only information worth the effort is the information the target doesn’t know you have. And dawn can’t be far off. With daylight, I’ll be fully exposed."

She began edging backwards into the shelter of the trees. With half a dozen rows of trees to cover her, she turned and began to make for the western fence.

Yet her weakness proved she was still a human being, even if her usefulness to Uncle was fading. Uncle would have to accept the facts. Confusing as McKendrick’s actions were, Lydia could pursue them no longer. And Harris Clough? Probably a passing civilian caught up in the cross fire, she decided. Poor man. She regretted not knowing him better.

The guard on the corner was still smoking his cigarette. He was leaning on the corner fence post, staring out over the moor and presenting a perfect target. Lydia eyed him up, extended her arms and sighted along the barrel of the pistol. "Here’s one for the innocent civilians," she thought. She was taking the initial pressure on the trigger, her emotions quaking on the edge of insubordination, when common sense reasserted itself. She would be no help to either Harris or Uncle if McKendrick knew she was in the area. Her main concern now must be to reach her car unseen, change her clothes, and make off for Scotland before she was discovered.

Over the fence, down into the grass, squirm away from the coppice until the night hid her from the careless guard and she felt safe enough to move at a crouch along the line of the fence next to the road.

Twenty minutes and she could see the lay-by. Her car sat as she had left it. She was beginning to relax, beginning to feel the euphoria of a mission successfully completed, when she heard the footsteps from the lane. She stopped dead, listening.

Someone was moving stealthily but clumsily from the moor. As she stared, she caught a glimpse of a man walking along the track, and cursed herself. McKendrick was obviously familiar with the area, his men local. She cursed herself for taking McKendrick’s lack of guile for granted. His first move when he reached the crash site would have been to send pickets out to the flanks - not along the road where their movements could be observed, but over the moor where they could also search for the missing Clough. A man sent out when the Rovers first arrived would be arriving at the track about now. And his best tactical position would be immediately by her car.

Lydia sank to a crouch. Sliding the pistol’s safety catch to operational, she began to advance.

CHAPTER 5

The sagging wire fence sprouted out of a low, grass covered bank. Lydia reached it before the man had passed. She chose her ambush where a blackthorn gave her additional cover and lay down. A tuft of fleece, dirty gray in the night, clung to a barb just above her head.

The man was behaving as if he had not seen her. He was tottering aimlessly along the grassed ridge in the middle of the track. For a moment, Lydia wondered whether he was a drunk walking home from a party. Caution quashed the thought. "He’s more likely to be a decoy," she thought. "Maybe McKendrick remembers the lessons too well. If he does, the real ambush should be creeping in on me from the moor." She rested the pistol in the grass while she looked behind her.

But she saw no one, she heard no sound more suspicious than the muttering of the man on the track. She faced him again, squinting at him over the blade of the pistol’s fore sight. If he was one of McKendrick’s, she decided, she had him cold.

The man was quite close by now. Lydia watched and assessed. Another amateur, she decided, but an amateur who stood in her way, the civilian about to be caught in the cross fire.

"Tough!" she thought. "I’ll try and take him quietly, but tonight his luck runs out."

She bunched her legs under her. Once he was past, she would vault the wire. He wouldn’t know a thing before she hit him. If he was quick, then she would have no choice but to shoot and run.

But the man foiled her. When he was almost abreast of her, he stopped. She could see his ripped trousers and the grimy shirt. It was Clough, she saw, but a Clough with a blood streaked face and a haunted expression. She slipped the catch to safe. Then Clough staggered straight towards her and slumped down on the roots of the blackthorn. He groaned.

Lydia stuffed the pistol back into its holster and smoothed down the leg of her trouser. Clough was fumbling in his trouser pocket. He drew out his hand. "Shit!" he bellowed. "Even my bloody fags are ruined," and hurled a white packet into the night.

She kneeled up. "Try one of these," she suggested, offering her packet over Clough’s shoulder.

Harris started and wheeled around. "What the hell?" he snarled. "Don’t do that. You frightened me to death. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Shhh!" she said. "Take a cigarette, then tell me what’s been happening to you."

"Happening to me?" Harris hissed. "Happening to me? Nothing has been happening to me. Except I’ve had my car crushed, been shot at by a lunatic in a night gown, then, to cap it all, I’ve been told by Andy that there’s nothing he can do to help me."

"Andy?"

"My domino partner. He’s a sergeant in the police at Keswick. Why the hell am I whispering?"

"Because sound carries at night, and those men are less than a mile away. If they find you, they’ll kill you."

"They’re murderers anyway!" howled Harris. "Here in England. I don’t believe it. Look, you better get out before they find me. You don’t need to get involved." He leaned towards her. "Even the bloody police are tied into it all," he whispered. "It’s the Blob, the murderous cow! She’s bought everybody in the county."

"There, there," said Lydia. She rose to her feet and climbed over the wire. "Tell me exactly what happened."

Harris told her, a disjointed, outraged narrative punctuated by curses at his wife and ending, "and I’ve known Andy these last fifteen years."

She stroked his arm, her brain racing as she tried to make some sense of what he was telling her. "There, there. Come on, I’m on your side."

At last, Harris smiled. He turned to face her. "You’re taking the mick," he said. "What are you going to do? Hand me over?" He laughed, a nasty, disbelieving bark. "Why not? The rest of the world’s got it in for Harris Clough tonight, though goodness knows why."

"You’re having a bad day, that’s all, "she said. "He told you - Andy, your friend - to find a neighbor and take cover?"

"Sort of, I suppose."

"That’s how it sounds to me. He was trying to warn you, but not so as anyone would know. Could you hear anyone else in the station with him?"

"The background sounded like world war three," Harris admitted.

"Then he was trying to do you a favor," she said. "What do you intend, now?"

"I’ve no idea," said Harris. "What can I do when the whole world seems to have ganged up on me? I suppose I’ll sit here and wait for them to find me. What else can I do? I haven’t the energy to go much further."

Lydia shot him a glance and took his hand. She needed him calm and compliant for what she was about to suggest. "How about?" she said.

"Yes?" said Harris.

"First of all," she said, "do you have any neighbor, any friend, who would hide you? Someone who’d keep quiet about you being there?"

"None I’d trust."

"A ladyfriend, perhaps?"

"Me? Look at me. Who’d have me?"

Lydia smiled and patted his hand. "Good," she said. "I think," nodding towards Blencathra, "that you should climb up there and wait. I shall go into Keswick and sniff around, see if I can find out anything which might explain why you were fired at, then pick you up tonight."

"Right," said Harris. "A day in hiding won’t hurt."

Lydia nodded. She could hear the relief in his voice. His innocence was almost established in her mind - almost, but not quite.

She stood up. Hauling him to his feet, she held his hand while she led him towards the main road. Where the track ended, she stopped. She pointed to the mountain rearing up from the dry stone wall bordering the road, and said, "Look, do you see the second wall? Half way up that spur? Yes? Well climb up to it and once you’ve got over it, keep on going until you’ve crossed that sheep track. Do you see it? Good. Carry on until you’re about half way between the track and the summit - somewhere in that rock slip below the cliff. Whatever you do, keep out of sight both while you’re climbing, and after you’ve stopped. Your jacket’s in my car, by the way - I was bringing it to your house. Take it. You’ll need something to protect you from the sun."

"Why not?" asked Harris. "I can’t think of anything better."

She led him off in the direction of her car. Before they were half way there, the night ahead lit up and the sound of a muffled explosion rolled over them. The trees of the coppice by the crash site stood charcoal against the glare. A fire ball rose lazily into the sky and faded out high up in a smudge of filthy smoke. Below it, a hearty bonfire came alive.

Lydia was certain then. "I think," she said, "you really had better keep under cover."

"Why?" asked Harris.

She looked at him. His expression showed his bafflement. "How many cars have you heard of which catch fire three hours after a crash?" she asked him.

Lydia reached Keswick before dawn. The road dropped sharply as it passed over a high bridge. Below, at the mouth of the dramatic valley, she could see the town sleeping between lazy street lights. The decline ended at a traffic island. Lydia bore off left and drove slowly along a road lined with slate built houses. Turning left at the road’s end brought her into the cheese shaped Town Square where the Moot Hall sprouted from the cobbles.

During the drive she had made her plan. Now, she meant to drive round to locate the shops she needed. Instinct had her take the right hand exit from the square and there, no more than fifty yards on, she saw what she wanted.

"Right girl," she told herself. "One step at a time. You can’t kit up until they open, so sleep."

She followed the road to the car park by the lake where the mobile theater stood. "You’ve dropped lucky," she told herself. "If you’re on a roll, ride it." She parked the car in the darkest corner, stopped the engine and curled up on the back seat.

"I don’t expect to sleep," she thought, as she settled her head into the most comfortable position - too many thoughts were churning through her mind - but she jerked up to find the sun glaring down and the shadows short. "Shit!" she snarled.

She was out of the car, stretching her aching shoulders and gazing about her. Thick shrubs rose steeply in front. To the right, the theater, an agglomeration of dark green trailers with blistered paint, stood against the sharp glint of sun bright water. She breathed deep of the air. This is good, she thought. So let battle commence.

"Preparation is everything," Tom had constantly said. "Cover all contingencies, but don’t neglect yerself." So she breakfasted in the George amongst a handful of Times-reading hikers.

At nine o’clock, she was waiting outside the camping shop for the door to be unlocked. By ten thirty, the car loaded, she parked in the car park attached to the small supermarket. As she climbed out into the growing heat, the setting reminded her of the last time she had seen McKendrick. This time, as she gazed by way of precaution at the few other parked cars, she felt optimism surging inside her. "McKendrick," she mused. "`Black Mac.’ Evil. Ambitious. You couldn’t wait to shove the knife in all those years ago, could you? Well, you bastard, now we know why. The time has come for scores to be settled." And inside the store, she bought her stores with skill and paid with glee.

Then it was time for her double checking - `verification and correlation,’ in Tom speak. She left the car and walked. The town had come to life. Another blazing hot day had the tourists massed on the pavements and spilling out into the way of the traffic. Lydia found herself walking against the flow and muttering to keep her impatience in check.

The police station might have been a village school, except that the playground was marked out as a car park. She glanced at the mosaic of vehicles before she walked in. A young constable was leaning on the counter, writing in a notebook. He straightened and smiled at her.

"Yes, madam?"

"Good morning," said Lydia. "I’ve just driven up from London." She leaned across the counter. "Can you help me? Last night, about ten miles west of here, I passed a crash. The middle car - a blue Renault - looks very like one owned by a friend. I paid no attention as I passed, but he’s not arrived at the hotel yet. Could you tell me who was involved?"

The constable stared at her for a second. He clearly did not believe her. "What is your friend’s name, madam," he asked.

"James Robinson," lied Lydia.

As soon as the constable left the room, Lydia moved to stand in the open door, pretending to watch the traffic. When she eyed the mass, all nose to tail and moving with glacial slowness, she knew a quick escape was impossible.

She heard the sergeant return. Retaining her act with difficulty, she turned to face him. He was looking beyond her at the cars. "Aye," he said, "where will they all go?"

"Where, indeed?" she asked.

The sergeant grunted. "Your friend, ma’am," he said, "it can’t have been him in the crash. The only victim was a local business man, a Mr. Clough."

Lydia’s smile broadened. "Thank you," she said. "That’s a relief. My friend said he might come to the Lakes, but you can never be certain with James."

"No," said the sergeant.

She quit the station. In the sun again, she walked through the car park and entered the Town Square from an alleyway. Lydia hefted through the crush to the top of the Town Square, then cut off down another enclosed alleyway. She reached the office of the Keswick Globe by way of a narrow wooden staircase which creaked as she stepped up it, then a door held open by an elastic band fastened with a bent paper clip. `Reception’ was a girl with lank orange hair and a ringed nose who was picking at the keyboard of a word processor with all the expertise of an illiterate.

The girl finished her work before looking up. "Yes?" she asked. She wiped her forehead on her tee shirt, revealing a crocodile tattoo on her belly and a gold ring like a door knocker piercing her navel.

"I need some local information," said Lydia.

"Oh aye?" The girl stood up and heaved down the hem of her shorts. "I’m not sure we keep that."

Lydia nodded. "I saw a car crash this morning, close to where the Troutbeck road joins the A66."

"Oh, that," said the girl. She scraped her Doc. Martens on the floorboards.

"Do you know anything about it?"

"Oh aye. Mr. Jackson brought it in amongst the police press releases. Mr. Jackson’s the editor."

"Is he in?"

"No." The girl laughed. "He’s gone out to a meeting."

"Which pub?" asked Lydia.

The girl laughed. "He’d kill me if I told you," she said.

"Fair enough," said Lydia. She leaned against the counter. "I couldn’t have a look at the release, could I?"

"Aye, why not?" said the girl. "It’s Thursday’s hot news." She picked a folder off her screen and handed it to Lydia. "The second or third sheet, I think."

Lydia opened the folder. Half a dozen sheets of poorly typed script, the top one referring to the crash. Lydia read. "They say here that Clough was shot," she said.

"Yeah, isn’t it awful?"

"A political assassin," read Lydia.

"Yeah. Some big wigs were going to Sellafield, they say. The assassin took a pot at them and Mr. Clough got in the way. Poor man. They’ve told his wife."

Lydia looked up at her. "How do you know that?" she asked.

"The inspector told Mr. Jackson," the girl told her. "He does, sometimes. Their wives are cousins. I’m roughing the obit now, ‘smatter of fact. Here, how do you spell successful?"

"Could I see your piece?" asked Lydia. "I can type a bit. I could finish it for you, if you like."

"Ooh! If you would. Would you like a coffee?"

"Coffee would be nice," said Lydia. She moved round the counter. Sitting in the girl’s chair, she flexed her fingers, and looked round. "Fire away," she said. "Tell me what to write."

The girl hooked her finger through the handle of a mug. Leaning closer to Lydia, she said, "They do say there’s drugs involved." She straightened up. "But they always say that, don’t they?"

CHAPTER 6

An hour after sunset, and grateful for the slight easing of the heat, Lydia slumped onto a boulder by the sheep track on Blencathra’s southern face. After the bustle of Keswick and her frantic journeying to put her arrangements in place, to be seated, if only for a few minutes, was a luxury. Behind her, a jumble of rocks gripped the steep face by their fingernails. In front of her, the hazy vista of moorland was losing colour as the light faded.

For a few minutes, Lydia took a breather and rested her aching legs. By her side, the heavy rucksack lay on the ground. She again assessed the information she had gathered, and again came to the conclusion that the plan she had evolved was her best option. There was no sign of Clough. "If he’s gone walkabout after all I’ve done," she thought, "I’ll kill him."

She lit a cigarette - her first since breakfast - and took a deep breath of the pure air. Then, she began to sing. "Where the hell, oh whe-ere are you?" The tune was intended to be Men Of Harlech. "La Scala won’t be calling me," she decided, as she heard the off-tune croaking she produced. "Come on, Clough. Tell me where you are."

"Right behind you," came a creaky whisper.

"The poor devil’s dehydrated," she thought. "Keep down," she called. "I’ll come up to you."

He was lying in the depression behind a long slab of slate. She glanced at him as she dropped the rucksack down beside him, and giggled. "My God!" she told him. "You have caught the sun. You’re the reddest ghost I’ve ever seen. There’s water in the top of the backpack. Drink it slowly, then change into the clothes underneath. We’ll bury your suit."

Harris was fumbling with the buckles of the rucksack. He pulled out the first two liter bottle. "Don’t lose the top," warned Lydia, as he unscrewed it. "We’ll need it again." She studied him as he upended the bottle and gulped great draughts from the bottle. His skin had burned to a vivid crimson and his cheeks swollen so that his eyes were sunken and looked sore. "You’ll hurt tomorrow," she promised. "Are you fit enough to move tonight?"

"Try me," he mumbled around the neck of the bottle.

Lydia nodded.

At last he lowered the bottle to catch his breath. "What was that about ghosts?" he asked.

"You’re dead," said Lydia. "I helped type your obituary. Harris Clough, eminent local businessman, beloved husband of Susan - you never told me the Blob’s name, by the way. It seems you were shot dead, then collided with some big shots visiting the area. A terrible tragedy, according to the papers, a sad business, according to the police superintendent who’s in charge of the press releases. No stone will be left unturned in our efforts to apprehend the perpetrator, et cetera, et cetera." She handed him a packet of cigarettes. "Did you know that there’s a massive manhunt in progress to find your killer? You should be flattered."

"Idiots!" said Harris. He craned up to accept the flaming lighter she held out. He lit his cigarette and dragged in the smoke. "I watched them. The army arrived about midday in two of those big helicopters with two rotors. I imagine Special Branch called them in."

"Special Branch? The men in the Blue Range Rovers?"

"That’s right. You can’t mistake them. Slate blue, aerials sticking out all over the place. You see them all the time, around here. They’re based on Sellafield."

"Sellafield? The nuclear refinery? Of course, it’s near here. How far off do you reckon it is?"

"About thirty miles away, on the coast. It’s a major tourist attraction, these days. Our very own nuclear power station and reprocessing plant."

"Oh!" Lydia stared out over the moors for a while, then said, "There are clothes in the bag. Change into them. I hope the boots fit. If not, you’re in for a rough few days."

Harris hauled out the clothes and studied the green cord trousers and green check shirt. "These are identical to yours," he said.

"Yes."

"Are we going camping?"

"If you like."

Harris laughed. "And what if I don’t like?" he asked.

"You really don’t have a choice, Clough."

"Of course I have a choice. I could walk down to the road, hitch a lift into Keswick, and turn myself in at the police station."

"Is that what you want to do?"

"No. I’ve been thinking while I waited.... "

"Good. Then I’ll explain precisely what would happen if you did turn yourself in. First, change your clothes. Drink two liters of water, but slowly, and keep the bottle and the top. While you’re changing, tell me exactly what you’ve seen while I’ve been away."

"There were the men from the crash - eleven, I counted - all dressed in middle eastern night gown things, and the twenty Special Branch men from the Range Rovers. As soon as you left, the Arab types piled in to the Rovers and drove off north, down that lane towards Caldbeck.

"Most of the Specials hid behind the coppice, which I thought was odd. When the emergency lot arrived, there were only two visible. One was a huge man with a thick black beard. He seemed to be in charge. I couldn’t work out why they behaved like that.

"Then a even stranger thing happened. The fire brigade had put out the fire and sprayed the shells to cool them off - you know, the usual routine. Then a civilian started taking photographs. When he’d done, the firemen set about opening my car up - I wondered what they were doing at first. They chopped the front pillars with power saws, then levered the roof up with hydraulic jacks. More photographs before the ambulance men took over. They leaned inside and took out what I thought looked like a body - at least, they treated it like a body. They lifted it out and laid it on a stretcher. A civilian examined it and the photographer had a field day. In the end, they zipped up a body bag, shoved the stretcher into the ambulance, and everyone drove off leaving Black Beard and his mate standing on the verge like a pair of dandelions. Not long afterwards, the soldiers arrived."

"The soldiers," she asked, as Harris upended the bottle again, "were they armed?"

"Some of them, yes."

Lydia nodded. "That makes sense," she said. "They’re armed because they’re looking for an assassin, a gunman - at least, that’s the official line. There’s a pretty good description of the wanted man, too. I hope your boots fit as well. If you bowl in to a police station, the police will hand you over to Special Branch. What would happen then, do you think?"

"They might ask a few questions," said Harris. "But they’d soon realize they’d made a mistake and send me home."

Lydia sighed. "Think, Clough!" she said. "Whose was the body taken from your car?"

Harris was drinking. He lowered the bottle and frowned. "Tell me," he said.

"It’s been positively identified as yours," she said. "There’s no room for doubt. You had a bullet hole in your head and a broken neck, as well as being seriously over cooked. The bullet came from the assassin, the broken neck from the impact of the crash, and the roasting from the fire. Now do you understand? So who would you be when you gave yourself up? You can only be the assassin."

Harris stared at her. "That’s ridiculous," he said. "If I’m the assassin, who was the man in the car?" he asked.

"One of their own, I presume," she lied. "The Special Branch must have killed him to fill your seat. They’ll hang the assassin tag on you if only to cover that murder."

"It doesn’t make sense," said Harris. "Why should the police kill someone?"

"I think," said Lydia, "that the big shots, whoever they are, made a mistake when they shot at you, and a bigger mistake when they lost you on the moors. Had some wealthy foreigner genuinely feared for his life and had you killed, he’d probably be immune from prosecution - a diplomat, say, or some visiting royalty. He could have paid compensation to your wife, said he was sorry, and gone on his way. It happens. Oil money buys anything, these days. Special Branch could be doing them a favor and covering their lapse."

"So Andy would be powerless to help in the face of his own senior officers?" said Harris.

"Something like that," Lydia agreed.

"But why substitute my body?"

"I don’t know," said Lydia. "I’ve been wondering about that all day. The best I can suggest is that maybe the people in the cars shouldn’t be here, not officially. With you on the loose, they know there’s a witness, and one who’ll raise hell when he re-emerges from his hiding place."

"And how do they explain the policeman they killed?"

"Why a policeman? Why not one of the entourage? A servant, or someone dispensable?"

Harris shook his head. "I cannot believe that the police would kill a man simply to cover up a mistake. Andy’s as straight as they come. I’d trust him with anything, provided it was legal."

Lydia looked at him and shook her head. "Yesterday," she said, "when we were speaking in the cafe, would you have thought that an hour later someone would shoot at you after deliberately ramming your car?"

"No."

"But somebody did shoot at you," she pointed out.

"Of course someone shot at me."

"Not every policeman’s called Andy and plays dominoes."

"True!" Harris thought for a while. "What do you suggest?" he asked. "I can’t simply not exist."

"Something’s very wrong," said Lydia. "I don’t pretend to know what it is, but I do know that your life’s at risk right now. I thought that I’d take you to a man I know in Scotland - I was on my way to see him when we met. He knows about these things, and he has some pull in high places. I’m hoping that he’ll be able to sort matters out for you. It’s your best chance."

"A man," said Harris. "Oh!" His face fell. "A man."

"He’s my uncle," said Lydia, hearing his tone. "It will mean traveling out of here on foot, you realize. Using the car would be to risk road blocks, but who’d suspect a couple of hikers? I thought we’d spend the night up here, then tomorrow night, break for the east. Two nights march, and we should reach somewhere far enough away to chance a bus or a train to Newcastle. Then, we can take the train north. I’ve bought food for five days. Water’s the limiting factor, so go easy with it."

"You seem to have it all worked out," said Harris.

"I have," she told him. He was a casualty in Uncle’s war. She was rescuing him to act as verification of Uncle’s story. At least, that was her excuse to herself to explain her actions.

"In fact," he went on, "it sounds great. It solves a lot of problems for me."

"Don’t you want to go home?" she asked. "What about your wife?"

"Huh!" he grunted. "Home’s become a television blaring out with me staring at it from one chair and bored to tears while the Blob snores in the other. You can’t guess what a relief it is to be free of it." He struggled to his feet and made to hug her.

She avoided his touch. "Are you strong enough to march across country?" she asked. "At night?"

"I’ll give it a go," he said, and reached out to steady himself against the slab.

"A word of warning, Mr. Clough," she said. "If you get any more romantic ideas, you won’t be able to walk at all. I’ll leave you to your fate. Understand?"

Harris nodded.

"Finish off that water," she said, "and then we’ll make a start."

Harris drained the bottle, screwed on the top as she instructed him, then stowed it in the back pack and buckled down the flap. She turned him round and fastened the straps for him. "There!" she said, tugging his shirt smooth.

He grinned at her. For a short moment, he was the boy from the photograph again. Lydia pushed herself away from him. "He’s dangerous," she warned herself. "He’s wormed right under your guard."

When she handed him the wooden staff, he protested, "That’s a bit Old Testament."

"Maybe," she said, "but those old prophets knew a thing or two about hiking, believe me."

She stared about her, up to where a few stars showed dull through the haze, then down onto the moors where the plantations showed as black patches stitched on to the gray quilt of the grass. "It’s as dark as it’s going to get," she said. "Come on. Let’s get moving."

She picked her way down the rock fall. Behind her, Harris blundered and slipped. When she reached the sheep track and turned west, he was already gasping. Doubts about his ability slowed her. "I assumed we’d head east," he said.

"Tomorrow night," she said. "Tonight, we go west. We have five miles to cover before daylight. Can you manage?"

Harris looked down the drop to the road on his left, then up at the slope rearing on his right. "You watch me," he said.

He was swaying. Lydia stared at him, measuring him. "Mmm!" she said. "We’ll see. I’ll go slow. You try and keep up, otherwise you’ll get lost." Speed was essential. If he failed this first test, she had no alternative plan to see them safe.
CHAPTER 7

Harris woke to the smell of frying bacon. When he opened his eyes, spears of light showered down, so he closed them quickly and rolled his head to one side. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Lydia squatting under a low pine branch and jabbing at a mess tin with a fork. Her unbuttoned shirt was dangling loose outside the waistband of her trousers, and she was frowning at him.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Fantastic," Harris croaked.

"But you hurt?" she asked.

"I’m aching a bit, yes, but I haven’t felt better for ten years. I must have slept, and that’s a novelty, these days."

Lydia grunted and prodded in the mess tin with her knife.

"You must have a terrific eye for detail," said Harris.

"How so?"

"The only part of me not aching is my feet," he told her.

"You snored like a chain saw all night," she said. "I turned you on to your side, but you howled. I think you might have broken a rib or two."

"Probably when I fell on to that rock," said Harris.

"I’ll deal with you after we’ve eaten," she said. "Do you prefer tea or coffee."

"Tea," said Harris. He lay still and stared at her.

"Don’t watch me like that," she told him.

"You’re beautiful," he said. "If I had a camera, I’d take your picture and call it `Woodland Nymph.’"

"My hair’s a mess."

"I think it suits the circumstances," he said.

"Clough! I warned you last night."

"I remember," he said. "Have you always hated men? I thought we were making out pretty well in the cafe. Are you a lesbian?"

"Are you a queer?" she riposted.

"Not when I look at you," said Harris. His face felt stiff when he tried to grin and when he coughed, his chest shot pain down to his toes.

He winced, but the sight of Lydia’s white tee-shirt distracted him from the pain. "As a girl," he decided, "she must have been pretty. As a woman, her body full and curved, she’s a Venus." But if her body teased him with lust, her face held his attention. He sensed a vulnerability beneath the strength. "I could look at her all day and not tire," he thought. "When we’re out of this, I’ll look after her if she’ll allow me."

In truth, though, Lydia both attracted and frightened him. Where was the neat business woman of the motorway cafe? During their trek the night before, it was she who had taken his pack when the path began to rise steeply and he to drag behind. Not long after that, she had grabbed his hand and pulled it round her shoulders so that she was half carrying him, too.

"Definitely tough," he thought. "So why bother with a lame duck like me?"

But for all her independent air, in the morning shadow bars thrown down by the trees, she looked abandoned. "She’s vulnerable," he decided. "She needs someone to tell her she’s not alone. (So do I, come to that.) Maybe I should get up and hug her, tell her everything’s going to be all right."

"Which school did you go to?" he asked.

"The school of hard knocks," she replied. "What is it to you?"

"I was remembering some of your language last night."

She looked directly at him, then she grinned. "It was the only language which triggered any response from you," she said. She shrugged. "It worked, didn’t it? We’re here."

"We’re here," he agreed. "And you seem to have found another back pack."

"I left it here before I came to collect you," she said. "I had a busy afternoon, yesterday. It’s as well I did, the state you were in last night."

"Yes. Sorry."

"You’re out of condition," she said. "You worry me."

"I’ll be rested for tonight," said Harris.

"Your body’s not so bad," she said, "for your age. You should even toughen up in a couple of days. It’s your brain that’s soft. Psyche yourself. Tell yourself that tonight we reach the target, however much it hurts. That’s why you mustn’t look at me as you did. Don’t think of me as a woman. Think of me as the bastard who’s going to drive you to the end of your endurance, then beyond."

"Yes, ma’am."

Lydia rose from her haunches and stepped over the dixie until she was standing over him. Leaning down, she slapped him hard across his face. "I mean it," she said.

Harris blinked the tears from his eyes and glared up at her. "You shouldn’t strike a man when he’s down," he grunted.

"It’s your only chance," she snapped. "Sorry. I forgot the sunburn." She straightened. "I’ll attend to your scratches after we’ve eaten. But for the rest of the day, get whatever rest you can and tell yourself `we’re getting out of here.’ Last night, we covered less than five miles. Tonight, we must make ten. There are five rivers, the main line railway and the motorway to cross, to say nothing of untold hedges and fences, farms, poachers, illicit lovers and all the rest of civilized society who’ll be milling about romancing the stars. Last night, too, the opposition hadn’t had sufficient time to organize themselves properly. By tonight, they will. Tonight will be ten times tougher."

"Thank you, ma’am," said Harris, looking at her from under his eyelashes, willing her to relax.

"I mean it, Clough."

"Yes," said Harris.

They clambered over the stock-proof fence at half past eleven. The land fell away down an easy slope of short springy grass. Harris knew he would fare better. He grinned at her. Lydia fastened the straps of his pack, and settled his hat on his head. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"Try me," said Harris. "Lead on."

Lydia glanced at him, then at the luminous dial of her compass. She set off diagonally down the slope, staff swinging, making a course of north east as best Harris could judge.

He managed to stride along beside her for all of a hundred yards. After which, she gradually drew ahead of him. He lengthened his pace to keep up with her. She continued to gain on him. Harris studied her as the pains built up in his chest. She was not trotting - indeed, her pace was slightly less than his own. The going was not a hindrance. Harris had played football on rougher ground in his youth. His problem was simply that she was in better condition.

Her strides, he concluded, must be longer than his by several inches. He lengthened his own again to match her. Still, she drew ahead, moving with an effortless lope which covered the ground with a deceptive ease. He was gasping and sweating when she stopped for the first time and waited for him to catch up.

"It’s no use loafing about," she hissed. "There won’t be a bus along. Can’t you move faster?"

"I’m doing my best," he said.

"Shh!" she hissed.

Harris gazed around. He could see no one in the mellow night.

"Don’t speak so loud," she whispered. "Noise carries at night. Silence is essential. Now move!"

Harris moved. Lydia paced ahead. Half an hour later, he brushed against her. "Sorry. I didn’t see you," he said.

"Shh!"

"Sorry."

"Shh!" She leaned close to him. "About another hundred yards on, there’s a fence. It stands on a slight bank. When we reach it, you lie down on this side and keep close against the bank. I’ll cross over and recce. Right?"

Harris nodded and tried not to show the relief at the prospect of a rest.

"After that, you must move quicker and you must keep quiet. Right?"

Harris nodded again.

The slope had almost leveled off by now, and the grass was longer, swishing about his boots as he walked. Lydia took his hand and steered him directly down the hill.

They reached the fence - three rusting strands of barbed wire strung from rotting posts - and Lydia pushed him into the long grass at its foot. She shrugged out of her harness and lowered her pack to the ground beside him. "Wait here!" she whispered, and swung lightly over the wires.

Harris struggled to sit up so that he could peer under the lowest strand. He saw the paddock, perhaps a hundred yards wide and on its far side, a line of straggling bushes. He could see the thistles standing proud of the turf and the dark tufts of the grass. But he could not see Lydia.

"That’s the second time she’s disappeared," he thought. "That’s some trick! Very handy. I wonder where she learned it?"

She would not catch him napping again though, he promised, leaning against the cool earth and watching for her return. Consequently, he started violently and felt his heart pumping wildly when he felt the tapping on his shoulder. He wheeled round.

"That’ll teach you a lesson," she hissed. "I told you to lie down and rest."

"Eh?"

"Start walking up there." She pointed up the slope, roughly north west and at right angles to their track coming down. "Make for that peak. I’ll catch up with you."

"What’s wrong?"

"Just move!"

Harris glared at her. She hoisted him to his feet. "And keep quiet!" she said.

"You won’t hear me," he muttered, and set off. "It’s an easy slope," he thought. "I’ll go like hell. I’ll move so fast she’ll never catch me."

He stepped out. Again, the going was not particularly rough. But the pack weighed half a ton, he decided, and he was climbing. Soon, he was panting. He leaned forward into the slope. Sweat began to drip from his nose and chin. He toiled on. "Bloody woman," he muttered. "Bloody slave driver. See if she’ll catch me."

He glanced up and corrected his course, pacing on with his thighs aching and his head swimming.

He approached the peak with tedious slowness. As he went closer, he saw that the `peak’ was not a peak in the literal sense, but a bluff of eroded granite which stood clear against the sky when seen from below. Before he reached the foot of the cliff, Harris found himself having to avoid large chunks of rock which had fallen off and were lying embedded in the grass. He veered to his right, following the face northward and making towards the sound of running water.

"You’re slow," she said, suddenly appearing right in front of him.

"Stop doing that," snapped Harris. "You’ll give me a heart attack."

"Very well," she said. "But learn from it."

"Learn what?" he demanded.

"Just how vulnerable you are. You’re out of your element. The opposition can call on men who’d be here in two hours from where we started last night and still be fit for fifty miles more before breakfast. And you wouldn’t hear them coming. Try to remember that. Try keeping a look out while you’re moving. Never mind. You’ll pick it up if we stay out here long enough. Cheer up, Clough! Not far to go, now."

She led on, keeping to a pace which Harris could match. The cliff veered gradually to the left. As they marched, the sound of the water grew louder until abruptly, the cliff opened up in a wide crevice and the air was thickened by a fine mist. The ground, drought hardened up until now, was spongy underfoot. Thick mats of moss covered the scattered boulders embedded in it. Harris looked up. A stream plunged from the top of the cliff, scar white against the black rock.

Lydia stopped. "Our room for the night," she said. "Fully air-conditioned, running water and I’ll bet that in daylight, the view’s unrivaled."

Harris slid gratefully out of his harness.

"We are now following plan two," Lydia told him. "You’re going to have to learn, Clough. Survival Rule One is, fill the empty water bottles before you do anything else."

Harris unbuckled the top of his pack and hoisted out the two empty bottles. Without the pack, he felt weightless and happy. He paced across the spongy ground to find the stream. Plan two! Lydia had a plan. He need not think, must do no more than he was told to do. Life was good. He flexed his aching back.

When he found it, a rill one foot wide and almost two feet deep in icy, rushing water fresh from the mountain, he filled one bottle, drank half of it, then filled both bottles and screwed the tops on tight.

"Does that taste good?" asked Lydia. She was standing behind him, holding two dixies.

"Wonderful," said Harris.

"There! You see," she said. "life’s not all bad, after all." She squatted down to fill the cans. "You must learn to enjoy the simpler things Clough. Like supper, then bed. Celebrate being alive."

Harris grinned.

"Don’t you be getting ideas," she said. "You need the rest."

But as they walked back to their packs, Harris could feel the easy bond between them again, as it had been in the cafe. He slumped against a convenient boulder as Lydia put her lighter to a hexi block. She delved into her back pack, hoisted out two tins, and peered at them. "Minced beef and new potatoes," she said. "Will they be all right for you?"

"Great," said Harris. "I’m starving." He settled more comfortably on his rock and gazed out. "Why have you changed the plan?"

"Half the British army was camped on the far side of that paddock," she said, "or, to be more accurate, on the far side of the lane behind the hedge. There’s something not quite right about all this. They were Territorials, I imagine - the regulars don’t have the manpower to mount that kind of operation any more, not at such short notice - but the Terriers are good. Never underestimate them. But they were making more noise than a cup final crowd. You’d never have made it through them unseen."

"But you could?"

"Yes," she said. "I could." She rose from the cooking and plumped herself beside him.

"So why didn’t you?" he asked.

"Because," she said.

They were staring east. Crimson bars glowed above the mountains turning the haze in the valley below to a rose pink.

"They’re fishing, you know," said Harris. "We’re the herring."

Lydia looked at him. "Explain," she said.

"Imagine a small fishing boat looking for herring," Harris said. "When she detects a shoal, she steams round in a circle streaming her nets. When the circle’s complete, and she reaches the dan buoy where she first dropped the net, she brings the end aboard and begins to haul away on both parts. The fish find themselves in an ever-decreasing area and being herded towards the boat."

"You say we’re being herded?" asked Lydia. She gazed at him. "Why would they do that?"

"Search me," said Harris. "But surely, with modern technology - helicopters, night scopes, infra red image intensifiers and so forth - they could have picked us up easily enough while we were out in the open?"

"That’s a good question, Clough," she said. "Very perceptive. I agree with you. So try this idea. They don’t want you caught - `they’ being the Special Branch."

Harris snorted. "For people who don’t want me caught," he said, "they’re spending a fortune in taxpayers’ money on futility."

Lydia shrugged. "When was that ever different?" she asked. "But change `futility’ for `cosmetic’ and you have a clue. When I said the army was making a lot of noise, what I meant was that they didn’t appear to be in a state of alert. They had sentries posted, but well spread out and not taking any great precautions - more of a warning for the locals not to stumble in amongst the men than an ambush for a desperate armed killer. I was tempted to go through the line, but then I thought of you. As far as Special Branch know, you’re alone. You have neither maps nor food. If you were desperate to avoid detection, you would avoid the military line. If you wanted to be caught, but were mobile, then you’d have walked into a police station before now. So yes, I do agree that we are being herded. Which leaves us with two pieces of information. One, that Special Branch themselves want to collar you. Two, that they’re waiting somewhere to the north east."

Harris laughed. "Why would the police not want the army to catch me?" he asked.

"Maybe," said Lydia, "Special Branch don’t want some innocent, part time colonel talking to you and believing the story you tell. Also, if the army caught you they’d be witness that you exist. They might give newspaper interviews, or ask about what happened to you after they handed you over. Also, they would write at least one report, saying that they’d met you and handed you over. Officially, you’d exist again."

"Oh!" he said, and shrugged. Her reasoning made sense to him, but he could not quite grasp the significance of what she was saying.

"That is a worst case scenario, I admit," she said. "But I’m working as if it were fact. Now," she went on, "you’re the local. If my theory is correct, and you were in charge of the operation to catch the assassin, where would you lay your trap? You have, remember, limited resources, say twenty men you can trust, but regiments of beaters."

Harris frowned. "I would assume that the quarry would make either for Carlisle - that’s the center of communications with the world outside, around here, - or for home," he said. "Home’s easy. My house stands in the middle of a field. One man could stake it out quite easily. Once I’ve gone inside, he calls up his mates. They could be there within the hour. And Carlisle? Assuming they’re confident that I’m on Blencathra, then I’d stake out the road across Caldbeck Moor with the bulk of the men at the eastern end. That’s the direct route from here, and the least populous. That way, they take me on open ground away from houses and people." Harris was surprised how dispassionately he was able to discuss his own life expectancy.

Lydia nodded. "You are responding to the treatment," she said. She squeezed his knee. Harris looked at her. She looked away. "That’s exactly the conclusion I came to after looking at the map," she said. "You, though, have the advantage of knowing the lie of the land, which they probably don’t. That’s handy. Come on, let’s eat."

The food was heated through, by then. They ate from the mess tin while the water simmered in the second for their tea afterwards. They had moved off the rock as the light grew, and sat, legs stretched out, leaning back against it.

As they ate, Harris could feel her arm against his and her thighs as she shifted her position on the ground. Her warmth seeped through his clothing, exciting him.

Then they drank from the second tin, tea shared sip for sip like a religious communion. Harris sighed. "But for the existence of ten thousand hunters sniffing around, this would be heaven," he whispered.

Lydia looked at him, but said nothing.

"I enjoyed the food," he said, and eyed her hungrily.

"Bedtime," she announced. "We better take precautions, tonight."

"That’s frank," said Harris. "Not romantic, perhaps, but honest."

Lydia stared at him. "You are soft in the head," she said.

"And you are beautiful," he told her.

"This is the sort of place hikers make for," she snorted. "The precautions we take shall be camouflage. You lie down on the poly bag and spread that green sheet over you. I’ll disguise you. Keep perfectly still. Make no sound. Do not get out without I tell you to. Do you understand?"

"I understand," said Harris.

He lay down. Lydia staked the green ground sheet over him so that he was completely covered. "Once we’re out of all this," she said, as she scattered grass and moss on top of his bivouac, "maybe we can talk about ourselves then. But don’t go building any hopes." Her voice sounded fainter as she added, "You’ve done better today," she said. "For a geriatric, you learn quickly. We might even survive, who knows? Now sleep."

He heard the voices about noon. He woke sweating and gasping for a drink., the weight of his shelter pressing claustrophobically around him. He listened. A man and a woman were speaking but too far away for him to make out what they were saying. They droned on intermittently for an hour, punctuated by soft laughter and the clink of tin plates, while Harris lay rigid and cramped under his sheet.

Then the woman said something in a different tone, and the man replied.

The woman said, "I’ll go behind that rock over there."

Boots came squelching across the spongy ground, heading straight for him. Harris tensed. "How do I explain why I’m sleeping in a hole in the ground if she finds me?" he wondered. "And more to the point, will she hand me over to the police? Or can I get away by acting the eccentric?"

The footsteps stopped close by his head. "I won’t be a minute, Peter," the woman called. She sounded young, Harris thought, young and carefree. There was a silence through which the boots scuffled. Then Harris heard the hissing sound.

A moment later and he felt the water filtering under the lip of the sheet and beginning to trickle down his head. He tried to feel up and stem the leak without being detected. "If I drown," he thought, "at least I’m already in the grave."

He heard the swish of more boots. "Oh!" said the woman. "Oh, Peter, you surprised me. Peter! You rotter!" A thud. "Leave me.... Hey, let me pull my pants up."

"No. I want you." Husky. Self assured.

A long pause. "No, Peter. You know I can’t resist... Please, Peter, not out here in the open."

"Why not?"

"Someone might see."

"Let ‘em. There’s no one around for miles. I checked."

"Peter!"

A long, slopping kiss, hoarse breathing, a groan. "Help me, darling. I can’t reach your zip."

A heavy object - a boot, Harris suspected - landed on his head and began pecking remorselessly at his temple throughout a long grunting which climaxed in a wail and a sob, then desisted. Harris blushed, lying dazed and furious while the lovers whispered their secrets (how banal, he thought savagely, I could do better than that.) and recovered their breaths.

When the couple left, she saying she thought Peter really should speak to mummy and arrange a firm date, Peter professing undying love but evading her matrimonial hints, Harris gently eased his aching shoulders, then moved his head out of the puddle left by the girl. With the cause for tension gone, and he undiscovered, he began to wonder again about Lydia.

In the cafe, he had assumed her to be a business woman. She was dressed for the part, she behaved the part. She had even mentioned, casually, that she was traveling to a meeting in Scotland. But what kind of business trained its staff in the skills of a backwoodsman?

He had thought, when she arranged his camouflage last night, that he would be protected from the view of casual passers by. Granted that Peter and his lover were engrossed in each other, the girl had nevertheless relieved herself within inches of Harris’s head and failed to notice him - Harris was lying in the evidence. Then she and Peter had made love almost on top of him, and again failed to notice him. Some camouflage.

Then there was Lydia’s trick of disappearing into the night before reappearing right by his side without Harris having any notion she was there, and her constant assessing not only of the enemy’s moves, but the enemy’s motives.

"The enemy," thought Harris. "The enemy are the police. Are the police the enemy because of her? Had they seen us in the cafe and assumed that we were together in the car? Is that why they ambushed me? But if the manhunt comes about because of Lydia, then the Blob is innocent. I can’t believe the Blob is innocent, yet I’d swear that Lydia’s as straight as they come. To hell with her background. Remember the chemistry between us. The only thing which matters is our future. This whole hunt is caused by some misunderstanding. Lydia’s uncle will sort that out. For now, all we need to concentrate on is escape."

So that when Lydia peeled back his bivouac after night had fallen, and let in the fresh air, he asked, "You don’t happen to have any headache pills in your pack, do you?"

CHAPTER 8

"You withstood your baptism very well," said Lydia, as Harris was filling the water bottles from the rill.

He laughed. "Liebfraumilch it wasn’t," he said, and kept his face averted in case she saw the pleasure he felt at her compliment. "You said to lie still, so I lay still."

"Exactly," she said. "Well done."

The march that night was easier than the previous two. Maybe he was toughening up, maybe the ground was easier. Their packs were certainly lighter. Or maybe, he mused, as they settled into their stride, maybe I feel better for earning her trust.

It is true that the first part of the march mainly involved climbing. Lydia had planned their route to cross the saddle between High Pike and Knock. First, though, she led him downhill, following the line of the rill before striking north west and beginning the long upward hike.

They tramped on, side by side in a companionable silence until, near the top, Lydia stopped. "Lie down," she whispered. "We crawl from here."

Harris flopped onto the grass. "We don’t want to be seen against the sky when we cross the ridge," she said. "Follow me."

Harris obeyed, trying - and failing - to imitate her sinuous movements. He was grunting with exertion when they reached the top.

Lydia kept going. Harris glanced up from his search for sheep droppings. Across the broad valley below, the red lights of the television aerials on Caldbeck Fell marked the north. Two hands widths to the west of them, where the steep valley of the Ellen gouged its niche through the hills, he fancied he could make out the glint of the waters in the Solway Firth.

The sight of the sea affected him. He paused to stare. A wave of nostalgia and regret swamped him. "If only," he thought. "I could have avoided all this. But then, I wouldn’t have met Lydia."

Lydia was moving steadily on. Harris jerked into motion, hurrying to catch her. Lydia was safety. Lydia was love. Lydia was the present and the future, the sea, the beginning of a long past. If he could win her fair and square, he would be happy.

When she allowed him to stand up, he forgot his skinned elbows. When she resumed the march, he took her hand in his. She looked at him, and for a moment, he thought she was going to snatch it away from him. He tightened his grip. She looked away, but did not try to break the contact. "You’re a fool," she muttered.

"Good," he said.

"Have you any idea what you’re in to?"

"No."

"Aren’t you worried?"

"Not with you here."

"There, you are a fool."

"If you say so."

"You know nothing about me."

"Yes I do. I know that I love you."

"Clough! What about my past? Think of what I might have done."

"The you I love is only a future and a present. We - you and I - have no past. And my own history isn’t so savory that it’s worth broadcasting. I’m broke. I’ve walked out on my wife. I’m a failure."

"Don’t keep knocking yourself."

Harris was silent, then he said, "I wish I had your strength."

"Don’t count on it Clough. Down there" - she nodded toward Caldbeck Common - "there’s a line of policemen just waiting to blow off your head."

"I know." He stopped. When she turned to face him, he said, "Promise that if they do capture me, you’ll run. Don’t let them get you, too."

"Now I know you’re a fool," she said. She dragged him into motion again. But Harris felt that she walked a little closer to him after that.

As they settled in the grass by the bank - for once, in full darkness - he stared out over Caldbeck Common. The last hour’s walking had brought them lower so that the hills beyond the Common seemed more prominent.

"So where’s your home from here?" Lydia asked.

Harris pointed Northwest. "You see the solitary hill with the notches each side of the crest? That was an ancient British fort. The hill is the last of the fells before the coastal plain. My house lies about another six or seven miles directly beyond it."

Lydia nodded, and after a silence, she said, "I have a problem. I was expected in Scotland yesterday, at the latest."

"At your uncle’s?"

"Yes, at my uncle’s. I really must find a telephone and tell him why I’m delayed. The problem is, I don’t think we should break out of Cumbria, not right away."

"Why?" he asked, looking at her.

"The longer we’re - you’re - at large, the more they’ll think you’ve either died on the moors or slipped through their hands. Either way, the local search will be scaled down. Also, you haven’t seen yourself in a mirror, have you? You look, putting it as politely as I can, conspicuous. You’re burnt, blistered and scratched. You’ll frighten any little old lady who sees you half to death. So I thought, if we hide up for a few days longer, you’ll begin to look more human and therefore less remarkable. The way out should be easier, too. Maybe we’ll find it safe enough to hot-wire a car and drive out in luxury. Who knows?"

"Can you hot-wire a car?" asked Harris.

"Of course I can." She spoke as if everyone should be able to hot-wire a car, as if hot wiring a car was a technique taught in all infant schools as part of the necessary preparation for living a full and wholesome life.

"Oh!" said Harris.

"Do you know anywhere we could hole up in safety for a couple of days?" she asked.

"I’d try Isel Wood," said Harris, after a moment’s thought.

"Show me on the map when the sun gets up," she said. "Which direction is it?"

Harris pointed at the lone hill. "Due west of the peak," he said. "In the Derwent Valley about five miles on. There’s a hamlet there, maybe half a dozen houses, and the Hall. That’s haunted, so they say, so maybe we’d better be careful. We’ve enough problems without adding the supernatural to the list. The top of that hill, by the way, is a British fort. Just south of it, on a boggy plateau, there’s the remains of the Roman fort. Its position controls all of the Derwent Valley from Keswick, right down Bass Lake and on down towards Cockermouth. It used to guard the road from Ravenglass, on the coast south of Sellafield, to Aspatria, ten or so miles north of here, where it joined the road from Derwentia - Cockermouth - to Carlisle."

"Indeed?" she said. "Then tomorrow, we break through the police line and camp somewhere below that hill. We should reach Isel the night after, all being well. It’ll be more dangerous because we’re passing into civilization, but we’ll have to risk it. Would you like tea?"

"There’s a public ‘phone at Isel, as well," suggested Harris. "You could call your uncle from there."

"I’ll think about it," she said, lighting a hexi block under a mess tin, then pouring in water from a bottle. "I have a bad feeling about public telephones."

They set out later than usual, that next night, and only after Lydia had rehearsed Harris in the route until Harris was word perfect.

"I go first," she told him. "You follow after you’ve counted to one hundred, slowly - and no cheating!"

"Why not me first?" asked Harris.

"In case they’re awake," she said.

Harris looked blank.

"If they see me," she explained, "and if they capture me, they will see I am not a man. Not being a man, I can’t be the man they’re looking for, can I? And if I make enough noise during the arrest, you will hear and can go to ground." She stroked his arm. "Look," she said. "If we do get split up, then we’ll rendezvous here." She pointed to a sheep shelter on the fell west of Uldale. "Do you know it?"

"I know it," said Harris.

"Good! You’ll need to take a chance, of course. Veer west. Cross the river well upstream towards Overwater Hall." She patted his hand. "Don’t worry, Clough," she told him, "it won’t come to that." She became brisk again. "We have thirteen hedges to cross, and two farmsteads to avoid. Use the hill as your marker, but make for the northern edge first - five fences - then the southern for three. After that, go directly for the peak. You have to find me by the river, here," she pointed to the map. "Two hundred yards too far east, and you’ll come out at the bridge. That’s where I think the police will be waiting. Too far to the west and you’ll miss me altogether. All right?"

"I suppose so," said Harris. He tried to sound unconcerned.

Lydia set out. Harris counted his hundred and followed. For the first two miles, he loped down an easy slope of cropped grass. He could see the smudge of the trees lining the river bank at the bottom perfectly well. Half an hour, if I walk briskly, he thought.

He walked briskly. The first two wire fences he encountered were minor hindrances. The third barrier, though, was a hedge of mixed hazel, blackthorn and oak whose gaps had been plugged with scraps of barbed wire. Beyond it, he found a pasture dotted with cattle which scrambled snorting to their feet as he tramped between them. Some began to follow him, sniffing and coughing. They distracted him from his navigation. When he looked up from avoiding them, he found that he was too close to the next hedgerow to see the summit he was guiding himself by.

He reached the hedge. It was the most effective barrier so far. By the time he found a weak spot and landed in the next field, he was relying for guidance on the few stars showing through the haze. Looking at the next hedge, he began to feel panic. There was no Lydia to hand to keep him on course, no comfort of whispering his doubt to dispel his worry. Questions milled in his head. "What if they’re waiting behind that next hedge? Was that movement by that tree? I’m too far to the right, I’ll cross this one slantwise to the left. But if I do, then I shall be a clear target for longer."

He broke into a trot, but the sound of the pack bouncing against his back slowed him to a walk again. When the slope grew steeper and he first heard the rippling of the river, he had lost count of the hedges he had passed and the paddocks he had crossed. He could not see his marker, either, so he had no idea whether he was on course or adrift, or by how far. He followed the drop.

The field should have been long and narrow. The far side should have been following the curve of the river. Its eastern end should have reached within a hundred yards of the road bridge. Harris stared about, trying to match the reality he could see to Lydia’s description from the map. If Lydia’s assumptions were accurate, and if he was standing in the correct field, then the ambush was laid a couple of hundred yards away to his right.

Harris had agreed Lydia’s reasoning when she said, "They’ll expect you to keep to dry land - after all, you’re no countryman, and you’ve neither food nor maps as far as they know. Therefore, they’ll watch the road bridge." When he turned west – away from the bridge - to follow the line of the hedgerow, he realized the flimsiness of their logic.

"Keep as close against the hedge as you can," Lydia warned. "Dark clothes against a dark background’s the best we can do."

He kept close to the hedge. He moved slowly, wading through clumps of thistles which pricked through his trousers to the flesh of his legs, and clumps of nettles which stung his hands. He crawled past gaps. He doubled over beneath long, trailing branches. All because a policeman might be waiting by a bridge which might be fifty or so yards beyond the eastern end of the paddock.

He reached the corner and turned north, towards the river. As he turned, he suddenly realized how exposed he was to ambush from the further side. He slowed even more, moving at a snail pace and cowering low as he passed the gaps and breaks in the bushes by his side. He watched the far hedge all the time, searching for a movement, listening for a sound which would betray the waiting man.

"I’m not cut out for this," he thought. "I’m too old. I’ve had no practice. And what if she’s not here, if I’m in the wrong pasture? Will we meet up near the Roman fort as she agreed?"

For all his worry and uncertainty, though, it never once occurred to Harris that the woman he trusted but did not know might have sold him out. He never once suspected that she might be a part of the conspiracy in which he had become enmeshed. He never dreamed that she might have taken the easy path and reported to the police that he was half a mile behind her, blundering through the night, searching for the field next but one to the bridge.

The hand gripped his arm. Lydia whispered, "Thank Heaven you’ve made it."

"Great God!" he hissed. "Will you STOP DOING THAT."

"Shh!"

She nodded towards the river bank. "Come on," she said, and led him - far quicker than he had been moving - towards the line of trees.

They reached the bank. The fence trailed off into the flow with banners of weed flapping in the current. Lydia led him down stream a few yards to the foot of a broad tree. "Lie down," she hissed.

Harris unbuckled his pack and laid it on the ground before flopping down on the grass himself. Next to him, the tree trailed its roots in the water while its trunk curved out over the surface. Lydia sat down beside him. She unlaced her boots, then pulled off her stocking and stuffed them inside. Harris watched her as she stood up again and took off her trousers. "Give me the bottles," she told him.

He reached inside his pack, and felt the first aid pack under his fingers. He remembered her saying, "The more prepared you are, the less you’ll be taken by surprise. We’ll leave that handy, tonight," back at their last camp.

Harris had not known he was carrying a first aid pack, until then.

He looked up at her. "Why don’t you let me go?" he asked. "Why should you take the chance?"

"There’s no point in your going," she said. "Don’t worry. They won’t shoot unless they know who they’re firing at." She seemed quite confident. "Killing must always be selective," she lectured. "Indiscriminate killing achieves nothing. Anyway, it’s the threat of death that frightens people. You can’t very well threaten a corpse, can you?"

"Eh?" he asked.

"How many dead men have you heard begging and groveling?" she asked. With which, she tugged off her trousers and stepped into the water.

Harris watched. "It should be me," he thought. "I should be doing that."

* * * * *

"Can you see, Michael, where that hill top has nicks at its edge?" asked Commander McKendrick.

Michael McKay craned his head to look through the windscreen of the Range Rover. "Aye," he said.

"In the old days," said McKendrick, "that was a fort. Our ancestors would stand up there and fire off their arrows and slings at the invaders, Michael."

"Aye."

"Then just along here - you are looking Michael? - where the slope levels south of the peak, that was a fort built by the mighty Romans themselves. Are you ever asking yourself how it was that an army with swords and slings was for conquering a people with forts the size of the Britons?"

"No, I never did."

"Shall I be telling you, Michael?"

"Aye."

"They used diplomacy and discipline, Michael. Diplomacy and discipline. That is how the few always conquer the many. Those are the weapons of the dedicated. Armed so, the few will always beat the multitude. And Michael, discipline is not only standing in the fires because the sergeant says to. Discipline is loving the Law, feeling the infinite Love of your God giving strength to your arm as you strike out at the unbelievers with the sword of Divine Justice. Fear not the wrath of men, Michael, nor their scorn. Keep faith with the Laird and you shall be blessed. Are you men in the back hearing me, now?"

"We hear."

"Aye. Good. Then make sure you remember that when we are reaching the altar of the Laird in Paradise and sitting on His right hand, for then we shall be giving the Law." He watched as the hill fort slid behind and the Rover was past. He settled his bulk in the seat. "Now Michael," he said, "take your time. Let us be seeing if the men are alert at their posts. Drive as far as the Castle Inn, now, and make up the hill from there. On the far side, let her idle down, eh? Nice and quiet like a herring on a slab."

CHAPTER 9

Harris craned round the trunk to look downstream. The bark was rough under his cheek. He could not see the bridge - the bankside trees and the river’s sweeping bend blocked his view - but he watched for the muzzle flash, as Lydia had told him to. "Why cart a first aid kit around, if not to use it?" she whispered brightly.

She slid down the two feet of earth bank and eased her self into the river. The water reached just below her crutch. The current snatched at her thighs, forming waves which spread through the ripples and disappeared down the stream. Lydia grabbed the thick branch which curved over the water almost to the middle and steadied herself against it while she reached behind to take the first water bottle from him.

Harris handed it to her, She seized it, and began to inch forward. The further she moved, the shallower the water became. By the end of the bough, it reached little higher than her knees. She waded on a half dozen paces more so that she was fully exposed to a watcher downstream. Then, she stopped.

Harris knew that her exposure was the whole purpose of the maneuver. She had explained the matter the night before. "You can’t get across unseen, if there is anyone watching," she had said. "I’ll go first and draw their fire - no, they won’t shoot. If they see me, they’ll come up and investigate. When they see a woman, they’ll leave quickly enough. Should they be waiting, then we’ll just have to change our plan."

In the camp, lying in cool grass and feeling the security of the bank by his side, Harris had agreed with her. By the river, with the raucous water drowning any hope of hearing movement, he realized how wrong he had been. He watched her, despising himself for his cowardice.

Lydia carried on. Without any apparent concern for her safety, she stooped over and began to rinse the bottle, half filling, swilling it round, then letting the water gurgle back into the stream. Harris cringed at the noise she was making. He expected half the parish could hear it. Finally, she immersed the bottle and waited until the bubbling had stopped. Then, she held it aloft against the stars to see the level, tipped a little out and screwed on the top.

"Hand me the next," she whispered, when she returned to the bank.

"Don’t go back," he pleaded.

She looked up at him and grinned. "You’ve no spirit of adventure, that’s your trouble," she said. "Just keep a sharp lookout in case they’re awake."

"I can’t hear a thing for the noise of that bloody river," he hissed.

"Then neither can they," she said. "There’s three bottles to fill. That should give them time to reach me if they see me. Don’t forget, if they do come, slide into the river, keep close in against this bank and let the stream take you for at least a hundred yards. If possible, get under the bridge and away downstream."

"And you?"

She reached out and patted him with a wet hand. "I’ll meet you where we agreed. Don’t you worry, I’ll be all right," she said. "Come on. We need to cross before daylight."

She waded out again and started her ritual rinsing of the second bottle. Harris stared. A tiny part of his mind registered the mature swell of her hips as she stooped, and the paleness of her thighs against the star strewn mirror of the water but fear for her clouded the enticing sight. As she straightened, he looked away and watched down stream again.

She reached the bank and handed him the second bottle. He handed her the third. "Thanks," she said, and turned round to wade out again.

"Don’t go," he whispered. "Let me fill the bottle when I cross."

Lydia stopped. Holding the branch to steady herself, she looked back at him. "We agreed," she said.

"That was up the mountain," he said.

"Stop arguing," she snapped. "Just do what you’re told, and let me get on. It’s bloody cold in here." Turning away, she began to make for the middle. She moved faster this time. Harris watched in horror at the ripples she was sending down stream. Anyone watching must be alerted by them. Then, once clear of the cover of the branch, she seemed deliberately to splash more, to draw attention to herself.

Harris fumbled with the laces of his boots. "We’re running late," he muttered. "Dawn can’t be far off." Panic made him clumsy. When the knots came undone, he dragged off his boots and peeled off his stockings. The grass was cool against his feet as he stood to undo his belt. Before she returned, he had his trousers off and his boots suspended round his neck by their laces.

"That’s the water topped up," she said. "Pass me my pack."

Harris held it on the bank while she shrugged into it and fastened the buckles. He had tied her trousers to the top flap, so she picked up her boots and slung them around her neck. "Right," she said. "I’ll signal you."

As she was about to move off, Harris said, "I love you. Please be careful." Lydia gave no sign of hearing him.

He wiped the bottles on the grass, then stuffed them into his pack. Lydia had reached the end of the bough. He was fastening the flap as she launched herself into the stream, taking short paces, frowning at the water as she planted her staff in the river bed for support. She was making for a small pebbled beach, Harris saw. He strapped his trousers to the flap of his back pack. She reached the shallows. Harris sat on the bank and trailed his feet in the water. He looked up. Lydia had disappeared.

The river flowed on, its surface pleated and dark. Harris sat and waited, his feet dangling in the water. A plastic fertilizer bag draped over the branch was twitching in the current. He stared at the shadows behind the beach opposite, then downstream to where the water boiled over a bar of pebbles into the next pool. He waited.

The moment she signaled, he slid into the water. The chill struck up his legs. He swallowed his gasp. Pebbles shifted under his feet. He grabbed the branch, and began edging slowly forward. He reached the plastic bag, and inched past, feeling the water growing more shallow as he moved. When he reached the end of the bough, he stopped. For a while, he stood exposed, just as Lydia had stood exposed. He could see the full length down stream to the bend. She had gone out three times before she finally crossed over, he remembered. Her courage made him cringe at his own cowardice just as he cringed at his inadequacies in fieldcraft compared to hers. Waiting was an act of bravado, a proof to satisfy himself that he had the guts. He waited, wobbling in the current and staring downstream. Then, he struck out for the bank. He tried to move slowly, but hurried. His feet began to slide. He steadied himself with his staff, sending up great cascades of water. He stopped and caught his balance, then moved timidly on.

The shingle grated under his feet as he stepped out of the water. He crossed to the grass and flopped down heavily against a tree.

"Dry your feet, put on your trousers, stockings and boots as quickly as you can, then move along the bank away from the bridge. Follow the hedge round until you reach the gate," Lydia had said. "Don’t worry. I’ll be watching your back."

He dried his feet, dressed, was ready to move in record time. He was shaking. He tried to tell himself it was from the cold of the river, but an inner voice insisted on the truth. "You’re a coward. You allow a woman to do the dangerous work while you sit in hiding. Then you botch up the crossing."

He took a final look around. The bank he had left was shrouded in the night. A division of policemen could have been watching him, for all Harris could see. He steeled himself and rose to his feet.

He broke cover with an effort - the effects of the river crossing were too fresh in his mind. The tree was safety, the empty field a void filled with threat. He began to move along the bank, slinking from tree to tree, then stopping while he peered around. He half crawled, half ran across the gaps until he reached the hedge which barred his path and led to the road.

Next to the bushes, he felt safer. Hugging the shadow, he moved on. The hedge was short. Twenty yards, and he reached the next hedge, the hedge shielding the road, quickly. He turned again and crept on, this time towards the bridge.

Lydia was pressed in against the bushes. She hissed as he approached. "The last obstacle," she whispered, nodding at the lane beyond the bushes. "There’s a slight problem. The gate on the other side’s about fifty yards further down. Don’t worry. There’s been no traffic for ages. I was watching from across the river."

"Cars come down here at one hell of a speed," said Harris. "We won’t have much warning, once we’re in the open."

"We’ll go through these bushes," she said. "Watch me. Do exactly as I do after I’ve given the signal. All right?"

Harris was shaking. "All right," he grated.

But it all took so long. Lydia unbuckled her pack and laid it on the grass. Then she lay down herself and eeled between the trunks of two thorn bushes to the road’s verge. When she was settled in the long grass, she reached back and hauled her pack after her.

Harris sat and waited. There was a long delay before she sprang up and crossed the lane to the verge on the other side. Harris saw her melt into the grass. He stuck his head through the gap to stare down the hill to the gate. It looked miles away. When he pushed himself further through and looked down the line of the road, he could see the corner stones of the bridge parapet.

He stared, searching for signs of the guard. "Where is he, this side, or the other?" he wondered. "And where’s Lydia?"

He searched the verge, but she was gone. "I’m not going to be stuck here," he decided. "Not by myself."

He wriggled back into the field and began to strip off his pack. When he tried to push his himself through the gap she had used, his shoulders jammed between the trunks. He struggled, quietly at first, worried that the guard might hear him, then forcibly, as panic set in.

He came free and fell into the long grass of a dry ditch. He lay a while, recovering his breath, then reached back and grabbed the strap of his pack. As he dragged it after him, the trees higher up the hill were lit by the headlights of a car coming up from the Castle Inn on the far side.

Harris panicked. Scooping up the pack, he leapt to his feet and bolted across the road. In the grass of the far verge, he swerved right and sprinted for the gate. He vaulted over it and landed heavily on hard baked earth. As he crawled clear to hug the bank supporting the roots of the hedge, the headlights tipped over the hill crest.

He was, he realized, considerably closer to the guard - if guard there was.

Long shadows skidded across the grass. Harris raised his head to look. The headlights flickered as the car came down the slope of the lane. Then a torch flashed on behind him, sweeping the ground.

"Armed police!" yelled a voice from down by the river. "Freeze! Freeze! Freeze!"

The car came rolling slowly on.

"Whoever it is, stand up!" demanded the voice.

Harris remained perfectly still, frozen against the earth with his pack by his feet and his mouth open. The car was advancing silently.

"Stand up!" the voice repeated. "Armed police. Stand up. Stand up or I shoot."

Harris never blinked when the headlights hit him full in his eyes. He heard it then, the low rumble of a big engine idling, tires scrunching on road chips. Then the lights swung away as the car straightened for the last hundred yards of its descent.

"Armed police. Show yourself or I shoot."

The car swished past. Harris cowered. Brake lights turned the night red. A door opened. "Martin," called a man in the accent of the Scottish Isles. "Martin, where are you, man?"

"Here, sir." The torch was switched off.

"Was that you shining the torch just now?"

"I thought I heard something, boss."

"Where would that be now?"

"Just up the hill a bit."

"Are you sure, Martin? Shall I have the lads in the car walk up and be looking for you?"

"No, boss."

"Were you for seeing anything, then, when you lit up the night so?"

"Not sure, boss."

"We might as well be taking an advertisement in the national press, I’m thinking, Martin. We might as well inform the whole world that we spend the night down by Uldale Bridge. Is it for the good of our health, do you think? John tells me that the wee beasties in those bushes can eat a man alive in an hour. Is that fact, Martin?"

"Yeah, they’re pretty bad, boss. I’ll not be sorry to get away."

"Then be taking yourself back in there, Martin, and staying awake until I remember to relieve you. You take John’s turn. He needs his time for prayer. He’s a devout man, I’m thinking. He can commune with the Laird through until tomorrow night. Is that fair, do you think?"

"Yes, boss."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, boss."

"Aye. Good. Be going back to your post, and thank you for your zeal, Martin. I shall remember it." Shoes scrunched on the gravel of the road, then stopped. "And Martin," said the chukta.

"Boss?"

"Only one week more, Martin, two at most. By then it shall no longer matter whether Mr. Clough is dissipating his sad soul in a bar in Monte Carlo, or whether the crows have already gorged on his corpse. In that time, Martin, the world shall see the second coming."

"Allelujah!" said Martin.

"Aye. Alleluja is right Martin. Praise the Laird."

"Praise the Lord, boss."

The car door slammed. The night returned to its black state and as the big engine revved, Harris breathed out. He listened to the engine’s bellow as the Rover hauled itself up the side of the hill to Caldbeck Common, then heard it fade as the car reached the brow.

Harris sagged against the earth and drew a long breath.

"Did that scare you?" Lydia asked.

Harris looked at her, and nodded. He felt sick.

"It serves you right," she said. "You should have stayed behind the hedge as I told you and waited until I signaled."

Again, Harris nodded.

"Stand up," she said. "Put on your pack - quickly. Then follow me. Let’s get out of here before that amateur in the bushes recovers his wits and decides to come and look for you. And for Heaven’s sake, be quiet!"

Twenty six hours later, as they strode side by side along a straight lane which undulated between rearing pines, Harris said, "This is Isel Wood. The hamlet’s half a mile on down the road."

"Let’s find somewhere to sleep before it’s broad daylight," said Lydia. She stepped over the road side ditch, grabbed the wire fence, and vaulted into the trees. Harris followed more slowly and less elegantly.

Mist hovered beneath the low branches, still thick with the heat of the day before. The ground sloped gently down. Lydia followed the slope until she reached the bank of a small stream.

"The water looks clean," she said, peering through it to the pebbles of the bed. She beat the pine needles from her shoulders.

"Cross over," said Harris. "The wood ends under an escarpment. It can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards away. No one will approach that way without a parachute."

She grinned. "You do learn fast," she said.

Harris felt like a child promised a treat. Maybe it was his reaction to the brush with the police the night before, maybe it was being back in territory he knew well. "Or maybe," he thought, "maybe the whispering conversations with the woman I love are at the root." Whatever, he felt shy when she took his hand. "Don’t turn into a frog, my prince," she said, and stepped into the rill.

She led Harris across. They began to climb the easy slope on the far side, for once sweeping the lowest branches aside with no thought for the noise they were making. They giggled as they linked hands again after taking a separate route around a tree which stood in their way. Quarter of a mile on, the plantation ended at a wall of earth covered in a mat of brambles and weed. Lydia stopped.

Harris wiped the sweat from his forehead. "That must be forty feet high," he said, nodding at the bank. "A natural defense."

Lydia gazed around. "Yes," she said. "Anybody coming down there will make enough noise to warn us before he arrives. That’s good. All we need worry about is our front."

"No one comes in here," said Harris. "At least, not this far in."

"I haven’t seen any signs," she admitted.

She unbuckled her pack and let it slide from her shoulders. "You set yourself up by that tree," she said, "I’ll lay my gear out over here." She saw Harris’s expression fall. "It’s safer, that way," she added.

"Oh!" said Harris.

"You can’t tramp around the countryside telling all and sundry that you love them and not expect some reaction," she said, unrolling her ground sheet on the compacted pine needles.

"I don’t," said Harris moodily. "You’re the first."

"You know nothing about me." Lydia spoke with her back to him as she prepared her part of the camp.

"I know enough," mumbled Harris. "I know that you are as lonely as I am. Which doesn’t mean that you’re not married, just that, if you have a home and a man, neither are giving you what you need."

"I’m a widow."

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry." He slid out of his pack. "Did you love him?"

"No."

"Never? Even at the beginning?"

"No."

"Then why did you marry?"

"It was a sort of marriage of convenience."

"Are you an illegal immigrant, or something?"

"No. Stop asking questions. And please don’t keep telling me that you love me when you know nothing about me."

"But I do love you. And I do know enough, whatever you say. Look, all I want is to spend the future with you. No one else. You." He moved towards her. Lydia edged back until she was leaning against a tree. Harris stopped. "I mean that I want a history between us," he said. "In ten years time, I do want to be able to say `Do you remember?’ and for you to say, `Yes.’ Whether it was good or bad for us at the time."

"Oh!" For once, Lydia was not alert. Harris had his arms around her before she knew he had moved. She squirmed free of his grip. "Never grab hold of me again. Ever!" she blazed.

Harris sprang back a pace.

"I hate being grabbed!" she said. "Look, you know nothing about me. When you find out the truth, you’ll run a mile, I promise. For now, just be content to let me take you to Scotland, away from this mess. Maybe then we’ll have time to talk. You can make up your mind when you know the facts."

"I already know all I need to know," persisted Harris, "There are no facts which would make me feel any different. Oh, you’re tough! Or so you think. It’s an act, some sort of wall you’ve erected around yourself. Inside, huddled in your little lager, you’re near the end. One day soon, something’s going to happen and you’ll fall apart. I don’t know what your job is, or why you’re here, but even I can tell that you’re way past your sell-by date. Give yourself a break. Lean on me. Let me help you before you get dragged off to the loony bin."

Lydia stared at him, uncertainty stamped for a moment on her face. Then she squared her shoulders and tossed her head. Pine needles showered down on her. "You see," said Harris, "you can’t even act defiant without covering yourself in dead leaves."

Her fists bunched, then she bent her head and shook the needles out of her hair. "Just don’t grab at me again," she said, bending over her back pack. "What do you want for supper? Shall we have a bust, seeing that we’re staying around here a while?" She looked at him. "Don’t stand there, Clough. Make yourself useful. Rule one. Water. Chop chop."

Harris turned away and dragged the bottles from his pack. When he returned from the stream, Lydia was squatting over the dixies. She looked up at him. "Let me explain something, Harris," she said. "Don’t fool yourself into thinking that we’re safe here, because we’re not. We might not by in the front line, but we are still in a war zone. The police might even bring in dogs, after the events of last night. Sleeping apart is a necessary precaution. Spread your forces so that they each support the other - a basic element of guerrilla warfare."

"Guerrilla warfare?" laughed Harris.

"What else would you call it?" she parried.

When he thought about it, he could not come up with a better description.

The sun was well up before they lay down, and as Harris was passing from waking to sleeping, he heard the screaming of children as they played some distance downstream. He grinned to himself. Lydia might think they were in a war zone, but, thank Heaven, the children had not been told yet.

She brewed tea when he woke, and they sat together, leaning against the trunk of a pine, while they drank it. The mist lay thick about the boles, damp and heavy with the smell of pines.

"It’s strange, not having to think out the next march," said Harris.

Lydia looked at him. "We’ve survived so far," she conceded.

"Thanks to you."

"Huh!"

He kissed her. "Thank you," he whispered. "You saved my life, and not only by getting me through the police lines."

"Don’t kiss me," she said, swaying out of his reach when he tried again. "You don’t know where I’ve been."

"Like I said, I’m not bothered. Neither of us is likely to be virgin at our ages. You turn me on, but that kiss was not about being turned on. It was about saying thank you, and about telling you that I love you."

"Huh!" she snorted. "You’re a romantic."

"There’s nothing wrong with being a romantic," said Harris. "Where’s the fault in seeing a better future?"

"Because you see it with me," she said.

"And you don’t see your future with me?"

"I didn’t say that."

"No, you didn’t."

CHAPTER 10

Harris fell asleep that night with stories of the Hall at Isel filling his mind - at least, that was his excuse. The hall lay less than a mile away and had formed the core of their talk through the day. As Lydia had pored over the map in the last of the daylight, Harris had looked over her shoulder. "The Hall’s haunted," he told her.

Lydia looked at him - they had been chatting easily before - and laughed.

"Oh yes," he said, keeping his face straight. At the time, they were close physically and in spirit, cozy, as he thought of it. Remembering her various lectures, he suppressed the urge to kiss her. Instead, he remained leaning over her shoulder, hugging her to him as he whispered in her ear. He began to tell her the most preposterous story of haunting he could invent. Lydia listened and giggled. "Why talk rubbish like that?" she asked.

"I thought you might be frightened and need someone to keep you safe," said Harris.

Lydia laughed, a rich and gurgling sound. "Top marks for trying," she told him, when she was done. "But we’re still in the war zone, remember. We can’t afford to relax. No fraternizing, right? What if they decide to bring dogs to follow the scent from where we crossed the river?"

It was Harris’s turn to be quiet. He now knew who they were. He’d heard them speaking, heard them talking about him. He said, "Crossing that lane did scare me. Up until then, the idea that the police were after us was no more than a notion. I didn’t see the army that second night, remember? To me, escape was an academic exercise because the enemy simply did not exist, not as flesh and blood and brains. Seeing and hearing the police made me realize that they are men and that the chase is real."

"They exist, right enough," said Lydia.

"Because of them, we must lie here through all day listening to children playing and not daring to show ourselves," said Harris. "I resent that. It hurts. It’s not as if we’ve done anything wrong."

"Yes. I know." She patted his hand, then stroked it. "Be patient a little longer." And she turned her head, smiled, then kissed him. "Now bed!" she commanded. "Recover your strength. Let your face heal." And she slipped from his grasp.

But the ghosts were in the forefront of his mind when he fell asleep, which might have explained why it was he felt abject terror when he woke up some time after midnight.

He was curled up, lying on his side on top of his sleeping bag. Sweat was running down his chest. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. He lay perfectly still, breathing the muggy air with his sleep rhythm, and listened - Lydia’s teaching was now deeply enough ingrained in his subconscious to exact implicit obedience.

He opened one eye and looked across to Lydia’s bed. Her ground sheet was a stark patch on the forest floor, but she was so well camouflaged as to be invisible to him.

Next, he opened his other eye and looked down beyond his feet. A hand was grasping the branch of a tree at the extreme range of his vision and pushing it downwards.

Harris could hear no sound other than the sibilance rustling of the forest. The hand was dragging the branch down so slowly, Harris thought he was imagining the movement. His heart was pounding in his chest. Instinct told him to stand, to yell, to bolt. Instead, fear held him frozen on his bedding. He stared. When there was room enough, a body materialized through the gap.

Harris whimpered. The hairs on his neck bristled. He held his breath. The figure wore a cowl pulled up over its head so its face was in shadow. A habit reached down to the knees. It held a device of some kind - Harris could not decide what it was - in its right hand.

Once past the branch, the figure eased it carefully back into its natural position, then turned and stared at Harris, swaying slightly as if to see him better. Harris stared back. Then he heard the crack of the knee joint as the figure sank down to kneel. At the same time, it raised the device slowly to its shoulder.

Harris recognized a cross bow. "I’m going to be skewered by a medieval ghost," he thought.

The figure sighted the weapon on him. Harris lay rigid. When the gun roared, he leapt to his feet and was pressing against the bole of a tree before he heard the great whirring protest of roosting birds taking flight from the forest roof. He was vaguely aware of having seen a flash somewhere close by to his right, and of having heard the twang of the bow.

A voice, shocked, shouted, "That’s my knee. You’ve shot my fuckin’ knee."

Lydia’s voice snapped, "Stop! Stop! Stop! Police! Drop that bow. Now!"

"My knee. My bloody knee."

"Put your hands behind your head. Behind your head! Step forward. Move. Now."

The forest rustled. Harris peered out. The bowman lay balled on the pine litter clutching at his knee. As the rustling grew louder, a second man appeared. When he saw his mate curled up on the ground, he lurched towards him.

"Stop!" snapped Lydia. The man stopped. He stared at his friend, then into the trees to his left. Lydia stepped out. She was pointing a rifle at him. "Don’t move!" she commanded. "The next one’s through your heart."

"I ain’t movin’, missus."

Lydia edged a couple of paces closer to Harris. "Hold this," she told, and gestured with the gun.

"Me?" said Harris.

"Come out and hold this!" she snarled. "I must look at that fellow’s knee."

"Ah!" Harris shuffled across the pine needles to her side. She thrust the rifle at him. "If he moves, pull the trigger. You can’t miss at this range. And you (to the man), these cartridges are soft nosed. If he hits you, you’ll lose a kilo or more of meat like your friend has, then die a very painful death."

Harris wrapped his finger round the trigger guard. He had no intention of shooting the man, and the trembling of his fingers made an accident a likelihood. "What the hell were you doing?" he demanded, as Lydia knelt down to inspect the wound. Harris stared fascinated by the dark stain oozing between the man’s fingers.

"We’s after deer, mister. He probably thought you were a deer."

Harris snorted.

Lydia prized the fingers from the knee and glared at the wound. "Don’t you people carry a torch?" she demanded.

Harris’s captive looked at the rifle. "There’s one in my belt," he volunteered. "We’s only after deer. You didn’t need to kill him."

"He’s not dead," said Lydia. "Not yet, anyway. He soon might be, though, if you don’t cooperate. Pass me the torch, damn you, and stop whining."

The man muttered to himself and reached to his belt. He unclipped the torch and handed it to her. The beam was powerful, a mini searchlight, and she tried to shine it on the wound. The patient was clutching his knee and groaning softly through his clenched teeth. In the torchlight, his face was the colour of the mist layering beneath the branches.

"Stop behaving like a wimp," Lydia told the wounded man. "You," to the prisoner, "instead of standing there like a wooden duck, grab hold of his hands and hold them clear so I can assess the injury."

The second man looked at Lydia, then at Harris. For a moment, Harris wondered what he should do if the man refused. He jerked the rifle. The prisoner glared at him, then stooped and grabbed his mate’s hands. "Dumb insolence!" thought Harris.

The injured man screamed then, and began to struggle. Lydia slapped him hard across his face. "Lie still, damn you," she snapped. "Or do you want to bleed to death?"

The words or the blow seemed to penetrate the fellow’s agony. He tensed, allowing his mate to pull his hands away. Lydia focused the beam on the wound. Harris turned away and watched the prisoner. She stared, then sighed. "Hold him still," she commanded. "Sit on his face, if you have to." She laid the torch on the ground.

Standing up, she walked behind Harris into the trees. A few moments later, she was back. She knelt down. "Now take a firm grip," she commanded.

"Sorry, marra," said the prisoner to his mate, and turned to look away as Lydia took her jack knife from her trouser pocket.

"No!" begged the wounded man. "No, no. Please. Don’t cut it off."

Lydia opened the blade, then looked at him. "Shut up!" she told him, and neatly slit the leg of his jeans up the waist band.

The man relaxed a little.

"Here," she said, "open your mouth." The man obeyed. Lydia slipped two tablets onto his tongue. "Morphine," she told him. "Down in one. The pain will ease in a minute."

As the man swallowed, she placed a lace from her back pack around his thigh, high in the groin. She tied the ends to form a loose loop, then took a twig from the ground and began to twist until the lace dug deep into the muscle. "Hold the twig," she told the second man. Then she attended to the wound.

With the blood flow staunched, she sprinkled powdered antibiotic into the wreckage of the joint, slapped on a sterile dressing and lashed it firm with bandage.

"There," she said. "That’s the best I can do for now." She stood up. "You," she told the uninjured man, "pick him up. Carry him down to the beck, then follow the flow down stream. About a mile on, you’ll come to a bridge. Climb up to the road and you’ll find a telephone kiosk. Call for an ambulance. Right?"

"I’ll never manage, missus."

"You’ll have to," she said. "If you don’t, he’ll lose the leg to gangrene if the tourniquet’s left on. If you take it off, he’ll bleed to death. You’re stuck with it. Now move yourself!"

The man looked down at his mate. "You know," he said, "it’s not right, shooting folk."

"Stow it," snapped Lydia. "I’ve heard it all before. He was about to murder my husband. Now get moving before I change my mind."

The man shrugged. "Ready, marra?" he asked the man on the ground.

The wounded man nodded. But he screamed when his mate picked him up and slung him clumsily over his shoulder.

Before the sad pair were out of sight, Lydia had moved to Harris’s side. "Stow your gear," she hissed. "We’ve half an hour to get out of here. And don’t ask questions."

She took the rifle from him, and strode over to the trees where her bed roll lay. "Move!" she screamed at him.

Harris jumped, then bent down and began to cram his ground sheet and sleeping bag into his pack.

They were both ready to move in less than five minutes. Lydia brushed the ground with her boot in an attempt to obliterate as many signs as she could of their occupation. "Come on!" she commanded.

She strode to the foot of the escarpment. Harris followed unthinkingly. She began to scramble upwards. Harris followed in a dream, clambering through the brambles and thorns, slithering down then hauling himself up again, cursing and sweating and scratching at the midge bites when he dared to spare a hand.

Lydia made the trail. As she struggled upwards, she muttered and complained. "I thought I’d left all that behind," Harris heard, then stream of invective. And later, "How the hell can I keep this up?"

He thought she was referring to the climb until they reached the top. As she heaved him over the lip, she threw herself down. Harris looked at her. Her face was haggard in the star light. Lines of sweat gleamed in the grime on her cheeks, and her hand, when she reached for the cigarettes in her breast pocket, was shaking.

He wanted to grab her to him, to hold her, to reassure her. Instead, he plumped down beside her. She handed him a cigarette and lit it for him. The night was already paling. For a while they stared out over the sea of mist which eddied in the valley. Nail heads of fir poked through with the piel tower of the Hall sitting square in their midst. A mile beyond, the long whale shaped ridge behind lay Embleton and the main road marked the southern lip of the valley. I wouldn’t have reached that far, he realized, if I’d killed myself. Thank God for the crash.

"Well," Lydia said.

"Well," said Harris.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked. "All hell will break loose now. We need to find cover within an hour."

Harris nodded. "There’s an abandoned quarry at Moota - due east, about a mile, a mile and a half. It’s shielded by a pine plantation. That’s about the best I can think of."

Lydia sighed. "Lead on," she said.

Harris struggled to his feet. Lydia sat motionless, staring down on the mist filled valley.

Harris looked at her. "Well?" he said again.

"What’s the point?" asked Lydia. "The police are certain to catch us now, whatever we do. Clear off, Clough. Save yourself. Leave me be. I’m too damned tired to bother."

"Save myself?" asked Harris. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. "Now you listen to me, Miss Goodwood," he said, his face close to her, "if Goodwood is your name, that is. For the last week you’ve been saving me." He grinned his naughty schoolboy grin. "If I leave now, who’ll look after me? You know I’ll not survive alone in the open for very long. Come on. I need you. And maybe, you need me."

Lydia smiled faintly. "It’s all gone wrong," she said. "I should have kept driving north along the motorway. But no. I always was a sucker for crippled animals. God! My choice in men! I shouldn’t have shot that idiot."

"I’m rather pleased you did shoot him. What else could you have done?"

"Cut his throat, killed him quietly. Then we could have melted away."

"And his mate?" asked Harris.

"Him too," she sighed.

Harris looked at her. "I believe you would, at that," he said.

"I’m not sure what we do now, though," said Lydia. "I need to speak to Scotland."

"To your uncle?"

"Yes."

"Use a phone."

"They’ll have it bugged. As soon as I call, McKendrick’ll know exactly where I am."

"Then use R/T."

"Radio telephone? Ha! Brilliant! Where do we get one of those?"

"Use mine."

Lydia stood back. "Yours?" she asked. "Clough, you’re are a man of surprises. Where is it?"

"Let’s get moving towards Moota as we talk," suggested Harris. "Come on, sweetheart, we’re not dead yet."

They were in a pasture, sharing it with a herd of cows. As Harris set off, leading Lydia by the hand, the animals began to crowd round, sniffing and nuzzling them. Harris waved his staff to keep them at bay. "They’re nosy devils," he said. "They always make me nervous. They can be dangerous."

"They’ll help fool the dogs," muttered Lydia. "They’re the best cover we could possibly have, right now."

The cattle herded them to a gate, then watched as they climbed over. In the next field, Harris said, "Do you always walk around carrying morphine?"

"No," said Lydia. "I gave him aspirin. A placebo. Maybe it helped, maybe it didn’t. Whatever, it did no harm."

"And an armory?" asked Harris. "Where did you acquire that?"

"The rifle?" asked Lydia. "It was in my pack. It’s still there, if you want it."

"No thanks," said Harris. "It folds up, I presume."

"You do surprise me."

"I’ve watched television," said Harris. "What are you, a hitman?"

Lydia stared at him. "What do you think?" she asked.

Harris was silent while he mustered his thoughts. "I’m not really interested," he said, at last, "not in your past. In your future, I care very much, because I’m no use at this sort of thing - in case you haven’t noticed." Two paces later, he added, "And I love you."

"Oh, Clough!" said Lydia. "You’re an idiot. Don’t keep saying that. You mustn’t."

"I can’t help it," said Harris. "Like indigestion, love can take you at any old time. The difference is, love strikes before the meal, indigestion afterwards."

"Fool!" she muttered, dragging a handkerchief from her pocket. She blew her nose and dabbed her eyes. After she had stuffed it back and they had reached the next gate, she said, "If you love me, do you trust me?"

"Yes," said Harris. "I trust you." And found, to his surprise, that he meant what he said.

"Even though you’re a good citizen, you trust me?"

"Yes," said Harris doggedly.

"And you really want to survive?"

"Of course. But only with you."

They had reached another hedge. They stopped. Lydia slipped off her pack, prior to squirming through. As she held it, she opened a side pocket and reached inside. From it, she brought out a pistol, a dull blue black weapon filmed with oil.

"Your best chance," she said, "is to hand me in to the local police. You’d be given a sack full of brownie points." She held the gun out to him butt first. "Here," she said. "Take it. Take me in."

Harris stared at the weapon.

"Take it," she urged. "Look, it’s loaded." The magazine clicked as she slid it out. Harris saw the brassy gleam of the cartridges before she slid the clip home.

Again, she offered him the weapon.

"No thanks," said Harris.

"Take it," she snarled. "Take it, damn you."

He looked at the anguish in her face, then reached out and took it gently from her hand. "You get through the hedge and I’ll hand over the packs," he said.

When they were in the next pasture, swinging their packs into place before striding on, Lydia said, "Well? Are we going to a police station?"

"No," said Harris. "We’re going to get under cover and brew a pan of tea. While we drink it, you’re going to tell me what is the matter with you. It’s obvious, even to me, that you can’t go much further, the state you’re in. So we’ll talk, drink our tea and calm down a bit, eh? Then we’ll make that call and your man will tell us how to get out of here. All right?"

She looked at him. "Damn you, Clough," she said. "Whatever you say." Her proud stance was gone. Harris had never seen her so despondent. In its place, a woman whose shoulders sagged against the tug of her pack, whose head searched the grass rather than the surrounding cover as she had on the fells.

"Come on," he said. "Not far now." How often had she encouraged him with those same words? He took her hand.

They tramped on towards where the sun was beginning to strangle the night. "I’ll tell you one thing," said Harris. "Unless you get a service - take a break - you haven’t got many miles left in you. You’re going to fall apart."

"How come you’re suddenly an expert?" she asked.

"Because that’s exactly how I was when we met on the motorway," he said. "It takes time to pull you down. In my case, I reckon about four years. In your case, I’d say longer. As you once told me, you’re tougher mentally than I am. But the crap of life seems to be cumulative. It builds up and taints your whole system. You don’t notice it happening. Then suddenly, you’re poisoned. Life’s no longer worth the effort. Small problems become too much to handle. You begin to lie down under the pressure like a sailing ship whose cargo’s shifting in a gale. As I said, I’ve been there. You pulled me out. Believe me, all you need is a break. Be sure to tell your uncle, or whoever he is, that you must be taken to a quiet place and rested for a while."

"And that works, does it?" she mocked.

"I don’t think I have ever felt better than I do now. Since the crash, you have assumed control. I haven’t needed to make one decision. I have done only as you told me. You can’t know how good that is after all the years when every choice had to be mine. You have guided me, fed me, told me when to sleep and when to wake. Then we’ve walked. I know we haven’t covered ground in epic strides, but the exercise has taken two inches off my belly, and my legs feel like they did at school when we played rugby day in day out. And I’ve found love. That has restored my sanity. I have a purpose in living now, thanks to you."

"Shut up," she said. "You’ll have me blubbering again." She blew her nose. Then, turning to him, she said, "Harris Clough, I don’t think I’ve ever met a bigger fool than you. Thank God for it."

"So," he said gently, "tell me all about it."

"When we reach the trees," she said. "I’ll explain better with a drink, even though it’s only tea."

CHAPTER 11

"I don’t know where to begin," sighed Lydia. She handed Harris the small binoculars she had been using to watch the crest of the hill they had walked over fifteen minutes before.

The forest was immature pines. The couple were lying on short grass, sun starved by the linked fingers of the branches sloping above their heads. On the ground between them, bubbles were starting to form in the bottom of the dixie, while beyond the boles and on the farther side of the wire fence, they could see the smooth sweep of grass leading up to Moota Hill. Neither had mentioned the word police, neither had spoken again of the inevitable search. Both were staring back, though, waiting for the first dog to appear dragging a constable up to the skyline.

No guns, prayed Harris. No shooting uniformed police. Andy might be amongst them.

The thought of Andy cheered him a little. He could count on Andy for at least one favor. He would listen to his old friend’s story and check it out, whatever the official view.

"The beginning’s as good a place to start as any," Harris prompted.

"You mean date of birth, mother’s maiden name, length of her labor, that sort of thing?"

"I mean," said Harris, "where you were going when we met, why you were going; where you had come from? Who is your uncle? Why do you see fit to wander around carrying half of NATO’s arsenal tucked into your hand bag? That sort of thing. And Lydia, the truth, please, or silence, whichever you prefer. But don’t mess me about. No lies. There must never be lies between us."

Lydia squirmed round and stirred the tea. "Clough," she said, "anything I tell you will put you in danger. I’m deadly serious. Do you really want to know?"

"Whether I know anything or not," replied Harris, "people will assume that I do and try to persuade me to talk. I presume that’s what you mean?"

"Yes."

"So don’t tell me."

She squirmed round to look at him. "I want to tell you," she said. "You can’t begin to guess how much I want to tell you."

"Guilt?"

"Sort of."

"Ah!"

"I’ve failed, Clough. Failed." She drew a shuddering breath. "After all this time, I’ve bloody well fallen flat on my face. Right when success was in my grasp."

Harris reached out and began to massage the nape of her neck.

"It’s so difficult to explain," she said.

Harris massaged away, and after she was silent for a while, he whispered, "Instead of all this mystery stuff, I should be trying to persuade you deeper into the woods."

"And I should be letting you," she murmured.

"Is that what you want?"

She reached up and ran her fingers along his wrist, then rubbed her cheek against it. "Oh, damn you, Harris Clough," she whispered. "If only."

"Praise be unto the Laird," a voice boomed from behind. Both wheeled about. Both recognized the accent.

"They were quick," said Harris, trying to sound calm.

"Let us sing to He who rules the universe," said the voice.

"Grab your bag. Follow me," hissed Lydia.

She seized her pack and began to squirm into the trees on her belly - heading straight for the voice. Harris swallowed his fear, and set off after her.

A couple of minutes later, Lydia stopped and gestured. She let go of her pack and took off her hat. Harris followed suit. Then she was moving forward again.

They had reached the inner edge of the trees. A couple of yards of short grass beyond and the earth ended. The sun was just rising above the hills to the east. Lydia edged forward, but stopped again just short of the brink. She raised her head. Harris crawled to her side.

When he raised his head to look, he saw the bowl of the quarry, steep rusty sides plunging to a floor of compacted level dust. Immediately below, a dozen or more men were standing, singing some hymn Harris did not know and led by the bearded mountain he had last heard down by Uldale Bridge.

The rumbling voices died away with a hearty `Amen.’ The uplifted faces lowered from the rising sun. Blinking eyes, glowing with fervor, stared at the bearded man.

"That’s McKendrick," whispered Lydia. "He’s the man who wants you dead."

"Not in a week’s time," Harris answered, as the great brutal face with its thatch of hair slowly dropped from its contemplation of the blazing russet of the western sky. "After that, he’s not worried about me."

"So what happens in a week?" she asked.

Harris shrugged.

McKendrick was staring at the congregation, a smile lifting the fringes of his beard. "Fellow soldiers," he said in caressing tones. "Brothers." The men stared at him. McKendrick’s smile broadened and the tip of his fleshy tongue appeared between his plump lips. "Brothers! At last, I am bearing news."

"Praise the Lord," shouted a man from the congregation.

"Aye," said McKendrick. "Praise the Laird indeed. I have a signal. The Dove of Peace has passed through the gate, brothers. She is safe, and with her, our army."

In the queer acoustics of the amphitheater, Harris was sure he could hear the breathing of the men as they listened to the charismatic figure.

"The Laird saith gather about ye an army," said McKendrick, "an army of believers. Rise up in the Name of the Laird. In the dark of the night, fall on the tents of the unbelievers and drive them from the length and breadth of the land. Cleanse the soil. Purge the hills. Hurl ye the spears of fire. Let the terror of Armageddon herald the dawn of a new age and usher in the peace of the Laird, for as He loves the righteous, so shall he clasp them to his bosom when their work on earth be done." He stared at the men standing in the dust. They stared back in rapture. "Four days from now, brothers," he went on, "four days from now and the tents of the unbelievers shall be tatters in our hands! After that..... aye, after that, the world."

"Praise to the Lord," cried one of the men, and the rest howled, "Praise ye the Lord." They fell to their knees. McKendrick looked on, a beatified smirk on his lips.

Of all the men on the quarry floor, only McKendrick saw the new arrival, a shirt sleeved, sweating runner who trotted up to him and stood to attention proffering a slip of paper.

McKendrick turned to glare at him, then accepted the flimsy. He squinted as he read it,

"They’re all weirdoes," Harris whispered. "Religious nuts."

McKendrick gestured the messenger aside, then raised his voice and spoke to the assembly. "Brothers! Soldiers!" When he had their attention, he said, "There is a problem demands my attention. I must leave you the while. In the meantime, I am thinking there might be a risk in your remaining here. Follow Brother Michael," nodding to the messenger. "He will be taking you to a different place. Go you now to the hotel and pack your belongings. You leave in half an hour. God go with you."

"Praise the Laird!"

"Aye. Praise the Laird indeed."

Lydia signaled to Harris to duck down. He followed as she crawled backwards to their cached packs and hats. There, she picked up her pack and began to crawl back through the trees to their station looking up at Moota Hill.

The water in the dixie was boiling. Lydia threw in tea, then the milk and sugar. Harris took a sip while she scanned the sweeping grassland. "That buys us another half hour," she said, laying down the binoculars. "So what did you make of that performance in the quarry?"

Harris handed her the dixie. "That man has the charisma of evil," he said. "But he’s a crank - they’re all cranks."

Lydia eyed him. "At Uldale, he said that the search for you was important only for the next week or two." Harris nodded. "Now he says that in four days time, the army of the Lord will arrive and start killing the unbelievers. Let’s assume that the two events are connected. Once the army of the Laird arrives, you cease to matter."

"Thank the Laird," said Harris, mimicking McKendrick.

Lydia sketched a smile. "This army," she went on. "How many men and what is its purpose?"

"To desolate the land of the unbelievers," replied Harris, still in his McKendrick voice. "Aye, to rain fire on the land and bring Armageddon to the hosts of the unbelievers. He’s talking rubbish. How can they bring in an army? How can they hope to purge the land, or whatever rubbish he said?"

Lydia frowned. "He’s a high ranking policeman," she reminded him.

"Special Branch," said Harris.

She stared at him. "Special Branch, you say. How do you know that?"

"I don’t," said Harris. "I assume. The Special Branch drive around in those blue Range Rovers. Those cars are used to escort road transport with nuclear fuel on board. They’re based at Sellafield. We see them all the time, around here. But I don’t know that he’s Special Branch, not for certain."

"But he is. He is. I know." She was shaking his wrist. "If you’re right, then he’s probably in charge of security at the installation, by now."

Harris read the terrible thought in her eyes. "Rods of fire?" he asked. "Nuclear weapons?"

She nodded. "If you like," she said. "McKendrick’s army is going to take over Sellafield and turn it against those not in his religious sect."

Harris thought for a moment. "No," he said. "That’s impossible! He can’t smuggle an army in, not in the middle of Britain."

"The Dove of Peace," said Lydia. "An aircraft?"

"I doubt it," said Harris. "They’d be monitored on radar. There’s an air exclusion zone over Sellafield - not only because of the nuclear plant. A couple of miles south there’s the gun proving range at Eskmeals. They fire all sorts of weapons and ammunition out to sea along the coast. Also, the `Dove,’ whatever that is, `passed through the gates’ early today, yet won’t arrive for four days." He drained the dixie. "That rules out an aircraft. Anyway, no aircraft built could carry an army, and the nearest airport is at Carlisle, forty miles away. Really, they’d be better off using a ship."

"A ship! Come on, Clough, I must reach your R/T and speak to Scotland. Grab hold of that dixie."

"Hold on," said Harris. "Why don’t we simply hand ourselves over to the police? Tell them the story. Let them check it out?"

"Because you’ll be handed over to McKendrick and charged with attempted assassination. I’ll be charged with discharging a firearm with intent to kill a poacher. The plot will be hatched long before we convince anyone of the truth."

Harris nodded. "Then there’s the Blob," he agreed.

* * * * *

Andy MacDonald ducked under another low branch then paused while he dabbed at the sweat trickling down his neck. Ahead of him, standing next to the blue and white striped plastic ribbon drooping between the trunks, he saw the Superintendent and sighed. "Good morning, sir," he said.

`Accountability’ Brown turned. "Good morning, sergeant. Got held up by the traffic, did we? I’ve been here half an hour, and I came from my bed. I’m sure you could have beaten me, coming from the station."

"I didn’t notice any traffic," said Andy. "There was a bittie problem at the station, though. I thought it better to sort it out before I came."

Brown tapped his silver knobbed swagger stick against his leg. "You’re covered in pine leaves, sergeant," he said. "Brush yourself down, man."

"So what have we found?" asked Andy.

"So far," said Brown, "one cartridge case, recently discharged, I’m told. Show him, Detective Constable Thwaites."

Thwaites, a tired, wispy man, grinned. "Here you are, Andy," he said, and handed the sergeant a small plastic bag containing the evidence.

Andy took it, glanced briefly at it, then nodded to the civilian in the anorak and handcuffed to a young uniformed constable. "Is that the witness?" he asked.

"That is he," said Brown.

"Why do you have him cuffed?" asked Andy.

"As yet, he’s a suspect, sergeant," said Brown. "And he faces further charges of poaching."

"He’s a coherent witness," said Andy. He moved to the constable. "Undo the cuffs, will ye no’?" he asked.

The constable glanced over to the Superintendent for guidance, but Brown had turned his back and was watching the two boiler-suited men sifting through the pine litter for clues.

"Come on, lad," said Andy to the constable. He smiled down on the poacher. "You can tell me exactly what happened. We’ll maybe amble down to the beck and smoke a cigarette, eh?"

"I’ve already told it all," said the poacher. He rubbed his wrist as the cuff was released, then looked up at Andy as he felt the grip hard on his elbow.

"Remember, sergeant," said Brown, "we’re not to act until a Commander McKendrick arrives."

"Yon Special Branch chappie?" asked Andy.

"That’s right, Sergeant," said Brown. "I informed him immediately I was told of this incident in case it links in with their investigation. If it is your dead friend Mr. Clough, then he seems to be assuming a role you never suspected, Sergeant."

Andy colored. "That man who phoned from the old railway station answers Clough’s description so well he cannot be anyone else," he said. "He even called himself Clough."

"Despite Clough being identified by the Special Branch in the mortuary at Penrith," sneered Brown. "Really, sergeant, your imagination runs away with you, sometimes."

"Maybe," agreed Andy. "But if this is Clough’s work, we’re seeing evidence of a miracle. Except that from what I was told, sir, the gunman here seems to have been a woman. Cloughie may be many things, sir, but I doubt he’s changed his sex this last week." He grinned at D. C. Thwaites as the superintendent turned away.

Andy faced the poacher. "So, lad," he said. "What happened?"

"She told me to pick up Josh... "

"Your mate - the injured man?"

"Aye marra, my marra. Josh."

"What’s your name, son?"

"Billy Hicklethwaite. So I picks Josh up and walks down to the beck, like she tells me."

"Show me."

Billy led off down the gentle slope. "He was a fair weight, and he was screaming."

"Aye. He would be screaming. I mean.... How was he injured?"

"She shot him. Bloody great rifle, she had."

"You were scared?" suggested Andy.

"Eh, when she fired, I near shit meself. Frightened? Trembling yellow, I was. I mean... "

"Here," said Andy. "Step aside from the track. The forensic lads’ll be wanting to look. Come on, through the trees." He guided Billy across the slope, then ducked under the low sweep of the branches in the direction of the stream. They reached the bank.

Clear of the trees, Andy stood upright. Fishing a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his tunic, he handed one to Billy, then lit one for himself.

"Aye," he said, blowing smoke at a hatch of midges. "I mind there was a man with the lassie who fired the gun."

"Oh, yeah!" said Billy.

"What like was he?" asked Andy.

"I didn’t really see him," said Billy. "He stood in the shadow, like, behind the torch."

"Ye must have seen something, Billy. Think. Was he as big as me, or as small as you. Was he bald, or did he have a pony tail? Tell me, Billy."

Billy sucked on his cigarette. "I don’t know, sergeant, honest I don’t. But I’ll tell you one thing. He isn’t local. He spoke posh."

Andy nodded. "What else, Billy?"

"Nothing, sergeant. I saw nothing."

"And the woman?"

"Her? She was about my height, but eh! she was bossy. She bossed me and she bossed the feller with her. She give him the gun to hold while she doctored Josh, see, but I reckon he’d not have shot me."

"So why did you stay?"

"For Josh. Josh was bleeding like a stuck pig. I’m his marra. I reckoned he needed me."

Again, Andy nodded. Lazily, he tossed his cigarette into the waters of the beck and watched as it gyrated downstream. "Aye," he said. Then he wheeled about and grasped Billy by the throat. "Don’t piss me about, son," he grated, "otherwise it’s ye’ll be floating down in the burn like yon butt end. Now what is it you’re no for telling me?"

"Nothing, sergeant. Nothing! Honest!"

Andy stared into his eyes. Billy gazed back and trembled. "Billy," said Andy, "Should I ever find you’re friggin’ me about, son, you’ll no reach the court room to plead guilty. D’you hear me?"

Billy nodded.

"Right," said Andy, letting go Billy’s windpipe. "Then be finishing your cigarette and let’s be getting back."

"Ah! here is Sergeant McDonald now," said Brown, as Andy appeared from the forest. "And the witness, sir."

Commander McKendrick surveyed the sergeant and his prisoner. He watched Andy closely, twisting a strand of his beard around his forefinger. After a long silence, he asked, "Would you be the McDonald who was on the desk the night of that shooting up by Troutbeck, now Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," said Andy.

"The Sergeant McDonald of the arrest by van fame?"

"If ye like," admitted Andy.

"Aye," breathed McKendrick. "A beat copper from Glasgow. Harder than the pavements, are we Sergeant?"

Andy said nothing.

McKendrick went on twisting the strand while he tried to out-stare the sergeant. Andy stared back unflinching. "Aye," breathed the Commander. "That night a man woke up some innocent householder by hammering on his front door, sergeant. The householder says this man gave his name as Clough and used the telephoned to call Keswick police station. I am thinking this caller is the assassin, who, I am told, is a friend of yours, Sergeant. So why were you not for logging the call, I’m wondering."

"What time would that be, sir?" asked Andy.

"You would not be withholding evidence, Sergeant, not a man of your experience?" Still the two policemen were staring at each other.

"No, sir," said Andy.

McKendrick looked away first. "What evidence have we from this site?" he asked Superintendent Brown.

"One spent cartridge case," said Brown. "D. C. Thwaites? Cartridge!"

"Sergeant McDonald has it, sir," said Thwaites.

Andy pulled the plastic bag from his breast pocket and handed it to the Superintendent. Brown handed it to the Commander. McKendrick smirked, then held the bag up so that he could examine the dull copper cylinder. His face paled. "Superintendent," he breathed, "the perpetrator was a woman? About so high?" He touched his shoulder.

"Quite correct, sir," said Brown.

"And there was a man with her?"

"Sir!" Brown confirmed.

"So," said McKendrick. "Where would Bonny and Clyde be heading from here? Do we know?"

"I’d say up there," said Thwaites, pointing to the foot of the escarpment. "There’s evidence strewn wholesale."

"Then I am suggesting that we get the dogs up to the top immediately," said McKendrick.

"Already organized, sir," said Brown.

"Aye," sighed McKendrick. "Well done, Superintendent. I’ll be away back to the van and call off the search to the south. It’s here all those men should be concentrated. Do you happen to have a map handy, Mr. Brown?"

"In the car, sir."

"Then let us be looking at it before we call down the reserves."

With the senior officers gone, D. C. Thwaites sidled over to Andy’s side and held out a cigarette.

"Thanks," said Andy.

Thwaites shared a light. "Funny, that," he said, as he exhaled.

"Are ye going to say what I’m thinking?" asked Andy.

Thwaites smiled. "It’s quite a trick," he said. "I’d be Chief Constable if I could do that. One look at a discharged cartridge case and he could tell the height and sex of the person who fired it."

"Och," said Andy. "Yon’s elementary, my dear Thwaites. Did ye no see the marks on the cartridge? Yon McKendrick knew what they were, right enough. But he didnae like them."

Thwaites nodded. "Typical, that. The holiday season coming up, and here we are embroiled in a political case."

CHAPTER 12

They lay in cover watching the Range Rovers leaving the motel. The big vehicles looked clumsy, heeling heavily as they picked their way through the other cars towards the main road. "They’re bullet proof," Harris said.

Lydia stared. "They’re also overloaded," she observed. Men had piled into them, some in the flowing robes Harris had seen at the ambush, some, presumably the Special Branch men, in western clothes. McKendrick was not amongst them, Harris noticed. Then the cars were powering up Moota Hill and swerving off north along a lane near the top.

"Where does that lead?" demanded Lydia.

"Aspatria," said Harris. "The north." He glanced at her. "What’s the matter? It’s not like you to forget the map."

She shrugged. "I must phone," she said. "How do we reach your R/T?"

"We follow the police," said Harris. "The radio’s aboard my trawler."

"You own a trawler?"

"A half share. Taff Roberts owns the other half. He’s the skipper. He fishes her. Don’t worry, I kept it a secret. Nobody but Taff knows. It gave me an excuse to spend an occasional weekend away from the Blob."

"Tell me as we walk," said Lydia. She hoisted Harris to his feet. "Ready?"

"Ready," he said.

They sprinted across the main road and scrambled up the bank on the north side. Then they were in a large pasture where the slope of the land hid them from the hotel. Aspatria showed on the far side of a broad valley, maybe three miles distant. Lydia set off at a brisk pace towards it.

"There are risks," said Harris.

"Such as?"

"We can’t transmit from inside the harbor," he answered. "For one thing, we probably wouldn’t make contact because the signal would get distorted by the dock walls. For another, we’d blast the eardrums off any one tuned in on the other boats so they’d know someone was aboard `Badger.’ Thirdly, it’s illegal. We’ll have to take her to sea before you make any contact with your uncle."

Lydia stopped. "Don’t mess around, Clough," she said. "Be serious. There’s too much at stake."

Harris dragged her on. "I am serious," he said. "And yes, there’s too much at stake. Your skin and my skin, for a start. Look," he squeezed her hand, "I’ve been thinking. How about we take her to sea? That way, we can make your call in safety, then get away from here all in one job, as it were. Go out and simply keep going. We could make Spain or Scandinavia easily enough - even Scotland, if you preferred."

"How would we manage a fishing boat?" she snorted. "Don’t be stupid. We’ll get out by road, as I said."

"With the kind of hunt there’s going to be now?" asked Harris. "Won’t they expect us to break overland? And you said they’d bring in the dogs."

"We’ll need to be more careful. And I know nothing about boats. I hate boats."

Harris drew himself up. "Rest easy," he said. "Let me worry about it. In my youth, I qualified as a ship master. In fact, I’m a damn sight better qualified to take a ship to sea than Taff is."

Lydia gazed at him. "Well I’ll be... " she said.

"I hope so," said Harris. "And it had better be me."

She kissed him then, a peck, but on his lips. "All right," she said.

In the next field, she said, "It might work. Where is your boat?"

"In Maryport harbor," said Harris. "At least, she was the last time I saw her."

"Won’t she be out working in this weather?"

"Huh!" snorted Harris. "I bought in because Taff was broke. He likes the ladies too much to work. He mainly sails to escape irate husbands. At present, though, he’s in love with a widow. Pam’s an athletic lady. She’ll keep Taff chained to her bed until his stamina fails. He’s a fit lad. With luck, he’s still holding out."

Lydia sighed. "I’ve no better plan," she conceded.

They crossed a third field. Harris said, "Would you say that speed is important, right now?"

"Yes."

"Then let’s make for that gate and walk along the road. If we keep on this course, we’ll come to a farm in the next five minutes."

"We’re hikers without a care in the world," said Harris, as they reached the lane. He took Lydia’s hand.

The morning was already gaining heat. The lane sloped downhill between unkempt hedgerows. With Lydia by his side, Harris kept in the shade and stepped briskly out. The loose gravel by the verge scrunched under his boots. He swiped ineffectually at the hordes of midges which were swarming under the branches.

"It doesn’t seem right, strolling along in broad daylight," he panted.

Lydia laughed. "Judging by the sweat running down your face, you’re not exactly strolling," she said. "Does this boat of yours have a bath on board?"

"No," said Harris. "But she does have hot water, and she floats in an ocean and carries buckets enough to satisfy anyone’s needs. I’ll fill them and throw them, if you like."

"Thanks," she said.

Harris was almost trotting. Half a mile on, he said, "Let’s hope no one recognizes me. My house is only a couple of miles away." And he pulled the brim of his hat down to hide his face.

A few minutes later, the hedges ended and he and Lydia were passing the drawn curtains of Parsonby. At first, the neat modern bungalows, giving way to the older stone houses of the original village. At the far end, ancient beeches, alive with the chatter of birds, shaded the parish church. The road dropped steeply, then, down to the floor of the Ellen Valley, and half way down they saw the roofs and spires of Aspatria hacking at the sky. An old slab walkway carried them over the flood plain and the river until the land rose again. Half a mile more, and their footsteps were echoing off the front of a terrace of houses.

"The station’s by the bridge," said Harris. "I thought we’d take the train."

Lydia woke from her thoughts. "You do like taking chances," she said.

"Speed," said Harris vaguely. "You said, `Leave the neighborhood before they can consolidate a search.’"

Lydia smiled briefly.

They reached the platform down a flight of steps from the bridge. At the bottom, under the canopy extending from the station buildings, a man was sitting on a bench and reading a newspaper. He was well dressed in a gray suit and red tie, with polished shoes gleaming on his feet. Harris led Lydia past him, staring at the dairy across the tracks to avoid showing his face.

"The station buildings are houses, now," he whispered, when they were half way along the platform. "What did you make of that chap on the bench?"

"Ignore him."

"He keeps watching us."

"Pay no attention."

Harris stopped by a tattered time table pasted to a notice board. He scrutinized it, following the columns of figures with his forefinger. "We’ve almost an hour to wait," he said. "And that chap’s still looking at us."

He began to stroll further along the platform holding Lydia’s hand. When they reached the end and could walk no further, he said, "The big risk is that I might be recognized."

"You should have told me before," said Lydia.

"I did. Back there."

"We were on our way, by then. We can’t keep changing our plan."

"You wouldn’t have come if I’d told you earlier."

"You’re dead right, I wouldn’t."

"But we do need to get away from here. They won’t guess we’d take a train west."

"I hope you’re right."

Harris looked back. The man on the bench was staring at them, but hoisted up his paper when he saw Harris looking.

"Do you know him?" asked Lydia.

"No," said Harris. "At least, I think not. I may have met him casually sometime. The Blob was a devil for introducing me to people I couldn’t be bothered to remember."

"I don’t know what to do," said Lydia. Her shoulders sagged. "God! I’m so tired."

"Look at the gardens," suggested Harris.

Behind the platform, strips of garden spread to the backs of a row of cottages. They both turned away from the track.

They were standing at the foot of a particularly well tended plot. As they gazed, the cottage door opened. A thickset man, bull necked and nut brown about his shoulders and pate, stepped out holding a folded chair in one hand, a mug of tea in the other, and with a folded newspaper wedged under his arm.

"That chap on the bench," whispered Harris. "Do you think he’s plain clothes police?"

"How the hell would I know?" snapped Lydia.

"Grand mornin’" said the man with the chair. He had reached the center of the neatly clipped lawn. Smiling gummily, he flicked the chair open and set it on the grass. "A lovely day," he said, as if he expected his opinion to be challenged.

"It is indeed," said Harris.

The man placed the tea mug on the ground. "Aye," he sighed. He sat down and unfolded the paper. "You interested in gardenin’?" he asked, after a quick glance at the headlines.

"We were admiring your delphiniums," said Harris.

"Aye," said the man. "They make a grand show. Growed ‘em from seed, I did. Planted ‘em an’ nurtured ‘em, all meself."

"They’re a credit to you," said Harris. He glanced at the man on the bench by the stairs. He had lit a cigarette and was shading his eyes with his hand as he stared along the length of the platform into the glare of the rising sun. "That other chap’s still watching," Harris whispered.

He turned to look at the garden again, and met the full gaze of the gardener.

After sipping from his mug, the man asked, "Don’t I know you, marra? Aren’t you the feller what plays dominoes in the `Bush’ up Tallentire? With that fat feller, yer know, the policeman feller from Keswick?"

"No," said Harris.

The man stared harder. "I could ‘ave sworn," he said. "Aye. I was sure it was you."

"We’re from Liverpool," said Harris. "We’re on a walking holiday."

"Aye?"

"We’re taking the train to go to the western Lakes."

"Aye?" The gardener produced a penknife. He unfolded the blade, then stared at Harris. "Aye!" he muttered. Abruptly, he stooped down and hacked a dandelion out of the lawn. He straightened and glanced at it. "Aye!" he said, and grinned at Harris before he threw the weed into his neighbor’s plot.

Harris glanced down to the bridge. A woman had arrived. She was standing at the foot of the steps and speaking to the man. The man replied, and pointed into the sun. The woman looked along the platform, shaded her eyes, then stood on tip toe and waved. Harris turned away.

"Can’t understand anyone wantin’ to leave Aspatria," said the gardener, looking at Harris. "I went to Liverpool, once. Soon after they took that feller Shanckley from Workington for the soccer. But they was never any good at football, down there."

The woman from the far end shouted, "Coo - eee!" She was waving again.

Lydia grabbed Harris’s hand. "Do you know her?" she hissed.

"No," snapped Harris. Sweat was trickling down his cheeks.

"O’ course," said the gardener, "you couldn’t be that chap from the `Bush,’ could you? Now I think on it, he was killed in a car crash ten days back."

"Was he?" said Harris. "Poor man."

"Aye." The gardener sighed. He slurped from his mug. "O’ course," he went on, "nobody but a fool would drive a motor car, these days. What with all the traffic and such."

"That’s why we’re catching the train," said Harris. He pushed Lydia and began to edge back along the platform, turning his shoulder to the gardener. The woman waved again. "She might be one of the Blob’s cronies," he whispered to Lydia.

"Have you got that pistol to hand?" she whispered back.

"It’s in my pack," said Harris.

"Shit! Get it out."

"No!" said Harris. "No shooting." He ignored the woman, but edged further away from the gardener under the pretense of inspecting other gardens.

"Hello!" screeched the woman. "I say, hello, you two."

Lydia and Harris both turned to look at her. The man on the bench was watching, a grin on his face. The woman waved, standing on tip toe again and screeching "I say! Hellooo! Cooee."

Lydia and Harris stood unmoving. The woman began to teeter towards them on stiletto heels. As she came closer, she called, "You really shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to me."

"You must know her," said Lydia.

"I don’t," said Harris.

"I really could take offense," the woman scolded. "But I won’t."

She was thin, her collar bones showing like iron age barrows with the skin stretched taut over them, her light summer dress hanging slack over her withered paps. Eccentrically, in view of the weather, she wore thick brown winter weight tights. She stopped in front of Harris. "I say," she said, eyeing the pack strapped to his back, "it’s jolly warm, what? Hot as a virgin filly, one might say. You wouldn’t happen to have a drop of something about your person, would you? Gin, for example? Yes, a G and T would go down rather well. It quenches the thirst so, don’t you find?"

Harris looked at her, then at Lydia.

"Just who do you think we are?" snapped Lydia. "Itinerant licensed victuallers?"

"You’re my friends," said the woman, "aren’t you?"

"If you are so well acquainted with us," said Lydia, her voice providing the ice for the woman’s G and T, "you could hardly forget that my husband is the chairman of the Leicestershire League Against the Demon Drink."

The woman stepped back. "You bitch!" she shrieked. She raised her hands, fingers extended as claws ready to scratch.

"Maggie!" called a voice. "Stop annoying the nice tourists, Maggie."

The trio looked up. Leaning over the bridge parapet, a policeman was grinning down on the platform. Behind him, they could see the regulation blue light fixed to the roof of his car.

"I’ve come to take you home, Maggie," he called. "Sister Blackwell’s been looking all over the place for you."

"I’m not coming, Billy," she said.

"Come on, Maggie," the constable wheedled. "They’ve given me a new car."

"A new car! Eh!" She turned to Lydia. "My chauffeur has arrived," she said. "I shall go home."

"Which leaves the man on the bench," said Harris, when Maggie had climbed up the steps and left in the police car.

The man was smiling at them as he folded his paper. He stood up. "For once," he said, "the train’s on time."

CHAPTER 13

The train rocked sedately west. Harris and Lydia stared back along the track to where the bridge was shrinking and fading into the haze.

"I resent this," said Harris and tilted his hat further down over his eyes.

He and Lydia were sitting on the rear seat staring out through the empty driver’s cab.

From Aspatria, the line followed the River Ellen in its shallow valley. On either hand, the slopes were covered in the gold of ripening corn interspersed with rich green pasture where cattle stood in the long shadows of stalwart trees while, here and there, whitewashed homesteads spread their lichen covered slates to the sun.

"We’re being hounded out of our own country," said Harris. "What have we done to warrant exile? On the one hand, illegal immigrants are allowed to hang about for years. On the other, we, fully paid up subjects of the Queen, are turfed out to cover up some bungle committed by the police. Wherever we go, are we going to be allowed to settle peacefully? I doubt it."

Lydia squeezed his hand. "Don’t fret," she told him. "It should all be sorted out, once I speak to uncle. He knows a lot of people."

Harris snorted. "We shouldn’t need that sort of protection."

"But we do need it," she said gently.

Harris glowered at the land they were leaving. It had suddenly become very precious to him. As the train loped on, he slumped deeper into the seat. When it entered a cutting, he began sweating even more than he had been. "We’ve almost reached Maryport," he muttered.

"Steady!" Lydia whispered.

The train slowed and grated over a set of points. The cutting ended.

Maryport station consisted of one platform with a small shelter set in a wide tract scarred with the beds of tracks ripped up long since. In one corner, a rusting coal truck stood in a sea of weeds outside a roofless goods shed. To seaward, a whale shaped hill supported streets of rust colored houses.

Harris stared around. "There was a time once," he whispered, "when this town had all the resources needed to build ships. It had iron, coal, machine shops, rope walks, spar makers, the whole kit. Look at it now."

Lydia looked out. The town slept. A door opened further along the coach. They felt the rocking as somebody climbed aboard.

"Once, there were two thousand ships registered here," Harris whispered. "The people were tough. Go into the church. Read the headstones. Men sired on that hill have left their bones all over the world - fever, shipwreck, accidents. Seafaring under sail was the most dangerous occupation ever known by man. But the town survived. It asked nothing more than to be left to carry on its business in peace. Some great innovators were born here. Life went on. Then progress overtook the place and the men of power didn’t want to know. They still don’t want to know. All that’s left is desolation, dead dreams and unemployment."

Lydia craned to look over the top of her seat. "A woman, got in," she said. "Middle aged. Do you know any middle aged women?"

"One too many," said Harris. "Just keep yourself between her and me when we get off."

The door slammed closed and the train jerked forward. It rumbled over more points, then began passing along the backs of abandoned factories daubed in graffiti. Doors hung askew on broken hinges. The shards of glass glittering on the concrete beneath blinded windows were the only tears shed for the passing of the town’s moment of glory.

Then suddenly, the track veered to run along the head of the beach. A pewter sea stretched flat into a pearl haze supporting black, two dimensional, Lowryesque boats with matchstick figures fishing from them. Harris hunched forward and nodded out of the window. "There’s our road to safety," he said.

"I don’t like boats," said Lydia.

"You’ll like `Badger,’" said Harris.

"Are you sure you can manage her without help?"

"She’s the only woman who’ll do what I ask," Harris told her. Then, "Of course, we’ll need food for the voyage."

Harris lay hidden in the long weeds of the spoil bank. Directly in front of him a coppice of aluminum masts marked the yacht haven housed in the harbor’s larger dock. Beyond it, a high wall of rough sandstone hid the smaller dock where `Badger’ would be moored. ("If she’s in at all," he thought miserably.) A potholed cinder track made an acute bend a yard or two from his feet. To the left, it ran straight along the edge of the yacht basin to the old cast iron lighthouse which marked the entrance to the port before the wooden breakwaters had been built. To the right, it ran two hundred yards to where a street lamp dropped a flower of primrose light on its junction with the road to the town.

Harris knew the scene well. He knew that the metal road crossed the Ellen to the Town Quay at the foot of Harbor Brow before rising sharply into the town proper. Lydia would come back by that route, and from the top of the Brow onwards, she would be completely exposed.

As a backdrop, the lights of the town were going out as Maryport went to bed.

Harris glanced at his watch, then back to the street lamp. He was too early by half an hour. Even Lydia, for all her unusual skills, could not have burgled the supermarket and made it back to him in the hour which had elapsed since she left him. But their entire plan depended on time. If she was late, they would miss the tide.

A beetle of sweat crept down his neck.

He glanced left to the lighthouse. "I doubt the old light would be visible more than a mile, in this haze," he thought. "But thank heaven for the poor visibility. It should help cover our escape."

He had spent part of the afternoon watching the sea. High water, he judged, had been about ten o’clock that night. Depending on where Taff had moored `Badger,’ there would be sufficient water to float her out for between one and three hours either side of the stand.

He intended, if all went well, to load the provisions and sail before the ebb made sailing impossible. As he lay waiting for Lydia, though, all the possible flaws came to mind. To begin with, Pam might have thrown Taff out. In which case, `Badger’ would be at sea with Taff sulking and the crew moaning about having missed so much good weather.

Harris had considered walking over to the dock to look for her, but was too scared of being recognized. Also, when he was honest with himself, he knew that not finding her would frighten him too much to carry on.

Secondly, if `Badger’ was safely moored in the dock, had Taff bothered to top up her fuel and water? Again, Harris would have liked to have gone aboard and dipped the tanks. Having to bunker before sailing would expose him and Lydia to the near certainty of being seen. But his fears kept him in hiding, watching for Lydia’s return.

He ground his teeth in frustration and guilt. "This is the last time I let her take all the risks," he vowed. "Next time, I man the firing line, whatever the hazard."

But more worrying than his self esteem was Lydia’s own condition.

After leaving the train at Flimby and walking under the track to the beach, they had strolled north the mile or two back to Maryport. The air on the beach was hot from the sun and thick with the reek of decaying seaweed. Lydia never uttered a word. When they reached the stretch where the railway line curved inshore and the sand dunes replaced the embankment, they found a secluded hollow and spread a ground sheet next to a rusting exhaust pipe. When they lay down, she had fallen into a deep sleep.

Harris lay beside her, one arm across her chest, too tense to sleep. Too many what ifs? chased round his mind. The greatest of all was, what if Taff’s at sea? Where do we go from here? Their water supply would not last for ever, and no river so close to the sea was safe to drink. North and south were small towns, close knit communities where strangers stood out in the crowd.

At seven o’clock, Harris woke her. Lydia stared about dully, her eyes gummed. Harris might have been a stranger. "Where’s the phone?" she asked.

"Later," he said. "I’ll brew tea."

Even after sharing half a dixie of tea, she seemed unfocussed.

"Are you all right?" Harris asked.

"Well enough," she said, "though I’m tired. I could sleep for ever."

Harris knew the symptoms too well. Her speech, so disinterested, so lackluster, her slumped posture, her whole manner, spoke of a woman pressed too hard for too long.

"Look," he said. "One more effort and we’re away and free. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Tonight, I’ll go and find the food."

"You?" she said. "You? Ha! You’re as much use as a boil on a cyclist’s arse for that sort of operation." She stared at a sand fly jumping up the slope, then reached out and squeezed his hand. "Sorry, Clough. There’s really no choice, is there? I’m far better qualified than you to go shopping - in the circumstances. Don’t worry, I’ll come back."

"Coming back isn’t what bothers me," he said. "It’s the risk. You’re in no condition to go. Let me help you."

"No!" She was staring at him, pale cheeked and grim lipped. "No!" She rubbed her eyes. For a moment, Harris thought she would break down. "Nothing’s gone right since we met that bloody poacher," she said. Harris had the impression that she was watching some other scene. She was frowning at the sand, muttering to herself. Harris caught some words. "I wondered, when McKendrick let me go. That’s not like him. I walked away, and no sign of a chase at all."

He rested his hand on her shoulder. "One more go," he said, "then we’ll be aboard `Badger’ and we can sleep all we like. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be half way to Scotland and no one will know where we are. They can look ‘til they’re blue in the face, but they won’t find us."

She turned to look at him. "Will we, Clough?" she asked. "Will we? Promise me we will."

"I promise," whispered Harris.

She had collapsed against him.

Harris looked at his watch. An oyster catcher complained from the beach behind the spoil bank. The sound reminded Harris of the curlews on the moors, and of a Lydia whose step had a confident bounce.

Her state of utter exhaustion added another, perhaps the greatest, uncertainty to his list. He knew the symptoms of depression all too well. "Once we’re out of this," he promised her, "you shall have all the rest you need. You can sleep and laze about until you’re better. There’s a sea loch I know. We’ll take `Badger’ there. You can start recouping while I repaint her. Lie back. Soak up the sun. Three or four days for the paint to dry, then we’ll set out. I fancy Spain. We can go round the west of Ireland. Who’ll be looking out for us in the Atlantic?"

All the time he was dreaming, his gaze was fixed on the lamp post at the end of the cinder track.

A train rumbled south along the tracks through the station, heavy goods, probably flasks of spent fuel bound for reprocessing at Sellafield. The wheels shrieked on a bend, then the engine sound sharpened as the locomotive reached the straight along the beach head and increased power.

"It must be getting late," thought Harris.

He raised his wrist so as to see his watch. Over it, he saw the police car swing round the corner and gleam white as it passed through the flower of light beneath the lamp. "They’ve caught her," thought Harris. "Now they’re looking for me."

The car slowed to walking pace. It crept into the complex like a hunting beetle before turning towards the fish dock. As soon as it was out of sight, Harris reached out for the pack by his side. He fumbled as he untied the top flap. He had the rifle, now; the rifle, the pistol and two boxes of ammunition for each. "Bastards!" he spat. "Let her go!"

They’d take her to Workington, of course - Maryport police station was no longer manned at night. She’d be sitting in one of those institutional green interview rooms, breathing in the stink of crime and pine scented cleanser. Detectives would be firing questions - would McKendrick himself be present?

The police car reappeared where the wall ended near the far end of the dock. Its lights reflected in the windows of the cottages across the river, then swung away towards Harris as the car turned.

Harris watched. The lights slashed at the air as the car rocked over the track.

"You send us into exile," Harris muttered. "You hunt us half across the county. Here’s where we make a stand!"

His hand ferreted in the pack. The rifle lay near the bottom beneath their combined bed rolls and the remainder of the food. The car rocked along the back of the yacht harbor. Harris found the pistol. He hauled it free of the clutter. The butt felt slimy as he gripped it. What had Lydia said? Hold it with both hands. Push the safety catch forward.

The car disappeared behind the boat shed. Harris settled himself against the sloping earth, held both hands rigid in front of him and sighted on the corner where the car would reappear.

"Let ‘em come as close as you dare," Lydia had said. "A good shot can hit a barn door at ten paces."

His finger wrapped around the trigger. The lights, then the car, emerged from the cover of the wall. Harris sighted on the dark disc of the door badge.

When it reached the main track, the car turned. For an instant, the beam of the lights glared full on Harris, then settled a few yards to his left. He shifted his aim. The blade of the fore sight aimed at the windscreen where he judged the driver to be.

"Aim low. Pistols kick upward."

Harris lined the gun up on the radiator. If I hit that, the result should be spectacular, he thought savagely. I can try for the men as they jump out.

The car came on. At the last minute, it swerved aside to follow the track towards the lighthouse.

Harris let go his breath. The pistol sagged to his knees. His arms were aching, his hands shaking. He wiped the sweat from his brow. "You bloody fool!" he cursed himself.

He glanced at the road’s end where Lydia should appear at any moment, then at the police car. It was stopped in front of the light house. One policeman had climbed out - the driver, Harris thought. Harris could make him out as he stood beside the old iron structure, the white of his shirt contrasting with the background of the wooden pier on the far side of the river.

Harris turned to watch the road under the lamp again.

"If she shows, I’ll sprint to meet her," he thought. "I’d better begin to move closer now, while the police are distracted."

He stuffed the pistol away and tied the flap down. He glanced left. The police car was moving again, backing and filling as it turned short round. Long weed shadows wavered over the bank. Harris sank back into his cover. He watched the pavement as the engine noise moved closer. Just below his feet, it swung away, making for the road to the town.

CHAPTER 14

As soon as Lydia tottered into the pool of light, Harris sprang up. He would have liked to have leapt towards her, but two hours spent lying against a heap of rubble had left him stiff and ungainly. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded when he reached her.

"Shouldn’t that be my line?" she asked.

"Sorry."

She eased her pack to the ground and flexed her shoulders, and when he grabbed her to him, she collapsed against him. "Oh, Harris," she said, "that was hell." She began to sob.

"Hey," he said. A weeping Lydia amazed him. He did not quite know what to do. "Come on, sweetheart. Another hundred yards and we’re free." He had predicted her collapse, but not expected it to happen so soon.

She looked up at him. "Sorry," she whispered. "I think my nerves are shot. Take me somewhere safe."

He nodded. "Simple," he said "Follow me." At last, she trusted him. Whatever had happened to her, he sensed that it had demolished the last barrier of her reservation towards him. Suddenly, he was a hundred feet tall. He let go of her and stooped to pick up the pack she had shrugged off. "Bloody hell," he grunted. "What’s in here?"

"Food for a month, you said, so food for a month I brought. The problem was," she looked at him shyly, "I didn’t know your likes or dislikes. It’s not easy, planning meals for someone whose tastes you don’t know."

He grinned. "My favorite dish would be you," he said, "raw." Then he grunted as he hoisted the pack from the ground. He managed to force the straps over his shoulders and for a moment, he stood, swaying dangerously as he fought to find his balance. "I don’t know about escape," he muttered. "We’re more likely to end up in traction from humping this lot to the boat. I hope you’re good at hernia surgery." He tottered forward a pace or two. "Follow me," he repeated. "Can you lift the other pack? It’s somewhere by that heap of stones."

By the time he was standing over the nearest corner of the fish dock, Harris was feeling light headed. The condition was heightened by the fact that the tide was well into the ebb so that, seen from the dock side, the boats were lying a long way below him. "Someone’s left the dock gates open," he grunted. "Normally, they hold the water in here so that the boats are afloat all the time." He glanced down. "If I fall in there," he muttered, "I’ll sink like a stone." He stood on the brink, feeling the beginnings of vertigo.

Lydia leaned over beside him. "This boat of yours," she said. "What does she look like?"

"She’s steel, fifty four feet long, transom sterned with goal post gallows aft and the wheel house set well forward."

"I see."

"You’ll know her right away. She’s the only boat in the port whose anchor stows in a hawse pipe. Taff has a good eye for a boat, like me."

"And a woman?" she asked.

"And a woman," Harris agreed. He suspected that the pack was crushing his spine.

"Do you have a good eye for a woman, Clough?"

"The best," admitted Harris. "That’s why I love you. How did you manage to carry this pack from the town?"

"By gritting my teeth," she told him.

He started staggering along the edge of the drop, eyeing the boats moored on the far side of the dock as well as those lurking in the darkness below his feet.

"Harris?" she said.

"Yes?"

"There was some trouble. Two drunks decided to start a fight. The police arrived to sort them out."

"Were you seen?"

"No. But while I was waiting for the fracas to die down, I was frightened."

"That’s natural enough. But you’re safe, now."

"I wasn’t frightened they’d catch me. Pah! They’re amateurs! It needs more than their kind to catch me. No. What really scared me was the thought that I’d lose you."

"Me?" scoffed Harris. "There’s a thousand of me out there."

"No there isn’t." she stopped. Harris shuffled on. "Heavens, but I’m out of practice! I don’t know how to say this," she went on. "I felt that you were my home. I wanted to be nowhere else. I had to reach you. I’ve never had a home, not in that sense, Clough. I’ve dreamed for years... Clough! You’re not making this easy."

"At the moment," said Harris, "I just want to find the boat and dump this pack. It’s killing me!" He turned, teetering on the edge of the drop. "Understand this," he said. "I love you. Does that sound callous, put like that? Perhaps. But that doesn’t stop my every fiber being steeped in you. There’s no life for me without you. I’d be dead, but for you, and I’ll die if you leave me. You rescued me from the brink. It’s a miracle. Believe me, I’m grateful. But right now, we need to find the boat before some of the fishermen wake up and come down to the dock. Most of them know me."

He had reached the end of the dock. He stopped. Lydia hurried towards him. "Well?" she asked.

"She’s not here," said Harris. He chewed on his lip. "We’ll try the turning basin. But Taff wouldn’t moor her there, not if he meant to stay ashore for any length of time. Heaven knows what we do if she’s at sea."

He tottered across the cindered promontory which supported the dock’s gates with more than the pack weighing him down.

Whereas the dock was normally enclosed, the basin was open to the river and fully tidal. Harris reached the stone edging. The drop beyond was greater. Mud, wet from the tide, gleamed naked in the starlight. A powerful smell of decay hovered over it. On the mud, boats rested at crazy angles.

Harris reeled back from the drop. Lydia took a grip on the pack. "I’ve got you," she said quietly.

Harris shuffled on along the stones of the coping. Lydia steadied him. He stepped carefully over the mooring lines, walked round the waist high iron bollards. "She’s not here," he muttered again. The basin ended where water, surprisingly little, chuckled in the river bed and on the far side, above the Town Quay, the houses of the town reared up the side of the hill.

The cylinder of the fuel tank barred the last few yards. "Shit!" Harris cursed. He grabbed the steel filling pipe and leaned out over the edge to look down.

For a second, he failed to recognize `Badger.’ She lay hard in against the stone wall. Her list, away from him, had her goal post masts tilted over the mud.

Harris straightened. Lydia looked at him. "So we take the train south?" she asked.

"I’m not carting this lot any further," he said, and slid out of his harness. The pack crashed to the ground. He rolled his shoulders with relief. "I’ll throw you a heaving line," he told her. "Lower them down to me."

She watched him. A ladder hung from a frayed wire rope looped through a mooring ring. Harris knelt on the coping stone, backed to the edge, and felt below with one foot. The ladder swayed as he eased his weight on to it.

The wooden rungs were coated with a slime of fuel oil and mud. Harris clung on and edged downwards one step at a time until the smell of the mud was strong in his nostrils. He looked down. His feet were level with the ship’s rail, but due to the list, the rail was a long yard away. He glanced up. Lydia was looking down. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, and jumped backwards into the dark. His ankle caught on the rail, he tumbled and landed on his back on the deck with noise enough to wake the whole town.

"Are you all right?" she asked again.

He looked up. "Yes," he groaned. "I’ve only broken my neck to match the ribs."

"Oh! dear dear," she mocked.

"You’ll have to rub me better," he called.

"It sounds more like a stick back together job," she told him. "Maybe a week in bed."

"With you?"

She did not answer that, so Harris heaved himself upright by the trawl winch. As he walked aft to unhook a line from a cleat on the gallows, he looked up at the quay across the basin, then the quay on the far side of the river and fronting the town. The noise of his fall seemed to have passed unnoticed.

He threw the line aloft. Lydia lowered each of the packs in turn. They arrived by the foot of the ladder smeared on oil and slime from the wall. Harris hoisted them aboard. After dumping the second on the deck by the wheelhouse door, he called, "Throw down the line," and Lydia dropped it onto the deck. "Now come down, but be careful. The ladder should bear your weight. It bore mine."

Lydia kneeled down and felt for the top rung with her foot before easing herself onto the ladder.

From the deck, looking up at her, Harris could see her buttocks silhouetted against the haze blurred stars.

Maybe it was a reaction to the strain of waiting for her on the spoil bank; maybe it was the surge in confidence triggered by his standing on a ship’s deck once more; whatever, he found himself watching her cautious descent down the unsecured ladder and feeling overwhelmed by a great tenderness and a great need for her. His eyes bored holes in her trousers as he balanced on the rail waiting to help her the last few feet to the deck. His arms gained the strength of Samson as he reached up to steady her.

He gripped her thighs. The feel of her muscles working had him sweating. His fingers slid upwards. He grasped her waist. "Steady," he croaked. Lydia stopped. Harris stepped down to the deck. "Now step back," he told her. "I’ve got you."

Lydia stepped back. Her foot found the rail.

"Back you come."

She let go the ladder.

"Now step down to the deck."

Her feet echoed on the steel. For a moment they both stood, she with her back to him, he with his arms encircling her chest. "We’ve made it!" he breathed.

She turned to face him. "Yes," she said. "I’m in your hands, now."

"We’ll have to wait for the tide," he whispered, and pulled her closer.

"So we will," she said. "Whatever shall we do to pass the time?"

"Relax."

"Relaxation’s a state of mind."

"So’s love," he whispered.

They started with a kiss, a long kiss, the kind of kiss where lips invite, then tongues provoke. The kind of kiss where fingers stroke passion and fire take hold in veins. She could feel him, he knew, because he felt her pleasure as she pressed against him. She began to grind her hips against his. She wanted him. He knew she wanted him.

After a long time, when he dared to touch her breast, she drew her head away far enough to ask, "Doesn’t this boat have beds? You promised me beds."

"Down below," he said.

"Then why are we standing here?"

He broke away. As he was crouching to feel in the grease under the trawl winch for the key to the door, he said, "Say hello to `Badger.’"

"Hello `Badger,’" she whispered.

"I want you to be friends."

"I’ll do my best," said Lydia.

"I know." He reached out for her hand and drew her to the door. As he slid the key into the lock, he kissed her again. "There are eight bunks," he said.

"We only need one."

The lock clicked. Harris bashed at the dog clips, hove the door open. He was hooking it back and pushing her inside when she stopped dead. "Bloody hell," she howled. "Something’s died down there." She staggered back, grabbing her handkerchief to her nose as she leaned against the trawl winch.

Then the reek hit Harris. A compound of fish gut and fuel oil fermented by a week of lying alongside and closed up in the baking heat, it had the pungency of an open tomb. Lydia started to laugh. "Clough, you certainly know how to make a girl feel welcome," she managed to say at last, "but I would have preferred the traditional bouquet - of flowers."

The tide rose with the sun, and with the sun came the fishermen. Three, at first, sucking moodily on cigarettes and slouching along from the Town Quay before turning to head for the fish dock. Once they had passed, Harris peered out of the door to make sure they were alone. He shrugged at Lydia, then stepped out onto the deck. He unhooked the open door and dragged it shut. "I’d better close the windows, too," he said.

Lydia was sitting on the mess room deck by the weather step to the deck. They had been sitting there since they dared to go inside. Harris had opened windows, opened the hatch to the forecastle cabin, brewed tea. Then, they settled on the deck by the door where the air was freshest. The silence had been eloquent. They had touched, kissed, stared at each other, giggled.

"I feel shy," Lydia murmured.

"And me," said Harris.

"Between us, we must have more than a hundred years of life. Can we never grow up?"

"I don’t know," said Harris. "But I like it."

For once, they had time to kill. They were together. Their future would float in on the tide.

"You go down below," said Harris. "I’ll close the windows."

Lydia stood up. She edged forward between the galley and the chart room to the wheelhouse. Harris locked the door, then sidled round the deck house closing the windows. More fishermen were straggling by as he was in the wheelhouse closing the windows there. He muttered a curse and climbed down the vertical ladder to the forecastle. "We’ll not sail this tide," he said. "We’ll be seen if we try."

Lydia was shifting assorted oily bits off a lower berth. "What are these?" she demanded.

Harris slid down the sloping deck to the table. "Mostly junk," he said. "Taff won’t throw anything away."

"I will," she said. "Just watch me when we get to sea."

"I’ll swill some bilge cleaner through her once we’re outside," said Harris. "Flush her out. After that, she’ll smell sweet as a nut." He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun had only just cleared the roofs of the town, and the temperature was already rising.

Lydia turned to face him, sitting down unintentionally on the bench which fronted the tiered berths as her boots skidded on the greasy deck. "Clough," she said, "I’m tired and filthy. I’ve cleared one bed. You’d better clear another."

Harris nodded. "All right," he said.

She reached out, fondling his fingers where he gripped the table edge. "Harris," she said. "It’s mood. Forgive me, but while we’ve been sitting, I’ve been thinking of the call. I must speak to my uncle. After that....

"Listen. On balance, I think he’ll tell us to disappear, provided we’re confident we stand a reasonable chance of remaining at large. That would leave him free to say he doesn’t know where we are, and mean it, should anyone ask. They’ll pressure him, you know. So after the call, we’ve endless time ahead. I can concentrate on you then, my love."

"Whatever you like," said Harris.

"Oh, God!" she said. "Don’t look like that, sweetheart. Shall I tell you what I want?"

Harris nodded.

"You," she said. "Just you and the time to enjoy you. The call will give us the time. I promise."

Again, Harris nodded. "I can wait," he said.

"And I need sleep," she said. "I can’t remember ever feeling so wound up and tired. I feel as deflated as a balloon after a good party."

"You sleep," he said.

They were woken by the sound of an engine revving furiously, followed by a loud crash. `Badger’ lurched. Heavy boots landed on the deck. Ropes squealed. Voices shouted.

"What the.. ?" asked Lydia, half out of her bunk.

"Shh!" warned Harris. "That’s John Thwaite coming alongside. He’s fueling up on his way out. Don’t move. They might see you through the skylight."

The reek was high, and the heat thick. The pair lay sweating and muzzy headed while Thwaites refueled his boat and left. Then a second came alongside, but more carefully, and a third.

When the second was gone, Harris crept up into the wheelhouse and looked out through the condensation smeared windows. In the dock, one crew was feeding trawl wires onto their boat’s winch. Most of the moored boats had hands pottering about, painting, washing down, repairing worn gear. Every other bollard on the quay had a man sitting, staring out at the activity. Leashed dogs walked their owners round the edge.

Harris brewed tea, keeping himself out of sight as best he could, cursing the heat and the crowds.

He took the mugs below. Lydia was lying on her back, panting. Sweat trickled down her temples, darkening her hair. She was dressed in a long tee shirt. A hint of her panties showed below the hem. "We’ll get out on tonight’s tide," he told her.

He handed her a mug, then slumped down on the bench.

"I hope so," she said. "Another day in here and I’ll go mad." She rolled over the leeboard and seated herself opposite him.

"Looking at you dressed like that," said Harris, "so will I." He grinned at her blushes.

By one o’clock, the sun had shifted enough, and the tide fallen enough, for the quay to be shading `Badger.’ The temperature in the forecastle fell a degree or two. Harris and Lydia were able to sleep at last.

Harris did not so much wake up as stop sleeping, to find that his head was pounding and his eyes gummed tight shut. He forced his eyelids open with his fingers. The foul taste of the cabin filled his mouth and his pores as if he had been pickled in the bilges. He rolled over the leeboard and slumped onto the side bench, trying to force himself into a semblance of wakefulness.

`Badger’ was lying at a slight angle on the mud, as dead and silent as a boat can be. After a few minutes of lethargy, Harris stirred himself to drag on his clothes then haul himself to the foot of the ladder. Climbing aloft was a major feat of willpower, but the less tainted atmosphere in the wheel house was his reward. He crouched for a while, gasping, before he dared to straighten a little and peer out through the windows.

He searched right round the dock, quartering it carefully as Lydia had taught him up on the fells. "A quick, overall glance," she’d told him, "then thoroughly, one section at a time." Harris checked, then double checked, then looked again. The fishermen and loafers were gone. He stood upright. His brain began to turn over with all the reluctance of an engine in the Arctic. "It’s time to be positive," he told himself, and opened the windows facing the weed slimed wall. Before he even smelled the warm fresh air – the decay of the dock smelled sweet after `Badger’s’ chronic stench - he had shuffled aft into the galley. After settling the kettle to boil, he edged out into the mess room and glanced warily around from the windows there.

"Good!" he muttered.

He unlocked the door to the deck. The hinges squealed as he opened it wide. Standing on the deck, he sniffed the air, glanced at the sky, then at the town across the river. Half a dozen youngsters were seated at the table outside the `Sailor’s Return.’ Pint glasses stood in front of them. Harris grinned. "The best disguise is the clothing of the crowd," Lydia had told him.

Harris could pass as a trawlerman and was standing aboard a trawler. Who would notice him, provided he behaved as if he belonged? Holding the keys in his hand, he moved round the trawl winch.

The hatch to the engine room was set in the deck immediately behind the winch drums. Harris turned the key in the padlock and stuffed the lock in his pocket. Swinging the hatch open, he clambered down the ladder.

When he stood on the steel plates by the bottom of the ladder, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, he heard the plop of condensation dripping into the bilge. The air was thick with the greasy smell of fuel oil. The steel under his fingers bloomed water.

"Right," he muttered.

He checked the oil in the sumps, then the fuel in the tanks. "Well done Taff!" he muttered. "You left her ready for a quick get away."

He glanced around. The two ten gallon cans of lubricating oil bracketed to the after bulkhead were full. Everything seemed in order. Taff might be a man for the ladies, but he was a good seaman when he put his mind to the task. Harris fondled one of the engine’s cold cylinder heads and gazed at the big Gardiner. "I hope you’re ready," he said. "I’m counting on you."

The kettle was boiling when he reached the galley.

After he had filled the mugs, Harris went back on deck. There, after a look around the quays again, he climbed up the ladder to the shore. "Don’t hurry," he warned himself. "Take your time." And he cast off all the mooring lines except the two which were doubled and could be let go from the deck.

"So we’re ready," he told Lydia, when he woke her. "All we need is the tide to float us off."

They drank their tea sitting in the mess room. The river was filling, driving a rim of ochre scum into the harbor. Harris watched the water level against the stones of the Town Quay opposite. Bubbles gurgled up from under the keel. `Badger’ came upright. Lydia brewed a second cup of tea.

"You look cheerful," she said, as she handed Harris his mug.

"That’s a disguise," said Harris. "These last few minutes, while you’re waiting for the tide, are always the worst. I keep wondering what we’ve forgotten. Once we’re at sea, there’s no stopping off at a shop to buy stuff we’ve forgotten."

"It was the same when I was at sea," he said, later, when two more rows of the wall blocks had been eaten by the tide. "Even with a professional crew, the last hour of waiting used to be filled with a sense of anticipation. It doesn’t matter how often you have set sailed, each time is an adventure, I suppose."

Lydia was looking at him. "You really are a romantic," she said.

Harris grinned. "If you say so," he told her, and stood up. "Don’t you think she’s a lovely boat? A good wash down once we’re out, and you’ll not recognize her." He stepped out on to the deck, staring for a moment at the mud caked on the mooring lines he had brought aboard. "You go forward and let go that last line."

He sauntered aft. When he had let go the last stern line and coiled it down on the deck, he looked over the stern. Immediately behind her transom, `Badger’ had built a mud bar. Harris could see the disturbance where the gentle flood of the tide flowed over it into the bed she had carved for herself. "We’ll chance it," he told Lydia. "Come on."

She wiped the mud from her hands down the legs of her cords. "Are you sure you know what you’re doing?" she asked as she followed him to the wheel house.

He grinned. "You be the helmsman," he said. "Sit in the chair."

As she settled in the captain’s chair behind the wheel, he began switching on the instruments. The radar whined. Red LCD showed on the display of the fuel computer. Then, a burst of static from the radio. Harris turned down the volume. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Lydia nodded.

"Are you sure? You’ve left nothing you might need?"

"No."

"Then you steer," he said. "Remember, port is left, starboard right."

"Port is left," she said.

Harris pressed the starter button. A muted protest growled from below. The exhaust cleared its throat, spat and started to mumble. Harris watched the rev counter flick, waver, then lie steady against its dial. When the oil pressure gauge suddenly kicked into life, he grinned. Thick smoke was already filling the gap between the ship and the quay and beginning to flop aboard over the rail.

Harris grinned at Lydia. "She’s always smoky when she’s cold," he said.

He jammed the gear in reverse. `Badger’ moved aft a couple of feet, then stopped. She began to throb as the big towing propeller carved away at her mud bar. Black, treacly water surged forward and surrounded the boat moored ahead. "The risk of this maneuver is that we clog up the cooling water with mud," he muttered, and knocked the engine out of gear.

The vibration died away. `Badger’ slid a couple of yards forward.

Harris waited for a minute, put the gear in reverse again and increased the revs. The boat moved aft. Her stern lifted. Great sucking sounds came from under the transom. "Go on!" he muttered, his eyes fixed on the temperature gauge.

The boat shook. Gear rattled on the masts. The air thickened with the stench of decay.

"We’ll have to wait a bit," said Harris. "We’ll have to risk being seen."

Lydia looked at him, sucking her lower lip. "I must make that call soon," she said. "We’ve lost a day here already."

Harris shrugged. "Sorry," he said. He was reaching for the throttle when `Badger’ lurched astern and was floating free in the river.
CHAPTER 15

The loudspeaker spat a burst of conversation, the broad Scots accents whispering in the wheelhouse as Harris turned down the volume.

Lydia glanced round at him. "Keep your eyes on the compass," he warned. "Are you all right?"

"I’m beginning to get the hang of it," she said.

"Good," he said. "The less helm you use, the less fuel we waste, and fuel’s the critical factor, from now on."

He had been fiddling with the throttle since they left Maryport, checking with the fuel computer the while until he had the engine running at its most economical setting.

"You’re determined on getting away?" she asked.

"Yes."

Harris turned away and stooped to look out of the door aft. Framed between the goal post of the masts, the light on the end of Maryport Pier flickered pale in front of the hump of the town. "If your uncle says we should," he said.

He was relieved that he was standing behind her - his answer was the first deliberate untruth he had told her. Years in business had taught him to stick to the truth - edited, if need be - because his face always betrayed him.

"I’m going nowhere near the UK again," he thought. "If I do, the beach’ll be swarming with police waiting for me. Why offer myself to be quietly murdered because they cocked up? If I disappear everyone else should be happy. The Blob has her money. The bank will get paid. I have Lydia. Lydia has me. (If that’s her choice, and who am I to fight shy?) Whatever McKendrick’s up to, he’s too strong for Lydia and I to challenge. Even he should be happy, if we don’t turn up to interfere. Now we’ve escaped, we steam on until the fuel’s all gone, and the further we can steam, the better."

"Can’t we call Uncle yet?"

"No. The radio stations work two hours on, two hours off. Those signals we’re listening to are trawlers talking amongst themselves. I’m listening out to hear where the Maryport boats are working. We don’t want them to see us if we can avoid it." He turned round and stepped up close behind her. "By rights, we should call Portishead Radio from here. When we do call, I’ll use a false call sign - some boat based in Aberdeen, say - and channel the link through Wick. If, as you say, McKendrick is monitoring your uncle’s phone, then he’ll think we’re somewhere in the North Sea, in Scottish waters."

She grinned at him. "You have a low cunning I never suspected," she said. "I’ll have to keep my eye on you."

Harris laughed. "You look," he said, "and I’ll bask."

He relaxed against the window ledge and gazed into the haze. The reflection of the sunset cloaked the sea in an imperial purple beneath a stratum of russet. "Another half hour and we’ll alter course," he said. "We steer west. We’ll be clear of the shoals by then. We should have Point of Ayre, on the Isle of Man, abeam about three o’clock in the morning. After that, we’re out of the Solway." He straightened up. "We’ll have the tide with us by then, too. We’ll be going like the clappers. God, but it’s good to be back at sea."

"And the call?" Lydia asked.

"Ten minutes after we alter course," he said.

He glanced at the echo sounder, then moved aft to the tiny chart table and laid off the ship’s position from the Decca Navigator.

"There’s something ahead," Lydia called.

Harris went back and stood beside her. "It’s the Scottish Channel Buoy," he said. "That’s where we alter course." He started humming a tune.

Lydia eased the wheel. "If he tells us to go back," she said, "I’m inclined not to."

"Oh?"

"The risks," she said. "They’re too great. Uncle’s old - he’s in his mid eighties - he may not fully understand the risks at first."

"That suits me," said Harris.

"He has friends," she went on. "He can talk to them. How he stops McKendrick is his affair. I would have thought they could stake Sellafield out, surround it with troops, put a couple of frigates offshore. At least they would foil a military assault, if there is to be one. He can sort out Harris Clough’s problems later."

"Yes," said Harris.

"And I have a feeling that you wouldn’t go back," she said.

Harris grinned at her. "No," he admitted. "I don’t have your courage. I’m a coward. I couldn’t have waded out into that river, for example, knowing I could very easily be a target. What’s more, I don’t want you taking risks any more. I want you safe. I don’t think I could live, if you were hurt."

She looked at him. "You’re the first man I’ve known who hasn’t expected me to take risks," she said. She stroked his face with her fingers. "That’s one of the reasons I love you. And you have courage - everyone has courage. It’s just a matter of finding a cause you judge to be bigger than yourself. Once you find that, you’ll find the heart of a lion."

"I have found it," he said, "but I’m still scared to death." He kissed the palm of her hand. "Now," he said briskly. "Come to port easy. Steer two six oh."

"Port easy," she said. "Steer two six oh."

`Badger’ swung in a wide arc until her bows were pointing at mist uncolored by the dusk. "Two six oh," said Lydia.

Harris switched on the automatic pilot and glanced up at the clock. "You can relax," he said. "She’ll steer herself, now. We’ll make the call in ten minutes."

Lydia slid from the chair. "I’ll brew some tea to kill the time," she said, and while she worked in the galley, Harris fixed the ship’s position on the chart again.

When she placed the mugs on the window ledge, he nodded at the radio on the after bulkhead. "I’ve tuned in to Wick," he said.

Lydia took a position standing in the after doorway looking forward and swaying as `Badger’ dipped over the small lumpy seas. The hiss of the wake sounded through the open windows. Now and again, the deck trembled as water built up under her bows. In the corner, the radar whined and glowed. She looked at him and smiled. "You should have been a pirate, Harris Clough," she whispered. "You’re in your element at sea, aren’t you?"

"I like the sea," said Harris. "I love the boat. But not as I love you."

"The sea is a serial killer," she muttered. "But I like your boat."

"She likes you," said Harris.

Lydia laughed. "You’re an incurable romantic. How do you know?" she asked him.

"By the way she behaved while you were steering," he said. "Truth to tell, `Badger’ can be a little bit skittish when she doesn’t like the helmsman. For you, she was perfectly docile." He gazed at her through the folds of the gathering night. "I’ll make this trip your honeymoon," he promised.

He turned away to look at the radar screen. Cumberland was sliding off the after edge and blobs of Scotland nibbling the northern rim. He nodded. "There are no other ships showing," he said quietly, and turned back to face her. "It’s time for your call. Tell me the number you want."

"Wick radio," said the speaker. "Traffic list."

Harris turned up the volume, then took the handset off its hook.

"Wick Radio, fishing vessel `Emerald,’ call sign Mike Foxtrot Foxtrot Bravo. Request a link call, please.

"Go to Channel four seven."

"Channel four seven." Harris twisted the tuning knob. "Mike Foxtrot Foxtrot Bravo."

"Wick," came back, strong and clear. "What number do you wish to link?"

Harris chanted Uncle’s phone number. Clicks sounded from the loudspeaker. Harris handed the receiver to Lydia. "Press the bar on the grip to speak," he whispered.

She took the receiver from him. Her knuckles showed white, a tight smile curled her lips as she lifted the instrument to her ear. Harris stared at the loudspeaker. He heard the phone ringing. Lydia stared at him. Her smile faded. The phone rang a fourth time. Lydia frowned. A fifth, then on and on, unanswered. Lydia shrunk, drawing in her shoulders, huddling into herself. Then a voice, male, young, said, "Hello?" A pause. "Hello?"

Lydia threw the handset at Harris. "Turn it off," she hissed.

"Eh?" grabbing it to his chest.

"Turn it off, damn you."

Harris hooked the receiver back on the radio and switched the set off. In the silence, Lydia said, "He’s dead. The bastards got to him."

Harris reached out for her. She dashed his arms away. "They’ve got him! Now it’s down to you, Clough. Stop that landing."

"Stop the landing? How, for God’s sake?"

"Do something," she screamed. "You’re the seaman, not me."

"And we’re in a fifty foot fishing boat, not a bloody battleship," he roared back.

"Then get out and walk home. I’ll do it myself."

"Do what, for heaven’s sake?"

"I don’t know. Something. Think, damn you."

Harris drew a deep breath. "There is nothing we can do," he said quietly.

He thought she was going to hit him, then. Her fists bunched, she bared her teeth and flung towards him. Harris flinched back half a pace - the bridge front prevented further retreat - and raised his hands to fend her off.

She brushed them aside, bent down and heaved. The forecastle hatch crashed open. Before Harris could recover, she had disappeared below. He stared down into the forecastle for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever she said, `Badger’ was no warship. But Lydia’s manner hurt him.

He lit a cigarette and stared out through the door into the wake. Lydia emerged half a minute later holding the assembled rifle in her hand. She walked past him, along the short alleyway to the mess room. Harris watched as she sat down and laid the gun on the table in front of her. She began to clean it.

Harris turned away and closed the hatch in the deck. Leaning on the window ledge, he glowered out at the gray night.

A landing on Sellafield Beach, he mused, required a landing craft. Landing craft, being military, were armed, if only with machine guns. Apart from Lydia’s rifle, `Badger’ was unarmed. She had a radio, though. He could broadcast an emergency call. The whole world would be listening, so the whole world would hear - the whole world of shipping, that is. And while he spoke, the coastguard and a hundred ships could be taking bearings of `Badger’ and pinpointing her position. Any positive response would therefore be gained at a high risk. A link call to a newspaper, perhaps? But reporters wanted hard facts, incidents, proof that they were not dealing with a madman. And again, a call would reveal their position and their knowledge. McKendrick could be overhead in an hour, if he had a light aircraft to hand. The Irish Sea was as good a place as any to commit murder.

He sighed. Glancing aft, he saw Lydia furiously polishing the rifle. He hauled himself up into the helmsman’s seat and slumped down to keep his watch.

Lydia brought a mug of tea through just as Harris saw the first flash from the Point of Ayre light. She was tense, pale, and unnaturally controlled in her movements.

She placed the mug on the ledge in front of Harris, and said, "There’s only us. We must stop the whole bloody show."

"You sound bitter," he said.

"It’s always been the same," she said. "`Get in there, girl. We’re depending.... ‘" She broke off. "What’s that?" she asked.

"Point of Ayre Light," said Harris. "It has a nominal range of twenty miles, but we’re much closer than that. We’re just beginning to pick up the ebb, too. We’ll be past in an hour. They’ll never find us after that."

"Turn round," she said flatly. "We’re going back."

"No way! What you’re asking is impossible... "

"Harris, if you don’t turn back, you’ll never have me or my love. You said you needed a cause. Well, I’ve found you one. Is the whole of Britain enough for you?"

"You’re talking rubbish," he said. "The whole of Britain?"

"Why else take possession of a nuclear reprocessing plant, if not to cause mayhem?" she asked.

"And the whole of Britain, in the person of their democratically elected government, decided to rob me of my dreams," he grated. "Hell! They’ve been trying to kill me for the last week. But for you, they would have succeeded. Now, they’re driving us into exile. Why the hell should I give a toss about Britain, the British, or the stinking government after that? No, Miss, they wanted me to leave so I’m leaving."

"Not with me, Clough." She turned away. "I love you," she whispered. "I thought you were different. You have a nobility, have heart. You feel as I feel about most things. And we’ve both reached the end of an epoch. We’re both burned out - how I hate that expression - we both need peace." She turned to face him. Harris saw the green glint of the radar screen reflected in the tear streaks down her cheeks. "Because of that, sweetheart, if you walk away now you’ll never forgive yourself."

Harris stared at her, aware of the Ayres Light pulsating away on the horizon and knowing that the light house marked the choice of ways for him. Fifty five years of stumbling along life’s tortuous path had brought him to this place at this time with this woman. He shrugged.

He stared at the misery etched in the flesh of her face. "If I’m going to volunteer for suicide, I’d rather do it with you by my side, than do it alone," he said. "We could always ram them, I suppose."

Lydia drew in a deep sobbing breath.

"Now," Harris said grimly, "we’d better prepare. Item one is starting a proper routine. We’ll be helpless if we try to confront them when we’re both exhausted. You go below and sleep. I’ll wake you... "

She kissed him roughly, but skipped out of his reach when he tried to embrace her. "I’m not having you see me cry," she said. "Wake me when you need me."

When she had closed the forecastle hatch behind her, Harris brewed himself another mug of tea, plotted `Badger’s’ position on the chart, then settled into the helmsman’s chair.

"You’re completely mad," he told himself.

The Ayres flashed, tempting him. "I could sail on past while Lydia’s below," he mused, though if he did, she would never trust him again. Such an act would be their goodbye, however long they sat cramped together aboard the boat afterwards.

"No."

The Bahamas Bank buoy was abeam. Harris corrected the course again - the tide debauching north along the Manx coast from Maughold Head was setting `Badger’ further off the land.

He snorted. Ramming! He was a shipmaster. He had spent ten years of his life devoted to the study of how to avoid collision. `Badger,’ the chosen weapon, would be sacrificed. In the dark, with the lantern lighting the boat’s upper works as the beam swept past, Harris imagined the bows crumpling under the impact; the shrieking of tearing steel; the thunder of the water flooding in to swamp her; and her curse on him for murdering her. No true seaman killed a ship. Ever. For any reason.

As if she was reading his thought, `Badger’ gave a kick and a shudder. Harris woke up. The lantern seemed high above. Below, he could see the shingle beach pale in the night. "Shit!" he muttered.

Hard a-port. `Badger’ skidded round. Harris steadied her, reset the auto steering and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Lighting a cigarette, he slid from the chair and walked aft. On deck, he leaned back on the end of the winch drum. For a while, he smoked and stared moodily at the passing beach where the wake hissed along like a faithful cur on a lead. Below his feet, the exhaust gurgled and spluttered. A block on the gallows chattered. He moved to the ship’s side and stroked the rail. "Am I mad?" he asked.

He gazed at the light house astern, at the sharp steps in the shingle leading down into the sea. "I used to stand there watching the seals," he mused. "They showed me the counter current close in that I’m using now to cheat the tide. All to save fuel during a voyage to challenge an army of religious nuts." He glanced to port. "It’s getting light. Will I see the fells? Is McKendrick still hiding in the bushes by Uldale Bridge, waiting to kill us?"

Half an hour later, when he was slumped in the chair again and the light in the east was growing, Harris saw the bar of Maughold Head stretching across the bows. He altered course a few degrees further east - the shingle of the shore had given away to a fine stretch of sand backed by peat cliffs. As `Badger’ pushed steadily on and the light grew stronger, Harris began to see the detail of the land emerge. Bushy topped trees, shot through with hints of green, began to stand proud from black shadow. Then the silhouettes slowly thickened to become three dimensional and set amongst them tiny shards which were the roofs of houses and which gained slow reds, and greens and slate grays.

"There are people sleeping under those," thought Harris; "saints, sinners, children - maybe some old codger who might not last the day, maybe some woman about to give birth to new life. This might be the last dawn all of us ever see. I can afford to think that way, now. If I die, then I’ll never see Lydia grow old, and I’ll never sit beside her and say, "Do you remember... ?" I won’t have held her close, nor seen her waking in the morning from a sleep we’ve shared. But I will know that when I died, I was loved. And I will die with her so our souls won’t ever be lonely again."

The day grew stronger. Looking to port, Harris saw the white feathers of the steam above Sellafield’s cooling towers. Behind them writhed the fells. As Harris gazed through the binoculars, a great burst of crimson rose above.

Dazzled, he put the glasses down and blinked away.

The houses on Maughold glowed in the light.

This morning, he thought, it’s the rising sun. But tomorrow?

CHAPTER 16

As the day gained heat, the haze came back and thickened. The seascape shrank as Harris ran south west along the Manx coast, rounding first Maughold, then slipping past the gray slate cliffs and steep sided coves until Laxey Bay opened to starboard. `Badger’ lurched through the agitation of the tide rips with spray occasionally curling over the rails forward and Harris nodding in the chair scarcely awake. With the bay sliding aft, he forced himself into consciousness.

"So how do we prevent a military assault?" he asked himself, sipping the tea he had brewed. No answer came to him.

"Not long ago," he mused, "I’d have thought of a plan." He felt sad at not coming up with some brilliant scheme. Brilliant schemes had once been his forte. `Leave it to old Clough,’ people had said. `He’ll find a way.’ Those days seemed a long time ago.

"You’ve led a charmed life, but they’ve got you this time," he thought, "and serve you right, too."

He found he was sitting hunched and tense in his seat. A headache was niggling him, not a full blown brain crusher, but a whining and complaining headache, debilitating as a nagging wife. He tried to relax his shoulders, and grabbed at the window ledge as he half fell out of the chair.

`Badger’s’ unpredictable jerks were tiring him, the haze dazzling him. His eyes might have been filed with grit as he stared at the bright pearl wall cocooning the boat. "I’m too old for all night sessions," he thought. "I should have set watches as soon as we left Maryport and laid out a course to take us far away." Then he remembered the price of safety and grimaced. Lydia, but no future: a future, but no Lydia. What the hell! But inspiration still sheered away from him.

He glanced at the radar screen. He knew the area well enough not to need the chart. Laxey Head showed on the edge, then a long, frayed cliff. "After that," he thought, "Douglas Bay. The harbor entrance lies on the southern side. I’ll take her in. Anyone tracking us might think we mean to take the plane or the ferry out."

Douglas Bay opened up on the starboard bow. Harris held the course until `Badger’ was half way across, then set the steering on manual. The gap in the breakwaters was showing plainly on the radar. Harris altered course towards it.

As `Badger’ slid between the high stone walls, he eased the throttle. To starboard, the arms of the quays reached out for the packet boats from Heysham. To port, tucked in the corner where the breakwater sprouted from the land and next to the oil storage tanks, the lifeboat house stood on its iron stilts.

Harris edged the boat close to the slipway, then stopped the engine. "What now?" he wondered.

`Badger’ rolled on the milk green sea. From his position out of the way of traffic, Harris could see right into the old harbor. The swing bridge across the entrance stood open. Boats lined the quays behind. Beyond them, the cars and lorries of normality buzzed along the road. The hum of life floated in through the open windows. Burblings from `Badger’s’ engine exhaust sounded from over the side. A crane whined as it hoisted a pallet of cement from the hold of a coaster and swung it over the quay. On the coaster’s poop deck, a young man wearing a Walkman was nodding his head and tapping his foot as he peeled potatoes into a bucket.

"What now?" wondered Harris. "What the hell do I do now?"

A fishing boat high up the harbor let go her mooring lines. Harris watched her move off her berth. Full ahead. Full astern. Hard a-port. Hard a-starboard. Water curdling under her counter, smoke sagging from her exhaust. As she straightened up to run for the entrance, a second edged off the quay. The first passed the swing bridge, a tiny curl of foam about her stem. A trawler, Harris noted, seeing the otter boards hanging from her gallows. As she passed `Badger’ she was swinging round to make for the gap in the breakwaters, and the second, already passing the swing bridge, had a third turning round in her wake.

Five boats passed, in all, and Harris watched from his chair, bemused, unthinking. The crews were coiling ropes, stowing bright orange fenders, sweeping the decks with shafts of water which shattered and transformed the fittings into sculptures of foam.

"Lucky devils," thought Harris, watching as the last cleared the harbor and increased her power. "Off to sea, all you need worry about is where the fish are lying."

Then he had `Badger’ in gear, helm hard over. As he cleared the breakwaters, the other boats were disappearing into the haze about a mile away and steaming south east. Harris increased speed slightly, and when the boats disappeared completely, increased speed yet again so that `Badger’ was keeping pace with them.

Five miles out, and the boats slowed and hauled to port. Harris kept on.

He sighted them briefly through a hole in the haze and raised the binoculars to look. They lay almost stopped and rolling on the tide fret. All five were shooting their nets.

"They’ll drag along the shoal," he thought. "I’ll keep on."

He adjusted the throttle to allow the most economical speed. ("Why save fuel?" he asked himself. "You’re going nowhere further than the Cumbrian coast." And he answered, "I’m not dead yet.") He set the new course, brewed two mugs of tea, then yelled down the forecastle hatch, "All hands! All hands! Show a leg."

Lydia arrived in the wheelhouse a few minutes later.

"She’s on automatic," Harris told her. "I’ve drawn the course on the chart. Watch the radar. When we’re ten miles off Sellafield, call me."

Lydia nodded. Harris took a last look round, and went below.

He stretched out in her bunk. The mattress still held her warmth, the pillow her scent. Water sloshed by the plates a foot away. `Badger’ creaked and squealed quietly to herself as she dipped and rolled over the sea. His mind overflowed with the question, How? all mixed in with a picture of the last fishing boat as she had been when she faded into the mist. The how? he could not answer for the fear. The fishing boat, the glimpse of men working at their normal jobs, countered the fear. Those men, he thought, will be doing the same job tomorrow.

When he dozed, he watched the hands shackling the net to the otter boards, then the trawl wires to the boards. He stood by and saw the net, with its sinkers, floats and tickling wires, sinking into the sea. As the stiff orange mesh sank into the water, he shuddered. The boat moved ahead. Wire rolled off the winch drums. One of the blocks at the gallows head squealed as the sheave revolved. When the wires led aft clear of the propeller, the skipper increased the power and straightened the boat on course.

Harris remembered Taff telling him, "The older boats have side gallows. When they shoot the nets, they always have to be careful not to wrap the wires round their propeller. `Badger’ has the gallows aft on the goal posts so that her net is streamed clear of the propeller. I have complete control to maneuver while the lads are streaming the gear." He had been giving Harris a lecture on the mechanics of trawling. "The tickler lines stretch across the bottom of the net’s mouth. They roll over the sea bed and make the fish rise so that the net catches them. They’re weighted with lead so that the net floats the right way up. The otter boards float vertically and at an angle. They hold the mouth of the net open as the boat moves ahead. Like the paravanes on a mine sweeper," Harris had said.

Taff had looked at him. "I wouldn’t know," he said. "I’ve never sailed on a mine sweeper." "Nor have I," Harris told him. "But the principle’s the same."

"We have a brew, now," said Taff. "We wait while the net fills up with nice fat plaice."

The net filled up with four stones of assorted plaice and cod, a motor car tire and half a ton of weed covered shingle. A small gale was brewing. The men had clung to whatever came to hand while they shot the gear again, then began to sift through the rubbish on deck, boxing the fish, heaving the rest over the rail.

So Harris dozed, remembering his first trip aboard `Badger,’ picturing the Manx boat shooting her gear, and feeling the heavy resignation and dread of the forthcoming meeting with McKendrick’s army.

He must have slept, for Lydia needed to shake him awake. "It’s five o’clock. There’s a mug of tea on the table in the mess room. The beach is ten miles off and I’m roasting a chicken for our supper."

"Thanks," grunted Harris. "Good."

She smiled at him. He smiled back and watched her buttocks as she climbed the ladder to the wheel house. He dressed and climbed the ladder a minute or two behind her. Cooking smells filled the air, but he still had no idea how they were to stop the landing.

He glanced at the radar and edged aft into the mess room. It was only when he was standing on the deck between the deck house and the trawl winch, sipping his tea and drawing on a cigarette to wake himself up, that inspiration struck him.

"You great, five star fool!" he told himself. "Why didn’t you think of that before?"

A modest wake streamed away aft. Visibility was no worse, but certainly no better, than it had been when he went below. He grinned. "Perfect!" he thought. "If it works, we’ll come out of this with the boat intact and the prisoners as evidence of the plot."

As he sipped the tea, he examined the plan. `Badger’ shuddered approval under his feet. He took in the details of her gear while he sifted the details of his intended action. The otter boards lay against the bulwarks under the goal post mast. The trawl wires coiled round the winch drums in a neat, solid mass of greased steel - the winch itself, powered hydraulically from the engine directly below, squatting four square on cast iron frames welded to the special stiffeners under the deck.

"You’ll make it," he said, and fondled the door frame. "I really believe you’ll make it."

He began to whistle to himself. When he went into the deckhouse and bent over the chart, the smell of roasting chicken prodded at his appetite. "I’m looking forward to supper," he told Lydia. "We need to alter course. Bring her to port and steer three hundred."

As she spun the wheel, he followed her into the wheelhouse. "I’ll reduce the speed," he said. "Four knots should be about right."

"You’ve thought up a plan," she said. "I can see it in your face."

"Yes." He grinned at her. "And although I say it myself, I am a genius."

She slid from the chair. Standing next to him, she said, "Then I’m in your hands."

He turned and laid his hands on her shoulders. "That’s exactly where you should be," he muttered. Then, he embraced her. "There’s a lot to be done, though. When do we eat?"

"I think the haze is thicker, which is all to the good," Harris said, and leaned back from the window ledge so that he could see the clock on the bulkhead above. "Eleven o’clock. Time to alter course again."

He disengaged the auto steering and eased the helm one turn to port. He sensed the beginning of the boat’s reluctant response. Watching the radar screen, he saw the line of the beach shifting from the port side of the screen, crossing the bows and moving into place along the starboard side. He reset the auto steering. "We’re four miles off the beach," he told Lydia. "Can you think of anything we’ve forgotten?"

"No"

"What do you think of our chances?"

She grinned at him. "Good," she said. "They’re good."

Their plan was so simple, Harris had been annoyed that he had taken a day and a half to think of it. Having arrived off Sellafield beach, he had started to patrol up and down, starting seven miles offshore, "So they’ll think we’re trawling," he said.

"Who?" asked Lydia.

"Anyone watching on radar. To make it more realistic - the research boat might be sent out to take a look at us - we’ll stream the trawl wires without the net attached."

Lydia had looked at him. "There’s more to it than that," she said.

Harris smirked. "It has occurred to me," he said, "that `Badger’ is a weapon." He sucked the cigarette Lydia had given him, and attempted to look innocent.

"Come on, Clough, stop messing me about."

"Mine sweepers, when they were dealing with moored mines in the last war, streamed wires to cut the mines’ moorings. They attached paravanes to the end of the wires. These were devices which towed at an angle to the wire, and took the end out away from the ship. Otter boards work in exactly the same way to keep the mouth of a trawl net open. Therefore, if we stream the trawl wires without the net attached, we should have a wire sweeping out on each side of the boat."

Lydia looked at him. "I don’t follow," she said. "What’s the advantage of having wires trailing out on each side of the boat?"

Harris sat back and grinned. "Have you ever experienced a wire around your propeller?" he asked her. "It’s horrible, believe me. It stops the engine dead. So I thought that, if we can get close enough by acting as an innocent trawler, then manage to wrap a wire around the landing ship’s screw, we’ve got ‘em. We can tow them wherever we choose. They’ll have no way of moving their ship."

Lydia glanced through the window, then looked at him again. "So why are we waiting?" she asked. "Let’s go fishing."

They had worked, shackling the trawl wires to the otter boards, then hoisting the boards over the transom and into the wake. Then there was the life saving gear to spread around the decks and the pots to wash - washing the pots and stowing them was somehow as important as preparing their trap. Harris thought about that particularly, then realized that it told them that life would continue afterwards, that they would need clean crockery again; tomorrow – and the day afterwards.

Then, the serious business of hunting out their prey.

"When do you think they’ll come?" she asked.

"Assuming we’ve guessed right," he said, "they should beach at about one o’clock - that’s the time of high water. But I know nothing about landing techniques or landing craft. All my training was devoted to avoiding running ashore."

She nodded. Both resumed their leaning against the window ledge and staring into the murk. "What are our chances?" she asked.

"Fifty fifty," said Harris, cautiously. He avoided telling her that he thought their chances one hundred percent good. "Maybe a little better."

She reached her arm about his waist. "Take the good half," she whispered. "I want you all to myself as soon as possible."

"Then do as you promised. Once we begin, you stand forward with the rifle."

"Aye aye, sir. Have you taken the pistol?"

"I have. I have spliced a lanyard through the ring in the butt and the other end through a loop on the waist band of my trousers. Now, wherever my trousers go, so, too, goeth the gun."

They both grinned into the night.

At half past eleven, Lydia brewed more tea. At midnight, Harris altered course again, turning the boat to a southerly heading and bringing her a mile closer to the beach in the process. At a quarter past twelve, he glanced at the radar and saw the echo of a ship just edging onto the screen over the port bows. "She’s here," he said, "coming up from the south. You go into the mess room and sing out when you’re ready."

Lydia kissed him. "Good luck," she said. "I love you." Then she was gone to take her place in the mess room to plot the intercept.

"Ready," she called.

Harris bent over the radar and carefully adjusted the bearing cursor until the hair line ran through the center of the echo and the adjustable range ring lapped at its leading edge. He was determined that this first observation would be as accurate as a commercial radar allowed. Success depended on the opening plots - missing the target altogether would be all too easy due to `Badger’s’ low speed when the trawl wires were streamed. "We’ll have time for no more than two observations," Harris had told her. "After that, we’re committed. We can’t slow down in case the wires become entangled on the sea bed, and we can’t speed up because we’re on full power already."

Two observations! From them, Lydia would first predict the course and speed of the enemy, then calculate the course for `Badger’ to steer to bring her wire to the landing ship’s propeller.

Satisfied, Harris called over his shoulder, "Target bearing three hundred, relative, eight point one miles. Our course" - he glanced at the compass - "One six oh."

"Twelve minutes timing down," sang Lydia. She was plotting on the reverse side of a chart taped to the mess room table. She laid off the first bearing and distance as Harris had taught her.

Twelve minutes! Harris stared through the wheelhouse windows when he was not following the target on the screen with cursor and range ring.

They’re clever, he thought. They’re coming up from the south. To any observer, she’s a coaster out of Morecambe Bay heading north. All very innocent, all very normal. They’re good, but we’re better. For all their planning, they don’t expect us.

He stared into the haze, watching for the boat to materialize. The only lights `Badger’ was showing were the glow of the instruments - all dimmed so as to be only just visible from inside the wheel house - and the torch Lydia shone intermittently when she wanted to inspect her plot.

Twelve minutes! Harris’ instinct was to alter course to close the enemy head on, which would, he knew, be a waste of time. With both trawl wires streamed from aft, `Badger’ was making four and a half knots. She had some speed in hand, but how much, Harris had not checked. And, as he had discovered, there was no way of knowing how deep the wires were running. It might happen that, even when he applied full power, the wires would be dragging too deep to catch in the enemy’s propeller. Then again, they might be riding too high. He lit a cigarette, glanced at the compass, then at the radar, then at the haze beyond the bows.

"We could be making eight knots into the unknown," he thought. "We’ve lost..."

"Plot!" called Lydia.

Harris bent over the radar. "Target bearing three three oh," he sang. "Range, four point two miles."

Silence, through which the sound of water slopping under the bows seemed loud.

"Alter course in two minutes," Lydia called. "Come to oh eight oh compass."

"Aye aye." Harris disengaged the auto pilot and seized the wheel. The next part was the tricky part, turning `Badger’ so that she closed with the target’s course, and was heading to cross her track a few yards ahead.

"Alter course..... Now!"

Harris applied five degrees of helm. A mile and a half, he guessed, they had to make on the turn. He leaned over the radar screen, one hand extended to hold the wheel. Slowly, not in a neat, smooth movement but in jerks and reverses, the green dot of the echo began to edge clockwise around the screen. The pulsing line of the heading marker kissed it, joined it, swept across it.

"The target lies to starboard," said Harris.

"Aye aye," said Lydia, and he turned to see her standing by his side.

"I told you to stay in the mess room," he said.

"There’s no danger, yet," she replied.

"There could be if he’s doing his job properly."

"He’ll be too intent on making his landfall accurately," she told him, and leaned against the bridge front ledge. "I have the wheel."

Harris let his arm drop.

"The target’s crossed over to port again," he said.

"She’s making five point one knots," said Lydia. "She will cross ahead during the turn."

Harris heard the ship sounds which had always spelled peace, the whine of the radar, the chuckle of the exhaust, the sea slopping under the bows. Now they were war sounds. He stamped down his rising excitement.

"She’s dropped back to starboard," he said calmly.

"Good."

"Two miles off. Less."

A long silence. Harris and Lydia both staring out to starboard. One mile. Harris changing the radar range, saying, "Let me take her. You go aft and stand by the winch."

"Aye aye."

"In fact, slip the port wire. We’ll be faster without it."

"Aye aye."

He heard the dull ring of the hammer on the winch brake, then the rumbling of the drum as the last few coils of the port wire unraveled. `Badger’s’ motion changed immediately. The needle of the speed indicator edged up another knot, and Harris pushed the throttle full open. He looked out of the wheel house window. A pinpoint of light showed through the haze like a drop of blood.

"We’ve got her!" he called to Lydia. "Just over a quarter of a mile away and a point forward of the starboard beam. I’m taking us in!"

CHAPTER 17

Harris steered `Badger’ in towards the red side light. Without the port wire she could afford to close at about thirty degrees. The only element of doubt left in his mind was the depth at which the trawl wire was trailing. He felt his confidence rising as the enemy held her course. `Badger’ slanted closer. Harris studied the enemy emerging from the haze.

The ship, the military landing ship which had haunted his dreams, turned out to be a small coaster of maybe seven or eight hundred tons. Forward, a forecastle, and immediately behind it a solitary mast with its derrick topped up to plumb the hold amidships. Aft, a raised poop deck supported a small wheel house, spindly funnel and a small life boat. For the rest, a well deck where even the slight seas reached almost as high as the scuppers.

"She’s loaded deep," Harris remarked.

Lydia, standing forward of the wheelhouse and peering round the structure at the other vessel, nodded.

"They’re ignoring us," muttered Harris. "I’ll go in as close as I dare."

`Badger’ sidled in with all the innocence of a curb crawler spying a mini skirt and fishnet tights. Harris aimed for the last of three beams of light shining from the port holes under the poop deck.

"I hope she’s not a genuine trader," muttered Harris. "If she is, we’re going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Surely, somebody’s seen us by now. Why doesn’t he alter course, blow his whistle or something?" But the coaster stood on. "If he was innocent," Harris mused, "he’d be leaning over the bridge rail screaming at us to stand off by now."

When `Badger’s’ bows were ten yards off the coaster’s side, Harris veered to port to run alongside. "Get too close," he whispered to Lydia, "and you create a venturi between the hulls so that the smaller boat is sucked in against the larger."

Lydia appeared not to hear him.

Running almost parallel, `Badger’ began to overhaul the coaster. Harris waited for contact. "Hang on!" he hissed.

Nothing happened. The trawler steamed on, still closing the gap slightly as she passed along the cargo ship’s side. When Harris was level with the break on the forecastle, and despairing, `Badger’ lurched violently over to starboard. Slightly afterwards, while Harris was still reaching for the throttle, a muffled explosion sounded from the coaster’s funnel.

"Got him!" whooped Harris.

At the same time, all hell broke loose ashore. Sirens howled, bells shrilled - thousands of them, it seemed.

With her engines eased down, `Badger’ came more upright. Harris had the helm hard over to port, away from the crippled ship.

"What the hell’s going on?" he yelled to Lydia, but never heard her reply.

He concentrated hard, feeling the trawler’s motion, judging the strain on the wire, juggling with the throttle to keep her from being turned over by the weight dragging at the top of the mast. When he had `Badger’ stern on to the prize, he increased power again.

"We’ll tow her to the Isle of Man," he shouted. "All the way across, we’ll scream for help on the radio." He could not remember when he last felt so good.

The first bullet passed over the wheelhouse. It was fired from a rifle on the high poop of the landing ship, though Harris never saw the muzzle flash. While he was still connecting `landing ship’ with `troops’ in his mind, two more rifles joined in.

Harris heard the bullets zinging off the steel decks. He thought he was safe until one of the mess room windows shattered. Then the instrument panel showered glass at him. He ducked down and squirmed aft along the deck. He reached the shelter of the trawl winch as the first machine gun opened up.

He lay in a patch of grease, trying to burrow into the deck behind one of the cast iron side brackets and feeling the hull shaking and shuddering as bullets hammered into it. The wheel house sparked from hits and electrical shorts. Bitter smoke began to curl out through the door. A few shots came from the foredeck as Lydia fought back. The sirens ashore howled on.

As he lay, he felt the trawler’s motion through the sea slowly becoming less buoyant.

"I should have started the bilge pump before we made contact," he thought. "The stern must look like a pepper pot."

More guns opened up. The whole after part of the coaster spat and flamed. `Badger’ grew heavier and heavier in the water. Each time she rolled, she lay over further and was slower in righting. Then she flopped to port and kept on rolling. Seas poured over the deck. As Harris was swept aft, he thought proudly, "The engine never stopped." His head hit the gallows as he passed.

Under full power, `Badger’ bored her way to the sea bed.

Harris was dead and lying on the sea bed. The sand felt gritty under his cheek and hands. Bile burned in his throat. To prepare him for eternity, the devil had scoured his lungs with wire wool, then beaten him about the head so that each heartbeat caused spears of agony to pulse through.

"For heaven’s sake, can’t you keep him quiet?" snarled the devil. "Those blighters mean business, you know."

Lydia said, "Shhh, sweet heart," and her hand showered fire on his neck.

Harris hated the devil. Not even Old Nick had the right to speak to Lydia like that. He tried to reach for the pistol in his trouser pocket.

"He’s coming round," Lydia whispered.

"Then tell him to jolly well shut up," said the devil.

Lydia whispered, "You’re lying in the sand hills. You’re alive and no broken bones, but you bashed your head and damn near drowned."

Which, he decided after much thought, did not explain the devil.

"Who’s he?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"Who’s he?" Harris yelled, and felt his head pound the harder.

"Shhh! He’s a reporter. He was here when we arrived."

Harris assembled the sensations and tried to make sense of them. He decided he was lying face down on a slope, with his feet higher than his head. He enjoyed a glimmer of pleasure when Lydia confirmed his opinion by rolling him on to his back, then swiveling him round so that his head was higher than his feet. The hazy sun stabbed at his eyes. He groaned.

"For heaven’s sake, will you keep him quiet," hissed the man.

Harris saw that he was lying in the hollow of a sand hill and that the reporter was lying high up against the rim and staring out through a clump of spiky grass. Lydia, crouching by Harris’ side, was frowning. "Are you all right?" she asked. "I must leave you. Keep as quiet as you can."

"Do you have any water?" asked Harris.

"No," she said. "Poor darling, you’re going to suffer, today. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out somehow."

She moved away, climbing the slope to take her place looking out on the opposite side to the reporter. When she was settled, Harris began to notice the background sounds - the distant hissing of the sea against the beach and an even more faint sound which, after considering it deeply, he recognized as the subdued buzz of human voices.

"What’s going on?" he croaked.

"Eh?" The reporter turned to look down on him. He twinkled. The sun twinkled on his glasses, his teeth twinkled through a beard carefully shaved off the ball of his chin, and somehow, even the shabby tweed jacket and crumpled cord trousers, twinkled. Harris looked up at him and hated him.

"What’s happening?" Harris repeated.

"Do try to keep quiet!" hissed the man. "There’s ten thousand soldiers out there, but what they’re doing, I haven’t a clue. I rather hoped you would tell me." He had a spiral bound pad by his side with a cheap ball point pen tucked into the wire. He slid it out and held it poised over the page. "Now tell me," he said. "Who, exactly, are you?" He grinned. "My readers have a right to know. And the lady? Don’t worry, I’ll spell your names correctly."

Harris glared at him. "Who the devil are you?" he croaked.

"Shaw," said the reporter, and extended his hand. "Howard Shaw?" He gave the celebrity smirk of a television actor accosted by a stranger in the street. "The Whitehaven Argos? Who are you?"

"Clough," said Harris. "Sunday Times, though what which paper we buy has to do with anything, I can’t think."

"He works for the Whitehaven Argos," explained Lydia.

Shaw nodded. "You said your name was Clough," he prompted.

"Harris Clough," said Harris.

Shaw wrote the name on his pad, then looked up and frowned. "Harris Clough," he mused. "There was a fellow of that name killed a few days back on the Penrith road. Can’t be you, of course. You’re alive. Just about. Ha ha! So what happened?"

"We just happened to be passing," snapped Lydia.

Shaw laughed. "Oh, come, miss... er, what did you say your name was?"

"I didn’t say," said Lydia.

"Tell me. For the readers. They have a right to know."

"You might be better employed keeping a look out," she said.

"But my readers... "

"Leave my wife alone," snarled Harris.

"I say!" said Shaw. "I do have a job to do."

"Keep a look out or I’ll blow your bloody head off." Harris was struggling to reach the pistol in his pocket. His head was pounding.

Lydia slid down the sand and crouched beside him. "Shhh!" she soothed. "You’re bleeding again. Just lie quiet. I’ll deal with Mr. Shaw."

"Howard." The reporter was crouching behind her.

"Please get back to your post," said Lydia.

"I must know what’s happening." Shaw had his ball point poised over the pad. "I want an exclusive story. Is this some kind of exercise? Are you two part of it? If so, what went wrong for him to be injured? And why don’t you go down there for medical attention? Those troops must have a first aid kit. They seem very well organized."

Harris, his head pounding and his throat burning from the salt water he had gulped down, glared at him but realized the man was case hardened to resist threats. "Mr. Shaw," he croaked, "those troops are foreign mercenaries determined to capture Sellafield. If they find us, we’ll all be spit roasted. My wife here is a senior intelligence officer working on the case. In the situation, her word is law. Now go and keep a watch."

Shaw brightened. "A senior intelligence officer?" he said. "And what is your assessment of the situation, madam?" He was scribbling busily.

"Move!" hissed Lydia.

Shaw looked at her and smiled. "Imagine, my by-line under the Times headlines. `Enemy lands at nuclear installation,’ an eye witness report by Howard Shaw! Then there’s the television news, current affairs programmes, and... "

"Go back to your post!" snarled Lydia.

Shaw laughed. "Yes madam," he said. "But you’ll not suppress this. My readers have rights. I’m a reporter. I have a duty to the free peoples... "

"Move before I blow your bloody head off," croaked Harris.

The reporter scrambled back to his place under the lip of the hollow.

"I wish you hadn’t said all that stuff about my being in intelligence," whispered Lydia.

"It’s all I could think of," said Harris. "He makes me feel sick, with his badgering and questions." He glanced up. Shaw was pulling a small radio from his pocket. He fitted earphones into his ears, fiddled with the tuning, then grinned down at them. "I’ll catch the six o’clock news on Radio Carlisle," he mouthed. "That’ll tell me what I want to know."

"I must go back to my post," Lydia told Harris. "Why don’t you move over to the other side, out of the sun?"

She left him, and Harris, lying with the early morning sun full upon him, decided to follow her advice. Moving was not easy. A crawl was all he could manage, but when he finally started moving, he decided to go up and lie, instead, by Shaw so as to listen to the local news.

The reporter greeted him with a grin.

"What’s happening?" asked Harris.

"The price of stirks is up by forty pence a hundredweight," said Shaw. "More reports are in of crop yields being low due to the drought - the farmers are asking for government support. The police are expecting record numbers of tourists to come to the Lakes today and have doubled their patrols on the motorway. And reports are coming in of a small problem at Sellafield, but a spokesman for British Nuclear Fuels says that everything is under control." He smiled. "When I look down there, though, I sometimes rather wonder about the veracity of the media, don’t you?"

A record number of visitors? Additional police? Then Harris remembered the bank holiday. The Lakes would be choked with tourists, the roads clogged to impassability, the whole area unmanageable. In other words, he thought, the ideal day to capture a nuclear reprocessing plant because the authorities would be unable to react for at least twenty four hours. McKendrick, Harris realized, was a thorough-going genius, and his plan must have been a long time in the hatching. He sighed, then wriggled up the last foot of the slope to bring his bloodied head to the lip.

He saw the coaster, the `al Yamama’ of McKendrick’s harangue in the quarry, anchored on her own reflection about a half mile off shore. In daylight, she looked singularly unimpressive. Harris despised her for her shabbiness, for the rust on her sides and bridgefront, and hated her for killing `Badger.’ He was cheered by the inflatable boat made fast under her stern with a man sitting in it and a patch of bubbles erupting spasmodically by its bows.

"They’ve got a diver down," he said.

"Obviously some problem," said Shaw. "But gosh, they’re going at it like hammer and tongs on the beach."

The derrick was topped up and plumbing the center of the hatch, as Harris had seen it the night before. But now it was working. A pallet of boxes rose above the rail. It stopped, swinging as the ship rolled a trifle. Men wearing khaki trousers and no shirts promptly hauled on the guys. The derrick swung over the side. The pallet of boxes shot down. Below, two inflatables lay rafted together. Two men guided the pallet onto the makeshift decking and released the cargo hook.

The inflatables were backing off as the winch hoisted the runner aloft for the next load. The boats turned and made for the beach. There, a gang stood waist deep in the sea waiting to receive them. As soon as the boats arrived, hands reached out to steady them, while others set about hoisting the boxes from the pallet.

After that, a human chain carrying them up the beach until, above the high tide line, they were neatly stacked. As the boats backed off into deeper water, the next raft was waiting in the offing and a third waiting for its load by the ship’s side.

Beyond the beach head and way to the south, Harris saw four soldiers digging at the foot of a dune overlooking the beach. Beyond them again, about a mile further, a gang were digging in the beach and burying small, olive green objects the size of rugby balls.

Harris watched the activity for another ten minutes, then slithered down the sand and crawled up to Lydia.

"They’re burying land mines in the beach, back there," he whispered. "And I think they’re building a machine gun emplacement."

She looked down at him. "They are here, too," she said.

"Then we’re trapped within their beach head?"

"So it seems."

Harris thought about that uncomfortable fact. Lydia said, "You’ll survive one day, but not a second."

"Eh?"

"Death by drowning is caused by either increasing the salt levels in your blood beyond tolerable limits, or reducing them - it depends on whether or not you fill your lungs with salt or fresh water. You decided on salt. Unless we can get you a good supply of fresh water pretty soon, you’ll die."

"That’s not on," said Harris.

"Don’t worry, I won’t let that happen."

"Thanks," said Harris. He was suffering too much for the threat of his demise to mean much to him.

"The only way out that I can see is to swim for the ship. The only snag is, we’ll need to wait for darkness."

"There is another problem," said Harris. "It’s a bit technical."

"Yes?"

"I can’t swim."

Lydia stared at him. "I thought you’d been to sea," she said.

"I sailed," said Harris. "You don’t carry crude from the Gulf on your back while you do the doggy paddle. I think swimming’s unnatural."

"Well, you better bloody learn in the next fourteen hours," she said.

Harris looked away, then said, "This assault isn’t on the local radio news."

Lydia looked at him. "What did you expect?" she asked. "Do you imagine that, on a fine bank holiday Monday, the government’s going to say `Sorry, folks, but we’ve boobed a bit. We employed a traitor as head of security at Sellafield, and the naughty fellow’s gone and sold us out. The whole installation is now under the control of some maniac group who are about to detach Scotland from England the hard way?’ If you think that, Clough, you’re naive. Then again, I always said you’re a romantic."

"You’re mad," said Harris.

"How long do you reckon they’ll be unloading the ship?" she asked.

"At the present rate, my guess is late tonight."

"Which means they’ll have the place fully secure in, say, the next twelve hours." Lydia pursed her lips. "God, I’m bushed," she muttered.

"Did you bring the rifle?" asked Harris.

"No. I let it go when I went diving to fish you out."

"How about our own troops?" asked Harris. "Won’t the government send in the army?"

"Like most of the army," said Lydia, "they, the civil servants and politicians who control the military, will be on holiday. Today is a bank holiday, after all. This matter will be dealt with locally for the next day, or even two days. McKendrick will be in full control long before the government are able to react."

By noon, Carlisle Radio was reporting record traffic congestion, with the over-stretched police turning away tourists on the motorway; record temperatures; gallant civil servants battling heroically in Brussels with the latest disagreement on some detail of EU agri-policy. ("It must be a tough problem for them to be working in the summer," sniped Harris.) Sellafield rated no mention. Harris was suffering from thirst. `Al Yamama’ was riding higher in the water while the heap of stores ashore had grown to a long barrow of pallets. The assault troops were still toiling away as if inspired by an Olympic gold medal.

By two o’clock, when the first of the yellow contractor’s machines bounced down to the beach to take the stores inland to the installation proper, the radio reported a `small emergency’ at the plant, with the local emergency services `standing by.’ After which, the radio continued to ignore the drama while the stream of machines moving the stores from the beach grew and the ramp of boxes at the beach head began to shrink, despite the best efforts of the soldiers unloading the ship.

"You have to give them credit," croaked Harris, sometime in the late afternoon, "they’re slick."

"And well disciplined," added Lydia. "There’s been no shouting, no sergeants standing around watching. Everyone is working."

"It’s all jolly interesting," said Shaw, "but what, precisely, is going on?"

"Sellafield has been taken over by some organization we know very little about," said Lydia. "Soon - late tonight, or tomorrow morning - they’ll start blackmailing the British government, is my guess."

"For what end?"

"I don’t know," said Lydia. "But I strongly suspect that, once the stores are safe inside the installation perimeter fence, they’ll set about combing these dunes. Just as a precaution, Mr. Shaw, so please don’t take it personally. How do you come to be here, anyway?"

"I was walking my dog," said Shaw. "Then I heard the klaxons from the plant. I started off home. When I heard the shooting out to sea, I sought shelter in the sand hills. It’s all rather exciting don’t you think, though I would like a drink. Tea, preferably, with plenty of sugar. Or perhaps, a shandy, a bitter and ginger beer shandy."

"Shut up talking about drink!"

"Whatever," said Lydia, "as soon as it’s dark, we must escape. I suggest we make for the landing ship."

"Oh, Golly! What an excellent idea. You will count me in, won’t you?"

CHAPTER 18

"And don’t go thinking we can climb up the anchor cable," croaked Harris. "We’re all too fat to pass through the hawse pipe."

Lydia glared at him, her annoyance tinged with pity as she took in his burned face and his continual swallowing to moisten his dry throat. Not that she had been spared the scourge of the sun any more than had Howard Shaw, but Harris, suffering the after effects of the sinking, was in particularly bad shape.

"In the last light of the dying sun, we surveyed the ship lying at anchor, half hidden in the haze. We all knew she was our last chance," muttered Shaw. "Physically weakened by a day in the blazing sun with neither food nor water, we all secretly doubted whether we would make it out to her."

"Bollocks!" snapped Lydia.

Shaw grinned at her. "Just composing my eye witness account," he said.

"None of us have the slightest doubt," she said. But she looked at Harris. "Poor Clough’s out of condition, that’s all."

"I won the swimming prize at school," said Shaw. ("Bloody Typical!" Harris tried to snort.) "I’m like a fish, in water."

"Go jump in a tin then," managed to croak.

As Shaw glared at him, Lydia asked, "So what’s the news on the wireless, Mr. Shaw?"

The reporter turned to her, and, Harris noticed, twinkled. "Sadly, the batteries have run down," said Shaw. "But up until eight o’clock, there was no mention of Sellafield, or any trouble in the Lakes except for the heavy traffic. The police have been turning cars away at the motorway exits."

Lydia nodded. "That’s a relief," she said. "When it gets dark, we go as we agreed. You, Harris, make for that fish box. Use it as a floatation aid. We’ll meet up at the foot of the ladder."

The last load had been hoisted from the ship’s hold an hour since. The procession of earth moving machines had taken the boxes further inland and out of sight, presumably to the installation behind the beach where now, the arc lights were throwing a moon colored halo over the dunes.

Off shore, `al Yamama’ was lit, too, her deck lights showing brighter in the sea haze as the sun tumbled further behind the invisible horizon. She was facing south. "There must be a tide running," said Lydia. "Ideally, we should start swimming a mile or two further south, but that would mean passing the machine gun post. I suggest we make directly for the water, wade in as far as we can, then wade south as far as we dare before we strike out for her."

"Which is all very well," thought Harris. "I can’t swim. I’m weak. I’m scared to death. And why does Lydia insist on going first? She’s exhausted. She’s so strung out, she’s shaking, while Shaw seems to be in some private heaven. What’s wrong with the man? Doesn’t he understand danger, or is he plain stupid? All he can think about is his bloody by-lines and syndicate fees."

It was then that the patrol appeared on the beach.

Harris felt Lydia grab hold of his wrist. He looked at her. She touched her finger to her lips, then pointed. "Shhh!" she whispered.

There were four soldiers, fully clothed now and carrying guns at the ready. They were moving in single file with about a ten yards gap between each man. The rear man walked backwards, sweeping the ground they had covered with his gun.

"The question is," whispered Lydia, when they were passed, "are they going to patrol up and down, are they going to beat through the dunes, or are they covering the whole perimeter?"

"That’s three questions," quipped Shaw. "Why don’t we ambush them and steal their clothes?"

"Four?" said Lydia. "Fit and fed, while we’re all suffering more or less from the effects of dehydration? Or are you a judo black belt, as well?"

Shaw relapsed into silence with occasional bursts of his proposed report while the light died further and the ship showed more and more clearly. Overhead, the brighter stars appeared, smudged by the haze.

"Another quarter of an hour, and we’ll make a move," said Lydia.

"I can’t wait," said Shaw.

Harris snorted.

"Silence and stealth, remember," said Lydia. "I’ll go first. Count to a hundred before you move, Clough, then you count a hundred, Mr. Shaw, and follow on."

"Maybe I should go first," said Shaw. "I was pretty good at that sort of thing in the scouts."

But Lydia’s boots were disappearing over the lip of the sand hill. Shaw squirmed higher and stared after her. Then he looked back at Harris. "She’s vanished," he said. "She’s simply vanished into thin air."

"Maybe she was in the Brownies," croaked Harris. "One, two, three, four... "

Shaw fiddled with his watch and stared about while Harris counted. "One hundred," said Harris. "Good luck." He hauled himself up to the crest, tipped heavily over, and slid down the far side.

"Watch out for the patrols," he heard.

He landed at the bottom in a shower of fine, gritty sand and spent time not anticipated trying to spit it from his dry mouth. When he looked about, he saw he was kneeling in the bottom of a steep sided gully.

"Turn right," Lydia had told him. Harris turned right and crawled along the base of the dune barring him from the beach. About twenty feet long, the gully seemed to go on for ever before Harris found himself looking out at the sea through a gap. He stopped. A short slope led down to a band of shingle, plague pale in the night, with beyond it a mirror of water, then the broad strip of the beach proper.

"I thought you’d got lost," said Lydia, seeming to rise from the earth beside him. "Right! Count another hundred, Harris, then go straight for that fish box." She pointed to a gray slab floating on the tide some way to their left.

"The guards will see it," Harris protested. "It stands out like... "

"The guards will be looking for an attack from along the beach," she said, "from the land. The ship will be acting as their radar piquet and defending the seaward approaches. I’ll see you at the ladder. I love you." And she was gone.

He heard the chinking of sliding stones as she reached the shingle. He could even follow her progress down to the strip of water at the head of the sand. A tiny ripple spread out as she entered. But Harris did not catch sight of her again. He began to count.

He had reached thirty, when a hand grabbed his ankle. He turned and saw Shaw’s beard and glasses twinkling in the night. "Shouldn’t you be gone?" asked the journalist, when he drew himself alongside.

"I’ve only counted to thirty," said Harris. He moved, though. Better the deep blue sea, he thought, than the devil.

He slid down the bank. The sand felt gritty as his throat, and in it were tiny brittle bulbs of dried seaweed. When he glanced up to look at the ship and measure her distance off the tide line, she seemed to have moved further out. An illusion, he promised himself, an optical illusion caused by my losing the advantage of height. Then he was on the strip of shingle with the stones clinking and chinking under her belly as he squirmed across.

He glanced up again. The guards in the machine gun post must be able to see me, he thought. He went on squirming, keeping his head well down and suddenly conscious of his bald patch. I must be visible, he thought. Movement betrays. Slowing down was an act of a will he wasn’t aware he possessed. Then he was making a speed to flatter a tortoise. All the way across the shingle, he felt as conspicuous as an actor in the footlights.

The nearest machine gun lay a quarter of a mile away, off to his right and behind him. A vivid picture flooded his mind. He saw `Badger’s’ steel side being punctured, sparks flying from her gear, glass shattering as the machine guns opened up; then he saw the effect of the same fusillade on his own fleshly body. He shrank against the stones and prayed.

He reached the ribbon of water intact. The chill of its touch shocked him. He eased into it holding his breath, then crawled across. After that, he was on the stretch of damp sand between the tide lines, hump backed so that he could not see the sea, at first.

"If they don’t see me," he thought as he crawled on, "they don’t deserve to win," and he wished his buttocks carried half a stone less of fat.

When he met the sea, he kept crawling until the increasing depth forced him to crouch, then to stand upright. When the water was lapping at his chin, he stopped. He was shaking violently by now, not wholly from the cold. When he had told Lydia that he had never learned to swim, he had told her the truth. Water, the kind of water where he could not feel the bottom, frightened him. It worked on his imagination. He knew intimately all the feelings of a drowning man. It was all very well crawling across a quarter mile of beach exposed to a guard sitting behind a machine gun. A burst from that would only turn him into a human tea bag oozing blood. He would never know what was happening to him. Whereas drowning, the protracted death, the slow choking, the moment when he would be forced to inhale solid water and so (effectively) kill himself, brought him out in a cold sweat.

"Get a grip on yourself!" he snarled. "Which way are you going?"

He gazed about. `Al Yamama’ lay away to his left and further off than ever. She had swung round her anchor so that she was pointing north. Hanging down her starboard side, he saw the ladder the soldiers had used while they were unloading her. "I’ll never reach her," he thought. "Why did I ever say that I could?" Then he remembered the fish box .

When he turned round and searched the tide line, he saw the box hard against the land over to his left. He stared up the beach to the foot of the dunes. Immediately above the box, he saw the low ramparts of the machine gun post. He could even see two heads seemingly perched on it as the guard leaned against it while they kept their lookout.

He began his journey back with all the enthusiasm of a husband returning to his deserted wife. He used the sea as his cover, ducking under the water as far as he could, then bobbing up to breathe. When the shallows forced him to crawl, he crawled until he was exposed, then crawled on, shivering, watching the emplacement for signs that he had been seen.

He kept the box between his head and the soldiers in an attempt to remain hidden. The journey seemed to take a year. When he could reach it, he stretched out his hand and rested his fingers on the lip. He waited, sweating with fear. When no burst of gunfire ripped the night - and him - apart, he retreated slowly into deeper water, dragging the box behind him.

Once the water level was lapping at his chin, he turned to face the deeper water, and stopped. `Al Yamama’ seemed to be lying further off shore than he remembered. His mind conjured the depth beneath her keel. He quailed, and looked back. The machine gun post showed as an ink stain against the pallid dune. He turned away. Mustering all his fluttering courage, he tucked the box under his arm and launched himself into the deep.

He started to `swim.’ He `swam’ down the lane of the coaster’s lights, all lumpy and fragmenting from the sea’s unrest. He `swam’ using an ungainly, one handed breast stroke and as he swam he could feel the effort draining his strength and his gulping breaths increasing his thirst. He fought the temptation to drink. His burning throat demanded water, and he was immersed up to his neck in the stuff, but he fought the temptation to drink.

"After this," he thought, "I could become a councilor for Salt Water Anonymous. I could start this practice in Harley Street specializing in curing people addicted to drinking the sea. There must be some out there, and they’re a risk to the world because our oxygen comes from the sea. Without the sea, we’d all suffocate just as surely as non-swimmers suffocate in it."

He wallowed gracelessly on, aware that his mind was playing tricks. He was so cold that he felt warm. His breath was coming shorter and shorter. His legs were dropping lower and lower despite all the thrashing of his arm. His left arm, the arm gripping the fish box, started to twinge with the first spasms of cramp. He looked up, searching out the coaster and realized that the tide was carrying him past. He stopped, resting on the box while he watched safety and Lydia sliding past.

"What’s the point?" he asked himself. "I’m beaten. If I turn round, I might make it back to the beach. The tide should carry me clear of the guards, if I can hold on long enough. But what the hell?" He turned round. The beach seemed a long way off. He searched it for signs of the pit. It was too well hidden for him to make out. "I must remember the land mines," he told himself. Wearily, he began to paddle back.

Lydia’s head bobbed up beside him. She spat a gout of water from her mouth, and hissed, "Just where the hell do you think you’re going?"

Harris nodded towards the beach.

"Grab hold of my belt," she snapped.

Harris reached out and took a grip. Using a powerful breast stroke, Lydia began to make for the ship. "Well, help me," she hissed. "Kick with your legs."

Harris kicked.

Lydia clawed her way through the water with the urgency of a naval frigate avoiding missiles. `Al Yamama’ crept closer until the poop was swelling out over their heads. Lydia could grab a boat rope then, heave herself along the side. Harris could feel her weakening. He kicked with the last of his energy. Finally, Howard Shaw grabbed him and he was able to reach up to take hold of the bottom rung of the pilot ladder. "There," Lydia gasped, and took a grip herself. "When I’ve caught my breath, you go up and take a look."

"Me?" asked Harris.

"You’re the seaman. You know what to look for. Find us somewhere to hide up."

Harris shrugged, and a few minutes later, Lydia and Shaw hoisted him from the water and onto the ladder. He reached down, hoisting Lydia up behind him before starting to climb.

The coaster was not a large ship. Even light, her freeboard could not have been more than fourteen or so feet. Yet to Harris, exhausted from a hectic twenty four hours and being subject to the full force of gravity again, the climb seemed endless.

He was half way up when he heard the ladder creak as Lydia heaved Shaw onto the rungs. He climbed on, stopping just below the capping of the bulwarks before he looked down. Two pale faces were looking up at him, Shaw still wearing his glasses and the glasses still managing to twinkle. "Shh!" he hissed.

"Get a move on," Lydia whispered. "I’m freezing to death."

Harris glanced up, then raised his head until he could see the wheel house. It perched on the fore end of the poop deck. All the windows were open - Harris could see no glint of reflection from any glass - black oblongs in gray box. The ladder he was standing on hung down the starboard side. Out on the port bridge wing, Harris saw the silhouette of a man staring out to seaward through binoculars.

Harris edged a little higher until he could see the forecastle head. "There’s no anchor watch forward," he whispered. "But look out for the man on the far bridge wing."

He moved a step higher, raised his head.

The hatch boards were stacked aft of the hold, filling the deck space between the coaming and the bridge. By their side, a ladder led up to the wing. A quick glance around. No hands lounging by the rail. Harris climbed the last few feet and rolled over the capping. He landed lightly on the steel deck and immediately ducked into the shadows beside the hatch coaming. He paused for a few seconds. Water dribbled from his clothes and threaded rivulets down the cambered deck plates. But no reaction from the watch. He started crawling forward, pressing tight against the coaming.

When he reached the forward end of the hatch, he stopped and peered round the corner. Ahead of him, the cargo winch squatted behind the mast and under the heel of the derrick. In front of it, the forecastle bulkhead was pierced by one open door. Harris eeled round the corner and came to a stop amidships, watching the bridge as he waited.

Lydia arrived almost immediately. "So far, so good," she whispered. "Clough, don’t ever do a trick like that again."

"Like what?"

"Turning back. Listen, you silly man, I love you. I need you. You don’t understand, do you?"

"I do understand," said Harris. "But the tide was beating me. It seemed stupid for me to compromise you... "

Which was when Howard Shaw appeared from round the coaming. "Hi!" he said. "That was simple enough. What now? Don’t you think we ought to go and speak to someone? Tell them we’re aboard? They might give us a cup of tea or something."

"Something, more like," snorted Lydia. "Haven’t you grasped the situation yet? If we show ourselves, they’ll kill us."

"How can you possibly know that they’ll kill us? You haven’t tried. Most people react favorably to reasonable behavior. As it is, I’m sure we’re trespassing."

"Shut up and do what you’re told," snapped Lydia. To Harris, "What now, Captain?"

"There should be a booby hatch somewhere here," said Harris. "If the hold’s empty, we’d be as well hiding down there while we think out the next move."

"Lead on," said Lydia. "Mr. Shaw and I shall keep an eye on the bridge. Won’t we, Mr. Shaw?"

"Howard, please, Miss... "

Harris turned away and crawled round the winch drum to the space between the mast and the forecastle. As he had hoped, the round steel hatch lid lay open. He leaned over the coaming and looked down. A steel ladder led below. For a moment or two, Harris debated whether or not to drag the pistol from his pocket before he went below. He decided against it, remembering Lydia’s words about the accuracy of the weapon, and the fact that the mechanism was no doubt filled with sea water and might not work.

When he stepped from the ladder to the deck, he turned and gazed around. "Well, I’ll be… " he breathed. The space was lighted well enough by the deck lights above for him to see clearly. "Well I’ll be… " The ladder quivered. He looked up. Lydia was holding it as she leaned over the coaming, watching him. He gestured for her to join him.

"There’s plenty of accommodation," he told her. "Look."

Right aft, a stack of red drums lashed securely in place against the bulkhead was the only cargo remaining aboard. The sides of the hold, however, were a honey comb of rough wooden bunks, six high, and stretching the full length from forward to aft, then across the collision bulkhead which supported the ladder to the deck. "Two hundred and eighty," said Lydia, "More or less."

"It must have been hell down here, at sea, with the hatch covers on," said Harris. "I imagine all the middle section would have been taken up with their equipment and stores."

"With so many men down here, they must have had water to hand," mused Lydia. "Where would they keep it?"

"In the fore peak tank, or a deep tank, most likely," said Harris. He turned to inspect the bulkhead by the ladder. There, to the starboard of the treads, a small brass tap protruded close to the deck. Pushing Shaw aside – the journalist had followed Lydia below, and now stood gazing around - Harris bent down.

"Don’t hog it, old man," said the reporter, as Harris gobbled water from the tap. "We’re all jolly thirsty, you know."

"For him, it’s medicinal," snapped Lydia. "He damn near drowned, this morning. You wait your turn."

Harris, gratefully, drank and drank, giving his place at last to Lydia, then she to Shaw. "Now, where to hide?" said Lydia, while the reporter was crouching by the tap.

"The top bunks, right forward," said Harris. "They’re in the deepest shadow." So the three climbed up, Harris and Lydia to port, Shaw to starboard. They found bare boards to lie on, and high leeboards to hide them, all rough and unplaned and at least as welcome as a double sprung mattress.

"Well," Harris whispered.

"Well," said Lydia.

They gazed at each other. Harris reached out and stroked her cheeks. "I’m sorry, sweet heart," he said, "but I’m bushed."

She smiled. "Just hold me," she whispered back, and they slept through the hour or two until the sun rose.

CHAPTER 19

Harris woke to the sound of Lydia’s "Shh!" hissing in his ear. Footsteps sounded on the deck aft, rubber soled shoes which squealed on the steel plate and stopped well before they reached amidships. Then the rumble of two voices, a conversation of grunts and long silences which continued until a third voice, rasping, authoritarian and apparently from the wheel house, roared, "Paddy! Are you going to stand there yakking all day? You’re not on your daddy’s yacht, you know. Get yourself into the galley and start on the breakfast! And you, Scouse, go forward and check the anchor. Move it! There’s a lot to be done if we’re to meet the schedule."

In the background, voices droned from a radio. Footsteps squealed forward.

"So there’s three of them," whispered Lydia.

"At least. There might be more still turned in or down the engine room."

Harris felt her nod.

Scouse reached the forecastle and the ladder chimed as he climbed up. "All secure forward, sir," he called aft, adding, "Bastard!" under his breath. The hold echoed as he jumped down to the deck.

"How many men would a ship this size carry?"

"Three, maybe four," said Harris. Scouse had squeaked aft.

Harris and Lydia had chosen the top bunk in the forward corner of the hold where the deck beams and knees helped to hide them. They were lying cramped together in a wooden tray smaller than the average coffin.

"We’re quite safe here until they batten down before going to sea," said Harris. "When they do that, we’re prisoners."

Lydia lay silent. Harris could feel the sweat filming his back where she pressed against him. A slab of bright sunlight lay wedged across the hold, dazzling him. Six o’clock, he guessed from its angle. A metallic clank reverberated. "The anchor cable in the hawse pipe," he told her.

"We face a choice," she whispered.

"Before or after breakfast?" he asked.

"When we take the ship," she said, and gave him a dig in his back.

"Not before we sail," he said. "There’s an army out there. It could blast us to hell before we had time to weigh the anchor."

"But you say they’ll replace the hatch boards before they sail," she said, "and we’ll be prisoners."

"They might not," said Harris. "There’s no great need. The weather’s settled and there’s no cargo aboard that needs protecting. From what I’ve seen of the ship and her crew, they’re sloppy. I reckon they’ll sail with the hatch open."

"But we’re taking a risk?"

"Yes."

"So let’s settle back and enjoy it."

Harris lay down again - he had been peering over the high lee board - and Lydia hoisted herself up on her elbow so that she could look down on him. Harris reached up, but when he tried to pull her face to his, she resisted. "Let me look at you," she said.

Their eyes locked. "You’re a novelty to me," she whispered. "I’m not quite sure what to do."

"At our age, we ought to know," said Harris. "But love is no easier now than it was thirty years ago."

"We ought to have learned the pitfalls," she agreed, and sighed. "By rights, I should have walked away when you spoke to me in the cafe."

"That was years ago," said Harris. "Why didn’t you?"

"Because," she said.

Harris nodded. Her answer made perfect sense to him. "I feel I know you so well," he said. "Not who you were, but who you will be." He kissed her, just a peck.

She stared at him, then said, "That’s what I needed to hear."

"What did you need to hear?" he whispered.

She sagged against him and kissed him with a long, hungry savagery. "After all this, Clough," she said, when she backed off to catch her breath (Harris found he was fondling her breast, but could not remember having opened the buttons of her shirt) "I don’t want to lose you."

She lay against his chest, clutching him tight to her. "Christ, Clough!" she breathed. "Look after me. Please. Hold me tight. Keep me safe."

Harris stroked her hair. "After this," he whispered, "we get right away. We’ll find somewhere quiet and vegetate."

Lydia sighed. "That sounds perfect," she told him. "Tell me more."

"We’ll find a small cottage somewhere remote," he whispered. "The water shall be a stream flowing from the snow further up the valley. The nearest road shall be ten miles away and the grocer’s boy will deliver our groceries on horseback."

"Will we have a log fire?"

"As big as you like."

"Log fires can be dangerous."

"How?"

"The sparks fly out from the grate. We might be burned when we’re naked, making love in front of it during the winter."

Harris chuckled. "What about making love in the summer?" he asked.

"In summer, there’s all that empty space outside," she murmured. "I want you to love me on the highest peak so that when we’re finished, I can look up and see an eagle hovering while it watches us."

They swapped gentle kisses, the first tiny fall of pebbles which led to the avalanche. Volcanic passions they had both thought extinct erupted in a white hot spate. She pressed his lips to hers, to her neck, her shoulders, then, with a whimper, to her breast. He teased her nipple with his tongue. She groaned and reached down to fumble with his belt. "Help me, damn you!" she whispered.

As they teased the buckle loose, an explosion sounded from aft and ricocheted around the hold. Lydia jerked with the shock and stared at Harris. He stared back, then they both peered over the lee board and along the length of the hold. A mist of fine dust was floating in the sun slab. A second explosion, more muted than the first, sounded. The hull started to vibrate.

"The engine works," said Harris. After a while, they heard a grating, rumbling sound. The shadows began to shift. Lydia sagged against him, tugging her shirt closed to cover her breasts. "He’s steaming round his anchor," said Harris, "testing the gear box and the propeller."

The test lasted an hour, an hour with one of the sailors standing on the forecastle head to keep his eye on the chain, and Lydia and Harris lying in promiscuous tension a few feet beneath his feet. When the engine stopped, the sailor walked aft. Before he reached the ladder to the poop, the captain shouted from the wheel house, "Dig Paddy out of the engine room. Tell him to come and relieve me on the bridge. You get started on the lunch."

"I think we can count on there only being three in the crew," murmured Harris.

"When’s the best time to take them out?" asked Lydia.

Harris thought for a moment. "The ideal would be at night, once we’re at sea," he said. He moved his hand to take her breast. She moved it away. "Not now," she said.

He reached round behind her and hugged her. She struggled feebly, then yielded and lay still, her head on his chest. Her hair tickled his nose. He swept it gently aside. She looked at him and smiled. "Hold me tight," she said. "I’m frightened."

Harris returned her look and tightened his grip. He felt her shaking. Stroking her back, he said, "I know just how you feel. Sometimes, life becomes too difficult to handle." She nodded. "You lose the ability to think round the problems."

"Yes."

"That’s how my business failed. Suddenly, I thought the problems were too big for me to cope with, and bingo! the problems were too big for me. I sat back and allowed them to overwhelm me."

She shuddered. "That’s right," she muttered.

"Well just listen to me," he said. She looked at him. He was staring up at the deckhead and the steel of the plate might have entered his voice. "We can’t plan because we don’t know what’s going to happen. But we will take advantage of any circumstance which favors us. We’ll capture the ship." She nodded. "We’ll continue on our voyage. We can drop Shaw off at the first convenient point - somewhere isolated, so he doesn’t bring the authorities down on our heads too soon, then we’ll disappear. This nonsense with Sellafield; we’ve given it our best try, and we’ve failed. There’s nothing more we can do. So now, we plan for ourselves. Do you agree?"

Lydia nodded, then snuggled down against him. "Anything you say, Captain," she whispered.

"We have a hundred years of love to catch up on," he said. "That’s going to take all our energies."

He felt her nod again. Then she raised her head to look at him again. "You don’t know my past, sweetheart," she murmured.

"Stuff your past!" he said. When he tried to insert his hand between their chests so as to hold her breast, she shifted to allow him. Then she gave a deep sigh.

Harris looked down on to the top of her head and lay still as she fell asleep. Which, he thought, was the first time he could remember seeing her sleep. Until then, she had always watched while he slept. She dyes her hair, he thought fondly. I can just make out her proper colour in the roots.

He smiled to himself. Lydia was close against him, warm and woman soft under his fingers. They were aboard a ship. His beautiful `Badger’ might be gone, but Harris was aboard a ship, and the engine seemed to work. For his purposes - carrying himself and his love to safety - the rusting coaster was as good as the trawler. His grin broadened. Unlike the Blob, Lydia needed him just as much as he needed her. The future looked rosy. All they had to do was seize control of the ship.

CHAPTER 20

When the sun set and the light in the hold dimmed, `al Yamama’ still remained riding to her anchor off the beach.

By then, the stowaways were hungry and their hunger beginning to dominate their thinking. Harris, in particular, was irritated, and not only by the lack of food. Throughout the day, Howard Shaw had persisted in disturbing the intimacy and comfort of the berth he was sharing with Lydia. Time and again, the reporter climbed down to the deck, padded over to stand beneath their berth and then fired questions up at them; questions which, by and large, neither Harris nor Lydia could answer.

"When will the ship leave here?"

"I don’t know."

"Where’s she going?"

"Somewhere far off, to judge by the quantity of fuel stowed in those drums, aft."

"Shouldn’t we give ourselves up to the captain?"

"Certainly not."

"What do you intend to do?"

"I don’t know."

"Shouldn’t we be doing something?"

"Such as?"

"I don’t know. Looking for something to eat, perhaps. I’m hungry."

"So are we. But we don’t move until tonight, at the earliest."

"How can you lie there doing nothing?"

"Maybe we have a talent. Why don’t you go back to your bunk and practice?"

"Ha ha!"

In between Shaw’s incursions, Scouse and Paddy came below and hosed down the hold. They worked without much enthusiasm.

"Jeez, but I don’t know why we’re doin’ this," said Paddy. "We’re not likely to be loadin’ tomatoes again, are we?"

"You never know, with that prick on the bridge in charge," Scouse replied. "He hasn’t bothered to pay us yet, has he?"

"No, but if he had, now, I for one would be long gone in the boat."

"Not without me, you wouldn’t."

"Nor without meself either."

"Knowin’ him, he’ll pick up a cargo on the way back."

"Sure, an’ he has to justify the fuel now," laughed Paddy. Then morosely, "You’re not thinkin’ he will, are you?"

"You tell me," said Scouse. "He was talkin’ of knockin’ down these bunks after we’ve sailed. When do you reckon we’ll leave?"

"Ah, now!" said Paddy. "If I knew that, I’d be knowing more than yourself, Scouse me boy. More, maybe, than himself up there in the wheel house."

With the atmosphere saturated with water, and the information that their hiding place was to be destroyed in the near future, the hold became less of a haven. Harris lay cramped and sweating with Lydia by his side. He could feel her shaking in the reaction to the sailors’ invasion.

"Whatever the risk, we’ll have to get out tonight," he whispered.

"If you say so," she replied.

Afternoon passed into evening, and the evening shifted into dusk and the beginning of the short night.

"I can see a star," whispered Harris.

Lydia sighed. He was looking up at her from the hold floor - he had been to drink from the tap. "I told you that you’re a romantic," she said. "Come back to the bunk before you’re seen."

"What I meant," said Harris, "was that the deck lights haven’t been switched on. Something must be afoot. Surely, they don’t think that by sailing in the dark they’ll not be seen by the Navy?"

Before Lydia could answer, the familiar explosion sounded from aft. Vigorous steps bounded down the ladder from the poop to the main deck, squealed along the deck and up the ladder to the forecastle head.

Harris scrambled up to the safety of the berth.

"Heave away!" rasped the Captain, from the wheel house.

"Aye aye," growled Scouse, from forward.

Hammering from the forecastle, followed by the gurgling of a hydraulic motor. The first link of chain clanked aboard, shaking the ship. "Heaving away!" shouted Scouse.

"Aye aye!" acknowledged the Captain.

A torch beam swept the bridgefront, then the sound of gushing water came from above.

"At least he’s washing the cable," said Harris. "We might be getting under way."

Lydia stirred. Harris had become so attuned to her, he could sense her frown. "If you were running this operation," she said, "what would you do with the landing ship after she had dropped your troops and stores?"

"Me?" said Harris. "I hadn’t thought." Her question stimulated him, though. "I’d sink her," he said, "destroy the evidence." Then he groaned, "Oh, shit!" when he realized what he had said.

"So would I," Lydia told him. "Don’t worry, though. I’d concentrate my fire on the bridge and engine room to make sure the crew were killed. To begin with, anyway."

"You really know how to comfort a man," said Harris. "You have it honed to an art form."

"Anchor a weigh," shouted Scouse.

"Anchor a weigh. Aye aye!"

The windlass whirred on. Chain clanked through the hawse pipe. "Slow ahead. Hard a-port!" sounded from the wheel house.

`Al Yamama’ shivered. Water chuckled against her sides.

"How far off shore before the water’s deep enough to cover her?" asked Lydia.

"Probably a mile," said Harris. "No more than two."

"I wonder what artillery they have on the beach."

"Midships!"

"Anchor’s at the forefoot!" shouted Scouse.

"At the forefoot. Aye aye. Vast hauling."

"Dead slow ahead!"

"That’s odd," said Harris.

The engine note faded a decibel. Then the captain rasped, "Hard a-starboard!"

`Al Yamama’ heeled to port a trifle, so that the anchor bashed in against the stem with the sound of a temple gong. Lydia flinched.

"I’d say," said Harris.

"Midships! Steady as you go! Stand by forward!"

"Standing by!" Hammering from the forecastle.

"What’s going on?" demanded Lydia.

"They’re... "

"Let go!"

Scouse’s hammer fell on the windlass. A loud rumbling shriek gathered. The coaster shuddered. "Easy, there!" roared the captain. The racket diminished to a link by link metallic thudding.

"He’s beaching!" said Harris. "That’s the anchor been let go offshore to haul us off again."

Chain paid out, each link dragged from the chain locker by the ship’s progress. A grinding sounded from under the bows. The bunk beneath Harris jumped a fraction of an inch.

"She’s ashore," he said.

"Put the windlass in gear!" shouted the Captain, "then get yourself aft and help Paddy with the derrick!"

"They must intend to unload the fuel," said Harris. "Shaw! Keep under cover!"

Scouse hammered the windlass gear in, then jumped to the deck. As he landed, the deck lights were switched on and the hold showed up in all its vacant glory. From somewhere close alongside, a big engine which had been throbbing almost unheard burst into hearty action.

Harris lay still and struggled to disentangle the skeins of sound which followed. First, the engine bellow turned to a laboring under which the distinctive whining of hydraulics could be heard. Then the engine revs reduced to a uneven warbling, coming closer. Scouse and Paddy yelled "Whoa! Whoa there! Hold it!" The hull lurched as the hold filled with the sound of steel hitting steel. There was a moment’s hesitation, a heartbeat’s measure of frozen activity before the sinister squeal of rubber soled boots landing on the side deck.

"Three!" Lydia whispered. "Have you still got the pistol?" Her mouth was right by Harris’s ear.

He nodded. "It’s in my trouser pocket," he whispered back.

The boots started marching forward. Lydia eased back from him, hissing, "Get it out!"

Harris was lying on it. He freed his arm and levered himself up.

Scouse appeared at the after end of the hatch and unhooked the cargo runner from its cleat. Then the wire was rasping over the hatch coaming as the sailor dragged it along the side deck. By which time the boots had reached the deck by the booby hatch to the hold. And somehow, the hammer of the pistol had caught in the lining of his pocket. An order sounded from directly overhead, spoken softly and obeyed instantly by the soft scraping of rubber soles on the ladder rungs leading down to the hold.

Harris heaved. The lining tore.

Two men were coming below. Then the engine alongside roared again and the whine of the hydraulics drowned the sound of the third pair of boots.

Harris handed the pistol over his shoulder and lowered himself down into the angle between the leeboard and the base of the bunk.

A soldier appeared on the hold deck. He started moving aft but watched the ladder as he went. A second appeared behind him.

Lydia tugged at the lanyard, tutted, and Harris felt her rest the pistol against his neck and squirm down to sight it.

Scouse yelled, "Whoa! Hold it! Hold it!" as the third soldier appeared, a sergeant. He pointed aft.

Harris glanced up. Directly above the center of the hold, exactly underneath where he imagined the head of the derrick to be, he saw the scratched yellow underside of a huge bucket armed, on the right hand side, with a fearsome work polished set of teeth. The three soldiers were standing beneath it, staring up.

The engine revved hard. The bucket jerked, then rose higher and stopped. Paddy and Scouse looked down over the coaming. "Below, there!" sang Paddy, and dropped two ropes attached inside the bucket.

"OK," said the sergeant as his men picked them up.

Scouse and Paddy disappeared, Scouse racing forward. His footsteps stopped by the cargo winch. "What are they doing?" hissed Lydia.

"Looks like… " said Harris, when the whir of the winch’s hydraulic motor drowned his words.

At first, the winch hauled freely, then as it labored, then stall, they felt the ship heel – just a little.

"Got her!" Scouse shouted.

The engine over side slowed. Oil hissed in pipes. Slowly, the bucket dropped.

The mast groaned. The ship heeled. Harris distinctly heard the twanging as the wire coiled round the drum tightened. Then a flake of paint fell from the beam above his head.

"They’re mad," he whispered.

"Shhh!"

"That derrick can’t be more than one ton and it sounds like they’ve hooked ten onto it."

"Shhh!"

Another flake of paint, then the long shriek of over stressed steel.

The bucket fell away quickly now, stopped, and the engine roared as it reversed away from the hull. In the silence, Harris stared up. Dangling on the end of the flimsy wire runner, he saw a stubby cylinder. Welded to its underside was a steel cradle. Both the cylinder and its cradle were painted in a same yellow as the plague flag and on the cylinder’s concave end, Harris could clearly see the black fan sign meaning `Radioactive Material.’ Then he realized the cylinder was starting, very slowly, to revolve.

"The wire’s unlaying!" he breathed. "Christ! The whole thing’s going to go through the bottom."

The captain appeared in the wheel house window. "You there below!" he bellowed. "Check her!"

The soldiers hauled on their ropes – one attached to each end. The ropes dragged them across the hold floor. Their pull was uneven. The cylinder drifted to one side, then back and the ship rocked with it.

"Scouse! Lower away. Lower away!"

"You, you stupid pillock," Scouse muttered, then in a louder voice, "Lower away! Aye Aye." He tapped at the winch brake with a hammer.

As the ship rolled, so the swing of the cylinder began to develop. As the cylinder swung further, so the ship rolled more. Had Harris been interested in perpetual motion, then he was watching a near perfect design. Instead, he knew Scouse’s dilemma. If the sailor loosened the brake drum too much, the load would plunge down. If he loosened it too little, then the load would stay put at the head of the mast and the pendulum motion would increase until it rolled the ship over on to its side. If, of course, the gear held up to the strain. He could almost hear the man sweating. "Oh! Shit!" he whispered.

Scouse tapped the brake handle again. The load jerked down. The mast groaned. "Handsomely!" roared the captain."

"I’m doing my fuckin’ best," Scouse bellowed back.

The sergeant, aware of the risk at last, strolled further forward out of the way of the fall.

Scouse tapped the brake handle again. The cylinder eased downwards gathering speed. Harris heard Scouse hammer at the brake. He could hear the drum grating in the brake band. Then the band gripped and the cylinder halted a couple of feet from the hold floor. It bounced. The ship bounded and rolled. The cylinder swung from the port side of the hold to the starboard. Wood splintered as it hit the bunks.

"Get a hold of it! Below! Get a hold of it!" the captain screamed in the silence.

There was a ripping sound from aloft. Harris looked up to see that the runner had stranded – one of the strands had snapped – and the loose end was unraveling down towards the hook.

The soldiers were looking, too. The sergeant snapped an order. The men picked up the slack of their ropes. Together, they tried to haul the cylinder amidships. After a moment, the sergeant added his weight to the other’s.

"Now," said Paddy – he had come to lean over the coaming and look below - "if I was in your boots, I wouldn’t be doing it like that at all."

The sergeant looked up at him.

"No," said Paddy. "What I’d be doin’ would be to tie one o’ those pennants, those ropes you’re all haulin’ on, to the bunks where ye are so’s that when you do manage to haul that big yellow brute amidships it won’t be takin’ charge an’ going right out through the other side. Then I’d be takin’ the second pennant, loopin’ it through the bunks on the other side so’s I’d get a purchase, sort of, an’ double me effort."

The sergeant thought for a second, then made a turn through the wreckage with one pennant. He gestured the two soldiers.

"Ah! Ye’ve got it in one," said Paddy, as the men looped the rope around a strut. "Now PULL! Together now, PULL!"

The men heaved.

"There," said Paddy. "Hold her fast. Now Scouse, me old shipmate, can you lower it just a twidge? A few of those newfangled metric inch things, about twice the length o’ me boots?"

"D’you think I’m a magician?"

"Just try, Scouse, just give it a try."

The hammer sounded, once.

"An’ again, Scouse."

Twice.

The cylinder fell.

"Ah, well done, the Scouse," said Paddy, as the echoes died away. "I think you’ve hit it bob on."

The soldiers hadn’t moved – they’d had no time to move. Now, they straightened and edged towards the yellow horror. The sergeant bent down, feeling at the cradle. Then he waved his clenched fist in triumph, and felt in his pocket. He took out four steel nuts and started to screw them on the bolts sticking through the cradle.

He grunted them tight, then straightened up. On his face, Harris saw an expression – he cursed himself for being fanciful – so like that of a woman after passion, so like the bloated conspiratorial half smile which follows satisfying sex and which Harris had always loved to kiss, that he felt a profound revulsion. The sergeant straightened his shoulders, then gestured to the deck. Both soldiers fell on their knees. Using a gravelly voice, the sergeant began to intone a prayer, staring up in ecstasy at the cargo light the while.

"He’s obscene," Lydia whispered. She sighted along the pistol’s barrel. "Stop breathing, Clough! I reckon I could hit him from here."

"Don’t shoot," said Harris. "We’ll be wiped out." But he felt sick. Whoever these men were glorifying, it was not Harris’s God.

The sergeant chanted on, wallowing in his success. The soldiers knelt, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Now doesn’t that just remind you of Old Father Flatknees, the reformatory priest?" demanded Paddy. He was still leaning over the coaming, grinning now. "Can you fellers not get on with it, for all life. The ebb’s set in. The Old Man says we’ll be stuck here for ever, if we don’t make a move."

"Amen!" sang the sergeant. The soldiers remained kneeling though, as the sergeant searched into his breast pocket. He slid out a bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he sprinkled the water over the cylinder, then looked aloft again as he rested his hands on it and blessed it.

The sergeant put the empty bottle into his pocket, then glared up at Paddy. He cleared his throat and spat noisily onto the deck. "OK," he said.

The soldiers scrambled to their feet. The sergeant dusted his hands delicately, barked an order, and set off for the ladder.

Already, the big diesel engine ashore was bellowing again. The massive shovel appeared in the square of the hatch. When the soldiers regained the deck, they hurried aft and hauled themselves up into the bucket.

"Heave away forward!" shouted the Captain.

"Aye aye." Scouse bounded up the forecastle ladder. The windlass whirred. The first link of anchor chain clanked aboard.

"Paddy! Come up here and take the helm!"

The engine over side roared, drowning `al Yamama’s’ more modest efforts, as the bucket disappeared. The cargo lights went out. Darkness swarmed over the deck. The coaster’s engine speed picked up. Water washed forward along the sides. After a moment or two of shaking, the ship slid off the beach and the Captain called, "Stop engines!"

Cable rattled aboard. "I reckon we’re under way for lands unknown," said Harris.

CHAPTER 21

At midnight, the Captain went to his bed leaving Paddy or Scouse on watch. The stowaways knew this, because they had seen the dim outlines of two faces in the wheel house windows, and heard the Old Man’s barked, "Keep a good lookout. I’m going below and turning in." The watchkeeper had then slumped in the pilot chair.

They waited an hour longer, then Lydia nudged Harris.

Harris started. "Why me?" he demanded in a whisper.

"Because you’re the seaman," said Lydia. "You’re least likely to trip over things."

"I’ll go," said Shaw.

"Keep your head down and follow me when we move," Lydia told him. "Quietly Clough!" she warned.

"I’m not moving until I know where that bloody watchkeeper is," said Harris. "We don’t know whether he’s wide awake or snoring or watching us with a gun in his hand right now."

"We really shouldn’t be doing this," muttered Shaw. "Why don’t we simply walk along the deck and introduce ourselves civilly?"

Harris shifted his knees on the cool steel of the deck and felt the damp patches where the dew had soaked into his trousers.

"We don’t have any right to be here," Shaw went on. "And what’s in that flask?"

"At a guess, plutonium," said Lydia. "Just pray that it isn’t enriched."

"Enriched is only used for weapons," said Shaw. "Sellafield isn’t in that business."

"Isn’t it?" asked Lydia, and Harris had an uncomfortable feeling that her question was pure rhetoric.

The coaster was plodding through the night, innocently displaying her correct steaming lights like any other honest merchant ship. Her derrick still pointed to the haze blurred stars, snatching at its guys as the ship rolled over the slight sea. Exhaust whispered reassurance from her funnel. The pistol grip felt greasy in Harris’ hand.

"Why me?" he repeated to himself. And answered, "because we can’t trust Shaw, and poor Lydia no longer trusts herself any more than I trust myself. We are only allowed one stab at this."

What had appeared simple from the distance of time, now looked impossible. Loading the flask, whatever its contents might be, had complicated matters.

In the safety of the bunk, Lydia had said, "That flask must contain enriched plutonium."

"How did you work that one out?" he asked.

"Think," she said. "This ship lands troops who take over Sellafield. Then she loads a cargo and sets sail. Had the soldiers landed and re-embarked after stealing the flask, then the flask is the object of the exercise, and the plan is bound to fail - no country would allow a slow tub like this to disappear into the blue after stealing so lethal a cargo. Yet one objective must have been to steal the flask, and landing an army is doing the job the hard way. So maybe the capture of Sellafield is not the main objective, as we thought. Maybe delivering the fuel is more important. Maybe Sellafield is the hostage against the safe delivery of the flask. How far can this ship travel on the fuel she has aboard?"

Harris began to calculate. "There’s ten tons in those drums," he muttered, "which is twenty two thousand four hundred pounds. Say the engine is one hundred and fifty horse power - it certainly doesn’t sound any bigger - it will burn, say, fifty pounds an hour. Which gives us four hundred and forty hours steaming. She isn’t making much speed. Let’s assume six knots. Six knots for four hundred and forty hours is a range of two thousand six hundred miles in addition to whatever she has in her tanks already."

"Where would that take us?" asked Lydia.

"The Eastern Mediterranean," said Harris, "South Africa, even the Argentine."

"Enough said."

"She’ll need a harbor crane to lift that flask out, though," said Harris. "The ship’s gear won’t look at it."

"No. Could she refuel at sea?"

"Yes."

"How far could she travel if she did?"

"Name your trouble spot."

Lydia sighed. "So we could be taking part in the world’s biggest auction," she said. "We have to capture the ship."

"Food’s a sufficient argument to motivate me," said Harris. The enormity of her suggestion was too great to register with him immediately.

But the idea nagged away at him. His imagination began to fill in details which, given the choice, he would rather not have contemplated. "There is no choice," he realized, as he climbed the ladder from the hold. "I must accept," he told himself while he crouched to peer at the bridge over the top of the hatch coaming. "But I’m not moving from cover until I’m certain I can reach the ladder to the bridge without being seen." And holding the pistol, which should have boosted his courage, somehow stoked his fears.

"One more comment out of you and I’ll blow your head off," he snarled at Shaw.

"I say, old man, I never spoke a word. I mean to say... "

"Sorry. But keep quiet."

"Of course."

Lydia reached out and grasped Harris’ wrist. "Steady, sweet heart. Do you want me to go?"

"No! No. You’ve done more than your part, already."

Time washed by to the sound of the sea alongside, an hour, at least, Harris thought. Then he stiffened. "He’s moving," he whispered.

Lydia and Shaw scrambled to their haunches and peered over the coaming.

The watchman’s face appeared in a window. He took a long look around, then disappeared for a moment. He reappeared on the starboard bridge wing. For a while, he stood and stared out on the beam. Then he raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and began a systematic search of the haze.

Harris had no need of Lydia’s nudge. He launched himself in a crouching run along the port side deck. He did not stop until he was thrusting hard against the bridge front alongside the foot of the ladder. By his side, the stacked hatch boards creaked and chattered to the engine’s vibrations. The bulkhead cut off his view of the bridge, and the boards drowned any sound the watchman was likely to make. "Shit!" Harris muttered.

He stayed hidden until his breathing returned to normal, then broke cover as he made for the foot of the ladder.

"You’re clear," said Lydia, as she arrived. "He’s still gazing out."

Harris lay against the treads as he climbed. As his head reached the level of the deck above, he stopped to look. He could see no one on the starboard wing. He hoisted himself one tread higher. He could see into the wheel house, now, see the shape of the wheel and the light oblong of the port side door. There was no sign of the watch keeper.

He edged higher. When his waist reached deck level, he stepped to the deck. He sensed Lydia behind him as he cleared the ladder. With his pistol arm sniffing in front of him, he edged towards the wheel house. The door was hooked open. As Harris stepped over the coaming, he saw the watch keeper again.

The man was silhouetted against the lighter gray of the haze, still gazing out at the northern horizon.

Harris felt his way past the wheel. The radar whined from the starboard forward corner. Harris glanced into it as he reached the door to the deck and saw the land echoes showing about six miles away on the starboard beam. He glanced up instinctively to search the horizon. His foot scraped against the coaming. He strode forward.

"Sure, Scouse, and what are ye doin’ out of your pit at this time o’ the night?" asked Paddy, without lowering his glasses. "Have you shit your bed again?"

Harris thrust the muzzle of the pistol into the sailor’s neck. "You move," he hissed, "and you’re dead."

Paddy froze.

"And who would that be playing jokes on a poor sailorman?" he asked.

"Someone who hates you," said Harris.

Paddy started to turn round. Harris hammered his knee into the sailor’s crutch.

"Bastard!" Paddy grunted. He sagged to a crouch. The binoculars clattered to the deck as his knees buckled. "Who the fuck are you?"

Harris jammed the gun into the nape of the sailor’s neck. "Just keep quiet," he snarled.

"Sure, sure. Not a sound."

"Now lie down! Face down! Come on, spread yourself!"

"Was there any need for that?" asked Shaw. "Violence begets violence, you know, and proves nothing."

"It proves that I’m holding a gun and he isn’t," snapped Harris. "Now shut up."

Lydia bent over the Irishman. She fumbled for a moment, then stood up holding his belt. Passing it to Shaw, she stooped again and dragged the jeans from Paddy’s legs. Paddy opened his mouth, then closed it as Harris gestured with the pistol. Shaw watched, an expression of outrage on his face.

"Turn over," Lydia hissed at the sailor. "Sit up with your back to the rails."

Paddy obeyed and looked pained when she lashed his arms to the guard rail. The belt she used as a gag, passing it round a stanchion to immobilize the sailor’s head. "Any trouble from him," she told Shaw, "and kick him where it hurts."

"I can’t be party to this," said the reporter. "You’re not allowed to bind a prisoner. It says so in the Geneva Convention."

"If he breaks loose," said Lydia, "then you had better pray hard."

"When I can find some paper," said Shaw, "I shall write a full report on your behavior."

"There should be some in the chart room," said Harris. "I’ll show you when we come back."

Lydia was already moving towards the wheel house door. Harris grabbed her arm. "I go first," he said. "Remember? Now follow me."

He stepped into the darkness of the wheel house and crept to the door in the after bulkhead. When Lydia reached his side, he grinned at her, then peered round the door post. The ladder showed from the dimmed light spilling across the bottom treads. Harris looked at Lydia, raised his finger to his lip, then pointed downwards. Lydia nodded.

He stepped over the coaming and began to ease himself down, stooping to see as much as he could before he reached the bottom. One hand gripped the handrail, the other, the pistol.

He landed in a small messroom furnished with a table and two flanking benches, all deserted: on either side, a door. Harris took a step forward. The light, he found, was coming from a door to the left and behind the ladder. He glanced inside and saw a galley fitted in stainless steel, dulled with use. Three dirty plates lay by the sink, a handful of knives and forks, and a filleting knife with an orange handle. Another door next to the galley was labeled `Engine Room.’

To the right of the ladder, a door labeled `Master’ stood next to an open door which gave on to a bathroom.

Harris moved back to where Lydia stood waiting by the ladder. He pointed to the door to the left of the table. Lydia nodded. She had briefed him, and for once, Harris remembered the routine. He crept to the door and read the label, `Certified for two seamen.’ After a glance at Lydia, tensed against the door post, he took a hold on the handle, and turned it. When he could turn it no further, he leaned against the door, just a fraction, to test for it opening. The door yielded. Harris nodded to Lydia. She nodded back. He hove the door open and stood on the threshold.

Even without turning on the light, he knew the cabin to be empty, but he flicked the light switch nevertheless. Two berths leaned against the curve of the ship’s side, two tall lockers the inboard. Only the lower bunk had bedclothes, a disarray scattered with dirty work clothes. "Paddy," Lydia mouthed. She withdrew and Harris followed her.

When he had closed the door, Lydia pointed to the crew cabin on the port side. Harris nodded.

This time, when he grasped the handle, he knew that there was at least one man sleeping on the far side. He tested the door. "OK?" he mouthed. Lydia nodded.

He swung the door open and flicked the light switch. The pistol was pointing at the figure in the bed before Scouse grunted in his sleep.

"Stand up," Harris hissed. "One move and you’re dead."

The sailor rolled over before he opened his eyes. "Who.. ?"

"Police! Keep quiet. Stand up."

"Eh?"

"Get out of that bed!"

Scouse looked beyond Harris and saw Lydia. "Aw eh!" he said, "I’m starkers." But he rolled from the bunk and stood awkwardly on the deck trying to cover his modesty with his callused hands.

Harris retreated to the door. "Follow me," he said. "We’re going up on deck. If you make a sound, I’ll kill you. And remember, Scouse, as you go up the ladder, the gun’ll be on the same level as your balls."

Scouse gave a gesture of futility, and made for the door. Harris stepped aside. As the sailor passed, Harris jabbed the gun into his neck. "Up the ladder nice and slow," he whispered. "Nice and slow and quiet."

Scouse shrugged. "Thank God me mother’s dead," he said. He began to climb the ladder. Harris jammed the pistol in his crutch. "It’s a horrible death," he warned. "You die an octave higher." Scouse moved obediently upwards.

Harris kept close. At the top, he said, "Starboard bridge wing," and Scouse turned meekly.

Five minutes later, when Scouse was sitting alongside Paddy and trussed to the rail, too, Harris said, "Now if you’re both very good and don’t make any noise, this nice gentleman won’t kick your balls down your throats. And if you’re especially good, we will release you before the sun shrivels your legs. Do you understand?"

He took their silence for acquiescence and crept back to the wheel house.

"So far, so good," Lydia whispered. "You’re really getting the hang of this, aren’t you?"

"The only one I’m worried about is the Captain," said Harris. "He sounds a hard man."

Lydia nodded. "I’ll grab that knife from the galley," she said.

They crept down the companion ladder, and at the bottom, Harris turned and stepped to the Captain’s door. He waited, his ear pressed to the panel, until Lydia arrived with the filleting knife in her hand. He raised his eyebrows, questioning. Lydia nodded.

Harris felt for the door knob. The lock creaked as he turned it. Harris froze, listening for sounds of movement inside against the background engine noises and the chattering of the hull. Silence from inside. He pushed against the door and felt it yield. He looked at Lydia. "Go!" she mouthed.

Harris flung himself on the door, stepped inside. His free hand found the light switch. "How many times do I have to tell you not to switch the light on!" roared the Captain, and he twisted round in the bed to look at the intruder. "Who the devil are you?"

He was a thickset man, hairy, a powerful physique going to seed.

"Police!" roared Harris. "Freeze." He brought up the gun, holding it two handed and pointing directly at the Captain.

The Captain froze, glaring at Harris.

"Out of the bed!" yelled Harris. "Move!"

The Captain rolled over the leeboard and landed silently on the deck.

"Turn your back to me and spread your legs," roared Harris. "Move it! Now grip the lee board with both hands."

The Captain obeyed and Harris moved in, kicked, and moved out. The big man grunted. His knees flexed, then straightened. Harris saw the muscles of his back tense. "Who are you?" the captain grated.

"The man whose trawler you sank," said Harris. "In return, I’m commandeering this rust heap to continue my voyage."

"Ah!" said the Captain.

"Now start walking backwards towards the door," said Harris.

The Captain turned his head. His eyes looked black under the cabin’s light, black and blazing hatred. He smiled. "Whatever you say," he rasped.

As he moved, Harris backed away. When the Captain reached the cabin door, Harris was already standing by the foot of the companion ladder. "Put your hands behind your head and move towards me," Harris ordered.

The Captain smiled, raised his hands to his nape, and edged backwards.

Harris watched. Lydia retreated to the galley door. As the Captain came close, Harris began to mount the ladder. "Follow me up," he snapped.

"I need a hand for the rail," rasped the Captain.

"Invent one," said Harris. "But if your fingers move, I’ll blow your head off."

The Captain shrugged. He felt behind him with one foot, and began to heave himself upwards. Harris kept well ahead of him. He reached the top at the same time as the Captain reached the mid point. Lydia had moved to stand at the foot of the ladder, watching the procession. Harris did not realize he had reached the top. His foot scraped against the raised coaming. He glanced round. The Captain launched himself at Lydia.

The pistol fired with a bright yellow flash. Harris saw the bullet hit. A great crimson hole appeared in the side of the Captain’s lower back. The Captain gasped. He landed in all fours, like a great shaggy dog whose fore paw embraced Lydia around her thighs.

Harris steadied to take a second shot, but Lydia was keeling over as she lost her balance and sprawling across the broad shoulders. Harris stood, waving the pistol uncertainly and watching the tableau unrolling below his feet.

The Captain was growling deep in his throat. Lydia pushed herself half upright and felt amongst the hairs on his neck. Then she brought the knife up, guided the point between her fingers, and leaned on the handle.

The blade resisted an instant, then sank in. The Captain, sighed. Slowly, he collapsed until his head rested on the deck. Lydia pulled the blade from his neck, then stooped to unwrap the arm from around her thighs. Blood welled from the bullet wound. Not gouts, Harris noted, but a strong tide which flowed down the muscular back in a dark stream. The sight held him rigid.

Lydia stepped from the dead man’s grasp, wiped the blade on the hairy back, and tossed the knife into the galley. She looked up at Harris. Her face looked more dead than the corpse at her feet.

"Come up top," Harris commanded.

Lydia started, then began to climb slowly aloft.

"You’ve killed him," said Shaw. He was staring down the ladder over Harris’s shoulder.

"Yes," said Harris, and turned to look at the reporter. Shaw opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Harris’s eyes locked on his. "Go below and make some tea," Harris told him. "There’s an orange handled knife in the galley. Throw it over the side."

CHAPTER 22

"Make some more tea," snapped Harris. Howard Shaw gathered up the mugs and disappeared below again.

Harris turned and looked at Lydia. She was sitting in the pilot’s chair in the after corner of the wheel house staring into space. Harris wondered what she was thinking, and shuddered as he remembered her leaning on the handle of the knife. "It may be," he said, "that they’ve switched off all the light houses. I couldn’t see Chicken Rock, could you?"

"His neck went into spasm as I pushed," she said.

"Which means that we’re being tracked, that someone out there knows who we are and what we are. I wonder if they know what we’re carrying."

"I’ve never killed with a knife, before."

"If they know who we are and where we are," Harris went on, "what do they intend to do?"

"It’s far more personal than with a gun. A gun - ha! That’s remote. That’s clean. A knife, when you’re actually touching the flesh, when you actually feel the muscles shiver...."

Harris saw the Captain’s back opening like a flower, all tropical crimson and bright with dying. "Sweetheart, I need your help," he said. He moved from the front of the wheel house to her side. When he laid his hand on her wrist, she snatched her arm away. "Sweet heart," he whispered, "Lydia, come on. I shot him. I was the one who killed him."

"No," she said. "I killed him with the knife. His neck went into spasm under my fingers. I felt it... "

"I need you to look at the chart with me. The courses are all drawn out, but they end in the Chops... "

"I stuck the knife in, just where Tom showed us," she said. "I remembered after all that time. Isn’t that amazing? You fired at him? Oh, yes. That was a lousy shot. Tom always said not to make dirty wounds. Dirty wounds. Tom warned us about them, too. Too much evidence lying around, he said, or too much mess for the boys to clean up afterwards. I felt the muscles contract. I thought the blade wasn’t going to penetrate."

Her trouser legs were stiff with the Captain’s dried blood. Harris wondered whether to take them off her, but just then, Shaw clattered up from the galley holding three mugs. He handed one to Harris, placed a second on the window ledge by Lydia’s side. "I refuse to keep going down there and stepping over the corpse of a murdered man," he said.

Harris turned from Lydia and looked at him.

"Very well," he said. "Untie the sailors and bring them in here."

"What’s wrong with your wife?"

"Trauma."

"I should think so, after what she did."

"Bring the bloody sailors in here, damn you!"

"You said you’d give me paper to write my report."

"Later," said Harris. "Now do as I tell you." His voice had assumed a quiet menace.

Shaw looked at him, hesitated, then laid down his mug and stepped out onto the wing of the bridge. Harris watched the radar, looking for echoes while his brain nagged away at the riddle on the chart. He saw Shaw bend over the prisoners. He hefted the pistol thoughtfully while they were freed. After much stretching and spitting, the two men came in to the wheel house.

"Go below," he told them. "At the foot of the companionway you’ll find the body of your captain. Bring it up into the wheel house."

"Aw eh!" said Scouse.

"Do it!" snapped Harris. "Take him to the port side bridge wing."

The two sailors moved to the door, then stopped with each one trying to push the other down first. "Move it!" snarled Harris. "If you don’t… " he raised the gun, but the sailors were moving, staring at the body and edging, unenthusiastically, down the ladder.

Harris moved to the door to watch them. They reached the bottom and took a stand one each side of the corpse.

"He stinks," said Scouse.

"Shut your gob," said Paddy.

"You!" snapped Harris, "the tall one, Scouse, you take his head. Paddy take the feet."

"Aw, eh!" said Scouse again.

"Move!" hissed Harris.

"We better do what the nice man says," said Paddy. "Grab his shoulders, Scouse."

They stooped and hoisted the body clear of the deck.

"Bring it up the ladder," said Harris.

The two started awkwardly up the ladder. The captain, sagging between them, kept catching on the treads. "He was a slave driver when he lived," Paddy gasped, when he was half way up, "and he’s still at it now he’s dead, sure he is."

"Stow it!" said Scouse. "Where’s yer fuckin’ respect?"

They reached the top. "Out on the bridge wing," said Harris, and stepped back to allow them past.

Once out in the open, the men dumped the corpse on the deck. "Pick it up," said Harris flatly. "Throw it over the wall."

"Eh? Shouldn’t we say a few words, like?" asked Scouse.

"Certainly!" said Paddy. "Hows about `Fuck off.’? He hasn’t paid us yet, the bastard."

They bent down again and hoisted the body to the top rail. For a while, they rested it there. "Come on," said Scouse. "One, two three, and heave!"

The body rolled over, bounced off the sheer strake, then fell into the passing sea. "Rest in peace, you mean bastard," muttered Paddy, and crossed himself.

"Now go below and clean up the mess," Harris told them.

"Aw eh," said Scouse. "Can’t I put some clothes on?"

"Below," said Harris.

He flung Scouse his jeans, a tee shirt and shoes while the sailors swabbed away the blood on the deck, then herded them back to the wheelhouse. "Now go down on to the main deck," he ordered, "and start shipping the hatch covers." Then to Howard Shaw, "Go down into the galley and make us all some breakfast."

"I say," said Shaw. "I protest!"

"You’ll protest better on a full belly," said Harris. "Now move yourself!"

The reporter shuffled off. Harris moved to the chart table in the after port corner of the wheel house. He used the Decca to plot the ship’s position on the chart, adjusted the course a few degrees to hold the course line, then turned to Lydia.

She was staring into the same space she had stared at ever since the death of the captain two hours before. "Keep a lookout," said Harris. "Yell out if either of those two makes any effort to come back to the bridge." He had no idea whether or not she heard him, and after a moment, he went back down the companionway to the mess room.

The Captain’s cabin occupied the forward port corner of the accommodation. Two scuttles gave on to the sea, two more the main deck. All were closed tight.

Harris needed privacy and time. He locked the door behind him then looked around. The bunk with its disheveled bedclothes, lay against the ship’s side. Along the cabin front, a desk, then two lockers. On the settee along the after bulkhead, the Captain’s clothes lay neatly folded. A small armchair covered in green moquette to match the settee was pushed into the knee hole of the desk. Harris dragged it out and sat down.

The desk top was bare except for a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches and an ashtray. He reached out and took a cigarette. As he lit it, he sagged back and gazed up at the scuttle.

"Problems!" he thought. "How do I deal with Lydia? She’s obviously in shock, but how to get her out of it? Then the ship. She’s in hand for the moment, but what next? How do we deal with the cargo? Where are we meant to be going? How does McKendrick monitor what’s happening aboard?"

For a while, he savored his cigarette and allowed the ship sounds to soothe him. A headache was beginning to press behind his eyes and exhaustion making him drowsy.

"Snap out of it!" he told himself. "Get on with your job."

He stood up. "A tidy man, the Captain," he reflected, as he opened the scuttles above the desk.

A zephyr of fresh air swam in, stirring the smoke. Harris breathed it for a moment, then sat down determined to reach some conclusion as to how he should carry on until Lydia recovered and added her intellect to his problems.

The first drawer was a pen tray - half a dozen sharp pencils, a gold fountain pen, three soft rubbers. In the second, Harris found the ship’s papers.

The official log told of voyages around the Mediterranean, mainly in the east; but no births, deaths or collisions. The deck log, written in an elegant hand and in ink, was contained in a cheap note book. "Why in his cabin and not on the bridge?" wondered Harris, as he settled to read.

The voyage to date had started in Milazzo, Sicily, after the discharge of a cargo of tomatoes. `Al Yamama’ back loaded fuel, provisions, extra dunnage and `the guns.’ Then she had steamed through the Straits of Messina then headed south east until, a hundred miles south of Cyprus - or a hundred and fifty miles east of Lebanon, depending on the point of view - she had suffered an engine breakdown; time 2200 hours. Under way again at 0912 the following morning, she had steered west, carried on through the Straits of Gibraltar, round Portugal and so up to Sellafield. The account ended with Walney Island, off Barrow in Furness, being sighted in the afternoon that `Badger’ was steaming east to meet her.

Harris sat back and frowned. If the `guns’ were loaded in Milazzo, why steam east for four days, then alter course to due west immediately after repairing the engine? And how would anyone smuggle five hundred armed, uniformed men aboard a ship, even in Sicily, without rousing suspicion? The breakdown must have been the rendezvous for the soldiers, he reasoned, which presumably meant that there were, in fact, guns of another kind on board.

"Lydia," he pleaded. "Sweetheart! come down and help me think!"

Lydia, of course, did not come. Harris returned below. To distract himself, he stood up and opened the nearest locker. There were uniforms hanging, cold weather and hot, all pressed and covered in polythene bags, with shoes below and shirts and underwear on a high shelf above. Harris closed the doors and moved to the second locker.

A bridge coat and a duffel coat bulged out as he opened the door. Harris eased them aside. Behind, he found a row of automatic rifles, all oiled and slick, resting on the butts. Beneath, a row of drab green boxes. Bingo, thought Harris, and lifted the coats down from the rail.

At first, Harris thought the whole locker was filled with ammunition boxes. He stood back and stared at it. Why so much ammunition for a dozen guns? he wondered. When he stood on tip toe and felt the top of the boxes, he found a gap between them and the back of the locker. Intrigued, he pulled the rifles from their perch, then began hefting down the boxes until he saw the two suitcases. One he tried to lift, but assumed it to be jammed when he could not shift it.

After a pause to wipe his brow, he shifted the rest of the boxes, then grabbed at a strap around one of the cases.

The weight had him grunting. He struggled until he had it lying on the deck. He undid the leather straps - why such good quality straps for a couple of such cheap suitcases? he wondered, then found that he had to force the locks open with the Captain’s penknife from the desk.

He lifted the lid and collapsed onto the settee. His headache vanished. His exhaustion fled. Such is the effect of shock. Thereafter, it was almost two hours before he had the locker stowed as it had been and he never felt a twinge despite almost rupturing himself with all the lifting. Which was after he had calculated that the suitcases contained five million dollars US. Used bills. Nice, dog-eared, over the counter, treasury notes; which, he reasoned, were worth all the effort.

In a state of euphoria, he dragged the bedclothes from the bunk stuffed them out through the scuttle into the wake. He spread fresh from the drawer beneath in a proper Board of Trade fashion. This done, he sat to the desk and lit another cigarette and delved into the deck log again. Pasted in the back cover was the information he had been looking for. He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. Five past eleven. He had fifty five minutes.

Lydia was still sitting in the pilot’s chair. A fold down table on the bridge front held the congealed remains of breakfast. Shaw was pacing to and fro across the wheel house. "Like a half pay admiral," thought Harris.

He grinned as he bent over the chart table and plotted the ship’s position. Dead on course, he noted happily. He straightened. Through the front windows, he saw Scouse and Paddy humping the hatch boards into place. "They’re working well," he thought. "They’ve already shipped the strong back and the frames."

He picked a piece of cold, leathery toast from the breakfast plate and chewed it while he stared at the radar screen.

"There’s something wrong," he said to Lydia. She stared into space. "I know things have changed since I was at sea," he went on, "but even today, surely there are still some ships trading into Liverpool? Yet here we are, coming up to Anglesey where the pilot lies, and not a hint of other traffic."

Lydia ignored him.

"Sweetheart," said Harris, "I need help. Speak to me."

"His muscles went into spasm."

Harris slapped her hard across her cheek. Lydia reeled in the chair. He hated seeing her head jerk as the blow landed. She looked at him. "What’s the matter?" she asked.

"I think we’re being tracked. We’ll know by early afternoon for certain."

She smiled faintly. "I’d be more surprised if we weren’t."

"And each noon and midnight, I have to call McKendrick and tell him our position, the state of the weather and what ships we can see."

"How do you know?"

"It’s in the deck log. We use an open line through Portishead. Anyone can listen in. The captain noted it all down in his book. I’ll have to imitate his voice."

"The captain?" she asked. Then she broke down in tears and Harris gladly held her tight while she purged herself of the morning’s ordeal.

By quarter to twelve, Harris had Lydia in the Captain’s bunk. "You sleep," he said. "We’ll eat a famous meal in the evening, when you wake up. Then we’ll set the watches. Shaw’s going to have to earn his corn from now on."

She smiled at him. "Why don’t you come down after you’ve spoken to McKendrick?" she asked. "I’d like you here. I need you here. Please."

"Half an hour," Harris promised.

"I want you to hold me, sweetheart."

"Half an hour," Harris promised.

Back on the bridge, he cleared his throat and leaned through the window. "Forward, there! Get a move on!" he hailed in his best copy of the Captain.

Paddy and Scouse were amidships, lowering a hatch board into place. They stopped and stared up at the wheelhouse. "Jeez, an’ I near had a heart attack thinkin’ we had a ghost aboard," said Paddy.

"I knew he wouldn’t leave without our money," Scouse agreed, and the pair resumed their work.

"There," said Harris to Shaw, "What did you think of that?"

"I think," said the reporter stiffly, "that you spoke in very bad taste. In fact, everything you have done since I met you has been improper."

"Improper?"

"How else would you describe murder? How else would you describe piracy? I hate to say this, Mr. Clough, but your wife is as bad as you, if not worse."

"She’s a hundred times worse," Harris assured him. "Which is why you will act as she tells you."

Shaw stared at him. Harris stared back. "Go down to the main deck," he said. "Tell Paddy to come into the galley and show you where everything is. Scouse can sit on the forecastle head, where I can see him. Tell them both from me that if there’s one hint of trouble, they both go and join their master."

He watched Shaw clatter down the ladder. "And while that’s going on," he thought, "I have to convince McKendrick that I am the captain and that nothing’s gone awry."

He moved back to the chart table and reached over it for the radio telephone.

CHAPTER 23

"Portishead Radio," said Harris into the mouthpiece. "Portishead Radio... " Then he realized he did not know `al Yamama’s’ call sign and that McKendrick could be listening in to the transmission via any cheap receiving set. He swallowed to clear his throat. "Motor Vessel `al Yamama’ calling Portishead Radio."

"Portishead receiving. Go ahead, `al Yamama.’"

Harris sagged with relief. Clinging to the chart table, he said, "Request a link call, Portishead." And gave the number noted in the deck log.

The phone rang once. "And who would be speaking with me?" asked the Scottish voice Harris had last heard briefing the group in the Moota Quarry.

"`Al Yamama,’" Harris rasped.

"Aye? Report, Captain."

Harris read off the position he had noted a minute before. Then, "Weather settled, sea slight. Heat haze, visibility estimated two miles. No ships."

There was a further pause, longer than the earlier. Long enough, Harris realized later, for someone to plot the ship’s position, calculate the distance she had covered, and therefore the speed. Then the voice came back. "Aye. Well, now, Captain, that looks reasonable, the Laird be praised. Are you praising the Laird, Captain?"

"Yes," said Harris, wiping the sweat from his forehead and staring through the bridge window.

"Is everything all right aboard, Captain?" asked McKendrick.

"Yes. I have a cold coming, that’s all."

A pause. "Aye, well now. Intemperance begets ill health, Captain. Speak with me again at twenty four hours, will you not?"

"Aye aye." Harris switched off the set. He leaned against the chart table and found himself gasping, with sweat running from every pore as if he had run a marathon. He giggled with relief, and reached out for a cigarette.

"Those things will kill you," said Shaw.

"No doubt," said Harris.

Shaw fanned his face with his hand. "And they stink," he said.

"Tough," said Harris, and wondered at his words. Not long ago, he thought, I’d have apologized and moved away. He grinned into the radar. "Not long ago, I was broke and shackled to the Blob. Now, I command a run down coaster - own it, to all intents and purposes - and a ten ton flask of enriched plutonium. How much is that flask worth? To a country bent on dominating its neighbors? A hundred million? Two hundred million? Dollars or pounds?

"Down below," he went on, "Lydia is waiting for me in the captain’s bunk. Lydia in the bed, five million dollars in used notes in the locker. If we keep the flask, then we’ll be hounded to our deaths, and not only by the western powers. So we get rid of the flask. But there’s the rub. The flask weighs ten or so tons, is lying in the bottom of the hold and the ship’s gear will only lift one ton. We need assistance to lift it out.

"Questions for Lydia," he thought. "She’s the girl to think of the answers."

Then he remembered her parting words. She would wait for him. He remembered the incident in the bunk in the hold, the fluid velvet of her breast nestling in his hand, the sensuous feel of her back and the adrenaline pulsing from her lips. He remembered, and felt the lust rising bittersweet in his loins and dominating him.

He turned away from Shaw in case the reporter saw what was happening to him. "Please God," he prayed, "let me raise these feelings in her. Let us share our bodies as we will share our lives from now on. Let us glory in each other. Allow us our moment before we die."

He wanted - right then he would willingly have given all his future days - he wanted no more than that she could feel the same wonder of him as powerfully as he felt the wonder of her. Love, after all, is too strong, too far beyond explanation or description, to either debate or describe; hence all the smut and jokes about sex, all the macho defense mechanisms to hide incomprehension.

Humbled, Harris pretended to stare out at the haze abeam. And then he chilled. If McKendrick feels about his God as I feel about Lydia - McKendrick and all those men with him - then they’re immovable, he realized. Any action by the army will lead to a blood bath. Like all military conflicts, it will be decided by determination. Dying in their cause will be the terrorists’ joy. Or worse, if McKendrick has the technicians to hand to build a bomb, a nuclear booby trap.

"You keep the twelve to four watch," he told Shaw. "Miss Goodwood can keep the four to eight. I’ll stand the eight to twelve. Wake us up at half past three. Tradition says with cups of tea. And keep a sharp eye on those two prisoners."

He stepped on to the companionway and glanced below in case Paddy had taken the notion into his head to lay an ambush. The sounds of pots clattering in the galley and Paddy’s voice, true and sweet as the sailor sang a lament, allayed Harris’ suspicions. He clattered below and peeped round the galley door.

Paddy was chopping vegetables. Satisfied, Harris crept away and opened the door of the captain’s cabin.

Lydia was lying curled in the bunk with a sheet drawn over her nakedness. Harris closed the door silently and looked at her from the threshold. She was snoring, a quiet, ladylike, snore. Harris grinned. She lay with her back to him. Lying so, her tangled hair straggling down the clean pillow case, the swelling of her hip making an alp of the sheet, she looked defenseless and vulnerable as an orphaned nomad.

Harris crept to the lee board and gazed down on her. He saw the smooth face, heard the contented breathing. He reached out to stroke her cheek, then let his hand fall without touching her. "Rest, my love," he whispered. "We can discuss what we do next when you wake." He stood back and opened a drawer under the settee. Dragging out a blanket, he spread it on the moquette as his bed. He undressed and lay down thinking of a future filled with five million dollars and the love of the sleeping woman. As he drifted into sleep, he suddenly saw the answer to their first problem.

"You’re a genius," he told himself as he sat up. "Bloody brilliant," as he lifted the chair from the knee hole under the desk. "Now make every word count," as he sucked the pen and glared at the blank sheet of paper he had taken from the drawer.

When Harris returned to the bridge an hour later, Shaw was leaning against the bridge front ledge, staring out over the bows. Music sounded from the radio.

"Have you heard any news?" Harris asked.

Shaw looked at him. "About Sellafield?" he asked. "A technical fault, according to a spokesman. There’s nothing to fear, apparently. Teams of specialist scientists are on site dealing with the problem. The government, however, have decided to evacuate the whole area between Preston, in northern England, and Ecclefechan in southern Scotland. A precaution, they say, no more than a precaution. How can they tell lies? Meanwhile, all approaches to Dover and the Channel ports are jammed solid with traffic as a record number of `tourists’ try to reach the Continent. All international airports report severe congestion - there are reports of passengers who have booked in for their flights being mugged for their boarding passes, and the baggage handlers have fled Manchester and Heathrow. It’s all happening out there, Clough.

"Meanwhile, I’m stuck aboard this tub acting as chief cook and bottle washer. I’m missing the chance of a lifetime."

"No you’re not," said Harris. He reached out and squeezed the reporter’s shoulder. "Those reports are the effects. This ship is the cause. You’re sitting in the epicenter of the whole drama. Once it’s all over, the media will fight for your story. Imagine the headline: `MY EYE-WITNESS ACCOUNT OF THE GREATEST CRIME IN HISTORY,’ by Howard Shaw. Think of the television interviews. Think of the book. Think of the world tour, lecturing. You’ll probably be given a medal - a few medals - perhaps even the Nobel Peace Prize, if we come through intact."

"What about you two?" asked Shaw.

"We wouldn’t steal your thunder," Harris assured him. "We’re naturally shy, retiring people. The limelight wouldn’t suit us at all. In fact, the less you mention us, the more we’ll applaud your efforts."

Shaw grinned. "So tell me what’s going on." he said.

"We don’t know," said Harris. "Our involvement is as accidental as your own. You know as much as we do. I think that the key to the whole affair is that flask in the hold."

Shaw brightened.

"You’re a journalist," said Harris. "Assume for a moment that the flask does contain enriched plutonium. If you were the terrorists, where would you take it?"

Shaw’s face crinkled in a frown.

"Assume that you hate the west in general and Britain in particular," Harris added.

Shaw plucked at a strand of his beard and began to twist it in his fingers. "Hatred," he mused, "literal hatred, is really not necessary. In fact, in politics, any emotion is a handicap. But in this present situation, all that is required is commitment to some other country, or even some other ideal." He paced across the bridge and back. "For example," he went on, "France has her own nuclear capability, and therefore no obvious need to steal fuel from us. But for political reasons she might consider embarrassing the British government a priority at the moment - say to forward some EU deal in France’s favor. Whereas virtually any other member who has no such weapons might have decided to produce them and take a short cut by acquiring the raw materials the easy way."

"But they’re our allies," said Harris.

Shaw nodded. "Of course they are," he said, "but only when it suits them to be. That is the essence of politics. Further afield," he went on, "where do you want to start? The Middle East? Russia, or more likely one of her former satellites? One of the former Yugoslavian countries? Any of the fifty wars in Africa? Or do you fancy, say, North Korea? Or China?" He grinned. "When I consider the question," he said, "I would look first at oil."

"Oil?"

"Large fields of oil," said Shaw. "Oil is the currency of all modern life. It has been for most of this century. He who commands oil, commands the world. Adolf Hitler knew that. All his tactics were based on securing supplies of oil for Germany. He failed, of course."

Harris stared outboard. Shaw’s words fitted in with his own (and Lydia’s) thoughts. Which left certain questions unanswered. He moved to the chart table and dragged out all the charts from the top drawer again.

The captain had been a seaman. Harris could respect the man. He half wished that shooting him had not been necessary. And the Captain, like all seamen, kept his charts in strict order. The top drawer was devoted to the charts required for the forthcoming passage. Harris had looked in the top drawer when first they captured the ship. He had found, as he found now, five charts. The seas covered were the eastern Irish Sea, the southern Irish Sea, the Saint George’s Channel, the Western Approaches to the English Channel and the North Atlantic, Eastern Portion. On each chart, the Captain had ruled his proposed course line and noted the course to steer - as any competent navigator would.

Harris opened the charts on the table and stared at them yet again. The captain intended to clear Sellafield steering to pass five miles south of the Chicken Rock Light off the southern Manx coast, then alter course to clear Point Lynas on the island of Anglesey - a slightly longer route than was strictly necessary, but what the hell? thought Harris. Different ships, different splices. The course then ran south to St. David’s, in South Wales. Off the light there, `al Yamama’ would alter course and steer west of south across the entrance of the English Channel and out into the open Atlantic on a track which would take her clear of most shipping. Yet where the course line crossed the hundred fathom line (and the continental shelf) west of the Kaiser I Hind Bank, it simply faded out.

"So where is she bound?" asked Harris, tapping the dividers against the glass top of the chart table. "Where the hell was he taking her? He’s too far west to be making for Finisterre and Gibraltar. He’s too far east for North America. South America? Brazil? Or the Azores?"

"I haven’t a clue," yawned Lydia, when she came on the bridge and Harris posed his question. Shaw had dived below to check on Paddy’s cooking as soon as she appeared. "I don’t wish to be rude, old man," he had said, after his lecture on international affairs, earlier in the afternoon, "but your lady freaks me. I would hate to offend her."

Lydia stared around the haze. "Our first priority is to contact the Navy and get rid of that flask," she said.

"Ah!" smirked Harris, sliding from the seat of the pilot’s chair. "It’s funny you should say that. I had an idea about that. First, we’ll wait until Shaw has gone to bed. We need the cover of darkness, anyway."

"I hope you don’t intend to try using the radio," she said. "McKendrick’s bound to monitor all the channels this ship can transmit on."

"No," said Harris. "I’d worked that one out. My way is a case of back to basics, I’m afraid."

CHAPTER.24

"Well?" demanded the Prime Minister.

Sir Germain Swords eyed him across the desk and cleared his throat deferentially. "I have read the report, Prime Minister," he confessed.

"And?"

"I really fail to see how I can help, Prime Minister." Sir Germain examined the cuffs of his shirt and adjusted that on the left to show another millimeter of starched cotton below the sleeve of his crumpled, hand tailored suit. "My sphere of influence - what little remains, indeed, these days - is restricted to the senior ranks of the civil service."

"Your sphere of influence is defined by myself," the Prime Minister told him. "At this moment in time I particularly need your diplomatic skills."

Sir Germain gazed frostily at the politician. "My modest talents have not been employed since your predecessor called upon them three years ago," he said. "Commander McKendrick is beyond my reach, as I understand the situation."

"Of course he is," snapped the Prime Minister, and wished that he had thought to wear his jacket for the interview. Sir Germain gazed straight into his eyes and waited with every appearance of benign patience.

The Prime Minister shuddered. Sir Germain’s stare had all the distilled charm of a snake about to strike. He sloughed off the impression and sat back in his chair. The election winning smile flashed in the office gloom. "You have a long history of devoted service, Sir Germain," he said. "In fact," he leaned forward and lowered his voice, "in fact, Sir Germain, your name cropped up only the other day, just before I went on holiday - I took the list to the villa for consideration." Again, his smile advertised the skill of his dentist. "You have influential friends, Sir Germain. They suggest you warrant a seat in the Lords."

Sir Germain nodded and rested his wrists on the polished wood of the desk before steepling his finger tips.

"But I would rather like some assistance," said the Prime Minister.

Sir Germain nodded. "For what, exactly," he asked, "is this organization asking?"

"These terrorists?"

Sir Germain smiled faintly. "Terrorists, perhaps, to a politician, Prime Minister," he said. "To my humbler self, they are a well organized group of men dedicated to a purpose." Seeing the Prime Minister’s lips compress, he added, "Their purpose happens to clash with the political aims of the current government. Nevertheless, they warrant respect. They have shown themselves to be sufficiently well organized to walk calmly into one of the most closely guarded State properties in the land and to walk out holding State chattels worth vastly more than Her Majesty’s State regalia on the open market. And, furthermore, they continually broadcast the location of said appropriated chattels to the world while Her Majesty’s First Minister of State sits impotent in his office. I merely repeat from the report you so graciously allowed me to peruse. But that, sir, speaks of some rudimentary planning, I would judge."

"It’s simple enough when the leader happens to be the chief of security at the installation in question," snapped the Prime Minister.

"Of course, sir," said Sir Germain. "I shall not dwell on the role of the security services in vetting the good Commander prior to his elevation to the post. That is for you to ascertain. What role do you envisage my playing in this affair?"

"Initially, I need you on the spot," the Prime Minister shrugged, "to advise, shall we say, the Admiral."

"Which particular, er, spot is that, may I ask, sir?"

"Aboard the taskforce’s flagship. Admiral Blitterslee is too young."

"You mean he is politically inexperienced?"

"Exactly. A helicopter and communications man are waiting for you in Hyde Park. I suggest you take the file with you."

A telephone by the Prime Minister’s elbow started to bleep. Sir Germain folded the file and tied the ribbon to secure it, but made no effort to move.

"Yes, Sir Germain?"

"What, precisely, sir, might be my - ahem! -terms of reference?"

"You have a completely free hand, Sir Germain, and my hearty support. Yes?"

"One thing further, Prime minister. A macabre detail, and no doubt tedious to you. The corpse, sir. Do we have any further elucidation as to the cause of death? Or, indeed, any hint of identification?"

The telephone buzzed on. The Prime Minister frowned. "He was shot in the spleen. Does the report not... ?"

"Oh, yes, sir. But it also mentions a small stab wound. About a centimeter wide - that’s roughly half an inch, is it not? - in the base of the skull."

The Prime Minister glanced at the buzzing telephone. "I’m expecting a call from the German Chancellor," he said.

"Is there any possibility of my having sight of the bullet, Prime Minister?"

"I suppose so." The phone buzzed on. "Yes, yes. I’ll arrange for the ship’s doctor..."

"Please be kind enough to send it to me post haste," said Sir Germain, "sir." He rose from his chair.

In the cabinet room annex, a young secretary was waiting for him. Sir Germain eyed the youth, sneering at his short sleeved shirt and open neck. "We were caught rather o the hop," said the secretary.

"Indeed?"

"I was on holiday in Barbados. I landed only an hour ago. This way, sir." He steered Sir Germain to the front door. "I shall be your prime contact here," he said. "Is there anything you want?"

Sir Germain took in the dark ringed eyes and slumped shoulders. "Confidence," he said, and dragged open the door.

The limousine wafted him through the muted London traffic from Horse Guards to Hyde Park. The Chinook was squatting on the grass, its attendant fire engines parked under one of the surrounding trees. A small boy on roller blades watched from a tarmac walk a hundred yards away. Sir Germain allowed the driver to disembark and hold open the door for him. He stepped out with a nod of thanks and smiled at the RAF crewman who jogged over to greet him.

The crewman guided him to the steps, then helped him climb aboard. The starters were whining as soon as the door was closed and locked. The second engine was firing up as Sir Germain was shown to his canvas seat next to where a small, nondescript man, was already seated. The small man looked up from the brief case he was hugging, and smiled.

Sir Germain stared at him. "Good evening, Dodds," he said.

"Good evening, sir," said Dodds. "How nice to be working with you again, Sir Germain."

Sir Germain settled his buttocks into the frame. "It’s been a long time, Dodds. How long?"

"August ‘93, sir. That business with Mr. Starr."

"Ah, yes, Mr Starr!" Sir Germain sighed. The engines increased their power and the noise drowned out further conversation. The two men jerked in their seats as the machine took a short run forward and hoisted itself into the fume thick air.

The Starr affair, thought Sir Germain. His cadaverous face creased in a smile of happy recollection.

Jerome Starr had been young for his post, so young that his oldest child was only eight years old at the time of his promotion, if Sir Germain’s infallible memory served him correctly. Sir Germain, true to his charitable tenets, always thought it a shame that the children should suffer in such affairs, but generally, suffer they did. And the wife, of course.

Madeleine Starr was a pianist, a youngster of great promise on the concert circuit. Sir Germain had been quite a devotee. For a moment, the knight could hear her rendition of the Beethoven Kreutze in the Queen Elizabeth Hall again. Just the first half dozen bars. He never did hear her complete the piece. How he regretted missing it. The critics had rhapsodized her performance, the following morning. That was in the early editions. The critics were removed from the later editions, those which carried the headlines about the suicide of the rising Mr. Starr of the Ministry of Defense. Slashed wrists. The bath filled to overflowing with pink gore; and Jerome. Wearing a Jermyn Street suit. A foolish man, Jerome Starr, and a tragic. So young! said the newspapers. Such a glittering future!

"One of my better efforts, Dodds," said Sir Germain into the roar of the engines. "Timing is everything in these matters."

"You always were the true professional, Sir Germain. That’s why you’re such a joy to work with."

Sir Germain bowed acceptance of the compliment. But a one centimeter - that is half an inch, is it not? - stab wound in the base of the skull! There was a flash from the past! Ghosts began to stir as Sir Germain’s head drooped on to his chest.

He saw the Major, old even then for his rank, and the RSM - what was his name? Ah, yes, Tom, Tom McCutcheon - and a young Mr. McKendrick fresh from the Isles and keen as a toper smelling a distillery. And all those pretty young ladies. Sir Germain could remember each face. Pretty? Pretty indeed, but a surface gloss, exactly like the Major’s. Hard as diamonds before they started and harder still once the Major was done with them. And Tom. All dead within half a year of the operation starting. No known graves. Not to be expected, really, considering the nature of the operation. Sad. So sad. The organization dissolved in a cloud of acrimony after that. Some people considered the whole concept to have been an error of judgment.

Sir Germain sketched a smile. History, though, would never pass judgment, he mused, because history would never be permitted to hear of the affair. The cacophony of the whisperers had been deafening, at the end. The police objected. The Navy objected. Security objected. What was a lowly army captain to do? Join the opposition. The Major retired to his estates. Tom became warden in a hostel for old folk. Young Germain Swords became a one man department following in some very illustrious footsteps with the anonymity which the role demanded. But of the whole circus, only young Germain Swords had prospered.

The Major had committed a grave error. Sir Germain pondered on the Major’s inflexibility. It became a blindness in him. He - and McCutcheon, come to that - would have been safer employed running a recruiting office in Coventry, inspiring their brand of belief in oily mechanics. God save the Queen, forsooth! Although it had been God save the King when the Major first shrilled out the words. How a man of the Major’s erudition could believe in the Queen as the personification of a nation, Sir Germain could never understand. Power was vested in the politicians, these days, and always had been since the enactment of the Statute. Cabinet ministers called the shots, and if their goals happened to advance their own wealth or substance, where was the difference between them and a `nation’ pursuing goals for its own aggrandizement? The reins of real power, anyway, lay in hands of the Secretaries in the departments of state. Politicians came and went. Secretaries endured, self effacing, humble, seeking only the odd knighthood and their frippery hidden perquisites. Which explained Germain Swords’ success.

None of which the Major had ever seemed to grasp. Not that there was any doubt concerning the Major’s patriotism, not a word. The Major was the scion of one of Britain’s richest families, an educated man destined for fame and fortune. The War should have been his launch pad to enduring international recognition. Indeed, in the beginning, the Major had prospered. `A talented young officer,’ summarized the Major in 1940 when promoted to Major at an excessively early age.

As the War progressed, though, the Major had become an embarrassment to his regiment. For a start, he consistently refused promotion. "He’d have finished up as a General," said an envious contemporary on receiving his own colonelcy. But the Major remained a Major, thought Sir Germain, because he would not accept the simple facts of life.

The Major was every inch a professional soldier, as was Sergeant, later Senior Warrant Officer, Tom McCutcheon. A curious relationship, that, a cocktail of opposites.

McCutcheon was a street boy who joined the army to dodge the depression and the cotton mills of Blackburn. He found himself a solitary Englishman in the Major’s exclusively Scottish regiment – an administrative error, no doubt. A hard, uncouth lad with a gift for soldiering and a talent for fighting. The Army nurtured McCutcheon’s talents and the Major, perhaps sensing a kindred solitary under the bruised exterior, befriended the boy, harnessing the (then) corporal’s energies in his own quiet crusade. For the Major found his niche and with Tom McCutcheon as his mace, bludgeoned his way along the road of his choice.

Sir Germain smiled as he pictured the pair. Extreme ends of the social spectrum, they met somewhere in the infinity of duty. Tom McCutcheon, a heavy weight champion with light feet and a manner so gentle he might have been a girl, while the Major always behaved with the charm and savoir faire of his set. Neither married, although both were attractive to women, as Sir Germain had reason to know. There was always a hint of gossip surrounding them, though none of it was ever taken seriously by authority. And did their private relationship matter when measured against their professional success?

As glorious War had slumped into the long festering peace, the Major and Tom spent less and less time with their unit and more and more time in places where their skills were needed. They had casually mentioned Malaya, Indonesia, Palestine, Cyprus, Egypt, Korea, Persia, Iraq during Sir Germain’s secondment to their camp - as well as a number of African countries. And Ireland, of course. Never forget Ireland.

Ireland was the Major’s crowning glory, until he went a step too far. He was long past his retirement age by then, Tom, too. They’re past it said the whisperers. Distracted politicians pounced on the excuse. The two old warriors had been easy prey to the assault from within.

Which, mused Sir Germain through the fogs of the Chinook’s din, was all a long time ago; all dead and buried. Until a one centimeter wide - that is half an inch, is it not? - puncture at the base of an unknown man’s skull sliced through the outer layer of the onion of time and released the first bitter bite of acid fumes.

"Dodds, does your box of tricks work from this contraption?" Sir Germain bellowed in the signaler’s ear.

Dodds smiled and nodded.

"Would you contact the Admiral for me and ask for his present position and the disposition of his fleet? Then contact Military Intelligence, top secret and addressee’s sight only." He penned the message carefully in precise, neat letters on a page torn from his pocket book, and handed it to Dodds.

The signaler opened the attaché case on his knees, switched on the transmitter and began to sweep the keyboard with fingers which scarcely seemed to move.

"I see that you haven’t lost your touch," said Sir Germain as he screwed the top back on to his gold fountain pen.

Dodds smiled at him without breaking his transmission.

I hope you will be able to say the same of me when we’re done, thought Sir Germain.

CHAPTER 25

"There’s your proof," said Harris, tapping the radar screen with his finger. "Look at them!"

Lydia gazed down. On the edge of the screen, to starboard, she saw two blurred, puffy echoes. Between them, hard against the screen’s rim, a scatter of elongated dots. "Dublin Bay," said Harris. "The big echoes are the heads to north and south, but those smaller targets are ships. Look at them. They’re static. Why aren’t they at sea? Why are we seeing no traffic? There are usually some ships here, if only the ferries from Holyhead to Ireland."

"So what are you trying to say?"

"That someone is clearing our way. We’ve seen no beacons, no ships, and come to think of it, I haven’t heard any aircraft pass over. We’re in a sort of maritime cordon sanitaire."

Lydia turned to smile at him, then looked out into the night in the direction of Dublin. If anything, the haze had thickened. Sometimes, she could see the glow of the green side light reflecting on the mist and adding another impression to her store of ship life memories. "You don’t have to cheer me up," she murmured. "I’m feeling much better."

"I’m not trying to cheer you up," said Harris. "I’m trying to demonstrate to you the facts of our situation."

"If it wasn’t for that damned flask in the hold, I’d be quite content with the facts of our situation," said Lydia. "This afternoon, I had the best sleep I’ve had for ages. Then afterwards, I ate one of the best suppers I can remember."

"Thanks to Mr. Howard Shaw in the cabin, and one of the prisoners from the hold," Harris prompted.

She moved to his side and took his hand in hers. "Clough," she said, "what we did this evening was the best thing we could do in the circumstances. I certainly can’t think of a better plan. So cheer up. Your plan might work. But just in case it fails, I think we should try to think up an alternative."

Harris grinned. "I’ll turn off the radar. That might encourage them."

He reached out and flicked the switch. Without the set’s whining, the wash of the sea and the throbbing of the exhaust sounded suddenly louder. `Al Yamama’ dipped and creaked in the tide lumpen strait between Ireland and Wales.

Harris glanced at the bulkhead clock. "Half an hour to midnight," he said. "Why don’t you start on a brew, then call Shaw. I’ll call McKendrick, then see you in the cabin."

She squeezed his hand. "Fine," she said. "But no romantic stuff, sweet heart. Try to understand, sweetheart. I’m not promiscuous. To me, making love means forever. You know nothing about me. My past.... there are events, some things I’ve done... you might not want to know me if you knew the truth."

"Then why tell me? Why bother? History began for us, what? two weeks ago? Nothing you can say will change my feelings for you."

"Can’t you understand?" she asked in a wet voice. "There must be no secrets between us. God damn it, Clough. I love you!"

"Oh!"

"Clough, why do you always make everything so bloody difficult? And No! Don’t kiss me!" She moved out onto the wing of the bridge. "Don’t kiss me," she whispered. "I might give in."

Harris rested his hands on her shoulders. "Whatever you say suits me," he told her. "Take as long as you need. But when I say I love you, I mean that nothing matters except what’s to come. Love changes people, you know. Whatever’s haunting you, I would bet you’re the victim."

"Me? Victim? Oh, damn you! Why make it so hard?"

"Just remember, I’m here. I know that I’m not the physical hot shot you are, and I’ve failed with my business. But for better or worse, I’m here."

"So what’s your business got to do with the price of fish?"

"I can’t think what you see in me, that’s all. I’m a failure, but I’m here. I’ll always be here, if only to hold you while you cry."

"Oh, Clough," she howled, and broke from his grasp. As she disappeared down the companionway, Harris called softly, "I love you," and heard a faint "And I love you, you fool," through the sea wash hissing under the bows.

He grinned. She was right, he knew. Business first. Deal with the flask, deal with the prisoners. Concentrate on keeping McKendrick’s matches from the fuse - if, indeed, he had a fuse sticking from the world’s greatest fire work. If, indeed, he had the fire work. If. If. So many imponderables, so many angles to consider before acting. "If I were McKendrick," he thought, "I’d be telling the government that if this flask doesn’t get through, I’d be blasting a new canal between the Irish and North Seas."

He took a glance around the horizon - or as much as he could see in the cloud of vapor swathing around the ship, and shrugged. He wasn’t McKendrick. No doubt McKendrick was far brighter and far more subtle than the failure Harris Clough.

He leaned over the chart table and plotted an experimental position from the Decca. From it, he worked out the speed of the ship and the set and drift of the tide.

At ten to midnight, Lydia brought his tea. "Mr. Shaw’s stirring," she said.

"Good." Harris smiled at her over the brim of the mug. "We can only wait and see," he said. "Once I’ve spoken to McKendrick, we’ll leave Mr. Shaw to his watch and go below and sleep."

Lydia’s reply was to squeeze his hand, then to take her place leaning against the bridge front and gazing out at the sea ahead. "There’s a magic about watching a ship making her passage," she whispered. "It strikes at the fundamentals. It’s symbolic of life, the constant motion, the ability to see no further than the horizon - often less, in fog."

Harris was not listening. He had the radio tuned in to Channel sixteen. At five minutes to midnight, he read the Decca and picked up the dividers and parallel rules. At one minute to, he noted the latitude and longitude of the fix, wrote the reading of the log against it. At midnight, he switched to transmit. "Portishead Radio, motor vessel `al Yamama’ calling Portishead Radio."

"Portishead receiving, `al Yamama.’

"A link call, please, to... " and the reading of the telephone number.

The clicks, then, "And who would be calling the headquarters of the Soldier of God?"

"`Al Yamama,’" Harris grated. "My position..... . Weather settled with haze. Visibility two miles. No ships. No radar contacts."

"Aye. Thank you, Captain. Is your cold no better?"

"No."

"Aye, sad." A long pause with voices muttering in the background. "You are losing a bitty distance, Captain."

"We’re pushing against the flood," rasped Harris. "I reckon a good half knot. This isn’t a destroyer, you know."

"Aye, the tide of course. One of the wonders of the Laird, Captain. No doubt you’ll make up your loss with the ebb."

"Perhaps," said Harris.

"And nothing showing on the radar, I think you said?"

"Nothing."

A chuckle. "Aye, well, the Laird is indeed merciful, Captain. Her Majesty’s subjects can rest easy for another half day. Aye. Good night to you. Speak to me at noon."

"At noon."

Harris switched off the set and wiped his forehead.

Shaw was staring at him from the door to the lower deck. "How can you tell the man there’s nothing on the radar?" he asked. "It isn’t working." Harris glared at him. "I mean," said the reporter, "you’re telling lies. If you worked on newspapers as I do, you’d learn that you have to tell the truth however unpalatable that might be."

"Indeed?" said Lydia.

"Yes, madam," said Shaw. "One of the hardest parts of newspaper work is learning to spell the names correctly. If you misspell the name of the winner of the flower arranging prize at Lorton Show, for example, the paper might lose advertising."

"I stand corrected," said Harris. He yawned and picked up his mug of tea. "The course is one eight three. There are no ships in sight. Please call us at a quarter to four. Do not switch on the radar. Should you see any ships, call me immediately. Good night."

He took Lydia by her hand and ushered her down the companionway to the Captain’s cabin. He fussed in the mess room while she undressed, then turned out the light while he undressed. Again, he lay down on the settee while she settled in the bunk. He never heard her whispered `Good night.’

* * * * *

"You see my problem, Sir Germain?"

"I do indeed, Admiral."

"We are still very much in territorial waters and within UK jurisdiction. There are eight vessels bottled up in Dublin Bay and the Irish government is demanding demurrage."

"Demurrage?"

"Compensation for delay. Then there are the passengers waiting for the ferries demanding accommodation. The Dublin government, in turn, is demanding compensation from our people."

"As they would," murmured Sir Germain. "Very rational."

"How am I expected to act if one of those vessels decides to up her anchor and to steam out into the channel?" demanded the Admiral. "My orders, to put it mildly, are a trifle woolly."

"Do you carry live ammunition?"

"Of course we carry live ammunition!" snapped the Admiral. Then, "Surely, you’re not suggesting that I should shoot someone?"

"I am suggesting nothing," said Sir Germain. "I am merely satisfying my curiosity." He gazed down on the chart the Admiral had spread on the desk top. "However," he went on, thinking aloud rather than conversing, "your rather drastic option might become necessary, in time." He straightened his thin frame and reached for the coffee cooling in his cup. "Of course," he continued, addressing the chart, "once we reach the open sea, once we’re in waters undeniably international, this sort of problem will magnify and become more tangible. I imagine you’re going to be forced into shooting at somebody, sooner or later. Why not sooner, Admiral? Why not inform the world that you are a man determined to force his passage in the most unambiguous terms possible?"

"The Irish are a friendly power," said the Admiral.

"Of course they are," agreed the knight. "One of the friendliest on earth. By the self same definition, so are we friendly towards them. Therefore, they will argue, in acting to restrict their shipping as we’re restricting their aircraft flight paths, we are behaving in an unfriendly manner and therefore we shall be seen as no longer friendly. They might, God forbid, shoot at us." He paused and gazed at the Admiral long enough for the Admiral to feel uncomfortable. "I understand," Sir Germain went on, "that with modern weaponry, he who pulls the trigger first generally destroys his enemy. Is that, indeed, the case?"

"Which would mean that we are at war with the world. I cannot act without I have orders from a higher authority."

Sir Germain cleared his throat, and resumed his calm appraisal. "Sir," he said. "I am a mere civilian, of course, but I do wonder how I would act were I in your shoes. What I would do if, for example, an American warship broke through my cordon. Or should, if you prefer, a rogue freighter flagged in some Third World nation, say, decide to ignore your warnings and sail into my enclave. I shoot at an American warship at the peril of taking some incoming fire. I shoot at a Third World merchant ship at risk of a few diplomatic protests, which we can safely ignore, and she won’t shoot back."

"I can’t win, can I?" asked the Admiral.

"Unless you demonstrate your determination early on," said Sir Germain, "emphatically, not." He smiled deprecatingly and sipped his coffee. "I, of course, am merely an ignorant civilian, Admiral. You are in command of this, er, fleet."

"One might say that we’re sitting at the spearhead of World War Three."

"That is certainly a valid, if pessimistic, assessment, Admiral."

The two men gazed down at the chart. Sir Germain placed his cup back on its saucer. "How many ships do you have at your disposal?" he asked.

"Three," said the Admiral, confirming Sir Germain’s briefing documents.

"Are those all we can muster out of the entire Royal Navy?"

"Two more will join off St. David’s - one is a fleet auxiliary, the other a plastic mine hunter."

"And we already have two frigates and a mine hunter here?"

"The two frigates sweeping in the van," confirmed the Admiral, "the mine hunter as tail end Charlie tagging along behind."

"How the mighty have fallen," sighed Sir Germain.

"Intelligence reports eighteen warships within striking range of the Chops," said the Admiral.

"Ours?"

"Allies."

"Consider them as enemies," said Sir Germain. "I certainly would. When do you expect to reach the point where your national waters argument becomes untenable?"

The Admiral looked at his watch. "It is now twenty three hundred hours," he said. "Say sixty hours longer."

Sir Germain nodded. "A great deal can happen in sixty hours," he said. "I must report to my superior. Would you be so kind as to call for my signalman?"

A few minutes before midnight, the Admiral led Sir Germain to the frigate’s bridge so that he could listen to the coaster’s broadcast to Sellafield. "It always takes the same form," he explained. "It’s as if the damned fellow wants us to know where he is."

"And where is he?" asked the knight.

The Admiral pointed to a radar monitor. "That target, there," he said, pointing into the frigate’s wake. "Thirty miles astern."

The knight frowned. "If we can see her," he suggested, "then surely she can see us."

"Radar works on line of sight," said the Admiral. "We estimate the target’s range of visibility is twelve miles, no more. Our radar sets are modified. We can bend the transmissions round the earth’s curve to some degree. Hence we can watch him, but he can’t detect us."

"He switched off his set a few minutes ago, sir," added the commander. "He’s steaming blind."

The Admiral nodded. Sir Germain moved to lean against the bridge front. He knew himself to be an impostor in the calm, self controlled world of the ship. He was the new face, the man from head office sent to help, and duly resented. The resentment showed in the hands’ manner - including the Admiral’s fawning disdain. It showed in the way no one spoke to him unless he spoke to them first. It showed in the way the steward stirred his coffee before the cup was handed to him.

He sighed. The solitary gun below him, stretching out above the deck of the forecastle, seemed a futile toy to pit against the armada gathering in the Western Approaches, waiting for the pathetic convoy to emerge from the protective cover of British waters.

His recommendation to the Prime Minister for more ships had been rebuffed. There were no more naval ships operational in Home Waters, he was told. And anyway, the Prime Minister said he had every confidence that he could win round Britain’s allies to her point of view by telephone.

Privately, Sir Germain thought that the Prime Minister’s opinion of his own powers of persuasion was considerably higher than Sir Germain’s own estimation. The Spanish, French and Belgians were already hinting that if the UK opened up more of her fishing grounds to their fleets, they might see their way to offering diplomatic support to resolve the Prime Minister’s dilemma. Yet diplomatic support - hand wringing and fine phrases on the television - carried far less weight than crude firepower.

The Americans, bless ‘em, had been more forthright. The London Ambassador had been personally sympathetic, he explained, but the US saw her role in the broader, world, context. Should the plutonium pass unhindered out of British sovereign territory, he said, the United States would feel compelled to take whatever action they considered necessary to prevent it reaching any unfriendly destination. Meanwhile, to show their goodwill towards an old ally, satellite intelligence would continue to be provided to enable Britain to resolve the matter herself. As a precaution, however, a taskforce consisting of two aircraft carriers and thirty attendant destroyers and victuallers was being dispatched from the Mediterranean to help contain the situation. Would the Prime Minister like a couple of cruise missiles targeted on Sellafield?

Sir Germain frowned. The popgun below, and a presumably a similar toy aboard the other frigate, were all that stood between himself and the assorted hostility of a dozen navies. The Admiral, although no doubt a talented administrator, was no warrior, Sir Germain judged. He lacked the killer instinct. He was too correct, politically, made more in the mold of a Chamberlain than of Nelson.

Sir Germain reviewed his options once again. I have fifty nine hours to decide, he was reminding himself when the loudspeaker above his head broke his train of thought. "`Al Yamama’ calling Portishead."

Sir Germain glanced around the wheelhouse. All the watch keepers had turned to face him, their heads tilted, their eyes fixed on the gray box on the bulkhead above his head. When Sir Germain dropped his own gaze to stare at his shabby shoes while he listened, even the ship seemed to hold her breath in sympathy.

After the voices died away, life returned to the bridge. "Nothing there we don’t already know," said the Admiral to no one in particular.

"He told a lie, sir."

"Eh?"

The communications petty officer stepped forward. "He’s telling lies, sir. He said that his radar was running. It isn’t. There’s nothing showing on our detector for his transmission frequency."

"Interesting," said the Admiral. He turned to Sir Germain. "What do you make of that?"

Sir Germain shrugged. What could one make of a captain of some terrorist plutonium carrier if he chose to lie to his superior? "Maybe his radar’s broken down," he murmured. "It’s been a long day," he said. "I intend to sleep. If someone would be kind enough to show me to my cabin... ?"

He was following a rating along an alleyway four decks lower when Dodds, lurching under the weight of his gadget, caught up with him and said in a whisper, "According to my computer, Sir Germain, the voice of the captain tonight was not the voice of the man who made the first contact."

Sir Germain halted in his tracks and glared at the signaler. "Shh!" he hissed. "Dodds, why don’t you join me for a nightcap in my cabin?"

"Thank you, Sir Germain."

The sailor opened a cabin door and held it while Sir Germain and Dodds went inside. "Thank you," said Sir Germain in dismissal. Then, when the door had closed, he said to Dodds, "Explain to me exactly what you mean."

"I recorded the call tonight," said Dodds. "All the other calls are held in the computer’s memory. The voice profile of the second gave only a sixty two percent match with the first. The third gives eighty seven percent, but with the second. With the first, the comparison has fallen to fifty eight percent."

Sir Germain rummaged in his overnight bag, found his bottle of Bowmore, and unscrewed the top. He poured an adequate measure into a glass he found rattling in a holder above the wash basin, and handed it to Dodds. "In plain English, what are you telling me?" he asked.

Dodds saluted with the glass and swallowed the measure. "It means, sir," he said in his precise tones, "that the first call was made by one man while another man made the second and the third calls."

Sir Germain sipped the whiskey he had poured while Dodds was speaking. "Well, Dodds, what do you make of that?"

"I don’t know, sir."

"Why didn’t you mention this on the bridge?"

"I was told that I reported to you, sir. Report to you, I have. If you choose to tell the Admiral, sir, that’s your affair. But it is not my place to broadcast information, sir, only to act as your intermediary."

"Well done."

"Thank you sir. Er, what do you make of it, sir?"

"I don’t make anything of it, Dodds. I intend to sleep to see if inspiration comes with my dreams. I suggest you do the same and we’ll compare notes at breakfast, eh?"

"Right, sir. Good night, sir."

"Good night, Dodds."

When at last he did stretch out on the bunk, Sir Germain found he could not sleep. The ship was too filled with sounds - a door banging, a sailor whistling, hollow footsteps pacing the deck overhead, the muted irritant of the forced draught ventilation - and his mind too filled with solutions to problems which did not exist but might have sprung into existence the moment he closed his eyes.

Through all the convoluted equations of probability he constructed in his head rolled two great imponderables which he could not measure; the first, a one centimeter wide stab wound inflicted twenty hours before, and the second a cloud of memories from twenty years before. But the main cause of his sleeplessness was the haunting thought that the plot he was countering had all the deceptively simple genius of the Major.

Recalling those days when he had known the Major, Sir Germain could not help but recall his own part in the Major’s downfall. That the Major still lived, Sir Germain attributed to the old man’s desire to vindicate his actions. But if, he argued, twenty years of futile searching had generated bitterness, a need for the old man to revenge himself on the country which had rewarded his years of devotion so shabbily, then was it possible that the Soldiers of God were led not by McKendrick but by the Major himself?

CHAPTER 26

At six o’clock the next morning, Harris rolled off the settee and dressed. He knew his stroke of genius, the plan which would save himself and Lydia, the super intelligent ploy by which they would both earn the plaudits of a grateful nation, had failed. So that waking was seeing yet another flaw in his character being publicly aired. Looking at it, he decided that he preferred sleep. He slouched into the galley and made coffee. Shaw, he noticed – or Paddy, he didn’t know whom – had washed the crocks from the previous supper. Carrying the two mugs, he climbed the ladder to the wheel house.

Lydia was propped against the bridge front by an open window, enjoying the feeble draught created by `al Yamama’s’ passage. She turned and smiled when she heard his footstep and greeted him with a kiss. "Nothing in sight," she told him.

Harris sagged and stared sourly into the haze. "It was a long shot, but I was convinced that I’d found the way out for us," he said. "Obviously, we can’t rely on miracles all the time."

She stroked his hand. "Don’t worry, sweetheart," she whispered. "What do you suggest we do next?"

Harris frowned. "Next," he said, "I think I let the prisoners out of the hold and tell one to get busy with our breakfast. The other can help me check the lifeboat stores."

"The lifeboat?"

"Only a precaution, but I’ll bet you it’s neglected. Checking the provisions is no more than common sense, don’t you think?"

"Are you thinking of making a run for it?" she asked.

"Not seriously," said Harris. "Not yet, anyway. I did think of our taking to the boat, but then it occurred to me that whoever it is shadowing us - the Navy, as I assume - would probably spot the lifeboat on their radar. They’d certainly see if we stopped to launch it."

Sweat was already beginning to bead his forehead, and he wiped it with his soiled handkerchief as he strolled to the chart table. Lydia had kept an hourly plot. Her neat circles and notes inched down the chart. Harris gazed at them for a moment, measuring their progress in relation to the land and pondering their chances of escaping in the boat. How good is a military radar at detecting a small wooden boat at extreme range? he wondered, and answered himself, I don’t know, but now isn’t the time to find out.

`Al Yamama’ was well into the northern part of Cardigan Bay. To the east, the coast of Wales lay thirty miles or more away, while Ireland, to the west, lay closer at fifteen or so. To the south, the bulge of Pembroke guarded the estuary of the Severn. To the north, the South Stack light house, the last outpost of Anglesey, was retreating at six knots into their wake.

"If we did take to the boat," he said, "we’ve already missed our best opportunity. If we could have made it close inshore, then we could have coasted along the island of Anglesey making for the mainland around the Lleyn Peninsular. Had we kept very close in, we might have beaten their radar. Our next chance will be Saint David’s Head in Pembroke. After Saint David’s, unless you fancy ocean voyaging in an eighteen foot open boat, we’re stuck aboard the coaster with the plutonium and the prisoners."

"At least we’re together," said Lydia.

Harris grinned. "Thanks," he said. "As far as we are concerned, this voyage has to end in tears. Do you suppose they’ll let us share a cell if we promise not to steal any more plutonium?"

"I think," said Lydia, "that perhaps you should check out the boat. There’s not much more we can do except wait for arrest. Somebody, sooner or later, is going to seize this ship, and that somebody will not necessarily be the British. Whoever it is, we will be international embarrassments. Our best choice would probably be to be taken by the Americans. Some continental attitudes to criminals are robust. I wouldn’t give odds of more than fifty fifty on any of us surviving the assault."

"Should it come to a fight," said Harris, "there are some automatic rifles and ammunition in the cabin." He stared down at the tidy deck with its flaking paint and shabby, utilitarian beauty. "I don’t relish the thought of a fire fight," he muttered. "This ship is no more built for waging war than poor `Badger’ was. And," he looked Lydia straight in the eye, "that’s the only shoot out I’ve ever taken part in. I’m not sure how I’d behave. All I can remember doing when the trawler was attacked was trying to claw through the deck for cover. Hardly a heroic reaction."

Lydia patted his arm. "Don’t worry," she said. "You’ll come up trumps when you need to."

The morning passed with Paddy working first in the galley, then checking out the engine before starting on the lunch, and Scouse helping Harris replenish the lifeboat’s water and provisions and overhauling her gear.

The boat was a heavy wooden work boat fitted with a diesel engine and a mast and sails in addition to her three sets of oars. Water tanks and food lockers were built in under the thwarts, with buoyancy chambers fitted round the sides. She was, according to a plastic notice screwed to her stern, certified for fourteen passengers. "On a lake, maybe," said Harris, when he read it.

"In a flat calm," agreed Scouse, "an’ only then if you’re weightless."

The sailor worked hard, though,, which pleased Harris because the common ship-work afforded him a distraction from the unreality of his own situation. In the simple, physical tasks, he found a peace spreading through him as memories of his seafaring youth bridged and blurred the failures of the years between. As noon approached, he felt stronger and therefore more confident so that, when he left Scouse replacing the gear in the boat and returned to the wheelhouse he could honestly say to Lydia, "I’m quite looking forward to speaking to McKendrick."

"Don’t get too cocky," she said.

"I wonder what he’d say if I told him the truth," he mused.

"He’d probably blow the whole plant to kingdom come," she said. "Don’t even think of it."

"No," he said. "But it is a thought."

She had marked their position on the chart for him. Harris was standing by the radio, Scouse working on the poop.

"Shall I take this ax down to the engine room and sharpen it on the grind stone down there, mister?" shouted the sailor.

"Good idea," said Harris, distracted by the thought of the forthcoming radio call. Then to Lydia, he said, "So much for my grand plan."

"We’ll think of another," she told him. "You did warn me it was unlikely to work."

He smiled briefly, then turned his attention to the radio set. As he switched on, he glanced at the position she had noted in the margin of the chart, cleared his throat, then pressed the transmit bar on the handset. "`Al Yamama’ calling Portishead Radio," he rasped.

"Portishead Radio. Receiving, `al Yamama.’"

"Request a link call please."

The line clicked. McKendrick answered. Harris rasped through the formula. McKendrick chuckled, "Aye, thank you Captain." The connection was broken.

Harris made to hook the handset back in its cradle. "Lunch, I think," he said.

Scouse emerged from the companionway holding the ax in his hand. The newly sharpened edge glinted. "Shall I grease this and put it back in the boat?" he asked.

Harris nodded.

The sailor left the wheelhouse through the port side door - the lifeboat was stowed on the port side of the poop - passing Harris as he did so. Harris was turning to follow Lydia to the mess room when the sailor shouted, "Eh, mister, come and look at this!" He sounded agitated. Harris ran outside, forgetting to take the pistol from his trouser pocket in his haste.

* * * * *

H.M.S. `Battle-ax’ was sliding through the pewter sea with Sir Germain Swords leaning over the quarter-deck rail and trying to see a solution to his problems somewhere in the Channel-green depths. That the frigate made scarcely a ripple in her passing impressed the knight no more than any other of her technical complexities, or the miracle of the new day. He felt nauseous from the motion, irritated by the Admiral’s boyish looks and unduly confident manner, and felt the beginnings of a headache from, he presumed, the deceptive brilliance of the surrounding haze. Above his head, the funnel exhaled its faint licorice smear and the giant radar scanner rumbled on its bearings. Dodds, Sir Germain’s three dimensional shadow, stood relaxed behind him clutching his magic box in both hands. Which also irritated Sir Germain.

"Go and find us some coffee, why don’t you?" he asked.

Dodds disappeared into an open door. Sir Germain resumed his frowning contemplation of the sea. The last message received from the Prime Minister told more between the lines than within the text. The nation’s leader felt he was in international purdah and was not enjoying the experience.

"Terrorists refuse to speak to me," he wrote. "Insist on dealing with Burlington Harrow. Why? He a junior minister. Our allies losing patience with your inactivity. How do you intend to resolve crisis? Reply closed line immediately detailing your plan."

Sir Germain had replied, but not to the Prime Minister. Instead, he sent two messages to old friends. Citing his credentials, M23 SOG, he requested from the head of the secret services ("most urgently") any known connection between Commander McKendrick, (Police Special Branch), Burlington Harrow (junior minister at Dept. of Employment) and Major Lord Sissingstone, present whereabouts unknown but possibly at ancestral home of Dunclamman Castle. Then, to the officer commanding, SAS, "Dear Dickie, I have a small problem. Could a few of your boys call on old Jamie MacClune’s home and establish where he is? Tell them to proceed with great care, old man. Jamie’s a tricky bastard. Regards, Gerry Swords. PS, Watch out for the ghosts. GS."

It seemed to him that being stuck aboard the frigate was rather like spending the weekend with the wrong house party and thereby missing the main event of the week. He was considering ways of having himself recalled to London when, at ten minutes to six, a disgustingly cheerful sailor dressed in a shabby blue shirt and frayed jeans came rolling along the deck towards him.

"Sir!"

"Yes?"

"The Admiral asks would you like to step up to the bridge, sir," said the sailor, as if Sir Germain was some hand to be ordered to come or go at the Admiral’s whim.

Sir Germain would have preferred a cup of freshly ground Java, a copy of the Times and the solitude he needed to work out his tactics should any shadows from the past confront him with his part in the Major’s downfall. "Of course," he said.

"This way’s easier, sir," said the sailor. "That door leads to the engine room."

Sir Germain hated the man’s impassive face. "Indeed," he said.

Admiral Blitterslee was seated in a high chair staring out through the tinted glass windows when Sir Germain stepped into the hallowed calm of the wheelhouse. "‘Morning!" he boomed. "We have received a signal from `Clackmannanshire.’"

"Good morning," said Sir Germain. "Clackmannanshire? Not civil disobedience in Scotland, surely?"

"`Clackmannan’ is our tail end Charlie," said the Admiral. "The mine hunter. Read!" He thrust the flimsy at Sir Germain.

The knight ignored the outstretched hand until he had his glasses out of their case and fixed firmly on his nose. He smiled at the Admiral. "Thank you," he said.

"I would appreciate your recommendations," said the Admiral.

Sir Germain read, then read again. He looked up, keeping his face impassive to hide his surge of elation. "Would you care to tell me what happened?" he asked.

"The mine hunter reported sighting an illuminated life buoy sometime about half an hour ago," said the Admiral. "I ordered her to pick the blighter up. Turned out it wasn’t a man, though. A bottle, the commander reports. Says there appears to be a message inside."

"How quaint," murmured Sir Germain. "Do we know whether this missive is the last word from some love-sick sailor dumped into the South Atlantic thirty years back, or some message vital to the current operation?"

"It could hardly be thirty years old, sir," said the commander. "Those lifebuoy lights only work for twelve hours."

"So that the chances are it came from the terrorists?" said Sir Germain.

"It was found immediately in the coaster’s wake," said the Admiral. "I’d say it came from her."

Sir Germain stared out of the window. "Admiral," he said. "Forgive me if my arithmetic is rusty, but I calculate that, if the target is making six knots, and this mine sweeper thing is thirty miles behind her, then it would take her five hours to reach the place where the bottle was dropped. And that, five hours before that, our frigate would have steamed past the bottle."

"Correct," said the Admiral.

"Then I suggest that we open the bottle."

"Signal `Clackmannanshire’... "

"No!" said Sir Germain. "Have the bottle brought here. I shall open it myself."

"Amend that signal," said the Admiral.

"I shall send the signal," said Sir Germain. "Where’s the nearest RAF base with helicopters?"

"RAF Valley, near Holyhead on Anglesey."

"Dodds! Send this will you, dear boy? `To Prime Minister. Direct helicopter from RAF Valley to meet rear ship in escort. Collect package and bring to my hand aboard flagship.’ Sign it as usual, will you. And don’t take all day about it, there’s a good fellow."

A awe-filled hush fell on the bridge as Sir Germain dictated his message - any man who could demand of the Prime Minister carried clout. As Dodds began to input the message, the keys of his computer gained a sudden importance. Sir Germain smiled into the reverent atmosphere. "Is there any possibility of a smidgen of breakfast, Admiral?" he asked. "Anything would suffice - a few slices of toast, maybe an egg or two with some smoked bacon and perhaps a tomato, no! three tomatoes - would suffice. And perhaps a pot of coffee?"

"Five minutes to the landing, sir," sang a communications rating.

"I had forgotten," the Admiral confessed to Sir Germain, as the commander sent the crew to recovery stations. "There was a message. A chopper’s bringing some information you apparently asked for." He slid from the chair and moved to a window looking aft.

"Ah, yes," said Sir Germain. "From the PM, no doubt." He eased himself into the Admiral’s still warm chair where he was sitting a few minutes later when the weighted bag from the helicopter was handed to him.

He untied the neck and reached in. Withdrawing a large yellow envelope, he held it delicately in front of him. "Now for the moment of truth," he thought, and his hand was shaking slightly as he pushed his long finger under the flap and ripped the manila open.

A hand written sheet, first, headed `Preliminary Post Mortem Examination. Subject: Unidentified. White male, approximate age forty five - fifty years. Body naked, recovered from sea at 1145 (see deck log and form DOB 22, HMS `Clackmannanshire’ July 4) time of death judged within previous twelve - twenty four hours. Weight, fourteen stones four pounds. Height five feet five inches. Generally good health. Cause of death uncertain without further tests. Two wounds, both potentially fatal. One) gunshot in left lower abdomen piercing spleen and disrupting adjacent organs. Two) stab wound approximately half inch wide, one inch deep, to base of skull severing spinal chord. Weapon apparently thin bladed knife. Subject not, repeat not, drowned.’

Sir Germain flipped through the photographs. "Dirty," he muttered when he saw the gaping hole left by the bullet. "A complete amateur."

What he was looking for was jammed in the bottom of the envelope, however, in a small plastic bag. Sir Germain hauled it out with a look of glee. He held the transparent sachet up to the light and stared. "Well, well!" he sighed.

The bullet had opened out on impact, but was otherwise intact. "Perfect," he thought. "Hollow nosed. Rather like a shy wild flower, a sort of lead orchid. Very nice. Old Tom knew his stuff."

He lowered the sachet to his lap and gazed out through the window. Old Tom knew his stuff. Jamie knew his stuff, and the girls they both trained knew their stuff. Except for one flaw. All the girls were killed. Which left Jamie and Old Tom.

Jamie exuded loyalty and instilled loyalty. To Jamie, disloyalty was a sin which overshadowed pride or greed or coveting thy neighbor’s wife or the ox her husband bought her. Sir Germain smiled. Disloyalty was Jamie’s blind spot.

When news of the deaths began to filter into the office at Fulwood, Jamie became obsessed with the thought that he had a traitor in his group. Ridiculous, of course. All members were security vetted until their every virtue and vice was labeled and tagged and filed away in the fireproof cabinets which lined Jamie’s spartan office.

At the time, Sir Germain had considered the biggest problem to be posed by the absolute secrecy of the operation itself. He remembered mentioning his opinion to Jamie, and Jamie’s withering look in reply. Sadly, Sir Germain had been proved correct and in retrospect, Sir Germain knew, as he had always known, that he should have been running the department himself.

Only four people knew the girls’ objectives, including Jamie himself and Tom, Captain Swords and, of course, Sergeant McKendrick. Yet when it was obvious to all that the plan had gone sour, Jamie insisted in carrying on. Jamie suspected a traitor from the first - he was too experienced not to recognize the signs. Captain Swords disagreed. The atmosphere in their headquarters hut, never cordial, became polar.

When a jealous Brigadier from Military Intelligence had asked Captain Swords a little too casually, "Are matters all right in your madhouse, Swords?" the young officer had replied, "Well, sir, now that come you ask, one or two details do give me cause for unease."

Two days later, the Captain won his majority and a transfer to his present job - a post calling for both delicacy and firmness. A week after that, and Sergeant McKendrick went about his business. Then Jamie was retired. So secretive was he that no one outside his little band ever knew of the leak. Nor, as far as Sir Germain was aware, was Jamie ever told of his acolyte’s treachery.

Having neutered Jamie, Sir Germain neutered Tom. The Warrant Officer had a son - a trifle illegitimate, but we’re all broad minded these days. The son held the Queen’s commission. Sir Germain had hinted. One word from Tom, and the boy’s career would terminate. After which, all those with loyalty to Jamie were beyond accusing Sir Germain of his putsch. With the exception of whoever it was aboard the ship carrying the flask of plutonium.

Sir Germain squared his narrow shoulders. One more round to fight. The prize, a seat in the Lords. To the runner up, oblivion.

The bottle was a screw top soft drinks bottle made of plastic. The neck was attached to a weight, and the body to a battered, unidentified, life buoy. A sailor brought the whole muddle to the bridge and offered it to the Admiral. Blitterlees gave it a glance, then nodded towards Sir Germain.

The knight woke from his reverie and gazed at the sailor. "Would you be so kind," he asked, "as to undo the top, clean out that grease, then extract the note for me?"

The sailor obliged. Sir Germain took the polythene bag he removed from the bottle with the chart room dividers and weighed it in his hand.

"They certainly did a thorough job in keeping the message dry," remarked the Admiral.

"Yes," Sir Germain agreed. He teased the message from the bag and spread it out on his lap. Fitting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he glanced down at it. Two pages of foolscap written in a careless hand. Sir Germain sighed, and asked the bridge watch at large, "Why can’t these people keep these things brief?"

Nobody replied. Sir Germain read once quickly, then a second time more slowly. He removed his glasses and resumed his staring through the window while tapping the note against his thumb nail. "I think, Admiral," he said at last, "that our rear ship should close the target as near as he can without being seen. He shall continue to steam in the target’s wake until I decide otherwise. In the meantime," he slid from the chair, "Dodds! Come with me. There’s work to be done."

CHAPTER 27

Scouse was standing by the lifeboat, the ax in his right hand and raised above Harris’s right shoulder. Harris was standing in front of him and staring out over the rails astern.

"There, mister. Look!" said Scouse.

Lydia sprang. She seized the sailor’s wrist. "Drop the ax in the boat!" she yelled, and bashed Scouse’s arm against the gunwale. The ax clattered into the bilges.

"Aw, hey, missus!" said Scouse. Both he and Harris wheeled about.

Lydia stood, crouching slightly, her hand raised to ward off Scouse’s counter attack. Her face, pale and tense, was contorted with fear. "You bloody fool!" she hissed at Harris. "He’s holding an ax and you stand with your back to him?"

"I didn’t mean no.... I was puttin’ it into the boat," muttered Scouse.

"He was showing me that," said Harris, nodding into the coaster’s wake. "Take a look! A mine sweeper!"

Lydia gazed into the haze. "Oh!" she said.

"I’ll nip down below and get my chow," said Scouse. "If you’ve finished with me, mister."

"Yes, you go," said Harris. He turned to Lydia, squaring his shoulders. "Well?" he said. "It worked."

Slowly, she relaxed. Then she burst into tears. Harris grabbed her and pulled her head to his shoulder. "I’m sorry, Clough," she sobbed. "I shouldn’t fly off like that. I’m all on edge. It’s like having permanent PMT."

"I was stupid to leave myself exposed," admitted Harris. "I never thought. But those two lads are docile enough. Provided they’re fed regularly, I very much doubt they’ll cause any trouble. Neither can navigate, for one thing, and neither is so stupid as to not realize they’re in a hole. They think that a good word from us will help them out."

He felt Lydia nod. She sniffed deeply. As he fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief - jammed under the pistol, as it happened - she hugged him, then stood back. "You must never trust anyone," she said. "Promise me?"

"Promise," said Harris. He offered her the dirty linen.

She glanced at it, then wiped her eyes with her wrist. "Particularly," she sniffed, "whoever comes to deal with us. They’ll have their own agenda. We won’t appear on their list of priorities. They’re all rotten." Then she turned away to stare at the mine hunter.

Seen bows on, the gray war ship looked impressive with the sea piling in a white cushion around her stem and her radio antennae rocking to the motion of her lattice mast. Altogether, with the sides of her wheel house sloping out, she had the looks of a wise and peaceful old man.

As the couple watched, the barrel her forecastle gun twitched to keep its aim steady on `al Yamama’ when the war ship yawed a couple of degrees off her course. "She doesn’t seem to trust us very much," said Harris. "Have you been giving advice to her captain?"

She dug him in the ribs. "Bastard!" she told him, and giggled. "Shall we greet them on the bridge, Captain? And don’t you think you should put on some clothes more appropriate to the occasion?"

"Like what?" he asked. "I’ve tried some of the Captain’s and they flap about as I walk."

"Then let’s hope they are perceptive enough to see the man underneath."

"Like I am of my lady?" asked Harris. "It’s a good job I’m not attracted to designer labels." He leaned closer to her. "I must admit, though," he whispered, "I can’t wait to see the lady underneath."

She blushed and hung her head. "You’re incorrigible," she told him. "Come on!"

They ambled, hand in hand, round the after end of the funnel and along the starboard side of the poop until they reached the bridge wing. There, Lydia stopped to watch the mine hunter closing in. Harris walked on into the wheelhouse. "All hands!" he yelled down the companion. "Rig a pilot ladder to starboard!"

By the time Scouse and Paddy had the ladder secure, the mine hunter had hauled clear of `al Yamama’s’ wake. She was lying off the coaster’s starboard quarter, overhauling her but slowing visibly. As she crept closer, so her guns traversed further and further round, never wavering in their aim on the coaster’s bridge. Her detail became clearer, too. Pale blobs in the tinted glass of the wheel house windows resolved into faces, faced staring, faces judging.

"Rescue at last!" said Shaw.

"Rescue from what?" snapped Harris. Lydia whispered "Steady!" in his ear and squeezed his hand.

"From you people," said Shaw. "I have all my notes, you know. Once I can speak to someone in authority, you’ll find yourselves answering some pretty damned awkward questions. Like, why kill that poor captain chappie? Like, explaining why you acted as pirates in boarding this ship? Like, just what you intend to do with that" - he nodded towards the hold - "flask. Like, why did you prevent me speaking with the captain as I suggested at the beginning. Like..."

"Oh stow it!" said Lydia. She turned away to watch the visiting ship again.

The mine hunter had reached their beam and slowed to the coaster’s wallowing crawl. An inflatable boat was being swung over the far side so that, for a while, it was hidden behind the gray hull. Then it appeared from behind the warship’s stern canting sharply in as it swept round to head for the ladder.

"Oh, my God!" said Harris. "Look at those men! They’re armed! How do we handle this?"

"Play it by ear," said Lydia.

Harris leaned over the bridge rail to watch the boat squeal alongside. The sailors sprang for the ladder. The first man aboard brushed Paddy’s outstretched hand aside, sprinted forward, then swung round pointing an automatic at Paddy and Scouse at the ladder’s head.

"Did you ever see the like?" Paddy protested. "And we honest sailors on a bit of a coaster."

"Oh, my God!" breathed Harris. "The world’s gone mad."

"Act innocent and tough it out," whispered Lydia. "Remember, you’re the Captain."

In all, four sailors boarded. Small, aggressive men, they all unslung their guns and glowered as soon as they reached the deck. Harris stared down from the head of the bridge ladder, and saw three gun barrels pointing up at him. He shuddered, then squared his shoulders, clasped his hands behind his back, and straddled his legs.

The crown of a flying saucer cap appeared above the rail. A lieutenant commander hauled himself over the capping. Once he was standing on the plates, the naval officer dusted his hands and straightened his cap. After a glance around, he stared up at the bridge.

Harris resisted the impulse to salute and stuck out his jaw instead.

The commander gestured to his men. Two ran aft and bounded up the ladder.

Harris stood firm. The first sailor prodded a rifle barrel in Harris’s stomach.

"Stop that!" Harris snapped. "You!" to the lower of the two men, "Step back and allow your officer to come up."

The man hesitated and glanced down at the commander. The officer nodded. The sailor jumped down to the deck.

"Now tell your man to remove his gun from my midriff," Harris told him.

The commander gazed up at Harris from his position by the foot of the ladder. "Stand back, Jolly," he said at last. "Otherwise I’ll be standing here all bloody day." When the sailor was standing on the main deck with his mate, the commander climbed up, his leather shoes rasping on the steel treads.

Harris stood his ground. A couple of steps short of the ladder head, the commander stopped. "Welcome aboard," said Harris. "Would you care for coffee?"

The officer, a cannon ball of a man with a ruddy face, glared at him and his sea tanned cheeks deepened in colour to puce.

"I’m glad you could accept my invitation to come aboard," said Harris. "Now you’ve arrived, it seems churlish not to extend some hospitality to you."

"He’s a murderer!" said Shaw, trying to push past Harris.

Harris dragged the pistol from his pocket and held it out. "This is our total arsenal," he said. "I don’t think your men need those guns. Please tell them to sling them. And you, son," he told the sailor nearest the ladder, "why don’t you go below to the galley and make us all a cup of tea?"

Again, a sailor looked to his officer for orders.

"Oh, do what the man says, Jacks," snapped the commander, "otherwise we’ll all be dead from dehydration."

Harris stood aside. The commander stepped to the bridge wing and made way for his sailor to pass. "Watch them," said Shaw. "They’re killers and pirates. I have it all noted down."

"Indeed, Mr. Shaw - I assume you are Mr. Shaw?"

"How do you know my name?" asked Shaw.

The officer glanced at Harris and frowned. "Mr. Shaw is not aware of everything that is happening," said Harris. "Until your ship emerged from the haze, he had no notion you were coming."

The commander’s frown cleared. He nodded. "We have our ways, Mr Shaw," he said. "I have been instructed to collect your allegations, sir. They may be used to formulate charges."

"Piracy? Murder? False imprisonment?"

"I am, alas, merely the messenger, sir. Your reports will be forwarded to the proper authorities, I can assure you."

Shaw beamed. "I’ll go below and fetch them," he said. "Don’t let ‘em go." He hurried off into the wheelhouse.

"Now, Commander," said Harris. "While we’re alone, come forward and I’ll show you something."

He led off down the ladder to the deck and marched forwards until he reached the forward extreme of the hatch covers. The commander followed at an easier pace. "Well, Captain?" he asked, when he caught up with Harris.

Harris pointed down into the hold. The commander stared into the shadow. "That flask contains enriched plutonium," Harris said. "Weapons grade, I understand. It weighs ten or so tons. I want it off this ship. Then I want those two men who met you removed under guard - they’re the remnant of the original crew. In return... "

The commander held up his hands. "I have no authority to bargain," he said. "Beyond offering you fuel, provisions or water to help you on your way, I am powerless."

"No authority?" stormed Harris. "Then why bother to come aboard?"

"I was ordered to."

"Listen, man," Harris snapped. "We have little time enough. That flask must be out off this ship within the next twelve hours. And, if you want McKendrick to stay calm, you will agree to my terms."

"I absolutely refuse to negotiate with terrorists," said the Commander. "As I said, I have neither authority nor instructions."

"From whom?"

"The Admiral."

"Then contact your Admiral and tell him what I have said. Call him as soon as you get back to your ship. To save time, keep on station. There’s no purpose will be served by your wandering off again into the wide blue yonder while your superiors make up their minds."

The Commander looked at Harris, then turned to look at his own ship. He smirked. Harris followed his gaze and saw the forecastle gun, the Bofors gun and a machine gun abaft the bridge, were now augmented by a dozen marksmen with rifles, and all aiming their weapons at Harris.

Harris said, "Commander, if you foul up on this by firing one shot, come midnight there will be such a bang in Cumbria that your piddling gunboat will melt from the heat. Now use your brains and make that signal! I must have someone aboard with authority to act."

For a while, the Commander gazed at his ship. Harris wondered what signal, if any, he had agreed with his second in command should he wish `al Yamama’ to be fired upon. He casually slid his hand into his pocket and grasped the butt of the pistol.

Still gazing out over the sea, the Commander said, "If I had my way, Captain, you’d all hang."

"And if you live long enough to have grandchildren," parried Harried, "you’ll bless the day that you had no authority." He wheeled away. "I’ll send your men down to you. Go back to your ship and make that signal!"

"Grandchildren! Bah!," snarled Harris. "God help them if they’re as stupid as he is."

He and Lydia were watching the inflatable bouncing back to the mine sweeper. "You did your best," she said. "If the commander reports to his superior, then you achieved your aim."

"Time’s running short," said Harris. "And you’re not happy."

"No, I’m not," she admitted. "Men like the commander are selected for their initiative, but the hierarchy hate them to use it."

"We’ll wait and see what happens."

"We have no alternative, do we?" asked Lydia, and Harris saw her jaw tense. For a moment, he had a vision of another woman, a woman tough, determined and ruthless. Maybe she was thinking of the Commander. Maybe she was thinking of the shortcomings of the military mind. But he saw another person, a stranger who held him in awe. He reached out. She pushed his hand away angrily. He grabbed her shoulders in both hands. When he made to pull her closer to him, she resisted. "It’s me," he said. Then, her knotted muscles relaxed, and she allowed herself to sway to him and nestle against him.

"God help me if ever I cross you," he whispered. "Sometimes I see a woman in you who frightens me."

She looked at him, her eyes piercing his and stripping the protective deceits from his soul so that he felt as naked as he would when he came to be judged. "Yes," she whispered. "God help you if you betray my trust, Clough, and God help me because we’ll both be damned."

Shaw interrupted before Harris could reply. He strolled out on to the bridge wing wiping his lips. "Ha!" he said. "Senior intelligence officers, indeed! Common thieves, more like. The Bonny and Clyde of West Cumberland! You two should get your comeuppance soon enough," he remarked cheerfully. "Don’t worry, though. I won’t dress up the evidence. In fact, I’ll speak up for you both at the trial. You did, after all, help me when we left the beach."

Lydia turned to face him. "Oh, thank you Mister Shaw," she said. She broke from Harris’ grasp and kissed him, a peck, no more.

The reporter stepped back a pace. "I say, steady on," he said. "I am married, you know. I’ve never been kissed by a gangster’s moll."

"Don’t worry," said Lydia. "I am discreet. I won’t breathe a word to your wife."

Shaw paled and opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it. "I... ," he said. "I... ," and swung away to disappear into the wheelhouse.

As the reporter’s footsteps clattered on the treads of the companionway leading to the mess room, Harris turned to Lydia and said, "That was a bit rough on the poor chap."

"Put it down to female malice," grinned Lydia. "But it might make him think twice about what he chooses to tell the world about us."

"You’re worried," said Harris.

"Yes, I’m worried," she told him. Her smile faded. "You can’t guess what a luxury it is to be able to tell someone that, to share my fear. Maybe I’m in love." When she was nestled against him again, she said, "Commander Pomposity was not quite what I expected from the Navy."

"I messed up," said Harris.

"No. You told him precisely where we stood and precisely what we want."

"He wouldn’t let me say what we want," said Harris.

"Then more fool he," she said. "Somebody will have to come back and ask, which, when you think about it, gives us the advantage."

"I think they’ve got a bally cheek asking for anything," said Admiral Blitterslees. "We should put a round through their funnel and leave ‘em for a day to think and sweat. They’ll be demanding suitcases filled with cash before we’re done. And free passage to the island of their dreams."

"Quite right, sir," said `Battle-ax’s commanding officer. "It’s always a mistake conceding anything to a terrorist. The good chaps always end up paying more."

The Admiral sighed. "Whatever," he said, "I’d better signal the Admiralty and request instructions. Have you anything to contribute before I do, Sir Germain?"

Sir Germain broke his concentrated study of the cabin’s deckhead and lowered his gaze to the two officers sitting across the table from him. "You’re feelings are entirely understandable, of course," he said, "but were you to ask my advice, I would say, consider, for a moment, the potential fallout of hasty action."

The Admiral sighed the sigh of the frustrated.

"Let us suppose you contact your superiors," said Sir Germain. "They, in turn, will contact the Prime Minister. I happen to know that at present, the Prime Minister is pretty well fully occupied negotiating with our allies. Before he has decided what he wants of you, time will have passed. We do not have time, gentlemen. As to shooting at the ship, what will that achieve? As the Captain explained to your Commander, the biggest explosion in the history of the world - and, gentlemen, on British soil. Are you aware, for example, that there are three more nuclear power generating stations within the likely range of the blast? Or the supply of drinking water for twenty million people? Yet, despite your man’s visit, we don’t even know what these fellows want."

He laughed softly and waved at the cabin with his well manicured hand. "This ship of yours, Commander," he said, "cost the British taxpayers forty or so million pounds to build. Your entire fleet, Admiral, cost them a hundred million. Have you no idea how much the Prime Minister would pay to resolve this crisis?"

He watched their expressions melt from hard certainty to bewilderment. "I can tell you," he went on. "At this moment, he would give the whole British Navy and its pension fund to be free of that ship behind us - or at least, rid of the complications she drags with her." He stared at the Admiral. The Admiral looked away. "I," said Sir Germain, "intend to pay a lot less. But I wish your man had at least listened to the Captain so that I had some concept of where to start negotiating."

"Shall I tell the Commander to go back and ask?" asked the Admiral.

"No, sir," said Sir Germain. "Why bother to signal them that we start our dealings from a position of weakness? And negotiate I must, Admiral. These terrorists have a part to play. A high risk role. In order for me to suggest it, they must want something from me. If they refuse, Admiral, then that role requires filling by someone else. Someone I can command." He gazed at the two officers. "Better volunteers than pressed men, don’t you think?"

In the silence which followed, `Battle-ax’s’ commander said, "We’ll need to send men aboard, sir, to clear the hatch before we lift the flask."

"They can come with me," said Sir Germain. He smiled his thin smile. "Who knows?" he asked, "but once the flask is in our possession we might be in a position to allow your fire brand commander aboard the mine hunter to shoot off a round or two from his pop gun. Though, on the whole, I’d rather not."

"Rather not?" the Admiral boomed.

Sir Germain stared at him again. "Do you think I have time to shave before the helicopter arrives?" he asked. "I must look my best for the meeting. For your information, Admiral, that ship might well be the key to resolving the stalemate at Sellafield. I’m sure," he smiled, "the Prime Minister would not forgive me if I failed to explore all the possibilities. Nor forgive you, Admiral."

CHAPTER 28

Shaw gazed up. He was smiling broadly, a child at Christmas smile, while his feet jigged against the deck planks. Harris grinned too. He glanced at Lydia. She was standing behind the two men, watching, as they were, yet frowning and chewing at her lower lip.

Harris moved back and put his arm around her shoulders and felt how tensed she was, how near to breaking. "Come on," he said. "We agreed there is no viable way other than this. At least we’ll be rid of the flask."

She flashed him a grimace of a smile and nodded. "I know we agreed," she said, "and I know we’re right. But I doubt they" - nodding up at the helicopter - "will be inclined to see our part in that light."

They could hear the heavy throbbing of the Chinook’s rotors, now, and see the dark stain of its prop wash on the sea. The machine was about a mile distant, dead ahead but beginning to veer away over to port.

"I can’t help but think," said Lydia. "This could mean the end for us. At best, they’ll be tough. They’ll try to split us some way. Don’t let them come between us, Clough. Please."

Harris caught her hand in his. "They won’t," he said.

"They’ll send a hard case," she said. "The best. He’ll have one aim only, and that won’t be our best interests."

"Then he’ll have to think again," said Harris.

"Don’t underestimate him."

The helicopter reached the beam, flying along the wall of the haze, before banking sharply and swinging round to face the coaster. The dark squares of the cockpit windows glinted.

"I wish I had a camera," shouted Shaw above the growing racket of the rotors. "`Rescue came at last in the form of an RAF helicopter. At three o’clock in the afternoon....’" But his voice was lost in the howl of the engines.

`Al Yamama’ lurched as the down draught hit her. She rattled as the world started to throb and seemed to cringe lower in the water. The taint of burnt kerosene washed over the decks as the monstrous bloated belly came to a hover above the hatch.

The trio on the bridge shaded their eyes from the blast and watched. A crewman was staring down from a door open in the aircraft’s side. He turned away and shouted into the fuselage and a second man appeared, shuffling forward on his bottom until his feet hung out in the slipstream. He launched himself and began to descend on a wire, spinning and twisting all ungainly and helpless.

Rather him than me, thought Harris as he leapt down the bridge ladder. The figure came closer. Harris reached up and grabbed an ankle, then a leg, and guided the man to the deck. "Thank you very much for inviting me aboard," bellowed Sir Germain. He began fumbling with his harness. "Do you mind very much if my communications man joins us?"

"Go ahead," shouted Harris.

Sir Germain looked aloft and waved. The winchman waved back. Sir Germain began to tear at the velcro fastenings of his green flight suit. By the time he had peeled it off and was stepping out of it, Dodds was dangling above the deck.

Harris helped the signalman land. Sir Germain, tugging at his suit to straighten it, leaned down and shouted, "There are half a dozen navy fellows in the ‘copter. Do you mind awfully if....? They will help you clear your hatch and then deal with the fastening of the load."

"Go ahead," yelled Harris. Again, Sir Germain waved up at the winchman, then tugged at Harris’ sleeve. "I think," he shouted, nodding up at the wheelhouse, "somewhere out of the way of this gale?"

Harris grinned and gestured for the visitor to precede him along the deck. He watched the tall, angular form stalking aft, and wondered how tough a bargain this man would drive - and what authority he held to fulfill it.

Sir Germain climbed the ladder slowly. In the wheel house, he stopped by the wheel and gazed around. "Germain Swords," he said, turning to Harris with an engaging smile. "Let’s watch the hands set to work, shall we?"

"Harris Clough," said Harris.

Sir Germain wrung his hand.

"This is Miss Goodwood, and Mr Howard Shaw, a newspaper reporter," said Harris.

Sir Germain shook hands with both and offered his eye crinkling smile. But he never looked at Shaw. During the whole brief ceremony, he watched Lydia from under half closed eyelids.

"A newspaper reporter," Sir Germain mused, but eyeing Lydia. "Ah, yes. The gentleman from whom the commander received the notes." At last he switched his gaze to Shaw. "Yes," he murmured, "a most interesting compilation, Mr. Shaw. I took particular note of your, hmm, observations." He smiled again. "Now what I propose, Mr, Shaw," and he wrapped his arm around the reporter’s shoulders in a gesture of comradely solidarity, "is that you leave the ship with the flask. You will be taken to some colleagues of mine, and interviewed - only if you do not object, of course. Purely a routine debriefing, I assure you. Take three, four hours at the most. Then, if you wish, you shall be taken out to the flagship. They have a special press room aboard. You will meet some of your fellow professionals there. Do you know Heath of the Times? No? Daniel Harrop from the Telegraph? No? Well, there are the television people as well, naturally. I’m sure you’ll be allowed a by-line in the nationals. Would you care for Dodds, here - my signaler, Captain, you don’t object, I trust? No? Thank you. Mr. Shaw, would you like me to send a signal while you pack your belongings? Very well. No, no. No trouble at all, I assure you."

Shaw pumped Sir Germain’s hand, then shot below. Sir Germain stalked over to the chart table and took a small pad from his inside pocket. He bent over the chart table and scribbled away, using - Harris noted with a flash of annoyance - the chart pencil. When he straightened, Sir Germain turned to Dodds and asked, "Is your magic box working, dear boy?"

"Of course, Sir Germain."

"Then set it up here, on the table, and send this, if you would." Sir Germain waved the note in the air, then laid it on the chart. As he moved to the bridge front window, Dodds took his place and unfolded the keyboard of his computer.

The helicopter had moved off about a mile and increased its height. On the main deck, the naval men were working to strip off the hatch boards and stack them by the bridge front.

"I do hope they don’t take too long," said Sir Germain. "The ‘copter pilot was wittering on about his fuel reserves as we flew out here. You don’t object to my removing your cargo, Captain?"

"No," said Harris. "It will be a relief to be rid of it."

Sir Germain nodded and smiled. "Of course," he said. "The whole unfortunate affair must have proved a grave responsibility."

The hatch boards were off by now, and the naval hands slinging the strongback prior to lifting it from the hatchway with the derrick.

"The man in charge is Petty Officer Jonas," Sir Germain explained. "That fellow there" - he pointed to an older man standing apart. "For the others, I am told there is a mechanic fellow, or some such thing." He coughed deprecatingly. "We - the Admiral and I - rather wondered whether you might need some help with the mechanical aspect of your ship. For the rest, I am told they are all experts in tying knots and similar such matters."

Harris nodded. "Would it be in order for me to switch on the radar?" he asked. "I hate steaming blind."

"By all means, Captain," said Sir Germain. "This is your command. You must proceed as you think fit."

They were leaning in the port forward corner. Harris moved to the radar in the starboard, casting a smile at Lydia as he went. She was standing on the bridge wing still, staring down at the work on deck, and after switching on the set, Harris stepped outside to her. "Why so miserable?" he asked.

She looked at him. "That man," she said. "He is Sir Germain Swords."

"Yes."

"I know him. Do you know what his job is?"

"No."

"He is the enforcer for the Prime Minister. He makes sure that senior civil servants toe the line. Some, call them the more independently minded, meet with accidents. They call him the Knight of the Long Knife."

"Oh? He seems a jolly sort of cove to me."

"Be careful, that’s all."

"I’m trading with our future," he said. "That’s very dear to me. I’m not very good, but I’m careful."

She stared at him. "You’re trading with our lives. I am...," she shrugged. "But you... I love you," she said. She said more, but the racket of the returning helicopter drowned her words. Harris glanced up, and saw Sir Germain smirking cynically as he watched them. He patted Lydia’s arm, then walked back into the wheelhouse.

The pilot positioned the helicopter so that it straddled the ship with the hold immediately beneath, then held it in a hover. From his position at the door, the winchman signaled to a crewman inside the fuselage. A hooked wire began to unreel from the aircraft’s belly.

By this time, the Naval men had swung the derrick over the side and secured the guys so that the hatch was clear. Only Jonas remained on deck, cool and composed amidst the noise and vibration. He was watching the descent of the hook and signaling aloft with his raised hand.

"Fascinating, is it not, how those flier fellows can keep a machine of that size so exactly positioned?" shouted Sir Germain, and Harris nodded without looking at him.

The hook fed down into the hold. Jonas followed its movement, leaning over the coaming until he waved up at the plane again.

Harris waited, feeling the oppressive weight of the Chinook as if he was holding it aloft by brute strength. The forward end seemed to be only inches above the mast. "It only needs one swell bigger than the rest and we’ll stab her to death," he thought. "Come on Jonas, what’s the delay?"

After a while, the petty officer straightened from the coaming. He looked up and waved his hand. The engine sounds thickened. The Chinook rose a few feet. The wire tightened. The engine sound took on a harder edge again as the aircraft began to lift the flask. The wire quivered under the strain. Slowly, the Chinook carved its way higher into the air. The flask appeared in the square of the hatch. When it was clear of the coaming, Petty Officer Jonas waved again.

Harris looked up. The winchman was standing by the open door, guiding a second wire, thinner, a mere strand, down to the ship.

"Is that reporter chap ready, Captain?" roared Sir Germain.

Harris moved to the companionway and yelled below for Shaw.

"Just coming!" came the reply. Footsteps clattered on the treads. Shaw appeared in the doorway. He darted at Sir Germain and thrust a wad of paper into his hands.

The knight smiled his thanks and gestured to the deck. Shaw grinned, shook his hand, and bolted down to where Petty Officer Jonas was holding the harness ready for him.

"He’s standing there like a prize poodle at the poochie beautician’s," thought Harris savagely, watching the reporter as Jonas tightened the buckles. The petty office stood back, waved above his head, and Shaw rose from the deck like a pantomime fairy.

He was half way up to the plane when he shouted down to the group in the wheel house, shouted down and waved exuberantly. Harris and Lydia waved back as Shaw was hoisted on to the doorstep by the winchman. The huge aircraft wheeled away then, swinging round to head north east, gathering speed as it went. Below it, the flask dwindled as the distance increased until both faded into the haze.

"Tell them the helicopter has departed," Sir Germain told Dodds. "And tell them that Mr. Shaw is aboard and that Harry is to assume responsibility for him immediately he steps off the aircraft."

Dodds began his magic at the keyboard and Sir Germain looked down at the notes Howard Shaw had given him. "A tiresome fellow, Captain," he murmured, and tore the sheets in half and half again. Laying the shreds on the chart table, he said to Dodds, "Dispose of those when you have time, would you, dear boy?"

Harris watched, trying to quell the disquiet he felt. "The helicopter flew off north east," he said. "I thought your flag ship lay somewhere to the south."

Sir Germain started. "Ahh!" he said. "Thank you for reminding me, Captain. Dodds, signal the Admiral telling him that the flask is secure."

"Yes, Sir Germain."

The knight turned back to Harris. "And now," he said, "I really think I should introduce myself to the Colonel." He crossed the wheelhouse, steadying himself against `al Yamama’s’ gentle pitching by grabbing the wheel pedestal as he went. When he reached the door, he stopped. Lydia was staring at him. "May I offer my congratulations, Colonel?" he asked. "You were gazetted two weeks ago."

"Was I?" said Lydia.

"Indeed you were," said Sir Germain. "Did Jamie not tell you?"

"No."

"Most remiss," said the knight, and hauled himself into the pilot chair. "Miss Henderson and I are old friends," he told Harris.

"Harris should not hear any of this," said Lydia. "There is no need. No need! This is secret."

"Harris, is it, Colonel?" asked Sir Germain. "One would have thought that if Captain Clough is Harris to you, then he is entitled to hear the truth."

Cerise blotches appeared on Lydia’s pale cheeks. "You are in breach of the Official Secrets Act," she snapped.

Harris saw the tremor in her bunched fists. He moved to her side. Her arm felt iron hard as he grasped it. "Steady," he muttered. "Whatever he’s doing, don’t let him see you feel it." Then, turning to face Sir Germain, he asked, "Would you like a cup of tea, Sir Germain?"

"Coffee would be rather nice," said the knight. "There’s no need to make it yourself, Captain. Tell Jonas to send his cook fellow to the kitchen, would you mind? While we drink it, you two can tell me all about yourselves - how you came to meet, what precisely your roles have been in all this, that kind of thing. I assure you, I am very interested."

"Mr. Clough is not cleared to hear my story," said Lydia, "Any more than you are cleared."

Swords smiled. "We’re all friends together, don’t you think, Colonel?" he said. "To me - forgive me for making a personal comment - you and Captain Clough appear to have a particularly cozy relationship. An understanding, I would say, were you to ask me. Surely, there can be nothing you have omitted to tell him, something you would rather Mr. Clough did not know, can there?" Sir Germain’s tone was innocent. "And," he added, "I am security cleared. For your information, Colonel."

"No," said Lydia. "Yes."

"Well, there we are," said Sir Germain. "You do approve! Captain, please tell Jonas to send the cook to make our coffee. It is in all our interests that we behave in a civilized manner. Don’t you agree, Colonel?"

Harris turned away and shouted through the window for Petty Officer Jonas. "Send the cook to the galley!"

"Aye aye, sir," said Jonas.

When Harris looked back at Lydia, she was standing in the doorway, glaring at the knight. Sir Germain was sitting aloof in the tall chair, wearing a sardonic smile. "Why don’t you tell us, Colonel," he murmured, when he saw Harris was watching, "precisely what did happen to you? The last news I had, you were employed as a lady of the night in Liverpool."

CHAPTER 29

Harris found Lydia leaning against the rails right aft and staring down into the turmoil of the coaster’s passing. He took up a position beside her, his elbow touching hers, and stared down, too. Water churned from under the scabrous counter. "If you look carefully," he said, after a while, "you can see the little upthrust of each blade of the propeller. One of them must have a bent tip. See the bubbles from it?"

Lydia made no reply.

"Let me show you something else," he said, after some minutes had elapsed without her speaking.

He took her hand. She allowed him to lead her along the poop, past the wheelhouse and down the ladder to the deck. Forward, then, and up the ladder to the forecastle, round the windlass and right forward into the ship’s eyes. "There," he said. "Look over the bulwarks and downwards."

Lydia did as he asked, staring down to where the stem plate first met the sea. As the coaster pitched, the water hoisted up, then retreated, sometimes foam, sometimes smooth and all milky green.

"Now look up at the horizon," said Harris.

Lydia raised her gaze to where the sea faded into the haze.

"We’re beginning to feel the swell," said Harris absently. "That’s the Atlantic breathing deep. Tell me what you can see."

"What am I meant to be looking at?" demanded Lydia.

Harris smiled to himself. "You’re looking at the future instead of the past," he said. He covered her hand with his own. "The first old man I sailed with once told me, `We all scrape the rocks, boy, once in a while’ - I’d fucked up on some job. `Learn from it,’ he said. `Keep to deeper water in future. If you should hit the rocks, then don’t let her founder under you.’"

"A philosopher!" snorted Lydia.

"A plonky," said Harris. "His liver packed up when he was fifty five. But he was right in what he said."

"So?"

"We don’t know what lies behind that haze in front of us," said Harris. "We do know what lies behind the haze astern. Let the haze cover it, then forget it." He slipped his arm around her waist. "Sir Germain seems to be a spiteful old prick. Were you a prostitute?"

"Yes."

"Then you must have had a good reason."

"Does it bother you?"

"Yes, because it bothers you."

"I’m.... dirty, inside. I’m not fit for an honest man."

"So that’s the reason you’ve not let me reach out to hold you? You think you’re contaminated. Your past has been a sort of ghost grinning over my shoulder to remind you that you’re a sort of leper." He felt her struggle in his grasp. "You’re wrong. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and beauty’s something inside you. It shines out, believe me. You’re not dirty. You scrubbed yourself clean with guilt years ago."

She jerked loose from him. "Stop being so bloody jolly decent, Clough. Say something. Get angry. Throw a fit."

"All right," said Harris, "if you want it the hard way. Will you marry me?"

"Clough! You bastard!" She slapped him across the face.

Harris slapped back. Lydia stood rigid. She drew back her hand to strike him again. Harris raised his. "Will you?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"Good."

"Clough, stop taking the piss. You can’t marry me."

"Why?"

"You’re married."

"Not if I’m dead," he said. "I mean it Lydia. Will you marry me."

"Yes, I said."

"What is your name?"

"Does it matter?"

"Only for the registrar."

"Lydia Henderson."

"Are you really a colonel?"

"Swords says I am. Simply due to seniority, not bravery or anything like that." Her shoulders relaxed as she lowered her hand. "I’m pleased, I suppose."

Harris grinned.

She turned to look ahead. "He was right, your old plonky ship master."

The sea hissed beneath their feet as the coaster plowed steadily on to meet her fate.

"Clough, half the world’s gunboats lie out there," she said. "They’re all waiting for us to show up. Then they’ll blow us to hell. Oh! What does it all matter? Let me tell you. Yes, I worked as a whore in Liverpool, and not in the better parts of town, either. It was part of an operation to infiltrate the Irish terrorists. I’m the only survivor of eighteen volunteers. Me, Clough! One out of eighteen! Those girls were the cream, the best.

"After Jamie - the man I call my Uncle, he was the Major who ran the show - had finished training us, we could out do the SAS. He and Tom, a warrant officer, coordinated all the anti-terrorist intelligence in the early days. We had a leak - McKendrick, as it turns out. But when the girls started to disappear, everyone who had an ax to grind brought it out and hacked away. Jamie was discredited. He was retired. By then, all the girls were dead, except me, and only Jamie knew that I still lived.

"He had influence. He kept me his secret - they allowed that, his friends in the higher places - so I kept up the search in Belfast and reported only to him. Swords must wield power, otherwise he could not have uncovered my records.

She sighed. "Poor Jamie. I was so fond of him. He was dedicated, a patriot. He knew everyone, but had no friends. He always said that the greatest threat to the country came from within, and some of the things you see these days make you agree. Swords, for example. Jamie always thought he had plotted to undo the organization - he certainly fared well after he was transferred away, and he’s a ruthless bastard where his own interests are concerned.

"Jamie was a philosopher like your plonky captain. He once told me, `You can go through life giving, or you can go through life taking. Giving’s the honorable way, but giving’s long out of fashion.’ When he was convinced we were givers, he proceeded to make us the toughest minded people he could. But lately," her breath caught in a sob, "lately, I’ve become tired, Clough. Tired and worn. Scared of my own shadow. I want to get out, to catch my breath, to see if there is a life beyond the pale.

"You can’t possibly understand what a luxury it is to be able to talk without having to calculate the effect of the words beforehand. No! Don’t touch me. Don’t let Swords know whether or not we like each other. It’s our only chance of beating him. Go back and talk to him. Do a deal. Move, Clough! Just get us away from this ship and that man. I’ll be along later."

"Do a deal? Me? Ha! My company failed because I can’t do deals."

"Of course you can, if you try. Go on, Clough. Clear off! Let me sort myself out for a few minutes."

Harris watched the stem tearing the sea and listened to the hiss of the rending. Finally, he raised his head and gazed at her. "You’re one of the few living heroes I’ve ever met," he said. "I could never do what you have done. I love you. Whatever happens now, never forget that I love you."

Sir Germain was sitting in the pilot’s chair when Harris returned to the bridge. Two sailors stood lookout, one on either bridge wing. Work sounds floated up from the galley below. Harris heard the door to the engine room slam. "Petty Officer Jonas has organized the men, Captain," he said. "Should you wish to alter anything, please tell him."

"The Navy men are remaining aboard?" asked Harris.

"Only if you wish them to," said the knight. "Their presence will allow you and the Colonel to take a break. The Prime Minister specifically instructed that we do all we can to assist you."

"Tell him `thanks,’" said Harris.

Sir Germain inclined his head. "Which will," he said, "allow you to concentrate on helping myself." He looked at Harris. "You understand, Captain, that I have some difficulty in fulfilling the task assigned to me."

"Which is?" asked Harris.

"Protecting you when you reach the limit of British territorial waters. There is a certain presence awaiting this vessel - the ships of certain foreign navies."

"Oh?" said Harris, frowning slightly. "What would they want with us?"

Sir Germain smiled. "Come, Captain. You know full well. They want the flask in your hold."

"Which is there no longer," said Harris. "No civilized power would fire on an empty, unarmed, merchant ship on the high seas."

"So one might think," said Sir Germain. "But, my dear sir, our friends in Sellafield are not aware that the flask is gone. You have gone to extreme and, if I may say so, ingenious lengths in order to keep them ignorant of the fact of your treachery. Once you reach international waters, however, some foreign power will board you and the truth will out. Then where will you be, sir?"

"Quietly bound out for horizons new," said Harris. "Where will you be, Sir Germain?"

"Ah, where indeed?" sighed the knight. "Probably giving evidence at your trial. How can you demonstrate that you and the good Colonel were not part of the whole plot?"

"There are the two sailors," said Harris.

"Which two sailors were they?" asked Sir Germain.

"And Howard Shaw."

"Ah, yes, Captain, the outraged Mr. Shaw. Surely you heard him? He will happily give evidence of piracy, murder, false imprisonment and a whole host of other unwholesome crimes, I have no doubt. You have a staunch ally there, Captain."

Harris moved away to the chart table. He read the ship’s position from the Decca and marked the chart with its circled dot. He checked the radar. Fine to port, a fuzz of land showed at eighteen miles distance. "We’re nicely on course," he remarked. "There’s the Pembroke coast showing on the radar."

"You must introduce me to the electronic oracle of radar one day, Captain," said Sir Germain. "I’m sure it must be fascinating." Then after Harris had gazed through the bridge front windows for a while, he asked, "Do you object to answering a few questions, Captain?"

"No," said Harris.

"Who are you, Captain?"

"I explained in my note," said Harris.

"Indeed, and I found it most helpful, I assure you. But," Sir Germain hesitated, "it posed rather more questions than it answered. You do appreciate that it helps me enormously to know with whom I speak? Good. You mentioned that you were dead. I have not been able to verify that fact - the situation in Cumbria is not awfully favorable for pursuing an investigation just now. Would you mind very much running over the story again for me? Dodds, here, will take it all down on his machine, by the bye. As you tell me, so he will transmit your details ashore and people there will check what they are able. Just to make certain we have it right. You have no objection? Good. Shall we begin at the beginning? Where were you born, Captain, and when?"

And so Sir Germain began his interrogation.

Harris soon came to hate the sound of his languid drawl. It was not that Sir Germain hectored him, or was rude. Indeed, the knight always maintained his suave manner and perfect - too perfect - politeness. It was not that Harris was imprisoned or brutalized. Food and drink arrived regularly from the galley. No one restrained his pacing the bridge. But the questions came and came, one after the other until Sir Germain’s voice and Dodds clacking keyboard sounded more natural than the muffled burbling of the funnel or the squeals and creaks of the coaster.

"What school did you go to?"

"William Hulme’s Grammar School."

"Who was the geography master?"

"Joe Egg. I can’t remember his name."

"Think, Captain."

"Joe Egg. I didn’t take geography after the first year."

"Joe Egg, who, Captain? I need facts to establish your story."

Did Joe Egg’s name matter? Why go on about Joe Egg? Old Gatley was dead long...

"Gatley. Mr. Gatley. He retired while I was there. A round faced man with National Health glasses, you know, the round ones with the wire frames."

"That’s good, Captain. Very good."

"Who taught you English?"

"Wiggy Thornton."

"Latin?"

"A reverend someone. Buck teeth and gray hair. He used to call us tombstones."

"No doubt with justification. It must be the most thankless task in the world, teaching small boys Latin. But what was his name, Captain?"

Sir Germain never let up. Questions jabbed out while Harris ate. The spate washed over him as he drank, or plotted the ship’s position, or visited the lavatory. Harris came to appreciate the subtlety of the water torture.

Just before midnight, some of the answers began to come in. Lydia was in the wheelhouse then, listening and brooding as Harris writhed. Once, when Sir Germain was glowering at him, Harris glanced at her and was shocked to see the naked hatred in her eyes as she stared at his interrogator.

He better be careful, Harris realized, and pretended to adjust the radar so that he could brush past her in the growing gloom of the wheel house. Strumble Head lay abaft the beam. The North Bishop, the first of the Bishops and Clerks skerries off St David’s Head lay seven miles off and two points off the port bow. "They show a strong echo," he said, nodding at the screen.

"You say that you joined the Merchant Navy. When was that?"

"1958."

"Name the ships you sailed on."

"`Verena,’ `Haustellum,’ `San Gregorio,’" said Harris. "`Amastra’... "

Lydia wandered out on to the starboard bridge wing.

"`Hemisinus,’ `Acavus’... "

Lydia had disappeared aft.

"I served in `Acavus’ for two and a half years, first as Third Mate, then as Second mate. Then the `Verena’ again, but as Second Mate."

Lydia was back again, walking in through the door on the port side. She shook her head.

"Then I came ashore," said Harris. "I was married... "

"Ah, yes, your wife. What was her maiden name? Where were you married? Do you recall the date? And your children - you had four, I think you mentioned. What are their names and where could we find them, should we need to?"

"Tea, sir?"

"I think you should break now, Major Swords," said Lydia. "The Captain must broadcast to McKendrick in twenty minutes time."

"Very well, Colonel. Do we have any responses in yet, Dodds?"

"One or two, sir, but inconclusive, I would say."

Dodds moved his machine so that Harris could plot the ship’s position. The cook brought tea and sandwiches. Harris drank - he found himself too numb from Sir Germain’s assault to think of eating.

With seven minutes to go, he plotted again and wrote the position in the margin of the chart. Static hiss filled the wheelhouse when he switched on the radio. At midnight, he picked up the receiver and pressed the transmit bar. "Portishead Radio. Motor vessel `al Yamama.’"

The duty operator made the connection. As McKendrick answered, Sir Germain slid from the pilot chair. Harris made the routine report. When he finished, McKendrick asked, "And how long now, Captain, before you alter course?"

"Ninety five minutes," Harris rasped.

"Aye," said McKendrick. Then, "Aye. I would be estimating sixteen hours after that, Captain, before you have company. You are knowing what to do?"

"I know what to do."

"Aye. Very well. God will see you safe, Captain. Sleep sound."

"And you." The connection was broken and Harris switched off the set.

"What, exactly, did he mean about altering course, Captain?" asked Sir Germain from round a sandwich.

"We haul more westerly off South Bishop," said Harris. "It’s marked on the chart. Sixteen hours after that, we quit British waters."

Sir Germain stared out into the night. "Signal the Admiral, Dodds, there’s a good fellow. Inform him of our intentions, will you?" He turned to Harris. "This could pose a few problems, don’t you think, captain?"

"I think," said Harris, "that perhaps you need an alternative plan, Sir Germain."

Sir Germain picked the last sandwich from the plate. "Indeed. Indeed we do," he said. "What would you suggest were you in my situation?"

"Were I in your situation, Sir Germain, which I am not," said Harris, "I would offer the captain of this ship one million pounds in the form of an irrevocable Treasury bill drawn on the Bank Of England. Then I would offer to fully restore this ship to a full and safe sea going state, fully fueled and provisioned for a six months voyage, together with the ship’s registration papers proving our ownership of her. And lastly, I would offer documentation to myself and Colonel Lydia to prove beyond any investigation that we are each someone else. I mean birth certificates, passports and some form of bona fides should anyone decide to check them out."

To Sir Germain’s credit, he did not flinch. "So I would be buying, Captain?" he asked. "Naturally, I would support your requests. You have already earned what you are asking. But you know government departments. All those little scribes do so like to feel they have something concrete in hand when they distribute national largesse. It’s all to do with justifying their expenditure, don’t you know. So what, precisely, would I be buying?"

"Silence," said Harris. "Not a word breathed. And salvation. We’d get you and the Prime Minister right off the hook."

"Do you intend to expand a trifle?"

"But of course," said Harris. He moved to the pilot chair and climbed into it. It was then that he realized how much his legs were aching from the constant pacing about, despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. "Suddenly, I feel hungry," he said. "Would you ask the cook for some more sandwiches?"

CHAPTER 30

Harris stood by the bridge front staring forward through the window. `Sir Geraint’s’ transom rose five decks high, blocking any hope of his seeing ahead. He envied her coat of battleship gray paint, flawless from the dockyard, was critical of the welding ripples which so disfigured the half acre of plating. Three decks above the waterline, where the wall of steel was pierced to allow access to the working poop, an officer was standing by the after rails looking down on `al Yamama’s’ forecastle.

"All clear, forward?" Harris yelled.

"All clear, sir!" shouted Petty Officer Jonas.

"Let go!"

Jonas barked an order. One of the naval hands eased the first turns of the towing pennant off the bitts. Harris signaled to the officer on the Fleet Auxiliary. The officer acknowledged and spoke to his own men over his shoulder. The rating eased more turns off the bitts. The thick tow rope shivered then slackened. "Look smart now," Harris heard Jonas bark. The sailor `looked smart’ and threw off the remaining turns before leaping clear as the slack flaked on deck flew out over the forward bulwarks.

A plume of smoke appeared from the auxiliary’s funnel as she crammed on power.

"All gone, sir," Jonas shouted.

Harris waved acknowledgment. `Al Yamama’ staggered as the creaming wash of the big ship hit her.

"Slow ahead," said Harris. "Hard a starboard." Then he spoke over his shoulder. "Dodds, tell Sir Germain `slipped tow at eighteen hundred hours. ETA midnight.’"

"Certainly, Captain."

"Full ahead. Bring her round to course oh five oh, then set her on auto."

"Course oh five oh," said Lydia, her voice muffled by the wall of sandbags surrounding her. "Set her on auto."

Harris looked out of the window again. `Sir Geraint’ was wheeling away, her speed building. Three blasts rasped from her whistle. Harris replied with a feeble tweet on `al Yamama’s’ fog horn. He was watching her, his feelings in turmoil, when he felt Lydia come to stand by his side.

"Well?" she said.

"Well!" he replied.

They stared at the retreating ship. Harris straightened. "There goes mummy," he said. "We’re all alone in a big, bad world."

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrified," he answered. "You?"

She looked down on the deck. "So, so," she said. "Relieved, I suppose. It seems only right that I should be asked to fight in the open to finish off the job. After what Swords said about the Major’s death, I owe myself the pleasure of killing McKendrick."

Harris reached out and stroked her cheek. "Sorry," he said. "I could think of no other way of securing our future."

"And the price?" she asked. "What about those boys down on the deck? Some of them are bound to get hurt."

"You’re a soldier," said Harris. "I thought you’d understand." He shrugged. "Those boys and us," he reminded her. "As always when politicians wish to demonstrate their principals, the voters pay. At least the likes of Churchill had actually once ridden into battle. They knew what they were asking of their people, unlike the modern Prime Ministers. But those boys on deck volunteered, just as we volunteered. Some of them, if you asked them, would say they prefer to die rather than have to live in the shadow of McKendrick. Can you imagine the kind of twisted `religious’ law he would impose? For myself, though," and again, he shrugged, "I’m fed up with being pushed around, with having the fruits of a lifetime’s work snatched away by a load of bullies. For once in my life, I’m prepared to fight for what I want. If I’m to be killed, then so be it."

"What do you want, Harris?"

"You. Not the you who’s watching over her shoulder and racked with guilt for the past, but a you who looks forward knowing that she’s paid life’s entry fee and who now can enjoy the time left."

Dodds coughed from behind them, and said "Sir Germain says, `Thank you very much,’ Captain."

Harris swung round to face him. "Thanks," he said. "You’re all ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. He has everything arranged as we agreed?"

"He has everything arranged," agreed Dodds, "despite the short notice. He says the evening should prove most interesting."

Harris nodded. "It must feel good to be sitting in London acting as puppet master," he thought, "rather than approaching a hostile coast as a puppet programmed to act as the target for an army of religious fanatics. At least it will be dark by the time we arrive. These young lads won’t be able to see how terrified I am."

He glanced at the pillar box of sandbags encapsulating the wheel. "Lydia should be safe," he mused. "She had better be, Sir Germain, or else you will pay dearly for her death. I’ll haunt you for the rest of your days."

Sandbags, `al Yamama’s’ armor plating. Sand bags lining the hold. Sand bags lining the bulwarks around the bridge. Sand bags protecting the helmsman. A low rampart of bags built to protect Lieutenant Bilson in his fire control position on top of the wheelhouse when the shooting started. The ship floated a good three feet lower in the water, thanks to their combined weight.

Harris stared around. Everything which could be done in the time, had been done. Pray to God that the shooting of the godly was directed by hands less than divine.

He heard the sound of plates being shuffled in the galley as the cook prepared to serve the hands’ suppers.

"We’ll eat at twenty hundred," Bilson had suggested. "That should give the cook time to clear the galley."

"So they can die with a full belly," thought Harris. "Who the hell thought up this crazy scheme?"

Lydia stroked his hand. "It’s the best we could do," she said, as if he had spoken aloud. "Don’t worry, my love. But promise me you’ll keep your head down."

"I’ll show you Olympic standard deck mining," said Harris. "Promise."

She looked at him. "You’ll do fine," she whispered. "Don’t worry."

He stared at her, and as he watched, her expression hardened. All the concern drained from her face to be replaced by a flint hard resolution. Her shoulders squared. Her backbone stiffened. And her eyes, as she glanced around the wheel house, became judgmental and calculating. "Lieutenant Bilson!" she called, and the young naval officer looked up from the main deck. "We’ll make our rounds before the hands eat," she said.

"Aye, aye, ma’am," he replied. "Petty Officer Jonas! Colonel’s rounds!"

"Aye aye, sir," called Jonas, from the forecastle head.

"I’ll be back when I’m finished," Lydia told Harris, and stepped out onto the bridge wing.

Harris watched her make her way down the ladder and along the side deck. Bilson stood smartly to attention as she approached. He saluted where she reached him. Lydia nodded. Together, they walked forward, met Jonas on his way aft, and disappeared down the booby hatch into the hold.

Harris turned away. He had lost sight of her - the entire hatch was covered by the hatch boards, except for a section of perhaps ten feet amidships. Dodds was watching him with a half smile on his face. "Rather like waiting in the labor ward annex, is it not, Captain? Except that here, we know the time of the birth."

"But not the outcome," said Harris.

"Sir Germain has every confidence," said Dodds.

"That we’ll survive? How can he forecast that?"

"He’s confident that the plan will work, Captain. I doubt whether our survival has entered into his calculations at all."

Harris wandered out onto the bridge wing. How could the plan work? The ship was commanded by a civilian, with her second in command an Army colonel whose gunnery controller was a Naval lieutenant. The lieutenant had direct responsibility for the performance of the crew. And the crew themselves? Regular navy they might be, none of them had ever fired a shot in anger, and none had served aboard a ship under fire. Which was, Harris mused, the price of peace.

He was certain of Lydia. Somehow, she would summon her reserves and stand firm until the job was finished. But afterwards? She had been fighting the secret war for twenty years. She was almost a casualty from it. What effect would this last, fire-hot, battle have on her existing emotional wounds?

"We should have made love when we had the chance," he thought. "We should have reveled in each other, given ourselves to each other. We should have ignored the doubts and sealed our covenant while we had time in hand. We each need to obliterate so much of the past. We need time, and time’s run out. We’re relying on others for our survival, now."

Others? Himself? Bilson? Petty Officer Jonas - a man about whose qualities of leadership Harris had no doubts whatsoever. But courage? Or Perkins, the cook, who, after he had cleared the galley would then prepare the mess room as a first aid post for the wounded? A picture of the poacher’s knee after Lydia had shot him that night in Isel Woods had Harris tasting bile in his throat.

There was no turning back. Although Harris was the only person aboard professionally qualified to command the ship, all of the others were under orders to proceed against the enemy. If Harris turned away, altered course to the west and steamed towards the sunset, the same men who would follow him carelessly into battle would disable him and continue towards the target regardless. Harris’ only essential role was to make the call to McKendrick.

"You’re quiet," said Lydia, as they ate their supper in the wheel house.

"Sorry."

"Try to eat."

"I’m watching those boys down there on deck. I can’t help wondering... "

"How many will walk up the gangway to `Sir Geraint’s’ deck when we’re finished?"

"Yes."

"Forget them, Clough. Concentrate on doing your job properly. That’s the best way to minimize casualties."

"I can’t forget them."

"You must. It’s the only way to survive."

Harris looked at the clock on the bulkhead. Twenty one hundred. He pushed his plate away. "One hour!" he called down to the deck.

A few men looked up. One or two smiled. Most were staring at the deck, or the sea, or the haze where the setting sun showed as a gold corona. They were suspicious of him, Harris knew. He could feel it in the thick, damp air. "I haven’t yet earned their trust. I’m not one of their clique. I haven’t been on a run ashore drinking with them, or brought them through a hurricane unscathed."

Twenty one thirty. "Hands to stations. Condition amber," called Bilson. All gobbledygook to Harris, as he watched the men shuffling to their stations. Most disappeared into the hold, but a few lay down on the deck below the level of the bulwarks.

"All right down below?" Bilson shouted down the companionway.

"First aid post manned and ready, sir."

"Engine room manned and ready, sir."

"Very well. Report any problems to the captain."

"Aye aye."

Twenty one fifty five. "Silence throughout the ship!"

"Silence, aye aye."

If anyone had been talking, Harris could not tell. He heard the ship sounds and the hissing water alongside. He heard the gurgling rumble of his pulse in his ears. Then he and Lydia were alone in the wheelhouse as Bilson made his way aloft and Dodds walked forward and down into the hold cradling his brief case computer.

Harris switched on the radio and tuned in to Portishead’s frequency. At twenty two hundred, he lifted up the receiver and pressed the transmit bar. "Portishead Radio. Motor vessel `al Yamama’ calling."

"Portishead Radio receiving."

"A link call please, to.... " he rasped, in the well used routine, the number tripping off his tongue.

This time, there was a delay in making the connection. Harris sweated. Then, "What is the problem, Captain?"

"Mr. McKendrick?" said Harris.

"Aye. What is the problem, man? Have you contact with another ship?"

"No," rasped Harris.

"Then why the call, Captain?"

"I have a proposal to make," said Harris, in his normal voice.

"Aye? Now who would that be calling me?"

"My name is not important," said Harris. "Let’s say I’m the man whose trawler you sank."

McKendrick snorted. "I have nothing to say to you. Clear the line immediately."

"I hold the flask," said Harris.

"Aye? Just where are you precisely?"

"Half way across the Irish Sea," said Harris. "My ETA off Sellafield is midnight. When I arrive, I want five million dollars, US, delivered aboard. Once I have it, I undertake to complete the voyage and deliver the cargo to where ever you wish. Good night." He broke the transmission. When he turned away from the set, he found Lydia standing behind him. He tried to smile. "We’re on the hook," he said.

"They’re on the hook," she corrected.

"All hands closed up," said Bilson, his voice echoing down the make shift voice pipe from the wheel house roof.

"Thank you." Harris acknowledged the report automatically.

"Are you all right?" Lydia grabbed his arm.

"Yes. Go to your station."

She looked at him. "She’s worried," he thought. "I’ll be fine," he said. "And if you’re hit, I’ll never forgive you."

"Eh?"

"As soon as this is over, I’m taking you into the cabin and locking the door. We’ll never come out again. So while you’re in that pillar box, get your knickers off and save us time later." He wished his fear did not sound so clearly in his voice that she could detect it.

"If you’re sure," she said, and stroked his arm in the way people do on railway stations just before the train leaves.

"I’m sure," he said.

"So am I."

The diesel engines in the hold were coughing into life. Harris started. He looked down at the covered hatch. When he turned round again, Lydia was gone to her place at the wheel. Right, he told himself, check list.

He had written his routine down. The slip of paper lay on the chart, held by one of the green oblong chart weights. Number one, steaming lights. He switched on the lights and checked the panel to see that they were all working.

Number two, position. He plotted their position from the Decca, then calculated their time of arrival off Sellafield beach. "We’ll be fifteen minutes early," he thought. "Good! Keep ‘em off balance."

Number three, radar. He walked to the starboard side and glanced at the screen. A fuzz showed at the edge of the screen. "That should be the land," he thought, "but it’s too indistinct to take a range." As he watched, a firm echo appeared inshore, a mere dot, then a second behind it. "Electricity pylons from the power station," he thought. He searched the screen to seaward, fiddling with the gain control to maximize the set’s efficiency as he looked.

"Land echoes on the radar," he told Bilson up the voice pipe, "but no sign yet of the reception committee."

"Aye aye," said Bilson.

Harris walked out on to the starboard wing and lit a cigarette.

`Look natural,’ they had advised. `Behave exactly as you would behave in the circumstances.’

The fact that the radar detected no echoes did not mean that nobody was watching him. "The Colonel is our expert," Sir Germain had said. "Let her brief you. But remember that you have the upper hand." So Harris lit his cigarette and leaned against the bridge front rail staring out into the haze while his upper hand shook and shook.

One of the young men lying on the deck was watching him. Harris waved down to him. "He looks about fourteen," he thought. "What’s his mother doing, letting him wander round the oceans aboard a ship at this time of the night? He should be tucked up in his bed."

The boy waved back shyly, then stroked his machine gun.

Harris threw the cigarette into the sea. Back to the radar, a detailed search, then a fix plotted on the chart. Bilson shifted noisily on the deck above.

CHAPTER 31

The beach showed at a range of four miles on the radar when Harris spoke into the voice pipe. "There are three abeam to port, four to starboard," he told Bilson.

"I can’t see them," came the reply, after a pause.

"The seaward one to starboard is moving aft," said Harris.

"Why didn’t you see them earlier?" hissed Lydia from her bunker.

"Because radar doesn’t give a good echo off semi rigids," said Harris.

"Sorry!"

"I suspect they’re tracking us," said Harris.

"I’d be surprised if they did not have radar," said Bilson.

He doesn’t seem to be worried, thought Harris. Thank heaven for professionals.

`Al Yamama’ steamed on. Two miles closer to the beach, Harris stopped the engine and started the echo sounder. The ship seemed to die. He stood by the wheel house door watching the two instruments but hearing the heavy night silence. Bilson wished him `Good luck.’ He replied, `And you,’ absently.

Good luck? His survival would be a miracle. If his death released Lydia from her ghosts and England from McKendrick, then it was a cheap price. Harris was not scared of dying, but the likely manner of his death had him shaking in the heavy night air.

He wheeled about and began pacing the confines of the bridge wing. The fifteen fathoms of water two miles offshore became twelve fathoms at one and a half miles. Twice, he searched the beach through the binoculars and saw nothing more than the scar of the sand and the humps of the dunes dark against Sellafield’s lights. The ship rustled on.

A mile and a quarter. Harris was standing in the doorway to the wheelhouse, then, watching first the radar, then the trace on the echo sounder, then the beach ahead. "There are two men walking down the sand towards an inflatable," said Bilson - he had the advantage of an image intensifier.

"Can you see the boats on the flanks?" asked Harris.

A pause, then, "Not yet."

"They’re under way," Harris told him, staring into the radar screen. "They’ve formed a crescent astern of us. We’re trapped. They’re standing off, keeping just under two miles distant."

He heard Bilson scraping the deck as he turned to stare aft. "I still can’t see them," he reported. "They’ll be using our lights as their ref. point."

How could the man keep so cool? Harris wondered. "Bully for them," he said.

He waited five more minutes. Ten fathoms, one mile one cable and the ship barely steering. He reached for the whistle lanyard and sounded a series of blasts on the whistle.

"You might have warned me before you did that," Bilson protested.

"Sorry," said Harris. "I won’t do it again."

A moment later, "It worked. The boat’s left the beach. She’s lying to a few yards off with her engine idling."

"Aye aye."

"Stand by all hands! Seven targets from red five oh, through red one eight oh to green five oh!"

"Neat," said a voice from the deck, and a couple of men giggled.

"Port twenty," Harris told Lydia. "Steer three three oh!"

"Steer three three oh," Lydia repeated. "She’s hardly answering."

"Don’t worry. All I want is the starboard side facing towards the beach."

Harris strolled out to the starboard wing and lit a cigarette. All part of Sir Germain’s plan. `Let ‘em see me. Let ‘em steady their aim. They won’t shoot, not yet.’

We all agreed they won’t shoot. Does the enemy know that?

Harris raised the binoculars. The boat lying off the beach suddenly sprouted a tail of foam and hoisted her bows from the water as she burst into motion. The motor’s buzz rolled across the gap. Harris watched the boat draw its smear of foam over the sea first in a straight line drawing aft just in front of the sand, then begin to heel as she turned towards the coaster.

"Not long," Harris whispered down to the boy on the deck below him. He sucked on the cigarette so that the tip glowed like the Eddystone Light.

The boat curved round until it was approaching from the starboard quarter. Harris leaned against the rail and watched. One man was steering, a second sitting in the stern. A hundred yards off, the engine noise faded to a burbling and the bows slid deeper into the water.

`Al Yamama’ was rolling slightly, a jerky, testy motion. The muffled diesels in the hold throbbed on. The boat steered slantingly in for the side immediately below the bridge wing. Rubber squealed as it came alongside. The ship jerked.

Harris stared down. "Well?" he demanded. "Have you brought the money?"

The man in the stern looked up. Harris switched on the cargo light hanging just below the rail and saw an evil bearded face staring up just before the man shaded his eyes with his hand. "Aye, naturally," he said. "Have you ever seen five million dollars in cash, mister?"

"No."

"Feast your eyes."

McKendrick bent down. By his feet, three army kit bags bulged. He opened one and held the neck up for Harris to see. "There," he said. "A royal ransom."

"I’ll toss a rope down," said Harris. "Make them fast and I’ll haul them aboard."

McKendrick chuckled. "Ach, now, mister, not so hasty," he said. He heaved the drawstring tight and sealed the neck before pushing the bag back onto the boat’s bottom boards. Looking up again, he said, "Lower a ladder, will ye no’. It’s thinking I am we’re better acquainted if we’re to be partners."

"No ladder," said Harris.

"Och, come on, mister. What’s to stop you sailing away once you have the money aboard?"

"My word," said Harris. "You have my word."

McKendrick laughed deep in his throat. "No, no, mister. As partners, let’s treat this matter as an affair of business. Let my man aboard. Once he tells me that the flask is safe, then I put a couple more of my fellows aboard. They shall sail with you. They shall keep the money in their charge until the cargo is delivered all safe and snug. Are you hearing me, mister?"

"I’m listening," said Harris.

"Are you understanding me?"

"I understand."

"Good! Then you agree?"

"Let me see the money. How do I know you haven’t stuffed that bag with newspaper? Pick out a bundle and toss it up to me."

"Aye, fair enough," said McKendrick. He stooped to open the bag again.

Safe behind his shield of light, Harris stooped, too. He picked up the grenade lying in the scuppers by his feet and pulled out the pin. He was counting the seconds, "One, two, three," as he straightened, "four, five, six seven," as he sited on McKendrick’s back and dropped the green globe over the side. Eight, nine, ten. "Hard a starboard! Full ahead!" he yelled, and flung himself to the deck.

"Shoot, shoot, sh.... " He heard, as Bilson took his cue.

The deck heaved as the grenade exploded. Shrapnel whined up into the air. In the dizzy silence, Harris heard the splashes as it fell into the sea. "Midships!" he roared. He stood up and walked into the wheel house. He stared into the radar screen. `Al Yamama’ had swung hard round, was heading off shore. The line of dinghies stretched across her bows. All the boats were in motion, moving fast and leaving a luminous trail on the screen.

"All closing," he yelled up to Bilson. "One ten degrees to starboard. Then to port, ten, twenty five, thirty, ninety...

"Thanks. I have them visual," said Bilson. As he spoke, the first of the enemy fire came in.

Harris watched in awe. Tracer was curving lazily up out of the haze, threading the stars with lines of fire. "Port ten," he called, then, "Steady!" when the heading marker on the screen was aiming for a gap in the line. The tracer was plunging down. "Rain fire on the heads of the unbelievers." Was he an unbeliever? Was his God, the God of Love, impotent?

The machine guns on deck opened up as the first enemy fire struck home. Harris was flat on the deck. `Al Yamama’ shuddered. Bullets ripped into the wheel house, clattered against the funnel, zinged off the deck plates. Glass exploded. A lump of anonymous hardware bounced over his head.

He crawled out onto the port bridge wing and peered over the rampart of sandbags. An Oerlikon began to pump away from the platform in the hatchway. "Thank God," he thought, for there had been doubt about the efficiency of the hydraulics used to raise the platform from the hold.

A boat was heading in, bows cocked up and spray flying. It skidded round. It steadied, heading for the shelter of the haze. The Oerlikon cut it down with one hit and promptly switched targets. All the enemy craft were up to speed and weaving. Less of their fire was hitting home. All eight of the coaster’s machine guns were shooting, supported by both of the heavier weapons.

Two more inflatables were hit. As each was disabled, the guns turned to attend another. Empty shells were spraying from the breeches. As the number of targets diminished, so the fire on the remainder increased. Harris altered course again, swinging round to head south.

Another boat was hit. Of the three remaining, one was unmarked by the guns. It made a dash straight for the coaster. At five hundred yards, it opened fire and hosed the deck.

The ship shuddered. A man screamed. "Hard a starboard!" Harris yelled.

`Al Yamama’ began to turn. For a moment, the boat was hidden under the rise of the forecastle. When it emerged to port, one gun opened up from the deck. The boat disintegrated. "Meet her. Port ten."

He never felt the impact as the ship hit the inflatable.

The two remaining boats lay ahead, one peeling off to seaward, the other skimming at full throttle for the beach.

"Midships. Starboard ten! Get that bastard making for the beach!" Harris yelled.

The boat was hammering through a turmoil of fire. The demise of the boat to seaward passed unnoticed by `al Yamama’s’ captain. About fifty yards from the shore, a shell from an Oerlikon hit home. The boat exploded. Flaming debris hurled up the beach.

"Check, check, check!" roared Bilson.

The guns stopped firing, but Harris could not hear the silence. His ears were overflowing with the echoes of the barrage.

"Commence phase two," roared Bilson.

"Port easy," shouted Harris. His hearing was recovering. He refused to hear the screaming from forward, or the whimpering from the deck below. "Steer three three oh!"

He saw the ship’s head swing away from the shore line, and steady to steam parallel to the beach.

"Commence bombardment! Shoot. Shoot. Shoot."

The starboard Oerlikon started to hammer away, interspersed by the thumping of two four inch mortars.

"A wonderful weapon to offer a nasty surprise," Sir Germain had said. He rubbed his hands. "A good team can get four bombs off before the first lands." He chuckled. "After which, one either fights, or runs like hell."

Except that a six knot coaster can not run, she can only lumber along. "There’s always the risk that they’ll have some form of artillery in place before you arrive," said Sir Germain. "I do hope so."

You sadistic old bastard, thought Harris. If we survive, I’ll castrate you personally. He watched the dunes where he and Lydia had met Howard Shaw. The first bombs landed. The sand seemed to absorb the high explosive. He saw no effect, even against the lights of the installation behind the targets.

When he judged that the ship was beyond the defensive line to the north, he reversed the course and they sailed back banging away at the innocent shoreline. And all the time, the insistent screams from forward.

A mile south, and they reversed course again, but before the third pass was half way complete, Bilson called, "Check. Check. Check."

Harris was standing on the bridge wing. He heard the last of the bombs fall, then a deafening silence pierced only by the screaming from forward.

He started when Bilson banged a friendly paw down on his shoulder and shouted in his ear. "Sir Germain says enough is enough. Well done all. Go home to mother."

Harris turned away, shameless tears coursing down his cheeks. "Is the installation secure?" he asked.

Bilson looked away. "The SAS went in as arranged and are mopping up now," he said. "Our job’s finished. Take us home, Captain."

Harris said, "Good." He raised his voice. "Port easy. Steer two four oh," and heard Lydia’s, "Steer two four oh, sir."

"Put her on auto when she’s steady."

"Aye aye!"

Bilson went forward to start tidying up. Harris sagged against the bulwark, breathing hard, suddenly trembling so violently that he could not get hold of his cigarette packet.

Lydia came out of the wheelhouse, crunching over the shards of glass covering the deck. She flopped beside him. "She’s on automatic," she said. Harris heard the reaction in her voice, too. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and dragged her to him until her head blocked the screaming from at least one ear. "How many boys were hit?" she asked.

"I don’t know." The screaming from forward stopped abruptly and the silence which followed seemed empty. Harris found himself weeping into the vacuum.

"Ship dead ahead!" someone called from forward.

"Aye aye," Lydia acknowledged. "`Sir Geraint’s’ come to meet us," she told Harris.

* * * * *

Five days of living in suspension. Harris and Lydia in limbo, eating, sleeping, isolated in the Captain’s cabin by polite indifference with the guilt of survival, while the hull rang to the sound of repairs. Then release, when they were allowed to stand in the refurbished wheelhouse surrounded by new instruments while busy men adjusted and checked and `al Yamama’s’ new engine powered her east.

The reticent men from the Fleet Auxilliary anchored the ship five miles off Sellafield, grunted goodbye, and tumbled down into the two boats which had trailed the coaster.

After an afternoon of waiting, a helicopter approached from the south east and came to a hover above the main deck. The winchman waved down.

The couple watched the now familiar routine of a man descending on the end of a wire.

"Congratulations," said Sir Germain, adjusting his cuffs after the strenuous climb up the ladder from the main deck to the bridge wing. "A most successful operation."

"Two dead," said Harris. "Three injured."

"Precisely. An excellent credit balance. My sentiments entirely," said Sir Germain. He rubbed his hands. "The PM is delighted. He told me to pass on his eternal thanks. Actually, he suggested decorations for you. Naturally, I knocked that on the head. Told him you’d refuse. You do prefer anonymity, don’t you?" He smiled his death’s head smile. "To bring you into the public domain would be counter productive, I rather thought. I managed to persuade him, in the end. After all, we did agree that there would be no publicity."

"No publicity," said Harris. "Just like the football pools. Who are those two men?"

"Those?" Sir Germain turned to look down on the deck below. "They are marine surveyors, Captain. While you and Mrs. Thetford conclude your business with myself, they shall tour the ship and ensure that `Sir Geraint’s’ men have completed their part of the bargain satisfactorily. After which, all being well, they shall issue your certificate of seaworthiness. Which in turn will allow me to complete your certificate of insurance."

Harris nodded.

"Shall we?" asked Sir Germain. "Heroes first," and ushered Harris before him into the wheel house.

The business took four hours to complete. Lydia and Harris first signed the Official Secrets Act, thus shutting the door on the Sellafield affair. "Now that I can speak freely," said Sir Germain, "I can tell you that our friend Mr. McKendrick was after bigger fish than originally we suspected. His demands, all through the Minister for Wages, as I think I mentioned before, were quite simple. That flask was bound for the Middle East. We were to guarantee its safe arrival. Really! With all that marine hardware to pass through! Either we’d have been compelled to hand the flask to our allies, in which eventuality Scotland would have devolved from the UK in a rather spectacular manner, or we would find ourselves embroiled in a shooting war. Whichever, there would have been a certain measure of pandemonium and mayhem. At which stage, the Minister, bless his cotton socks, was intending to oust the PM and form a political axis with one of the more sinister regimes in the Gulf area. Once armed with nuclear weapons, they could dominate both the Gulf and Europe. Thus, they would be able to determine the oil trading patterns worldwide, and so spread their gospels. Adopt our religious fundamentalism, or no fuel, sort of thing. Interesting, eh?"

"Very."

Then their new personae. Sir Germain produced birth certificates, a marriage certificate, passports. "There is sufficient background to withstand a superficial investigation," he said. "Try to keep out of serious trouble, won’t you? And try to learn your lines."

"What will happen to the minister?" asked Lydia.

"Some charges will be proffered, then withheld as security against his continuing good behavior," said Sir Germain.

"Why not treason?" asked Harris.

Sir Germain laughed. "My dear Captain, such an anachronism," he said.

"Why not?" pressed Harris.

"Because," said Sir Germain, "a charge of treason can be a double edged weapon. For example, under the provisions of the Bill of Rights, every cabinet minister since Ted Heath could be tried for negotiating away our sovereignty to Europe. There are people who might agitate for that. The public can be so fickle, you understand, although that’s probably above your head, Captain. But believe me, no senior politician is likely to play the treason card for fear of being arraigned themselves."

"So the minister will walk away scott free?"

"Not entirely," said Sir Germain. "He will lose his ministerial car."

"And those dead sailors?" asked Harris.

"They know the risk when they volunteer, Captain. Just as you understood the risks when you suggested your excellent scheme." He stood up. "Excuse me," he murmured. He walked out to the wing of the bridge and leaned over the bulwark. "I say," he called to the two surveyors. "Don’t forget to check the engine room, there’s good chaps."

"No sir." The men straightened. They walked aft and climbed the ladder.

"Down the ladder," Sir Germain told them when they reached the bridge wing. "The door next to the galley on the left at the foot of the ladder. It does have a sign, in case you get lost."

The men nodded to Lydia, then trooped below.

"Sorry about that," said Sir Germain. "Now, where was I up to? Ah, yes. You have your stories. Now here, Colonel, I have two government drafts. One is the million pounds, er, fee, shall we call it, for acting as decoy? The other... I took the liberty of withdrawing your savings from your bank account. Regretfully, I shall have to kill you - on the records only, of course. So your last act was to withdraw your life savings and take them in a bearer draft. Thus can you deposit your life savings, together with your earnings from this ship, wherever you wish. Open an account under your new name, that sort of thing."

He handed Lydia the slips of paper. She folded them without a glance, and stuffed them into her pocket.

Sir Germain straightened from the chart table. "Might I ask what are your intentions, now?" he said.

"To sail away and not come back," said Harris.

"Very sensible. To where, may I ask?"

"We haven’t yet decided," said Harris. "It depends on the weather, on how long we feel we can work watch and watch, which charts we have."

Sir Germain nodded approval. "You will keep in touch?" he asked. "Once a year, perhaps. Nothing compulsory or formal, of course. But you would ease my mind somewhat if you could see your way.... "

"As you like."

"Thank you. Ah, is that the helicopter I can hear?" The knight stalked to the companionway and called down the ladder, "Below! Come along. Sign the certificates." He turned back to face Harris and Lydia. "All I ask - and the PM, of course, - is that you up anchor as soon as we have departed and clear away from this area while things remain quiet. Do you understand?"

"Of course," said Harris. "We’ll weigh anchor as soon as you have left."

"Good," said Sir Germain. "Very good."

The surveyors emerged from the companion. Sir Germain spread the certificate of seaworthiness on the chart table. They signed. Sir Germain slid the document to Harris, then produced a bundle of papers and slapped them down beside the first. "You are now the proud owner of all sixty four shares in the good ship `Speedwell,’" he said. "God’s speed and may you both enjoy your retirement."

They shook his hand and followed him to the main deck. The helicopter came to a hover. One surveyor was hoisted aloft, then the second.

"Well," said Sir Germain, as the wire started to descent to collect him, "I doubt we shall meet again." He extended his hand. Harris shook it. "Do keep in touch. Enjoy your voyage, Captain." He took Lydia’s hand, stooped over it, and kissed it. "A privilege to have known you, madam. The whole nation owes you a debt beyond repaying. May your road to heaven be smooth."

He clipped himself into the harness and waved aloft to the winchman. Suddenly, he was higher than the bridge. Soon, he was being assisted aboard the helicopter. Then `Speedwell’ skidded in the prop wash. The anchor cable snubbed in the hawse as the helicopter wheeled away on a course to the south west.

Harris and Lydia watched from the main deck until the machine and its racket faded into the haze. Then they looked at each other. "And good riddance," snarled Harris. He turned to face Lydia. "Well, Mrs. Thetford?" he asked.

"Well, Mr. Thetford?" she said.

"We’re alone and married,"

"So we are."

He waved in the direction of the ladder to the bridge. Lydia strolled aft holding his hand. "Those surveyors were an odd pair," said Harris.

"Odd in which way?" she asked.

"Odd in bringing brief cases with them," he said. "All the ship surveyors I’ve seen carry a hammer and a boilersuit, that’s all."

Lydia climbed the ladder to the wing. Harris followed her. "Shall we have a cup of tea before we weigh the anchor?" he asked.

"If you like," said Lydia. "You brew it. I’ll go below and check the engine room."

Harris thought little of the suggestion. He followed her down the companionway, going into the galley as she pulled open the engine room door and disappeared inside.

He boiled the water and made tea in the mugs they had each commandeered. Taking the mugs in to the mess room, he set them on the table then seated himself. Thoughts of their destination distracted him. He sipped his brew.

We could make Gibraltar without any problems in this weather, he thought. Top up there with fuel and water, buy any charts we need, have a rest, then coast along to where? France? Italy? Greece? Find a safe berth for the winter, then maybe next Spring, head out for the Caribbean. He smoked two cigarettes while he wandered the world in his imagination. And we have to learn to live together in civilization, he thought. Not in a semi in Surbiton, but aboard a ship. She’s not a bad little ship, considering. At least there’s plenty of room for two. What on earth is Lydia doing in that engine room?

He stood up. Walking to the engine room door, he opened it. "Are you all right?" he called against the noise of the generator.

There was a scraping sound, then Lydia appeared at the foot of the ladder, looking up at him. "Come down and see this, Clough," she shouted.

Harris shrugged and hooked back the door.

At the foot of the ladder, she took his hand and guided him forward. "There!" she pointed.

Harris peered. Where the bulkhead met the ship’s side at the beginning of the turn of the bilge, he saw a small gray box.

"What do you think that is?" asked Lydia.

"It’s some part of the electrical circuits," he said, seeing the wires leading in and out.

"Follow the bottom wire," said Lydia.

Harris traced the cable. It followed the frame downwards, disappearing into the bilges where the floor stopped short of the ship’s side.

"Kneel down and trace it with your fingers," said Lydia. "Be careful."

Harris knelt on the floor plate. He felt for the wire, then thrust his arm through the gap. A few inches below the deck, the wire stopped. Harris felt a sausage-like shape which was soft when he prodded it. "What’s that?" he asked Lydia.

"Plastic explosive, at a guess," said Lydia.

"Eh?" Harris withdrew his hand.

"That box is a timer, as best I can tell. It starts timing when we start the engine. Look, the other wire links in to the starter circuit."

"Oh!" said Harris. "And after it’s timed out? Bang?"

Lydia nodded. "That’s about the sum of it," she said.

"Can you disarm it?"

"Probably. But I suggest I don’t. Come on, let’s go to the mess room and drink that tea while we talk it through."

Two hours later, Lydia fished Harris from the sea and hauled him into the bottom of the life boat. "Take off those wet clothes," she commanded, and handed him a towel. "Wrap yourself in this."

Harris obeyed, struggling to maintain his balance while he removed his trousers, then sitting down on the side bench.

The boat revolved slowly in the wash from `al Yamama’s’ propeller. Lydia put the engine in gear and corrected the swing, then knocked the gear lever back to neutral.

"It’s a shame," said Harris. "Those chaps on `Sir Geraint’ did a good job patching her up."

"All a waste," said Lydia. "Thanks to Sir Germain."

"Thanks to Sir Germain," agreed Harris.

They both stared outboard. `Al Yamama’ lay stern on to them and was already making her full speed of six and a half knots. "She’s not exactly a destroyer, is she?" said Harris. "But she was comfortable. I quite liked her, in the end."

"She is not our biggest problem at the moment," said Lydia.

"We’ll be quite safe," said Harris. "The weather’s set fair for the foreseeable future and we stocked up with water, fuel and stores. I only intended making for the Ribble, maybe a day’s steaming. If, that is, we can find the place. Though if you like," he added brightly, "we could cross the Atlantic."

"No thank you," said Lydia. She stared at the ship, blurry now as the haze started to swallow her. "The real problem, Clough, is not the boat - though she is bloody cramped. What the hell did you bring all this stuff for? The real problem arises when we get ashore. Obviously, Sir Germain will assume that we’re dead. He’s an evil bastard, though. My bank draft was a master stroke."

Harris looked at her. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"I’ll bet you that as soon as we try to cash it, some computer flag will wave in Sir Germain’s office. Then he’ll realize that we’re not dead. Then, he’ll come looking for us, to finish the job."

"So we get jobs and support ourselves that way," said Harris. "Quite a few people do, you know."

"Bah!" Lydia snorted. "Think, Clough! The moment we try to use our new aliases, he will know we’re alive. Even if we claimed benefits, he can pry through the DHSS computer."

"That’s illegal," said Harris.

"Is killing us legal?"

`Al Yamama’ faded from view. Lydia sat quite still, staring at the place where the ship had disappeared, head cocked as she listened for the explosion.

Harris shuffled along the bench until he was sitting beside her. He put his arm around her and nuzzled her ear.

"Clough!"

"I’m cold. Won’t you warm me?"

She hugged him to her. His hand strayed to her breast.

"Clough!"

"Sweet heart, we’re alone. We’re never ever going to be as alone again."

"The boat’s too small."

"No it isn’t. I bet you it isn’t."

"Clough! Please! Not now. I’m all tensed up. How can you think about... " He kissed her, gently at first, on her lips. He felt her relax a little. "Clough! We’ve got big problems..."

"No, we haven’t."

"Clough, darling, how do we live? He’ll hunt us down until he gets us, once he knows we’re alive. He’ll be scared that I’ll go to the papers, or write a book or something. No one dare let me live, nor you, now that you know the story."

But she was responding to his lips, responding to his hands as they explored.

"Oh, Clough!"

"Shall I tell you a secret?" he whispered.

"Please."

"I love you. Shall I tell you another secret?"

"Please."

"We should be quite comfortable on those suitcases. I can spread the towel over us."

"What’s in them, Clough? Why did you bring them?"

"Five million dollars, my darling. Cash. Used notes. Just slide down here. There. Oh, damn! That button’s fallen off your shirt."

At dawn, Lydia, bloated with love, grinned up at him. "You were quite right, my beautiful Clough. An eighteen foot boat is plenty big enough. Shall we open a flask of soup?"