THE GHOSTMAKER
by
Victor Davis 

Jack Boulder was his regiment's rifle champion. Now, thanks to some unauthorized freelance activity in Northern Ireland, he's just plain mister, running
a gun club in the City. But the spooks want him to assassinate an unknown target, and the fee is 100,000 pounds. With credit card bills mounting and the guilt of not being able to give his wife and 2 sons a better life, Jack accepts the job and travels to France with uncertainties as to who is really hiring him and what the consequences will be.

Formerly a foreign correspondent for the Daily Express, Victor Davis was subsequently
Show Business Editor for that
newspaper, and then for the Mail on
Sunday. His research for The Ghostmaker, his first novel, included attending the
Cannes Film Festival twenty-four times.
His second novel, Queens' Ransom, is
published by Gollancz. Victor Davies
lives in London.
First published in Great Britain 1996	For Janice James
by Victor Gollancz

This Vista edition published 1997
Vista is an imprint of the Cassell Group
Wellington House, 125 Strand, London WC2R OBB

ŠVictor Davis 1996

The right of Victor Davis to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British library.

ISBN 0 575 60199 X

Extract from Zen in the Art of Archery by
Eugen Herrigel, translated by R.F.C. Hull (Arkana 1985).
Translation copyright Š 1953 by Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

Typeset by SetSystems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex
Printed and bound in Great Britain
by Caledonian International
Book Manufacturing Ltd, Glasgow

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
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without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
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otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent
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is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The wires touch his face: I cry NOW.
Death, like a familiar, hears
And, look, has made a man of dust
Of a man of flesh. This sorcery I do.
. . . How easy it is to make a ghost. From 'How to Kill' by Keith
Douglas (Complete Poems, ed.
Desmond Graham, OUP, 1978)


My short experience of the secret world
had long ago convinced me that
supervision was illusory. The spies weave
and duck and cover their traces, which is
what people of their calling are paid to do.

And their supposed gamekeepers become
so enamoured of their charges that they
turn poacher overnight.

John Le Carre

Chapter One.

He contrived, as usual, to be on the platform at six
fifteen, edging through the knots of home-going City
stragglers, the wine-bar happy-hour crowd, and the
creeps who never switch off their desk lights until the
office gauleiter has left for the day.
She was there, as usual, at the far end. He assumed
she aligned herself with the leading coach because it
came to a stop opposite the exit at her destination wherever
that was. He deduced that she was not careless
with her time.
He had never discovered where she got off because his
own route ran only from St Paul's to Shepherd's Bush,
eleven stops straight as a thrusting bayonet under West
London.
What was her destination? Did she go on beyond the
Bush? Why could he never remember?
Weaving his way along the platform, he positioned
himself behind and slightly to one side, where he could
appreciate the rounded half-profile of her left breast. She
was wearing the crimson linen suit and the black stockings
that gave off a sheen almost intense enough to call a
glitter. He experienced a pleasurable flick inside his
trousers.
As usual the train came worming out of the tunnel
at precisely six twenty and, as usual, he trailed her into
the carriage and sat opposite. She crossed her legs.
As her stockings came into contact and rubbed together
he picked up the tiny screeching sound even above
the rumble of the doors closing. Another flick. He
remembered she'd done this to him before. She had a
half-smile on her face which hovered provocatively in
shadows. Had an overhead light gone? He couldn't quite
get her into focus.
He looked around the carriage at the usual cast of
characters: the cud-chewing dims who only come alive
when the music starts to bounce, the counting-house
lackeys, resenting every moment of enforced wage
earning, the aggressively suited company men returning
to their stuccoed homes in Holland Park . . . They
depressed him. He was as trapped in the grey hustle for
daily bread as any of them. Nothing unique. It grated
that, in this morose company, he was just another bloody
trooper.
Only she was special.
All he wanted was to devour the sight of her, but
custom and manners always prevailed. As if programmed,
he opened his evening paper. He always did
that as the train left Chancery Lane. He simply couldn't
understand himself being so craven. His battered good
looks had always triggered women's curiosity; had drawn
them to him.
Holborn . . . Tottenham Court Road . . . Oxford
Circus . . . Bond Street. He peeked occasionally. She
shifted slightly and recrossed her legs.
The longest uninterrupted section of tunnel ran
between Marble Arch and Lancaster Gate. He'd made
this journey so often that, even with his eyes closed, he
could judge almost to the second the approach to each
station.
He glanced up for the arrival at Lancaster Gate but his
timing must have been off. Perhaps the train was going
slow, although it seemed to be rattling along at a fair
speed. Odd. He returned to his newspaper.
A minute went by and suddenly he felt bothered. He

looked up to see that other passengers - but not her were
glancing around, ill at ease. One of the dims, a rust
redhead, whined to her friend, 'Takin' its time, innit?'
But it wasn't. The train ploughed on, the bolted iron
ribs of the tunnel flashing by the windows with strobelike
hypnotic effect. Several passengers stood up and
shuffled to the doors in anticipation of the Lancaster
Gate platform sliding into view.
A tall pin-striper, puzzled, stooped to peer through the
window. He was confronted by the grimy tunnel wall
and the horizontal power cables still flashing by when he
clearly expected to be coming into the station. He turned,
a questioning look on his waxy face.
Others were picking up his concern. A woman asked
loudly, of no one in particular, 'This is the Central line,
isn't it?' None of the passengers now searching for signs
beyond the carriage windows bothered to reply. On
rattled the train.
He worked out that ten minutes or so must have
elapsed since they'd left Marble Arch. Something was
wrong. He folded his paper and laid it beside him on the
seat.
As if reading his thoughts, a grey-haired matron said,
'Something's wrong. I don't understand.' She pulled a
Selfridge's shopping bag onto her lap and cuddled it.
'Wot she mean?' the dim asked her friend. She stopped
her rhythmic gum-chewing.
Two backpacking youths with buttery Scandinavian
complexions shrugged at each other. One said, 'Please,
Lancaster Gate is next. Yes?'
'Don't ask me, mate,' said a youth. 'I'm going to
Notting Hill. But we do seem to have been in this
bleeding tunnel a long time.' The train roared on.
Another five minutes elapsed and the scene of ill
suppressed hysteria reminded him of the time he had
been on a charter flight to Miami and the plane had
flown into clear air turbulence. Only this time there was
no pacifying cabin crew and no seat belts.
The interconnecting door with the next carriage
opened and a white-faced group pushed forward. 'This
can't be right,' said the leader, a bullet-headed authority
figure. 'What's the driver playing at?' He shouldered his
way down the carriage and pounded on the metal door
separating them from the driver's cabin. There was no
response.
Bullet Head muttered a curse, then said, 'Christ! He
must have had a heart attack.'
A small woman in a hat quavered, 'That may be so,
but wouldn't the train have gone through Lancaster Gate
anyway? I didn't miss it, did I? We haven't reached it
yet, have we?'
The woman with the Selfridge's bag began rocking
and crying. This galvanized Bullet Head, who tugged at
the red emergency handle and began to attack the driver's
door with his feet and fists. Each blow simply bounced
back at him. The train ploughed on.
He watched Bullet Head's perspiring efforts and, for
the first time, felt the icy douche of fear swilling around
his innards. There was something . . . something he
should know that was tantalizingly just beyond his ken.
Bullet Head said, 'The bloody fool must have diverted
us into a side tunnel.'
'Maybe it's a bomb scare,' said someone.
The tall man, who'd been waiting to alight, abruptly
lost his composure and pointed angrily at the tube map.
'What diversionary tunnel? Do you see any damned
diversionary tunnel?'
Bullet Head turned puce and roared, 'They don't
mark them on the passengers' maps. There has to be
some place where they park the trains at night.'
The carriage was becoming oppressively packed as
more and more agitated passengers pressed forward from
the other carriages. He could no longer see the woman
clearly through the bodies. From his seated position, he
caught only the occasional glimpse of those mocking
crossed knees.
People tugged open the slit windows for ventilation.
Curiously, although the iron ribs continued to hurtle by
outside, he could feel no incoming blast of air on his
face, only the sort of gut-twisting paralysis he'd felt the
first time he came under Iraqi shower-and-spray machine
pistol fire. Despite an urgent desire to run to the kharsi,
he'd stayed long enough to ventilate two of those bastards
with neat groups in trunk and head.
The only way he could stand up now was to climb
onto his seat. He glanced at his watch. Jesus! They'd left
Marble Arch at least twenty-five minutes ago. At this
speed they should have gone through a dozen stations
and be breaking into daylight and suburban Middlesex.
Women were screaming and several had fainted. An
elderly woman in a hat began to pray out loud.
'Oh, do shut up!' said a chic brunette, dressed in
lawyer black.
A girl in school uniform began to sob. Through
shuddering breath, she cried, 'I know what this is. It's
like that book.' Her denimed Neanderthal boyfriend took
her by the shoulders and shook her until her head lolled.
'What are you talking about, you silly cow?'
'The one where all these people are on a ship. They
think they're trapped in the fog. Only they're not.'
'We're not in a fog. We're in a sodding tunnel, and in
a minute we'll be coming into a station,' said the
Neanderthal. The girl began to sob again. 'I don't think
so,' she said. 'I think we're condemned to be on this train
for all eternity.'
'You wicked little girl!' exploded the woman, crushing
her Selfridge's bag in her rage and anxiety. 'That's
blasphemy!' And then she threw back her head and
began a horrifying keening that spread, like a contagion,
the length of the suffocating coach and beyond.
He wanted to yell above their heads that it was too
absurd, to say give it a bit longer, keep calm. To say .. .
pray.
In front of him the press of bodies suddenly divided
and he stepped down onto the carriage floor. The muck
sweat was sluicing off his cheeks and chin. Somehow he
knew exactly what he had to do. He faced the woman
calmly. Now he knew how it ended - had always known
but, like the goldfish with its two-second memory, had
to relearn the scenario each time.
She uncrossed those exquisite legs, smiled up at him
and said, in a siren's purr, 'You should listen to that little
girl.'
She started to laugh directly into his shocked, uncomprehending
face. In her open mouth he could see only
darkness. He reeled back, fell into his seat and began to
scream.
The train thundered on. Outside, the iron ribs relentlessly
followed one upon another, a monster drawing him
into its black bowels on the ripples of its iron gullet.

Chapter Two

Jack Boulder's heart leapt in his chest, trying to escape
its mountings. He was wide awake in an instant, lying in
a sweat puddle, his head throbbing. Grace was already
leaning over him, her long, pewter-blonde hair hanging
forward over her sleep-dazed face. 'My God, Jack, what
is it? Just look at the time - it's not yet five.'
He swung his feet to the floor and rested his damp
head in his hands. She touched his bare, hunched
shoulders and could feel the heat and moisture coming
off his body.
She slithered off the mattress, her nightgown dragging
upwards to reveal her elegant legs. It fell back into place
as she padded to the bathroom and returned with two
towels. She had wetted one and now dabbed it over his
brow and the triangular torso that still thrilled her every
time she ran her hands over it. As she dried him off, she
asked, 'Was it the same dream?'
Jack nodded. 'It's the third time in a week. It's so
vivid, so terrifying.'
Grace's brow knitted. Terrifying was an unlikely word
for Jack to select. He was fearless - too fearless
sometimes.
She looked down at his dishevelled hair. 'Was it the
same woman?'
'Yes.'
She hesitated, and then said, 'Is it someone you've
met, Jack? Someone you've become . . . interested in? I
mean, you really fancy her, don't you, wanting to get a
look at her tits and so on . . .'
He raised his head to meet her gaze. 'Grace, men are
always wanting to look at women's tits. She's just some
witch from a dark pit inside my head. A figment. Nothing
more.' His arms encircled her thighs and he pulled her
close so that his head was against her belly.
She stroked his hair and heard him say, 'I've only ever
been in love with one woman and, at the moment, she is
rummaging through my hair to see if I've started a bald
patch.'
Grace said, 'Oooh!' and yanked at a forelock. She
began to giggle. 'I'll start a patch for you if you keep
dreaming about this harpy. Why can't you dream about
fancying me?'
His heartbeat had returned to normal and he pulled
back his head grinning roguishly. 'Who says I don't?'
'Really?' Grace brightened. 'You never mention it.
What do I wear in your imagination?'
'Oh, the usual stuff,' said Jack airily. 'School tunic,
blue knickers, thick black stockings . . .'
'Pervert!' said Grace.
As he spoke, Jack's hands slipped under his wife's
nightgown and pulled it over her head.
'Do you know what the time is?' she murmured.
'You've already told me,' said Jack.
'We'll have to be quiet or we'll wake the boys.'
'The clap of doom wouldn't get those two out of bed
at this hour . . .'
Afterwards Jack, a veteran of early reveilles, said, 'I'll
never get back to sleep. I'll go for my run.'
Dawn was not even a suspicion in the sky as he loped
from the house to begin his regular three-miler. As he
jogged along the empty pavement, there was nothing
untoward to draw his attention to the house displaying
the for-sale sign. Head down, watching for dog turds, he
failed to notice the upstairs curtains shifting minutely as
if someone had moved in the room, causing a small
displacement of air.
He got back to find that Grace had embarked on her
daily act as a female sergeant major, and was shouting
up the stairs for the children to stir themselves.
She said to Jack, 'Do you think you ought to see a
doctor?'
He shrugged. 'He'd only tell me to stop eating cheese
at night.'
The boys clattered in and Grace said no more. They
were both fair-headed but after that any similarity
between them ceased. Ben was twelve and already a
serious boy, a reader who asked questions; Malcolm at
eight still had no inkling of the kind of world that awaited
him and therefore lived in a state of infant bliss.
Mai headed straight for the cereal box, but Ben stood
by the kitchen sink, slapping the back of his head,
attempting vainly to make a rebellious tuft on his crown
lie down.
'Ben, for goodness' sake stop hitting yourself like that.
Your eyeballs'll pop out.'
'It keeps sticking up. They call me names at school.'
'What names?'
'Nevermind.'
'Mum, they call us both Bog Brush,' piped up Mai.
'Oh, dear! But I'm afraid your father doesn't like you
looking like a pair of sheepdogs. You're his little soldiers.'
Grace's flip tone invited a response but Jack held his
tongue. She took a comb from her bag and ran it under
the tap, then raked it through Ben's recalcitrant locks,
flattening them successfully against his skull. Breakfast
resumed.
The telephone call came minutes after she'd packed
the boys off to the local primary where she herself had
taught until Mai arrived. She lifted the receiver. 'Hello?'
A woman's voice, cool and neutral, said, 'Please may I
speak to Captain Boulder?' For no logical reason, Jack's
word-picture of the woman on the train flashed into her
head.
'Whom shall I say?' Her formal tone was a sure sign to
Jack that she had a dubious caller on the line. He often
teased her about it, saying she sounded like someone
who'd taken elocution lessons.
'It's a business matter,' said the measured voice.
Grace opened her mouth to make an acid retort to the
dismissive tone, then changed her mind. She held out
the receiver and said, 'For you. Sounds like someone
selling insurance. You'll be late if you're not out of here
in five minutes.' She had made no attempt to cover the
mouthpiece.
The voice said to Jack, 'I'm not selling insurance,
Captain Boulder. This is a serious matter that I do not
wish to discuss with your wife listening in. You have, I
believe, made numerous applications recently for jobs a
little more rewarding than manager of a gun club. Please
just answer yes or no.'
'Yes', said Jack. And added, 'I don't use my rank any
more. I'm a civvy now.'
'Very good,' said the woman. 'Thank you for your
discretion. Ask me no questions now but, as an
expression of my seriousness, you will receive an envelope
in tomorrow's mail containing five hundred pounds.
Do not show this to your wife. Do not discuss this
conversation with her. If you do, you will be squandering
a rare opportunity. Your good fortune will come to an
abrupt halt with the money that will be in your hands
tomorrow.'
'How--' began Jack, mind racing, but the woman
spoke over him.
She said, 'If all is satisfactory, I shall arrange a further
conversation with you. Goodbye for the moment.' She
rang off.
Grace was staring at him. He hung up. 'You didn't
have much to say for yourself. Who was she?'
He said carefully, 'You were right. Some insurance
pitch. I put the phone down on her.'
'This early in the morning? Strange, isn't it?'
Jack shrugged. 'I think they try to get you before you
leave for work.'
In the house across the road, one of the listeners said,
'Good. He hasn't told her. And he thinks on his feet.'
All the same, he was followed on the tube into the City
and a daylong check maintained for unusual contacts or
any mention of his curious telephone call.
'Nothing,' reported the team.

Chapter Three

The observers watched Jack take his early run and then
linger on the corner jogging on the spot.
'Good man,' said one. 'Tough-looking Johnnie, isn't
he? He's waiting to waylay Postman Pat.'
It was ten minutes before Jack spotted the postman in
the distance hauling his trolley, and jogged along to meet
him.
They watched Jack being handed his mail, watched
him finger the package and slip it into the waistband of
his tracksuit trousers under the jacket before trotting
back to the house.
They turned to the earphones, listened to the domestic
clatter, Grace urging Ben and Mai to hurry, Jack claiming
the bathroom, and even caught the sound of ripping
as he opened the package. They imagined his stunned
look as he fanned out the banknotes, now realizing for
the first time that the call had been no hoax.
'Nothing works as well as the old green-backed convincer,
does it?' murmured the senior man.
Jack left the house fifteen minutes earlier than usual,
leaving Grace still coping with the pre-school pandemonium.
At St Paul's he positioned himself at the phone box
specified in the typed note that had accompanied the
money. He lifted the receiver on the first ring.
'Good morning, Captain Boulder,' said the woman. It
was an upper-class accent, with a drawl that spoke of
worldliness, the voice of someone easily bored. He
wanted once again to correct her salutation but instinct
told him to let it go and listen.
'You were your regiment's rifle champion. You shot at
Bisley, and were runner-up for the Queen's Prize.'
'Yes,' said Jack. So that was it. He knew that at this
point he should ask for an address where he could return
the money. He didn't.
'Why didn't you win?'
'Bit of bad luck, really. You need to be in the right
frame of mind for shooting at that level. My father had
been killed earlier that week in a traffic pile-up. I wanted
to pull out altogether but there was pressure from the
regiment who were mad keen to have another pot to add
to the regimental silver collection. So I played the brave
little soldier.'
'Tell me, Captain Boulder, under what circumstances
did you leave the Army?'
'Look,' said Jack, 'I like to find five hundred quid in
the post as much as the next man. But I don't think
you've bought the right to my life story.'
'Oh, but I'm about to,' she said calmly. 'I'm about to
offer you a week's work for which you will be paid one
hundred thousand pounds.'
'Oh, sure,' said Jack. 'Who do I have to kill?' Even as
the words escaped his mouth he knew he had asked the
right question.
'Please do not be flippant. This is a matter, as I told
you yesterday, of great seriousness. You may correct me
if I'm wrong in any detail, but is it not true that you were
invited to resign your commission after Sean McGurk, a
known IRA leader, came to his front door one morning
in the Irish Republic and was shot dead from a great
distance by a single shot? The same Sean McGurk whose
active service unit had been responsible for the deaths of
two of your own men. I'm told the shot was placed so
precisely between the eyes that at first the Garda could
not believe it had not been fired at close range. A
beautiful shot,' she added almost dreamily. 'So neat. So perfectly formed. Just like that little red spot Hindi
women sport on their foreheads.'
Jack attempted to butt in, but she gave him no space.
She went on, reprovingly, 'Your fine handiwork may
have made you a hero to your men and brother officers
but the Paddies had to be extremely cross with someone
so they picked on the poor old British Government who,
in turn, were extremely cross, with you - especially as
there was talk of a ceasefire in the air.'
'No one ever proved it was me,' grunted Jack, as she
drew breath. 'British officers don't go man-hunting without
authorization.'
'Don't they now?' She sounded both dry and amused.
'How do you know all this?' said Jack. 'I was allowed
to leave the Army without any fuss. They weren't going
to give me up to Dublin and cause an even bigger stink.
There was nothing in the papers.'
She said, 'I know a great deal about you, Captain
Boulder. And be assured you have my respect. I'm only
sorry that a man of your talents spends his days in a
soundproofed basement among all those stockbrokers
nursing fantasies that they, too, could be Sheriff of
Tombstone. Rather pathetic, don't you think?'
'It's a living,' said Jack. 'Don't you think it's about
time you stopped playing games with me? Who are you?'

'You may call me Mrs Canning.'
'You want me to bump off your husband. Is that it?'
She laughed lightly. 'Nothing so bourgeois. But you
really don't believe you can earn a hundred thousand
pounds without, shall we say, a considerable tussle with
your conscience, do you?'
'I was coming to that,' said Jack.
She cut in, 'You have a forty-thousand pound mortgage,
you have two sons aged eight and twelve to educate,
you have little money in reserve and you're often unable
to clear your monthly credit-card bills. You last took
your wife to a restaurant five weeks ago.' Anticipating his
reaction she added, 'Don't be alarmed. All that information
is readily available to credit agencies and private
detectives with access to computer networks.'
Jack glanced at his watch. He was already late. He
licked his lips. A hundred thou? Christ! He said, 'Can
we meet?'
'Not just yet. Do you wish me to go on?'
Jack said slowly, 'Well, I'm listening. This is all
something of a thunderbolt. Okay, I realize this is more
than a practical joke. You wouldn't have gone to such
lengths to find out so much about me. Although some of
what you said is bullshit. You didn't get my Army record
from any credit agency.'
She did not reply.
Finally, he said, 'I'd like to hear more.'
'This phone, same time tomorrow,' she snapped, and
left him listening to the dialling tone.

Chapter Four

The boys were upstairs, grappling with their homework.
Grace swept crumbs from supper off the table into her
cupped hand and looked at him curiously.
'All right, Boulder,' she said. 'What's on your mind?'
The listeners paused in their game of pocket chess.
Jack said, 'What do you mean?'
Grace said, 'You've not said a word either to me or
the boys all evening. You're somewhere in outer space.
What's up?'
'I'm just feeling a bit low,' said Jack. 'I miss the guys,
the comradeship. Don't you?'
The listeners resumed their game, cocking half an ear,
backed by the reel-to-reel recorder doing its stately
eavesdrop.
Grace brushed her hands clean over the swing-bin.
'The Army can get stuffed as far as I'm concerned. I
never knew when some embarrassed colonel was going
to call on me to say you'd driven over a landmine and
ask how I'd like the pieces delivered.'
They had been married fourteen years. Her Jack was
no pretty boy but his weatherbeaten face and nose broken
in a battalion boxing tournament had left him with the
kind of ruggedness that triggered near delirium in some
women.
She assumed that from time to time he must have been
tempted to stray, even if only in his head, especially when
soldiering took him away from home - but his behaviour
had never given her any reason to think that he actually
had. On home ground he was a model husband. His
impetuosity was boyish; it never involved adventures
with other women. She knew how much temptation was
thrown in his path, had seen the way women reacted to
him even when she was within face-slapping distance . . .
And it had been the same qualities in Jack that attracted
other women - his sheer animal masculinity and his
blindness to his own sex appeal - that had drawn her to
him in the first place.
Grace could see genuine naivety in his face about
female predatory instincts and this, she realized with a
stab of resignation, was another part of the challenge.
They had met at a wedding: Grace was just out of
teacher-training college and was taking infant classes
while Jack was a second lieutenant. He was in his dress
uniform with his just-earned parachute wings. One of
Grace's girlhood friends was marrying a fellow officer
from Jack's regiment.
In the marquee, after the toasts and the speeches, when
most of the wedding party were tipsy, she had observed
no fewer than three bridesmaids and a couple of older
women twittering around Jack. He was gazing raptly at
his admirers under their wide-brimmed hats and floral
circlets.
Grace was sitting in a little gilt chair, watching the
group and thinking, idly, that Jack must be the most
conceited man on earth, when suddenly he turned and
headed straight for her. She stared him in the eye as he
advanced towards her, looking so grim that she was
already giggling before he reached her. He said, awkwardly,
'You need a refill.' She burst out laughing. He
looked like a man going over the parapet in the face of
enemy guns.
'Look here,' she said, teasingly, 'isn't your presence
required over there?'
He glanced back guiltily at five angry pairs of eyes,
then said, 'I couldn't help myself. I needed to meet you,'
so simply that it certainly wasn't a practised line.
Four months later they were married and living in
Germany. Grace found a job teaching at a school for the
children of NATO personnel.
The revenge execution of Sean McGurk - Grace
refused to call it murder - and its aftermath had been
shattering for both of them. The army and his family had
been Jack's life and it had been hard for him to adjust to
the civilian jungle. She saw his terrible nightmares as just
one symptom of his inner turmoil.
Now, Grace knelt by his chair and laid a hand on his
knee. 'Look, Jack, the only thing we can thank the Army
for is the cover-up. You must have been insane. If there'd
been any advantage in it for the brass and the politicians,
you'd be doing life in an Irish prison. And how long do
you think it would have taken for the Provos to get to
you?'
'Quite right, my girl,' murmured the senior man,
taking black's remaining bishop.
Jack said, 'It's just this gun-club job. These people I
teach to shoot are clowns from Fantasy Island. What the
hell goes on in their heads? I mean, toting .44 Magnums
and Browning automatics as a hobby. It's crazy. And in
that dungeon I don't see daylight from clock-on to clock
off.'
Grace massaged his knee soothingly. 'You'll just have
to keep trying for something better. For God's sake, Jack,
don't spoil this one. We're the original beggars who can't
be choosers. Think of the boys.'
Jack nodded glumly. Then he brightened and said,
'Oh, by the way, some good news. Some fool paid me
extra for giving him fast-draw lessons. I earned every
penny - he nearly got me in the foot!'
He was not comfortable with the glibness of the lie but
he'd caused Grace enough anxiety with the McGurk
affair. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a
wad. "There's five hundred there,' he said.
'Naughty, naughty,' said the senior man. 'She's not
going to go for that.'
But Grace exclaimed, 'Wonderful! That's great timing.
It'll almost clear the Visa bill.' Then she climbed into his
lap and rubbed herself against his chest, saying mischievously,
'I think the kids are asleep. Let's go upstairs . . .'
'Ah,' said the senior man. 'A spot of slap-and-tickle to
brighten the dying hours of the day . . . Pity we couldn't
get those stick lenses into the walls.' His queen's knight
made a crooked advance. 'Checkmate!' he purred.

Chapter Five

'We're not talking about a job stacking supermarket
shelves,' said Jack. 'Why can't we meet?'
'Eventually,' she said, in the same measured tone. 'I
still have to be certain that you're the right man. Do you
have a bothersome conscience?'
'No more nor less than the next man,' said Jack. 'If
you're SIS and have in mind some rat who deserves all
he gets, I can do the business.'
'Maybe,' she said. She paused, then said, 'Suppose the
object is someone who doesn't deserve a bullet? Could
you have stood in Oswald's shoes at the Texas Book
Depository window?'
'No,' said Jack.
'And another thing. You assume the object is male.
Could you "do the business" to a woman?'

Jack sighed at the complexities. 'Unlikely. Unless she
was a proven out-and-out evil bitch.'
'That would be too convenient, wouldn't it? You'd
have declined to "do the business" to Helen of Troy but
just think of the thousands of lives that would have been
saved in the Trojan Wars if you'd put one lovely little
vent in the middle of her forehead before she ever set
eyes on Paris.'
Jack found this kind of dialogue vaguely irritating, a
toying with the outer ring rather than going for the
bullseye. He said, 'I don't think Homer would have been
too pleased with me. What would he have been left with
to write about?'
He hoped the bored note in his voice would encourage
her to come to the point. But she went on, 'Ever see a
film called The Third Man?'
'No,' said Jack. 'I only like Westerns. They don't make
'em anymore.'
'There's a scene,' went on Mrs Canning, as if he had
not spoken, 'high up in a fairground Ferris wheel. One
man points out to another how insignificant people
appear at that height, how, if one were to be eliminated,
no great harm would have been done. The world would
go on turning. That's what's involved here. A speck
disappears. The sun rises the next morning just the
same.'
'Look,' said Jack, 'my experience is that too much
talking and too much thinking make people hesitate and
trip over themselves. As you've already delicately pointed
out, my life is up Crap Alley and I'm ripe for a proposition.
I've forced myself not to think any deeper about
it than that. If you start giving me psychological tests,
I'm liable to start thinking consequences. So let's get to
it. I take it that you're acting on behalf of the Security
Services. Is it Five or Six who don't want mud on their
doormat? You put up the money, convince me that we
can get away with it, and I'll do the business. Fair
enough?'
She made no immediate reply. He could hear her
making a disapproving tsk-tsk noise. She said, 'Now you
worry me. You sound too cocky by half. Listen, once
you've been cast, you're bound to a play-or-pay
contract.'
'What happens if the play's interrupted by a member
of the audience?'
'Well, you obviously know the score. You know what
a cut-out is?'
'Yes.'
'For a hundred thousand pounds, the cut-out is you.
If the play doesn't reach the final curtain for the target,
you're on your own.'
Then she added abruptly, "There'll be another five
hundred in your post on Monday. I shall spend the
weekend thinking about you.' She gave him another
phone-box location in Cornhill and hung up.
That night Jack had the dream again. But now he
fancied he had a name to put to the woman he followed
so slavishly onto that coffin train. Mrs Canning.

Chapter Six

They monitored him closely during the weekend. They
lived through a tiff with Grace when he backed out of a
promise to take the boys to a Fulham home game. They
could hear the puzzlement in Grace's voice: Jack was a
loving father who enjoyed his Saturday afternoons on the
terraces as much as their boys.
There was a second minor clash that weekend when
the conversation took a military turn. Grace came into
the living room just as Ben was asking, 'Dad, why is it
better to wound the enemy rather than kill him?'
Apparently Jack did not regard this as an odd question
from a boy of twelve. He said, 'Kill a man, and all it does
is make a few hours' work for a burial party and the
chaplain. Wound him badly enough, and many people
will be involved in saving him - stretcher party, doctors,
nurses, surgeons, ambulance drivers, artificial-limb
makers . . . The enemy is compelled to commit huge
resources to an activity that won't help win the battle.
Your own wounded are, to tell a truth that no one likes
to admit, a darned nuisance.'
Grace broke in, 'Really, Jack! Do you have to fill their
heads with blood and guts?'
'Aw, Mum, leave Dad alone,' Ben wailed. 'This is
real-life stuff, it's interesting.'
'Quite right,' said Jack, ruffling his hair so that it shot
up into the hated spikes. To Grace he said, 'I don't want
them falling for that paths-of-glory guff. The military life
is what I know and if they want to follow me I want them
to be clear in their heads about what they're letting
themselves in for.'
After the boys had gone out, he sat brooding over his
latest conversation with Mrs Canning. Grace was preparing
to go shopping. He said, 'Could you pop into the
video club and see if they have a copy of The Third Man}'

The listeners registered Grace's curiosity. Jack never
watched old movies. And this one was really old. 'I just
fancy it,' he said lamely.
They watched from the window as Grace Boulder, in
a flimsy summer frock, swung down the road. At the
corner, the sun caught her and, in silhouette for a second,
they had the illusion that she was naked. 'Oh, to be in
Jack's shoes,' said the senior man.
'Oh, to be in Jack's bed,' corrected his colleague.
Two hours later they were listening to the familiar,
sinuous dialogue - Orson Welles murmuring into Joseph
Cotton's ear, 'Look down there. Would you really feel any
pity if one of those dots stopped moving for ever? If I offered
twenty thousand pounds for every dot that stops, would you
really, old man, tell me to keep my money? . . . It's the only
way you save nowadays.'
Jack shifted uneasily. There was something of Mrs
Canning in this scene.
(In these days, old man, nobody thinks in terms of human
beings. Governments don't, so why should we? They talk of
the people and the proletariat, and I talk of the mugs. It's the
same thing. . .'
On Monday he met the postman again. And, again,
the money was there. This time he did not hand any to
Grace. She wasn't going to believe he had more than one
fast-draw idiot on his books.
On a noisy phone, Mrs Canning got down to some
detailed business. Over what distance did he regard his
marksmanship as effective?
'I shoot twelve hundred yards at Bisley. More is
possible, especially with a decent scope. Is this an indoor
or outdoor shoot?'
'Outdoor.'
'In that case, you have the windage to reckon with.
Over a thousand yards, a ten-knot wind can deflect a
bullet by as much as eight feet. You wouldn't think it
possible with a sharp-nosed metal object travelling at
something approaching Mach Three. What about the
weather?'
'It won't happen unless it's fine.'
'That could be another headache. Get a heat haze and
you may find yourself having a cabby at a mirage.'
'Unlikely,' she said. Jack noticed she didn't query the
Army slang for potshot. She knew.
He asked, 'What distance are we talking here?'
'It is difficult to know at this stage but, from what you
say, we have to assume that the task will be at the limit
of your capabilities. That's why you've been headhunted
for this job. You know you're good; we know you're
good. That's why you're being offered such a ridiculous
sum of money.'
Jack had a further thought. 'Will the object be moving
at the time?'
'Yes, but not particularly fast. You will, at least, have
one advantage. The object will be in clear view.'
'Which brings us,' said Jack, 'to the object's identity.'
'No, it doesn't,' said Mrs Canning sharply. 'You will
not know the identity of our target until after the event.
You will not know whether it is man, woman, youth or
child. If you want this money, you'd better reconcile
yourself to my rules of engagement. This conversation
brings us only to one point, where I ask you for your total
commitment. Any doubt, and I'd prefer that you back
off. You keep the thousand you already have and you
never hear from me again. In or out, Captain Boulder?'
Jack pressed his brow against the cool glass of the
telephone booth. He could see himself stepping onto the
tube train in the woman's wake and the doors rumbling
closed behind him.
'Will this person's death be a good thing for our
country?' he said at last. He listened to his own uncertain
voice and thought he sounded like a schoolboy who'd
been force-fed Boy's Own yarns of derring-do missions
against the Boche.
'It'll be an excellent thing for our country.' Her voice
left no room for doubt. 'You'll have performed a significant
public service. This particular person has done
Britain great harm but cannot be brought to book in any
conventional way. By comparison, your Sean McGurk
was a minor irritant. So what's it to be, Captain Boulder?
In or out?'
'In,' he said finally.
With that moment of his pledge, he mentally boxed
away all reservation. He was surprised at how galvanized
he felt. He hadn't felt this alive since he had settled
himself in a copse on the brow of a hill and waited for
Sean McGurk to come to his front door.
'Splendid,' she said in that upper-class way, as if she
were complimenting a servant on the shine of the silver.
She said, 'I want you to get rid of that regimental haircut.
Let it grow long. And cultivate a moustache, a bushy
one.'
'How do you know about my hair?' said Jack, but she
put him down immediately.
'Don't ask questions. Just do it.'
At Mrs Canning's insistence, Jack returned to open
range shooting to bring his skills up to competition pitch.
At weekends he commuted to Pirbright. On one day he
scored 373 out of a possible 375 at ranges up to 1,000
yards and at 2,000 he was achieving a consistent two out
of three in the bull on a stationary target.
'Christ, Jack,' said the manager, Greg Rankin, 'you've
never been better. Pity you can't go back to Ireland to
give the Micks another demo.' He laughed. He knew the
story.
'What are you talking about?' said Jack, well satisfied
with his day's work.
As instructed, he put himself on the holiday list for
three weeks in May. No, said Mrs Canning, she wouldn't
tell him any more at this stage. It was his job to keep
hitting those bullseyes and to prepare his equipment so
that it was in perfect functioning order by that date. And,
oh yes, did he possess clothes of casual sophistication suitable
for a warmish climate? If not, get some with the
money he was now receiving every Monday.
'Include a wide-brimmed Panama,' she said, as an
afterthought. 'They make a wonderful shield from security
cameras in public places.'
He worked out that, by the end of April, he would
have received five thousand pounds. Mrs Canning told
him he would receive a further fifteen thousand on
1 May, to total a fifth of his promised fee in advance.
He was still taking all his instructions in various
telephone boxes around the City and felt somewhat
reassured by his mysterious employer's elaborate care.
He himself was now observing equally secure routines.
He allowed Mrs Canning to open on his behalf an
untraceable Sparbuch bank account in Vienna, with his
own code word, in which to deposit his growing savings.
The account was in a bogus name of his own choosing
and he always kept the passbook with him.
The mention of lightweight clothes had alerted him to
the difficulties involved in taking his equipment abroad:
although he had firearms certificates, he couldn't take his
gear out of the country without official sanction.
'It's all arranged,' said Mrs Canning, when he raised
the matter. 'Of course, there's no way you can fly with
your weaponry going undetected. You'll be driving via
the Channel Tunnel, with everything safely stowed.' She
refused to elaborate. 'Everything at the right time, Jack,'
she said. At least she'd stopped the Captain Boulder
routine, which, he reckoned, was intended to plant him
firmly among the junior ranks.
He hadn't had the dream for some weeks - not since
he'd said yes to Mrs Canning.
He did not know it, but growing confidence was being
expressed in his conduct. His household, the watchers
and listeners confirmed, had continued along its humdrum
domestic way. He had made no suspicious phone
calls, had met no unaccountable persons, posted no
dubious letters. He was their very good boy.
As a consequence, the bodies were withdrawn although
the voice-activated recorders were still in situ.
On the tapes they heard Grace's growing concern at
Jack's edginess. They had lived together too long for him
to be able to hide his preoccupation successfully. Once,
she lost her temper when he announced he had to go
shooting rather than take the family swimming.
Jack's mother-in-law had belatedly told him, an hour
after the nuptials were over, 'Our Grace always did have
a bit of a tongue on her,' and now she was haranguing
him. 'I thought you'd put that Pirbright rifle-shooting
obsession behind you. It's a waste of time mat you could
be spending with your family, Jack. I've never liked
having those guns in the house. I don't want the boys
taking them up as a hobby.'
Jack looked at Ben and Mai, who had both assumed
exaggerated expressions of innocence. He was relieved
that they were both keeping their mouths firmly closed.
He had taken them through the routines of small-arms
maintenance on a number of occasions and, on Saturday
mornings, had allowed them to fire real bullets on the
indoor range. They had been thrilled but Jack had
warned them, 'If you tell your mother, she'll kill me and
take away your Nintendo. This is our secret, so don't
drop me in it. Cross your hearts?'
They had both solemnly done so.
Jack fended off Grace as best he could. 'It'd be a
shame to let my sharp-shooting skills slip,' he said.
They could hear Grace making sounds of exasperation.

'Jack, for pity's sake, what use is it except in a fairground?
The Army is over and done with. You're a civilian now.
You only need side-arms skills for those would-be cowboys
you instruct.'
Jack tried to mollify her. He said, 'You're right about
the influence on the boys. Security is much tighter at the
club - I'll keep my stuff there.'
He felt pleased with his low cunning. He still had to
find a reason for going away alone in May but at least he
wouldn't have to explain why he was taking a rifle, ammo
and tools with him.
Jack hummed that old Johnny Cash number about not
taking your guns to town.
Then he stopped abruptly, remembering Billy Joe's
fate.

Chapter Seven

The postman was beginning to give him questioning
looks. Jack had been jogging down to the corner of
Hellespont Road to meet him every Monday for the past
two months. This time there was more than the five
hundred pounds in his package.
He waited until he was in the privacy of his office
before examining the other contents. There was a set of
Volvo car keys, travel papers and a well-worn blue-and
gold British passport in the name of James Canning who
was 6 feet 1 inch tall with brown eyes. Just like Jack. His
profession was given as company executive.
The passport had been issued in August 1990. So how
come he was gazing down at a passable photograph of
himself, head against a neutral background, hair

enhanced by an unknown artist and a full moustache
skilfully painted in? He experienced a leap of apprehension
in his gut: he felt the presence of a ruthlessly efficient
organization behind Mrs Canning's honey-for-tea Home
Counties accent.
He held up the pages to the light, squinted along the
side of the photo where it was overlaid with the official
stamp. He could detect no sign of forgery or that his
image had been substituted for the original holder's.
Mrs Canning actually laughed. It was so unexpected
that it brought home to Jack with a rush just how intense
and narrowly focused their conversations had been for all
this time.
'You're my husband, James,' she said.
'So why the long separation?' said Jack. 'Does this
mean we get to meet at last?'
'Quite soon,' she said.
Jack said, 'I have a worry. I'm keeping my weapons
and new travelling clothes at work but I don't know how
to break the news to my wife that I'll be disappearing in
May for a holiday alone. She's no fool.'
There was a silence on the line. Finally, Mrs Canning
said, scornfully, Jack mought, 'You really should have
learned to keep your woman in order, Captain Boulder.
I'll work something out.' Mrs Canning was evidently not
a member of the sisterhood.
The Captain had returned. 'There's no need to be so
bloody rude,' he said stonily. 'My wife is her own
woman. She doesn't need to be kept in order by me. If
anything, I'm the one who sometimes has to be kept in
order by her.'
'How very New Man of you. Do you take your turn at
the washing up?'
Jack held his tongue. But he was stirred by the idea
that he was actually going to come face to face with ..
who? Her name would no more be Canning than he was
her husband.
'What do I call you?' he said.
'Well, it says Jane on my passport. And I shall call you
James. There! How nice and simple. We've both been
christened.'
Mrs Jane Canning was impressively fast to furnish her
solution to his problem with Grace. She had evidently
latched on to the fact that, although he was out of the
Army, he was still a reservist. A seemingly authentic
OHMS buff envelope arrived by post. Inside was
another envelope stamped Sealed Orders and Secret.
Grace watched, curious. The letter was certainly official
looking, with a Ministry of Defence heading, and
required Captain Boulder to report to the Ministry, off
Whitehall, where he would be transported onward to a
secret destination to participate in a weapons appraisal
programme. His duties would necessitate his absence
from home for the better part of May.
Wordlessly, he held out the movement order to Grace.
'They kick you out,' she said bitterly, 'but they still keep
you on their leash. Suppose you refuse to go?'
'Can't do that,' said Jack, endeavouring not to look
relieved. 'It's a court-martial offence.'

Chapter Eight

He felt indecently happy as he drove the Volvo estate up
the ramp at Folkestone and manoeuvred it into the long,
narrow coach of the Tunnel train. Then he remembered
his lies to Grace and the moment passed.
All had gone as Mrs Canning had decreed. He'd left
his own car at home in Hellespont Road, found the Volvo
where she had said - in a car park off Ludgate Hill - and
reparked it in the underground bay next to the shooting
range. The concealed well under the floor had been
expertly cut. His equipment, bubble-wrapped against
rattle, fitted snugly. He dropped the lid back into place
and threw his innocuous luggage, Panama included, on
top, together with the set of golf clubs she'd supplied so
that he could carry the rifle in the bag without detection.
Jack was not a golfer but he had to admire her foresight.
He had tried not to make too big a meal of leaving
home and had taken care not to give the impression that
this was any more significant than a hundred other
partings necessitated by the military life.
He gave Ben and Mai a hug, kissed the tops of their
unruly heads, and uttered the time-honoured words,
'You be good boys for your mother.'
If Grace harboured any suspicions, none showed. Her
attitude was one of surrender to the hopeless nature of
men who preferred to play boys' games. They embraced
and she admonished him the way wives usually do on
such occasions: 'Behave yourself,' she said.
Routine. Domestic normality. Nothing untoward.
Grace had approved his longer hair and the moustache.
'Mmmm. That 'tache really suits you.' She briefly
pressed her breasts into his chest. 'Just a reminder of
what you'll be missing while you're far from home,
soldier boy,' she murmured, out of earshot of their sons.
'Try not to have any more dreams of that mystery
woman.'
Jack had jumped when Mrs Canning - Jane, as he
must get into the habit of calling her - had given him his
destination: the Cannes Film Festival in the Soudi of
France.
'We're going to do this thing in the middle of a film
festival?' He couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.
'Think about it,' she said. 'The town will be crawling
with strangers. All eyes will be on the stars. No one will
be paying any attention to us.'
As if to confirm her assessment, en route no one had
even bothered to open his phoney passport. He'd waved
it in the air a couple of times but had barely merited a
glance from officialdom.
He had a queasy half-hour as the train plunged into
the tunnel and the walls began to slide past his window.
In his head the stations of his personal Via Dolorosa
unspooled. St Paul's . . . Chancery Lane . . . Holborn
. . . Tottenham Court Road . . . When the train shot out
into sunlight on the French side, Jack was damp from his
tousled hair to his new spommoccasins.
It was only as he headed south in the Volvo from
Calais that it occurred to him Cannes would be bursting
with French security police to ensure that all those
heavenly bodies returned to Hollywood intact. He wondered
how this would affect Mrs Canning's venture.
He left the Route Nationale once to eat and catnap,
but eighteen hours after leaving the Channel, he was
easing the Volvo down the Boulevard Carnot into a
madhouse. An army of blue-dungareed workmen had
descended on the seafront, La Croisette, and were
swarming over palm trees and towers of scaffolding,
erecting forests of billboards. Posters were being hauled
up on cranes to smother the facades of the great hotels that faced the mile-long curve of the beach. The town's elegant frontage was being transformed into a giant
advertising hoarding.
Outside the famous Carlton Hotel, which even Jack recognized from television documentaries, lurid film advertisements revolved on a gigantic drum while the
porte-cochere of this wedding-cake hotel had disappeared
under a thirty-foot placard showing a fantasy girl with
her legs astride cuddling a ray gun. To enter the building,
one had to pass under her barely concealed vulva. The
subliminal message was not lost on Jack. He smiled
thinly. Most of the posters depicted violence and firearms,
which offered ample confirmation of his own view
of turbulent human nature. Pity Grace wasn't there to
have this pointed out to her.
He located the Hotel Berthier a short distance along
La Croisette from the Carlton. He noted with approval
its panoramic view of the bay and drove into its underground
car park.
The foyer was as chaotic as the scene outside. Handsome
marble columns were being utilized as props for
yet more placards and the place was jammed with
jabbering groups of film-industry pitchmen. Mrs Canning
had been right. Who would notice the pair of them
in this frenzied atmosphere?
The black-coated receptionist took his passport, gave
him a guest form to fill in, and said, 'Welcome to the
Bertther, sir. Your wife has already arrived.' The man
punched his bell and handed the key to the porter. 'Suite
720 for Monsieur Canning,' he snapped.
Jack felt a tremor, part excitement, part curiosity. In a
few minutes he would at last be able to put a face to his
employer. He had slung the zipped golfbag over his
shoulder. The Panama was firmly jammed on his head.
He did not look up to check for security cameras. If he
stared at them, they would be staring back at him.
He had to slip the golfbag from his shoulder to ease
into the crowded lift. A silver-haired man in a superbly
cut jacket eyed the bag with delight. Was he a film star?
A Hollywood tycoon? For once Jack wished he knew
more about the cinema. The man exposed perfect teeth
in a smile and said, 'Hell! I was beginning to think I was
the only golf nut in town. Tennis at dawn is more what
happens here.'
Jack grinned guardedly.
The man said, 'What do you play off?'
What the hell was he talking about? Jack hazarded a
guess. 'Any old club that will admit me,' he said.
The man chuckled. 'There's a decent course up at
Valbonne - only a short drive. If you're in need of a
partner, give me a call. Let's swap cards.'
Jack said hurriedly, 'I don't have mine at hand. I'm in
915.'
But the porter understood English and corrected him.
'Oh, no, Monsieur. Your suite is 720. The hotel casino
is on the ninth floor.'
Jack could have throttled him. He shrugged helplessly.
The man - American? Canadian? - chuckled again. He
had not taken the error as a snub. With difficulty in the
crush, he fished a card from his pocket, scribbled his
room number and the word 'Golf?' on the reverse side, and alighted with a friendly wave at the fifth etage.
At the seventh, Jack was led to a carved mahogany
door marked 720. The porter tapped respectfully with
the key tag, and Jack felt like a bridegroom.
Suddenly, she was there. 'James, darling! Here you are
at last!'
The sensation was dizzying. He had an impression of
a soignee woman in heavy horn-rimmed spectacles before
she flung her arms around him. He felt a peach-soft
pressing of lips against the corner of his mouth and her
breasts pushing into his chest. He was reminded, fleetingly
and guiltily, of Grace.
'Er, hello, Jane,' he stumbled.
The porter placed his luggage on the slatted ledge in
the small foyer of the sunlit suite. Jack studied her back
as she pressed a fifty-franc note into the man's hand and
said, lBien, merci' She closed the door and whirled,
smiling, to face him.
Mrs Canning was tallish - around five seven - with a
lean body and high rounded breasts under wide
shoulders. She wore a long, belted shantung dress in dark
green and her raven hair was dragged back in a bun. He
judged her to be in her mid-thirties, and almost certainly
a little older than he was.
The hair gave her a severe look, but when she removed
the glasses he could see how magnificently the style
emphasized her cheekbones. She was no longer a girl but
she was what any clubman would have called a handsome
woman. He tried to fix on her eyes but they were dark
and somehow elusive, as if the irises had leaked their
colour into the eyeballs.
As he stared at her, she examined him. She deployed a
brisk, authoritarian air. 'Well, my husband, your home
movies don't do you justice,' she said. Could she really
have seen them? Jack held his tongue.
She circled him as if she were examining a prize bull,
took in his lightweight fawn suit, the plain linen shirt and
yellow striped tie. Finally, she said, 'An elegant
roughneck.'
'What?' said Jack, genuinely puzzled.
'It is Scott Fitzgerald's description of Gatsby,' she
said.
'Is this another movie?'
'Oh dear,' she said.
Jack didn't care for her tone, which was dismissive but
at the same time a little mocking.
'I got The Third Man on video, but I don't watch
movies much.'
'It's from a book, Jack. Do military men read only
Clausewitz and Caesar's campaigns in Gaul?'
She locked the door and ushered him from the foyer
into the sitting room with its tall french-windowed
balcony overlooking the bay. The furniture was hotel
classical, the hard-wearing kind, vaguely Louis XV, that
travellers encounter from Hong Kong to New York. He
peered into the bedroom. Two luxurious beds with
painted headboards were separated by a side cabinet. He
made no comment.
She said, in that controlled voice he'd come to know
so well, 'You'd better let me see what you've brought
with you.'
Jack slipped off his jacket, loosened his tie and opened
the golfbag, from which he lifted out the clubs one by
one. Lastly, out came stock, 'scope, magazine, bipod,
bolt and trigger section and barrel of the Super Magnum.
She watched as he handled the pieces with something
approaching reverence.
He said, 'Assembled, you will be looking at a .338
Super Magnum sniper rifle with Schmidt and Bender
sights. If you know what you're doing and using special
accuracy ammunition, it's still effective at over two
thousand yards. It's a lovely piece of shooter's gear.'
Fascinated, Mrs Canning stroked the barrel. He
noticed that her hands, surprisingly, were not of the
slender, feminine type that went with the rest of the
picture. They looked powerful. Her nails were square
trimmed and businesslike, the lacquer palest pink. The
only jewellery was 'their' wedding band.
'You mentioned special ammunition,' she said. 'Does
that mean mercury-tipped bullets - the ones that do the
most body damage?'
Jack looked at her. Her evident relish was not appealing.
'Christ! No it does not. Give the poor bastard a
sporting chance.'
Mrs Canning's bonhomie vanished and she erupted in
fury. 'This isn't a gentleman's sporting event. We are
here to kill someone,' she hissed. 'The fact that neither
you nor I has ever met the target doesn't make it a game.
This is a business transaction. You do your job efficiently
and you get paid. Let's hear no more rubbish about
sporting chances.'
She subsided abruptly, as if she had prematurely
revealed too much of herself to him. She nodded at the
weapon. 'Get it fitted together,' she said curtly. 'Then
we'll talk.'
A strained silence hovered between them as she
watched him open his toolkit and wipe each segment
before clipping or screwing it to the preceding piece. The
bipod to the body; the elevation and windage turrets to
the twelve-power sight; the finely-oiled bolt to the
chamber, the box magazine, with its match-grade Lapua
Magnum rounds, clipped beneath; the customized
leather cheek pad to the butt. He was a study in quiet
concentration.
He took a soft cloth and polished each deadly round
as if it were Georgian silver. 'The rounds are the first of
a new batch off the machine, taken before the minor
distortions of mass production set in.'
Still watching, she sat and crossed her legs. Jack
shuddered: someone had passed over his grave. Her
elegant tan stockings had made the same screeching
noise as those of the woman on the train. He shivered
again, dropped a tiny club screw onto the carpet and had
to kneel in search of it. Out of the corner of his eye he
saw her smooth knees shimmer in their nylon.
'A formidable-looking weapon,' she murmured, as
Jack stepped back from the slanting rifle, its muzzle
pointed towards the room's elaborate cornice. The sight
of it glinting dully under the crystal chandelier seemed to
have restored her good temper.

'Before we talk,' he said, 'I have some preliminaries of
my own.' He began a careful examination of the suite.
Apart from the foyer, it consisted of two high-ceilinged
rooms, a marble bathroom of considerable splendour and
a tiny kitchen that also served as a bar. Alongside the bar
stood an aluminium cube, the size of a packing case,
marked fragile, camera equipment. Jack undipped its
fasteners and raised the lid. Apart from the sponge rubber
lining, the cube was empty. Its red-letter labels marked it
for return to a furniture repository in Battersea, southeast
London.
'It's a prop for the business we're supposed to be in movie
camera supplies,' she volunteered. 'Scores of these
cases go back to London in a juggernaut after the festival.
It will be useful if there's anything awkward we need to
ship out - your rifle, for instance.'
Jack nodded. He worked his way through the two
wardrobes and the drawers, most of which were empty.
Touch alone told him that her clothes were expensive.
He recognized some of the labels from Grace's fashion
magazines: Jil Sander, Donna Karan, Emporio Armani,
Calvin Klein. He even went through her underwear.

'What are you looking for?' she said.
'I just want to be certain,' said Jack, running his hands
down a blue dress on its hanger, 'that the only firearm in
this suite belongs to me.'
'And why do you need to know that?' she said coolly.
He turned to face her. 'I've been sacrificed before for
what others saw as a wider interest. I just want to be sure
it won't happen again. Once this job is completed, I'll be
expendable, and I'd hate the chambermaid to find that
poor Monsieur Canning requires an undertaker from
room service.'
She returned his level gaze. Her eyes seemed wreathed
in a dark mist. 'You should trust me, Jack. I'm making
you rich.'
He stepped up to her and said shortly, 'So you say.
You'll excuse me for a moment.'
She could not suppress a blink of surprise as his hands
travelled at waist level round the soft fold of her dress
where it overlapped a gold belt - the only place on her
torso where a small sidearm might be concealed.
Then, without apology, he went down on one knee
and slid his hands up the inside of her legs, under the
hem of her skirt to the warm, bare flesh above her
stocking tops.
Recovering her poise, Mrs Canning surprised him by
shifting her feet so that she was standing legs apart to
facilitate the passage of his hands. She gazed down at
him and laughed. 'My, my. We are a bold bad fellow,
aren't we?'
Jack stood up and said impassively, 'Show me the
money.'
'It's in the hotel's safe deposit. We'll have to go down.'
She watched him place the weapon and his tools in a
wardrobe, run a thin steel chain through the double
handles and secure it with a brass padlock. He pocketed
the key.
She said, 'First, some ground rules. We'll go downstairs
separately and meet up at the cashier's desk. While
we're here we should be seen together as rarely as
possible. We will give the hotel staff little reason to
remember us and therefore we will be sparing with room
service. When the maid comes in to clean, we will move
to the room in which she is not working. When we go
out to eat, we'll leave separately, meet up and drive out
of town. We'll not make phone calls to the outside.
They'll be logged.'
'Sounds wise,' said Jack. 'Now. The money.'
At the cashier's desk, he watched her sign the keyholder's
card 'J. Canning'. He was reassured that the young
male clerk, harassed by a line of clamouring guests,
barely glanced at them as he pressed the button to buzz
them into the vault. When they got there Mrs Canning
handed Jack her box and said, 'Go ahead. Count it.'
Jack lifted the lid. Inside was a holdall. The eighty
thousand pounds was stacked in tight bundles of twenties
and fifties. The bank wrappers had been removed and
rubber bands substituted. His lips felt powdery. It took
all his self-control to stop his hand trembling. He'd never
seen so much cash in one place. He selected a sample
bundle, riffled through it, took out a twenty and scrutinized
it alongside a note from his own wallet.
'Neither my talents nor those of my service run to
counterfeiting,' she said, drily.
'That surprises me,' said Jack. 'I would have thought
any organization that can arrange an assassination would
find printing dodgy banknotes a bit of light relief.' He
fingered the bundles but made no attempt at a careful
tally. 'It looks okay to me,' he said. 'You'd be crazy to
short-change me.'
'Very crazy, Jack. After all, you're the man with die
gun.' She returned his gaze coolly.

Chapter Nine

By nightfall Mrs Canning had still not revealed the
target. 'Tomorrow will be time enough,' she said. In the
bathroom she changed into a discreet, charcoal-grey wool
suit, with an emerald green cravat at the throat. They
made their separate ways to the hotel garage and met up
at his car.
'Which is yours?' Jack asked.
'I flew into Nice and took a cab. I have no car.'
The answer worried Jack. 'You didn't travel with that
bloody great camera case?' he said.
She was unperturbed. 'Quite correct. Hauliers bring
those tilings from London by the truck-load. As I told
you, it will return the same way.'
Considering the extraordinary nature of their partnership,
Mr and Mrs Canning spent a prosaic evening. She evidently knew the Riviera well and directed him along
the coast road to the old quarter of Antibes. There, by
the canopy over the marketplace, she introduced him to
a tiny restaurant, the back of which burrowed into the
rockface.

Her French was excellent. In her dealings with the
enthusiastic young couple running the place, she revealed
herself as something of a milatry, accustomed to command
- and to being obeyed. Jack chided her, 'Ease up.
I thought you didn't want to be remembered.'
She blinked and visibly turned down her imperious
manner a few notches. 'Thank you, Jack.' She actually
smiled warmly at him, as if he were a fast-learning pupil.
'I'm James now, remember?' he said.
Their conversation across their shellfish platters was
necessarily guarded. The tables were tightly pushed
together and soon packed with townspeople talking
across each other and passing dishes over each other's
heads.
At one point his desultory conversation drifted towards
his sons and their schooling. 'Shut up!' she said abruptly,
dropping an oyster shell onto the cork platter. 'I don't
want to know the heartwarming details of your family
life. And you certainly won't get to know about mine.'
For a few minutes, Jack was thoughtful. She must
already know a great deal about his life, but she had
drawn back abruptly when he had tried to put flesh on
the bones of her dossier. She wanted to keep his family
as an abstract entity and he asked himself why.
Despite all that he already knew or had deduced about
Mrs Canning, he found himself becoming attracted to
her. The cravat was tucked into her neckline but, when
she twisted sideways to speak to the proprietress or
engage in the pass-the-plate game he could see an area
of soft, tanned breast swelling from a beige lace half-cup
under the lining of her jacket.
She was a sexy matron, made the more desirable by
her - Jack fumbled for the right word - masterful air.
There wasn't a simpering molecule in her body. She had
to be someone born to dish out the orders. If she had
been a man, he'd have thought Brigade of Guards.
Back in suite 720, Jack examined the padlocked wardrobe
for signs of tampering and was satisfied that nothing
had been disturbed.
Mrs Canning opened the minibar and offered him a
nightcap. Jack had drunk only a single glass of wine at
dinner. 'Best not,' he said. 'Booze and marksmanship
don't sit well together.' She nodded approval and poured
herself some mineral water.
At home, Jack slept naked. Here he wrapped himself
in a towel. When he emerged from the bathroom, Mrs
Canning had already changed into a pair of men's
pyjamas.
He wondered what would happen next. Mrs Canning
cleared away the breakfast order form and the gold
wrapped chocolate left by the maid on her pillow, slipped
between her sheets, said briefly, 'Don't forget the lights,'
and snuggled down.
Jack sat for a long time, back against the headboard,
staring into the dark and thinking of the next day. He fell
asleep only reluctantly. He was afraid that the dream
would recur. It didn't.
Even so, he was up before Mrs Canning. He put on
his jogging kit and trainers and was tiptoeing from the
bedroom when, from her bed, she said, 'Where on earth
do you think you're going?'
Jack turned. She was sitting up, rumpled and sleep
dazed, her top two buttons undone. He said, 'Just for a
jog before the carnival gets going again.'
'No, no, no!' Exasperated, she thumped the bed. 'Our
best protection is to move only in a crowd. A lone jogger
on the Croisette will draw attention and be remembered.'
'You're the boss,' said Jack, abashed at not having
thought of that for himself. He slipped off his top and
performed a series of callisthenics on the carpet. She
watched the sweat course down him. Her gaze and
interest were direct and undisguised.
Afterwards, Jack asked, 'Do you have a fitness regime?'
'Too boring,' she said.
When the floor waiter delivered breakfast on a trolley
and set it up in the sitting room, they both contrived to
be in the bedroom. The man did not see their faces.
After Jack had dressed he found Mrs Canning at the
open balcony doors. 'Come here, Jack. Now's the
moment for your enlightenment.'
The day was springlike and radiant. Across the road,
through the palms, he looked down on the beachboys
raking the sand and setting out the parasols and mattresses.
The sea was so calm that the white yachts were
anchored over their own reflections.
She pointed to the centre of the bay. 'At around noon
a rather large yacht will appear and drop anchor. It will
remain on station for the period of the Festival. The
owner is the international financier and industrialist Sir
Gilbert Metzhagen of the MetzCorp conglomerate.
Among other things he deals in arms and is a major
shareholder of film studios in Los Angeles and Florida.
That is the reason for his presence here.
'For him the movies are a pastime, a source of supply
of beautiful young women, and a relief from the tedium
of making money. Everyone at the Festival who is of any
importance will come to pay their respects because he
has it within his power to give the green light to new
movie projects without the need to consult either bankers
or shareholders.'
'What has he done to upset the British powers-that
be? Why am I having a go at him?'
'You're not having a go at him. Just listen. Sir Gilbert
has twelve guests aboard his floating gin palace. At
various times, all will come ashore except three. One of
those diree is the target.'
'The other two?' asked Jack, staring out at the turquoise
expanse.
'They are the target's bodyguards.'
Jack raised an eyebrow.
'No,' she said, reading his thoughts. 'They have no
reason to suspect imminent trouble. The target - all
right, if it eases your concern, it's an adult male - has
been under guard for a long time. He's heavily protected
on land but has one foible that makes him vulnerable at
sea. He adores parascending.' Mrs Canning smiled
thinly. 'He says he gets a high from it - whatever that
might be. Parascending is one of the few sports he can
follow where he does not feel under threat. Drifting
along, a couple of hundred feet above the waves, is his
cocaine. If the weather holds, he'll be going up every
day.'
'I'm to pop him in mid-air from this balcony?' Jack
shook his head. 'If that yacht stays way out, it'll be a
miracle shot. Are you expecting me to do it from this
room? Is that your idea of an open-air operation?'
'All right. Let's take the problems one at a time,' she
said briskly. There appeared to be neither doubt nor fear
in her. 'He'll take off from an inflatable pontoon. He'll
be towed by a powerboat containing his minders. You
can't get him while he's waiting on the pontoon for the
towboat to position itself because they'll know Instantly
that he's been shot and have a good idea of the direction
from which the shot came. But get him on one of his
mid-air circuits, when he comes closest to the shore, and
they won't know anything's wrong until he's dropped
back onto the pontoon.'
She took his elbow and steered him onto the balcony.
'Just look at this panorama. There must be thirty thousand
windows and vantage points overlooking the water.
Where could they start to look? Did the bullet come from
landward or from another vessel? How could they tell?'
She steered him back into the room. She tapped a
wall. 'Solid. Built eighteen ninety. Your rifle makes a
sharp cracking noise? Right?'
'Right,' agreed Jack.
'And, as I understand these tilings, you're unable to
use a silencer because it would detract from accuracy.'
'Right again.'
'Very well,' said Mrs Canning. 'The sound will be
muffled by the walls and by the existence of the foyer as
a sound baffle between us and the corridor.'
'Are you handing out earplugs to the passers-by on the
pavement beneath the balcony? You're crazy.'
She gripped his arm. 'You shoot from within the room.
They can't see you. Seventy feet below, they'll hear a
distant crack mingling with the other street noises.
They'll look round, see nothing and assume they heard a
car backfiring.'
Jack stepped back ten paces into the room. He pictured
a toytown figure at the end of a parachute floating across
the patch of sky now framed by the balcony doors.
She could be right. He warmed to the possibilities and
to the challenge. 'The shot would have to be above
the parapet. Shooting through the balustrading would
give me almost no vision at all. Even aiming above, our
mystery man would cross the airspace framed by the
window and disappear from view within a few seconds.'
For the first time Mrs Canning's unreadable eyes
displayed an emotion: excitement. They were glittering.
She said, 'It's the reason we selected you, Jack. We
couldn't turn up anybody better qualified to do this. You
can do it. I know it! It'll be an incredible shot.'
Jack stared at her then at the oblong of blue sky again.
The killing field. 'Sure,' he said drily. 'One for the Guinness Book of Records.'
He nodded at the polished sideboard with its marquetry
top. 'Help me line this up at right angles to the
balcony. Then I can shoot over the parapet from a fixed
position.'
'Good!' she said.

Jack saw how easily she lifted her end of the sideboard
as they hauled it into the centre of the room. She was no
frail female despite her alleged antipadiy to physical
training.
He took the Super Magnum from the wardrobe, set it
on the sideboard and practised a few swings. 'Will he be
coming into view left-to-right or right-to-left?' he said,
squinting down his 'scope.
For once, Mrs Canning did not have an answer. 'I'm
better with movement from right-to-left,' he said. 'It suits
both me and the barrel rifling best.' And, to josh her, he
added, 'I thought you knew everything there was to

know, like, for instance, the name of this villain I'm to
dispatch. What name do I put on the bullet?'
'Cut it out. Jack she said. 'All will become clear in
due course.'
The sideboard was of sufficient height but his bipod
skidded on the shiny surface. They drove to Cap 3000,
the giant shopping mall outside Nice, where Jack paid
cash for steel clips, a length of cable and some cable
tension bolts.
They arrived back at the Berthier in time to watch Sir
Gilbert Metzhagen's West German-built white-hulled,
black-glass vessel nose slowly to the most prominent
position in the bay, the spot once reserved at festival
time for the late Sam Spiegel, producer of Lawrence of
Arabia and Bridge on the River Kwai. From that distance
they could not hear the rattle of the anchor as it snaked
down into the water.
'"Die Tat ist dies, Night der Ruhm"' Mrs Canning
murmured, almost to herself.
Jack waited for her to translate, but he had to ask.
'Goethe,' she said. '"The deed is all, and not the
glory."'
'Yes,' agreed Jack. 'Let's hope that's the way this show
turns out for us. "Paths of glory lead but to the grave."
Thomas Gray,' he riposted, straight-faced.
Mrs Canning threw back her head and laughed, exposing
fine white teeth.
'There's hope for you yet, Jack. Even if you only like
Westerns.'

Chapter Ten

Jack rigged his weapon for maximum stability and they
kept watch for the remainder of the afternoon. There
were some comings and goings to the beach jetties that
Mrs Canning studied carefully through her binoculars
but each time all she said softly was 'No.'
After they had restored the sideboard to its place and
stowed Jack's equipment in the secure wardrobe she
allowed a maid into the suite to turn down the beds.
That evening they found an obscure inland restaurant
beyond La Napoule. Their table-talk was as anodyne as
before, which added to Jack's frustration, He knew he
was becoming seriously intrigued by this woman, so
unlike any other woman he'd ever known. After they had
eaten, she agreed to a stroll round a marina to get some
fresh air, after their hours cooped up in suite 720. They
were just leaving when, as they passed through a pool of
sodium light from overhead, they heard a male voice
shout something. It sounded like 'Hey, Tinny!'
Mrs Canning froze and said, 'Fuck!'
She did not look round to locate the shouter, which
must have taken a high measure of her seemingly infinite
self-control. She grabbed Jack's arm and ran with him to
the car.
He said, 'What was that about?'
She waved his curiosity aside. 'I don't know and I had
no desire to stay and find out,' she said, dismissively.
It must have been around three a.m. when Jack had
the dream. It was as terrifying as ever. He woke, shouting
and fighting, to find the shadowy shape of Mrs Canning
in her pyjamas looming over him.
'Sssssh!' she murmured. She reached towards a bottle
on the bedside table and he felt cologne being massaged
into his temples. He would never have taken her for a
ministering angel but the relief was immediate.
'Just lie back. You've had a nightmare,' she said. He
closed his eyes and felt the liquid trickling down the
centre of his chest. Her hands moved across him, spreading
the moisture to his flanks. Then he felt a sharp tug at
his waist as she pulled open his towel, leaving him naked,
face up and submitting to the cologne and her knowing
fingers. Her hands slid downward over the hard abdomen,
of which he was so proud and which Grace said
always turned her on, then slid to his feet. She began to
dribble the cologne upwards, massaging his legs and
parting them as she explored him. His erection was huge
even before she arrived at his crotch.
In the gloom he looked up and waited as she threw off
her pyjamas and straddled him.
'Don't you dare come,' she said and, without further
preliminaries, began riding him with fierce abandon.
This was the first time he'd seen her lose control. So she,
too, had her hidden tensions. He was not alone. He
moved to take over. 'Lie still,' she panted. 'Leave it all to
me.'
Jack struggled to hold back. His usual trick with Grace
was to concentrate on a picture of a plain brick wall and
that is what he now conjured up to block out the erotic
vision of Mrs Canning, dark hair tumbled forward over
her perspiring face, lips wet and parted. Her hip movement
was frantic, backwards and forwards.
'Good boy!' she urged, as if he were a gymkhana horse
taking the fences. 'Good boy!'
She suddenly sat upright and leaned backwards. In the
low light, her breasts stood out, capped by dark,
engorged nipples. She stretched up like a ship's figurehead
as she reached behind and under herself and
captured his scrotum.
'Now, you bastard, now! she shouted.
Jack's brick wall disintegrated. 'Yes! he cried as she
writhed on the summit of his arched body.
She rode him for every last drop and finally rolled off
replete. She lay beside him, making little mews of
pleasure, her hands now massaging herself.
After five minutes, Jack, organ erect, moved across her
body. But she put a firm palm to his chest and said in a
matter-of-fact tone that dumbfounded Jack, 'No. I was
just making use of the facilities the hotel has to offer. For
which I thank you.'
For a moment Jack was speechless. 'Then fuck you,'
he said finally. 'You're really a cold bitch, aren't you?'
'Most probably,' she said airily, heading naked for the
bathroom. She turned back. 'Just to ease your conscience,
adultery in hotel rooms is not supposed to count.
In any case, don't think you can award yourself a medal
for fucking me. It was me who fucked you."
She slammed the bathroom door, leaving Jack
nonplussed.
When she returned, in her pyjamas, she was her usual
composed self. For a moment she stood listening to the
silence. She said, 'Well, our screaming and shouting
proved one thing: the walls are solid. There's not been a
peep from the neighbours.'
She got into her bed, turned her back on him and, as
far as he could tell, fell immediately asleep. Jack lay
staring up into the dark. He could still feel her wetness.
He continued to pulse.

Chapter Eleven

They breakfasted early in near silence, pushed the waiter's
trolley out into the corridor so that he would have no
need to re-enter the suite, took in the film magazines, Daily Variety, Hollywood Reporter, Screen International, z set of which had been dumped outside each door along
the seventh floor, rehung the don't-disturb sign, and got
to work.
Mrs Canning helped Jack lift the sideboard into
position. While they had been copulating a few hours
earlier he had felt the athletic quality of her muscle tone,
which did not suggest a passive woman who found
exercise boring. How many other lies had he been told?
Assembling and anchoring the Super Magnum to the
makeshift platform took thirty minutes. Mrs Canning,
three paces back from the balcony doors, already had her
binoculars trained on the yacht.
The weather was all that Riviera weather can be. Jack
studied the desultory flutter of the flags above the beach
restaurants and, through his 'scope, the movement of the
yacht's pennants. There was no variation. 'It's very
important in long-range shooting,' he said. 'If there are
differing wind speeds along the trajectory, it can play hell
with the calculations.' He inserted the box magazine.
He felt jumpy. He circled the room, shaking his arms, loosening his wrists and fingers, and at last felt calm
enough for his mental exercises. He had warned Mrs
Canning of the spiritual process and self-effacement
involved in fitting himself to the purpose. She had known
better than to mock. He squatted on the sofa and closed
his eyes.
The words of Zen master Suzuki flowed through him:
'Man is a thinking reed, but his great works are done when
he is not calculating and thinking. Childlikeness has to be
restored after long years of training in the art of self-
forgetfulness.'
Jack began to breathe deeply and steadily. (The arrow
is off the string but does not fly straight to the target, nor does
the target stand where it is. Calculation which is miscalculation
sets in.
He listened to the ancient wisdom and, for a while, the
room receded.
Mrs Canning remained composed until at ten a.m. she
made a sharp motion with her left hand and hissed,
'There's activity.' Jack opened his eyes and went to work.
They watched the Sunseeker towboat being lowered
from its davits and six figures clamber aboard. Metzhagen's
other guests were watching from the ship's rails. Mrs
Canning counted, 'Driver, two minders, two crew - and
our man. Jack, you're on!'
He handed her some cottonwool and they rolled their
own earplugs. He massaged chalk powder into his hands and handed her two leather elbow cups to buckle to his
arms.
The target, handily dressed in a distinctive orange
lifejacket, took off from an inflated rubber pontoon some
thirty feet in length anchored two hundred yards from
the yacht. Two seamen held open the 'chute to capture the wind as the towboat took up the cable slack and the target took off, his feet briefly skiniming the waves as he went off the pontoon.
The bulky protective clothing and harness made it
impossible for Jack to gain any clear picture of the man's
age, size or looks. It could have been a robot under the
webbing and the inflated rubber. Jack felt comforted by
the thought.
The green and yellow 'chute climbed rapidly at the
end of the tow-cable. The target's legs swung violently
before his body adjusted to the forward motion.
Jack said, 'Oh, balls!' The tow was taking the target
out to sea, beyond Metzhagen's yacht.
Mrs Canning said, 'No good?'
'No bloody good at all,' said Jack. 'You'd have as
much chance of hitting him if you were aiming from
North Africa.' They both watched the parachute gliding
lazily in oval circuits, the tiny figure dangling immune
beneath.
After a nail-biting twenty minutes, the Sunseeker
suddenly tilted to port and began to tow the 'chute closer
inshore. The craft was now between the beach and the
yacht. Mrs Canning said urgently, 'Go for it!'
Jack pulled the rifle's short butt tight into his shoulder
and put one in the breech. At this distance the slightest
body tremor would throw his aim right over the rainbow.
This would be a shot that could only be made between
heartbeats. He took up a firing position, elbow pads
resting on the marquetry, facing the rectangle of azure
sky. He said, 'Stand back but give me a directional
warning a couple of seconds before you judge he'll come
into my view.'
He blinked to clear his eyes and waited. His throat felt
constricted but his grip, as ever, was nerveless.
Mrs Canning said rapidly, 'Coming now! Right to
left!'
And there he was, hanging blissfully in the sunlight,
rocking gently. Jack, lying forward over the end of the
sideboard, got him into focus on the 'scope. Christ, the
distance was not far short of two and a half thousand
yards. The outcome rested now on Jack's co-ordination

and gut instincts as much as the excellence of his
weaponry.
He shifted his long muzzle minutely, leading the
swaying figure across the blue patch. Mrs Canning, the
room, the reasons that had brought him there, were
forgotten. His concentration on the target was total. He
judged that he had some twelve seconds before the figure
exited to his left.
Jack waited for the heartbeat and, in that following
moment of bodily calm, he squeezed the trigger.
Even with the earplugs, the crack-pop was shattering
in the confined space. He and Mrs Canning held their
breath and stared at each other. She recovered herself
and said, 'Stay away from the balcony. People down
below will be looking around.'
They stood back for five minutes, then Mrs Canning
lazily sauntered outside and leaned on the balustrade.
'Everything's normal,' she murmured over her shoulder.
Jack joined her. The clusters of film fans at the various
hotel entrances had eyes only for the comings and goings
of the Festival delegates. On the terraces, late risers were
taking their coffee and croissants. There were no signs of
alarm or agitation.
They watched the Sunseeker cut a bone-white path
through the turquoise water, but now the driver had
progressed to figures of eight. The target dangled, enigmatic,
two hundred feet above.
'What do you think? Did you get him?' she said.
Jack shrugged. 'It felt right. But it was a bitch of a
distance.' He took her binoculars and studied the tiny
figure. 'Well, he's not walking wounded or he'd be
making frantic signals to the boatmen. And he can't have
sensed anything amiss, such as a round whizzing past his
ear, for the same reason. So he's either dead or so gravely
wounded that he can't signal. Or,' said Jack, gazing
steadily at her, 'he's alive and unaware of dirty work
afoot at the crossroads.'
Mrs Canning seemed not to appreciate his attempt at
humour. She returned inside and switched up the air
conditioning to disperse the smell of cordite.
They had their answer twenty minutes later when the
Sunseeker slowed, allowing the parachute to descend
gently onto the inflated pontoon. The target toppled
forward onto his face, his 'chute draped over the pontoon's
edge touching the water. A helper rushed forward
to drag the lines clear.
Neither Jack nor Mrs Canning showed any signs of
breathing. Their gaze was fixed on the toppled figure.
They both saw his arms move. Then he pushed himself
to his feet and began freeing himself from his harness.
Mrs Canning blazed. 'You cunt!' she said. 'You missed
him.'
'There were no guarantees,' said Jack, watching the
target supervising the hauling in of his 'chute. 'And I
don't like that sort of language coming from a woman.'
'You bourgeois prick,' she fumed. 'We're going to
have to go through this all over again.' She didn't try to
hide her contempt and could barely bring herself to speak
to him as they began to restore the room to its normal
state.
Her attitude, however, worked on Jack like icy sleet
driving into his face. Hauling the sideboard to the wall,
he felt himself somehow awakening, as if from a trance.
He rubbed his eyes. What could he have been thinking
of when he took on this assignment? He had no official
standing. He wasn't a duly appointed state executioner.
What gave him the right. . . ?
The full realization of the lunacy upon which he had
embarked and of the likely consequences for his family if
anything should go wrong, crashed in upon him. He
shook his head, like a punch-drunk boxer attempting to
get his opponent into focus. He choked out, 'I can't go
through with this.'
Mrs Canning said, 'What?'
'I must have been mad even to listen to you. I don't
know who that poor bugger is out there, but he's not my
enemy and I've got no reason to kill him.'
Mrs Canning was standing stock still, her stare ominous.
She finally found her tongue. 'The deal was playor-pay,
Captain Boulder,' she grated.
Jack waved a hand, brushing aside a minor problem.
'I'll return all the money. Don't worry.'
'I'm not worrying. You don't understand. The pay
exacted if you fail to carry out your obligations will not
be in cash.' She faced him squarely.
'There won't be much point in taking it out on my
hide,' said Jack. 'You'll get your money back and we'll
call it quits.' He began to dismantle the gun.
'This operation has been a long time in the planning
and an opportunity may not come again for many
months, if ever. This man has to be destroyed. If he isn't,
it's not you that will be in jeopardy. Think of your family,
Captain Boulder.'
Jack froze. 'What about my family?'
She hesitated, then said reluctantly, 'They've been
taken to a safe house. They're in the hands of my
colleagues.' She took two steps back, anticipating his
reaction - and had not misread him.
Jack roared with rage and lunged at her. He slammed
her against a wall, one hand holding her throat. He
hissed, 'If a single hair of one of their heads is as much
as ruffled, I'll hunt down every last one of you as I
hunted down Sean McGurk.'
She gurgled and tried to speak. He eased his grip, and
she gasped, 'Kill me and they'll kill one of yours. You're
being asked to dispose of a piece of scum, not Mother
Teresa. You're a soldier. Where's your training? Get a
grip on yourself.'
Jack shoved her to one side and headed for the
telephone. 'No! No!' she shouted. 'You mustn't use the
hotel phones.'
Cursing, Jack said, 'You're a lying bitch. My family is
still at home and I'm going to ring them.'
Mrs Canning made a rush at him but Jack fended her
off with his forearm. He raised the receiver and realized
he did not know the code for London. He called the
hotel operator. She came on almost instantly but as she
said, 'Oui? the line went dead. 'Wha--?' Jack whirled
round.
Mrs Canning, panting, had the wallplug in her hand.
She put the table between them. 'Listen to me, Jack. I'll
put your wife and children on the phone for you - but
not from this phone in this room.'
He put down the handset and started to circle the table
but she moved as he moved, watching his hands clench
and unclench. 'Jack, stop being stupid. Your family is
simply on holiday. Your wife has been told you're on an
important mission and that taking them to the country
for a few days is merely a precaution. They have no sense
of personal danger. They believe they're in the warm
embrace of your colleagues. It's spring. They're having a
good time.'
'So that makes it all right, does it? They can dance
round the maypole but the pole accidentally falls on
them unless I go ahead and pot this guy? I can't believe
you'd murder three innocent people. You're bluffing.'
Mrs Canning dropped the plug on the table from
where the cable dragged it to the floor. She watched it
snake out of sight and then said, 'You're seeing this
through the eyes of a British Army officer - with all that
means in terms of honour and courage. But some of the
people you and I are dealing with don't have that
background. They'd kill for much less than a hundred
thousand and with much less justification. If you kill that
man out there on Metzhagen's yacht, you'll ultimately
be saving thousands of lives. It's a trade-off, Jack. One
miserable life for a multitude.'
'And what if I miss?'
'If you've made a genuine attempt and I'm convinced,
we'll abort the operation. No recriminations - but no
more money, either. And, be warned, you won't be able
to fake it. I'll know.'
'If I get him, will you immediately make the call to
have my wife and children returned home unharmed?'
She looked relieved. 'You have my word, Jack.' The
tension started to leave her and she relaxed visibly. She
could see him wavering and the crisis evaporating.
His rage had gone cold. He said quietly, 'I want to
speak to my family.'
She nodded. 'We'll go separately to the public phones
at the railway station. You go first.'
It was nearly six in the evening in London. Grace and
the boys should all have been home. Mrs Canning stood
by while he got only the answering machine. Wordlessly,
she took the phone, dialled another number and murmured
something. She waited a full two minutes, then
stepped out of the booth and handed him the phone,
saying, 'Don't frighten her.'
Mrs Canning had not lied. Grace obviously thought
she was among friends but the anxieties of the Army days
had returned. Was he risking his neck? Why hadn't he
said his mission was more than weapons evaluation?
Jack placated her with platitudes. She and the boys
had been taken to the country as a precaution against a
most unlikely eventuality . . . They'd be home in a week
... He was helped in that during his service days she had
been used to the daily routines of checking under the
family car, keeping an eye open for strangers, being wary
of unexpected packages. Grace understood the need for
security and, although anxious, did not sound panicked
by the unexpected return of such tense living conditions.
The boys were out in an orchard playing, but Grace
chattered on without anyone trying to cut her off. No,
she didn't know exactly where they were. For security
reasons, they'd been collected in a windowless van. They
were staying in some sort of dower house of a large
country estate. The garden was lovely. She had been
advised they should not wander from the grounds. They
were under twenty-four-hour guard . . .
It was Jack, a tennis ball in his throat, who brought the
conversation to a close. 'Just remember, I love you and
the boys.'
'Take care. We love you, too,' said Grace.
He felt Mrs Canning's hand on his shoulder and he
replaced the receiver. 'You bastards,' he said grimly.
On his way back to suite 720, Jack's brain whirred
furiously as he tried to think his way out of his dilemma.
He barely noticed, and then only with resentment, the
jollity of the Festival crowds and the elegance of the
shoppers along the rue d'Antibes. That evening the
weather changed: there would be no parascending next
day for Mr X - or for some days after.
Since the phone conversation, the atmosphere in the
suite was frigid. At night Mrs Canning kept to her own
bed. If she crept up on him again he had resolved to
throw her off. However, she made no attempt - and the
same excuse did not present itself again. The dream
stayed away.
During the day they suffered cabin fever, and in the
evenings when they drove through noisy crowds to find

obscure out-of-town restaurants, they were hardly able
to exchange a civil word. On the second day the rain had
been torrential, hitting the open-sided beach restaurants
horizontally and driving the lunch crowds up into the
hotels. At one point, Mrs Canning spat, 'This thing has
been in the planning for nine months and it has all the
hallmarks of going pear-shaped.' Apparently, the idea
that there could be poor weather in May in the South of
France had not occurred either to her or to her coconspirators.
She
was jumpy, and Jack drew satisfaction from the
thought that, despite the pose of effortless superiority,
her nuts were in the crusher too. Mischievously, he said,
'I suppose it's possible this rain will hold. The poor
bastard may not go up at all.'
She shot him a withering look. 'Most amusing, Jack.'
He began to pray for the storm to continue - it could
be the penalty-free way out for him - but on the fifth day
the clouds began to drift south-easterly and on the
following morning the sun came up on full power into a
clear sky. The wind was barely perceptible and the drying
flags hung limp against their poles.
Jack's heart slumped but Mrs Canning's cheeks were
flushed and excitement glinted in those elusive eyes.
'Play or pay, Jack,' she reminded him pointedly.
He nodded glumly. 'If he comes out, we'll follow the
procedure as before except that when I've got a bead on
him I'll lay two shots in his path. There'll be two rounds
- all I'll have time for - that'll arrive in his air space at
minutely differing moments. He'll be literally advancing
to meet them. And I'm relying on one of them to make
contact.'
'Two chances instead of one?'
'Right,' said Jack. He squatted on the sofa, closed his
eyes and began to empty his mind of his despair. 'The
hitter and the hit are no longer two opposing objects, but are
one reality . . . he becomes one with the perfecting of his
technical skills.9
He returned, serene, to an awareness of the room and
was almost relieved when he saw the Sunseeker being
lowered and the rubber pontoon inflated from compressed
air cylinders. There was to be no reprieve. He'd
get it over with. He made an effort of will, and pride in
his own marksmanship overrode the helplessness he felt
in the company of this iron-willed woman. He knew,
without a scintilla of doubt, that, should he miss, she
would never believe it had not been deliberate. Like a
mantra, he silently repeated to himself, 'This man is
scum. This man is scum.'
The target soared aloft once again. And, once again,
Jack crouched patiently behind his Super Magnum
through a dozen or more circuits before the Sunseeker
towed the target nearer the shore.
Jack prepared himself, tuning into his own heartbeats.
The cold feel of the butt leather against his cheek always
calmed him to a state approaching tranquillity. Today he
felt omnipotent. Suddenly, Mrs Canning snapped,
'Coming in, left to right!'
It was not an ideal set-up but Jack was ready. Despite
the magnification of the 'scope, the dangling figure
seemed impossibly small - like one of Harry Lime's dots,
far below him in the Prater Garten. The distance was an
awesome two thousand yards, at least.
The rapid repeat of the two rounds was skull-slamming.
He could only imagine the reaction out on the Croisette.
People would be looking round, mouths open, 'What?
. . . Where?' But there would be nothing to see.
Jack said immediately, 'I've got him.'
Mrs Canning said through her binoculars. 'How do
you know? There's no sign of it. He's still going round.'

'I just know,' said Jack doggedly. 'I can feel it. In
competition shooting, it's a feeling you get even before
the butts people signal the score.'
Mrs Canning continued to peer through the binoculars.
'His head's lolling. Or is that wishful thinking?'
Twenty minutes later they witnessed the drama unfold.
The Sunseeker slowed to a halt and the billowing 'chute
expelled its air and collapsed. The target had not
manoeuvred his lines. He failed to land on the tip of the
pontoon and, instead, sank softly into the water. The two
crewmen peered over the pontoon's edge and the boat
circled to pick up Mr X who was bobbing on the surface
in his lifejacket.
The Sunseeker's occupants were ten yards away when
they realized something was wrong. One minder jumped
into the water and braced the man they had been
employed to protect. He was face down until he was
heaved upwards and dragged onto the diving platform.
From the Berthier, Jack and Mrs Canning watched the
resuscitation attempts as the Sunseeker, dragging the
'chute, which was still half in the water, sped back to
Metzhagen's yacht. They could see figures running along
the deck, gesticulating and indecisive in the face of the
shouted messages coming over the two-way radio.
The target was clearly slumped without movement on
the deck. 'It looks like a kill, Jack. Bloody marvellous. A
miraculous shot.' Mrs Canning's voice was warmer than
it had been for days.
They dismantled the Magnum and restored the room
to normal.
When the police boats began to appear, Mrs Canning
said, 'We may not get a confirmation for some time.'
'Dead or winged, I've kept my end of the deal. We're
going to a phone now to have my family returned home.'
'Why don't we wait to see if it's a kill?'
'No!' said Jack. 'We're going to do it now.' She looked
into his set face and nodded.
They followed the same procedure as before and he
stood close to her as she said into the mouthpiece, 'It's a
definite hit. Terminal? We don't yet know. The hired
hand wants his family driven home right away.' She
listened for a few seconds, said, 'Good,' replaced the
receiver and turned to Jack. 'There, it's done. Satisfied?'
Before they split up to go back to the hotel, she said,
'Why don't you take a stroll along the Croisette and
check for any unusual activity that the shots might have
triggered?'
Apart from the short walks between hotel and telephones,
it was the first time Jack had been permitted to
mingle alone with the Festival crowd. Everything seemed
normal. Back at the Berthier, the huge foyer was lined
with booths advertising, and video machines screening,
the movies of many nations. Most, judging by the lurid
posters, were pornographic, not his sort of thing, and
Jack stepped out onto the terrace where he found a
canvas-backed director's chair. Stencilled on it was the
name William Wyler. He wondered briefly who that
might be. He sat down and ordered a much-needed
Scotch and soda. Could he trust those bastards back in
England to take their hooks out of Grace and the boys?
Around him, people were chatting normally. Nothing
untoward was happening. All the excitement was taking
place out of sight, across the road and beyond the beach.
He was sipping his drink quietly and assembling his
thoughts on the events of the morning when a hand
gripped his shoulder. Jack twisted in his chair and found
himself gazing up at the impossibly perfect teeth of the
man he'd encountered in the lift on the day of his arrival
at the Berthier.
'Hi there!' said the stranger. 'Mind if I join you?'
'No. I mean, yes,' Jack blurted, startled.
The stranger's tanned face dropped from smile to
frown and Jack silently cursed himself for his clumsiness.
'Look, I'm sorry,' he said, 'but I'm waiting for someone
to join me for a business meeting.'
The man said coldly, 'Sure, don't give it another
thought. Just checking you out for that game of golf.' He
moved away between the tables without waiting for an
answer.
Twenty minutes later Jack paid cash for his drink and
stood up to go back into the hotel. The golf man was
sitting with a slim, raven-haired girl at a table in the back
row. He eyed Jack accusingly. He had been well placed
to know that no one had joined Jack. He and the woman,
face largely concealed by shades the size of saucers,
wordlessly observed Jack's shame-faced retreat through
the hotel bar and into the lobby.

Chapter Twelve

Mrs Canning was leaning against a wall, watching CNN
with the sound muted. She was dragging on a long
cigarette. He had not seen her smoke before, although he
had noted a packet when he had checked her handbag
on his arrival. Good. He liked the idea of the ice matron
being unsettled.
She had opened the massive camera case and tossed in
the overalls he had worn for the shoot. She had needed
no lecture from him about the gases and sooty residue
that spew from a fired weapon onto the user's unprotected
skin and clothes, leaving their traces for the
forensic scientist to scrape up.
For once, there was something hesitant in her manner.
She seemed preoccupied, then said, 'You'd better get
into a hot bath, scrub up and wash your hair. You must
have traces on you. No point in leaving anything to
chance.'
Jack gazed steadily at her. Her voice was unusually
brittle. She turned her back, waving aside her smoke and
staring out at Metzhagen's yacht the deck of which was
now black with purposeful figures.
Jack used the hotel's shampoo and body gel, scrubbing
his face and hands until they were red. He was lying back
in the handsome marble bath, allowing unexpected
fatigue to ooze from his pores, when the door opened
quietly and she took one step into the steamy room. She
was stark naked, and in her right hand she carried a 9mm
Browning automatic, complete with sound suppressor.
Jack stretched, luxuriating under the foam. His arms
came dripping out of the water and he placed his hands
behind his head.
He nodded at the silencer and said, 'There was no
need to pack that, you know. A condom stretched over
the hole in the front does almost as well. In any case,
aren't you being over-cautious? I thought we'd established
that this suite is soundproof.'
He gave an elaborate sigh. 'I guess I always knew that
bumping off some poor sod wasn't going to be enough
to earn me a hundred thou. But does the Secret Intelligence
Service need to play it this dirty?'
A wary look crossed her face. She hadn't expected
jokes. She said, 'I'm sorry, Jack. It's the way it's got to
be. Ruby took out Oswald; I have to take out you.'
To her surprise, Jack said, 'Ruby at least kept his
clothes on. Why the striptease?'
She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. 'The Lizzie
Borden theory,' she said shortly.
'The one who gave her mother forty whacks?'
Mrs Canning nodded. 'She got off because there was
no evidence, no blood - nothing - to link her to the
killing. The theory is she stripped before doing it and
had a good scrub-up afterwards.' She took another step
into the room.
'Careful,' teased Jack, 'I might splash water in your
eyes.'
She looked genuinely ill at ease. 'Don't make this
worse than it already is. I argued for letting you have the
money and sending you on your way. But they said you
were a flake. They said only a bloody fool would have let
himself get fingered for the McGurk job. They said you
might just as well have placed an ad in the Irish Times. They said that sooner or later you'd get careless or tell
wifey or somebody.'
'They, whoever "they" are,' said Jack, contemptuously,
'are a bunch of creeps. Is MI6 now skulking
behind women's skirts? Or, in your case,' he added drily,
'lack of'em.'
The water was growing cold and she still hadn't fired.
She was struggling with herself, he noted with satisfaction,
and he wanted to see just how far she would go.
In the steamy atmosphere, her dark hair was becoming
plastered to her forehead and her jaw was working as if
she were trying to stiffen her resolve. She said, 'Jack,
everything is not quite what you think. But there's no
point arguing. The stewards' decision is final.'
She brought out her left hand from behind her back
and proffered a small plastic object that Jack at first
thought was an open powder compact. She lowered it so
that he could see the red capsule inside. She said, 'Take
it, Jack. It's the painless way. It'll all be over in a moment.
Don't make me use this.' She levelled the weapon at his
midriff.
Jack said, 'Aren't you even going to tell the condemned
man the identity of the guy on the parachute?' She shook
her head. He said, 'Jane, or whatever your real name is,
you and your colleagues have been very clever but you
personally have made one big error.'
She raised her eyes from sighting the Browning. He
said, 'You shouldn't have hidden the gun in that tissue
box fixture on the wall behind you. This is the one room
where we've each spent time alone. So you couldn't
know that I'd found it. Nor,' he added deliberately, 'that
I've spiked the silencer.'
'Nice try, Jack,' she said. 'I checked the gun and
magazine while you were downstairs.'
'I'm sure you did,' said Jack evenly. 'That's why I was
let out on my own, wasn't it? But I'm betting you just
screwed in the silencer because there are no working
parts to jam or check out.'
'You're lying,' she said, wiping beads of sweat from
her upper lip with the back of her gun hand. 'But I
admire you for it. I really do. Grace under pressure. And
I'm not making a pun at the expense of your wife.'
'About my wife - and my children. Would you tell me
the truth? Have they really been taken home or is that
just another lie?'
'They're safe, Jack. I wouldn't lie to you now. They'll
be back in Shepherd's Bush this evening.'
'Thank you for that,' said Jack politely. He settled
himself comfortably in the water and added, 'Jane, you
have a dilemma. If I'm telling the truth and you discharge
that thing, you will lose fingers - or worse. If you try to
remove the silencer before firing, I will be out of this bath
and at your throat the moment you start to unscrew it.
The only sensible course is for you to put down the
weapon and negotiate.'
'Please, Jack,' she said. 'Take the pill.'
'Fuck the pill,' said Jack.
And Mrs Canning fired.

Chapter Thirteen

Instinctively Jack slid flat, sending a wave of perfumed
water over the side and surging across the tiled floor
towards Mrs Canning's bare feet. He came up blowing
water from his mouth. The sound of rending metal in
the confined space drilled into his eardrums as painfully
as chalk screeching across a blackboard.
Jack shook his head to clear his stinging eyes. The sight
that confronted him was appalling. Mrs Canning was
sliding down the tiled wall, leaving a wide track in the
condensation. Her legs were obscenely splayed and she
had not escaped with the mere loss of fingers. The
suppressor had splintered, sending a shard up into the
underside of her chin and the soft tissue behind her face.
'Jesus Christ!' said Jack. He hadn't seen such a severe
wound since the Enniskillen bombing. He jumped from
the bath and took her by the shoulders. 'You stupid,
stupid woman!' he said.
He could see quite clearly that she was already past
hearing. Bright crimson blood was pumping from her
mouth and nostrils. Those mysterious dark eyes were
already losing their focus. She would not have had time
to feel pain.
Jack tilted her forward to examine her back and head
for an exit wound. There was none. The metal fragment
was still lodged in her skull. Jack had not anticipated
such a cataclysmic outcome.
He gazed around, momentarily dazed by the extent of
the disaster. Her blood was diluting in the pool of bath
water, spreading like pink champagne across the mosaic
floor and glugging into the tiny brass drain. Jack swore,
picked up the limp body and laid her in his now-cold
bathwater where her blood continued to flow.
He had to think. A doctor was no use - she was past
any hope of resuscitation. He looked down at his own
bloodied body, then took the handspray from the shower
unit, hosed himself down, snatched a clean towel from
the shelf and stepped gingerly between the red puddles
into the bedroom.
His mind went into overdrive as he dried himself. In
the living room he discovered that she had opened the
camera container. He had suspected, but knew now for
sure, the true function of this object. It was to have been
his coffin. The sticky-backed destination labels, bearing
the address of a storage warehouse in Battersea, southwest
London, were lined up neatly on the sideboard from
which he had taken his pot at Mr X.
Mr X. Jack had forgotten Mr X. Was he dead?
Wounded? He still didn't know. He wrapped the damp
towel around his middle and moved towards the balcony
doors.
There was intense activity in the bay. Through the
palm trees in the foreground, he could see uniformed
men clustered on a number of yachts, with small official
looking craft scuttling between them. The floating gin
palaces of Hollywood were being combed for the marksman.
The sight afforded him a passing moment of grim
satisfaction. Good. The police obviously could not
believe the shot had come from land.
Jack padded back to the bathroom door. Mrs Canning's
heart had made its last beat, her blood was no
longer flowing and the water in which she slumped was
now bright red. There was something erotic about the
way her fine breasts and thoroughbred legs were thrust
upward, clear of the water's surface. His mind raced back
involuntarily to the nightmare and his sexual encounter
with this bizarre woman and he felt a pang of guilt.
He pulled the bathplug and watched her blood swirl
away. He winced, reminded of the embalming job an
Irish undertaker had performed on one of his men. The
man had drained the corpse's blood into a jug and
flushed it down the lavatory.
Jack was in no state yet to think ahead beyond knowing
that, if he was to survive this mess, he had to clean up.
He took the shower handset again and worked his way
across the floor, swilling the blood stains into the drain.
He retrieved Mrs Canning's pill case with its glass
capsule and slipped it into one of his jackets. He dried
off her shattered automatic. The silencer had split open
like a blossoming metallic flower. He dried the bathroom
floor with a towel and then turned to the gruesome task
of washing down Mrs Canning and cleaning the bath.
He pressed her eyelids closed. She lay there, he thought,
ivory pale like an odalisque painted by that Viennese
chap whose stuff he'd seen on calendars.
He dabbed her gently, somehow unable to feel angry
that she had intended to murder him. He'd long accepted
the possibility of his own death as a legitimate transaction
of the professional soldier. Certainly, he did not feel the
hunger for revenge that had moved him to stalk Sean
McGurk on behalf of his dead men. But the rage he felt
over their using his family remained.
Then he began to clear out the dead woman's wardrobe,
laying some of her clothes in the bottom of the
camera packing case. He had been around enough death
to know that he had, perhaps three hours before rigor
mortis set in, transforming the body into an unbending
mannequin. He hauled her from the bath, dragged her to
the case, folded her into the foetal position, and lowered
her in. Around her, he wedged the remainder of her
clothes. He removed the magazine and placed the
Browning automatic beside her.
Jack was about to close and seal the lid when he had a
thought. He tore the letterhead from a sheet of hotel
stationery and wrote on the blank: she brought this ON
herself, she fired the weapon. He covered her matted
hair with the bloodstained towels, placed the note on top
and clipped the lid into place. The relief at no longer
having the body in view was immediate.
As if recovering from a trance, Jack was surprised to
find he was still naked. He dressed rapidly and poured
himself a steadying Scotch from the minibar.
He surveyed the bathroom and offered up a silent
prayer of gratitude for floor and walls that could be wiped
clean. He opened the suite door and peered out, waited
until he saw the chambermaid enter a room then strode
swiftly down the corridor and purloined a fresh set of
towels from her trolley.
His head was pounding when he got back into his
room. What else? What had he missed? He'd emptied
her pockets and bag. He studied the contents: cash, the
phoney passport, phoney driver's licence, cigarettes, a
minimal selection of cosmetics, dark glasses - and the
safe deposit key. He took the cash, the passport and the
key and placed the other items alongside her body.
One thing caused the fine hairs on his back to stand
on end. When he'd first arrived and peered into her
handbag, he'd noted what he thought was a lipstick in a
neat gold tube attached to a carrying ring. Now a tug on
the ring unreeled a spring-loaded wire cheesecutter similar
to those used by wartime commandos on the throats
of dozing enemy sentries. Browning automatic, cyanide
pill, cheesecutter. Mrs Canning came well equipped as a
bringer of death.
There was nothing to indicate her true identity, not
even a set of domestic house keys. The cheesecutter
made him feel better about her demise.
He telephoned the concierge. What arrangement had
Mrs Canning made for returning the camera equipment
to London? It would be transported by road with other
business guests' heavy luggage.
When? On the day following the end of the festival.
Could the case be taken to the hotel's luggage room
now? But certainly, Monsieur.
Jack stuck on the labels. It took two porters to
manoeuvre the metal case onto the trolley. Jack watched,
grim-faced, as Mrs Canning was trundled away to the
service lift.

Chapter Fourteen

Jack remembered the rifle. Christ, how could he have
forgotten? Was he going mad? He unlocked the wardrobe
and hauled the golfbag down to the garage. He had to sit
in the Volvo for fifteen minutes before he was sure that
no curious eyes would witness him stow the dismantled
weapon in the concealed compartment.
He was in serious need of another drink. With the
bag - now containing nothing more lethal than the
golfclubs - slung over his shoulder, Jack stepped out onto
the busy terrace. He selected a chair with Rita Hay
worth's name stencilled on the back. Even Jack knew
who she was.
'Hello!' said a voice. Coolly looking down at him was
the ravenhead in the outsize sunglasses, the companion
of the golfing nut who had pestered him. She said,
'You've taken the last table. May I join you?'
Jack's hesitation brought a grin to a pert face. 'Now,
don't tell me you're waiting for Sharon Stone.' She
nodded at his golfbag. 'Going for a game?'
'Just been,' said Jack.
She looked oddly at him and said, 'Sure.'
She settled herself and added, 'You know, you really
pissed Sidney with that brush-off this morning. You're
not exactly Mr Tactful, are you? A great many men here
would pay money for a chance to play golf with Sidney.'
As the waiter approached, she said, 'Mine's a whisky
Jack noticed that there were a few empty tables. She'd
ignored them to reach him. He said, 'Who is Sidney and
who is Sharon Stone?'
She threw her head back and let out a loud guffaw.
'Oh, boy! Do you mean you aren't connected to the
movie business? I think I'm in love!' She took off the
ridiculous shades. 'And I had you down as an actor on
the hustle. Forgive me.'
The drinks arrived and Jack again paid cash - which
made her curious. 'No hotel tab?'
He shrugged. 'I like to pay my way.'
She looked over her shoulder conspiratorially. 'For
God's sake don't tell anybody or you'll have ten thousand
instant friends. You must be the only living creature at
this benighted wing-ding not living on an expense account.'
She put out a hand. 'By the way, I'm Betty Bentinck.
If you've never heard of Sharon Stone, you've certainly
not heard of me. I'm also an actress. I've just made my
Hill	first motion picture for Sidney - Sidney Zuckerman, that
is. He's an independent producer who dreams the
impossible dream of becoming a Selznick. I'm what they
call his squeeze of the moment.' The side of her delectable
mouth stretched into a wry expression. 'Yeah, go
ahead and jump to conclusions. You won't be wrong.
I'm a trained and good actress, but without Sidney's
juice in Tinseltown I might as well have trained to catch
fish at Marineland.'
Jack nodded sympathetically. This American girl's
lively candour was a refreshing diversion from his anxieties.
He said, 'I'm James Canning. Where's Sidney?'
She craned upward in her seat. 'I think I can see him
at the end of the jetty. He was supposed to go out to the
Metzhagen boat to pay his respects but he came back a
few minutes ago to say something peculiar was going
down.'
'Peculiar?'
'Yeah, the French gendarmes were on some kind of a
security alert and preventing anybody going out to the
boats. Sidney's down there again giving them the benefit
of his don't-you-know-who-I-am? routine.'
Jack, fighting to keep his tone casual, said, 'Is he a
good friend of Metzhagen?'
'They have business dealings,' said Betty. She leaned
forward. 'Wanna know something? I've got a secret. It's
not Metzhagen Sidney's going out to do kiss-kiss with.'
She stopped abruptly, then said, 'Cross your heart and
hope to die if you tell?' Jack traced a finger across his
chest. Her voice fell to a whisper. 'There's a reception on
board for that crazy Limey, Conrad Niven. I'm only
telling you because you're a fellow Englishman and I
trust you.'
Jack's mind whirled. Niven's notoriety stretched further
than the world of film buffs. In a reckless gesture of
defiance in the outraged face of the Islamic world, Niven,
working out of Hollywood, had gathered together a cast
of unknown actors and anonymous financial backers and
had directed a lightly disguised account of the agony of
Salman Rushdie, the British author condemned to death
in a fatwah issued in Tehran by the Ayatollah Khomeini.
The alleged sullying of the Prophet's name in Rushdie's
book, The Satanic Verses, had prompted the Iranians to
place a million-pound price on the author's head. The
bounty hunters had yet to collect.
Despite the film industry being hailed by commentators
for a rare act of foolhardy courage, the movie, Satanic Times, had the shortest credit 'crawl' in cinema
history - just the name of Conrad Niven. For once,
neither cast nor crew desired their customary screen
acknowledgements.
The film had a brief run to packed houses but after
three cinemas had been bombed, the exhibitors had
withdrawn the picture and run for cover.
Worse followed. Despite the precaution of disguising
the entire cast in heavy make-up, the Iranians had
identified the Indian actor portraying the fictionalized
author. He had been found in his Bombay home with his
throat cut and the ayatollahs had issued a second fatwah, putting a price of another million pounds on the head of
Conrad Niven. Few in Hollywood disputed that the
crazy schmuck had brought it on himself.
Jack Boulder gulped the remainder of his whisky and
attempted to sort through the bedlam of his thoughts.
Finally, he said, 'It must be a dangerous business,
hanging around someone like Conrad Niven. If the
Iranians throw a bomb at him there's no telling how
many people could get caught in the blast.'
Betty shook her dark curls. 'Nah. They'd never get
near enough. Sidney says he has armed bodyguards from
your Special Branch when he's in Europe and FBI agents
when he's in America. The poor slob isn't even allowed
to come ashore to see his own movie.'
Jack gagged. Surely Niven couldn't possibly have been
his target. It made no sense. MI6 assassinating a man
under the protection of Special Branch? Comrade set
against comrade? No, his target must have been someone
else.
'Uh-oh,' said Betty, gazing over his shoulder towards
the beach. 'Sidney's on the way back. Looks as if the
cops have put him in turnaround. Either that or his
opening weekend grosses have headed south.'
But Jack wasn't listening. He realized suddenly that
she was staring at him. She said, 'Are you all right?'
He stood up abruptly, toppling Rita Hayworth's chair,
said, 'I've just remembered a call I have to make,' and
was gone before she could say another word.
Puzzled, Betty followed his progress as he wove swiftly
between the tables. 'Now there is one strange dude,' she
murmured to herself. 'He says he's been for a game of
golf yet those clubs are brand new. The heads have never
so much as said hello to a ball. Plus he doesn't know his
Emily Post. Here's one English gentleman who doesn't
raise his hat to a lady. He never takes the damn thing off.
And what the hell is he doing here if he has no connection
with the movies? These are deep waters, Watson.'

Chapter Fifteen

Jack did not have long to wait for confirmation of his
fears. The BBC World Television Service broke into a
programme first: 'Reports are coming in of a shooting
incident at the Cannes Film Festival involving the Hollywood-based
British director Conrad Niven.' There followed
a rushed resume of the dangerous life Niven had
led since making his film. In ninety minutes the news
flashes went from 'shooting incident' to 'attempt on the
life of to 'has been murdered'.
Jack watched from his balcony, stunned, as the increasingly
hysterical television reports drew people from their
homes and hotel rooms. They began to gather along the
sand, many with binoculars trained on Metzhagen's
yacht which now seemed in danger of capsizing under
the weight of the numbers on board.
Press and TV helicopters whup-whupped overhead
and Jack could see that the police were having difficulty
in fending off the media speed launches attempting to
get within hailing distance of the yacht - and the first
interviews with anyone who might have witnessed the
event.
He paced the room, cursing his own stupidity. Three
times the telephone rang - the first calls of any kind that
had come through since he and Mrs Canning moved into
the suite. Three times Jack picked up the phone and
three times, as he said, 'Yes?', the callers replaced the
handset.
Whoever they were, they had expected Mrs Canning
to answer. To congratulate her on a mission accomplished?
And on his extermination? He was paralysed.
Should he sit tight or make a run for it?
This question, at least, was answered for the moment
when his eyes once again fell on the television screen as a
CNN reporter pinned down an official of the Surete in
Paris. The Frenchman pointed out that Monsieur Niven
had been under the protection of the British. A delicate
shrug, suggesting their incompetence. Of course, the
French authorities had offered additional officers but had
relied on British Embassy assurances that they would not
be needed . .. Such a pity. Perhaps a failure of Intelligence
on the part of the British?

It was a deft performance, the opening skirmish in the
political row that was bound to follow.
Of more interest to Jack than the pass-the-buck
manoeuvres was what the man said next. First inquiries
indicated that Conrad Niven had been shot by a gunman
concealed on another vessel in the bay. French naval
patrols were being brought in to assist in the searches.
The nearby islands of Saint Honorat and Sainte Marguerite
were being combed. Road blocks had been set up
throughout the Alpes Maritimes. Iranians were being
rounded up for questioning.
The CNN reporter got down to details. What was the
nature of the wounds? 'He was fatally hit in the chest.'
Jack buried his head in his hands.
'Good marksmanship?'
'Extraordinary marksmanship,' corrected the policeman.
The
CNN man then asked the question that created
the headlines next morning. Where had Monsieur Niven
been standing on Sir Gilbert Metzhagen's yacht when
the assassin struck?
'Oh, he wasn't on the yacht,' said the Surete spokesman,
quite relishing the revelation he was about to make.
'He was airborne.' He paused to let the reporter's face
register surprise.
'I don't understand.'
'Monsieur Niven was parascending at a height of some
seventy metres across the bay of La Napoule. Even his
own bodyguards did not realize he had been harmed
until he came down in the water at the end of his run.
They heard no shots above the roar of the towboat's
motor.'
'He was a moving target, then?'
'Oh, most certainly. To hit him at all was an evil but
most accomplished piece of work.'

Jack put the TV on mute. He turned away his head as
the camera caught the arrival of an ambulance at the
central hospital Pierre Nouveau in the avenue des Broussailles.
A shrouded body was wheeled inside on a gurney.
He had to think this thing through. Road checkpoints
manned by the ruthless security police, the CRS, probably
meant he was better off staying put. While he had
been monitoring the screen, no one had as much as
hinted that the shots might have originated from a point
on shore. Once again, he checked the view from the
balcony. All the frantic activity of the investigating authorities
was safely at sea and the ink-bright waters of the
bay were churned white by the wakes of the official
looking boats carrying investigators.
Jack had to concede that Mrs Canning and her associates
had devised a brilliant plan to keep themselves at
arm's length from discovery. Theirs had been the
achievement - if achievement it had been - while he had
been merely the mechanic, the hired hand, as she had
described him so dismissively on the phone, sent to carry
out the single act for which he was so eminently qualified.
He felt demeaned and stricken.
He was sickened when, later in the evening, CNN
relayed scenes of the street celebrations that had greeted
the news in Tehran. The mob acted up for the benefit of
the cameras, men frenziedly jumping up and down,
jellabas billowing out from sandalled feet, while the
veiled women made shrill, ululating sounds of ecstasy.
Jack felt the elegant walls of the room closing in on
him. Once, he picked up the telephone to check that
Grace and the boys had reached home but changed his
mind. The hotel would log the call.
Once again, he walked round to the railway station,
shouldering his way through the Festival crowds who
now had two sources of excitement to titillate them: the
hope of a glimpse of a film star and the frisson of being
at an event that had made global headlines.
Jack fed francs into the box. Grace answered on the
second ring.
'Thank God!'
'Jack?' Grace was puzzled at his evident relief.
'Are you and the kids all right? Did those bastards do
anything?'
'Bastards? Do anything? Jack, what are you blathering
about? They've been protecting us. We could have done
with some early warning that you were up to your old
tricks but, otherwise, we've had quite a pleasant time.'
He started to blurt out the truth but suddenly changed
his mind. She'd have to know soon enough - and before
Mrs Canning's friends took delivery of a certain movie
camera case.
Grace broke into his thoughts. 'Where have you been?'
Where had he been? Oh, yes, weapons evaluation.
'Sorry, love, I've been on the range.' He realized she
had no idea he was out of the country.
'Yes, and I've been to Buckingham Palace to see the
Queen. I don't know why I bother to ask.' Grace sounded
as dry as the Kalahari. 'Where are you now?'
Jack floundered. 'Er, I'm not sure. There's no number
on this phone.' He fed in more coins.
There was no satisfactory way to say what had to come
next. 'Grace,' he said sweating, 'I've run into a spot of
real bother.'
She was silent for a moment, and then said calmly,
'Tell me, Jack.'
He said miserably, 'It's a bit like the Irish business.
Can't say more.'
Grace held the silence even longer. Then he heard her
order the boys out of the room.
He said, 'It's serious stuff and I can't go into it on the
phone.'
For the first time Grace sounded apprehensive. 'Why
not? Are you telling me someone's listening in?'
'I can't rule it out,' said Jack.
'I thought the Irish business was the reason we've just
had a holiday.'
'No, it's something different.' He hesitated, then
added, 'Look, I don't want to frighten you, but I think it
best if you lock up the house right away and take the
boys to the place we went last August for the holiday.'
Grace said quietly, 'Jack, we've just arrived home.
Why should I drag the boys out of school yet again and
take them all the way to--'
'don't say it over the phone!' yelled Jack. 'Please,
please, Grace, I love you. Do what I ask.'
He was weeping, which was the worst thing Grace
could have heard. 'Oh my God!' she whispered. Nothing
Jack said could have conveyed more urgently what he
was trying to tell her. 'We're on our way,' she said abruptly, and hung up.

Chapter Sixteen

The senior man said, 'It's a wild success. They seek him
here, they seek him there, those bloody Frenchies seek
the shooter everywhere. They're running around like
headless poulets. They're going to take stick galore for
this.' He rubbed his hands with unalloyed anticipation.
Then he added, 'So far there's only one blip on the
screen. Our girl doesn't yet seem to have completed the
business. I daresay it's proving awkward to manoeuvre

our wondrous boy into the right mode for the quietus. At
any rate, he's answered the phone each time I've called.
We'll just have to be patient until she has something to
report.'
The mood of euphoria blunted a sharper judgement.
It was three days before the courier went to collect the
voice-activated tape and they listened to the anguished
phone-booth conversation between Jack Boulder and his
wife. The brief exchange confirmed that their growing
concern at Mrs Canning's continued silence was not
misplaced.
'Shit!' said the senior man. 'The family's done a bunk
- and what's happened to our girl?'
In Cannes the weary French police, after a rigorous
search of the yachts at anchor, had achieved nothing
more than the arrest of a number of Hollywood notables
for possession of cocaine. Of the assassin, there was no
trace.
On shore, the usual crowd of narks, astrologers, psychics,
the mentally ill and concerned citizens had volunteered
their services or had supplied information that
they deemed might have a bearing on a crime that had
now shouldered the world's most famous film festival
from the headlines.
In his tiny office beside the Vieux Port, an inspector of
the Municipal Police, Raoul Diot, was leafing moodily
through a tangle of these reports. The big boys from
Paris had taken charge of the glamour end of the investigation
- they were the ones flying around in flash cars,
hogging the limelight.
There was one theory that Conrad Niven had been
shot from a passing biplane - one of those used at each
Festival to haul movie publicity streamers across the sky.
Far-fetched but not impossible, he thought. Inspector
kiot sighed and placed a call to the control tower at the
nearby airfield of Mandalieu where the biplane collection
was hangared. He couldn't risk neglecting any potential
lead.
'What times are you talking?' asked the airport
manager.
'It's a little uncertain,' said Diot. 'Say, between eleven
thirty and one p.m.' He rested his chin on his fist while
the manager sorted through the logs.
'No,' he said finally. 'We had nothing local in the air
between those times. We put the squadron up at one
thirty to catch the lunch crowd in the beach restaurants.
Advertising E.T. - The Return. Your poor bastard was
dead by then.'
'Yes.' Inspector Diot sighed again and returned to the
rubbish pile. He was beginning to think of his own lunch
when he came across the report on one Henri Traverso.
The man had walked into the police post on the day
following the shooting, after the possible time of death
had been published in the newspapers and while the
prevailing police theory had been that everything had
happened at sea.
Traverso said he was a translator who assisted monolingual
stars at their press conferences. He wondered if
the authorities were mistaken in the direction their
investigation was taking and that perhaps Conrad Niven
had been hit not by a marksman on a boat but from a
building along La Croisette.
'Why would you think that?' the gendarme conducting
the interview had asked.
'Because I heard rifle shots on La Croisette at around
midday,' said Traverso.
'Oh, yes? You're an expert on rifle shots, are you?'
'Well, I've heard enough of them in the movies.'
'This is real life, Monsieur Traverse'
'So what? Do you think film-makers fake the sound of
gunfire? They spend millions of francs to obtain
authenticity.'
'All right. So where did you hear these shots?'
'I was walking on the pavement between the Martinez
and Carlton Hotels.'
'Were you the only one?'
'Absolutely not. The pavements were crowded. Lots
of people looked up.'
'And what did you and they see?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing? No bright flash or flame? No smoke?'
'Nothing like that. Just the sound of two shots.'
Inspector Diot sat up. The information that Niven had
been hit by two bullets had been withheld.
'What did everyone do? Dive for cover? Look for a
gendarme?' The interviewer's scepticism came off the
page of the transcribed interview. Inspector Diot made a
mental note to kick his arse.
'Went on with their business, I suppose,' continued
Traverso, unfazed. 'There was the noise of people and
traffic. It wasn't possible to pinpoint the source. I suppose
a lot of people thought it was something backfiring.
There were a lot of motorbikes about.'
'Is that it, then?'
'Yes, that's it. You must admit, it was very odd to hear
those sounds on the same day and around the same time
as Monsieur Niven died.'
Inspector Diot swore. 'Very odd indeed.' He reached for the phone and got the festival administration office.
A jobsworth answered. 'Henri Traverso? If you turn on your television, you'll see he's busy translating at a Clint Eastwood press conference,' he was told.
The inspector flicked channels and there was Traverso, an animated, cherubic-faced man, with floppy, greying
hair and an air of competence, sitting alongside a grizzled
Eastwood.
Inspector Diot liked the look of the translator. Traverso
did not give an impression of living in Cloud Cuckoo
Land, like so many people connected with the film
industry.
'Get him out of there and get him to the phone,' yelled
the Inspector. 'Clint Eastwood is big enough to fend for
himself.'
Twenty minutes later, he was asking, 'Monsieur Traverso,
what is your best guess at the direction of those
sounds you heard?'
Traverso pondered and said, 'The best bet has to be
from a hotel window or from one of the apartments
overlooking the Croisette. Or perhaps from a rooftop,
although I think this less likely. The shots did not make
the sharp crack sound that you get when a gun is fired in
the open air. They were more muffled or hollow - as if
coming from inside a building.'
At dawn next morning the police - whole battalions of
them - began working the buildings facing the sea.
Rooftops were scoured for signs of forced access or
ejected cartridge shells. An alarming number of people
had now been found to back Traverso's account of two
shots being heard. Confusingly, there were accounts of a
similar incident involving a single shot from a few days
earlier.
The man in charge of the investigation, Commissaire
Victor Massillon sent down from Paris, was reluctant to
believe that any of this could be linked to the killing of
Conrad Niven. He had exhaustively questioned the dead
man's downcast minders, who had insisted they had not
towed him within range of the shore. His own firearms
expert had hesitated. 'If it happened like that, sir, the
marksman has the kind of skill to make the so-called
Jackal seem like a fairground duck-shooter. It's the
longest of long shots, Commissaire.'
The object of their speculation, in defiance of Mrs
Canning's strictures, was up and ready for a jog at seven.
He changed his mind when he looked out and saw the
array of police vehicles stretching along the front.
Downstairs, in the manager's office behind the reception
desk, he could see uniformed men making notes
from the guests' registration cards. Others were tapping
on the first-floor doors of the rooms facing the sea.
Jack made a fast decision. There was nothing in the
suite to excite the police. And it would not be remarkable
if he were out when they came calling to conduct a room
search. He slipped down to the garage. Driving up the
incline onto the side-street, he was briefly waved down
by two CRS men with machine pistols strapped across
their chests. They peered in, saw that the back of the
Volvo was empty, and languidly waved him on. They
had no confidence in the new theory either.
Jack studied his map, drove to Antibes, bought himself
a pair of swimming trunks and drove on to the Cap. He
spent the day on the secluded Garoupe beach, sunning
himself, eating and thinking. He kept off the alcohol.
The hotel search had been completed by the time he
returned at sundown.
The phone rang. For once there was a voice at the
other end. An assistant manager said, 'We've had the
police in while you've been at work, sir. They've been
interviewing the guests and having a look at the rooms.'
'Because of the shooting?' said Jack.
'That is correct, sir. They will need to eliminate you and Mrs Canning from their inquiries. It is purely a
formality. All the guests in the rooms at the front of the
Berthier are required to co-operate. Therefore would you and your wife kindly take your passports along to the
police tomorrow? You'll find that they have set up a
special headquarters in the mairie at the foot of the Old
Town.'
That night the dream came back to him in all its
terror. The dark lady's face was now clear - a laughing
Mrs Canning, tantalizing and luring him towards
oblivion.
Jack showered and stood under cold water to clear the
muzziness from his head. He had to produce a wife or
take flight. There was only one possibility: Betty
Bentinck.
He fished out Mrs Canning's passport. The photograph
was an old one, usefully closing the age gap with
the present-day Betty. The two women were both dark
haired and not markedly dissimilar in features.
He went through his pockets until he found the visiting
card that Sidney Zuckerman had pressed on him after
scrawling 'Ch. 539' on the back, alongside the invitation
to a game of golf.
Jack poked his head out into the corridor. Good. The
odd-numbered rooms were on the town side of the
building. Neither the film producer nor Betty would have
been of interest to the police during yesterday's raid. He
was forced to linger around the lobby until ten forty-five
before he spotted Sidney striding out onto the Croisette.
Jack went straight up to 539.
A tousled Betty answered the door in her peignoir. She
was only just eating breakfast. She adopted an exaggerated
pose, hand on hip. Very Mae West. 'Well, helloooo
there, big boy,' she drawled. 'Is that a room key in your
pocket or are you just pleased to see me? Come in,
James.' She'd remembered his name but he experienced
a moment of shock when she used it - he'd almost
forgotten it under the strain of the last few days. She

poured him a cup of coffee and told him, 'Sidney's out
a-hustling for the day.'
Jack nodded and said nothing. How was he going to
put his plan to her? She said softly, 'Something's on your
mind. I just hope it's me, is all.'
Her robe was in disconcerting disarray and he caught
glimpses of her creamy flesh every time she shifted in her
chair.
He said, groping for the least alarming words, 'Betty, I
realize I'm a total stranger, but I wonder if you could
help me with a little problem?'
'I've no money of my own,' she murmured. 'Sidney's
the paymaster hereabouts.'
Jack shook his head. 'Sorry, I'm giving out the wrong
signals. I want you to do a little acting job for me.'
She laughed. 'Now you've disappointed me, James.
You told me you had nothing to do with movies.'
'I haven't,' said Jack, plunging in. 'I want you to
impersonate my wife.'
Betty laughed again, happily, with her head thrown
back. 'Do we start now?' she said, starting to slip the
peignoir from her shoulders.
Jack groaned. 'I'm sorry, Betty. I'm not putting this
too well.'
'It sounds all right to me, kiddo.'
'It's quite serious. I have to produce my wife to the
French police and she's not here. They're checking out
all the hotel guests occupying the front rooms. It's
because of the Conrad Niven killing, you know. And we
weren't here yesterday when they went through the
building.'
Betty looked at him steadily. 'James, are you a scam
artist? It's already crossed my mind that you are. Those
brand new golf clubs without a scratch on them are just
props, aren't they? I bet you don't even play the stupid
game.'
What was he to say to that? How far could he go?
She went on, 'Why don't you tell me your story and
I'll decide how much to believe? First of all, are you
involved in the Niven business?'
'No way,' said Jack, attempting an expression of
sincerity. 'Nothing like that. It's just that our business
has been caught up in that business and we simply can't
afford to let ourselves become conspicuous to the police.
We have to check in with them not because we're under
suspicion but simply because we occupy front rooms. It's
only routine. If we don't comply they'll come searching
for us. They might start asking awkward questions that
I'd rather not answer.'
Betty looked him up and down with pursed lips. 'Three
things,' she said. 'Why can't your wife go herself? Is she
really your wife? What is your game?'
Inwardly Jack quailed, his brain in overdrive. 'I have
no money of my own,' she had said. Perhaps that was
the way . . .
He said, 'She's not my wife. Like me, she's travelling
on a false passport. We weren't here working. We were
here to spend money - to enjoy ourselves and see the
festival.'
Jack astounded himself at his newly found powers of
invention. Warming to his theme, he added, 'Then she
spotted someone in the crowd she couldn't afford to let
recognize her and she skipped the country using another
identity.'
Then what? Jack asked himself. He thought for a
moment and went on. 'She was in such a hurry she forgot
to open her safe deposit box downstairs and transfer the
money to me, but if you'll spend a couple of hours being
her, you can sign for the box and help yourself to ten

96

thousand pounds sterling from it. That makes a lot of
dollars.' He stopped and studied her querying face. 'Of
course, I take the rest,' he added.
'Two more things,' said Betty, ignoring his discomfort.
'How much is in the box and how do I know you haven't
iced her to have all the money for yourself?'
Jack said evenly, 'The box contains eighty thousand
pounds. The money is not hot. It's the proceeds of an
insurance fraud that has not been detected. No one is on
my tail. Come up to my suite and see for yourself that
there's no body under the bed for the chambermaid to
find. You'll see Jane just packed her things and left.'
'Bullshit!' said Betty, draining a cup of coffee. 'My,
my. You are a glib one, aren't you, Mr Canning - or
whatever your real name is? That's the most confusing
plot since The Big Sleep. Are there really eighty big ones
in a box downstairs?'
'Yes,' said Jack.
Betty sighed and said, 'I just know I'm going to hate
myself later. But, okay, I'll do it. In case you think I'm
in the habit of breaking the law, let me put you straight.
I'll do it for the money of which I'm in dire need.
Sidney's charms are beginning to wear a trifle thin. And
puh-lease don't ask me to believe a word you've told me.
I'm not from Oshkosh, Illinois.' She gave him a sideways
look. 'I'd say you were just chiselling your partner out of
her end while her back's turned. Jesus! Why are all you
great-looking guys such bastards? Hollywood's wised me
up to men like you, James, and you're giving a convincing
impersonation of Mr Trouble from Griefville.'
Jack thought it best not to answer that.
She stalked towards the bathroom, saying, 'Lemme
take a shower while I think about it.' Before she reached
the door she had already tossed her peignoir onto a
couch. Naked, she wiggled her tight little buttocks as she
disappeared, saying, 'Look what was on offer - until ten
minutes ago!' and slammed shut the door.

Chapter Seventeen

Betty Bentinck crisply took charge. 'You're a worse actor
than Arnie Schwarzenegger. If you're going to lie, you'd
better learn how to look people in the eye. As they say in
Hollywood, when you've learned to fake sincerity, you've
cracked it.'
She immediately vetoed Jack's proposal that they first
make the call on the police. 'No way,' she said, briskly.
'First, this mercenary wants to see the colour of your
money.'
She nosed around Jack's suite, peering in wardrobes
and pulling back the sheets on the bed. There was
nothing, apparently, to alarm her.
'Do you have one of the passports your "wife" didn't
use?' she said, sarcastically. Jack produced the British
passport with Mrs Canning's - deliberately? - fuzzy
photograph and her signature.
Betty studied it for a minute. 'She's a deal older than
me, but I guess I can fix that. The poor quality of the
picture helps.' She practised the signature and achieved
an approximation with which she was not entirely satisfied.
'It will be even more difficult when I come to sign
the keyholder's card to get into the vault. I won't have
the genuine specimen in front of me.'
'Yes, you will,' said Jack. 'Her signature's already on
the card twice - once when she rented the box and a
second time when I went with her to the vault.'
All the same, she sent him to the pharmacy on the rue
d'Antibes to buy surgical plasters and a bandage. When
he returned, she was seated at the dressing table with her
make-up box open and Mrs Canning's passport photograph
propped up in front of her. He watched as Betty
the Actress went purposefully to work.
She subtly changed the curve of her eyebrows, pulled
back her hair with grips, reshaped her lips to Mrs
Canning's contours, and aged herself with a modicum of
shading to the cheeks, and a harder eyeliner. At the end,
the effect was not Mrs Canning but it was close enough
to the woman who stared impassively from the passport.
She stuck two plasters on her fingers and then wrapped
the hand in the bandage. Her Hermes scarf substituted
for an arm sling.
In the foyer they both studied the harassed cashier who
was relaying hotel guests into the vault. 'Are you sure
that's not the one you dealt with last time? These hotel
guys usually have good memories for faces,' whispered
Betty.
'Positive,' said Jack. 'Let's go.'
The young cashier displayed proper concern for Betty's
injury - or perhaps a more wary concern for the legal
vulnerability of the hotel. 'Madame has had an accident?'
'I shut the minibar door on my hand,' she said and
shrugged. Jack was impressed at the fluency of her
French. Later, she said, 'I saw your surprise, buster. I
told you I wasn't from Oshkosh. Why do you snotty Brits always assume Americans are dumb?'
She showed the cashier the deposit box key and made
a performance of taking the cashier's pen between her
injured fingers and slowly scrawling a shaky 'J. Canning'
on the keyholder's card.
The man barely glanced at it before pressing the button
to admit them to the vault. Jack lifted the holdall from
the box and said, 'Not here,' as Betty began to look
excited.
Upstairs in the suite, he said, 'Go ahead. Open it.'
Betty slowly pulled on the zip and whisded at the sight
of the bundles. 'Who's the jerk who says crime doesn't
pay? You've been a very wicked boy, James.'
'I know.' He endeavoured to look contrite and boyishly
delinquent at the same time. He said, 'Help yourself.
Ten thousand.'
He watched her sort enthusiastically through the
unfamiliar Bank of England notes and take her share,
which she stuffed into her quilted shoulder-bag. 'Have
you ever heard of fuck-you money?' Jack shook his head.
'Well, that's what this will represent to me when I kiss
off Sidney.' She slapped the bulging leather happily.
With Betty still wearing the sling, they set off for the
magnificent baroque mairie where the police had set up
their incident centre. Betty had said shrewdly, 'Let's aim
to arrive just before one o'clock. You know what the
French are like about food. They'll all be desperate to
get away for dejeuner.
They found themselves in a line of people being
processed by a battery of police clerks, each seated at a
computer terminal. Betty muttered, 'Let's go for the fat
one. I'll bet his stomach's rumbling right now.' Jack was
sweating but she was almost gay.
The fat one, his uniform straining at the buttons,
studied their passports with his dead fish eyes, and fed
their personal details into the system. 'What is your
business in Cannes?'
'We are here to enjoy the Festival and do a little
business,' said Betty.
'Let me see your accreditations.'
Jack looked at Betty for help. She didn't miss a beat.

'Oh, I'm so sorry. No one told us they would be needed
here.'
The fat one's lips blew outward in exasperation. He
glanced back at the screen. 'According to the hotel
management, you are in the movie camera sales business?

May I see your business card?'
It was Betty's turn to stare at Jack. But Mrs Canning's
preparations had been thorough. Jack hastily produced a
card holder and extracted an embossed card that gave an
address for Canning Cameras in Tilney Street, Mayfair,
London, England. Betty smiled the sweetest smile, nodding
in approval.
'Okay,' said the fat one, lisdessly tapping in the details.
'Do you have any information that might assist the
investigation? Did you notice any strange happenings,
mysterious activity?'
Betty gave him her widest-eyed look. Jack wondered
for a moment whether or not she was overdoing the
saccharine. 'We were shopping in Nice the morning that
poor man was shot.'
The fat one lost interest. He finished feeding their
statement into the terminal and handed them back their
passports.
Jack had to grip Betty's arm to stop her laughing as
they were dismissed and turned to leave. They could
actually hear the police clerk's stomach rumbling.
On their way back along the Croisette, Jack stopped at
the newspaper kiosk opposite the Noga Hilton Hotel and
bought all the English-language newspapers that had just
arrived on the morning plane.
Back in suite 720, he greedily absorbed every word.
The police were still seeking non-existent Iranian killer
squads. More importantly, no one had been able to
position the marksman. He was surprised to see that the
hunt had spread to Corsica, where an Iranian hit team
had supposedly headed in a high-powered launch after
their successful mission. There were even 'witnesses' to
this event.
The newspapers were putting their most imaginative
writers to work and Jack felt some relief in their oudandish
outpourings.

Chapter Eighteen

Jack hated to see Betty go. He had come to realize
quickly that she possessed the enviable gift of making a
grim circumstance hum with life. He made a silent wish
that her sunniness was a quality that the movie camera
would capture and perhaps make her adored and famous
- like Rita Hayworth of the terrace chair.
In Betty's company, his own burden of anxiety, distress
and paranoia had somehow seemed lighter, hinting even
at a hope of containment. In another world, she would
have been easy to love. He fervently hoped she wouldn't
squander herself on slick Sidney.
'I'd have liked to stick around to see how your little
scam works out,' she said, looking sad. 'But something
tells me you've landed the Jack Palance part. He never
makes it to the last reel.' She pecked his cheek and he
wanted badly to hold her close for a comforting moment,
but she stepped smartly back and said, 'So long, you big
hunk. I wish you long life.'
She made to step out into the corridor, but turned
with a final thought. 'James, I take it you realize that our
visit to the police won't be the end of the matter?'
Jack looked blank.
She shook her head wearily. 'You ought not to be

allowed out on your own - especially with all that dough.'
She went on patiently, 'Listen to me. I didn't do thirteen
episodes of Girl Agents of the FBI for nothing. Just
because the human balloon who took our statements was
dreaming only of his bouillabaisse, don't think you can
just stay here soaking up the rays and the rotten movies.
The information on those lovely people the Cannings is
now tucked safely in the computer system. Soon, somebody
above Fats and smarter than Fats is going to scan
the stuff. And it's going to occur to that someone to ask
Interpol to ask your Scodand Yard to check that Mayfair
address you gave. Strictly routine, you understand. But
when Holmes of the Yard reports that there ain't no such
camera company at that address, and nobody has ever
heard of the charismatic Cannings, he's going to fax
Interpol who are going to fax Inspector Clouseau in
Cannes with the bad news.'
Betty now had the door open. 'This'll be the very door
that'll get knocked off its hinges in the rush of les flics. I
wouldn't hang around for showtime, if I were you,
James.'
And she was gone.
The now familiar sense of desolation returned. Jack
knew she was right. He had to run. He kept the TV set
tuned to CNN, hoping for a report on the progress of the
investigation. Were the roadblocks still in place? CNN
failed to cover this point, which increased his anxiety.
While he monitored, he took a towel and began wiping
every smooth surface he could remember touching.
When he called reception to announce that he and
Mrs Canning would be checking out first thing next
morning, he was met with perplexity. 'But you are booked and paid for another two days, Monsieur
Canning.'
'I know,' said Jack, trying to emulate Betty Bentinck's
insouciance. 'But we've completed our deals and other
opportunities call.'
'You realize, sir, that the extra two days are not
refundable?'
Greedy fucking French, thought Jack. But he wanted
no scenes to make his presence easy to recall. He said,
'Oh, that's quite understood. We booked for the duration
of the Festival so we expect to pay the full amount.' He
had an afterthought. 'That container of camera equipment
you have in your baggage room - when does it get
to London?'
'On 23 May, three days after the Festival ends,' said
the assistant manager.
That night the dream came, vivid and terrifying. He
slept badly and was on the road by eight, with the money
concealed alongside the weaponry in the under-floor
compartment. He hit the first roadblock on the Route
Napoleon, south of Grasse.
The patrol, who had placed a tyre-puncturing chain of
spikes across the northbound traffic lanes, made him step
from the car. They removed the golf clubs from the bag,
which they examined closely. He prayed they didn't
share Betty's sharp eye for an unused head.
They rummaged through his luggage and fed his
passport and vehicle particulars into a handheld computer.
He waited in the thin sunlight, feeling suspended
in space and time, praying fervently that Scotland Yard
had not yet got round to Tilney Street, Mayfair.
An agonizing ten minutes passed before the computer
beeped and the patrolman read his clearance on the tiny
screen, rolled back the spikes and beckoned him on.
En route, fatigue forced him to pull over and sleep for
four hours. He was tempted to telephone Grace but a
growing paranoia about bugged lines stopped him.
Was there a ports alert already out on the Volvo? His
senses heightened as he joined the pre-dawn queue to
drive aboard the Channel Tunnel train. His eyes began
to scan. He was a dozen cars behind the leading one
when he stiffened in his seat. In his rear-view mirror he
could see the line being held back by a uniformed
attendant. An Audi inserted itself immediately behind
him. The overhead lamps glinted malevolently off its
black surface.
Jack could see two men occupying the front seats. The
number plate was British. He edged the Volvo up into
the shiny coach and parked alongside one of the small
windows that gave a limited view of the passing tunnel
walls. The Audi came up behind. The two cars were
almost bumper to bumper. Jack closed his window and
pressed the central locking switch.
As they took off for the undersea ride, he watched
other drivers stepping out to stretch their legs. There was
no buffet so most remained alongside their cars. Jack
stayed put, eyes glued to his rear-view mirror.
If the duo were who he thought they were, he couldn't
see that they would try anything drastic while they were
in the tunnel. Cameras monitored every coach and they
could not drive their Audi off unless he moved first.
He briefly considered the possibility of one of the pair
strolling up alongside the Volvo, plugging him through
the window and usurping his driving seat. With his only
weapon stowed and, in any case, far too big for this
confined space, Jack felt naked. He comforted himself
with the thought that they would have some difficulty
explaining a corpse to British Customs. Or would they?
Could they merely flash some magic ID card and cart
him off to an unmarked grave? Jack's paranoia at the
extent of the forces ranged against him took an upward
turn.
The man behind the Audi's wheel was older than his
companion. He was thickset, with a heavy round head
that sank into his shoulders. He lit a cigarette, ignoring
the no-smoking signs that shouted at him at every turn.
Jack watched the passenger point this out to him but the
driver shrugged and continued puffing.
The passenger was a fair-haired man, almost a youth.
He would be the first to climb out if they intended any
funny business under the Channel. But he made no move
and the Audi doors remained shut.
Perhaps meir orders were simply to tail him.
The formalities on the Kent side were brief and Jack
took off in heavy London-bound traffic. The Audi
dropped back and put two cars between them and him.
Jack nursed a niggling doubt. It was still possible that
the Audi pair were just a couple of champagne salesmen.
He had to put them to the test.
He came off the motorway and turned towards Faversham.
No doubt now. They followed him off the exit
ramp and eased well back so as not to be prominent in
his mirrors. Jack felt gratified. This was enemy action
and he would be ready.
On the edge of a one-shop hamlet Jack found the
battlefield he was looking for: a red tile-hung pub, not
yet open, with an outside lean-to that served as a lavatory.
Jack drove into the forecourt, leaped insouciantly from
the Volvo and did not look back as he headed for the
timber door, drooping on its hinges. He prayed that it
was not locked during non-drinking hours. In the open
forecourt they would not even have to step out of their
car to nail him. He gave it a push. It screeched open on
ancient hinges and he breathed easy - until the smell of
stale urine assaulted his nostrils.
He let the door bang closed behind him and swiftly
surveyed his redoubt. There was a stand-up urinal, a

106
vandalized condom machine and a foul cubicle. The lid
of the pan was missing.
Jack applied an eye to the crack alongside the doorjamb.
The nose of the Audi crept into view almost
immediately. He could see them conferring. Then the
car eased alongside the Volvo and both men got out.
'Shit!' said Jack. The duo closed their doors so carefully
that even at that short distance he couldn't hear the locks
click.
Silently they advanced on him. The young blond
unbuttoned his lightweight jacket and plucked a snub
nosed, nickel-plated automatic from a hip holster. Bull
neck, who seemed to be serving only as chauffeur,
handed him a sound suppressor. He appeared otherwise
unarmed.
At the rear of the lean-to was a small, high window.
They could only come at him through the door. He
stepped into the cubicle and unhooked the old-fashioned
pull-chain from the cistern. He had a weapon of sorts and
surprise on his side. He was convinced they believed
they had not been rumbled. The logic must be that the
man with the gun would come in first and shoot him
before he had a chance to react. Jack stepped to the side
of the door and waited. The automatic flush for the
urinal came on, accompanied by the loud swish of
gushing water.
It was a lucky moment of happenstance for Jack. The
familiar sound reassured Blondie that his quarry was
preoccupied and he hurtled in with a rush that sent the
door crashing open. Just as violently, Jack sent it crashing
back just as the man's gun hand came into view.
Under the impact Blondie fell sideways, wildly spraying
shots into the walls and condom machine. Jack took
just one step forward, grabbed his head and smashed it
against the far wall. The gun dropped from his hand and
Jack hurled the body back at Bullneck who had been on
his companion's heels.
Jack gave Blondie a hard kick in the guts as he jumped
over the slumped body and rushed full tilt at Bullneck.
The thug landed one winding blow to Jack's rib before
Jack had the lavatory chain round his opponent's formidable
size eighteen neck. He twisted the two ends
together and the rusting metal links sank deeply into
Bullneck's rolls of fat. The man continued to lash out
but now Jack had leverage and dragged him off balance
and into the lavatory. The battered door closed and the
three now occupied their own small, violent world.
Bullneck was on his knees, gurgling and clawing at the
chain. Blondie was dazed but recovering. Blood trickled
from his temple. He groped around for the gun.
Jack stretched out a leg and hooked the weapon
towards himself. Savagely, he thrust it into Blondie's
face. 'Is this what you're looking for, you bastard?' he
shouted, while his other hand twisted the chain viciously,
forcing Bullneck face forwards onto the evil-smelling
cement floor.
Blondie sat up slowly, his blue eyes darkening with
hatred. He looked at Bullneck, whose face was turning
puce, 'You're killing him,' he said.
'Well, isn't that too bad?' said Jack. 'And what had
you intended for me with this little toy?' The automatic
was a Czech-made .32, effective at close range.
Blood was clotting in Blondie's floppy forelock. 'Oh,
very clever,' he said bitterly.
Jack looked down at Bullneck, who was gurgling.
Satisfied that his adversary had lost consciousness, he
unwound the chain. Blondie pulled himself up into a
sitting position against the wall. He was not prepared for
what happened next.
In a single movement, Jack looped the chain around
his more elegant neck and twisted the links just enough
to force the man's mouth open to gasp for air. Just as
swiftly, he clapped a hand over it, released the chain,
clamped the man's mouth shut, then dragged him by the
head away from the wall. He said, 'I wouldn't swallow, if
I were you. And I certainly wouldn't chew on that little
glass capsule I've just popped into your mouth.'
Blondie's eyes bulged and he began to struggle frantically.
'Yes, you bastard, you know what I'm talking
about. That capsule was meant for me.'
Jack suddenly withdrew his hands and released Blondie,
who Instantly spat furiously, spitde dribbling down
his dimpled chin. The cyanide capsule ricocheted off the
wall and onto the floor. Jack crushed it with his foot.
There was a fleeting aroma of bitter almonds.
Blondie bent double, still gagging. His partner was
beginning to stir and groan. Before he became any
livelier, Jack dipped into his jacket pockets and found the
Audi's keys.
He bent over Blondie, who was weakly mopping
himself with a handkerchief. Jack whispered, 'I'll kill the
next one of you who comes after me. I've done your dirty
work. Now leave me and my family alone.'
Blondie found his voice. 'Captain Boulder, where is
Mrs Canning? We have to know,' he croaked.
'You'll know soon enough,' said Jack grimly. 'You go back and give your masters my message. It seems to me
I've unwittingly made them the best part of a million
pounds. My advice is: be satisfied. Take the dirty money,
bury your dead, and leave me and mine in peace.'
'Dead?' Blondie's bloodied face tightened. 'Do I take that to mean you have,' he hesitated, choosing his words
carefully, 'disposed of Mrs Canning?'
'She disposed of herself,' said Jack. 'You'll understand
when you collect the body.'
At the door, Jack turned and watched the two men
slowly getting to their feet and propping themselves
against the scabrous walls. 'Just remember this,' he said.
'Nothing would be easier for me right now than to put a
bullet into your heads. But I don't want to be forced to
kill you and I don't want you to kill me. When you find
your feet and walk out of here, think about it - and be
grateful. You owe me.'
The urinal smell had been unpleasantly pungent and
Jack was glad to step out into the crisp morning air. He
gazed around. All was silent, apart from the sounds of
birds nest-building. He tightened the silencer in the .32's
muzzle and walked round the Audi, shooting out all four
tyres. Let those bastards explain that to the AA man.
In a service station lavatory, Jack shaved off the
moustache. At Rochester, a barber gave him his customary
short-back-and-sides. He also broke down his assailants'
gun into its component parts and scattered the
pieces and cartridges in streams and culverts across two
English counties.
He did not arrive in Soumwold until the late evening.
It was the bracing Suffolk coastal town where the family
had spent their last summer holiday, in a clapboard
cottage hunkered down amid windbreaks between the
grey North Sea and a bird sanctuary. He spotted the
boys first. They had acquired two decrepit bikes and
were endlessly circling a stone birdbath when they spotted
him and raced down the gravel track to pedal
alongside the Volvo.
Jack wound down the window. 'Afternoon, guys.
Would one of you open the garage door?' He was trying
to sound casual but he wanted to get the Volvo out of
sight fast.
Malcolm pedalled ahead to do as he asked, but Ben
was curious. He peered in at the luggage. 'Dad, since
when have you played golf? And where did you get this
car?'
All at once Jack felt heavy and dispirited. Christ, these
were just the easy questions. There were more painful
ones to come. 'The car's borrowed. I'm just giving golf a
try,' he grunted, scanning the cottage for signs of Grace.
He could hear Malcolm shouting, 'Mum, Dad's
shaved off his moustache!'
A door, coated in pitch against the harsh winter
weather, opened and she stood there, looking heartbreakingly
lovely - and strained. She was wiping her hands on
a tea towel. The simple act brought a lump to his throat:
it encapsulated everything that was normal and reassuringly
domestic in his life - a comforting world that had
continued to meander along while he had been engaged
in the bizarre and dangerous events that now threatened
to destroy them all.
He hugged the boys and held Grace tightly in his arms
for a full minute. Against her soft, welcoming flesh he
felt the tension dropping away from him.
Grace kissed his ear and he could feel her patting his
back. 'It's all right, Jack,' she whispered. 'It's all right.'
She pushed back from his embrace and gazed intently
into his face. She said softly, 'Ben, Malcolm, go for a
ride on your bikes. Daddy and I want to have a talk.'
'Aw, Mum, can't we see Dad for a bit?' Malcolm
pleaded. 'He's only just got here.'
'You can see him all you want later.'
'C'mon,' said Ben. 'They want to get lovey-dovey.'
'Yuck!' said Malcolm. They giggled and rode away.
Grace and Jack faced each other across the kitchen
table. 'Well?' she said. She could see that what was
coming was bad and reached across to grasp both his
hands. He had not yet taken off his jacket.
On the long drive, Jack had been rehearsing various
innocuous scenarios in his head but suddenly he felt
sickened by his own deceit. The burden of it was now a
gross thing in his gut that threatened to choke him. No
matter how shocking and no matter what the consequences,
he saw with sobering clarity that he had to tell
Grace the truth.
She sat stiffly as he began with the first phone call from
Mrs Canning. She slumped as he reached the moment
where he had accepted her proposition and she was
weeping by the time he reached in his broken-voiced
recital the moment when he loosed off the two fatal
shots. He held back only the shaming incident in the
night.
Jack watched his wife's distress helplessly. He wanted
to vomit. He moved hesitantly round the table to take
her hunched shoulders in a hug but she shook him off.
Suddenly she leaped up and began to hammer his chest.
Jack fell back but made no attempt to ward off the blows.
If Grace had taken a knife to him, he would have faced
the blade without flinching and without defending
himself.
Tears glinted on his cheeks as she continued to scream
and pound at him in an uncontrollable fury. Then,
exhausted, she collapsed against his chest and he
wrapped his arms around her. Her sobs vibrated through
his body and he let them run their course. Finally she
said, in a choked voice, 'That is the most terrible thing
I've ever heard.'
Jack said awkwardly, 'Yes.' But he'd come to a
decision. 'I think it's time to put the whole bloody
business in the hands of the police.'
Grace brushed back her hair. 'No!' she said, with
sudden resolution. 'Jack, you're breaking my heart. Do
you think the police are going to pat you on the head for
a job well done, give you a medal and send you home?'
Jack made a futile gesture with his hands. 'Grace, I
thought it was an official mission. You know the way the
Security Services work. They like to employ mercenaries
so that they can disown you if you're caught. It's what
they call the cut-out system. But I think I've been used
by bounty hunters.' He was disgusted at the bleating in
his voice.
Grace said firmly, 'You can't go to the police. This
family will be devastated. They'll send you back to
France where I'm not so sure they don't keep a guillotine
for this kind of offence. My God, your name will go
down in history in a roll-call of assassins alongside Lee
Harvey Oswald, Mark Chapman and that evil bastard
who shot Martin Luther King. Oh, Jack, how could you?'
She began to cry again.
When the boys returned, the family sat down to a
fraught meal of cold meat and salad. Ben caught the
mood immediately. 'What's wrong?' he said.
'Just eat your supper like a good boy,' said his mother.
'Daddy and I have had some bad news about - a friend.'
'Who?'
Grace absently rubbed Ben's neck. 'No one you know.
Just someone Daddy met.'
Across the table Malcolm made a face at Ben and
shrugged. Grown-ups' secrets.
Afterwards, Jack and Grace went for a walk on the
dunes. He needed some air and they both had to come
to terms with what he'd told her. Huddled in a Barbour
against the cutting wind, Grace asked, 'Is there any way
you can get to the bottom of this? If you could find these
people and turn them in, or just shut them up, you might
get yourself off the hook.'
Jack pondered. 'There's one possibility. In four days'
time, Mrs Canning's body' - Grace shuddered and not
from the cold - 'will be delivered to the warehouse. Her
partners will collect it - now they know for certain they
won't be collecting me. They must be seriously rattled
even though they know the objective of the operation has
been achieved. But after chasing me from the Channel
Tunnel, they also know it hasn't all happened as they
planned.' He stopped, not sure that he should reveal his
deepest worry.
Grace caught his hesitation. 'Come on, Jack. We're all
in this together now. What else?'
He said slowly, 'Despite my putting the frighteners on
their thugs, I don't think they can leave me as a loose
cannon. I'm the man who knows too much. They may
want to believe what I told those two jokers: leave me
alone and I'll leave them alone. But it's not what they
can afford to believe. Maybe I'll keep my mouth shut for
now, but what about later? Maybe I'll crack, have a
breakdown, go to the police, go to the papers.'
'So what are you suggesting?' They watched a tug
laboriously towing a letterbox-red lightship through a
choppy slate sea.
'I could try to follow whoever collects the body. They
may lead me to the truth. It's my only hope - to learn
enough about them to have some really damaging bargaining
muscle.'
Grace thought about this for a while, then said, 'Why
did you make us leave London? What danger are we in?'
'I don't know.' Jack kicked sand in frustration. 'But at
some point I guessed they were watching you or tapping
our phone. They knew too much about me. They even
had photographs.'
Grace said, 'I didn't suspect anything - not even when
they took us to the safe house. I cursed you a bit under
my breath for playing silly buggers again but . . .' She
shivered. 'I thought they were friends, not the enemy.'
He took her shoulders and this time she did not resist
him. 'They are amazingly well organized and totally
ruthless. The only clever thing I've done in this whole
mess was to insist you and the boys be driven home once
they had confirmation that I'd done what they asked. If
they'd held you until Mrs Canning had also confirmed
she'd killed me, I dread to think what might have
happened - although it's more likely they'd have spun
you some bullshit that I'd bought it on a secret assignment,
laid the Official Secrets Act on you, and given you
my blood money as compensation. They're going to go
ape when they take delivery of the body. It's best to keep
the boys here until this thing is sorted out. Maybe you
could do some schoolwork with them so they don't fall
too far behind. At least we'll have no money worries.'
On the way back to the cottage, he took Grace into the
garage, lifted the trap and opened the holdall. Wordlessly,
she gazed down at the rifle in its bubble wrappings
and the mound of cash.
Jack grabbed a bundle of fifty-pound notes and thrust
it at her but Grace put her hands behind her back as if
the banknotes were diseased. 'There's no point in being
silly about the money,' he urged. 'For us, it's a life-saver.
We can't use our credit cards. They have access to the
computers that register the transactions - that's how they
trace people's movements. It's cash only, if we're to avoid
discovery.'
'Give it here,' she said, her face set.
Replacing the false floor, Jack said, 'I won't be able to
take the Volvo out onto the road again. They have the
number. But it would be useful if I could drive it.' He
pondered and said, 'This is Volvo country. See if you
can spot a similar one to this, make a note of its
registration number and have plates made up at the local
garage. But, until I can safely drive it away, this car will
be your bank. I'll be happier knowing that if anything
happens to me at least you'll have money.'
Grace digested this in silence, then fell against his
shoulder, once again in tears.

Chapter Nineteen

He holed up at Southwold for two days and lost count of
his grovelling apologies. At night he clung to Grace.
She softened slowly. 'Jack, why do you always act before
you think?' she said. And added, 'I'm sure the Army was
happy to get rid of you. You were a disaster waiting to
happen. This time you've brought the disaster home with
you.'
One night, lying in bed, lulled by the distant susurration
of the sea, she said, out of the dark, 'Did you fuck
those women?' She switched on the bedside-light and
studied his face intently for signs of deception.
Jack groaned inwardly. Here comes another. What had
Mrs Canning said? Adultery in hotels doesn't count?
'For God's sake, Grace. Don't you think I had enough
on my mind without that?'
'I don't know.' She was dubious. 'You were staying as
man and wife with one and you said you liked the
American girl.'
He had a momentary flash of Betty's delightful little
bum wiggling into the bathroom, and a darker vision of
Mrs Canning astride him.
'Well, the answer is I didn't,' he said, despising himself
anew. 'We had twin beds and the girl was with some
American producer. She only helped me because I paid
her.' At least that was true.
He reached for her, and laid his head between her
breasts. 'Please love me,' he said humbly. 'I feel so lost.
Without you, I'd just as soon turn myself in.'
Grace kissed his rumpled hair. 'Whatever happens,
never forget we love you too. Desperately,' she added.
And that's how they made love. Desperately, frantically,
almost hysterically - as if there might not be a next time.
Later, the dream came again but stopped abruptly just
as Bullet Head began to attack the driver's door. Grace
was shaking him awake. 'No, Jack! No!' she said, and
clasped him tightly to her.

Jack drove to London in the family's old Saab and
checked in with his under-manager, Joe Carsby, at the
gun club. 'Anyone been asking for me?'
'Two or three phone calls, but no one left a message,'
Joe looked at him quizzically. 'Don't think much of your
suntan, Jack. You look paler than when you went away.'
Jack shrugged. 'They had me on bloody night exercises
most of the time. But it's all hush-hush, Joe. Not a word
to anyone.'
A couple of members made a boisterous entrance and
Joe went off to attend to them, leaving Jack to unlock his
personal arms cabinet and help himself to a 17-shot
Glock that he tucked into his belt. Two clips of ammunition
went into his pocket.
At Shepherd's Bush everything appeared normal.
Among the letters on the doormat was a handwritten
note from the boys' headmaster. Where were they? He'd
have to concoct a convincing yarn - something he was
becoming adept at.
He took off his jacket, selected a screwdriver from his
toolbox and combed the house. He ended up dizzy with
disbelief. He had uncovered two tiny transmitters in each
main room - on pelmets, under console tables, in a light
fitting, behind picture frames. Some were no larger than
a thumbnail.
He deduced - correctly - that the only reason he did
not find any in the bases of the two telephone sets was
because the Boulder family's lines had been tapped.
Chilled, Jack was beginning to understand the extent of
the surveillance to which they had been subjected. In a
black rage, he took the bugs out to the garden path and
hammered them to smithereens.
Then he went back into the house and sat with his
head in his hands. Suddenly he had an idea and went in
search of Grace's sewing scissors, the boys' modelling
glue and a mound of newspapers.

Chapter Twenty

Gatti's Repository was a hulking Victorian blockhouse
whose lower floors presented a blank face to the dingy
street: the windows had been bricked up. Strolling past,
Jack saw with frustration that the two loading bays were
within a courtyard. He had intended parking the Saab at
a vantage point along the street and monitoring the
vehicles that arrived to make collections and deliveries.
The problem was that, from his car, he would be unable
to see Mrs Canning's aluminium coffin either arriving or
being picked up.

From the corner, he studied the depressing vista.
Opposite the Repository was a pre-war London County
Council block of flats with the grubby shield emblem of

the long-abolished authority still displayed above the
entrance - a solid, brick structure that had oudasted the
gimcrack system-built municipal hutches of the sixties.
The staircase windows and the long, open landings
overlooked the warehouse.
Jack took the stone stairs two at a time. From.the
fourth-floor window he had a perfect view over the
Repository's wall. He stood patiently, watching the comings
and goings below of furniture and cardboard
containers.
He was three hours into his vigil before he saw a
pantechnicon, its sides advertising that it had come from
Nice, France, backing into the gate and aligning itself
with the first bay. A forklift truck trundled forward and
began to shift cases into the building. The seventh item
of the consignment was a gleaming cube of metal. 'Yes!'
breathed Jack.
He was still lurking by the cracked window an hour
after the Nice truck had departed when he heard a soft sound behind him. Jack wheeled round. Confronting
him were two Afro-Caribbeans, dreadlocked, earringed,
hip-loose - and menacing. One, with a week's growth of
beard filling his pock-marks, said, 'You don't live here,
man.'
'No,' said Jack, eyeing them carefully.
'We don't like whitebread boys who ain't got no
business here being here,' said the smaller one, whose
skin was sallow and whose eyeballs bulged.
'But I do have business here,' said Jack politely.
'What business is that, white man?'
'That's my business,' said Jack.
'How do we know that your business ain't poking your
dumb nose into our business?' asked Pock Mark.
'What business would that be?' asked Jack, fencing.
Pock Mark stepped forward threateningly. 'You've got
a smart mouth, white man. Someone gonna take your
tongue and show you how to lick your own ass with it.'
'Now, who would that someone be?' asked Jack
pleasantly.
The two glanced at each other. They were not at ease
with Jack's composure.
Sallow said, 'Are you The Man?'
"The Man?' queried Jack. 'Which Man is mat?'
'Don't fuck with us. The po-lice is who,' said Pock
Mark.
Jack said, 'Relax. I'm not a policeman. Whatever you
two characters are up to is no concern of mine. Now,
why don't you go away and leave me to get on with my

business?'
'You ain't told us what that business is yet,' pointed
out Pock Mark, leering nastily and revealing purple
gums.
'I thought I'd made myself clear,' said Jack. 'My
business is my business. Now go away and leave me
alone.'
They reacted in unison. Sallow drew a switchblade
from the sleeve of his embroidered jacket and Pock Mark,
to Jack's alarm, magically produced what appeared to be
an American-made Cobray M-ll semi-automatic from
an underarm sling.
'Semi-automatics in Battersea? What the hell is going
on?' asked Jack. As he spoke he slid his hands up to his
hips, arms akimbo, which lifted the bottom edge of his
leather jacket. His fingers were now underneath the
elasticated band within inches of the Glock that nestled
against his spine.
'What's going on,' said Pock Mark, 'is that you are
gonna give us your money and credit cards and then get
the fuck outa here.'
Jack nodded at the Cobray. 'You think you can use
that thing here in broad daylight and get away with it?'
'We is the law here, you cocksucker,' said Pock Mark.
'We say who lives. We say who dies.'
'I don't think so,' said Jack.
'Huh?'said Pock Mark.
Neither man could believe his effrontery. Sallow was
making preliminary slashing motions with his long, thin
blade.
Jack decided it was time to bring this charade to an
end. 'As a matter of fact, gentlemen,' said Jack, 'I'm the
one who says who lives or dies. Before you pointed that
thing at me,' he added for the benefit of Pock Mark, 'you
should have fitted the magazine. But they're rather long
and awkward, aren't they? If memory serves, they take
thirty-two rounds. In your pocket, is it?'
Jack's Glock came smoothly out of his waistband. Now
Pock Mark's eyes were bulging too.
Calmly, Jack said, 'On the floor, you bastards, before I
take your ugly heads off.'
But Sallow had to try his luck. He lunged forward.
Jack instinctively took a step backward to give himself
room, took precise aim and shot Sallow through the
upper thigh. He screamed and toppled sideways. Pock
Mark fell to his knees and raised his arms in the air.
'Don't do it, man. Okay, your business is your business.'
He stared, hypnotized, at the Glock's muzzle. Sallow was
clutching at his leg and whimpering.
Jack said to Pock Mark, 'Take off your jacket and
belt.'
The man hastened to comply. 'Now take the belt and
nake a tourniquet above his wound.' Pock Mark shuffled
on his knees over to his companion, eyeing the dropped
knife as he went. 'Don't even think it,' said Jack softly.
Just push it this way.'

He scooped up the blade with his spare hand and
tossed it in the refuse chute that ran parallel to the
staircase.
He patted down Pock Mark's jacket and discovered
two loaded magazines for the Cobray. When he thrust
his hand into an inside pocket, these two jokers' business
became clear. Out came a pouch containing a large cache
of white powder made up in small glassine bags.
Jack glanced out of the window. Nothing untoward. It
astonished him how pistol shots could go unremarked in
an urban setting. This was a repeat, more or less, of
Cannes.
The thugs were looking at him resentfully. He said to
Sallow, 'You're lucky. I deliberately avoided the bone so
you should be able to stand.'
They looked at him for the first time with something
approaching respect.
'Shit, man. You can do that?' Pock Mark was awed.
'Yes.' Jack hefted the cocaine thoughtfully in his hand.
If it followed the knife into the refuse chute, they'd have
to come after him again - if only for revenge.
Pock Mark looked alarmed as he saw Jack's eyes
wander briefly to the metal door on the chute. 'You
gonna give me back my stuff, man? If you do what I
think you're thinking, I'm dead.'
Jack said, 'Here's the deal. You get back the stuff. I
keep your weapon. You take your friend to hospital
before that wound turns septic. You don't come back to
bother me any more.'
'Yeah, yeah,' said Pock Mark eagerly. 'You gimme the
stuff, you don't see my black ass again. Man, you is a
fucking star with that piece. I wouldn't come looking for
you with a tank.'
'You've made a wise decision,' said Jack. 'I'm glad
you're seeing sense.' He placed the coke on the floor and

pushed it with his toe towards Pock Mark. 'Now throw
me the shoulder sling for the Cobray' - Pock Mark's eyes
widened at the accurate identification of his armament 'and
split.'
He watched them slowly descend the urine-smelling
stairs, Sallow leaning painfully on Pock Mark's shoulder.
Jack turned away, pleased with himself and spotted an
old lady peering from her front door. Her eyes were bird
bright in her wizened face.
'Son,' she said, 'that was bleedin' marvellous. If we
had a few more coppers like you, we'd soon chase those
bloody Yarthes back to Jamaica where they came from.'
He grinned at her. She watched him as he slung the
Cobray under his jacket and stowed the Glock where it
had come from. 'You've earned a cup of tea, son. Come
on in.'
Jack was taken aback by her sangfroid. Was this an
everyday occurrence for little old ladies? 'Weren't you
scared?' he asked.
She looked disgusted. 'I was in the Blitz. Since then I
was only ever scared of my old man, Gawd rest him!'
Jack chuckled. She'd obviously decided he was the
police. Then she proved it by asking, 'Why didn't you
run them in?'
Jack said carefully, 'I should have done. But that would
have been piling up trouble for myself I shouldn't have
shot him. There'd be an inquiry so I just frightened the
life out of them and let them go.'
She nodded, satisfied. Jack looked around and registered
that her living-room window overlooked a railed
break in the outside brick parapet. He said, 'I'll take the
offer of that cup of tea if you'll let me keep observation
from your window.' He winked. "I'm on special
assignment.'
'Mum's the word,' said the old girl 'Take a seat.'
Her name, she told him, was Jessie Pocock and, behind
her front door with its two locks and two dead bolts, her
flat smelled of furniture polish and baking cakes. 'Home
cooking,' she said. 'That's the secret of a long life.'
Jack's eyes took in the worn couch covers, the knitting
bag and the book of crossword puzzles. She was so
excited by his presence that he judged she did not have
many visitors.
She caught him examining the framed photograph of a
corporal of the military police directing traffic - a column
of Churchill tanks - with a tommygun slung over his
shoulder. Behind him, the road sign pointed to Schleswig-Holstein.
'That was my Arthur,' she said. 'Went all
the way from Normandy to Denmark without a scratch.
Came home and was dead three years later. Cancer of
the liver.' It was her only photograph.
'No children?' queried Jack.
'Couldn't have 'em. Not after they dug me out of the
mud at Balham tube station. Direct hit,' she said,
without self-pity.
Something clutched at Jack's heart. Here was this
indomitable little woman in her tiny redoubt of civilization,
a surviving remnant of the vanished England of Arthur
Pocock while, outside, animals with semi-automatic
weapons ruled. He thought of his own mother with her
turned-down mouth, her idle life and preoccupation with
her looks. Her idea of tragedy was a broken fingernail.
She'd disapproved of Grace because Grace's father was
what she termed a 'municipal worker', and had greeted
with disdain the news of his lowly gun club job. Shepherd's
Bush, in her books, equated with Calcutta.
Jack settled himself by Jessie Pocock's window. Vans
and trucks came and went but no one collected the silver
coffin. His bustling hostess brought him tea and slices of

seed cake and let him use her lavatory. She was loving
the drama.
'Of course, you must never breathe a word of this,'
Jack cautioned.
'Don't worry, son,' said Jessie. 'The only human being
I see, and only once a week at that, is my home-help. I
send her out for the shopping. She's bloody useless for
anything else. I once showed her a bucket and scrubbing
brush and she had kittens on the spot.'
Jessie's chatter kept Jack going through the long day.
At six o'clock his heart sank as employees streamed out
of the Repository. The steel shutters came down over the
loading bays and, soon afterwards, a man in overalls the
night watchman - stepped out to close the main
gates.
'Jessie,' said Jack, 'how would you feel about me
coming back tomorrow?'
'You're more than welcome, Jimmy,' she said. He'd
told her his name was James Canning.
She pressed another cup of tea on him, and unwittingly
created a crucial delay in his departure.
Jack took two fifty-pound notes from his wad and said,
'We have a fund for civilians who aid the police in their
stake-outs.'
He had difficulty in getting her to accept them. 'That's
the best part of two weeks' pension,' she protested.
'You've earned it,' Jack insisted.
He was at the open front door when he saw renewed
activity below. A Transit van and a black Daimler had
pulled up. A tall, lean man in a well-cut double-breasted
suit was standing at the gate pressing the bell.
Jack bent down hastily and kissed the top of the old
lady's head. 'Thanks for everything, Jessie. But it looks
as if you'll be on your own tomorrow, after all.'
He took the stairs three at a time and reached the
bottom in time to see the suit showing the night
watchman a sheaf of papers and an identity card. With
ill grace, the watchman began to haul on the gates.
Another man was sitting in the Daimler, sartorially a
twin of the first, but younger. His blond hair flopped
over his high, pink forehead. Now he climbed out and
stood silently watching the Transit, driven by a third
man, being backed into the yard.
Jack drew breath sharply. The blond was the man he
had roughed up in the pub lavatory - as he turned his
head, to glance at each end of the street, Jack could see
the plaster stuck to his left temple where he had made
hard contact with the wall.
The suits were not exactly furtive but they gave the
impression of purposeful discretion; men whose habit
was to tread softly.
Jack raced back upstairs to observe the loading bay.
He experienced a thrill when the silver cube containing
the earthly remains of Mrs Canning made the short, and
appropriately stately, journey into the back of the
Transit, where solemnity ended abruptly as the van
driver vigorously seized Mrs Canning's coffin and rocked
it inside. Jack winced.
He was in his Saab and ready to roll as the Daimler
fell in behind the Transit and the convoy set off.
All three vehicles were carried along in the flow of
homebound rush-hour traffic, south-east into Kent,
which, at least, gave Jack cover. Ninety minutes later,
they passed through Tunbridge Wells and turned onto
the Frant road, crossing into East Sussex.
The traffic was thinning now and Jack was laid well
back as they drove past the Frant village green on their
near side and headed for Wadhurst.
Jack almost missed the turn-off, just glimpsing the
Daimler's right tail-light before it vanished. He stopped
at the roadside for a minute and then drove on slowly.
He was in time to see a heavy iron gate, entrance to a
large estate, sliding shut automatically and caught sight of a long drive disappearing into the greenery and dusk.
A man entering a grey stone gatehouse was framed by
the lighted doorway. He glanced towards the road as he
heard Jack's engine but Jack stared straight ahead and
drove past, though not before he had seen the shotgun
slung over the gateman's shoulder. Once upon a time in
Britain you wouldn't have seen a civilian packing a gun
in ten years. He'd now seen two in one day. Jack shook
his head at the implication.
He peered ahead for a place to park and spotted a
grassy apron in front of a five-bar gate leading into a
field. He pulled over, switched off and got out.
He jogged back to the estate, the Cobray banging
reassuringly against his ribs: a weapon that could spray
thirty-two rounds of 9mm ammunition in one long burst
was a great boost to confidence.
The estate wall was in excellent repair and topped by
razor wire. Jack had no doubt that there would also be
intruder alarms. He scrambled into the undergrowth
opposite the gate and waited - for what he did not know.
But he was exultant. They - whoever they were - had
manipulated him by remote control, almost as if he were
a puppet, yet, despite all their security measures and
attempts to kill him, here he was, literally at their gate.

He hunkered down in the growing chill of night. A
blue Ford Mondeo entered at ten o'clock and left forty
minutes later. This time the gateman wore his jacket and
stepped out into the lane to wave the car forward. Jack
ducked. He could see the man's legs just five yards away
and cursed silently - they were obscuring the car's
number-plate.
By midnight, Jack felt in need of another chunk of
Jessie Pocock's seed cake and was beginning to think he
should find an hotel for the remainder of the night when
suddenly a light came on above the gatehouse, flooding
the area with deep contrasts of light and shadow, and the
younger Battersea suit loped down the drive.
He moved like an athlete and, despite the Savile Row
outfit, Jack decided he was muscle. He had a hand to his
ear, as if in pain, but was listening to his radio earpiece.
He said something to the gateman who went back inside
and moments later the gate slid open. The muscle
positioned himself to receive visitors. Jack felt rising
excitement. Somebody of importance must be on the
way. Muscle was standing almost at attention.
Jack saw headlamps sweeping the trunks of the trees
that shrouded the road. Then into view came a late
model Bentley. It turned into the entrance and halted.
Jack could see a lone occupant in silhouette at the wheel.
The muscle stooped deferentially, exchanging a few
words with the driver, then slipped into the front passenger
seat. The Bentley proceeded down the drive. The
gate slid closed behind them as Jack scribbled the number
on his wrist.
The sight of Mrs Canning's corpse had triggered an
emergency, Jack realized. Why else would there have
been this early-morning activity in the heart of the
countryside? He could imagine the uproar, the recriminations,
their anger at the dupe who had not played the
game.
An hour passed. Jack was beginning to droop. He
pressed a cool broadleaf to his forehead. He had to stay
alert and think. He had located one operations centre of
his mysterious enemy inside of which was the driver of
the Bentley, who must be a key figure in the organization.
Conclusion: establish his identity. Method: follow him
when he emerged - if he emerged.

Jack retreated down the road and brought the Saab to
a point where he would see the Bentley's lights when it
drove out.
He had a long wait during which he struggled against
his fatigue. He was standing outside in the bracing early
morning air, exercising to keep awake, when he saw
headlights and dived back behind the wheel. He prayed
it would be the Bentley.
It was. Jack had the good sense to hold back until he
could be sure the gateman had returned to his lodge. He
had remembered the suspicious stare as he drove past the
first time and did not want his target alerted by car
telephone.
The tail was easy. The Bentley took the conventional
ring-road and M4 route into west London and Jack was
able to stay well back until they reached the streets of the
suburbs.
The Bentley rolled smoothly through the slumbering
streets of Kensington, at last nosing into a square off
Holland Park Avenue. From the far side of the grounds
of a Victorian church that occupied the centre, Jack
watched his quarry activate a shutter door and drive into
his own garage. The attached house was commodious,
with arched windows and a front garden. To be sure this
was really the home of his quarry, Jack waited until a
downstairs light went on.
He then drove home, hugely satisfied with his long
day's work.


Chapter Twenty-One

Commissaire Victor Massillon of the Police Judiciaire sat
down heavily. He was a big man with a splendid,
patrician profile and wavy silver hair of which he was
inordinately proud. The sight of much younger subordinates
already balding gave him a secret pleasure.
'It's a bastard,' he announced, without preamble. we've
rounded up so many Iranians I could start my own carpet
factory. And I can't make anything stick to any of them.'
The investigating magistrate, Hilaire LeConte,
allowed his tongue a brief sympathetic cluck. He was not
a man to commit himself to what was shaping up as an
inquiry on the bitter road to nowhere.
'There's not a shred of evidence that the shots were
fired from a boat,' grumbled the policeman. 'Those
English idiots who were supposed to be nursemaiding
the poor sod both insist they heard no gunfire. If the
marksman had been on another craft, I think they must
have heard - even above the noise of their own engine.
Sound carries well across water.'
He slumped further into his chair. 'We are left with
the impossible - that someone did Niven from the shore.
It couldn't have come from a crowded beach in broad
daylight. So we are left with a remarkable sharp-shooter
in a window or on a roof somewhere along La Croisette.
The possibilities run into thousands. I have practically
the entire force of the Alpes Maritimes, plus my mob
from Paris, rummaging around. Those Film Festival
people are appalling. We've pulled in tricksters raising
money for non-existent movies. There's hardly a man

whose female companion is his wife. In the Berthier we
discovered four Australian girls operating a makeshift
brothel. All our own whores we shooed home to Paris
and Marseilles. We encountered seven men living as
women, and confiscated cocaine, cannabis and happy
pills from half the Hollywood contingent. . .
'The one certainty is that our man - or woman - is no
longer here.
'Forty thousand people from every country boasting a
cinema have left town since the Festival ended. There
was no adequate way to stop and search such an exodus.
The bastards who planned this little number planned it
well.'
LeConte listened to the threnody in silence. Then, as
the Commissaire ground to a morose halt, he said, 'Don't
you have even a sniff?'
'Maybe,' said Massillon. 'A number of people we
accept as sensible citizens - not the usual nutters who
emerge from the woodwork in a case like this - have
come forward to say they heard shots. Most swear to two
at around the time Conrad Niven was floating through
the air - the bloody fool - although we have others who
testify to a single shot some days previously. The day
Niven died also happened to be a day of good weather
and he might as well have been displaying a please-shoot
me sign.'
'A first attempt that missed? A ranging shot?'
'It figures, doesn't it?' said the Commissaire.
He turned to the town map on the wall. 'All our
witnesses were going about their business in this section
of La Croisette, between the Carlton and the Martinez
hotels. That embraces more than a thousand rooms and
private apartments.'
The magistrate's eyes travelled from the building line
on the map to the blue-inked bay and a series of ovals
and loops that showed where the Special Branch men
had attempted to reproduce their course through the
water. The nearest pass was at least two thousand metres
from the facades of the buildings.
'It's still hard to credit,' he murmured.
'Well, you'd better believe it because we have nothing
else to believe,' said Massillon bluntly. 'We have interviewed
every room occupant we could find but, of course,
authenticating what they have told us depends on umpteen
other police and security services. We just have to
sit waiting for the feedback and hope to God there is
some.' He shrugged. 'It's not very dynamic, I know, but
this may prove to be the one time when sitting on our
arses is the right thing to do.'
'MerdeJ said LeConte.
French detectives do not need the testimony of Simenon.
They are celebrated throughout the world of law
enforcement for their brilliance and ruthlessness. And
now they began to live up to their reputation - with a
little assistance from their arch-rivals, Scotland Yard.
When over three hundred French requests for followup
inquiries flooded into London, covering actors,
film-company executives, cinema exhibitors, publicists,
photographers, journalists, freelance tarts and assorted
filmland groupies, the Metropolitan Commissioner set
up a task force under Commander Tom Ringrose, who
had worked with Victor Massillon before, on the notorious
Queen of the Earth kidnappings. Ringrose's team
plodded painstakingly through the well-tested routines.
The general idea is that when the foot soldiers of the
task force encounter anomalies, suspicious circumstances,
absence of checkable data or any other worrisome
feature, they pass the details up the chain of
command. The more puzzling the anomaly, the higher it
rises to receive more intensive examination by senior

officers, and only the most egregious and intractable
cases appear on the desk of the officer in charge.
So it was - as Betty Bentinck had accurately predicted
- that the case of the non-existent Mr and Mrs Canning
reached the attention of Ringrose.
Tom Ringrose, at the age of forty-nine, stood at the
height of his powers. Given the current preference for
university graduates on the fast-track rise to senior command,
Ringrose's had been a remarkable ascent from the
pavement beat of the uniformed bobby to criminal
investigator of exceptional instinct and sure perception.
He'd always thought himself unambitious and his outward
aspect was courteous and diffident - the theatricals
of some of his peers only embarrassed him. He was a tall,
lean man with a distinctive white streak running through
his greying hair.
His wife had once dragged him along 'for fun' to a
medium and fortune-teller. The old woman, surrounded
by her ludicrous paraphernalia, had said to him,
'Oooooh! What a lucky man you are, my dear. I've never
seen such an aura. It's the colour of pearls. You ought to
be sitting here doing my job. You're wonderfully sensitive.
Have you ever considered helping the bereaved get
in touch with the Other Side?'
After that, whenever he was asked about his successes,
Tom Ringrose would say, 'I've got a pearl-coloured aura,
you know. It helps me contact people on the Other Side.'
He meant, of course, on the other side of the Law.
He had been personally in charge of forty-three murder
inquiries, all of which he had brought to a satisfactory
conclusion. For one result he had had to wait nine years.
A kindergarten teacher had been found raped and strangled;
the only forensic evidence of any worth had been a
left thumb-print that had no equivalent in police records.
A mass finger-printing of more than twenty thousand

local men had failed to uncover a match and for nine
years Ringrose ran national computer checks. Then, on
one exhilarating day, he received a positive print-out.
The thumb-print matched one recently taken from a
Wolverhampton travelling salesman with no previous
convictions who was now serving six months for stealing
his firm's products.
In the prison interview room, Tom Ringrose sat across
from the man and silently placed in front of him some of
the children's finger paintings that the teacher had been
carrying home from school on the day of her death. The
man began to sob. The new science of matching the
DNA genetic code with semen traces confirmed that
Ringrose's record for murder clear-ups was once again
intact.
Now, his assistant, Detective Inspector Lionel Firth, a
dark whippet who had barely made the police service
height requirement, ticked off on his fingers the facts
about the mysterious Cannings that were bothering the
task force. 'One, they are not known at the address they
provided. Two, the film industry has never heard of their
company. Three, their passports were stolen from a
married couple named Canning in 1991. Four, the
genuine Cannings were confirmed as being at home in
Bournemouth during the entire period of the Cannes
Film Festival. Five, the British car registration number
on the Cannings' Volvo, as noted in the parking attendant's
register at the Berthier Hotel, had never been issued
by the vehicle licensing authority at Swansea.'
'Is there a six?' asked Ringrose.
'Yes, they never used credit cards. Cash was paid to a
London travel company in advance to reserve their suite.'
'Could be a couple of con artists setting up some kind
of a sting,' mused Ringrose.
'Could be,' said Firth. 'But I think we have to put
them in the list of runners, guv'nor. Don't you?'
'Without question,' said Ringrose. He reached for the
telephone. 'Get me Victor Massillon in Cannes,' he
ordered.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Commissaire Massillon put down the handset and came
alive. He burst into LeConte's office and said dramatically,
'The sniff has become a stink,' and charged down
the hall into the incident room bellowing commands.
He led a forensic team down to the Berthier and seized
the hotel register, the garage log and the safe deposit
keyholders' cards.
The new occupants of suite 720, a blameless couple
who had just checked in from Grenoble, were tipped out
and transferred to other accommodation. Their fingerprints
were taken for elimination purposes and suite 720
was sealed pro tern.
Over the protests of the management, Massillon commandeered
the hotel restaurant and the staff fell in line
to have every detail that they could recall of the Cannings
squeezed from them. Off-duty staff were brought in from
their homes to assist.
'Where would the trash from the Cannings' occupation
of 720 be now?' Massillon despatched a disconsolate
team to recover it from the municipal hellhole to which
it had been consigned. 'Don't come back and tell me it
has been dumped at sea,' he roared. He was in his
element with this kind of operation.
Four floor waiters and six chambermaids who had
worked the seventh floor during the Festival were isolated
from the rest of the staff. Each was taken separately into
a room and interrogated. Studying the hastily typed
reports ninety minutes later, Massillon's antennae started
to quiver. Two of the waiters and three of the chambermaids
had no memory of the Cannings, which is exactly
what Massillon would have expected if he were on the
scent of the right parties.
A chambermaid said, 'For several days, at the end of
their stay, one of the beds was not slept in.' She, with the
other two still being questioned, agreed that whenever
they had gone to clean the room or turn down the beds,
the Cannings had been either out or in the bathroom.
However, they each remembered the huge movie camera
case in the living room. Certainly, one could get a big
gun inside it.
Massillon cursed. Had the Cannings taken the case
with them? And, if so, how had it escaped the attention
of the road blocks?
'No,' said the manager, consulting his files. 'It went to
London by carrier after the road blocks were lifted. I
have the delivery address. Would that be of any use to
you?'
Massillon held tightly to his temper. 'That would be
most kind.' He smiled icily.
The floor waiters had both seen Mrs Canning because
she had signed the room-service chits. Yet she, too,
eluded description. She had always been washing her
hair, had invariably greeted them with a towel draped
across her head, partly concealing her face. It had not
seemed significant at the time . . .
Massillon ended up with descriptions and an artist's
impression that depicted a mature woman with a voluptuous
figure and a tall man of good physique. Their faces
were tantalizingly vague.
'They carried British passports but can we be sure of
their nationality?' asked Massillon.
'From their accents, they could be American. Or
Canadian. Or Australian. Or--' ruminated the manager.
'Yes, yes, I get the picture,' interrupted the exasperated
Commissaire.
'I'd put my money on British,' broke in the under
manager.
'Oh, why?'
'His tie,' said the functionary.
'His tie?' repeated the Commissaire patiently.
'Yes. The stripes descended diagonally from left to
right.'
'I don't get it.'
'North American ties more usually have their diagonals
dropping from right to left. You watch, the next time you
see an American movie.'
'I never get time for the movies,' sniffed the
Commissaire.
All members of staff who, however remotely, could
have come into contact with the Cannings were herded
into a darkened lounge for a run-through of the hotel's
video tapes from the security cameras, which were of the
usual quality that frustrate police the world over: badly
lit and lacking depth of focus. Yet there was some
agreement about a man in a straw hat, face shaded, in
the milling crowd, but disagreement over the woman.
Several staff identified a female guest who kept her head
down, but a cashier was vehement that a woman with
her right arm in a sling was the one. Yet her body was
slimmer, less rounded, younger than that of the woman
pointed out in the earlier tapes.
Still, this was the only picture that gave a facial view.
Massillon had the tapes put on a plane for Paris where
they would be electronically enhanced.
It was time to tackle suite 720. A gendarme saluted
and opened the door. Massillon entered alone. He stood
silently in the centre of the living room, willing himself
to be receptive to the vibrations, to the spoor of the
recent occupants. He squinted at the clear sightline over
the terrace parapet and the palms to the open sea beyond.
He noticed immediately the fresh scratches on the otherwise
unscored surface of the sideboard. He was becoming
convinced by the minute.
He stepped back to the door. The corridor was
crowded with his specialists. He said, 'Scientific team
first, finger-prints to follow.'
The white-overalled quintet from the Paris laboratory
trooped in with their bags of chemicals, ultra-violet lamps
and microscopes.
Then, satisfied, for the moment, that everything was
under control, Massillon announced, 'You'll find me at
Felix having lunch.'
He was about to cut into his steak Diane, seated
alfresco at the Croisette restaurant, when his portable
telephone trilled. 'There are traces of cordite on the walls
and in the curtains,' said a triumphant voice. Commissaire
Massillon charged his glass with a robust GevreyChambertin
and raised it in a toast to himself.
More puzzling news was to follow. Back in the suite,
one of the boffins conducted him into the bathroom. His
boys had been gouging the grouting from between the
azure tiles. 'This is all very odd,' said the expert. 'We
dug out a sample, more as a matter of routine than
anything else. The place has been thoroughly cleaned by
a maid since the Cannings left so we were not expecting
a result.'
'So what came up?' said the Commissaire.
'Blood,' said the boffin.
'Yes, that is a surprise,' said Massillon thoughtfully.
'Someone cut themself shaving?'
The boffin shook his head. 'Improbable. The traces
are minute but they're spread over a considerable surface.
The shaver would have had to walk around dripping
quite copiously.' The boffin showed Massillon a selection
of filter papers that had all turned pink in an on-the-spot
Kastle-Meyer test.
'I hate mysteries,' said Massillon, who had spent his
adult life tormented by them. 'Conrad Niven could not
have flown through the window and been shot here.' He
groaned. 'I've just had a terrible thought. Suppose we are
putting all this effort into a different crime entirely. It
hardly bears thinking about.'
Massillon had the sideboard lifted into the middle of
the room and his technicians encircled it. 'Any suggestions
about those marks?' he asked.
One dropped to his knees and eyed the bottom edges,
waddling around the piece of furniture like a crippled
duck. He said, in his lecturer's voice, 'Please observe that
the scratches on the lower edges are replicated by the
scratches on the upper edges. A loop has been wound
round this item, either to secure something to the flat top
or to act as a lifting handle.'
'What about the two surface impressions at the front
end nearest the terrace?'
The group stuthed the two shallow indentations in the
marquetry.
Finally, Massillon said, 'If we accept that the murder
was committed from this room, then it was done with a
sniper's rifle. If it was done with a sniper's rifle, the
criminals needed a platform for the weapon. Does this
sideboard fit the theory?'
One exclaimed, 'Of course! A bipod, secured tightly to
the surface would make those double dents, giving a
powerful weapon additional stability.'
'Well done, I buy that. That's precisely what I was
thinking myself,' Massillon lied genially. He had his
legendary reputation for infallibility to foster.
He stepped to the door and bellowed into the corridor,
'Has the sniper expert arrived yet?' An Army colonel in
khaki drill stepped forward. Massillon modified his tone
at the sight of the man's rank. 'Please come this way, sir,
and give us the benefit of your knowledge.'
He showed the colonel the sideboard and explained
the theory. The man crouched at the end of the sideboard
and assumed a firing position with an invisible rifle. The
policemen watched him as he murmured sounds of
incredulity. At last, he straightened, tugging down his
jacket to show its ironed creases to advantage. 'You are
dealing here with an exceptional man,' he began. Massillon
rolled his eyes to heaven. He was getting tired of
hearing this.
The colonel raised his arm in invitation. 'Be so kind as
to come here, Commissaire, and take up the man's
position.' Massillon did not like taking orders, no matter
how delicately expressed. He frowned but complied.
'You see before you a width of terrace window, flanked
by inner walls of equal width. Yes?'

'Of course,' said Massillon, unable to keep the irritation
from his voice.
The colonel went on unconcerned. 'Is your eyesight
good?'
'Good for a man of my age,' grunted Massillon,
squinting with one eye closed. He knew his underlings
were beginning to enjoy this.
'Would it be accurate to say your peripheral vision
extends to both corners of the front wall of this room?'
'It does,' said Massillon heavily.
'Therefore,' said the colonel, 'you would agree that,
from the position you are now holding, your sniper has
to make do with only a third of his horizon in which to
frame his target?'
'That would appear to be the case.'
'When a man is looking straight ahead, his field of
vision extends to a hundred and four degrees. But this
fellow was able to utilize only a field of vision of some
thirty-five degrees. Shooting at the distances you posit,
at a moving target, requires a considerable amount of
what we call 'aiming off' - shooting, in fact, at the spot
where you anticipate the target will be when the bullet
arrives. With his restricted horizon, your fellow would
have had almost no time to adjust his sniperscope. If
indeed the firing did occur from this room, he must have
relied largely on an instinct that was no less than
uncanny. I intend no disrespect, sir, but are you certain
you are on the right track?'
Massillon returned to his temporary headquarters in
the mairie> his earlier elation turned to gloom and foreboding.
Listlessly, he had the details of the silver box's
journey to London faxed directly to his old friend Tom
Ringrose. Their joint efforts in the beauty queens case
had made them, for one shining hour, world famous,
with an artist's study of their keen profiles on the cover
of Time magazine under the headline 'The Mancatchers'.
Those were the glory days!
The French police chief had to wait a further twenty
four hours for his team to produce further puzzles to add
to his woes. The bath in suite 720 had been dismantled
and further blood traces found in the S-bend water trap.
The blood on the floor and the blood in the drain were
of the same type - B positive - shared by 9 per cent of
the population, whereas Niven was a group A, shared by
a massive 42 per cent of Westerners.
Had one of the assassins injured himself? Perhaps the
victim of an accidental discharge of the weapon. Then he
remembered the video of the woman at the cashier's desk
with her arm in a sling. Had she been the injured party?
'Damn mysterious,' grumbled Massillon.
The men he had dubbed the Shit Legionnaires had
returned from the municipal dump with what appeared
to be half the detritus of the Berthier Hotel. To the fury
of the Festival authorities, the police had insisted on
spreading it thinly over trestle tables set up in the vast
conference room on the fourth floor of the Palais des
Festivals, the only arena that was both available and large
enough.
The smell of decay polluted the air because Massillon
had decreed that the remains of food served to seventh
floor guests should be examined. 'Oh, for a set of
toothmarks in an apple,' he had rhapsodized to the
amusement of his staff.
They led him directly to their successes: the duplicate
copies of guests' laundry lists, which contained the
carbon facsimile of Mrs Canning's signature. The items
sent for cleaning were as one would have expected: the
suspects had sent out in the morning, had their blanchissage
expressed and returned in the evening of the same
day, as if ever ready to pack and run.
Massillon spotted that after the sixth day, the lists had
been signed by Mr Canning and only items of male
apparel sent for cleaning. He took a pencil and began to
probe fastidiously among the items around the laundry
lists. He flicked over a dripping fruit-juice carton and
revealed a crumpled business card. He held up his hand
for a pair of tweezers and lifted it out of the stinking
mess. On the reverse side was scrawled in ink: 'Ch. 539.
Golf?' The front bore the name of Sidney Zuckerman,
film producer, with the address of an office in Century
City, Los Angeles, California.
'I have seen this name before,' said Massillon. His aide
peered over his shoulder. 'The British okayed him. He
was on Conrad Niven's list of guests for the boat
reception that was due to take place on the day of the
hit.'
'So what was his card doing on the seventh floor and
in the same garbage bag with 720's crap?'
Massillon stood brooding, waving the card back and
forth like a fan. 'Let's ask the Americans to red-flag Mr
Zuckerman. At the moment he is merely on the low
priority check-list. Get to it!'
Massillon rubbed his hands together. 'Momentum!
Momentum!' he urged.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Commander Ringrose put down the telephone and said,
'The Ministry of Defence know nothing about it. The
Security Services know nothing about it. Or, at least they say they know nothing about it.'
'Are they playing silly buggers?' asked Lionel Firth.
Ringrose glinted dangerously. 'If they are, I'll play
merry hell. The Home Secretary is feeding the Prime
Minister a daily progress report on this one and I'll see
my protest goes right to the top if I think our investigation
is being shafted.'
On Ringrose's desk was a Battersea detective's account
of an interview with one Alfred Tickner, night guard at
Gatti's Repository. It read, in part: 'The gate bell went
just after six when I'd started my first round of security





142
143
checks - buttoning the building up for the night. Outside
were a couple of posh-looking blokes with a black car
and a driver in a Ford Transit. They showed me collection
papers from a film company. I don't remember the
name but the office will have it. I told them they were
too late, they'd have to come back tomorrow. The one
with the documents said it was a matter of supreme
importance to the State. They were his exact words but I
wasn't going to fall for that old malarkey. I told him so
but he produced some sort of red pass and said, "Ministry
of Defence." I tried to take it from him to have a
good look but he said he was not allowed to let it out of
his possession. He held it up for me to read. The trouble
was, his hand kept moving and I couldn't read it properly.
But it definitely had a little crown printed in one
corner and a picture of the bloke. It looked very official
and they did have the correct documentation for the
goods, so I opened up and let them collect. It was a
single item - one of those lightweight aluminium camera
cases that the film people use. It was heavy. I needed the
forklift to transfer it to the van.'
Lionel Firth said, 'He must have been going around
with Play-doh in his eyes. His descriptions are pathetic and
he didn't make a note of either vehicle's number.
It's a bummer.'
Ringrose was troubled. He shared a distaste for the
serpentine, unaccountable ways of the Security and
Secret Intelligence Services with most officers in the
police force. Too often, they acted outside the law and
were allowed to get away with it. Too often, their highhanded
methods had upset colleagues.
Ringrose had an interview with the Commissioner. Up
in the eighth-floor corner office, he said, 'This has to be
resolved, sir. If those men were Five or Six I want to
know, and I want to see the box and its contents.'
Three hours later, the Commissioner summoned him
back to his office. 'Tom, I passed it up to the Home
Secretary who took it to the Cabinet Office who dumped
it on the Co-ordinator of Security Services - the usual
channels. The Co-ordinator has received verbal assurances
from both director-generals that their staffs were
not involved in the Battersea affair. They do not have the
box. The men were impostors. Everyone passes to you
their assurances of complete, open-book co-operation.
Ask for anything you want.'
Ringrose stood to go, but the Commissioner went on,
'One final thing. The Home Secretary took me aside for
a quiet word.' The Commissioner turned to his window
and the view across Broadway to the London Transport
headquarters. He did not seem to want to meet Ringrose's
eyes. He said, 'He and the Prime Minister are
fervently hoping that you can prove the killers were not
British. The Government is taking enough flak for the
cock-up by the Special Branch protection squad. And
I've taken my share, too. If you can dig up some Iranians
or, better still, toss it back to the bloody French as a hit
by a French team - some of those Algerian tearaways or
hired French Foreign Legionnaires, perhaps - the PM
would be over the moon. The French will take great
delight in leaking the British passport angle. When they
do, our official line will be that the passports prove
nothing. They could have been stolen by anyone and not
necessarily Brits.'
The Commissioner was in his blue uniform with silver
accoutrements and a regulation plain necktie. Ringrose
said, 'Sir, do you own any striped ties?'
He turned back to face Ringrose, eyebrows rising. His
most celebrated detective did not usually stray from the
point. 'What an odd question. Yes, I have several.'
'Which way do the stripes slope?'
The Commissioner's mind's eye got to work. Ringrose
could see that he was picturing his image in the mirror
and laboriously working out the reverse. Finally, he
concluded, 'Downward from left to right. Why?'
'It's a question that Victor Massillon asked me. I gave
him the same answer.'
The Commissioner's eyes narrowed. 'What's that
crafty old devil up to?'
'I don't know,' said Ringrose, 'but my answer seemed
to make him happy. He went off the line chuckling.'

Chapter Twenty-Four

From his eighteenth-floor office suite, Sidney Zuckerman
could look down upon the concrete, steel and glass
development that had once been the rural back lot of the
20th Century-Fox film studio where, in more innocent
days, Tom Mix rode the range.
Sidney watched the hectic traffic on the Avenue of the
Stars while he waited for Special Agent Emily Curtis of
the Federal Bureau of Investigation to ascend from street
level.
He savoured the name: Emily. Nah, all wrong, he
decided. Too soft. Too poetic, like that Amherst dame
. . . what was her name? If he were casting the role, he'd
go for something a lot stronger, like . . . Casey. Yeah,
Casey Curtis. A woman's name with balls.
Agent Curtis was ushered in by his very plain secretary
- don't dip your pen in the company inkwell, was
Sidney's motto - unaware that her name had been
screen-tested and found wanting.
Sidney congratulated himself. This dame was no
Emily; she was a real businesslike babe with a lean, mean
body that shouted daily workout. He liked her cropped
fair hair, too. It quivered when she moved in a way that
suggested orgasmic passion. Definitely a Casey.
Introductions over, Agent Emily cut straight to the
chase. She handed Sidney two fax sheets. Each showed
one side of the visiting card that Commissaire Massillon
had fished out of the seventh-floor garbage.
'What's the beef?' asked Sidney. 'I handed out scores
of these during the Festival.'
'But they didn't all have "Golf?" and your room
number scribbled on the back, did they, sir?'
'Correct,' said Sidney. 'This industry is tennis-mad,
not golf-mad. This is the only golf invitation I handed
out - to an English guy in the hotel elevator. I did it
because he was carrying a golfing bag. I don't have his
name but I do know he was in room 720. He gave me a
wrong room number but the porter corrected him. Do I
take it this guy was deliberately giving me a bum steer?'
Agent Emily did not answer. She asked, 'Did you get
to play golf with him?'
Sidney looked disgusted. 'No. The one time I saw the
jerk again, he gave me a cold shoulder.' Sidney described
in detail the scene of the snubbing on the terrace.
Emily diligently wrote in her notebook a complete
description of the jerk. 'Oh, yes,' Sidney added. 'I never
saw him without a Panama hat on his head. I always
thought a gentleman was supposed to remove his hat in
an elevator.'
'Perhaps he was hiding a bald spot?' Emily suggested.
'I hope so,' said Sidney viciously.
The FBI woman had a thick wad of photographs in a
folder. They were copies of the enlarged video pictures
enhanced in the Surete laboratories.
Sidney took his time. Poring over the black-and-
whites, he pointed out fellow producers, directors, film
fanciers, showbiz journalists. 'Look, there's Marcello
Mastroianni. What a great actor! If he'd been American,
he'd have been another Brando.'
Emily patiently inked a number against each identified
body and recorded the name in her notebook. Excitedly,
Sidney twice jabbed a finger at the image of a man with
a Panama hat shielding his face. 'That's the creep.'
Emily dutifully appended a number and wrote
'Suspect'.
When Sidney came to the first sighting of Betty
Bentinck, he said neutrally, 'That's Betty Bentinck, the
actress. She's one of us - an all-American girl.'
In as non-judgemental a voice as she could manage,
Agent Emily said, 'Wasn't Miss Bentinck your companion
on this trip, sir?'
'Yeah,' said Sidney reluctantly.
'Did she meet the man in the Panama?'
'Not to speak to. But she was with me on the terrace
when he refused to let us join his table.'
Emily continued to feed photographs across Sidney's
wide black marble desk. He whooped when she handed
over a shot of the man in the Panama standing by the
cashier's desk.
'It's him again!' he exclaimed. His gaze shifted and
Emily saw him change colour rapidly despite the Riviera
tan.
'What is this?' he said. He sat back in his leather chair,
defensive as if she had tried to trick him.
'Excuse me?'
'Has this photo been doctored? What's going on?'
Emily stared at him. 'Nothing's going on. Why are you
upset?'
Sidney could hardly utter the words. 'This - this dame

with the arm in a sling, standing next to the jerk. It's
Betty.'
Agent Emily was nonplussed. 'Your Betty?' She leaned
across the desk to see where Sidney was pointing. Her
breasts dropped heavily against her blouse. Despite his
shock, Sidney still had room to wonder if he should try
to date her. He'd never had an FBI agent.
The object of his sudden lust said, 'Are you saying this
is Miss Bentinck?'
For answer, Sidney pressed the intercom and bawled,
'Donna, drop everything and bring in all Betty Bentinck's
glossies.'
He sat fidgeting under Emily's cool gaze until the plain
secretary came in with Betty's publicity photographs.
'Here,' said Sidney. 'Look for yourself.' He slid across
a big, brassbound magnifying glass. 'Careful with that.
It's part of Hollywood's history. That's the spyglass used
by Basil Rathbone in those old Sherlock Holmes movies.
Another bloody Englishman,' Sidney added bitterly, as
an afterthought.
Emily stuthed Betty's posed portraits, her gaze going
back and forth to the woman with the sling. 'Are you
sure of this? Certainly the woman bears a resemblance
but she's older and her hairstyle is much more severe
than anything in these studio portraits.'
'Sure I'm sure,' snapped Sidney. 'Don't you think I'd
know the piece of ass I lived with for two years?'
He saw Emily's lips tighten. Uh-oh. 'Piece of ass' was
a no-no. He saw his chances of a date evaporating.
Goddamn feminists!
He added aloud, 'I don't understand how this could
be. Betty didn't even exchange word one with the guy.'
'Well, not in your hearing,' Emily remarked.
Her interjection stopped Sidney in his tracks. 'Wait a
minute, I've just remembered something. On the day

Conrad Niven got hit, I was crossing the Croisette from
the beach side. I saw Betty sitting alone on the hotel
terrace and the English jerk disappearing into the building.
They could have been talking, I just don't know.'
Emily said, 'You referred to your relationship in the
past tense. Aren't you and Miss Bentinck still together?'
Sidney wriggled uncomfortably. 'It's a mystery to me.
We hadn't fallen out and I'd spent a great deal of money taking her to Cannes. But the moment we got back to
California, she took a walk. Gratitude didn't come into
it.'
'Does she have money?'
'That's another thing,' said Sidney. 'She had a TV
series, but that was two seasons ago.'
'Yes, I remember it,' said Emily drily. 'About women
agents of the FBI.'
'Yes, that's the one,' said Sidney unabashed. 'I subsequently
gave her a break by putting her into my last
movie. But the budget was tight so she agreed to take
SAG - Screen Actors' Guild - scale against points in the
producer's net.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning that I didn't think she had a dime of her
own,' said Sidney. 'Then she upped and rented a cabin
in Laurel Canyon. I asked her what she was going to use
for the green stuff and she, well, she waved some C-notes
at me and said something very unladylike.'
'And what was that?' asked Emily sweetly.
'Fuck you,' said Sidney.

Chapter Twenty-Five

They pulled in Betty Bentinck at six in the morning. In
the light of Sidney's revelations, Emily Curtis's superiors
considered a home interview would not exert enough
psychological pressure on her.
At the FBI's downtown LA office, Betty was placed in
a windowless room and allowed to sweat for two hours.
They made it obvious that a guard was stationed on the
door. They brought her coffee and a Danish but otherwise
she might just as well have been incarcerated in a
prison cell.
Betty considered screaming and shouting for a lawyer
but she had already let the opportunity pass her by. She
had known the FBI would come for her: Sidney had
telephoned and shouted, 'You bitch! You were making
out with that English jerk behind my back. I've had the
FBI all over me.'
At 8 a.m. Special Agent Emily Curtis introduced
herself, together with a male agent who would take a
deposition. Betty eyed them with something akin to
despair. 'I'm in deepest doo-doo, right?' she said.
Agent Curtis shrugged. 'Ach, it doesn't have to be like
that, Betty. We're simply making some inquiries on
behalf of the French government. You've come into the
picture because you, well, literally came into the picture.'
Betty began to babble. 'Look, I had no part in his
insurance scam. I was just helping him to get clear of a
complication in his life. That shooting business - he
didn't want to get his lines crossed with that. He had no
part of that stuff. I was just the hired hand. He paid me
to act the part of his wife for a couple of hours. Whatever
Sidney Zuckerman has told you, I did not sleep with

'Whoa!' said Emily Curtis. 'You're going too fast for
us Why don't we take it from the beginning? Then I'll
put some questions to you that the French have sent us
during the night. For a start: who is the man we're
talking about?'
Fuelled with coffee but bereft of her usual bounce,
Betty started at her first meeting with James Canning on
the terrace and worked through to her goodbye warning
at the door of suite 720.
'Very good,' said Agent Emily. 'Now let me ask you
this: you confirm that you wore the sling but were in no
way injured. You did not shed blood.'
'Correct.'
'Was James Canning injured? Did he shed blood?
'No. No one was injured. I thought I made that clear.
It was just a harmless deception.'
'Did you see any blood in 720?'
'I don't get it. Why this obsession with blood?'
'Is that a no?'
'Yes-it's a no.'	. ,
'Did you use, or have cause to go into, Canning s
bathroom?'	}
'Yes, when I made myself up as his wife.
'Did you see any blood in the bathroom?'
'Jesus.'
'Is that another no?'
'Yes - it's another no.'
'Did you observe in suite 720 a large metal case of the
type that movie cameras are stored in?'

'If one were there, could you have missed it?
'If, as you say, it was large, I don't see how.'

'Did you catch sight of any firearms?'
Betty blanched and suddenly felt sick. She sat silent
for a minute, her hands twisting nervously between her
knees. She looked from the male agent, with his pen
poised, to Emily. Betty said, 'This isn't about an insurance
scam, is it? It's about the killing, isn't it? Oh, Jesus,
he seemed such a charming, sexy guy. When I first set
eyes on him I thought he must be a stuntman or a
cowboy actor with that gorgeous bushy moustache.
Rugged like Sean Connery, and a gentleman like Robert
Redford.'
She began to cry and the male agent handed her his
handkerchief. 'I've been such a dope. I was so anxious to
get out from under Sidney Zuckerman that I left my
brains at home. I was desperate for some money of my
own. I had points in Sidney's last movie but did you ever
know a producer who admitted to making a profit?'
They watched her snivel. Then Emily said, 'Cheer up.
We've all been overboard for the wrong man.' The agent
taking the deposition gave her an appraising glance as if
he were surprised that she could own up to such a banal
female weakness.
Emily said, 'I'm going to put you together with a
Bureau artist. The French want the best portrait you can
provide of Canning.'
'What happens then?'
'We ask you to keep a lid on what's gone down and we
send you back home in a limo.'
'I'm not to be charged?'
'With what? You've co-operated with the Bureau,
you've committed no crime on American soil - and I
can't see, at this stage, that you've committed much of
one in France. Stay loose and, as they used to say in that
television series of yours, don't leave town. The French
may have more questions.'
Betty felt slightly better when the male agent asked for
her autograph.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jack telephoned Southwold from a callbox. Ben answered
and wailed, 'Dad, when can we come home? I'll lose my
place in the soccer team.'
'I never thought I'd hear a son of mine plead to go
back to school,' he countered with fake jocularity. A
lump came to his throat. This was what he was missing the
daily cut-and-thrust with his boys. The comforting
mundanity of domestic life - and wrap-round love from
the three people he held more precious than his own life.
Grace took the telephone. 'Are you all right?' He felt a
stab of guilt that she should sound so worried.
'Everything's normal,' he said. He had been about to
tell her of the devices he had cleared from the house, but
changed his mind. He'd upset her enough. He'd found
bugs in the bedroom. She'd be embarrassed. Instead he
said, 'I've made some interesting progress. I've already
got the answers to some questions but let's not go into it
on the phone.'
like Ben, Grace asked, 'When can we come home?
Up here's like being in exile. It's very quiet - the holiday
season hasn't got going yet and it's making me jumpy
with no one around out here on these dunes.'
'Be patient a little longer,' Jack pleaded. 'I want you to
stay up there for a few more days - just to be sure there's
not going to be any trouble.'
Grace didn't like the sound of that. 'You be very, very

careful. They know who they're dealing with. You don't
know who you're dealing with.'
When they hung up, Jack walked the streets, brooding.
The last thing Grace had said was no longer entirely
true. He had been to the public library to consult the
electoral rolls for Holland Park and had established that
the householder at the address in St James's Gardens to
which he had tailed the Bentley was a certain Bulwer
Tancred. It had been Tancred's entry in Who's Who that
had thrown Jack into confusion.
Tancred - Marlborough and Peterhouse - was an
under-secretary in the Cabinet Office, a Whitehall
warrior.
Jack had been stunned. He'd been snared for the plot
because he had allowed himself to be convinced that he
was on a quasi-official mission, one that gave whichever
government department that had recruited him the privilege
of disowning him should the operation go belly-up.
Jack understood that; he knew ex-SAS and ex-SBS guys
were hired on this basis for undercover work that would
not bear dispassionate examination by a parliamentary
select committee. It was only when he had discovered
the identity of his target that he had had to face a more
feasible possibility: that he had been either the tool of
private enterprise bounty hunters or the point-man for
an Iranian murder squad. Now he was flung back to his
original belief. Suddenly Jack felt tiny, a figure in a vast,
tangled landscape.
That evening he had the only stroke of luck to come
his way so far in the whole horrific mess. Each day he'd
bought all the newspapers to keep abreast of the efforts
to identify and capture him. It was a nerve-racking
business, yet there was no indication that they might be
on his heels. But did the newspapers know everything that was going on? Jack thought not.
One by one, he tossed the papers onto the carpet. He
had little concern for what else was happening in the
world. And then his eye caught her photograph on an
inside page of the Daily Telegraph.
'Yes!' he yelled aloud to the empty room. Jane Canning's
face - younger, hair fluffier, no heavy spectacles - gazed
soulfully out at him. It was the kind of pearls-and-Peter
Pan-collar picture beloved of debutantes' mothers. The
caption read simply: The Hon. Nancy Tintagel.
'Yes!' he shouted again in delight. Back to him came
the sound of a voice in the dark shouting, 'Tinny!' when
he and Mrs Canning had gone to have dinner in La
Napoule. He remembered her sudden urgency to get
away from the marina. Tinny for Tintagel. Yes!
Jack read on greedily:

A verdict of accidental death was recorded yesterday
on Miss Nancy Tintagel, 35, elder daughter of Viscount
Tintagel, who fell while out hacking on May 6.
Her riding companion, Mr Rupert Strang, a colleague
in the Foreign Office, told the West Sussex
coroner that Miss Tintagel was a skilled horsewoman.
However, she had been unable to control her mount
when it took flight at a sudden flurry of birds from a
hedgerow and reared, throwing Miss Tintagel onto
hard ground.
'Despite the hard hat she was wearing, she was
knocked unconscious and I was unable to revive her,'
said Mr Strang.
Professor Roland Askew, pathologist, said Miss Tintagel
had died almost instantly from a broken neck.
The coroner, Dr C. C. Webber, said it was a tragic
end to a high-flying career in the diplomatic service.
Miss Tintagel had served in the Middle East and
Bonn, and was already a counsellor. Great things had
been expected of her.
The coroner offered his deepest sympathy to Viscount
Tintagel who was too stricken to attend court.

Jack felt numb. He pored over the report once more and
marvelled. These people were so powerful that they could
conjure death scenes out of the air and present them to
one of Her Majesty's coroners as fact. They could
command the services of public figures and a pathologist
and require them to perjure themselves. Apparently they
could do anything they wanted, including have people
murdered.
Even the date given as that of her death was wrong.
On 6 May, Mrs CanningTintagel had been alive and
well with him in France, plotting the death of Conrad
Niven.
Jack gathered up the other papers and went through
them again with more care. None carried the inquest
report. Only the man from the Telegraph, the armed
services' bulletin board, had been present in court with
his shorthand notebook to inform the viscount's daughter's
social equals of her untimely end. But at least Jack
had one consolation: he now had three names, Tancred,
Strang and Askew, plus two addresses to toy with. He
had swiftly drawn a bead on Rupert Strang: his home
address, in Markham Square, off the King's Road,
Chelsea, came courtesy of the London telephone
directory.
Jack bought a pint at the Markham Arms on the corner
of the square. The evening was light and pleasant. He
had only thirty minutes to wait before a taxi drew up and
a slim, loose-limbed man mounted the half-dozen steps
and let himself into the neat mid-Victorian house where
pansy-crowded boxes perched on the window sills.
Once more, Jack breathed, 'Yessss!' Rupert Strang was
one of the two suits who had supervised the collection of
Mrs Canning's - Miss Tintagel's - coffin from Gatti's
Repository. He drained his glass and went home to have
an early night. He slept soundly without the dream, the
Glock on the bedside cabinet and the Cobray M-11 in
chamber-pot position under the bed. Unlike Pock Mark,
Jack had a mighty thirty-two-round clip in place.
If they came for him, he'd make them pay a heavy
price.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Commander Ringrose's veneer mahogany desk was
stacked high with the material still arriving in a torrent
from Victor Massillon. The nobs and politicos of Whitehall
were not going to like it, but the chance of producing
a psychopathic Iranian to take the rap now appeared
negligible.
A study of the French forensic reports and Betty
Bentinck's plaintive statement left little doubt that they
were looking for two people, one of whom had given
every evidence of being British.
Massillon had finally explained the mystery of the
striped ties. Ringrose had examined his own collection
that morning and, sure enough, the diagonals all sloped
left to right. Then he'd flicked channels on the early
morning TV programmes until he found a noisy American
game-show: the stripes on the host's tie went right to
left.
Ringrose gloomily contemplated Massillon's plentiful
offering. He could hear the French happily shovelling the

shit to his side of the Channel. He called in Lionel Firth.
'I know nothing about sharp-shooting,' said Ringrose,
'but everyone seems to agree that, even with the finest
weapon, it was a remarkable accomplishment. So we're
looking for a trained marksman whose appearance
approximates to this.' He tossed over Betty Bentinck's
attempt at a likeness.
'Looks like Wyatt Earp in a stetson,' said Firth.
'It's meant to be a Panama,' said Ringrose.
He pushed back his white forelock and sat in thought.
Firth waited. 'Our man can't have sprung from nowhere
as a fully fledged marksman. He must have had some
training, perhaps even won prizes. His prowess must be
known to someone. Let's check out the rifle clubs and
ask the Army for help in cobbling together a list of ex
service likely lads.'
Ringrose had an afterthought. 'Better include the
lasses. The French may be assuming that it was the man
with his finger on the trigger. But why not the elusive
Mrs Canning? Perhaps she did it, with Mr Canning as
the toerag left behind to clean up the room.'
He perused the FBI drawing again. 'This dizzy American
girl put the suspect's age at around thirty-five. But
let's leave ourselves a wide margin. Hollywood people
are known to be rather careless about ages. Let's say
Wyatt Earp here could be anything from twenty-five to
forty-five.'
'You're right about Hollywood ages,' said Firth. 'She
says our man is as sexy as Sean Connery, who's in his
sixties, and as gentlemanly as Robert Redford, who's
heading that way. There's hope for us yet, guv'nor.'
They were still grinning when Ringrose took a call
from Paul Kaiser, who said simply, 'Can you make the
Grenadier at six thirty?' Ringrose knew better than to say
anything except yes on an unsecured line.As an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, Kaiser
had one serious disadvantage should he ever be assigned
to covert action: he could never disappear in a crowd. He
was 6 feet 7 inches tall in his Sulka socks. He reduced
the bar of the tiny Grenadier pub, tucked away in a
Belgravia mews, to doll's-house proportions.
Kaiser was on a Grosvenor Square tour of duty from
Langley and enjoying a notable success with London's
society hostesses. Aside from his charm and bachelor
status, his family ownership of a Wall Street finance
house may have had something to do with this.
He and Ringrose carried their drinks out into the
cobbled lane. The American was already consulting his
watch. 'Sorry,' he said, 'this'll have to be quick. I have a
theatre tonight.'
'The Importance of Being Earnest? asked Ringrose
innocently.
The sally was wasted. 'No, I think it's by that fellow
who's always angry about something or other.'
Kaiser drew near, bending both knees to position his
lips nearer to Ringrose's left ear. 'Mr Bishop - the chief
- sends you his best regards and apologizes that he
couldn't come himself. He wanted you to have the latest
word from our assets in Tehran.'
'Fine. Shoot,' said Ringrose, matching whisper for
whisper.
'The chief says the peculiar news is that there is no
peculiar news. No one has come forward to claim the
bounty on Conrad Niven's head - none of the terror
groups, no headhunters, no amateurs.
'The chief says there have been the usual phoney
claimants trying their luck. The Iranians have a jail full
of them. Curiously, the ayatollahs seem relaxed - as if
they're not expecting anyone to collect. All the phoney
claimants went straight to jail without passing Go. There

was no investigation into any of their stories. It was as if
none of them had the right password.'
Ringrose sipped his ale. 'Maybe the million was just
another desert mirage, something that never existed.'
'No,' said Kaiser emphatically. 'Our evidence is that xhzfatwah million was a genuine offer. Our assets say the
cash was put aside, waiting for the team that could prove
it had pulled off the job. But, two weeks after the event,
there are still no takers.' He had recited the message as if
he had learned it parrot-fashion at the knee of Jake
Bishop, CIA head of London station and a close friend
of Ringrose.
'Well, thank the chief for letting me know,' said
Ringrose. 'I'd be glad to hear more, if your sources come
up with anything.'
'The chief says you may depend on it. You're top
name on his dance card. He likes you,' added the young
agent, almost enviously.
'That's nice to know,' said Ringrose, glancing at his
own watch. 'Don't forget you have a date with John
Osborne.'
'I have?' said Kaiser, looking baffled.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jack sat in his window seat, watching the street for unusual activity and sipping his coffee. He listened to the
messages on the answering machine: disgruntled friends
with whom he had not touched base in weeks, two
messages from the boys' school, both demanding news
of their whereabouts - and numerous clicks where callers
had rung off.
It was something of a relief to be back in the familiar
surroundings of work. His deputy, Joe Carsby, had
tolerated his extended holiday with his customary cheeriness.
Joe was also ex-Army, a former staff sergeant in
the Paymaster-General's office.
They made an effective team: Jack was expert with the
guns and tuition and Joe was a wizard with the books
and pretended to be good with the guns when dealing
with the punters. Fortunately, he never essayed target
practice when a club member was watching.
Now Jack did some catching up. 'Any troubles? Any
visits from the VAT man or other pests?'
'Nothing heavy,' reported Joe. 'A guy poked his head
round the door looking for you a week or so ago. Said he
was an old chum. Didn't leave his card.'
Jack said, 'Tall? Slim? Terrific suiting? Tight-waisted
- Savile Row?'
'Yeah. Spot on.'
'That's okay. He found me at home.'
Strang must have called, mused Jack, at around the
time they were becoming anxious at Mrs Canning's
failure to report in.
Before he went home that evening, Jack signed himself
out a box of ammunition that he did not expend on the
range.
He was a man with a mission. It suddenly came to him
that, since he had decided he would not sit passively and
accept his fate, he had had the dream only once - and
Grace had promptly chased it away.
He fished around the kitchen cupboard for some food
and liberated a tin of mackerel. Later, he found Viscount
Tintagel's number in the book and telephoned.
His Lordship had been a junior minister in the dying
days of the Macmillan government, held numerous

directorships and dutifully did his four days a week in
the House, accepting the government whip.
The voice sounded elderly. No, he could not see the
reporter from the East Sussex Courier at home, but if he
cared to present himself at three thirty the next afternoon
at the St Stephen's entrance to the Houses of Parliament,
the security people would be expecting him.
This alerted Jack - or John Jones as he now styled
himself- to leave behind the Glock, which was establishing
an imprint above his buttocks.
Jack slipped away after a sandwich lunch at the club.
The old boy, not as old as he sounded, guided Jack to a
stone seat in a wide lobby lined with murals celebrating
England's past glories. His hard-brushed hair was steel
grey and he wore the uniform of a politician for whom
gravitas was a professional tool - dark, striped suit, black
lace-up shoes, waistcoat with watchchain looped across
an ample stomach. His one touch of colour was in the
Oxford blue of his polka-dot bow-tie.
Jack took out pen and notebook which surprised His
Lordship. 'I thought all you chaps used those miniature
tape recorders these days.'
'Mine's on the blink,' said Jack, hardly missing a beat.
He leaned forward and added earnestly, 'First of all, sir,
I'd like to express my sympathy for your loss.'
Mrs Canning's father weakly raised a liver-spotted
hand and let it fall back into his lap in a gesture of
hopelessness. 'A terrible, terrible business. Her mother is
taking it very badly - which is why I couldn't have you
round at the house, my boy.'
Somehow, Jack had never thought of Mrs Canning as
having been exposed to maternal love.
His Lordship regarded him quizzically. 'How many
words will this obituary run to, Mr Jones? Left it a bit
late in the day, haven't you?'
Jack said carefully, 'I thought about a thousand words,
sir. We missed the inquest, you know.'
'So did I, dammit.'
'Yes, it would have been very upsetting for you. I saw
the report in the Telegraph.9
'Lot of bollocks,' snorted Lord Tintagel. 'Too stricken
to attend indeed! I went through the war, you know. Saw
good men I regarded as brothers cut down. I wasn't "too
stricken" then. One simply had to press on. Death is so
random one should never be surprised.'
'Then what kept you away from the inquest, sir?'
'Those bloody spooks!' Lord Tintagel said it so loudly
that a frock-coated attendant took several steps in their
direction.
'Spooks, sir? I don't understand.'
'Look, you mustn't write this down.' He looked at Jack
shrewdly. 'Are you an Englishman? Both sides of the
family?'
Jack nodded.
'Thought so,' said Tintagel. 'Military family, perhaps?'
'I was a regular,' said Jack.
His Lordship patted his knee. 'Good! You've got the
look. Signed the Official Secrets Act and all that?'
'Certainly.'
His Lordship patted his knee again and continued,
'Then you must know what spooks are.'
'Ghosts or spies?' offered Jack.
'Exactly. My girl had a brain. She was a marvel at
languages. French, German, Italian. They put her
through that Beirut school and she could even cope with
Arabic. Her mother and I were delighted when she passed
the Civil Service exams and went into the Foreign Office.
She had all the intellectual equipment to carry her
upwards to an ambassadorship.'
His pink, lined face darkened. 'Then those bloody
spooks got hold of her, offered her a life of excitement
and intrigue, I daresay. Not that she ever told us. It was
a long time before her mother and I cottoned on that she
was no longer what she seemed - an up-and-coming
member of the Diplomatic Corps. We only started to
suspect something rum was going on when she stopped
telling us about her work.'
The old boy took out a red handkerchief and noisily
blasted into it. Jack stayed silent and Lord Tintagel said,
'Where was I?'
'You suspected she was a spy,' prompted Jack.
'Ah, yes. Nancy was a game girl, you know. She had a
marvellous seat, good at all the country pursuits - fine
fencer, too.'
Jack saw again in his mind's eye that fine-toned,
voluptuous body rising and falling above him in the half
light.
His Lordship was still talking. 'You can have that bit
for your obituary. I think the reason she never married
was because she would have been too much of a handful
for most men. Too clever, too accomplished. I'm sure
she put the fear of God into any chap who might have
had designs on her. I always told her mother she'd have
to wait for a chap who'd made his millions and was
shopping around for one of those trophy wives I read
about in the tabloid press.'
The old lad was right about the fear of God, thought
Jack, remembering her Browning automatic, the cyanide
pill and the cheesecutter. He said, 'You were going to
tell me about the inquest.'
'Ah, yes. We're off the record again, my boy. The
spooks brought the news of her death to us. They said
Nancy had come off her horse while taking part in a
surveillance operation. It was like something from the
eighteenth century. What kind of surveillance was that
from a damn' horse? They said it was all very hush-hush.
They couldn't say more.' The old man's indignation
subsided into a resigned sorrow. 'Anyway, they said she
had died in the service of her country which, I suppose,
was their misguided idea of an expression of sympathy.
They said they'd arrange a special sitting of the coroner's
court and bring their man, Professor Whatsisname, down
from London to perform the post-mortem. They asked
my wife and me to stay away and they'd provide someone
to give evidence of identification. They didn't want us to
see her in her coffin. And no wonder. The effrontery!
They'd got some ghastly undertaker to put a little bonnet
around her face - like the frill on a pie crust. Not Nancy's
style at all. She'd have thrown a fit.' Lord Tintagel
stopped abruptly. 'Well, that's enough of that. I've
probably said more than I should so I'm relying on your
discretion, Mr Jones.' Despite his claim to take death as
it came, he suddenly looked desolate. 'You know, young
man, you're very easy to talk to. I can see why you're a
journalist. I needed to get it off my chest. You turned up
at the right time.'
Jack felt like dirt. This was a shabby deception of a
heart-broken old man. There was no putting a gloss on
what he was doing. Only a primeval instinct for survival
was driving him onward and downward into a world of
cancerous deceit.
Lord Tintagel, recovering, said, 'Open that notebook
and we'll take all Nancy's life that's fit to print in
chronological order from womb to tomb.'
Jack sat with him for another hour and pretended to
make notes as the parental version of his intended
executioner's life unfolded in all its surface detail.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bulwer Tancred tapped his pencil on the table and the
other three gave him their attention. Present was the
senior man (operations), Rafe Cummings, who with his
long wandering nose looked like a ruddy-faced farmer,
Rupert Strang, and Peter Hope-Casson, the youngest of
the team who had been Strang's companion on the
Gatti's pickup and who had been humiliated and immobilized
by Jack Boulder in the Kent pub lavatory.
Tancred said with a crisp lack of concern, 'I trust the
head's a little better, Peter.'
Hope-Casson touched his plaster and looked round
the table to see if he could catch anyone smirking.
'Boulder got lucky,' he muttered.
'Doubtless,' said Tancred.
The trio at his table shared an unspoken low opinion
of Tancred's taste in pictorial art. Above their master's
head a framed poster hung from the panelling. It was a
blown-up photograph of a short, nondescript man in a
cheap double-breasted suit. His hair was plastered to his
skull with some kind of hair oil. Brilliantine, they'd
agreed, looking down their noses. The fellow looked
decidedly as if he hailed from the great unwashed.
Tancred began rather portentously, 'The subject for discussion
is Captain Jack Boulder and damage limitation.
Firstly, it has to be said that, in so far as the objective
was achieved, Nancy had a brilliant success. The planning
for the removal of Niven was impeccable - a fitting
memorial to a colleague of great talent.' He paused
and his wintry face darkened. He stared downward





166
167
pensively at his manicured hands. 'However, we are left
with the problem of Boulder, a danger to us all. Last
time, we voted four to one in favour of his elimination
once the attempt on Niven, successful or unsuccessful,
was completed. Ironically, it was Nancy who cast the
minority vote. Unfortunately we proposed but Captain
Boulder disposed, it was she who became the casualty,'
he added bleakly.
'In Boulder's favour, it has to be said that Professor
Askew and our ballistics people agree with the note he
placed on her body. Nancy really did do it to herself,
doubtless while she was attempting to kill him. Boulder,
it would seem, had discovered Nancy's pistol and somehow
spiked the sound suppressor - not difficult for a
man of his expertise. He fought his corner and we can't
- pace young Peter, here - criticize him for that. Also in
his favour is the fact that he has not lost his head and
gone running around crying mea culpa. So far so good.
'However, he is currently causing some concern. He
has become very devious. He has discovered every listening
device in his house and removed them. He has also
learned the art of shaking off a tail. This would present
difficulties enough for a full team following an unsuspecting
target, but it's impossible for our tiny group,
dealing with a man who now assumes he has company
every time he goes out for a newspaper - which, I might
say, he is understandably buying in large quantities. He
seems as anxious as we are that he should remain out of
the hands of the police. I think you will agree the tails are now a waste of our energies and so is the bugging. He'll
not say anything significant where there's any possibility
that he's within radius of a listening device. We are
obviously not going to profit further from any of it.'
Tancred nodded down the table at Cummings. 'Rafe, is
there any news of his family since he evacuated them
from the home?'
Cummings's ruddy face shone triumphantly. 'Boulder's
last telephone message before the shutters went up
instructed her to take the kids to wherever it was they
spent their holiday last August. A check on his credit
card statement reveals that he used his card only in the
Southwold area of Suffolk during the middle two weeks
of that particular month. It's a small place. I'll soon have
the holiday address.'
'That's good to know,' said Tancred. 'But for the
moment there'll be no action against the family.' He
pursed his lips. 'Boulder himself is another matter. I've
almost convinced myself he's going to play the game. He
took his money - our paymaster is being admirably
philosophical about that - and has acted with a guile I
would not have suspected he possessed. His utilization of
the American woman was masterly. She helped him out
of a tight corner and to get his hands on our money.
Unfortunately, she has been traced and interviewed by
the FBI. At the moment, the consequences of that
development remain unknown.'
He hesitated, pondering what else he should reveal,
then added, 'The Yard's reports are going up daily to the
Home Office and thence to the Cabinet Office. So far,
I've been able to glimpse two. Ringrose is supposed to
exert every effort to repulse the French attempt to pin
the entire cock-up on the British. Unfortunately he's an
awkward devil and is turning a blind eye to the hint.
Massillon has now fed him enough evidence to make it
clear that an Englishman and a woman of uncertain
nationality are the culprits. It's a matter of regret that
Ringrose is difficult to control. He's been the Prime
Minister's favourite copper ever since that beauty queens
business.'
Hi:
Hope-Casson was bouncing in his chair. He butted in:
'I say we don't take a chance, sir. Ringrose is hot stuff.
We should have another go - dispose of Boulder before
Ringrose gets to him.'
'If only it were as simple as that, Peter,' murmured
Tancred. 'Suppose Boulder has already lodged a complete
account of his little adventure with his solicitor?
Told his wife? His mother? His best friend? Your little
contretemps with him will have made him extremely
nervous. He'll be trying to arrange some insurance.'
Hope-Casson subsided, chastened. Then he brightened.
'We could tip off the Provos about his role in the
McGurk shooting, give them his home address and sit
back to watch the fun.'
'It's an amusing thought,' said Tancred, 'but his death
wouldn't prevent the leak of any written account Boulder
has made, would it?'
'If it exists,' said Rupert Strang, soberly.
The quartet sat in silence, staring at the fine grain of
the yew-topped table.
Finally, Tancred said, 'I think we have to leave our
Jack to his own devices for the present - at least until we
can be sure he's made no record of his little jaunt to
foreign parts. Then we eliminate him. I'll do my best to keep tabs on Ringrose's progress. If I think he's getting
warm, we may have to take drastic action sooner. If any
whispers come your way from your various departments,
I shall want to be informed tout de suite.'
Tancred sighed and swivelled in his chair. Gazing
fondly up at the poster-sized image of the nondescript
little man, he said, 'Albert never had to tolerate any of
this confusion. In his day, everything was ordered, measured,
timed. You affronted the State and Albert was
always there to put an end to your perfidy.'
The other three rose, exchanged glances and made
softly for the door. Outside, Hope-Casson whispered to
Strang, 'I say, Rupert, do you get the feeling from time
to time that our intrepid leader is just the teeniest bit off
his rocker?'
Inside, Bulwer Tancred remained seated for a full
minute, staring up at the photograph. Albert Pierrepoint,
once upon a time Britain's official hangman, stared right
back at him.

Chapter Thirty

A fine, dreamless night. The alarm clock went off at six
thirty and Jack was instantly out of bed. He showered,
rustled up some eggs, toast and coffee, and dressed,
thrusting the Glock so far down into his back belt that
the muzzle was touching his coccyx. He had a plan.
He slipped silently out of the rear door of the house
and padded to the end of his small garden, ignoring the
late spring growth now shouting for his attention.

He hauled himself up the side of his garden shed and
dropped down into the better cultivated plot that was
end-on to his own. Thank goodness he'd established
excellent relations with his Welsh neighbours, the Rhys
family. They'd even had the occasional drink together.
Yesterday he'd spun them a yarn that the gun club was
in financial trouble . . . the bailiffs were trying to serve
him with a writ... he needed to leave the house without
being ambushed . . .

Kevin Rhys had given him two keys, to the back and
front doors of his house. And now Jack Boulder was
making use of them, tiptoeing through without waking
the family and out into the street that ran parallel to his
own.
He strolled away, happy in the certain knowledge that
he was without a shadow. He took the tube from Shepherd's
Bush - always an uneasy journey since the dream
had begun - changed at Notting Hill Gate and travelled
round to Sloane Square on the Circle line. The previous
evening he had parked the Saab in Markham Square, in
a space that gave him an oblique view of Rupert Strang's
yellow-painted front door.
Sitting in the driver's seat, sipping coffee from a flask,
and nipping out at eight thirty to feed the meter, Jack
waited two hours before the door opened. A computer
cab had drawn up. A jacketless Strang took in his milk
and re-emerged fully dressed, as immaculate as ever.
The cab took off towards Sloane Square, turned into
Lower Sloane Street and headed for the river. It turned
left onto the Embankment and crossed the Thames at
Vauxhall Bridge.
The journey was brief. On the south side, at Vauxhall
Cross, Strang was deposited outside a fantasy building of
green glass and cream stone that appeared to have been
inspired by the Egyptian and Babylonian splendours of
the film sets of the late Cecil B. DeMille. In the early
nineties, Londoners had watched bemused as this edifice,
with an overview of the nearby Southern Region railway
line, climbed towards the sky on the riverbank. It had
not long remained secret that this weird structure was to
be the new headquarters of MI6 - Britain's Secret
Intelligence Service. Jack watched Strang enter.
Driving away down the Albert Embankment, he tried
to sort out the implications. He had veered from believing
that he had been working as a freelance for just such
an organization to the probability that he was merely the
dupe of bounty-hunters. But, with Tancred, Strang and
the Honourable Nancy Tintagel, he was back with the
Establishment, the kind of people who, or so he had
read, comprised an autocracy that really ruled Britain
through old money, the network of old families and the
accumulated wisdom of two hundred years of ruling an
empire that had once covered the globe in a disarming
pink.
Up to now he'd always taken this as left-wing bullshit.
But why should the Secret Service kill Conrad Niven, a
British citizen of impeccable character who was under
the protection of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan
Police?
The conundrum still turning in his head, Jack drove
on to the City and his much-neglected job.
Joe Carsby was standing by his office cubicle with two men in civvies, the taller fortyish and well padded, the
younger trim and alert. He heard Joe, smiling, say, 'Talk
of the devil. Here's the man himself.'
The two strangers could not have advertised themselves
more clearly as policemen if they had been carrying
billboards. Jack did not like the way they glanced significantly
at each other as he made his entrance.
Joe said, 'This is Detective Sergeant er . . .'
The older one stepped forward and introduced himself
affably, '. . . Cyril Munday. And this is Detective Constable
Bellew.'
They're always pleasant enough at first, thought Jack.
The Glock had suddenly turned into a branding-iron
and was searing his back.
Joe said, 'These chaps are doing a firearms survey.'
'Yes,' said Munday. 'We're trying to compile a list of
men and women handy with rifles. It's a routine inquiry.'
They always say it's routine, thought Jack. He looked
dubious. 'I don't know that any of our members have





172
173
any proficiency in that direction. There's no call for it.
We train people only in the use and care of sidearms
here.'
Munday gave Jack an encouraging smile. 'Don't you
have members who were previously in the forces? Former
mercenaries? That type?'
Jack put on a show of pondering. 'We'll have to go
through the membership list to jog my memory.'
He said to Joe, 'Take them into the office, get the book
out and I'll be right with you. Must have a slash.'

The younger detective started to say something but
Jack was already heading for the locker room. He stowed
the Glock and his jacket, and splashed his face with cold
water to clear his head. He took his time returning.
The policemen looked up expectantly as he strode,
businesslike, through the office door. 'Okay, Joe. I'll look
after them,' he said.
Joe flicked him a salute and went off to take care of
business.
The two visitors shifted their chairs apart to make
room for Jack to sit between them. The invitation was
unspoken but unmistakable and Jack started to sweat a
little.
He pulled the ledger onto his lap and began to go
down the list, using a pen as a pointer. Every now and
then he picked out the name of an ex-serviceman and
those of a handful of women.
'I can only tell you that they were in the services. I
can't remember any of them telling me that they were
any good with a rifle.' The younger detective dutifully
noted their names and home addresses.
The exercise took nearly an hour, then Jack snapped
the ledger shut and said, 'That's the lot.'
Detective Sergeant Munday looked at him slyly.
'You're pretty handy with a rifle yourself, aren't you, sir?
Or, at least, that's what your colleague tells us.'
Jack could have throttled Joe. How long had they been
chatting with him, wheedling information out of him,
before he walked in?
'Oh, sure I was, very handy.' Jack shrugged, as offhand
as he could manage. 'But that was during my Army
service. As you can see, the ranges here are totally
inadequate for that type of shooting.'
He was addressing Munday, but from the corner of his
eye he could see Bellew conscientiously scribbling.
'When was that, sir?'
'When was what?' Jack resolved he was not going to
make it easy for the buggers.
'Your Army service, sir.'
'Oh, I resigned my commission eighteen months ago.'
'May I ask why that was, sir?'
'I was fed up. More importantly, my wife was fed up
with being an Army wife, bounced from pillar to post.'
Munday gazed around the cramped office. He asked,
innocently, 'Did you have this job to come to, sir?'
Jack looked at him steadily. In the silence they could
all hear the sharp crack of pistol-shooting from the range.
Jack knew that the time had come when a man with
nothing to hide would be counter-attacking.
'Look,' he said. 'I thought you told me this was a
routine inquiry. Why are you asking me for my life story?
This club is properly run and regularly inspected. There's
never been a word of complaint from the City of London
police.'
Munday made a soothing sound as if calming a
fractious child. 'I'm sure there hasn't, sir. Please forgive
me. We're merely asking the kind of questions we'll be
asking all those members whose names you've kindly
supplied.'





174
175
'I don't get it,' said Jack. 'I doubt if any of these people
even owns a rifle.'
Munday smiled tolerantly. 'It's not ownership we're
registering. It's proficiency.'
'Why?' Jack decided that a show of aggression
wouldn't go amiss.
Munday looked helpless. 'No one tells us. It's probably
one of the Commissioner's initiatives in aid of something
or other to do with extremist groups. Or the aftermath of
Dunblane, perhaps.'
Bellew wrote down Jack's home address. Then
Munday rose heavily to his feet and said, 'Thank you for
your co-operation, sir.'
Jack gave them a curt nod and ushered them upstairs
to street level. Munday was pushing on the door when
he stopped, turned and said, 'Oh, there was one other
thing, sir.'
Jack could not believe the transparency of the tactic.
He felt a chill. Was there anyone owning a television set
who had not, at one time or another, heard that little
American detective in the shabby raincoat saying exactly
this - and then asking a devastating question that led
inexorably to the exposure and arrest of the hitherto ohso-inventive
criminal?
'What is it?' asked Jack, bracing himself.
'Would you mind telling me where you were during
the first three weeks in May?'
Jack's brain went into overdrive. Christ, what did they
already know from Joe. He said calmly, 1 was here, at
home, and round and about.'
Munday gave him the smile that he was growing to
fear. 'Any of it holiday?'
So this was the moment of truth. 'Part of it, yes - two
weeks.'
'Spent abroad?'

176
'No, I was in London.' Jack thought of his unkempt
garden. He added, 'Holidays at home - getting the
garden up to snuff for the spring.'
'A bit late in the day, weren't you?' Munday was still
smiling that bloody smile. 'I leave it to the missus. She's
got more time.'
To Jack's relief, he appeared satisfied. Munday held
the door while his partner stepped out onto the pavement,
then followed. The door whispered shut behind
them.
Jack ran the back of his hand over his upper lip. Not
one of the lies he'd told them could trip him up unless
they took a close look at his flowerbeds. He relived the
encounter. No, he hadn't said anything that could come
back to damage him.
The two detectives sat in their stationary car, gazing
through the windscreen at the crawling traffic. Bellew, at
the wheel, said, 'What do you think?'
Munday sucked on yellowing teeth. 'We should be so
lucky. He's within the age range, though that likeness the
American hint gave the Feds isn't much of a match.'
Bellew said, 'His number two, Joe Whatsit, was a bit
awe-struck. Thought Boulder was a cross between Dirty
Harry and Dead-Eye Dick.'
'Yes,' agreed Munday. 'He was very modest about his
talents, wasn't he? Although that could be him following
the code of an officer and a gentleman. What were his
exact words?'
Bellew flipped through his notes. 'He said, "I was very
handy."'
'Do you think that was the natural modesty of the true
English gendeman? I have to admit, it does exist in
certain quarters although I've not found much of it in
the police service.'
'A gendeman - like Robert Redford,' cackled Bellew.

177


II !ii!'

'Jesus. If we go by that silly American tart we'd be
nicking every male wearing a bowler and carrying a rolled
umbrella in Jermyn Street.'
'Get going,' Munday ordered. 'We'll shove it all into
the computer and leave it to Ringrose's golden boys to
fuck up without any hindrance from us. You watch, this
investigation is going to turn up a hundred crack shots
like Boulder.'

Chapter Thirty-One

Jack drove through the soft evening and made Southwold
soon after nine thirty. He was gratified that Grace and
the boys were excited to see him. He realized how lonely
he had been, nursing his great secret and tussling single
handed with an unknown enemy. He hugged the boys to
his windcheater and kissed Grace long and hard. They
were usually circumspect about overt love-making in
front of the boys, but Jack could now feel Grace's heat.
Her tongue went into his mouth.
When Ben and Mai, protesting vociferously, had been
shunted off to bed, he and Grace stood outside, sipping
hot chocolate and watching the moon cast silver shards into the North Sea.
Grace said, 'How's it going?'
Jack waggled his hand, palm down, in a gesture of
uncertainty. 'I'm not sure. There's been some police
activity around the club, which may or may not be just a
wide-net check on people who are useful with a rifle.' He
described the visit of Munday and Bellew. 'Some of the
pieces are beginning to fit together, but the less you know
the better. What is still a mystery to me is why anyone,

178
aside from the Iranians, that is, would want to harm a
hair of Conrad Niven's head. But the further I dig, the
more convinced I'm becoming that the ayatollahs had
nothing to do with it. It's very frustrating to have the
feeling that the answer should be obvious and that
everyone knows it except me.'
Grace stroked his arm. 'Can you stay the night?'

'God, Grace, how I wish I could!' He groaned. 'But I
have an instinct that I need to give every appearance of
living a normal life. I've only come to collect the gun and
get it back to the club where it belongs. I would have
been up the creek today if those two coppers had asked
to check the inventory and found the Super Magnum
missing. What could I have said?'
Although it was a mild evening, Grace shivered and
wrapped her arms around her shoulders. She said, 'I
don't like keeping all that money here. It makes me
frightened.'
'Where is it?'
'Where you left it.'
'Okay. I'll take it with me.'
They went back into the house.
From their shared bedroom, Ben and Mai listened to
the downstairs floorboards creaking and the murmur of
their parents' voices. Ben said, 'Have you ever known
Mum cry so much? There's big trouble. Do you think
they're getting a divorce?' Malcolm began to snivel. 'Oh,
shut up!' said his brother. 'It was only an idea. But
there's definitely something up.' He jerked his head in
the direction of the door. 'Come on. Let's see if we can
find out what's going on. But keep quiet!
In their pyjamas, feet bare, the two boys eased the
drop-latch upward and crept out onto the landing.
Holding their breath, they kept to the sides of the stair
treads and tiptoed down until they could peer through
the banisters into the living room.
Their father had just taken a shiny object from his
pocket. They watched their mother recoil. 'I don't even
want to touch the beastly thing,' she said. He was offering
her an automatic pistol, and saying, 'Grace, you simply
have to take it, not only for your own sake but for the
sake of the boys. I'm not saying you can expect trouble,
but if it does arrive this will stop them dead.'
Like a salesman, he held up the weapon for her
inspection. 'See? It's a dinky little thing. Easy to handle.
Only seven inches long. It's a short version Walther PPK
9mm. There are seven rounds in the magazine. At short
range, you'd just point it and pull the trigger. You
couldn't miss.'
Their mother was shaking her head. Dad said, 'Grace,
you've got to be strong. Just suppose men came bursting
in here with the intention of doing you or the boys harm?
What are you going to defend yourselves with? A
broomstick?'
Ben heard Malcolm begin to whimper and clapped a
hand over his mouth.
Downstairs, Grace froze and said, 'Did you hear
something?' The boys took two steps back up into the
shadows.
Their parents listened to the silence of the house for a
moment and resumed their desperate dialogue. Dad
pleaded, 'Just hold the gun in your hand for a moment.
See how comfortable the grip is?'
'Comfortable!' she exclaimed in a disbelieving voice.
But then they heard her ask, 'Is it ready to fire? Isn't
there a safety catch or something?' She was coming
round.
'It's ready to go just as it is - so don't touch the trigger.
And remember the old saying, "Don't point it at anything
you don't intend to shoot."'
Their mother's voice betrayed an unaccustomed
quaver. 'I'll leave it in the bedside drawer.'
'Good girl,' their father said. 'And here's a little box of
ammo to go with it.' They heard a series of metallic
clicks as he demonstrated the loading of the magazine
and how to lock it into the butt.
The old floorboards creaked again as their parents
moved towards the hall. Ben pushed Malcolm back
upstairs and they noiselessly returned to their bedroom.
Grace began to cry when Jack got ready to drive away.
She was holding the Walther gingerly in one hand and
the ammo box in the other. She held her arms wide,
pistol pointing at the ground, as Jack embraced her and
promised, 'Not for much longer. I know more about
them than they could possibly suspect.'
But her tears and the break in her voice made Jack
realize, with a sinking heart, that an essential ingredient
of her sunny personality had gone. And it was all of his
doing.
He arrived back in Shepherd's Bush at three a.m. and
fell into bed, rifle and money alongside the Cobray and
the bedroom door wide open onto the first-floor landing.
He had rigged trip wires across all the windows and
doors. The slightest sound would wake him.

Back in Southwold, Malcolm had crept into his mother's
bed for comfort but Ben stayed in their room, hands
behind his head, staring at the low ceiling and thinking.
By ten the next morning the rifle had been returned to
the club's gun rack, safely chained. It suddenly struck
Jack that he hadn't read whether or not the French police
had recovered the two rounds that had put paid to
Conrad Niven. If they had been salvaged, it would take
a ballistics expert less than five minutes to match the
striations to his Super Magnum. He shrugged mentally,
it was a chance he had to take. He couldn't see any
option short of destroying the weapon, which itself would
bring further questioning from the authorities and would
be tantamount to a confession of guilt. The life of a
renegade in a society as regulated as Great Britain s was
extremely complicated.
He'd put a brass padlock on the money holdall and
handed the bag over the fence to Kevin Rhys 'Look after
this for me, Kev. It's the company books. I darent let
them get into the hands of the broker's men.'
"I'll stow it under the stairs,' said his neighbour. It'll
be safe there.'	,
Jack watched the better part of eighty thousand pounds
go swinging nonchalantly down the path.
During the day, while watching his punters pepper
their cardboard targets when they should have been
grouping their shots, Jack reviewed his options. From the
moment he had learned the identity of the man he had
shot, Jack's first option had always been to surrender to
the police and tell all he knew. By turning the French
equivalent of Queen's Evidence, he might at least ameliorate
his own punishment.
Grace had fiercely opposed this. 'You'd be a bloody
fool There's no way of getting past the fact that you
pulled the trigger. They couldn't just round up the
others, even if they could find them, pat you on the back
for doing your civic duty and let you go. You might not
get a life sentence, but you'd go inside for a very long time.

"since then Jack had more to trade in exchange for his
own liberty. But the names he had come up with were of
people who could wrap themselves protectively in the
Official Secrets Act. If his shadowy puppetmaster really

was the Secret Service, he didn't stand a chance. How
could he carry the fight to such a juggernaut?
His mind kept turning to Rupert Strang. When Strang
had left his house in Markham Square, Jack had seen
him double-lock his front door. He would not have done
that if there had still been someone inside. So Strang
lived alone.
He was either a bachelor or had a wife in the country,
with Markham Square used as a weekday pied-a-terre.
Jack chose his option.
He was nursing a drink outside the Markham Arms by
six p.m. Strang returned home in a taxi shortly after
seven. There were too many people about to accost him
on the pavement so Jack bided his time. He'd have to
knock at the door once pedestrian activity in the streets
had thed down for the evening.
'Damn!' he muttered under his breath. Another taxi
had drawn up and Strang came out in white tie and tails
as pristine as his suits. Jack caught a glimpse of his
miniature dress medals - at least two - as he clambered
into the cab and took off. He noted with satisfaction that
Strang had again double-locked the front door. No one
was in the house.
Strang, he reasoned, had not got himself up in that
gear for a snack at a local pizza parlour. He'd be away
for some hours. At an official dinner? Perhaps with the
Queen at Buckingham Palace, Jack thought bitterly.
He sloped off for dinner at a King's Road bistro and
was back on observation at ten. At least conditions were
more agreeable than those he had endured on border ops
in Northern Ireland.
He was slumped in the Saab when a familiar Bendey
turned into the square from the King's Road and swept
to an abrupt halt outside Strang's house. Judging by the
kangaroo braking, the two occupants had dined well.
Strang eased himself out of the front passenger seat
after a tussle with the belt. He bent to say something to
the driver - Bulwer Tancred - which gave Jack time to
slip out of the Saab, close the door quietly and edge
down the street.
He did a quick survey of the square. The only movement
came from cars passing at the King's Road end.
Strang stood at the edge of the kerb and waved at
Tancred's disappearing tail-lights. Jack pressed himself
against a doorway.
His target stood for a few moments, sucking the last
enjoyment from the end of a wet cigar. Then he dropped
the remnant at his feet and ground it to a brown mess
with his patent leather shoe, sniffed the night air appreciatively,
turned and took the steps slowly up to his front door. He fished in his pocket for his keys as Jack moved

closer.
Jack waited for the sound of the first key turning in the
dead lock and braced himself for the second.
The double-click came, sharp and certain, in the silent
square. Jack hurled himself up the stone steps as the door
was opening. Strang turned and, had the evening's
alcoholic intake not slowed his reactions, would have
lashed back with his cigar-grinding foot and toppled Jack
onto the pavement. But Jack was too swift for him. His
body crashed into Strang and sent him tumbling into his
hallway.
Jack took two steps inside and slammed the door
closed behind him. By the dim streetlight filtering
through the fanlight he could see Strang, dazed, on his
hands and knees.
'Make one sound,' said Jack, 'and I'll blow your
fucking head off.' His left hand groped for the light
switch to the hall lantern. Strang crawled about-face,
blinking as the light flooded the passageway. He saw the

Glock in Jack's fist and his aquiline face tightened. White
tension lines appeared around his nostrils and at the
sides of his compressed mouth. He said nothing.
Jack rapidly took in his surroundings. He spotted a
burglar alarm control box, red light blinking, in the
corridor leading to the rear kitchen. It was the type that
allowed the person entering via the front door a minute's
grace before sounding off.
Jack moved forward, took Strang by his modish winged
collar and pressed the gun into his temple. If that alarm
goes off, you're dead and I'm out of here before anyone
has time to respond.'
Strang spoke for the first time. 'The key is on my
chain.'
'Use it,' said Jack, prodding him with the barrel.
Strang scrambled to his feet and de-activated the
system. Jack pushed him through a door into a sitting
room. The curtains for the window overlooking the
square were open. 'Draw them and put on the lights,'
said Jack. The gun's muzzle followed Strang around the
room as he complied.
The room, with its carved marble fireplace, two facing
couches, a Pembroke table for drinks, was a model of
discreet good taste. 'Sit,' said Jack, waving the Glock at
one of the silk-covered couches. Jack sat opposite on its
twin.
A low, marble-topped table stood between them on
which lay magazines, a model of an Egyptian obelisk and
an exquisite miniature frigate carved in what looked like
ivory, but which the small plaque at the base of the
covering glass dome revealed to be animal bone, carved
by bored Napoleonic prisoners on Dartmoor, whitding
and whiling away the days until their repatriation to their
beloved France.
Up close to Strang for the first time, Jack realized he
was not as young - not by ten years at least - as he
seemed from the distances at which Jack had been
observing him. His long face betrayed lines and strain,
and his dark hair was thinning. It was his trim figure, the
artful tailoring and his easy movement that gave the
appearance of youth. He was a man who kept himself in
shape but he was more than forty-five.
Strang was recovering from his shock. He straightened
himself and his clothes and said suddenly, 'I suppose
there's no use my pretending you're just a burglai
wanting cash, jewels and the family silver?'
'No,' said Jack. 'I'm sure you know who I am.'
'Yes,' said Strang, a note of regret in his voice. 'I know
who you are, all right. How did you find me?'
'I just followed the smell of sewers,' said Jack.
'Oh dear,' said Strang. 'Is the conversation to be at
that level?' He was definitely recovering his poise.
'This is not a conversation,' said Jack menacingly
'This is me asking questions and you, under threat of
extinction, answering them.'
Strang sighed and pinched the tired flesh on either side
of his nose. His cold eyes looked heavy. 'You're not
going to shoot me, Captain Boulder. It's not in your
nature.'
'I thought you hired me because it was my nature.'
Strang shook his head in a world-weary manner
'Setting aside for the moment the question of who did or
did not hire you, you simply do not have sufficient cause
to add me to your bag. I'm of no importance.'
Jack squinted at his captive's lapel ribbons. 'Do they
usually award OBEs to men of no importance?' Jack then
saw, with erupting anger, that the other decoration was
Military Cross.
On the mantelpiece was a silver-framed photograph <
a younger Strang in a major's uniform. He was standing
in the forecourt of Buckingham Palace, displaying the ME for the camera. Flanking him were a smiling middle
aged couple, presumably his parents. The father had a bristling white military moustache and the commanding
air of a man who had once held senior rank.
'Christ!' said Jack in disgust. 'How could a man of your
achievements get mixed up with these dirty bastards?'
'Captain Boulder,' said Strang, still in world-weary
mode, 'we serve in our various humble ways. You simply
do not understand what is going on. There are issues
involved that, of necessity, have to be left to our masters.
People like me and you are merely the foot soldiers.'
'I didn't know I was at war,' said Jack.
Strang loosened his white tie and undid his collar stud.
'The war is never-ending. Britain has passing concerns
but permanent interests that remain unchanged, no matter
what the complexion of the government of the day.'
'What has that to do with me or, for that matter, that
blameless sod Conrad Niven? He only made movies, for
God's sake!'
Strang shook his head. 'I can't talk to you about
Niven. And you won't be able to make me.' Jack glanced
again at that proud photograph and knew he was telling
the truth.
Strang went on, 'As for you, I concede you have cause
for complaint. We had a work-up done of your life your
biography, if you like - and while we could see you
had a superhuman talent as a sniper, the McGurk
business indicated to us that you could not always be
relied upon not to go off the rails. We had devised several
crude ways of disposing of Niven but they all involved
the Special Branch minders or civilians being in the line
of fire. Any harm to them would have brought down
unacceptable repercussions. But there you were, capable
of doing a clean, surgical job for us. As you so ably
proved. Our error was not to trust you in the aftermath
to take the money and keep your conscience to yourself.
Anyway, you paid us back in spades for that lack of
confidence. The woman you sent home in a case was a
much-admired colleague. She's a great loss.'
Jack bit back his knowledge of her real name. Why
should he show his hand? He said, 'I didn't kill her, you
know.'
Strang nodded. 'Yes, we accept that. No blame
attaches. Fortunes of war.' He leaned forward, resting
his forearms on his bony knees, and adopted an earnest
expression. 'Captain Boulder - Jack - why don't you let
it rest at that, put your earnings into that overseas
account we set up for you, and go away like a good
chap?'
'Because,' said Jack levelly, 'I know too much and I've
been taken for a fool. I want to know why Conrad Niven
had to be killed. I'll decide then what has to be done.'
He stood up. 'You go back to your people, whoever they
are, and tell them that. Come back to me with their
answer. You know where I live. God knows, you had
enough listening devices planted around the place.'
Strang shook his head. 'I've tried to be helpful. You've
been very foolish tracking me here. So far, you've
behaved in a sensible - even reassuring - manner. But
jumping me can only cause alarm in certain circles. Why
the hell did you have to do it?'
Jack watched him shake his head like a parent disapproving
of excessive behaviour in a teenager. He said, 'If
what you say is a hint that you'll now have to come after
me yet again, you'd better think very carefully. You know
what I can do.'
'Yes, Jack. We know what you can do.'
Jack waved the Glock in the direction of the passage.
'Step through and take off all your clothes.'
Strang said, 'For Pete's sake!' then caught Jack's
expression. He stripped to his underpants, then hesitated.
'Everything,' said Jack, 'and throw them over here.'
Like Mrs Canning, Strang had a well-muscled and
defined body. He would not be a pushover in hand-to
hand combat.
Jack scooped up his clothes and backed towards the
front door. Strang stood silently in the hallway making
no attempt to shield his dangling genitals.
"I guess you won't be chasing me down the street like
that,' said Jack, and backed out into the fresh air. He
deposited Strang's clothes five yards from his yellow door
and jogged away into the Chelsea night.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The two Surrey detectives reeled off the formula being
repeated by policemen at gun clubs and firing ranges
throughout the British Isles. 'Firearms survey . . . compiling
list of expert rifle users . . . some sort of list for
wartime emergencies . . . routine inquiry . . .'
'That's a tall order,' said Greg Rankin, who was
wearing blue overalls with rangemaster sewn in white
letters across his left breast. He handed them ear protectors
and said, 'Here, you'll need these while this bloke's
banging away. He's calibrating one of his weapons and I
have to supervise until he's finished.'
Five yards ahead, a man in khaki dungarees was
sprawled in the dirt, left leg braced out to the side. He
was swearing volubly at the long-barrelled rifle propped
up by his left forearm.
The range ran the length of an exhausted gravel pit.
To the detectives the butts in use seemed awesomely
distant. A black-and-white concentric circle was up. The
marksman took aim and measured off five shots. He
raised his head a fraction and watched as a small red disc
on a stick, held by invisible hands below ground level,
rose in the air.
The disc briefly touched three separate spots on the
target and was withdrawn. The gesture sent the marksman
into a paroxysm of cursing.
Rankin turned to the policemen and grinned. They
both lifted an earpiece to hear what he had to say. 'Either
of you two men ever take a firearms course?' They both
shook their heads. Rankin nodded at the man on the
ground, who was now bad-temperedly fiddling with a
small screwdriver and adjusting something on his
weapon. 'He's got a rogue shooter. Happens sometimes.
No matter what you do, it sprays rounds every which
way. He's trying to coax the bloody thing to place the
shots in one place. But he won't get it until he calms
down. When his body's shaking, how does he think he's
going to get the rifle to stay still?' He raised a cautionary
hand. 'Don't move. Wait here while I have a word with
him.'
They watched as Rankin walked forward, knelt alongside
the marksman and began sweet-talking him out of
his rage.
One detective raised his partner's earpiece and whispered,
'Reminds me of what the Guards officer had to
say about the beaches of Dunkirk: "My dear, the noise!
The people!"'
Half an hour later the detectives had finally managed
to get Rankin's attention. They sat inside the brick
clubhouse, with its steel doors and shutters and silent
intruder alarms.
Rankin said, 'We have members and we have day

bookings from visiting members of other clubs. The
problem is that the majority could be said to be rifle
proficient. We're talking a couple of hundred names.'
Detective Constable Fred Hall asked, 'Would it be
possible to fine-sift that number? Just give us the outstanding
names?'
Rankin shifted his legs off his desk and reached behind
him for the membership book. 'We can but try.' He
sighed.
After a laborious session that left the detectives as
bored as Rankin, they had a dozen possibles, all male.
'These are the real gravel-bellies,' said Rankin.
'Gravel-bellies?'
'Gravel's what you get in your belly button when
you've been lying out there in the dirt too long.' He
laughed.
Hall tapped his notebook. 'Of these men, are there
any whose skill makes them stand out even from the
others?'
'That's easy,' said Rankin. 'Captain Jack Boulder is
the star of stars. Queen's Prize competitor and all that.
He occupies a class of his own.'
'He's in the Army?' Hall and his colleague both
seemed disappointed.
'Correction,' said Rankin. 'He was. Took his bowler
hat a year or so ago.'
The detectives brightened. 'Tell us more,' encouraged
Hall.
'Jack has an extraordinary eye. Always did have. He
once let on that he had a shotgun licence at the age of
twelve. Mind you, proficiency with a shotgun doesn't
always translate into proficiency with a rifle, but Jack was
born to be a shooter. He used to go in for all that mystical
Zen Buddhist stuff - learning to breathe and achieving
self-forgetfulness.'
'How does that help?'
'Beats me. He used to carry around this little book
that said too much thought interfered with the aim at the
target. Calculation created miscalculation and so on. I
think he was trying to achieve some kind of advanced
mental discipline - a oneness with his weapon. You'll
have to excuse the psychobabble. I don't understand it
myself but you can't argue with the results.'
'Do you see him often?'
'He was a regular at one time, but tours of duty abroad
kept taking him away from us. A shame. Watching him
at his best was one of life's greatest pleasures. It was
sheer artistry.'
Rankin, with his bristle head, did not have the appearance
of a man given to lyricism. They were impressed.
'Ever see him these days?'
'As a matter of fact, his head appeared above the
parapet last winter. He was out there on the long range,
even in the snow. Sharpening up for the summer competition
round.'
'Is that what he told you?'
Rankin frowned at them. He caught their look of
scepticism. A touch bellicose, he said, 'Is there a reason
you shouldn't believe me?'
'Of course not,' said Fred Hall hurriedly. With his
long experience of interrogations, he knew it was time to
make a show of returning notebooks to pockets, as if the
interview was over. 'It's just that we have to make a
special list of the best shots. We have to be sure their
motives for using rifles are . . .' he searched for an
inoffensive word '. . . are pure. I think there's some kind
of recruiting campaign going on.'
'Oh, I see,' said Rankin, relaxing. 'Well you could try
me. I didn't get this job because I only handle peashooters,
you know.'
'About Boulder . . . ?' said Hall, delicately returning
to the subject.
'Super chap. Good-natured. A bit crazy like most of
us.'
'A bit crazy how?' said Hall, folding his arms comfortably
across his middle to remind Rankin that he was
taking no notes.
'Well, you know, Jack's a good man's man. Usually up
for a lark. I hear that's what got him into trouble with the brass.'
'Oh?'
'Yes. A bloody shame. I don't know the exact details but rumour has it he went AWOL and put the fear of God
into a bunch of Micks on the wrong side of the border.'
'The Irish border?'
'Yeah, where else but in bloody Ireland? I heard it was
just a prank but Jack had to resign. When he reappeared
in civvies this year, I offered him commiserations. He
didn't say too much, just that it could have been worse.'
'What do you think he meant by that?'
Rankin made a sour face. 'I suppose he meant they
could have court-martialled him. Court-martial for a
bloody prank! I think the British Army has had an
operation to remove its sense of humour.'
'What's Jack like - physically, I mean?'

'Big lug. In good shape. Women fancy him - lucky sod
- but I've never heard that he plays away from home.'
'He's married, then?'
'Yeah, with a couple of kids. Gorgeous wife.'
'What sort of age would he be now?'
Rankin reached for a box file. 'I can tell you that
precisely. like everyone else, he had to fill in a membership
form, giving his date of birth.' He went straight to
the Bs and said, after a moment of mental arithmetic,
'He's thirty-four.'
The two detectives drove until they were out of sight
of the clubhouse. 'Stop the car,' said Fred Hall. 'I want
to get down all that stuff about the Army before I forget
it. Our profile of the shooter might have been tailor
made for this guy Boulder. He definitely has to go into
the pot.'

Grace argued with the boys. Fearful of leaving them
alone, she wanted them to get into the now-clean Volvo
and accompany her on a shopping trip. 'Shopping's
boring,' said Ben. 'We're going out on the beach.'
'I don't mind going shopping,' whispered Malcolm,
still upset at what he had heard on the stairs the previous
evening. He wanted to be near his mother. 'We could get
some ice-cream.'
'Shut up!' hissed Ben. 'We've got our own plans.'
'Have we?'
Ben draped a friendly arm round his young brother's
neck, holding him back.
'We'll be all right,' promised Ben. 'We won't go near
the water.'
Grace hesitated, not knowing how to deliver another
kind of warning. 'Ben, look after your brother. If strange
people come to the house you're not to let them in or go
near them. Do you understand? They may be perfectly
harmless, but Daddy has had a quarrel with some people
in London and they may come here to make a nuisance
of themselves. It's not likely, but they may.'
Ben nodded. Some quarrel that needed his mum to
have a handgun, he thought. 'We'll stay away from the
house - stay out on the sands,' he said out loud.
They watched their mother drive away. 'We haven't
got any plans,' complained Malcolm. 'And we could
have played computer games in the mall.'
'Oh, yes, we do have plans,' said his brother, grimly.
'C'mon.' Ben, suddenly purposeful, ran back into the
house and up the stairs. Malcolm dragged after him. He
watched Ben lift their parents' bedroom door latch.
Malcolm said, shocked, 'We can't go in here! We're
not allowed!'
'Don't be so lame,' said Ben. 'We've got work to do.'
He strode boldly across the rugs on Grace's side of the
bed and opened her cabinet drawer.
As a result of their father's occupation and their own
introduction to the firing range, neither boy was inhibited
by firearms. Ben picked up the glistening Walther and
said, like a professional, 'Nice piece.'
Malcolm said, 'Mum'll kill us.'
'No, she won't,' said Ben. 'Weren't you listening last
night? It's other people who want to do the killing.'
Ben looked at his brother's frightened face. 'Don't be
such a miserable little turd. It's really good news for us.
They've been doing so much whispering, and Dad's been
away so much, I thought they were getting divorced. I
got that all wrong. The family's okay.'
'So what are you doing with the gun?'
'We're going to get in some target practice. Mum's
useless. Until last night I don't suppose she'd ever
touched a gun in her life. If there's going to be any
trouble, we'll protect her.'
Ben withdrew the box magazine competently and
inspected the rounds, the chamber and the barrel. He
slapped the magazine back home and handed his brother
the box of ammunition. 'Let's go.'
'She'll come back and catch us,' said Malcolm,
uncertainly.
'No, she won't,' said Ben, looking back to check that
their trainers had not left incriminating prints on the
floorboards. 'Shopping always takes her about two hours,



specially if she stops for a coffee. You should know.
You've been with her often enough.'
Ben led his brother back into their own bedroom. 'Put
your rucksack on,' he ordered. 'We'll carry the gear in
that.'
'Why me?' wailed Malcolm.
'Because who would suspect that a little kid like you is
going around with a 9mm handgun mixed up with his
school stuff?'
The two boys trudged along the sands until no one
else was in sight. 'What are we going to shoot at?' asked
Malcolm.
'This,' said Ben, draining the last drops from his Coke
can. He placed it on a groyne and retreated eight paces.
He took the Walther from Malcolm's backpack, adopted
a wide-legged stance and a two-handed grip as he had
been shown by his father, and took aim. The pistol jerked
upwards, left, but Ben corrected his aim and on the third
shot he sent the can flying. The sharp reports were lost
in the roaring sound of the sea.
'Wicked. Just like that man on Baywatch last week!'
said Malcolm. 'Can I have a go?'
The grip was too big for Malcolm's hands but Ben
said kindly, 'Just one. You won't hit anything but it
won't matter. Just as long as one of us can . . .'
Malcolm emulated his brother's stance, took aim with
an exaggerated closing of one eye, which he should have
kept open, and shot wide of the can. Just as his brother
had predicted.
'Bet I'll be able to hit it every time when I'm your age,'
said Malcolm.
Ben finished off the magazine and hit the target once
more to prove that the first time had not been a fluke.
'Let's get back. I've got to clean this up.'
When they got home Ben refilled the magazine from
the box of rounds while Malcolm boiled water to scald
the barrel. Ben took some dressing from the first-aid box,
impregnated it lightly with sewing-machine oil and found
a piece of twine to make a pull-through.
The weapon, clean, bright and slightly oiled, was back
in the bedside cabinet twenty minutes before their
mother returned. 'You're both looking suspiciously
angelic,' she said. 'What have you been up to?'
'Did you bring any ice-cream?' said Malcolm.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The meeting of the group at the home of Bulwer Tancred
and beneath the pebble-eyed gaze of Albert Pierrepoint
was not a happy one.
Tancred's customary air of cool cleverness had been
dented by his obvious perturbation. The team had listened
with disbelief to Rupert Strang's account of Jack's
visit.
Tancred's fists were clenched. 'This is appalling. The
wheels are coming off in this operation. We have
seriously underestimated Boulder,' he snapped. He
looked down the table at the subdued Strang. 'Did he
give any indication as to how he got on to you?'
Strang shook his head. 'None at all. And with that
pistol pointed at me I was in no position to insist on an
explanation. I did my best to keep him sweet. I told him
the heat was off him. I said we believed his version of
how Nancy died. I admitted frankly we'd made a blunder
trying to bump him off after he'd done such a splendid
job for us. I told him the money was his and he should
go off quietly and enjoy it.'
'And?'
'And it didn't wash. He appears to be more pissed off
at being taken for a patsy than he does at Nancy and
Peter's bungled attempts to kill him. I suppose it's
because, as a soldier, he was used to people trying to do
him in and not succeeding. He appears to have taken
that in his stride. What he really wants to know is why
we wanted Niven dead.'
Tancred snorted. 'It's none of his damn' business.'
'Try telling him that,' said Strang. 'And there's no
knowing what he'll do next.'
'First things first,' said Tancred. 'There's been a
serious breach of security. How else could Boulder have
got to you?'
Rafe Cummings said, 'It was that blasted report of
Nancy's death in the Telegraph. There was nothing wrong
with it in itself - it was immaculate of its kind, and the
right people were told without compromising security.
The culprit was the accompanying photograph. Boulder
must have spotted it. As you say, sir, he's much smarter
than we've allowed. He must have zeroed in on it,
recognized Nancy and put her together with Rupert.'
'Yes, it's the logical explanation,' conceded Tancred.
'But how did the Telegraph get that photo? I assume that
when Nancy joined the service she did the usual thing weeded
her school and college pictures, filleted the family
album?'
Cummings, as usual, had the answer. 'I rang the Telegraph's picture desk this morning, sir. I said I was
related and asked if I could purchase a copy. They
bounced me over to their picture library who said no can
do. The picture was a Country Life magazine copyright.
They had paid Country Life a fee for a single publication.
It's a portrait they took of Nancy when she was a deb.
She must have overlooked it.'
'Thus we get mighty consequences from minor circumstances,'
mourned Tancred. 'The question now is:
what next?'
'We kill him,' said Peter Hope-Casson.
'Yes. I believe that's becoming inevitable,' said Tancred
slowly. He turned to Strang. 'Did Boulder give any
indication that he might be a whistle-blower?'
cAs I recall, he reserved his position. He seems to have
only the haziest conception of where we, his erstwhile
employers, are from.'
'He said nothing about putting pen to paper?'
'Nothing.'
Tancred came to a decision. He slapped his pencil
down on the table, which bore no paper, no doodle-pads.
He said, 'We can't take a chance on this. If there's a
written history of the killing of Conrad Niven we have to
find it and destroy it. I'll draw up the operational plan.
The only thing we must not do at this stage is touch his
house. We leave Captain Boulder until last.'
Tancred's team began to vacate their seats. The meeting
was breaking up with a renewed sense of purpose.
But Tancred's voice stayed their departure for a moment.
'Rupert,' he said, looking expressionlessly down the
length of the table, 'so that we may sleep peacefully in
our beds tonight, I have to ask you formally. Did you under
duress, of course - tell Boulder why we needed
Conrad Niven dead?'
Strang froze. His lean face turned into a stone mask.
'I'm sorry you felt you had to ask me that question,
Bulwer. I told him in plain English that he would not get
it from me. Without actually inviting him to shoot me, I
made it abundantly clear that this would be his sole
option if he insisted on knowing.'
He swept icily from the room.


Chapter Thirty-Four

Commander Tom Ringrose and his French counterpart
were swapping titbits on the telephone. Victor Massillon
said, 'The investigation is staggering to an ignominious
halt at this end. We have been demoted to the inside
pages of Nice-Matin. Nothing could be more telling.
Cannes is losing interest and reverting to what it does
best - stealing money from the pockets of the innocent
tourist. Thirty-five francs for a coffee! I'm thinking of
heading back to Paris. This place is too rich for my
blood.'
'Any luck with the bullets?' asked the Englishman.
'It's not luck we need,' said Massillon. 'It's a vacuum
cleaner capable of sucking up half a square-kilometre of
seabed. No, my friend, they are now the property of the
fishes. And you?' he continued. 'What news from 22IB,
Baker Street?' It was Massillon's conceit that this was the
address from which Ringrose did his work.
'I'm down to the last two hundred and fifty suspects,'
said Ringrose drily.
'Is that all?' Massillon laughed.
'And that's just the men,' Ringrose added. 'We're
proceeding on the assumption that the sniper might as
easily have been the woman.'
'Would it not be wonderful,' said the Commissaire
dreamily, 'if you and I could prove that this was an all
American bounty-hunting exercise? Perhaps the Mafia.
We could dump the whole mess on the White House
lawn, sing "God Bless America", go home, watch television
and make love to our wives.'
They were speaking on a secure line. Ringrose said quietly, 'There is one oddity that has come to my notice,
Victor. No one has yet come forward to claim the money.
Have you heard anything about that from your people in
Tehran?'
Tve heard fuck all from either the Quai d'Orsay or the
Deuxieme Bureau. Even the FBI have been of more
help.'
Ringrose said hastily, 'You didn't hear this from me,
OK? I'm getting briefed via a back door. But why don't
you go to your intelligence people and ask the question
as if it had just occurred to you?'
'My friend, it did occur to me. How could you doubt
it?' Massillon adopted a tone of mock reproach. 'But the
answer is still the same. I got nothing. Which doesn't
mean I won't be giving those oily bastards at the Quai
another prod up the cul. Give my regards to Dr Watson,'
he said. He meant Lionel Firth.
Ringrose replaced the receiver. He should have known
better than to think Victor Massillon would have overlooked
the Tehran connection. He was a fox of the old
school.
Ringrose strolled into his incident room. He had
recruited a uniformed inspector to act as maestro of his
computer-search programme. Police forces all over Britain
were still feeding into their terminals the results of
their laborious local inquiries. No definitive analysis of
this material was yet possible.
Adrian Dawson was an information-technology freak.
Behind his back he was known, even by Ringrose who
had a healthy respect for his brainpower, as Dawson the
Dalek. He was young for an inspector, the holder of an
impressive maths degree from Cambridge, and on the
fast-track that had him earmarked for high rank in the
high-tech police service of the early twenty-first century.
Now he rushed forward to greet his boss, for whose
own computer - the one between his ears - Dawson also
had a healthy respect. Although whey-faced from too
much computer-time, he had the attractive, bouncy
personality of the dedicated enthusiast and was in his
true element when attempting to convert the technologically
challenged to the marvels of which his expensive
toys were capable.
Ringrose looking quizzically at a screen was enough
encouragement. Dawson moved in. 'Let me explain my
approach, sir,' he said, taking a swivel seat in front of a
screen. His fingers danced with butterfly pressure over
the keyboard, sending the monitor into a frenzy of
geometric patterns.
'It's as if you take each known fact about the suspect
and place it in a separate box - let's call it a red box.
Then you make a different type of box - call it blue and
feed in the details of each interview that has been
conducted either with or concerning a rifle-proficient
person.'
Dawson rubbed his hands as if anticipating a juicy
reward for this revelation. 'Now you're ready to ask the
computer any number of questions. The aim is to tease
from the blue boxes all the facts that match the facts in
the red box. The more you can match the facts in the red
box to a blue box, the more promising the blue box
becomes.'
A glazed Ringrose looked around desperately for
rescue and Lionel Firth rushed to his side. He gripped
Ringrose's arm melodramatically and hissed just loud
enough for Dawson to hear, 'Guv'nor, I must speak to
you urgently.' He had already experienced the coloured
box lecture.
Ringrose said, 'Sorry, Adrian. Just let me know when
the blue boxes have got the red box surrounded.'
'Oh, yes, sir. Of course. The moment it happens.' The
Dalek looked wistful, then bounced back momentarily.
'When you have time, sir, there's another stage . . . green
boxes . . .'
Ringrose waved a warmly insincere acknowledgement
of the offer as he retreated to the door.
'Lionel, lead me to a pint,' he said.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jack had played his first card, his opening shot - no, he
retracted hurriedly, not his opening shot. He had long
since passed that catastrophic point of no return. Strang
had been satisfactorily rattled and would have gone
scuttling back to Them with his message.

It crossed Jack's mind that he was duelling with two
pronouns: Them and They. In that amorphous condition
They were an unsatisfactory, vaporous, shifting target.
Alone in his house, lying in the dark, listening in his
imagination to the echoes of his faraway family, he'd had
much time for self-scourging and self-examination. He
knew now why he had to blunder on into the maze,
striving to penetrate the enigma, until he had put flesh
and substance on They and Them.
For his normal routines, Jack had reverted to using his
front door. If they wanted to shadow him to the shops
and to his workplace, let them waste their time. He
wondered what form their response would take.
It came three days later from an unexpected quarter.
He was shaving when his mother rang from Sidmouth.
She was sobbing, which was more than she had done
when his father had died. However, it was only after she
had been so uninterested in and unwelcoming to Grace
that he had admitted to himself that he did not love, or
even like, his own mother.
Looking back, he had come to realize how little time
she had devoted to him as a child. For a while there had
been a nanny and babysitters, followed by boarding
school, college and, of course, the Army. His prowess as
a marksman had meant little to her. She called it 'an
overgrown schoolboy's hobby'. On one of his rare off
days, when she had witnessed him achieve only runner
up for the Queen's Prize, she had not shared his bitter
disappointment. Instead, she'd had difficulty in preventing
her forced smile from degenerating into a contemptuous
sneer.
Jack wiped the soap from his chin and listened with no
great sympathy. Was her latest lover - an apologetic
dentist who had steered clear of Jack on his last visit to
Sidmouth a year ago - dead?
'Oh, Jack, you never saw such a mess. The place is
contaminated. I'll never be able to sleep in this house
again.'
Well, there's always the dentist's house. You've slept
there often enough, he thought callously.
He realized he had missed the beginning of her tale of
woe. 'What did you say has happened?'
'Burgled, Jack. I've been burgled. The swine have torn
the house apart. The damage is appalling. They've
smashed all the inside locks and ripped open the sofas,
cushions and mattresses. Jack, what on earth did they
expect to find here? They've made piles of my clothes
and things in the middle of the rooms. They've even
been up in the attic. One of them put his stupid foot
through my bedroom ceiling.'
Jack caught background voices. His mother turned
away from the phone and he could hear a distant babble
interrupted by her shrill sounds of outrage.
She returned to him, crying again. 'The evil bastards,
Jack! They've chiselled out the little safe that Daddy had
cemented into the wall at the back of our wardrobe. Oh,
Jack, they've got my jewellery.'
'Where were you?' said Jack. 'Are you hurt?'
'That's the peculiar thing,' she sobbed. 'The police they're
still here - say they went to lengths unheard of
around here to get us out of the house.'
Jack went cold. 'How do you mean?'
'We had a telephone call from a hospital in Bristol to
say Howard's mother - you met Howard, Jack - had
been taken in with a suspected stroke. They thought he
should be at her bedside. Well, you can imagine, he was
in a state.' His mother had abandoned all attempts to
conceal Howard's cohabitation. 'I said I'd drive. As we
were going out of the door he remembered he ought to
ring his sister. But our phone had gone dead.'

Her voice adopted a note of wonder. 'Jack, they
actually went to the trouble of cutting our phone line
after the call from the hospital. Well, as you must have
guessed, the whole thing was a cruel hoax to get us out
of the house. When we got to the hospital, they knew
nothing about any stroke. We rang Howard's mother at
home. She actually answered the telephone. She's fine.
The nice policeman here is flummoxed. He says big-time
thieves only employ those tactics when they're plundering
manor houses and places stuffed with valuable
antiques. They don't know what to make of it. They've
no idea what the thieves were after. The so-and-sos have
been through all of Daddy's papers and my letters.
They're scattered everywhere. What on earth did they
expect to find? Only the house deeds are of any real value
and they're still here.'
Jack raged silently. So that was the bastards' response
to his threat. They thought he might have left some
written account of the killing with his mother that would
blow their conspiracy sky-high.
They were also letting him know how far their tentacles
reached.
Jack suddenly had a shocking thought. Cutting across
his mother's keening voice, he said, 'I'm very sorry at
your news, Mother, but I'll have to get back to you later.'
'Jaaaack!' she wailed, but he was gone.
He rushed to the kitchen dresser where Grace kept
their address book and flipped through the pages. Her
parents lived in Wilmslow, near Manchester. He rapidly
punched in their number, mis-hit a button, cursed, and
punched again. Number unobtainable.
'Shit!' he said, and tapped 100 for the operator.
She came back to him after two intolerably stretched
minutes. 'I'm sorry, there's a fault on the line. I'll put
you through to the fault-reporting department.'
'Don't bother.'
He dropped the receiver back on the wall mount and
returned to the address book. Grace's parents were
elderly and she kept their neighbours' number in case of
an emergency. This was an emergency, all right, he
thought grimly, as he heard the ringing tone. Almost Instantly, thank God, the phone was picked up at the
other end.
A comforting, deep, no-nonsense Northern voice
answered. 'Swintonhere.'
'Mr Swinton, this is Jack Boulder. You know, the Jack
married to Grace - Grace Turnbull as was.'
Horace Swinton took a moment to digest this information.
Then his cheery voice came down the line: 'Aye,
lad. This is a surprise. How is little Gra--'
Jack cut in desperately, 'Mr Swinton - Horace - please

don't think me rude, but would you go to your front
window right away and tell me if you can see any sign of
Grace's parents?'
There was a puzzled silence, then Horace Swinton
said,'Half a tick, lad.'
Jack danced from foot to foot, breathing heavily as if
he'd run a mile. Then he heard Horace fumbling for the
handset. 'They're just getting into their car. You're going
to need to be a bit sharpish if you want a word.'
Jack had to stop himself yelling, 'Horace, go back to
the window and shout to them. Whatever you do, don't
let them leave!'
Horace Swinton started to say something at this extraordinary
breakfast-time outburst, but registered the
urgency in Jack's voice and thought better of it. 'Hang
on,' he said briefly, and went away.
After an agonizing few seconds, Jack heard him bellowing.
For a man of his age he still had impressive lung
power.
'Come on! Come on!' Jack urged silently.
After a pause, Horace Swinton's stertorous breathing
grew louder and louder and then he was puffing directly
into the mouthpiece. 'Don't go away, lad,' he said
unnecessarily. 'I'm just going downstairs to let Grace's
folks in. They seem to be in a bit of a lather.'
There was another long pause and then Grace's mother's
voice. She was crying, 'Jack! Jack! Please, dear God,
don't tell me my Gracie's dead.'
'Milly!' shouted Jack. 'Calm down. Listen to me!
Listen to me. No one is dead. There's nothing wrong
with Grace. She's not ill. She's not been in an accident.
No matter what you've been told, she's one hundred per
cent okay.'
Milly Turnbull abruptly ceased weeping. She was
bewildered. 'But the call from the hospital
Jack said firmly, 'You've been the victim of a vicious
hoax. You know where she is in the country. Give her a
ring yourself but please don't worry her by mentioning
this little incident.'
'Little?' Milly said, on a rising note of indignation.
'This is the nastiest thing I ever heard. Who would do
such a wicked thing?'
Then, suspiciously, she lowered her voice and said,
'Are you and Grace speaking to each other? You seem to
be spending an awful lot of time apart.'
'Milly, I swear to you that Grace and I and the boys
all love each other very much - and we love you and
Arthur. This hoax was none of my doing, but I got to
know about it in time to prevent it going any further.'
Milly was only half listening to him. She had turned
away to reassure her agitated husband standing at her
side.
Jack said, 'Put Arthur on the line.'
Grace's father said, 'Is this true, Jack - Grace is all
right? There's been no accident?'
'Perfectly all right, Arthur. Now, listen to me very
carefully. The people who made that call to you this
morning are the same people who played a similar trick
on my mother down in Devon yesterday. Only she wasn't
so lucky. She fell for it, and while she was driving to and
from the hospital during the night, they ransacked her
house. They intended giving you the same treatment.'
'I don't follow,' said Arthur Turnbull. 'What the hell
can they be after? If a pawnbroker came to look round
our house, he'd just laugh.'
'They're after a secret paper to do with my Army
service that they think I've written and maybe left for
safe-keeping with my nearest and dearest.'
Jack could almost see his father-in-law scratching the
bristle of his steel-grey head. 'What's in this paper?'
'There is no paper,' said Jack. 'They just think there's
a paper. Although I'm beginning to think there ought to
be a paper.'
This convolution was too much for Arthur Turnbull
to absorb. He was now deeply perplexed. 'About what?'
'Something I can't talk about.'
'Oh, it's like that, is it? Hush-hush? I hope you're not
getting our Gracie into bother, Jack. I'd never forgive
you--'
'Arthur, I give you my solemn oath, I'd never let
anyone harm a hair of her head.'
'Or the little lads?' The old man sounded as if he were
getting ready to march south at the head of a company
of the Lancashire Fusiliers.
'Or the lads,' swore Jack.
His father-in-law was mollified. 'Now, Jack, do you
want me to contact the police? This is a bad business. If
what you tell me is true, these characters can't be far
away.'
Jack pondered. Could Milly and Arthur be in any
physical danger? He dare not rule it out. The bastards
could be sitting just round the corner, waiting for them
to leave the house.
He said slowly, 'Let's do it like this. Tell the police
you had a hoax call. Tell it just the way it happened.
You'll find that your phone line has been cut, but let the
police find that out for themselves. Tell them you rang
me from an outside phonebox before you set out for the
hospital in case I'd left a message for you on the
answering machine. That's important: I didn't ring you.
Even more important, you must insist on police protection
while there's a chance the burglars are still in the
vicinity.'
The silence on the line was deafening. His father-in- law was a canny man. He sensed the subtext of Jack's
speech, which spelt danger. He said, 'I don't know, Jack.
You folks down in London get up to some funny capers.
How did these buggers get on to us, of all people?'
Jack recalled Rupert Strang's world-weary words: 'We
had a work-up done of your life - your profile, if you
like.' He wondered how many generations back into his
past they had delved, rooting out a history of which he
himself was only dimly aware.
He said, 'I don't know. But it isn't difficult to guess.
They get marriage certificates, that sort of thing . . .'
Grace's father said shrewdly, 'That place you've sent
the family to - is that to keep them out of harm's way?'
'Yes,' said Jack bluntly, and without elaboration.
'You'd better be sure you're doing the right thing, lad.
And you'd better get yourself dug out of whatever
shithole you're up to your neck in. No names on the
phone, but are they the same fellows you upset the year
before last?'
'Yes,' said Jack. It was as good a lie as any.
There was no satisfactory way of ending the conversation.
'Keep your head down,' said Arthur gruffly.
'You too,' said Jack.
It was another two days before Jack spotted a report in his local weekly newspaper that his solicitors at Shepherd's
Bush Green had been burgled. The office safe had
been expertly opened by a genuine cracksman and
ransacked.
'You don't see work like that any more,' a police
inspector had said, almost with regret. 'Safe-crackers today
have no time for finesse. They either blow the back off or
take a pickaxe to them. This bloke was a real craftsman.'
'We bugged and burgled our way across London.' The
words were unforgettable. And Jack remembered that
they had been said by an old MI5 man about a time
when he and his will-o'-the-wisp co-conspirators, all
servants of the State, had attempted in the sixties to
destabilize the elected government of the United Kingdom.
On that scale, Jack knew he was merely an irritant
blip on the screen.
He gritted his teeth. At least he was still holding off
the phantoms.

Chapter Thirty-Six

It is not true that criminals return to the scene of the
crime. However, like pyromaniacs craving the heat of
flames, they become drawn to less hazardous manifestations
of their exploits: the activity outside the police
station, the throng of neighbours and ghouls jamming
the street outside the victim's home, the comings and
goings of the television crews with their space-age equipment,
promising exciting glimpses of the star reporters
they see on the news bulletins every evening.
The compulsion was about to entrap Betty Bentinck.
Although a British passport holder, Conrad Niven had
been compelled, by virtue of the parlous state of the
home film industry, to work in Los Angeles, which is
where his body had been flown after the French authorities
had completed their post-mortem examinations
and released it. The mortuary staff returned his organs
to approximately their original sites, tugged the detached
skin and hair back over the bare dome of his skull and
crudely stitched up the savage Y-shaped incision where
the police pathologist had fruitiessly rooted around for
bullet fragments.
The sensitive Beverly Hills mortician who, with practised
reverence, received the coffin off a Boeing 747 at





210
211

LAX had shuddered delicately at the sight of the
brutally invaded corpse. It had taken the highest cosmetic
skills to restore poor Niven to a semblance of his living
self.
Hollywood was determined to give their murdered son
the send-off of a prince. Gregory Peck read the lesson,
Sir Anthony Hopkins recited Dylan Thomas, and Lord
Attenborough gave an address. Jack Nicholson, Keanu
Reeves, Brad Pitt and the three Baldwin brothers were
among the honorary pall-bearers.
Interment followed at a cathedral-sized mausoleum in
the heart of old Hollywood, where the elaborate casket
was slid into a concrete pigeon-hole and a marble slab,
suitably inscribed, cemented over the opening.
That should have been that, but Los Angeles is infested
by some of the sharpest and most inventive British and
Australian reporters on earth. And one had a stunt in
mind. He waited for two days after the funeral and went
into action. He hired a young actress for a day's work,
and sent her to a theatrical costumier to be fitted with a
black lace dress and matching veiled hat. Then he drove
her to the cemetery. His proposed stunt was inspired by
the legend of the Lady in Black, who for many years had
placed each week a red rose in the little metal flower
holder fixed to the nearby tomb of Rudolph Valentino,
the silent screen's Latin lover.
The reporter was about to give birth to a new legend,
with accompanying photographs, at the tomb of the
young British director who had been both handsome and
a lover of many women.
On entering the echoing mausoleum he discovered an
obstacle to the successful execution of his plans. A Lady
in Black was already in situ. She was weeping, with one
slender hand pressed passionately against Niven's marble

plaque. The reporter could not believe his ears or his
good fortune. She was crying, 'Forgive me! Forgive me!'
The reporter looked around wildly. Had some other
fucking journo scooped him? But no one else was there.
He stared wide-eyed at the genuine article.
True, her clothes were subdued rather than black and
diere was no veil but - God was smiling on him - she
was actually holding a dozen red roses.
Heartlessly abandoning his counterfeit Lady, he crept
forward and took aim. The searing white-out of the
camera flash in the churchlike gloom made her jump and
scream. She wheeled round, Instantly took in her predicament
and ran. Unfortunately, she had to pass the
reporter on the way out and was wearing high-heeled
shoes. He had exposed almost a roll of 35mm colour film
of her before she reached her car. As she slammed the
door, she made the reporter even happier. She shouted
at him, 'No comment! No comment! I've already told
the FBI all I know.'
He watched her skid out of the gates. He knew the
face. It was that actress from Girl Agents of the FBI. What
was her name?
He checked the cast list and developed his pictures.
Then he presented himself at the Beverly Glen offices of
Betty Bentinck's agent, ready to twist arms. The agent
said he'd get back to him. The reporter said it had better
be before the end of business today.
The agent, a realist, listened to Betty's story on the phone. He was angry with her for having kept him in the
dark but hid it. Don't get mad, he told himself, get cash.
He said, 'He's got you by the beaver. If he has to do it
the hard way, you'll get smeared. Co-operate and he
promises a sympathetic story.'
'God! What shall I do? The FBI told me to keep my
mouth shut.'
'Fuck the FBI. Don't ask what you can do for the FBI;
ask what the FBI can do for you. The publicity could be
mega. There could even be an HBO docudrama in it with
you playing yourself.'
'You honestly think so?'
The agent sat back in his chair, talking into the headset
that left his hands free to write, drink coffee, punch his
laptop and throw heavy objects at his male secretary. 'I
honestly think so. I'll fix for you two to meet - under my
supervision in this office, of course - at ten in the a.m.
tomorrow. He's pond scum but I'll make sure I have on
tape his assurances of a fair shake.'

Jack Boulder jogged round to the newsagent's to pick up
the Sunday papers. Betty's winsome face stared out of
the rack, star admits: i helped killers niven murder
- FILM STAR SHOCK KILLER IS BRITISH, REVEALS STAR.
Jack gathered up everything Sunday journalism had to
offer and hurried home. Under the shrieking headlines,
Betty's account was much as it had happened, although
Jack flushed to find himself described in fulsome terms
that left little doubt that she had seen him as a sex object.
She had Used the word 'stud' several times, which Grace
was definitely not going to like.
He noted that she had discreetly left her liaison with
Sidney Zuckerman out of the narrative and that Jack had
paid her ten thousand pounds for her impersonation of
Jane Canning. In Betty's version, she had done it 'for
kicks'.
The hunt was on, the newspapers informed their
reading millions, for a husband-and-wife assassination
team - and had switched to Britain. She was quoted as
saying, 'I think I was falling in love with him. That's why
I behaved without thought of the consequences.'
Jack assumed at first that this was a reporter inventing
a purple passage for her. Then he changed his mind. He
could still hear her claiming, 'I'm not from Oshkosh.'
Well, if she could wriggle out of trouble by telling a
few lies, good luck to her - even though it did mean
further stormy weather for him with Grace.

But Betty's debut as a media star did not please Ringrose.
Until now, the focus of the investigation had been on the
South of France and Ringrose's people had been working quietly, away from the glare of media attention.
The newspapers were still energetically sniffing out
Iranians and trying for interviews with Conrad Niven's
Special Branch minders, who were awaiting disciplinary
hearings.
Now Ringrose was centre-stage and everyone would
be on his neck for instant solutions - the press, TV, MPs,
Conrad Niven's high-profile relatives.
The phone rang just as Helen was clearing the breakfast
plates. The family always had the full, sit-down
breakfast on Sundays to compensate for the pell-mell
chaos during the week. Helen came back into the room.
'It's Peter Lancing of the Daily Mail.'
The circus was starting already, Ringrose threw down
his napkin. How was it that every time he ordered a new
ex-directory number Lancing found it? 'Tell him I can't
talk to him now,' said Ringrose.
Helen came back again. 'He says he has something
important to tell you.'
An old reporter's trick. 'Oh yeah? Tell him to tell it to
the Press Bureau. I'm having my breakfast.'
He heard Helen deliver the brush-off and hang up.
She came back and said, 'He says he'll catch you some
other time.' She turned to their two daughters. 'Daddy's
got his grumpy boots on this morning. So don't go near
his cage.'


Chapter Thirty-Seven

Ringrose was still grumpy when he reached his office on
Monday morning. Dawson the Dalek's electronic blue
boxes were now bloated with information concerning
citizens of the United Kingdom who had at any time in
their lives displayed noteworthy skill with a rifle.
His computers whirred into action, eliminating old
soldiers, the infirm, a couple of circus performers who
had been compelled to confess that their uncanny skills
with single shots owed more to hollowed bullet cases
packed with tiny lead shot than to a deadly eye for hitting
tossed coins with a single undoctored bullet.
The computers churned on, inexorably rejecting men
and women outside the target age group, shooters whose
physical attributes clashed markedly with the video
images of Mr and Mrs Canning, those who could prove
beyond a doubt that they had been anywhere but at the
Cannes Film Festival between the relevant dates.
With the aid of opticians' information fed to his boxes,
Inspector Dawson was also able to eliminate a further
group whose eyesight was no longer up to the job.
One by one, his blue boxes began to surround his
'control' red box. The names emerging then underwent
a further, even more vigorous, scrutiny by the computer.
And eventually, inevitably, out spewed the name of
John a.k.a. Jack Gordon Boulder, aged thirty-four.
Dawson took over a monitor, furiously tapped in
repeated challenges to the outcome, and was finally
satisfied with what the screen was telling him. He green
boxed John Gordon Boulder and ordered a print-out.
Ringrose sat in his office, moodily working through a
stack of please-call messages. The one from the Daily
Mail went straight into the bin. He looked up to find
Inspector Dawson tapping discreetly on his open door.
He was carrying a concertina of paper with perforated
edges. He looked inordinately pleased with himself.
'Got something for me?'
Dawson crossed the regulation carpet to Ringrose's
desk almost at a trot. 'I truly believe I have, sir. Take a
look at this.' He placed the print-out on Ringrose's
blotter. 'This is the only green-boxed name to emerge so
far.'
'Green-boxed?'
'Green for Go, sir. As I was trying to explain a few
days ago. It's the last stage of the computer search.'
'This is a body we can put in the frame? A front
runner?'
'Yes, sir. Way out in front.'
Using his fingers as a comb, Ringrose brushed back his
forelock and stared dubiously at the wad of computer
paper. Like most traditional thief-takers, he had come reluctantly to the electronic age. The computer could not
look into a man's face and notice the twitching cheek
muscle, the avoided gaze and the sweat beginning to
form on the upper lip. It could not hear his voice tremble
or see the nervous glance at the friend - the glance
betraying that they shared a guilty secret.
Yet Ringrose was no foolish technophobe. Computerized
information had lifted a massive burden of dogged
routine searching and comparison of crime patterns from
the shoulders of his detectives.
He said to Dawson, 'Come round to this side of the
desk, Inspector. Pull up a chair and run me through this
stuff.'
Dawson rushed to obey. He pointed at the first fold of
the concertina. 'Here we have a man who meets all
criteria. He's the right age, right physique and, by
widespread consent, an outstanding shot - a Bisley
competitor who was once runner-up for the Queen's
Prize.'
'Any alibi?' Ringrose was becoming interested.
'Only a very loose one. During the control period, he
says he was either at work - he manages a gun club - or
taking a holiday at home. No attempt has been made as
yet to confirm this with his wife. She'll almost certainly
support her husband, regardless of the truth.'
'Yes,' agreed Ringrose. 'Wives' testimony isn't worth
a damn.'
Dawson's excitement was building. He refolded the
concertina to a fresh section. 'Now here's an interesting
incident. When he was interviewed at his place of work,
he willingly supplied the investigating officers with club
members' names but was extremely shy about revealing
his own prowess. In fact, he failed to mention it at all
until he was reminded by a Detective Sergeant Munday.'
'Innate modesty?'
'Perhaps, sir. But only perhaps.'
Dawson flipped over a few more folds. Ringrose said,
'Wait one moment, Dawson. I want Lionel Firth in on
this.' They waited while Ringrose's number two was
found. Crisply Ringrose brought him up to date.
The computer expert, now seated between the two
detectives, continued. 'There are further encouraging
factors. Remember the American actress's obvious sexual
attraction for the male suspect? Now look at this.'
His finger ran along a line of Greg Rankin's statement.
' "Women fancy him,"' he read out.
'So?' said Ringrose. 'I'm sure women fancy Lionel
here. But that doesn't make him a killer.'
'Ah!' said Dawson, raising a pedagogic finger. 'But

what about this?' The finger found another line in
Detective Constable Fred Hall's report. Dawson read,
'"Question: Ever see him these days? Answer: Last
winter he was even out there in the snow. Sharpening up
for the competition round."'
'So?' said Ringrose, once more the devil's advocate. 'If
he's Bisley class he'll naturally be keeping in practice.'
Dawson's supreme moment had arrived. He paused
for maximum effect. 'I can find no evidence, sir, that he
is entered for a single rifle-shooting competition in the
United Kingdom this year. Not one. And we have
checked with all major sporting organizations in that
field.'
'Well,' conceded Ringrose, glancing thoughtfully to
catch Firth's reaction, 'that is interesting. Do you have
any other titbits for us?'
Dawson said quietly, 'Boulder did not use his credit
card from the second of May until the twenty-fourth. Yet
he is a consistent regular user of his card - a Visa - for
small purchases. Since he began using it eight years ago,
there has never been a blank period of anything
approaching three weeks in his monthly account.'
Firth broke in. 'What about the purchases on either
side of the gap? Did he buy anything abroad?'
Dawson shook his head. 'No. All his buying has been
of a domestic nature - petrol, food and so on - in
England. In fact, his credit-card record shows he hasn't
been off this island for more than eighteen months.'
'Where was he before that?' asked Ringrose.
'Northern Ireland. Which brings me to the next point.
Boulder was a serving Army officer there but abruptly
resigned his commission. He was a substantive captain but, if Rankin, the rangemaster, is to be believed, he left
under a cloud, due to what he describes as "a lark" that
misfired.'
'Do we have Boulder's records from the Ministry of
Defence?'
The computer wizard coughed. 'Far be it for me to
think unworthy thoughts, sir, but I suspect our khaki
friends are being less than candid.'
'How so?'
'This record' - he flicked the print-out contemptuously
- 'is only remarkable for what it omits. They have sent
us the completely pedestrian account of recruitment,
training, qualifications, progress through the ranks, commanding
officers' comments and so forth. His resignation
is noted with regret, but without any further comment.
There is no mention of larks or misbehaviour. This
record has been through the laundry. His various commanding
officers' reports lift the curtain a little. Boulder
was very popular with both fellow officers and his men.
He did his stuff to everyone's satisfaction during the Gulf
War, was admired for his marksmanship because it
brought prestige to the regiment. One CO notes that he
has a tendency towards a certain recklessness and impetuosity,
but does not provide any evidence for this - which
may, of course, have been removed from the papers sent
to us. What there is only goes part of the way towards
confirming Rankin's summing up of Boulder as "a bit
crazy".'
Dawson had finished. The three men sat still, eyes
focused on the white concertina. Finally, Ringrose suggested,
'Perhaps there's no mystery at all about his
resignation. He might have done it out of disappointment
with his chances of ever sewing those red tabs onto his
uniform.' He turned to Firth. 'Have another go at the
MOD. Tell them we want everything they've got on
Captain Boulder - and tell them we want it on the
double. That's the language they understand.' He fell
silent again. Then he said, 'When does the City of
London firearms control officer next make his routine
inspection of that gun club?'
Dawson said tentatively, 'If you care to log-on to your
terminal, sir, perhaps I can help . . .'
Ringrose tapped in his password to gain entry and
Dawson leaned over him to punch up the City of London
police records. He accessed the firearms files and began
scrolling a list up the screen. Finally, he said, 'It's not
due until next November, sir.'
'Damn,' said Ringrose. 'If we go in prematurely, he'll
know something's up - if, indeed, he's our man.' He
thought for a moment. 'Do we have his picture yet? No?
Then put someone discreet with a long lens onto him,'
he instructed Firth. 'You can tell our snapper that if
Boulder spots him he'll have a job for life photographing
the bodies the river police fish out of the Thames. And
another thing. Lionel, I want you to find me a firearms
officer with a bit of nous and place him undercover as a
member of that club. He might just get lucky.'
The three men went back to the beginning of the
material that Dawson had gathered and, line by line,
began to examine once again the known facts concerning
the life of John Gordon Boulder.
Ringrose carefully dissected the report compiled by
Munday and Bellew, the only two policemen who'd had
face-to-face contact with the man.
After several minutes of silent study, he said, 'You'll
notice an apparent attempt by Boulder to mislead
Munday and Bellew. He never placed his own skill at
anything beyond "handy". He gave the distinct
impression to them that he had not touched a rifle since
his Army service. He made no mention of refreshing his
marksmanship last winter. Instead, he quite cleverly
switched the conversation to the inadequacy of the range
he manages.'
Firth said, 'Would it help if we took his deputy
manager, Joseph Carsby, aside for a quiet chat?'
'No. Hands off him,' replied Ringrose immediately.
'He's also a former Army man. His loyalty will be to
Boulder. He'll be about as reliable as a wife. If we front
him up at this stage, he'll go running straight to Boulder.
But one thing's for sure. Thanks to the Inspector here we
have a name at last. I think we're on to something.'
The two detectives both shook Dawson's hand
warmly, sending the Dalek downloading into electronic
heaven.
An hour later Firth poked his head round Ringrose's
door. He made a sour face. 'The MOD say we have all
there is on Jack Boulder. I mentioned the larks and the
"leaving under a cloud" stuff and they said they didn't
know what I was talking about. They said it must be idle
barrack-room gossip and we should ignore it.'
'Really,' said Ringrose, tightening his lips. He'd had
experience of Whitehall obduracy and various government
ministries' jealous guarding of their own turf. 'Get
me the name of the officer who signed Boulder's discharge
papers.'

General Sir Francis Cashin settied Ringrose into an
armchair of ancient cracked leather and signalled to the
bar steward for two snifters of brandy. He was a small,
wiry man with a penetrating gaze that must, in its time,
have intimidated whole cadres of junior officers.
The steward placed the snifters on the table between
them, together with some bottled soda water. The General
unscrewed the cap and said, 'Splash?' Ringrose
nodded. 'Damn bottles,' grumbled the General. 'Do you
remember when we had proper soda siphons - lovely
glass bottles with silver tops that made a most satisfying

hiss when you pressed the lever? Somehow, that sound
was a vital ingredient of a correctly poured brandy-and-
soda.'
Ringrose, who did not remember any such thing,
offered a placatory, 'I know just what you mean,
General.'
General Cashin lifted his glass. 'It's a pleasure to meet
you, Commander. I remember well your handling of that
beauty queens business. A first-class piece of work. It
was a great sadness to the Army, you know, the involvement
of those three misguided officers.'
Ringrose made an apologetic face. 'Yes, General. I was
sorry it had to be them. Which, unfortunately, leads me
to another matter involving an Army officer, this time
one who was under your command.'
General Cashin shot him a keen look from under
bushy eyebrows. 'I see from the papers that you're in
charge of the UK end of the hunt for the killer of that
film chap.'
'Yes, sir, and our inquiries have raised questions
concerning a former captain named John Gordon
Boulder.'
'Ho-ho!' said the General like a pantomime villain. 'Is
that boy in trouble?' and, without waiting for an answer,
added, 'I'm not surprised.'
Ringrose said, 'The MOD have let us see his records,
which are not particularly revealing. They insist they've
shown us everything but my officers have found witnesses
who suggest he left the Army under a cloud. If that's so,
I don't understand why none of it's written into the
record.'
'Ah, I see,' said General Cashin, gently replacing his
glass on the table.
Ringrose watched the sharp face close down and turn
wary.
After a moment, the General asked, 'Is this inquiry
absolutely essential to your investigation?'
"The only honest answer is that I don't know. But I
suspect that it is.'
The General leaned forward and looked around to
confirm that nobody but Ringrose was within earshot. "I
want your word, Commander, that what I tell you will
not later be attributed to me in any way, shape or form.'
'You have it, sir,' said Ringrose instantly.
'Good. Because if what I tell you ever becomes public
knowledge, there would be an unholy row. The Government
would be seriously compromised by what was the
cover-up of a scandal engineered by a great many people
from me downwards - and from the Northern Ireland
minister upwards to who-knows-who. Our justification
was that we desperately needed to maintain good relations
with the Dublin government. It was a case of
turning Nelson's blind eye to a lesser evil to serve the
greater good.'
The General finished his brandy with one deep swig
and laid out for Ringrose the full story of Jack Boulder's
unauthorized one-man mission across the border into the
Irish Republic to avenge fallen comrades.
'If we'd court-martialled him or - horror of horrors handed
him over to Dublin to stand trial in a civilian
court, just think of the propaganda victory for the IRA the
millions of dollars that would have flowed into their
funds from those fools who live in America and call
themselves Irish even though they've never been near the
benighted place. In wartime I'd have been pinning a
medal on Captain Boulder's chest. But, as it was, I was
obliged to hand him his bowler hat.'
Ringrose could feel the goose pimples rising on his
arms and neck. Boulder's profile was perfect.
The General added, "I liked Boulder - what little I
knew of him personally. But he was a bloody fool to take
out McGurk. We'd have got that gentleman sooner or
later by more orthodox means. But Boulder's blood was
up and he just couldn't stop himself. Kicking him out
was the least we could do in the circumstances.'
Ringrose said. 'You say his blood was up. But, in your
opinion, would he also be capable of killing in cold
blood?'
The General snorted. 'He's a trained soldier. The
temperature of his blood is an irrelevance. Captain
Boulder is capable of killing full stop. Amongst combat
soldiers, the sniper enjoys a unique privilege. He sees a
head pop up, he fires, the head disappears. He rarely has
to view at close range the results of his handiwork. He
doesn't have to have his mind disturbed by the sight of
blood and gore.
'There's something extremely clinical about successful
snipers. They keep their hands clean. They send death
by long-distance mail, as it were. During the Winter War
the Russians ill-advisedly conducted against the
Finns before the Second World War, there was one chap
- a farmer turned sniper - who was credited with having
left dead in the snow an incredible five hundred or more
Red Army troops. I'd wager mat the fellow never lost a
night's sleep over it. If he had, he'd never have scored
that many not out. He'd have been retired, unfit for
duty, long before.'
General Cashin leaned forward and said deliberately,
'I believe Captain Boulder is just such a man.'

Chapter Thirty-Eight

'Boulder's profile fits so snugly that it's almost too
perfect,' said Ringrose. He and Firth were seated in
Ringrose's room, studying the wet prints of the photographs
taken earlier in the day of Jack Boulder emerging
from a lunchtime sandwich bar in the City. It was late
and few of Ringrose's team were still toiling in the outer
office. Even Dawson had gone for the night.
Firth held the print alongside the best of the bunch
taken from the Hotel Berthier's security cameras. Their
eyes went back and forth from Boulder to 'Mr Canning'.
'Body size and shape look right,' said Firm. 'Pity about
that blasted Panama.'
'Deliberate,' grunted Ringrose. 'He knew what he was
doing. The American producer said he didn't take it off
ever, not even in the lift or elevator as he called it.'
Firth said, 'Do we give him a tug?'
'There's nothing at this moment I'd like to do more,'
said Ringrose. 'Roar up to his drum, break down the
door and grab him while he's eating his supper. The
problem is, what happens then? He's had more than
enough time to clear his house of anything incriminating
- assuming anything was there in the first place. Then
he'll shout for his lawyer and give us his impersonation
of the three wise monkeys. We can't nick a man because
he didn't use his credit card for a few weeks.' He went
on, 'Lionel, I Want you to arrange round-the-clock
surveillance. I want to know about his financial position
 the usual checks for unexplained sums of money - and
I want to know about his family and friends, especially
any who claim to have seen him in May.'
The Commander held out his hands and began to
make squeezing motions, the fingers slowly closing into
the palms. 'I'm still trying to get a feel for this chap.
Let's you and me take a little drive down to Shepherd's
Bush and have a run by his house.'
Firm was surprised at the suggestion but resisted
glancing at his watch. They took a nondescript car from
the pool. It was a fine early June evening but the sun was
already down and the light was starting to go by the time
they found Jack Boulder's street.
They stopped at the corner of Hellespont Road. Ringrose's
eye roved over an urban landscape of little
distinction. The houses were late-Victorian, most semidetached
with small front gardens, some of which had
been converted into parking spaces. The larger houses,
he judged from the plethora of door intercoms and bell
pushes, were in multiple occupation.
Boulder's was not one of them. His was a storey
shorter. A downstairs light would seem to indicate that
the object of their interest was at home. The front garden
had not been obliterated like so many of the others along
the street, but it was showing signs of neglect. It was not
the habitation of a man who had just earned himself a
million pounds in bounty money.
Firm drove slowly to the end of Hellespont Road and
Ringrose said, 'Let's go round again.' Firm turned left
and left again. He said, 'These streets all look alike. You
couldn't tell the difference if it weren't for the name
plaques.'
They halted once more at the corner. Despite the
fading light, a handful of householders was still enjoying
the mild evening and pottering in their garden patches.
A youth tinkered with his motorcycle, and half-way down
the three-hundred-yard stretch of the street a mixed
group of teenagers eddied and flirted.
On the way back to Victoria to pick up their own cars,
Ringrose was thoughtful and made little conversation
with his second-in-command. Something was nagging at
him. He arrived home still mildly disturbed, a mood that
persisted through supper with Helen and the girls. They
recognized the all-too-familiar signs: Daddy has a problem.
They knew better than to distract him.
Ringrose fell asleep, leaving his subconscious to grapple
with a shapeless worry. The answer came at four in
the morning. He woke with a start and sat up. 'It's the
trees! The bloody trees!' he said into the darkness of the
bedroom.
Helen rolled away from him and groaned into her
pillow. 'Bugger the trees. You're having a nightmare,
Tom. Go back to sleep.'
Ringrose did as he was told - happily.
'It's the trees,' repeated Ringrose next morning to
Firth, who waited patiently for the explanation of his
guv'nor's animation.
'The trees along both sides of Boulder's street have
been pollarded - cut back to reduce the new foliage,'
said Ringrose.
'Yes, they're London planes,' said Firth helpfully,
casting his mind back to his view of Hellespont Road on
the previous evening. 'Did I miss something?'
'We both missed it,' said Ringrose. 'We drove in a box
shape, taking in three other streets. You said yourself you
couldn't tell one from the other, apart from the names.
The houses were identical. The pavement trees were all
the same type - London planes, as you say.'
'Right,' said Finh, still puzzled.
'But there was a difference. The planes in the other
three streets were in full summer growth with masses of
leaf. They had not been pollarded. Why?'
'Perhaps they didn't need it,' said Firm.
'Exactly,' said Ringrose, leaving him none the wiser.
He shifted to a new tack. 'You're busy setting up the
surveillance on Boulder. Right?'
'The team is almost complete.'
'They'll find it helpful that Jack Boulder doesn't have
a huge leafy mass in front of his house to obscure their
view.'
'Yes, sir. That's a piece of good luck.' Ringrose seemed
to be making a meal out of a minor example of happenstance.
'Is it luck?'
'I don't follow.'
Ringrose asked pedantically, 'Why should Boulder's
street get a special tree-trimming treatment? I want you
to go personally to the borough council, sort out the
officer responsible for the trees on the highways and ask
that very question.'
Firth's face registered the uncertainty of a man given
an incomplete briefing.
'Lionel, trust me on this. I have an awful suspicion,
growing bigger by the hour, that you and I are not going
to like the answer one little bit.'
Ringrose's aide was too wise in the ways of his master
to challenge the instincts that had proved so uncanny in
past cases. He located Fred Manners, the borough arboricultural
officer, a Wiltshire man transposed uncomfortably
to the cement fields of the big city, supervising
remedial treatment for an ailing elm in a tiny park off the
Goldhawk Road. The ruby face that topped a portly
body was alive with suspicion. He studied Firm's warrant
card closely, walked to the car and checked that the
uniformed driver seemed to be a genuine copper, asked

for his card and requested that an increasingly exasperated
Firth hold a two-way conversation over the Metropolitan
Police Radio with a dispatcher to prove
conclusively who he was.
'Even now I'm not sure I ought to be having a
conversation with you, said Manners, as he tapped his
boot against the kerb to shed clay.
'Why not, Mr Manners?' Firth did not think the man's
name entirely appropriate.
'Official Secrets Act,' said Manners gravely.
'Look,' said Firth, beginning to lose patience, 'I've
proved to you beyond all reasonable doubt that I'm a
senior officer of the Metropolitan Police. I signed the
Official Secrets Act many years ago. My rank should tell
you that I have encountered and preserved many secret
matters in the course of my duties. Please tell me what
the problem is.'
'I was instructed that this was a top secret matter, that
I wasn't even to tell the council's ways and means
committee chairperson.'
'I am,' said Firth heavily, 'engaged in a most serious
investigation. The business of the plane trees may have
no connection with it but I need to know in order that it
may be eliminated. Now, please put me in the picture or
we shall all have to go along to the town hall and
afterwards you may have to accompany me to New
Scotland Yard.'
He tried not to make it sound like a threat.
'It's something to do with the IRA,' said Fred Manners
reluctantly. 'Two Secret Service officers came to see me
at the end of February. They said they were keeping an
eye on someone living in Hellespont Road - a surveillance
operation, they called it. They wanted to get the
trees cut back before the sap began to rise. Otherwise
they said, the leaf growth in the coming spring would
block the sightlines for them and their long lenses. I said
if they told me which house they were watching and
which house they were using to spy from I'd cut back the
trees in their way.'
'And what did they say?'
'They wouldn't tell me the address. They said if I had
my blokes pollard only a handful of trees it would give
the game away to the bloke they were watching. They
insisted on the whole street, both sides, being done in the
usual way.' He shrugged. 'I argued the toss for a while.
The planes in that street weren't scheduled for a shortback-and-sides
for another year.'
'So what did you do?'
'They were a couple of real old-school-tie types, very
snotty, the sort of people who always get their way in the
end. People who've got connections, if you know what I
mean.'
'I know exactly what you mean.' Firth nodded, trying
to get him to the point faster.
'Anyway, to save further aggravation, I whistled up the
gang and the cherry-pickers and we went through the
street next day like ferrets through a burrow. I never saw
the toffee-nosed buggers again. There was no thanks, no
nothing.'
'You say they were watching one man. Are you sure
they didn't mention a group of men or say "them" or
"they", indicating that they were interested in more than
one person?'
Fred rubbed his chin, transferring to it a few grains of
earth from his grubby hands. 'No, I'm pretty sure it was just one bloke they were after. I looked at the newspapers
for a few weeks after we did the job to see if anything
exciting had happened - a shoot-out with the SAS,
something like that. But there was nothing.' He looked
crestfallen. 'So I kept my mouth shut and got on with
the job. I didn't even tell my missus. You're the first
one--'
'What were the two men's names?' Firth interrupted.
'I only had one. It was an odd name, like one of those
old music-hall comedians. He had a very official-looking
identity card.' He pondered for a moment, head cocked,
visualizing the little oblong of cardboard in its plastic
holder. Finally, he said with assurance, 'It said it
belonged to Eustace Murgatroyd. I thought at the time it
didn't sound very glamorous for a spy. I mean, it's not in
the same class as James Bond, is it?' His eyes narrowed.
'Have I been taken for a ride? Were those blokes
genuine?'
'Relax,' said Firth. 'I think they were. What we have
here, I guess, is two official organizations getting their
wires crossed. You're still obliged to keep shtum about
it.'
Manners visibly relaxed. 'Bit of a cock-up, is it?'
'You could say that,' said Firth, wearily.
He had himself driven to the corner of Hellespont
Road. Boulder's house was on the west side of the street;
therefore the surveillance must have been done from a
house on the east side. He knew MI5 preferred to use
vacant property rather than risk a security breach by
asking householders if they could commandeer their
upstairs front rooms.
Firth said to his driver, 'You wait here. I'm going for a

stroll.'
There was one house for sale on the east side, offering
an oblique view of Boulder's frontage.
The estate agent, a smooth youth in a tennis-club
blazer, did not even have to refer to his books to
remember arranging the minimum six-month letting
from February. 'The market's dead so the owner was
quite happy to accept a short let. They're a couple of
businessmen on a temporary assignment in London.
They've paid the full amount in advance plus a deposit
against the wear and tear.'
Firth stirred. 'Are you telling me they're still there?'
'They've not been in touch but, yes, I suppose they
are The agent looked anxious. 'I hope there isn't going
to be any trouble.'
'I wouldn't count on it,' said Firth. 'Did they provide
a reference?'
Now the agent needed his file. He returned to his desk
with a manila folder. Sorting through the paperwork, he
said, 'They're in the film business.'
Firth heard the bells sound in his head. 'Camera
equipment suppliers?'
'Yes, how did you know that?' The agent was
impressed.
'I just had a funny feeling,' said Lionel. 'And I bet the
address given by the referee on that headed notepaper
you're holding in your hand is in Tilney Street, Mayfair.'
'Spot on.'
'Jesus!' said Firth.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Tom Ringrose returned in a hurry from his interview
with the Commissioner. 'This investigation is going in so
many directions it's beginning to look like Spaghetti
Junction,' he complained to Firth. 'Once again, we have
the repeated assurances of both the Secret Intelligence
Service and the Security Service that they have no
operation in progress either involving anyone named
Boulder or Hellespont Road, Shepherd's Bush. Neither
does either service admit to employing any officer whose
real or trade name is Murgatroyd. And that being the
case,' said Ringrose grimly, 'they won't be able to squawk
that our activities are compromising theirs. The one
positive thing that's come out of this development is that
we've established a definite link between Boulder and the
shadowy Cannings. Although if Boulder really is the
shooter, why would the others in the conspiracy be
mounting a surveillance operation on one of their own?
'Lionel, I want you to obtain the spare key from the
agent and make a discreet entry to the house. It has to be
done on tiptoe because it's essential, while we're still
floundering in the dark, that we don't alarm Boulder
across the road. Take a full forensic team and give the
place a thorough going over.' Almost as an afterthought,
he added, 'Oh, and if you should be so lucky as to find
warm bodies on the premises, nick 'em. We'll think of a
charge - Peeping Tommery, if necessary.'
Firth was still in the outer office organizing the raid
when Ringrose's intercom buzzed and, unusually, he was
summoned to return to the Commissioner's office.
The Commissioner's bluff and blokish manner was
camouflage for ravenous ambition. He was not held in
high regard by those beneath him on the pole. He had
never displayed any outstanding flair for battling crime
on the streets but this had proved no hindrance at all
during his climb to his exalted rank. Despite the blue
and silver uniform, he was a politician, skilled in the art
of pleasing his masters as he rose unimpeded through the
ranks. He was adept at passing examinations, convincingly
glib in oral interviews by promotion boards, a good
committee man and paper shuffler, a great slogan coiner,
a man who knew how to please. These were the well
greased paths to power.
He looked, for once, a little hesitant, embarrassed,
even - the look of a man preparing to sugar a pill.
Ringrose was immediately on his guard but accepted the invitation to sit down.
The Commissioner studied his own fingernails as if he
had discovered an offending cuticle. 'Tom,' he said, with
synthetic warmth, 'a word to the wise. There's something
I should warn you about. Whitehall is getting the jitters
regarding this Niven affair. Your latest moves involving
the cloak-and-dagger brigade aren't helping.'
'If they aren't doing anything they shouldn't be doing,
why should they worry?' said Ringrose.
The Commissioner's face twisted into a pained smile.
'It's not so much a problem with them. Our problem is
with the Government. The Home Secretary has just
spoken to me and as good as told me he's speaking on
behalf of the Prime Minister. He's reluctant to grant us a
phone-tapping warrant until we can produce more convincing
evidence that Boulder is involved.' He decided
to take the plunge. 'The upshot is, they simply don't
want us to take the can from the French. After all, it did
happen on their turf. To put it bluntly, they don't want
to prove it was a UK citizen who pulled the trigger. God
knows, we've suffered enough mockery in the press
because Conrad Niven was nominally in the charge of
Special Branch. We don't want any more dumped on us.
The row would be as politically unacceptable and embarrassing
for us and the Government as we experienced
when we were lumbered with that investigation into
British soldiers' conduct during the Falklands War.'
'I thought we were supposed to be immune from
government interference.'
'Come on, Tom, Put away your rattle. Who do you
think holds the purse-strings and is quite capable of
wrapping them round our necks and pulling hard?'
Ringrose held down his anger. He'd never been so
blatantly got at in his entire career. 'Look, sir, I'm just a
serving officer. I can't guarantee where this investigation
is headed. What am I to do if I turn up an Englishman?
Make sure I get him a foreign passport before I haul him
in?'
The Commissioner made a placatory gesture. 'Tom, I
know better than to interfere with an officer of your
calibre. You go ahead with your inquiries, but I want you
to proceed with the utmost discretion. That means
absolutely no information for the press - and absolutely
no arrests until you and I have sat down and discussed
the implications. Until now, I've been forwarding your
reports to the Home Office with just my initials added.
But your results so far are starting to get circulated
around Whitehall - and especially to those cobras in the Cabinet Office. All we've succeeded in doing is getting
them stirred up about the Government's image. So, in
future, I'm going to reword the reports somewhat - make
them anodyne, throw something of a smokescreen over
your more interesting activities. I just don't want to give
them any more ammunition than I have to.'
'That's your privilege, sir,' said Ringrose, glinting.
'But I'd hate to feel I was being badmouthed or sabo
taged in some subtle way by my own service. That would
constitute a resigning matter on my part.'
'There's no question of it,' said the Commissioner
hurriedly. 'Nothing shall interfere with your handling of
the case. And I will jump on anyone who slanders you in
my presence with both feet. All I ask is that you make no
precipitate move, such as an arrest, that will force the
issue into court and into the public domain before I have
had an opportunity to lay out the results of your 
investigation for our political masters to chew over.'
'Chew over or suppress?'
The pained smile returned. 'Tom, let us please leave a

delicate subject right there for the present. I am as
unhappy as you are but in the real world we have to live
with these people. They have many ways of damaging us
if we earn their enmity. I'm just anxious to make sure
you don't unwittingly stir the cobras into using their
fangs. Rest assured, I have your best interests at heart.'
And you have your own best interests even closer to
heart, thought Ringrose, disgusted, as he stood up to go.
He was still brooding in his office when a disappointed
Firth returned from Hellespont Road. 'The birds have
flown. They wiped the place clean. No garbage. No
prints. Nothing. The neighbours on either side hadn't
even been aware anyone had moved in. It was a classic
spook job.'
'Then we might as well take over the place ourselves.'
'Just what I was thinking, guv'nor. It's certainly ideal
as an OP for Boulder. Do we also get a phone-tap
clearance?'
'We do not,' said Ringrose. Firth stared, surprised.
'The Home Secretary, in his vast wisdom, does not
consider that we have produced sufficient cause.'
'Look, sir, we now have positive proof that we've not
blundered into an IRA unit stalking Boulder for revenge.
The Tilney Street camera company provides the link
between what's been going on in Hellespont Road and
the collection of the camera case from Gatti's. The
descriptions of the two men involved in each incident
match. We're definitely on the right track. Why are those
Whitehall bastards fucking us about?'
'I think they're afraid of what we might find.'
'Come again, sir?'
'Remember, I still only know unofficially why Boulder
left the Army. Government ministers were undoubtedly
implicated in getting him off the hook. I think they're
worried because we're drawing close enough to Boulder
to spring the whole sordid story. If we nick him for
involvement in the Conrad Niven conspiracy, how long
do you think it would be before you read about his little
Irish adventure in the Sunday papers? Someone in the
know, but personally in the clear, would sell him out for
sure.'
'So how do we proceed?'
'Softly, softly,' said Ringrose. 'But proceed we will.
And let the chips fall where they may.'
'Yeah. Anywhere but on our heads,' prayed his deputy.
Ringrose slid a sheet of notepaper across his desk
'What do you think of this?'
Firth leaned over to look. 'It's okay,' said Ringrose.
'You can pick it up. Forensics have had their go at it. It
arrived here in this morning's post.'
The anonymous message, pasted to the notepaper in
various typefaces, had been crudely cut from newspapers.
It read: MR rushdie is in no danger from me. i was
TRICKED BY BRITISH, NOT IRANIANS. THE SNIPER.
Ringrose tossed across the envelope. 'City of London
postmark. Cheap paper. Modelling glue. No prints. No
saliva for DNA purposes. The writer wetted the stamp:
he did not lick it.'
'Smart-arse crank making mischief?' suggested Firth
He dropped the sheet onto the desk. 'If we take this as
genuine, we're dealing with a hired gun who was
deployed by non-Iranian bounty-hunters possessing
organizational skills and excellent intelligence.'
'There's nothing to exclude Captain Jack Boulder, is
there?'
'He's a perfect fit,' said Firth. 'I wonder if he makes
models?'

Chapter Forty

The police surveillance team moved in a day too late to
observe Jack Boulder's singular activities.
Jack, still smarting at the operations conducted against
his blameless relatives, sat over breakfast enumerating
his successes so far in his counter-campaign. He knew
that one of the conspirators, Rupert Strang, was ostensibly
- a member of one of the Security Services, as
indeed, definitely, had been Nancy Tintagel. He also
knew that Strang was linked to a Whitehall mandarin,
Bulwer Tancred. They were connected to the guarded
estate outside Frant in East Sussex.
Conclusion: it was time to find out more about Frant.
This time, Jack drove down in daylight. There were
two pubs in the village and Jack tried them both. The
locals were not inclined to chat freely to a stranger and
Jack felt inhibited at asking outright about ownership of
the high-walled property with its razor-wire and armed
gateman.
He discovered the answer to his question pinned on
the parish noticeboard. The most prominent name on
the handwritten poster arrested him in his tracks as he
wandered around the village green. It was that of Sir
Gilbert Metzhagen of Fern Hall, Wadhurst Road, sponsor
of the summer cricket tournament. The same Metzhagen
of MetzCorp, aboard whose yacht Conrad Niven
had spent his last hours.
This was too much of a coincidence. Jack stood stock
still, head buzzing. How much wider did this conspiracy
spread? The implications were dizzying. Fern Hall simply
had to be the place where Strang had taken Nancy
Tintagel's corpse.
Jack buttonholed a passing villager, described the place
he knew and asked the question. 'That's the place. Fern
Hall,' confirmed an elderly man, pushing an old
fashioned iron-frame bike. 'It's been Sir Gilbert's British
home for years. He's got houses all over the shop. Bought
it off one of those families from the landed gentry that
had gone broke. They tried to stay on in one wing by
selling the place to the National Trust but the Trust
wouldn't take it on. Too much upkeep and no income.
Sir Gilbert came to the rescue. He gave the family more
than it was worth. They asked if they could rent a wing,
but he wasn't having any of that. He wanted to do the
place up and have it for himself. They had to move out.
Sir Gilbert does a lot for the village but he likes his
privacy.'
There was no sign of the guard as Jack drove past the
locked gate. But now he could see what he had missed in
the dark. Chiselled into the mellow stonework of the
gatepost were the words fern hall.
Jack parked where he had left the Saab before, changed
into rubber boots, slipped into the field alongside the
Hall and followed the wall round. He could find no gap
in the razor-wire and there was only one rear gate that
had not been bricked in. It was set into the wall and was
made of unbudgeable sheet metal. A hop garden abutted
the rear where the young vines were already curling up
the rough strings.
At the edge of the field he made an interesting discovery.
He walked up to a mounting platform, alongside
which, in a cradle, were three pairs of the stilts that hop
workers wear, strapped to their legs, so that they can
attach the climbing strings to the overhead wires and
train the vines upwards.

Jack looked round. The field was not being worked.
He could hear distant tractors but no one was in sight.
He took two stilts up to the platform, sat down and
strapped them on. He wriggled forward on his buttocks
to the edge, lowered the poles to the ground and pulled
himself upright. Steadying himself by clinging to the
overhead wires, he took a practice walk along a hop row.
He was twelve feet tall and a kid once more. He was a
giant in seven-league boots. He was performing in the
big top, his head up aloft with the sequined girl on the
flying trapeze.
His strides became more daring as his thigh muscles
grew accustomed to the strain. After much wobbling and
near-disaster, he let go of the wire and managed four
steps before he began to topple. He grabbed hold and
tried again. In an hour his thighs were throbbing but he
had mastered the trick of short steps to maintain a centre
of balance.
Jack strode boldly back to the platform and unstrapped
himself. Metzhagen's wall was high but even he could
not prevent trees obeying the laws of nature by seeking
the light. In several places they bent towards the wall and
poked branches over the top. A number cleared the
razor-wire quite comfortably. Jack now knew how he
could get in.
He felt that he had neared the centre of the web, had
touched the black spider. But what would he find? What
would a wealthy man like Metzhagen have gained from
the death of the yacht guest he had so cunningly
manoeuvred within sight of Jack's lethal eye? He had
cold-bloodedly cast poor Conrad Niven in the role of
clay pigeon, flung aloft to be shot out of the sky. And,
equally cold-bloodedly, cast Jack as his killer. Even to ask himself the questions made Jack's fury return in a
molten rush.


Chapter Forty-One

Bulwer Tancred saw Peter Hope-Casson alone. They
stood on the curving path, admiring the sixteen-inch
guns in their battleship grey aimed over the heads of
visitors to the Imperial War Museum. They were on the unfashionable south side of the river where there was
much less likelihood of their being seen together.
Tancred was not happy. 'The raids were only partially
successful. At any rate, we turned up nothing to indicate
that Boulder has committed anything to paper. But, of
course, we don't have proof positive.' He sighed. 'It's
most irritating, but the damned man is becoming increasingly
sharp. He reacted like lightning when he learned
that his mother's place had been turned over. Our Jack is
beginning to know us rather too well for my own peace
of mind.'
'So why don't we give the IRA the bugger's home
address and tell them he did for McGurk?'
Tancred shook his head. 'It's too messy, Peter. We
have to bear in mind the bigger picture. They'd probably
have to activate a sleeper unit, they'd take ages doing a
reconnoitre, and then they'd more likely than not make
a hash of it and the peace process would really go up the
spout. Our nincompoop political masters who covered
up in the first place would be gravely embarrassed. All
kinds of inconvenient facts might start to leak. We can't

risk that.' He eyed the big guns with distaste. "Even more
to the point, if the IRA tried and missed, Captain
Boulder with his trusty rifle is going to come looking for
those who betrayed him - those who have already
betrayed him once and tried to kill him twice. I wouldn't
want to be in their Guccis, would you, Peter?' He smiled
bleakly at the younger man. 'However, he has to go. We
can't continue like this. The Scotland Yard reports are
becoming increasingly opaque. God knows what Ringrose
is really up to. He's almost as big a menace as
Boulder.'
Hope-Casson's eyes shone with pleasurable anticipation.
'You want me to get him, then?'
Tancred sighed again. 'I fear so. Just remember what
I've said and don't get caught, there's a good fellow.'

The upstairs front room in Hellespont Road from which
Rafe Cummings and Peter Hope-Casson had maintained
their observation on Jack Boulder's domestic activities
was now occupied by two detective constables, Owen
Sullivan and Adrian Glaister, from the surveillance team
set up by Lionel Firth. They were somewhat less fastidious
than the previous occupants: chewing-gum and
chocolate-bar wrappers littered the floor.
They had the usual equipment for their task: network
radio to maintain contact with every other officer in the
team, binoculars, night glasses mounted on a tripod, and
a zoom-lens camera. As the house was furnished, they
also had a refrigerator, tea-making facilities and beds
where they could take turns at napping.
At 9.30 p.m. they had logged Jack Boulder parking his
Saab in the street and entering his house. He had not
come out again and he had no callers. All his lights were
out, as was every alternate street lamp, by midnight. This
economy by the borough council had the effect of
creating alternate pools of jaundice-yellow light and
darkness from end to end of the slumbering street,
Hellespont Road was a place for families and ordered
lives.
Sullivan, who was keeping a desultory watch at 1.30
a.m., assumed correctly that Boulder had gone to bed,
He glanced across the room at Glaister, who was snoring
gently on his back with his mouth open. Apart from his
loosened bootlaces, he was fully dressed and ready to go.
The two officers were working a four-hours-onfour
hours-off watch. Sullivan would wake Glaister at two.
Sullivan was turning back to the window when he saw
a movement, more a shifting of the darkness. A black car
with no lights was moving slowly down the street, achiev
ing invisibility and then visibility again as it progressed
from light pool to light pool. A medium-sized saloon of
no distinction, the vehicle passed Boulder's house, slid
once again from light to sheltering dark, then stopped
alongside Boulder's blue Saab.
Sullivan could only glimpse the subsequent action
because it was taking place on the far side of the road.
Through his light-intensifying night glasses, he saw the
top of an opening door and a head emerge. The door
was shut quietly and the car waited a few seconds before
moving off as sedately as it had arrived.
Hellespont Road now appeared clear again but Sullivan
knew that someone was now under Boulder's car
attaching a tracker device that would send its signal up
to a satellite then down to the policemen following
Boulder from a safe distance.
Sullivan wrote in his log: 1.33 a.m. Technicals arrive.
The black car returned fifteen minutes later. Sullivan
caught a fleeting glimpse of fair hair reflecting street light,
the nearside passenger door opened briefly to readmit the
electronics specialist, and the car glided silently away.

Sullivan conscientiously logged: 1.48 a.m. Technicals
depart.
At 2 a.m., as scheduled, Sullivan shook awake a
groaning Glaister and settled him in the window with a
cup of tea. Before hitting the mattress himself, he made a routine radio check with the nearby control wagon. 'All
quiet. Technicals have been and gone."
There was a silence that remained unbroken for ten
seconds. Over the hissing, crackling air, his sergeant's
voice abruptly cut in, 'Say again?'
'All quiet. Technicals have been and gone,' repeated
Sullivan.
Another silence followed. Once again his sergeant
came on. 'Use the landline.' The voice was peremptory.
Sullivan looked at Glaister and gave a what's-up shrug.
He picked up the bedside phone and dialled. His sergeant
answered on the first ring. 'Sullivan, are you pissed? Did
you say Technicals have been and gone?'
'They went fifteen minutes ago, Sarge.'
'Then how come they're still sitting here in the prairie
schooner, fiddling with their little box of tricks?'
Sullivan digested this information and said, 'You
mean, it didn't work? They've got to come round for a
second try?'
'No, you dickhead. They haven't been round at all
yet.'
'Then who was it who did a drop-off and pick-up at
the target car within the last half-hour?'
The Sergeant's sarcasm disappeared. Sullivan was not
really a dickhead. He said calmly, 'Sullivan, just tell me
what went down.'
At the end of the brief recital, the Sergeant said, cOh,
shit!' Then, rapidly, 'Sullivan, take a torch, go over to
the car and see if there is any sign of tampering. Whatever
you do, do not touch the vehicle. Do you understand
that? Do not touch the vehicle. Make a visual check
Through the windows and underneath, but do not
TOUCH THE VEHICLE.'
Glaister was bewildered. 'What the fuck's going on?'
Sullivan said, 'Something's wrong but I don't know
what.'
'Is the Sarge jerking your chain for a bit of fun? Does
he think we're both asleep here?'
'Nah, he wouldn't do that and risk jeopardizing an
operation like this. I've got an awful feeling I've dropped
a bollock. Where's the torch?'
Sullivan let himself out of the house and padded across
the road. He felt exposed. Any householder who 
happened to glance out of his window right now would
immediately dial 999 and report a car thief at work.
He arched his body to avoid making contact with the
Saab's metal sides and shone the torch through the rear
window. A couple of magazines were scattered on the
rear seat. There was nothing untoward in the footwell,  as far as he could see. He worked his way from window to
window, careful to follow his sergeant's edict. He could
see nothing that ought not to be there.
There were no scuff marks on paintwork around the
handles, or on the window rims where thieves usually
inserted their long, thin, hooked blades.
There was nothing for it. He had to get down in the
gutter. He was wearing a new pair of jeans.
First, Sullivan examined the dirt-encrusted underside
from the front. This car needed a good hosing down.
Still, dirt had its uses. It showed up where there had been
tampering, if any.
He crawled along the nearside. Nothing.
He found what he had prayed he would not find when
his torch beam swept the rear underside. A small square
area had been swept clean of filth. It was such an efficient
job that the droppings had not been left on the tarmac.
In the square, scraped clean to expose the bare metal
hung a tin box that had once contained Oxo cubes. Two
strips of insulating tape sealed the lid and the contraption
had been attached to the car's underside by a round
magnet.
Christ Almighty!' said Sullivan, and rolled away.

Tom Ringrose had moved to the downstairs telephone to
.avoid disturbing his wife's sleep. George Medlicott, the
anti-terrorist squad commander, called back after 4 a.m.
"I'm sorry, Tom. We couldn't do it without evacuating
the street. There was no way of knowing in advance how
much explosive the bastards had packed into the tin. I
just couldn't risk blowing people out of their beds.'
'What was it?'
'Enough Semtex to send your Mr Boulder speeding on
his way to a better life. Usual mercury tilt switch. I
reckon that if he'd taken the car into town, the slope of
Notting Hill Gate would have done the trick.'
'Your chaps okay?'
'Yeah, it took them forty minutes playing Bill and Ben,
the Removal Men, but they did just fine.'
'Thank God. If they'd bought it, I think my guys on
the spot would have cut their own throats without waiting
for an order from me.'
Medlicott said quietly, 'Tom, if I have your solemn
assurance that this is not Provo handiwork but is strictly
confined to your investigation, I'm going to leave it to
you. As you asked, I evacuated Boulder with all his
neighbours and made sure they were so far back they
couldn't see what was going on. Officially, it'll be a false
alarm - suspicious parcel dropped under a car.'
'I owe you one, George. This Niven shooting is turning
into a Chinese puzzle. I know Boulder's implicated - and
it's not just Dawson's computers saying so - but who is
trying to kill him, or why, has got me disappearing up
my own fundament. Perhaps the Iranians hired him to
do the job but he backed away.'
'Took the hit money without doing the business?'
'Could be, George. But they certainly found someone
who could be Boulder's clone, although his bank
account, as yet, doesn't show any sudden windfall from
a dead aunt. Anyway, this little drama gives me a
legitimate opportunity to meet him face to face. So far,
I've kept my distance for the very good reason that he
has ostensibly done nothing that would warrant a copper
of my rank inviting him to tango.'
'I've eased your path, Tom. I interviewed him only
briefly on the pavement. He's still under the impression
it was just a frightener, nothing lethal. I told him to
expect a senior officer to come calling later today.'
'How did he take that?'
George Medlicott paused before he answered. Eventually,
he said, 'The word is "thoughtful". But, then, you
and I both seem to have that effect on people, don't we?'
They were both too tired to raise much of a laugh,
Tom Ringrose crawled blearily back into bed for another
two hours' sleep. The muffled voice of Helen rose from
the depths.' A policeman's wife's lot is not a happy one
'You'll get no argument from me there,' said Tom,
cuddling her warm back. He slid instantly into the
welcoming land of counterpane.
'Marvellous!' said Helen, now wide awake.

Chapter Forty-Two

Ringrose and Firth had their heads together planning
their tactics. 'Where do you want him braced, guv'nor?'
'At his home,' said Ringrose instantly. 'I want to get
the feel of him at close range. You'd better ring him
before he leaves for work.'
Jack Boulder was sitting cross-legged, breathing slowly
and steadily with enormous control, when he heard their
car draw up outside.
Jack opened his front door, affecting a casual pose,
leaning against the jamb. He wore black chinos and a
Canadian lumberjack shirt.
Ringrose and Firth introduced themselves, Firth even
flashing his warrant card which Jack ignored. He was
looking at Ringrose, who was lean, with his distinguishing
lock of silver hair, and properly hawklike as every
schoolboy imagined a famous detective to be. His photographs
in the newspapers had been good likenesses.

Jack went ahead down the corridor, leaving Firth to
close the door. Ringrose stopped to study the contents of
a glass cabinet, on three shelves of which Jack's shooting
trophies were arrayed. Some were so tall that they'd been
placed on their sides. Above the cabinet hung a framed
poster from an old movie. It showed the Hollywood actor
Gary Cooper dressed as a First World War doughboy.
The film title was Sergeant York.
Jack came back and stood beside Ringrose. 'My wife
gave it to me to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary.
Sergeant York really existed, you know. He was just a
hillbilly but he was a phenomenal self-taught marksman.
I was hoping to see the movie sometime on television but
I've never yet caught it.'
'It's an impressive poster,' said Ringrose. 'Was he
better than you?'
'Who knows? You'd have to put us side by side in a
trench and persuade a lot of Germans to volunteer as
moving targets to get the answer to that.' Jack managed
a grin. He added, 'Why don't you go into the sitting
room? I've a pot of coffee on the hob.'
'That would be nice,' said Firth. 'We both take milk
and sugar.'
While he was gone, the two detectives let their eyes
rove the room. There were family photographs, but one
in a Victorian silver frame stood out: it was of Grace at a
military race meeting, wearing a floaty apple-green
organza dress with ribboned cartwheel hat. Young officers,
in and out of uniform, formed an admiring half
circle around her. The picture said that Jack Boulder had
captured the trophy, as he had so often on the shooting
range.
The furniture was John Lewis traditional repro,
nothing tatty but nothing valuable either. A needlepoint
kit lay on the floor next to a rocker with a partly
completed canvas draped over one arm. A self-assembly
kit for a model of a Stealth bomber, in similar unfinished
state, was scattered in a far corner. Firth strolled across.
The glue was missing.
These humdrum artefacts, thought Ringrose, gave the impression that the Boulder family had fled the house in
the face of some cataclysmic event.
Jack returned, with three china mugs, sugar bowl and
milk jug on a tray. 'Help yourselves.' Ringrose and Firth,
sitting shoulder to shoulder on a couch, made no move.
They watched Jack drop into the rocker. The unfinished
needlework fell to the carpet.

Jack had placed himself inadvertently in an adversarial
position directly facing them. Still, the strong-boned face
with the broken nose betrayed nothing except amiability.
The two detectives stared at him. The room faded; the
face and body language were everything in an interrogation
of this sort.
'Well, Jack,' Ringrose said quietly, 'what on earth
made you think you could get away with it?'
They watched the brow rise and crease, the tiny tic
appear at the right corner of his mouth, the athletic body
stiffen. Amiability gave way to wariness. For a moment
it seemed that he was about to speak, but instead he
sipped his coffee.
'Get away with what?' He had to clear his throat to get
the words out.
'Come on, Jack. Don't play innocent with us.'
'I'm not playing anything.'
Firth leaned forward, an encouraging expression on
his sharp, ferret face. 'We thought you'd be proud of
your achievement - happy to boast about it.'
Jack leapt up, leaving the chair rocking violently. He
moved to the fireplace and rested an elbow on the
mantelpiece. Four eyes lancing through him were more
than he could endure face-on. 'I'm sorry. I don't understand.
What have I got to boast about?'
'The fantastic marksmanship,' said Ringrose. 'I'm told
that only three or four men in this country - perhaps in
the world - would stand a chance of pulling off such a
coup.'
'Coup?' Despite his obvious efforts at self-control, they
could see that his upper lip was beginning to shine.
Firth leaned forward again. 'Jack, there's no need to
be defensive. It happened in another country.'
They watched him take a long swig from his mug. His
face was a study in concentration. The two detectives left
the air dead between them and him. They waited for him
to fill the void.
Finally, he said, 'Don't you think you ought to be
more specific? What happened in another country? What
are you talking about?'
'Don't you remember, Jack? You took your sniper rifle
and you killed a man,' said Ringrose. 'No doubt you had
your reasons and we'd like to hear them.'
Jack Boulder desperately wished they'd give him respite
by drinking their coffee. But the gently steaming
mugs stayed on the tray, unmilked, unsugared, growing
colder. 'You're not drinking your coffee,' he blurted out,
immediately wishing he hadn't.
'The coffee can wait,' said Firth. 'Tom here is right
We'd like to hear your side of the story. No one does
what you did without some justification. Just tell us how
it began. Look. See.' Firth held out his hands, palms up
'We're not taking notes and we're not tape-recording
you.'
Jack put down his mug on the mantelpiece. 'All right,
he fenced. 'Cards on the table. You tell me what I'm
supposed to have done and, if I can, I'll give you a
briefing.'
'A briefing, Jack?' Ringrose raised an eyebrow. 'That
sounds very pukka. We're just having a friendly chat
about the man you shot.'
'This doesn't sound like a friendly chat to me. Anyway
I don't know how many men I've shot. I was on active
service in the Gulf and in Northern Ireland, you know.'
'Ah,' said Firth, winking slyly. 'But you were also in
another country, weren't you? That wasn't active service,
was it?'
Jack was now agitated, shifting from foot to foot. "I'm
beginning to think I need a lawyer,' he said flatly.
Both detectives went through the pantomime of 
turning to each other and pretending surprise. 'What have we
said?' asked Firth.
They knew now that he wasn't going to crack. He was
on his feet, a powerful presence still holding himself in
check.
Ringrose bent forward and poured milk into his lukewarm
coffee. 'Jack, we do know about Sean McGurk,'
he said mildly.
They watched the tension flow out of him like an
evaporating miasma. He said, 'Would you excuse me for
a moment? I need a pee.'
He left the room, closing the door behind him. Ringrose
nodded at his aide, who moved silently to the door
and opened it an inch to listen.
'Well, he's the man,' said Ringrose with certitude.
'That, at least, is a relief to know. I hope he hasn't trotted
off to put a bullet through his brain.'
'No, he's in the bog,' said Lionel Firth, his ear cocked.
'If I crept nearer, I bet I'd hear him having a second
breakfast.'

Chapter Forty-Three

Lionel Firth was wrong about that. Jack Boulder was still
holding on to his breakfast - just. He ran cold water in
the basin and repeatedly scooped it up in his cupped
hands and dashed it against his face. The serenity of Zen
wasn't proving much help in confrontation with these
two.
They knew! they knew! They had been teasing,
playing with him like cats with a ball of wool. Grace's
agonized pleas for him not to destroy his family rang in
his ears. He had to fight himself, get a grip. He was
appalled at how overwhelming the compulsion had been
to tell them everything and purge himself of the corroding
guilt.
Jack slowly dried his face as he struggled to control his
breathing. In the mirror his face still looked flushed and
his eyes over-bright - the eyes of a man against a wall
with a mind working furiously, seeking a line of escape.
He flushed the lavatory and, heavy-hearted, went back
Ringrose was seated as before but Firth was by the
fireplace, which forced Jack to return to the rocker.
Firth loomed over him and said, 'Tell us about
McGurk, Jack.'
He shrugged. 'Irish terrorist. He's dead now.'
'Yes, and you shot him.'
Jack felt on safer ground. 'If you know all about Sean
McGurk then you know I'm not permitted to speak
about this - not even to Scotland Yard detectives. If you
want more information, you'll have to apply to the
Ministry of Defence.'
'Yes, but it's not the Ministry of Defence that has to
look after you now, is it, Jack? Your troubles have become
our concern.'
They were still saying one thing and meaning another
Jack said, 'What troubles do I have?'
'Your casual attitude surprises us,' said Ringrose. 'If it were me that the IRA was trying to bump off, I think I'd
be a little more concerned than you appear to be. I mean,
look at you. Making coffee and not spilling it. Dressed
as if you're off for a good day's fishing.'
'Who says the IRA's trying to get me?'
'Well, aren't they? That wasn't just a parcel of dog shit
placed under your car last night. That was just a fib for
Joe Public. Your little present was Semtex, enough to
blow you to Kingdom Come the moment you drove that
car up a hill. If a passer-by hadn't spotted someone
tampering with your car, by tonight little pieces of you
would be hanging from the roadside trees.'
They both watched his head sag. They knew exactly
what he was thinking. 'Just suppose your beautiful wife
and your sons had been in the back,' said Ringrose,
snatching the silver-framed photograph and thrusting it
at him. 'You wouldn't want us to apply to the Ministry
of Defence for permission to go after the bastards who
did it, would you?'
Jack rocked like a man only half-conscious. They
stopped questioning and waited. Finally, Jack said, 'The
IRA don't know about me - not unless there's been a
leak.'
Ringrose was on the attack immediately. 'And that's
another puzzling thing about you, Jack. We're not so
sure the IRA's responsible, either. In the bad old days,
after an incident like last night's little drama, their
routine was to telephone a newspaper or news agency,
use an agreed code word to establish authenticity and
claim credit. This time there's been no sign of them
putting their hand up for the job. Neither did they give
the usual advance warning of a random act of terrorism.'
Jack was still staring at the carpet, locked in his own
thoughts.
Ringrose said, 'Look at me, Jack. Tell us who's trying
to kill you - and isn't too bothered about you taking your
wife and kids with you.'
'Is that what you want, Jack? One big family-sized
grave? Four names on the headstone?' added Firth.
Jack came to his feet, shouting, for Chrissake, isn't
this bad enough without you two rubbing it in? My
family's in no danger.'
Ringrose said levelly, 'That brings us to another
interesting point, Jack. Where are they?'
'They're on holiday at the seaside.' He was now sullen
and the answer came grudgingly.
'During term-time? Isn't that hurting your boys'
education?'
'My wife's a supply teacher. She keeps them up to
date.'
Firth said, 'You're lying, Jack. We think you sent your
family away because you anticipated something like last
night's parcel delivery. We think there are people out to
get you in the worst possible way. We're only baffled that
you didn't come to us sooner and ask us to protect you
and yours while we hunted the bastards down.'
Jack tried weakly to return the interrogation to the
IRA. 'Once you've served in Northern Ireland, you have
to spend the rest of your life being careful. That's all
You can't keep running to the police every time you hear
someone sing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling".'
Firth said, looking up at Jack who was half a head
taller, If you want to go with a load of old bollocks like
that, it's your funeral. But we don't think the people who
are after your guts have Irish accents at all.'
'How the hell can you know that?'
Ringrose moved in for the kill. 'Because the people
who pulled that very old trick on your mother and your
in-laws spoke very good English as they impersonated
hospital doctors and traffic policemen.'
'Yes,' said Firth. 'Slipped your mind, did it. Jack?
Thought we wouldn't get to hear about it in London?'
'Well, it did slip my mind,' said Jack, still sullen. 'What
has any of that got to do with me?'
"I thought you were an intelligent man,' said Ringrose
bitterly. 'We came here to help you. But all you've served
up is coffee and hogwash. I ask you again: who is trying
to kill you? And why?'

It has to be the IRA,' muttered Jack doggedly 'And
you know why. It's because of McGurk.'
Ringrose sprang up angrily from the couch. 'Come on,
Lionel. Let's get out of here. This man isn't worth the
saving.'
He strode to the door, wheeled round to face Jack and
flung his card on the floor. 'The number of my direct
line is on that. I believe you'll need it quite soon.'
Firth, too, fired a parting shot. 'When we're gone, just
spare a thought for this: suppose, by chance, they get
your wife and children but they don't get you. Suppose
you stay alive and healthy and there are only three names
on that headstone. Have a nice day!'
They slammed out of the house and Jack slumped with
his head in his hands.
Outside, Ringrose instantly dropped the angry pose.
'That's rattled his cage well and truly. Despite my mug
having been all over the papers for weeks, he didn't once
ask why a job for the anti-terrorist squad was being
conducted by a policeman known from Land's End to
John O'Groats to be in charge of the Conrad Niven
shooting.'
'The giveaway. The clincher,' said Firth with great
satisfaction. 'We're on the way. Victor Massillon should
send us a crate of champagne.'

Chapter Forty-Four

Paul Kaiser of the CIA had his Morgan with the
strapped-down bonnet parked ready for the off. 'Weekending
in Wiltshire,' he explained to Ringrose, who could only boggle at the mental picture of this elongated
American inserting himself into the nippy little sports
car.
Once again they were outside the Grenadier, sipping
drinks on a perfect summer's evening.
'The boss sends you his best,' said Kaiser, 'and wants
you to know that the Tehran situation is unchanged. No
one has come forward with a legitimate claim on the
bounty.' He contrived to look sly, a considerable feat for
someone so open-faced. 'But he thinks you should know
that there has been another fascinating development
down among the ayatollahs.'
'Oh?'
'Are you aware that your government, despite all its
professed policy of keeping the Iranian regime at arm's
length, has an unofficial delegation in Tehran at this very
moment?'
'For what purpose?'
'Well, their cover, if blown, will be that the purpose of
the visit is purely cultural. In fact, they're a hard-nosed
bunch of businessmen being shepherded around by a
Foreign Office team, not one of whom admits to being
anything other than an interpreter.'
Ringrose was genuinely puzzled. 'Why should this be
of any interest to me?'
'Because,' said Kaiser, sighing at his obtuseness, 'the
offing of Conrad Niven has put the Iranians in a very
sunny frame of mind. If there are British businessmen
who want to drive the proverbial coach and horses
through the trade embargoes, our excitable friends are
ready to co-operate.'
'With the connivance of the British government?'
'Don't be naive, Commander. You won't find a ministerial
fingerprint anywhere - certainly not since the
Matrix Churchill fiasco when even Pie Eyes couldn't
save 'em.

Pie Eyes?' Ringrose was out of his depth,
'Public Interest Immunity Certificates explained
Kaiser, who now did not seem so corn-fed and innocent.
'When you British can't wrap something in the Official
Secrets Act, your political masters clamp down on potential
trouble by issuing those extremely useful pieces of
paper. They prevent official documents being seen by the
lower orders. That's how they save their asses - they
make sure the skeletons remain in the family vault by
claiming an overriding national interest.'
Kaiser looked with some concern at Ringrose. 'Forgive
me, but a man in your position should know about gems
like Pie Eyes. How do you survive in the thickets of the
forest?'
'I still don't see how any of this touches my investigation.
I steer well clear of Whitehall politics.'
The CIA operative placed his glass on a window-sill and looked earnestly into Ringrose's troubled face.
'Commander - may I call you Tom? - my boss is very fond of you and doesn't want to see you shafted. He
senses that things unethical are going on behind your
back.'
'like what?'
'Like that Bentinck dame. Are we correct in thinking you asked the FBI if they could persuade her to come to England to talk to you, and to stand by to put the finger on the man you know as James Canning?'
'Is the Agency spying on the FBI now?' Tom Ringrose marvelled at the secret complexities of American life.
'What do you think, Tom? Would you trust those
arseholes since J. Edgar Hoover proved to be the biggest blackmailer of the American ruling class that the world has ever seen?'
'All right. So I asked for Betty Bentinck to be sent over.'
'Well, don't hold your breath.'
'Oh?' said Ringrose, for a second time. 'Why's that?'
Kaiser was enjoying himself. 'Because she's been
signed to a fat movie contract and rushed off to the
Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho where filming has begun.'
'Yes, that's bad luck,' said Ringrose.
'Correction,' said Kaiser. 'Not bad luck, Tom. We
think it was malice aforethought.'
'Oh?' He had to stop saying 'Oh' like an idiot.
'We can confirm that your embassy people in 
Washington have been nosing around, asking about her "availa
bility". Was she certain she could identify the guy, et
cetera. They were told she was available and, yes sir,
she'd be able to nail him. We thought this curious. After
all, we were well aware you were already liaising with the
Bureau and asking similar questions. Why the fuck did
the British Embassy need to poke their long noses in?'
'I see what you mean,' said Ringrose thoughtfully.
'There's more, Tom.'
Ringrose just managed to stop himself saying 'Oh' yet
again.
'Who do you think personally flew to Hollywood a
short while after your embassy learned dear Betty was
rarin' to go? And who do you think personally signed her
up and had his Gulfstream IV shag-in-the-sky jet fly her
to the Idaho location and out of the clutches of those
nasty Limey policemen? Who do you think paid off the
second female lead - to the tune of two hundred thousand
dollars - so that Betty could move in and have
gainful employment?'
'Go on,' said Ringrose, 'I'm all ears.'
'It was none other than that Metzhagen guy, Torn.
The same Metzhagen who was Conrad Niven's host on
the boat on the fateful day. He's the principal shareholder

in the company making the picture. Doesn't it all strike
you as more than a coincidence?'
Ringrose sipped his drink and mulled over the revelation. cIt could be a publicity stunt,' he offered. 'After
all) Betty Bentinck is currently in the headlines. Perhaps
Sir Gilbert just saw the opportunity to capitalize on her
notoriety.'
'It's okay by us if you want to believe that, Tom. And
Jack Kennedy was really a virgin. The actress who got
the shove had been filming for ten days. They had to
scrap every scene in which she figured. The cost was
enormous but Metzhagen is personally footing the bill.
As cosdy publicity stunts go, it's up there with the hunt
for the actress to play Scarlett O'Hara.'
Tom Ringrose did not know what to make of any of it.
It was too easy to fall into paranoia during this type of
investigation. But he had to admit, reluctantly, that there
were too many coincidences flying around for comfort.
Was he really being shafted from above? And if so, why?
They drained their glasses and Ringrose watched fascinated
as Kaiser, immaculate in a crisp linen suit, fitted
himself into the Morgan. His knees were almost level
with the dashboard, even with the bucket seat right back.
Two tennis racquets and an overnight bag were visible in
the rear, together with a bunch of flowers and a shiny
package tied with a gold ribbon. Presents, no doubt, to
facilitate the charm offensive on his hostess-to-be. Tom
felt a twinge of envy. Youth really was wasted on the
young.
'Thanks for taking the time,' he said. 'And please
convey my gratitude to Mr Bishop. If anything else comes
your way, I'd like to know.'
'Depend on it,' said his new-found CIA friend. 'I'm
getting quite intrigued myself. I'd love to know where it's
all headed. You're on my dance card now, Tom, and I'm
saving the last waltz for you. Don't let the ayatollahs
grind you down!'
With that and a cheery wave, Paul Kaiser vroomed out
into Wilton Crescent and headed for his weekend
pleasures, leaving Tom Ringrose to return their empty
glasses to the bar.

Chapter Forty-Five

Jack Boulder was not deceived. If the watchers had ever
gone, they had now returned. He did not believe for a
second that a passer-by had stumbled upon the bomb
being planted. The watchers, he felt sure, had inadvertently
saved his life.
Then he had another, more creative, thought. Perhaps
there had been no bomb at all. Perhaps the alarming
events of the night had been an elaborate charade, staged
to rattle him and trigger a panicked confession.
How could he know? But he dare not take the chance,
He strolled to a public callbox to telephone Grace, his
neck prickling at the thought of the eyes, real or imagined,
trained upon him. He made no attempt either to
look for or shake off a tail.
Grace was breathless. 'The little monsters are wearing
me out,' she puffed. 'I bought them a baseball set because
they've been getting bored hanging around the house,
When they're not having lessons, it's a job to keep them
amused. I don't like them straying too far.'
'I miss you,' said Jack miserably. 'Do you still love me
- just a little?'
'I've never stopped loving you> you big wally. It's some
of the crazy things you do that I don't love.' Her tone
softened. 'Jack, we all love you and we all miss you. How
much longer is this terrible business going on?'
He decided not to mention the bomb or Ringrose's
visit. 'There's something I have to do overnight but I
thought I might drive up later in the day.'
Grace sounded delighted. He could hear off-stage
noises. 'The boys want to talk to you. I can't hold them
off. See you around tea-time, then?'
Jack had five minutes of inane conversation with his
boisterous sons before his phonecard ran out of units.
'It's swimming in the sea for everyone when I get there!
No excuses accepted for absence on parade!' he yelled as
the connection broke. The last thing he heard was Mai
wailing in mock horror at the prospect of plunging into
the icy North Sea.
Jack stood under the phone canopy laughing. With a
sudden heart-stab, he realized he had not laughed wholeheartedly
in many weeks. That was what They had done
for him.
He spent the day in devious pursuits. He went to the
club as usual, sent Joe Carsby out to a City hardware
shop on his behalf, and openly returned home at six p.m.
The watchers - if there were any - saw him drag out a
hose and water his tiny front garden. Then he went inside
and locked his front door, ostensibly home for the night.
He did not go near his parked Saab.
After a quick meal, Jack took his holdall, went over the
back wall, waved to the Rhys family, and headed for the
local car-hire depot he had telephoned earlier to reserve
a Range Rover.
By seven thirty he was on the way to Frant, leaving
Ringrose's men patiently watching his empty home and
his nobbled car.
He did not get the first inkling that his plan was
destined to take an unconsidered twist until he had
passed through the village and turned into the Wadhurst
road. He found himself in a slow-moving column of
traffic that seemed to consist largely of shiny limousines.
Some were self-importantly flying pennants. Jack overtook
the first three. All the occupants were in evening
dress. Sir Gilbert Metzhagen was having a party.
'Damn!' said Jack, driving past slowly and observing
the cars being checked through the gate of Fern Hall.
This time, he did not leave his vehicle in sight of the
road. He drove the Range Rover round the estate's
perimeter and parked alongside the hop stringers' plat
form. He sat pondering his options as the last of the
daylight faded into purple. At least he could recce the
grounds.
He pulled on his black overalls and blacked his cheeks
and forehead with commando cream. He left the Cobray
but took the Glock and a 'scope in a small backpack
With the rope that Joe Carsby had bought for him that
day looped around his neck, Jack strapped himself to the
stilts and did a tentative practice walk, making his way
along the hop field but staying within grabbing reach of
the wire until he was opposite a section of the Fern Hal!
wall where an oak had pushed a sturdy branch out of the
gloom of a coppice and over the boundary into the open
To reach it, Jack would have to cross, unsupported, an
open space of some fifteen yards. He calculated that
would mean thirty short steps, any one of which could
topple him onto his arse in the dirt.
He shuffled round until he was facing the wall, drew a
deep breath and set out. The first five steps went well
He wavered on the sixth when the left stilt sank a fraction
lower than its twin into the earth, and eased it upward5 swayed, and regained control. He counted twenty-eight
more gut-churning steps before he was under the tip of
the branch and could raise his arm over his head to
steady himself. His thighs throbbed and he was sweating
inside the thick overall.
He moved in closer to the wall and to the thicker end
of the branch, pulling it downward to test its strength.
Could it take his weight plus that of the stilts as he
hauled himself upward? At best, it would be a clumsy
manoeuvre. He took a firm grip, chinned the branch and
swung his hugely extended left leg up and over until it
was lodged on the tree. The other stilt dangled as he
heaved himself up into a sitting position. The branch
creaked but held. He leaned forward to peer beneath.
Good. He was still eighteen inches clear of the razor-wire.
Jack unbuckled the stilts and let them drop to the
ground. He sat still for a minute - he had not come this
far without making a certain amount of noise - and
listened for evidence of an alarm having been raised but
all he could hear was distant music.
He shuffled himself sideways and vanished into the
density of the tree on the far side of the wall. He listened
again. Nothing. He looped the rope round a branch, let
it dangle alongside the trunk, then lowered himself into
Sir Gilbert Metzhagen's lair.
He flitted from cover to cover, edging nearer to the
music, but discovered that the woodland and undergrowth
petered out three hundred yards from the house,
which was a finely restored Georgian mansion. Here, the
well-tended landscaping began.
At any other time it would have been a sight to enchant
him. Every window glowed with golden light against the
darkening mauves, purples and oranges of the night sky.
Thick candles in glass bowls lit the terraces and lawns,
which were thronged with Metzhagen's elegant guests.
The drive was lined with flambeaux, lighting the way to
the parking area. Servants bearing silver trays of drinks
and platters of food made constant traffic from the two
marquees pitched on the far side of the house. A string
orchestra, at the shallow end of the vast swimming pool,
was playing under the stars. Jack spotted peacocks wandering
the immaculate parterre garden. Some of the
guests were trying to tempt them with morsels of food.
He wriggled his way as near to the action as he dared
and settled down with his 'scope. Within the hour, he
had spotted at least a score of famous faces - actors, two
cabinet ministers, various television personalities - and
Rupert Strang, who was accompanied by a typical upper
class dreadnought, a woman with a spare body, iron
jawline and thrusting nose. Jack assumed she was his
wife. The pair of them, he saw, were on chummy terms
with one of the ministers, which reinforced his fears as to
the power of the people he was up against.
He wormed his way into the rhododendrons for a
better view of the terrace. He had not yet seen Metzhagen.
Dislodged petals fell onto him, improving his
camouflage, he thought, which comforted him - he had
identified a number of security men prowling the party's
edges, whispering into handheld radios.
Suddenly Jack heard voices drawing near. He took a
deep breath and froze.
There was a pleading, urgent note in the man's voice
The woman was giggling. Jack turned his head slowly.
They were only six feet away from him.
She was a blonde of pallid prettiness, dressed in a
pastel cream minidress and black Lycra tights that shimmered
in the gloaming. Jack shivered. Those legs
reminded him of his dream, the mysterious woman
crossing and uncrossing her legs.
Her escort was a well-built jock, fair hair falling over
his forehead. He had one arm round her bare shoulder
and was attempting to turn her towards him.
She was saying, Teter, we can't do it here. If we get
caught, he'll chuck me out. And he'll devise something
quite horrible for you. You know what a bastard he can
be.'
But Peter was beyond caution. 'Fuck him. We're safe
here.' He pushed her further into the shadows cast by the
bushes. She wailed, 'Stay on the grass!' But he swept the
bootlace straps off her shoulders and tugged the dress
down to her waist. She was not wearing a brassiere and
his mouth immediately zeroed in on her right nipple.
Her head tilted back and she gasped, 'I thought I said
no.' But the man wasn't listening. Jack watched him pull
off her dress and lay her on her back. Her tights and
pants were soon a crumpled heap four feet from Jack's
nose. The man's clothes followed.
Jack was beginning to feel he should be arrested as a
Peeping Tom yet he dared not turn away his gaze in case
he was heard. Also, he was fascinated. He had never in
his life witnessed a couple copulate. Now they had
surrendered to sheer animal lust.
When she came, her partner had to clap a hand over
her mouth to muffle her scream and they rolled over,
nearer to Jack but oblivious of anything but themselves.
Until Jack risked an almost imperceptible change of
position to counter the onset of cramp.
Instantly, Peter's head turned. He said, 'What was that
noise?' He seemed to be staring directly at Jack. And, for
the first time, Jack had a full view of his face. Peter was
the suit he had assaulted, the man who had accompanied
Rupert Strang to Gatti's Repository to recover Nancy
Tintagel's body.
Without waiting for his companion's reply, Peter
pushed her away and leapt, naked, to his feet. He looked
dangerous.
It's all right, old boy,' whispered Jack. 'We're only
doing what you're doing. Mum's the word, hey?'

"Oh, my God!' said the blonde.
'Shit!' said Peter.
They brushed themselves down hurriedly and scrambled
into their clothes. They obviously had no intention
of confronting him in the bushes and Jack returned the
Glock to his backpack. He last saw them sauntering
casually towards the pool, chatting politely like people
who had only recently met.
'Phew!' Jack fell back and studied the underside of the
rhododendrons. He decided to change his observation
point, in case friend Peter decided to tell the security
men that something funny was going on in the bushes.
He backed away into the darkness and continued to pace
round the periphery of the parkland.
At last Jack pinpointed Metzhagen, recognizing him
immediately from photographs published in the press.
His original intention had been to get into the house and
confront the magnate, let him know that his involvement
in the death of Conrad Niven had leaked from the circle
of secrecy. Frighten him. Find out why Niven had had
to die. But with all these people thronging the grounds
and house, that wasn't possible.
Through his 'scope, Jack watched Metzhagen holding
court on a balustraded stone stairway leading up to the
terrace. He was a forceful-looking man of late middle
years and middle height, with dark brows, an almost
swarthy pampered face, a shock of iron-grey hair and
expressive continental manners. He had been born in
Hungary but was a naturalized British subject. As if to
offer grateful thanks for his citizenship, this owner of film
studios and heavy-engineering companies was renowned
for his support of charities close to the hearts of members
of the Royal Family. He owned his own polo team, had
twice been an overnight guest at Windsor Castle and had
accompanied the Duke of Edinburgh on a voyage of the
royal yacht Britannia, the purpose of which had been to
stimulate trade in the Middle East.
Jack studied this paragon closely. He wore a white
tuxedo, with a burgundy red cummerbund that matched
the rose in his lapel. His audience was attentive. He was
making them laugh.
Frustrated, Jack knew that he could achieve nothing
more by hiding in the bushes. But at least he had
succeeded in pressing one more piece into the jigsaw. He
had a man named Peter to add to the list of conspirators.
Jack withdrew silently to the oak tree and climbed up
the rope.
As his plan to jump Metzhagen had aborted, he'd be
able to get to Southwold earlier. He'd ring in the morning
to alert Grace.
They leaped on him as he opened the driver's door of
the Range Rover. A single blow behind the left ear and
he remembered no more.

Chapter Forty-Six

Ringrose and Firth had both forsaken Saturday at home,
the garden and the cricket - and, with deplorable lack of
remorse, the obligatory carrying of the week's family
shopping.
Their hangout, away from the usual Yard pubs, was
the bar of the nearby St James's Hotel. They supped
their pints and brooded.
'I just know we're being stitched up,' said Ringrose.
'At every turn this investigation has run into the footprints
of the Security Services. I get intimations of a
parallel world, where our mirror images are busy diving
and ducking and making identical inquiries.'
'Matter and anti-matter,' offered Firth. 'If the stuff
collides, there's an almighty explosion.'
'Exactly,' said Ringrose. 'We never quite touch them
and they never quite touch us. I've made repeated
applications to the Co-ordinating Committee, stressing
the evidence of Security Service interference. Each time
the Co-ordinator comes back with smarmy assurances of
complete co-operation from Five and Six but always
coupled with complete denial of any involvement.'
'Lying bastards,' said Firth, wiping foam from his
upper lip.
Ringrose had never imparted to a soul, not even to his
loyal deputy, details of his long-standing friendship with
Jake Bishop of the CIA. He was not about to start now
but he said, "I can't put a finger on Five or Six. Can'i
prove they've told me a single porky. But I do know that
Six and the Foreign Office are withholding information
from us.'
'Oh?' said Firth, looking up. He'd thought he knew
every detail of their investigation.
'Don't ask,' said Ringrose, signalling the barman for
two more pints. 'It's information from Tehran. The
killers still haven't come forward to claim the money on
Conrad Niven's head. What's more, the Iranians don't
seem thrown by this. It's as if they're not expecting a
claimant. Remember those television pictures of the
money in US dollars being displayed in a glass box as the
ultimate temptation? Well, I'm told the box is now
empty. The money has gone back into their government's
foreign currency reserves.'
'Does the FO know about this?'
'That's the point. They almost certainly do, yet this
interesting piece of intelligence has never been passed

down the Whitehall line to us. A serious omission,
wouldn't you say? One that might be germane to our
work?'
'What does the Co-ordinator say about it?'
Ringrose let his arm rise and fall in a gesture of
frustration. 'If I ask, all sorts of interested parties will
want to know how I got this information in the first
place. And I'm unable to tell them. So if I'm keeping
secrets from them, they'll feel justified in keeping secrets
from me.'
'It's a bitch,' agreed Firth. 'I wish we knew who's on
whose side.'
'It was made clear to me early on from upstairs that
the Government would not welcome us producing a UK
citizen as the guilty party. I think the cold shoulder we're
getting is a sign that our political masters have put on
their Teflon suits.'
'They're going to be awfully pissed off if we feel Jack
Boulder's collar.'
'When we feel Jack Boulder's collar,' said Ringrose
grimly. 'There's no doubt in my mind.'
They remained silent while the barman placed their
beers on the mats, took their empties and went away.
Lionel said, 'Have you brought Victor Massillon up to
date yet?'
Ringrose heaved a deep sigh. 'No. I'm already doing
to him what Whitehall is doing to us. If I tell him our
suspicions, the French will be dancing in the street and
leaking to their newspapers before I've put down the
phone. I can just see the headline: "Perfidious Albion.
Niven Suspect is an Englishman. France Exonerated".'
Once again they fell silent, both men deep in thought.
There they would have remained, glumly sipping beer
except that, simultaneously, they felt a presence at their
backs.
Both policemen turned and groaned in unison. Beaming
at them were the chubby, irrepressible features of
Peter Lancing, the Daily Mail's ever-diligent crime
reporter.
'Tom, Lionel,' said Lancing, blithely ignoring the less
than cordial acknowledgement of his presence.
'Peter, isn't Saturday normally a day off for a daily
paper man? Shouldn't you be doing your expenses or
something?'
Lancing chuckled, signalling the barman to fetch sustenance.
'There's no day off, Tom, when the big one's
running. Even my swindle sheet has to take second
place.'
In the past week, Tom had binned twice-daily requests
for an interview from Peter Lancing. Their relationship
was actually a friendly one - Ringrose and Lancing had
known each other since Ringrose had been a detective
sergeant at Savile Row. But there were times when it was
wiser for senior officers not to be seen consorting with
the press.
Contrary to screen depiction of crime reporters as
loutish hacks, Ringrose knew that the best, and in this he
included Lancing, were people of acute intelligence and
perception. He was also wryly aware that operators of
Lancing's standing were paid as much as an assistant
commissioner and seemed to have inexhaustible expenses
with which to seduce meagrely paid innocent policemen.
Lancing proceeded now to deploy his financial
strength. He clicked his fingers. 'Let me buy us something
a little more stimulating on the auspicious occasion
of this chance meeting. Barman, a bottle of Pol Roger, if
you please.'
Firth scoffed, 'Chance meeting, my arse. Have you
been following us, Peter?'
Lancing placed a meaty hand over his heart and raised

his eyes to heaven in the manner of a Victorian tragedian.
One of the secrets of his success was that no one could
be angry with him for long. 'I never cease to be amazed
at the wickedness of some people's thoughts,' he said to
God.
The barman popped the cork and the champagne
bubbled into the flutes. 'Don't think this is going to get
you anywhere,' said Ringrose. 'There's bugger-all we can
tell you about anything at this stage.'
Lancing was not dismayed. 'I know that, Tom,' he
said gently, as if he were rebuking a geriatric for wetting
the bed. 'For more than a week now, I've been trying to
tell you something. But all I've seen of you has been a
very cold shoulder. My feelings are hurt.'
'Just a minute. I must find my handkerchief,' said
Firth.
'All right, Peter,' said Ringrose. 'We're listening. But
if this is a con in the hope that we'll accidentally drop
you a morsel, we won't be best pleased.'
They watched him expectantly as he took a deep swig
of champagne. 'It has come to my knowledge,' he began
carefully, 'that your prime suspect is a man, the evidence
pointing to British nationality, who goes nowhere without
his Panama hat jammed down over his eyes.'
Firth could not quite disguise his look of concern,
which Lancing caught. 'Don't worry. I wouldn't print
anything to foul your pitch. I'd always come to you first.'
Tom nodded. He knew that was true enough. In the
past, Lancing had sacrificed exclusive stories rather than
prejudice an investigation. His reward came later when
no harm would come of the news being broken. Then
Lancing justifiably called in his markers.
He went on, 'I had a couple of weeks off in May. Took
the wife and little princess down to the South of France
for a breather. The film festival was taking place along

the coast in Cannes and the Mail's show-business man
fixed us up with invitations to an all-night festival party
at that chateau with all the peculiar statuary in La
Napoule. The little princess wanted to see some movie
stars in the flesh. It was an eleven o'clock start and we'd
just parked the car near the marina when I spotted a
woman I know very well.'
'How well is "very well"?' asked Firth. 'Was she a
once-a-week Legover Lulu, or what?'
Lancing was not offended. 'Nothing like that, worse
luck. She's a woman I sometimes go hunting with.'
'Another reporter?' asked Ringrose.
'Sorry, I'm not putting this as well as I might. Perhaps
because I'm still puzzled. Her name is - was - Nancy
Tintagel. She's Lord Tintagel's daughter - you know,
the old politician. She and I sometimes went out with
the Eridge.'
The two detectives looked blank.
'The Southdown and Eridge Hunt down on the
Kent-East Sussex border. Fox-hunting.'
The two policemen looked incredulously at Peter
Lancing's portly frame. 'You? Fox-hunting?' said
Ringrose.
'Now I've heard everything,' said Firth.
Lancing grinned self-consciously. 'It takes a bloody
big horse, I can tell you! The local fox population voted
me Horseman of the Year for my kindness and consideration
in not following too closely.'
Ringrose and Firth shook their heads in disbelief
Ringrose said, 'Give us time to adjust, Peter. But do
carry on.'
'Anyway, Nancy was about a hundred yards away and
I shouted, "Tinny," her nickname. It was as if I'd kicked
her in the back. She stiffened, so I knew she'd heard me.
But she didn't turn round. Instead, she grabbed the arm

of her male companion and hurried him away. Almost
dragged him, actually. It couldn't have had anything to
do with me personally. I was a voice in the dark - could
have been any of her chums. So I assumed she wasn't at
home to anybody - thought she was on holiday with
someone else's husband. I chuckled to myself and
thought no more about it.'
Ringrose said, 'Peter, is this getting us anything other
than a glass of champagne?'
'I'm coming to that. In the next three weeks, two
things happened that started to ring funny-business bells
in my head. First, via Paris, I learned of police interest in
the man who pulls his straw hat down to his ears. Nancy's
fancy piece had a Panama pulled hard down to the point
where he looked like a comedian. And it was eleven at
night, for chrissake.'
'Describe him,' said Firth.
'As I said, I only glommed a back view. But he was
tall, well-built, wearing a light-coloured suit. A bit
crumpled so it was probably linen.'
'Age?'
'Difficult at that distance. But from the easy way he
moved I'd certainly put him at under forty.'
Ringrose and Firth stared at him. Lancing now had
their full attention. He was, they knew, an observant
man. If he hadn't turned delinquent and gone into
popular journalism in his youth, he'd have made a
successful detective.
'What was the other thing? You mentioned two,'
Ringrose reminded him.
'This happened,' said Lancing. From his inside pocket
he produced a clear plastic wallet containing the Daily
Telegraph's account of the inquest on Nancy Tintagel.
He pushed aside a dish of nuts and laid the wallet on the

bar. The two detectives craned forward and read the
newsprint through the plastic.
'So?' prompted Ringrose.
'So the report says Nancy was killed on the sixth of
May.'
'So?' said Ringrose again.
'So how come I saw her alive on the ninth in the South
of France?'
'The Telegraph must have made a mistake. It's a
misprint.'
Lancing pursed his lips and shook his large, round head.
'No, Tom. I checked with the coroner's officer. The Telegraph report is an accurate account of the proceedings.
And another thing: how come the Daily Mail, or for
that matter any other national newspaper apart from the Telegraph, failed to carry this report? I asked our news
editor. The answer is: the newspapers never learned of
her riding accident nor were given the date of the inquest.
In that neck of the woods, the coroner sits on Wednesdays
at ten in the morning. It's his unvarying routine.
Local press men are always in attendance. Nancy's
inquest took place at eight thirty on a Tuesday morning,
with only the Telegraph man in the press box.
'The coroner's officer agreed with me that the speed
was unheard of. He said it must have been done out of
consideration for the family. Old Tintagel yanking a few
strings. But I know different. I think there's another
reason and that the inquest was a sham.'
Lancing saw, with enormous satisfaction, that neither
detective was joshing him now. They'd replaced their
drinks on the bar and were listening intently.
'Keep going,' said Ringrose.
'What it says there about Nancy being a Foreign Office
high-flyer is all balls. The Secret Intelligence Service
snapped her up years ago. She's been passport officer,
counsellor, first secretary, commercial attache, press
attache - you name it - in all sorts of hot spots to cover
her real job, which was to spy on Johnny Foreigner. I'm
told that she was much admired, with a DBE and
principalship of an Oxbridge college doubtless in her
glittering future.'
'Why haven't you printed your suspicions?' said Ringrose
sharply.
Lancing beamed. 'That's where you and Lionel come
in, Tom. Believe me, I was tempted - but I thought, If I
rush into print I'll run headlong into the Official Secrets
Act. And so far I have smoke but no fire. Then I thought,
Wouldn't it be grand if I were the first crime reporter to
identify Conrad Niven's assassin? Wouldn't it be grand
if my two dear friends, Tom and Lionel, took me into a
cosy corner and whispered world scoops into my ever
receptive shell-like? Can you imagine the size of my
byline and the tears of gratitude in my editor's rheumy
old eyes?'
'We get the picture,' said Ringrose. 'You made the
wise choice. If you'd gone ahead, that edition of the Daily Mail would never have left the building.'
'So am I seeing dirty work at the crossroads where
there is no crossroads or am I on to something?'
Ringrose said, 'Stay put. Lionel and I are going to the
other end of the bar for a chinwag.'
Lancing watched them go, sighed happily and signalled
the barman to recharge his flute.
'What do you think?' said Ringrose softly. The bar had
been empty but two couples had just entered and taken
a table.
Firth said, 'I think he's hit the jackpot. I really do think
we're going to end up whispering into his shell-like.'
'He's the first person in this entire worldwide investigation
who has come up with anything like a convincing
identification of Mrs Canning. We have to take him
along for the ride. I don't see any other way.'
'Agreed, guv'nor. But you'll have to caution him. If he
goes for premature publication, you and I can kiss
goodbye to our pensions.'
'Peter has always played the game before. But I'll read
him the Riot Act, all the same.'
By noon, Lancing had been shown all the relevant
tape from the Berthier's video cameras and had positively
identified the man known as Mr Canning. 'Same
hat, same linen suit, right build,' said the reporter
crisply.
His identification of Mrs Canning was more tentative.
'The body looks right. You should have seen her in
jodhpurs. Fantastic bum. But I've never seen her wearing
glasses and the hair is all wrong. Much too schoolmarmish.'
He fretted over the poor quality of the material.
'Why don't these bloody hotels invest in cameras with
decent lenses? The depth of focus is atrocious.'
'On Monday,' said Ringrose, 'we'll put you into a
makeshift identification parade. Our suspect will be on
the Up escalator at St Paul's tube station, one of the
work-bound crowd. You'll be on the Down side. When
you get to the bottom you'll tell us whether or not you
spotted him. The courts have previously accepted this
type of identification as a proper procedure.'
'Lead me to it,' said Lancing.
After he had departed, Ringrose spoke on the telephone
to both Lord Tintagel and to Professor Roland
Askew, who had carried out the post-mortem on Tintagel's
daughter.
Tintagel retreated into vagueness and redirected Ringrose
to the Foreign Office. Askew was a more sensitive
proposition. Ringrose was well aware that, on the list of
Home Office pathologists, the eminent Askew was the

expert most frequently called upon by the Security
Services and by Special Branch. He was their creature.
Ringrose harboured no illusions about the probity of
great men. The most famous of British pathologists, Sir
Bernard Spilsbury, had committed suicide by stuffing a
gas hose up his nose. Colleagues had rigged his death to
look like an accident.
Askew was immediately on his guard. 'I don't see what
interest the case could possibly be to you, Ringrose. The
poor girl fell off her horse and broke her neck. Perfectly
straightforward business.'
'Why was the inquest held in virtual secrecy on a day
when the coroner does not normally sit?'
'Was it? I merely acted on instructions from the
appropriate authorities. In any case, there was nothing
secret about it. I remember reading a report in the Telegraph'
Ringrose let it pass. 'Who were the appropriate
authorities?'
'Ringrose, you are well aware of certain duties I
occasionally perform. I'd leave well alone, if I were you.
You're not doing yourself any favours.'
Firth was listening on the extension and he made a
triumphant thumbs-up sign to Ringrose. The time had
come to hit hard. This man was rattled.
'Professor, what would you say if I applied for an
exhumation order and brought in my own pathologist for
a second opinion?'
Ringrose heard a roaring noise in his ear. Askew was
breathing heavily into the mouthpiece. 'I'd say it was a
confounded impertinence,' he shouted, and slammed
down the receiver.
Ringrose listened to the dialling tone for a moment and said, 'Well, well. I think matter and anti-matter just
touched each other.'
Through the open door, they watched Inspector
Adrian Dawson advancing towards them like a supplicant
for an audience. Ringrose waved him on. 'Problem?'
'A small puzzle, sir. All the surveillance team's situation
reports since Friday evening place Boulder at home.
He has not ventured out since. However, he made a
credit-card transaction at six forty-five last evening that
the team have failed to record.'
'What did he buy?'
'He didn't buy anything, sir. He hired a Range Rover.
Car hire companies won't take cash. That's how we
know. His own Saab is still in the street where he parked
it - still being kept under observation.'
'Christ!' said Firth. 'He's done a runner.'
Their clash with Professor Askew went into the pending
tray.
Cursing, Ringrose turned to his operational radio and
summoned up the surveillance team leader. 'Where's
Boulder?'
'At home, sir. He hasn't stirred since last night.'
'Do you know anything about him hiring a Range
Rover?'
The officer's puzzlement was palpable. 'Not to our
knowledge, sir.'
Ringrose said, dismay showing, 'Send a couple of
woman officers over to the house. Any pretext. They can
be Jehovah's Witnesses - anything. I want to know
immediately what response they get.'
The three senior officers lingered anxiously in Ringrose's
room for twenty minutes. 'I hope he's not sent
them to buy Bibles before they go calling,' muttered
Ringrose crossly.
There was panic in the team leader's voice when he
reported back. 'The girls can't get any reply, sir. What
do you want us to do? Do you think he's topped himself?'
Ringrose fought to keep his voice steady. 'Have you
got anyone there who can do the locks without kicking in
the door and drawing a crowd?'
'I can do that myself, sir.'
'Well, get over there. Get in - alone - and report back.'
The second vigil seemed interminable. When the
return call finally came, the three men converged in a
rush on Ringrose's radio.
It was a subdued team leader who came back. 'He's
flown, sir. He must have gone over the garden fences.
He's known all along we were watching.'
Ringrose snapped, 'I'm on my way with Detective
Chief Inspector Firth.'
The journey, with the siren howling until they reached
the Shepherd's Bush roundabout, took thirty minutes in
the Saturday afternoon traffic. An unhappy team leader
met them at the corner of Hellespont Road.
Ringrose and Firth entered the silent house and closed
the front door behind them. They moved slowly through
the ground floor and found it unchanged since their
previous visit.
The upstairs search gave them their first opportunity
to sort through Jack Boulder's wardrobe. There was no
Panama hat but there was an off-white linen suit. In a
kitchen drawer they found a part-used tube of modelling
glue. But Boulder had got rid of the cut newspapers. As
useful evidence it was as lightweight as the linen suit.

Otherwise, the two men drew a complete blank.
In the living room, Ringrose seated himself in Boulder's
rocker as if it would help him to burrow into the
marksman's head and excavate answers to his questions.
Eventually he said, 'What do you make of it, Lionel?'
Firth shrugged. 'I don't think we'll be riding the tube
escalators on Monday. He could be half-way to Iran by
now to ask the ayatollahs to refill that glass box and hand
it over.'
Ringrose shook his head. His silver forelock fell over
his tired eyes. 'I know that's the logical conclusion. But
somehow I just don't see it. I rather liked him. Didn't
you? There was nothing of the cold killer about him as
General Cashin described.'
'It didn't prevent him offing Sean McGurk.'
'He had a pretty powerful justification. If someone
killed you, I think any number of your fellow officers
wouldn't think twice about plugging the bastard who did
it.
'That's comforting to know,' said Firth drily.
Ringrose stood up and wandered round the room. His
eyes came to rest on the answering machine. The digital
display revealed that there were no messages.
He said thoughtfully, 'Lionel, do you have your mobile
telephone with you?'
His aide fished the instrument from his pocket and
held it up.
'Good. Dial Boulder's number. Let's hear what callers
get when he doesn't pick up.'
Firth looked down at Boulder's machine and tapped
the digits into his own phone. The detectives listened to
their suspect's phone ring six times before his answer
machine whirred and the pre-recorded tape came into
play.
Jack Boulder's disembodied voice sounded strained
and, on the first run-through, they were not sure they'd
heard him correctly. He stumbled several times.
Jack Boulder said, 'This is a message for my RAF
friends. The friends who called earlier this week. You'll
need to go to York for what you want to know.'
That was it. The rest was silence, and the two detectives
rewound and played it yet again.
'I've got it,' said Ringrose suddenly. 'He's not talking
about the Royal Air Force. RAF is us - Ringrose and
Firth. Very ingenious.'
'But what the hell's in York?'
Ringrose snapped his fingers and strode into the corridor.
'That's York.' He was pointing to the framed poster
at the foot of the stairs of Gary Cooper playing Sergeant
York. 'Remember -I thought it very striking.'
Firth had the poster off the wall before Ringrose had
finished uttering the words. He turned it face down. A
folded sheet of notepaper was taped to the hardboard
backing.
'Don't breathe,' said Firth, carefully peeling it loose. 'I
think the sun is coming out.'

Chapter Forty-Seven

Jack Boulder's skull inflated to the size of a beach ball
and then subsided until it was no bigger than an apple.
Again, he could feel his head expanding into an echoing
immensity and then imploding until the skull bones were
grinding together, crushing his brain into a pain-filled
sac.
Sound, throbbing and hurtful, came and went. He felt
nauseous. Somewhere he could hear a male voice bellowing.
Jack kept his eyes tightly closed because he knew
that if he opened them the light would burn out his irises.
After a while his head began to lessen its rhythmic
expansion and contraction. He began to separate one
word from another. The voice was guttural but cultured
and very close.
'Is he in a coma? Have you killed him?'
A lighter voice said, 'I sapped him behind the ear.
He'll come round.'
'Was this the weapon he had on him?'
'That's the one. Please, Sir Gilbert, either point it at
the ceiling or the floor, but not at us. It's carrying a full
magazine.'
'Do you think he'd come to kill me?' The guttural
voice struck a note of wonder as if this possibility was
beyond all belief.
'Well, I don't think he came to admire your orchid
collection.'
'He's a madman.'
'No, sir. Not a madman. In his way, he's a great artist.
That shot of his should be in the record books. I hate to
admit it, but he's a great pro. I wish he were working for
us.'
'He was working for us. He's a menace. He's jeopardizing
everything.'
'I understand your anger, sir. If I'd not heard a sound
in those bushes, right now you might well be asking St
Peter if your suite is ready.'
'It is intolerable.' Some unintelligible mouthings followed.
And then: 'I'm profoundly grateful to you, my
boy. God! To think he got so close! How could he have
done such a thing?'
The voices hovered above his face. The one the blonde
girl in the garden had called Peter said, 'His eyeballs are
twitching. He'll rejoin the land of the living quite soon.'
'That's one of the matters we have to discuss.' Metzhagen
sounded grim.
'The contractors are still in the grounds dismantling
the marquees,' Peter said. 'But the house is clear.
They've all gone except our little group. They're waiting
in the library.'
Jack could feel hot, dry dragon's breath on his face, a

hint of sulphur. Someone was nose to nose with him. 'Is
he really unconscious or is he pretending?'
Peter drawled, 'It doesn't matter either way. Clever
Jack has been a very bad boy and he isn't going anywhere.
He'll be quite safe here while we try to sort out this mess.
Just leave one of your security chaps here - but outside
the door, if you please. On no account must Boulder get
a chance to talk to him. The leaking has gone far
enough.'
Jack heard feet shuffling. A door closed and the space
around him went quiet. He tentatively opened an eye
and peered around.
They had imprisoned him in Sir Gilbert Metzhagen's
gymnasium. The equipment was state-of-the-art for
body-building and stretching. In one corner was a sauna
cabin and, to one side, a plunge pool - empty.
Jack moved his head and pain sliced it in two. He
closed his eyes again and began slowly rotating his neck
until the agony subsided. Peter was diabolically efficient
with a sap. Jack's left arm was awkwardly placed
above his head. He attempted to bring it down to
massage his sore nape but found himself tugging at a
heavy object.
He twisted his body and looked up. They had handcuffed
him to a Nautilus body-builder.
The room was windowless. He judged that it must be
in the cellars of Fern Hall. He rolled onto his back and
stared up at the white acoustic tiling of the ceiling.
Jack Boulder shook his head painfully to clear it for
thinking and gave a futile pull on his bonds.
What to do?

The entire core group was assembled. Peter HopeCasson,
Rupert Strang and Rafe Cummings, as the field
men, sat virtually shoulder to shoulder under a large
Fragonard, whose fragile figures in an Arcadian landscape
provided a sharp contrast to their own forceful
masculinity.
At a distance, Bulwer Tancred was hunched over a telephone,
murmuring and listening. Then Metzhagen came
in, anxiety written across his face. Tancred softly dropped
the receiver into its cradle and watched their paymaster
throw himself violently into a winged armchair.
Sir Gilbert was fuming. 'How could you have let this
happen to me? On my own doorstep!' His clenched fist
pounded the leather. 'I thought this man Boulder was
just a hired gun? He'd do the job, and then be paid off or disposed of. No fuss. No consequences.'
He pointed a trembling finger at Hope-Casson. 'It was
you, Peter, who first proposed having Nancy kill him. If
you hadn't almost certainly saved my life last night, I'd
be inclined now to take the bloody man's pistol and kill
you instead. We should have trusted him, let him take
the money and run. If later he had become a threat to
our security, then we could have killed him. Now we have
this vengeful idiot knowing who we are - God knows
how - and haunting us.'
Hope-Casson made to speak, but Tancred stopped
him with a raised hand as peremptory as a traffic cop.
His usually pallid features had deepened to ashen. 'Hold
on, Peter. Something very grave has happened.'
'Aren't things grave enough?' shouted Metzhagen. He
had removed his white jacket. His cummerbund had
slipped, along with his sangfroid.
'Gilbert,' said Tancred, 'you'd better listen to what
I've got to say. Roland Askew has just reached me. He's
in a terrible state. Ringrose is asking questions about
Nancy's death. He wouldn't be doing so unless he'd
made the connection between her and the Niven
operation.'
His words fell like a stun grenade into the centre of the
room. Metzhagen's chin dropped.
Rupert Strang said firmly, 'It's obvious the group is
dead. Somewhere along the line there's been a monstrous
betrayal. Is it conceivable that Boulder forced Nancy to
talk before she died?'
Tancred said coldly, 'It was either Nancy - or it's one
of us.' His glinting eyes swept the room.
Rafe Cummings, their senior operational man, faced
him and said sharply, 'Let's have none of that, Tancred.
We've all been in these operations from the beginning.
We all know everything there is to know about each
other. Enough, anyway, to create havoc. Nothing went
wrong until we recruited Boulder and mistook him for
just another Neanderthal mercenary.'
He surveyed his colleagues. 'What we have to do now
is make sure we have destroyed all physical evidence that
links us either to Nancy or Boulder.'
Tancred said, 'There won't be much time. Ringrose is
threatening to exhume Nancy's body for a second
autopsy.'
Metzhagen appeared to be coming out of a daze. He
focused with difficulty on Tancred. 'His wife and children.
That's the answer.'
The others stared at him.
'We have to show Boulder that it won't just be him
killed. We have to show him how vulnerable his family
is. Rafe, you and Peter will have to fetch them here.'
'I don't like it,' said Strang.
'Sir Gilbert is right,' said Hope-Casson. 'We can't
begin to limit the damage until he tells us what he's told
and to whom he's told it. The only way to be sure of
getting that is to seize his family again.'
'Get ourselves some leverage,' added Cummings.
'All right,' said the tycoon slowly. 'But this is going to
be man to man. Boulder can't do me any harm. You go
and fetch his family. Let me have the pistol.'
Hope-Casson was dubious. 'Do you know how to use
this thing?'
Metzhagen beckoned irritably. 'Don't be impertinent.
What's there to know? You point it and pull the trigger.'
He took the Glock from Hope-Casson's reluctant hand
and marched out of the room.
He left behind a worried silence. Each man was
running his past activities through his own mind, identifying
what might yet loom up to ruin him.

Chapter Forty-Eight

They were taking advantage of the balmy afternoon and
having tea on the lawn in the traditional way. Grace had
dragged a table from the living room, covered it with a
white cloth and proudly set down her centrepiece - a
pink blancmange that she had allowed to set overnight in
a genuine old copper mould rescued from the back of a
kitchen cupboard.
She had been unable to find a cakestand so the shop
bought rock buns and the slices of Tottenham cake were
arrayed on coloured napkins. 'Yummy, yummy!' said
Malcolm. 'It must be Christmas.'
Normally Grace rationed cakes strictly. She wanted
the boys to grow up lithe and muscular like Jack, not
pot-bellied porkers like so many of the fathers who had
come to the schools where she had taught.
She glanced at the wristwatch Jack had bought her for
their tenth wedding anniversary. He should have arrived
by now. She'd been horrified at the cost of that watch it
was a genuine Piaget - and had started to remonstrate.
'Eeeh. She's got a bit of a tongue on her,' Jack had said,
turning to the boys.
They'd all collapsed laughing before Ben had
reminded her, 'Mum, aren't you going to kiss Dad? It's
a smashing watch.'
The boys had witnessed, with approval, Grace melt
into Jack's arms.
'Yuk!' said Mai, pretending to throw up.
The brothers carried their own chairs from the house
and Grace finished laying the table before emerging from
the kitchen with the teapot. She wore a plain blue shift
over her bikini. She'd been sunbathing, lying quietly on
the grass, tussling with herself over whether or not to
remove her top for a strap-free tan and what to do if the
boys reappeared suddenly from the beach. She knew
what her mother would say: 'Don't take the top off in
the first place, lass.' Grace decided that Ben and Malcolm
had never done anything silently in their lives.
She'd hear them coming. She took off the top.
The boys had been topless, too, romping barefoot in
their khaki shorts, but she made them put on their Tshirts
to sit at the table. Grace poured and Ben passed
the cakes. 'You can have a rock bun or a piece of the
pink one, but you can't have both at once,' he said,
lecturing his brother.
'For goodness' sake, don't be so bossy. We're on
holiday and you're beginning to sound like me,' said
Grace, who knew her faults.
Again she consulted her watch. 'Can't think what's
happened to your father.'
The last of the blancmange disappeared down appreciative
throats and they were on their second cup of tea
when Ben said, 'listen. I can hear Dad's car.'
It took Grace and Mai several seconds to confirm
Ben's acute hearing. A vehicle was, indeed, coming down
the lane. Mai knocked over his chair in his hurry to get
away from the tea table and ran down to the gate,
climbed a bar and leaned out for a better view.
The engine sound grew louder, mingling with the
hoarse cries of the gulls. Mai was leaning so far forward
that Grace opened her mouth to shout a warning. But
just then, her son turned to look back at them. Disappointment
was written across his face. He climbed down
and trotted back to the table. 'It's not Dad,' he said, in
disgust. 'It's a big car with black windows.'
Ben said, 'How can it have black windows? The driver
wouldn't be able to see out.'
'Be quiet a moment,' said their mother. Ben studied
her face from across the table. The expression that had
reflected the carefree afternoon had been replaced by
lines of concern.
The car was travelling slowly, as if the driver was a
stranger to the area.
Malcolm began chattering again but Grace laid a hand
on his arm. 'Not now, Mai. Let Mummy listen.'
Through the bars of the gate, she watched the shining
black bonnet of a long limousine slide into view and then
the glossy body of a Daimler. As Mai had said, the side
windows were made of smoked glass just like a pop star's
fan-proof conveyance.
There was a cluster of cottages further down the lane,
but the Daimler eased to a stop. The driver's door
remained closed but two men emerged from the back.
Both were tall and wearing country suits. The fair-haired
one sported a brown trilby, perched forward over his
brow, and the other a checked cap. They looked as if
they were off to the races or perhaps to a point-to-point.
Ben watched his mother's left hand tighten on Malcolm's
arm. When she let go to stand up, he saw the

white mark where her fingers had been before Mai's skin
resumed its usual appearance.
Ben said quietly, 'Is something wrong, Mum?'
'I don't know. Just sit still.'
The two men were smiling unctuously, like cold
calling insurance salesmen. They lifted the latch and
entered the garden, advancing towards them across the
grass.
They both touched their headgear in polite greeting
and the older man, who had a long, wandering nose and
penetrating hard eyes that no amount of charm could
disguise, said, 'Mrs Boulder?'
Grace nodded. 'How did you find us here?'
'Oh, it wasn't easy. This place is quite remote, isn't
it?' His chuckle was as counterfeit as a three-pound
banknote.
'I meant,' said Grace, slowly and deliberately, 'how
did you know we were living here?'
'Ah,' said the Nose, 'Jack told us where to find you.'
'That's odd. It was a secret between us.'
'A secret no longer, dear lady. Your husband has
charged us with the duty of safeguarding you and the
children.'
'This is not the first time I've been told that. Safeguarding
us from what?'
'Well, I'm sure you know the answer to that better
than we do.' The Nose scrutinized Grace's face keenly.
She betrayed no emotion. 'I'm afraid I haven't the
faintest idea what you're talking about.'
'Come, now,' said the Nose, smiling indulgently. 'You
must have asked Jack why it was necessary to exile
yourself to this part of the world when your sons should
be at school?'
'There are times when it's best for a wife not to ask too
many questions. My husband served in Northern Ireland

and I assumed we were here as a result of some difficulty
that has arisen in connection with that.'
There was a silence while the Nose and his companion
simply stared, as if waiting for her to elaborate. Instead,
Grace said, 'You haven't yet given me your names or
told me where you're from.' She had not encountered
either of these two on their previous 'safe-keeping'
absence from home.
Peter Hope-Casson exchanged glances with Rafe
Cummings and said, 'Mrs Boulder, our names are unimportant.
I'm sure that when you were an Army wife
certain subjects were only circulated on a need-to-know
basis. Well, that's the situation we have here. Suffice it
to say, we're here on government business. You may call
us any names you like.' Another fake chuckle.
'What are you proposing to do - set up machine guns
at each corner of the property to repel attackers?' Grace
made no effort to moderate the sarcasm.
Cummings shook his head. 'This place is hopeless
from that point of view. We want you to come with us.
Jack is waiting.'
'Waiting? I don't think so. He's due here at any
moment.'
'I'm afraid not, my dear,' said the Nose. 'There's been
a change of plan. You really must come with us. We
simply cannot accept any arguments. Think of the well
being of your sons.'
Malcolm had moved close to his mother and was
clutching the folds of her dress. He stared wide-eyed at
Cummings. He could sense his mother's alarm.
She said, 'I'd like to hear about the change of plans
from Jack.' She took a step towards the house, with
Malcolm still holding on.
As if on cue, she heard the muffled click of door locks
and, over her visitors' shoulders, saw two heavily built
men in jeans and sweatshirts step from the front seats of
the Daimler. One had a bandage round his thick neck.
Grace's lips tightened. 'Please wait here. I'm going to
telephone.'
Cummings was shaking his head again. 'I don't think
you'll find Jack at any of the numbers you have.'
Grace ignored him. She prised Malcolm's fingers from
her clothes and strode briskly towards the house. Despite
her instructions, Cummings and Hope-Casson followed.
They blocked the doorway, watching her pick up the
phone and jiggle the cradle. She listened and tried again.
She met their gaze square on. 'The line is dead. Have
you had it cut?'
Hope-Casson was the picture of wounded feelings.
'Why should we cut it? But if the line is cut, it could be a
danger sign - a sign that Jack's enemies are closing in.
We should leave here as fast as possible.'
Grace's mouth was dry. She was fit and she could
probably outrun them if she made a dash through the
kitchen and down to the beach where the Daimler
couldn't follow. But what about Ben and Mai? She
couldn't abandon them.
She said, 'I must go upstairs to pack a few things.' She
had suddenly remembered the pistol in her bedside
drawer.
She struggled to keep her voice steady. 'How long do
you think we'll be away? Or does Jack want us to close
up the house completely and return to London? That'll
take an hour or so.'
Hope-Casson gave a quick, impatient shake of his
blond head. He turned his left wrist upward to consult
his watch. 'That won't be necessary. An overnight bag
will--' He stopped abruptly, dropped his trilby, and said,
'What. . . ?' His long legs bent and he looked down to

find Ben's tousled head thrust through the narrow gap
between him and Cummings.
Ben was looking apologetic and desperate. 'I'm sorry,
Mum. It's all that tea. I must go to the lavatory right
away.'
The two surprised men stepped aside and Ben entered
the cottage in a stilted walk, his knees seemingly glued
together. Malcolm followed. "me too,' he said.
Grace inclined her head towards the stairs. 'Well, hurry
up. We're going on a trip. While you're up there, put
your pyjamas and some clean pairs of pants in a bag.'
Cummings and Hope-Casson relaxed a little. HopeCasson
said, 'I'll have our chaps bring in the tea things
while you pack.' Grace moved towards the stairs but
Cummings stepped in front of her. 'Which is your room?'
'The one facing as you reach the top.'
'Just a precaution,' he said, and was already taking the
stairs two at a time before she could object.
She could hear the boys moving around and the
lavatory cistern being flushed. The creaking of the timbered
ceiling told her that Cummings had invaded her
bedroom and was nosing around. Would he think to look
in her bedside drawer?
The pistol was now looming in her mind as a last
chance symbol of hope. She had never used a gun and
even hated touching those that Jack brought home. But
these men were not to be trusted and they were involving
her children in whatever they were up to. Grace's palms
were clammy. She wiped them down the sides of her
shift, summoning the resolve that she would need if she
were to use that obscene thing in her drawer.
Cummings reappeared at the top of the stairs. 'Everything's
okay. You can come up now.'
Thank God. He hadn't discovered the Walther. He
gazed steadily down at her as she took each step. Grace

was suddenly aware of the brevity of her shift. She
glanced up into his face. She knew that look well enough
- that combination of speculation, appreciation and lust.
At the bedroom door she snapped, 'I hope you don't
think you're coming in here while I change.'
The corner of his mouth twitched. He said coolly,
'That won't be necessary. But please hurry. We have a
long journey to make.'
Grace angrily slammed the door behind her. She stood
for a moment scanning the room. Nothing appeared to
have been disturbed. She moved to the window and
peered out. One of the two henchmen stood strategically
back from the cottage at a point where he could monitor
two frontages.
Grace stepped back softly and went directly to the
drawer. She slid it open and only just managed to
suppress a loud scream. Both the pistol and the ammunition
were gone. The only trace that they had ever been
there, to confirm that she had not dreamed the episode
of Jack handing them to her, was a smear of machine oil.
She made a sharp, unconsidered gesture, pushing the
drawer closed with a loud clatter, and stood wild-eyed,
thinking. The bastard had found the contents, after all.
He'd slipped them into his jacket. He was just toying
with her.
She felt dizzy. She tried to persuade herself that the
men really were helping Jack, that she was letting her
imagination run away with her. But it was no good. In
her bones, Grace knew that they were a threat to Jack and
perhaps to her and the children too.
On automatic pilot, she dropped some clothes into a
tote bag and changed into slacks, blouse and trainers.
She came to a decision. Now was not the moment to
resist. There were too many of them. She would comply
with their wishes - for now.

She threw open the door. Cummings was leaning
against the wall. 'I'm ready,' she snapped. 'Where are
the kids?'
'Making a lot of noise,' said Cummings snottily. Grace
clenched a fist and itched to smash it into his nose.
Mai shuffled out of his room, a picture of misery.
'Mum, Ben's pinched my Indiana Jones backpack. I
want it for myself.'
His brother was right behind him. They'd both put on
trousers and their lumberjack shirts and Ben wore the
backpack with the red straps clipped securely across his

chest.
He said, 'I don't know what Mai's complaining about.
I'm carrying his stuff as well as my own in this thing.'
Grace stroked her younger son's head. 'It's all right,
Mai. Ben's only trying to help. He'll give it back later.'
Cummings levered himself from the wall. 'Let's go!'
he barked, and shepherded them down the stairs.
Grace's hands were trembling as she locked the front
door. Her keys rattled and she silently cursed herself for
revealing her panic.
The interior of the Daimler was huge compared with
the interior of the cars to which she was accustomed. She
and the boys sat in a row, the Nose and his younger
companion sitting impassively opposite. The Nose had
fastidiously unbuttoned his jacket. She could not see the
Walther.
Ben looked uncomfortable. He was perched forward
on the leather seat. 'Why don't you take off the backpack?
Put it on your lap,' suggested Grace.
'I'm all right, Mum,' he said shortly, and his face shut

down.
Up front there was now only one of the two thuggish
men, who had remained silent throughout.
Grace peered through the tinted window. The other
was driving the Volvo with the false number-plate out of
the garage.
The Nose followed her gaze. 'The car has to be
returned, you know.'
He tapped on the dividing glass and the Daimler began
to move. Grace put an arm round each of her sons and
clasped them tightly to her sides.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The pyjamas stayed packed. Grace Boulder and her sons
remained resolutely fully dressed in their suite.
'Suite' had been the word used by the men who called
themselves the family's escort but were, as far as Grace
was concerned, their captors.
During the road journey south, a surface air of courtesy
and consideration had prevailed inside the Daimler.
According to the Nose, they were on the way to be
joyously reunited with Jack at a 'safe house'. Grace held
her tongue, which was furnace-hot and more than ready
to shout 'Liars!'
The younger of their 'escorts' was even a little skittish
with her. 'I'm sure Jack can't wait to see his cracking
wife.'
He was chucklesome and his lively blue eyes wandered
appreciatively up and down her body. She could have
biffed him. To show her feelings, she ostentatiously did
up her collar button. Thank goodness she'd put on her
trousers. Otherwise, seated face to face as they were, he'd
have been leering at her knickers all the way to - where?

Malcolm, wide-eyed and puzzled, passively submitted
to heavy-handed adult questioning. Where do you go to
school, young feller-me-lad? What do you want to be
when you grow up? Do you play rugby or football?
Mai mumbled polite replies but Ben refused to be
drawn. He shrank back as best he could with the pack on
his back, surly and uncooperative. 'I want my dad,' he
said.
'Soon, Ben, soon,' said the Nose. He beamed synthetic
encouragement.
But it had not been soon. They were on the road for
almost four hours before they turned into a driveway and
Grace looked back to see a heavy metal gate closing
behind them. They were back at the place she and the
boys had been taken while Jack was in France.
The Nose said, 'They won't be able to get at you here.
We'll see to that.' It was exactly what she had been told
before.
'Who are "they"?' Grace wanted to know once again.
The Nose smiled indulgently. 'Jack's the chap for all
the info. Be patient a little longer.'
This time they were ushered through a rear door of the
main house into a narrow hallway littered with gum
boots, a stand of walking sticks, and waterproofs hanging
from pegs. This was not the red-carpet entrance of their

previous arrival.
A tall, lean man, incongruous in a crumpled evening
suit, came down the cream-painted corridor and spoke
briefly to the Nose. The party followed him through
sharp-turning corridors. When they clattered down an
unpainted wooden staircase, Grace's unease gripped her.
They were beneath ground level.
As they were hurried along, they passed several open
doors. Grace glimpsed a deserted kitchen, a larder with
tins and packages filling the deep shelves, and a carpenter's
workshop. Twice they passed doors displaying male
and female silhouette signs.

Their 'suite' was apparently situated in the working
quarter of this massive edifice.
It turned out to be a medium-sized bunker, which,
judging from the sealed-off Victorian iron piping, had
once been a boiler room, since renovated and its stone
walls whitewashed. The windowless space contained
three camp beds, blankets, a plastic-topped table and
four wooden folding chairs.
Their guide, the lean man, had slipped silently away,
but Grace rounded furiously on the Nose. 'Is this your
idea of a hotel suite? This is a prison.'
The Nose was pained. 'Please, Mrs Boulder. Have a
little understanding. We're dealing with an emergency.
We had to make arrangements in a rush. Bear with us for
now. Show a little fortitude.'
'Fuck fortitude,' spat Grace, who never swore in front
of her children. 'Where's my husband?'
He wagged his head, silently chiding her as he backed
out of the door. Before he closed it, he said, 'Get some
sleep. Tomorrow will be an important day.' She did not
hear a key turn.
Angrily, Grace paced their prison. The boys' eyes
followed her. She stopped to inspect a bricked-in chute
where coke and coal must once have cascaded down
through an outside delivery grating. No escape route
there.
She crossed her arms over her breasts and wheeled
around the room, barely able to contain herself.
Mai said suddenly, reproachfully, 'Mum, you said a
naughty word.'
Grace swept him up in her arms and kissed him. She
could feel tears welling up. 'I'm sorry, Mai. You know
Mummy doesn't usually swear. But these men have upset me very much.'
'I don't like them,' said Mai. 'They're creepy.'
'The one with the fair hair fancies you,' interjected
Ben, matter-of-factly.
'Well, he can fancy on,' said Grace.
'I hope Dad gives him a black eye,' said Mai, who was
looking sleepy.
'Would you like to go to bed?' Grace set him on his feet and checked the time. It had just turned eleven p.m.
Mai was rubbing his eyes. He said, 'Yes, please, Mum.
But I want to go to the bathroom.'
'Oh dear.' Grace glanced around. The 'suite' contained
no such facilities. She twisted the door knob and
the door immediately opened inward. Grace almost fell
over. It had never been locked.
Staring directly at her, from his chair against the wall
opposite, was a big-chested man she had not seen before.
He came instantly to his feet, a guarded expression on
his face.
'My son wants a pee,' said Grace. 'I saw a loo along
the corridor . . .'
The big lummox was thrown by this simple request.
He shot a look down the deserted corridor. 'I'm not
supposed to talk to you,' he said, in a South London
accent. 'Strict orders from the boss.'
'I'm not looking for conversation,' said Grace, with a
cutting edge that the boys rather relished. 'I'm looking
for the lavatory. Or are you providing a bucket?'
A moment later she wished she hadn't said that. He
looked the sort of moron who would blindly take up her
suggestion.
The fat on his neck bulged and quaked as he turned
his head this way and that. Finally, he grunted, 'I can't
take 'im and leave you two alone.'
'Well, just lock us in while you show him where to go.'
'Can't,' said the guard. 'There's no bolt or anyfink.'
For the first time, Grace had the opportunity to

examine the outside of the door. Sure enough, there were
no bolts - and no keyhole. The door was held shut only
by a simple spring-loaded tongue of brass in an old
fashioned black japanned housing. There had never been
any call to lock up the boiler while stokers moved in and
out. So, as the Nose had told her, they really were in an
emergency. At short notice, they'd found a suitable cell
for her and the children but the door furniture had failed
to meet penal requirements.
'I tell you what,' said Grace. 'We're all about to go to
bed. We'll go together.'
She watched his synapses grind rustily into action. He
mulled over the proposition for at least half a minute,
chewing his lip. 'No funny business?' he said.
'What funny business could there be?' shouted Grace.
'Do you think my kids are going to wrestle you to the
ground and tie you up?'
He grinned unpleasantly, 'I don't fink so. But you can
try any time you like.'
Ben said, 'Another one, Mum.'
With great effort, Grace relaxed her clenched fists. She
summoned up a bright smile. 'Now, now!' she said, the
instant coquette.
The fat hunk was still grinning. 'The boss said no
talking. He didn't say no wrestling.'
Mai was tugging at her slacks. 'Mum, I'm bursting.'
This seemed to decide their jailer. He said, 'Okay. I'll
take you all along together. But don't do anyfink to get
me mad. Right?'
'Right!' agreed Grace.
For the sixty-foot walk, Fatty held his great hams of
arms wide, his dirty fingertips practically scraping the
walls. He was nervous and he herded them so closely
that they stumbled into each other.
The male and female loos were mirror images of each
other - wash-basins, cisterns, lavatory bowls. Their utility
suggested they were for the use of below-stairs staff. Fatty
poked his head suspiciously into each, head turning like
a bull walrus.
Satisfied, he nodded. Grace stepped into one, slamming
the door in case Fatty had other ideas, and Mai
scampered into the other.
Ben, the Indiana Jones pack still on his back, faced
Fatty alone in the corridor. 'Wot you starin' at?' said
Fatty.
'Something beginning with P,' said Ben.
Fatty's brow contorted for the five seconds it required
for the insult to register. He took a menacing step
forward. 'You little prick. I'd tan your arse if I was your
dad.'
'Well, he can't because he's not here,' retorted Ben,
deliberately provocative.
'No,' said Fatty, a grin suddenly emerging from the
blubber. 'He's busy getting plenty of exercise of 'is own.'
Then he laughed in a meaningful way that chilled Ben.
The big oaf was hinting at something. The flabby mouth
clamped shut. 'That's enough talk. You get in there and
'ave your piddle.'
Afterwards, he herded them back down the corridor.
Another man had appeared from the far end. As they
approached, he waved a friendly greeting at Fatty, deposited
a vacuum flask and a plastic sandwich box alongside
his chair and retreated the way he had come. So Fatty
was their guardian for the night.
Inside their room, Grace said, 'Let me have Mai's
pyjamas.'
Ben took a sharp step back before his mother could
touch the backpack. 'I didn't pack 'em.'
She sighed. 'Oh, Ben!'
Mai was already half asleep so Grace helped him
undress down to his underpants and he lay down on a
musty-smelling camp bed.
Ben waited until he was sure his mother and Mai were
asleep before he made his move. He'd reasoned that, if
they'd needed the lavatory, so would their guard some
time during the night.
In the darkness, Ben slid from his camp bed and
pressed his face to the tiled floor. Under the door, he
could see Fatty's boot tips.
As the night dragged on, Ben fought his tiredness with
a grim determination. Several times he nodded and his
head tilted sharply against the hard floor. He was nervous
that the minute sound might alert Fatty. He wished he'd
snoozed in the Daimler when he'd had the chance. But
then he might have lost his grip on his backpack. And
that would have been disastrous.
Fatty's chair was old and creaked every time the man
shifted his bulk. Whenever he heard this noise, Ben
eagerly pressed his cheek to the ground. Fatty stood up
several times and Ben heard him drinking from the cup
lid of the flask and taking food out of the box.
Ben's moment came some time after three a.m. The
chair creaked and he saw that their guard's right foot was
sideways on to his sightline. Fatty was facing down the
corridor towards the lavatories.
Some seconds of indecision followed, and then the
boot moved forward, revealing the other. That, too, now
moved. Ben wanted to yell in triumph like a goal-scoring
footballer.
He counted to twenty. He could see the chair legs but
no sign of Fatty's boots. They did not reappear. Ben said
a prayer and inched the door open. If Fatty was merely
stretching his legs . . . well, Ben did not relish a pounding
from those weighty fists.
He stayed kneeling and poked his head out just six
inches from the ground. Fatty was already two-thirds of
the way to his destination. Ben withdrew his head and
counted another ten before venturing a second look.
Fatty had made it. He was nowhere to be seen in the
receding pools of light created by the overhead bulbs.
Ben scrambled to his feet, hitched up his backpack,
stepped into the corridor and gently pulled the door
closed behind him. It shut with a tiny click.
'Yesss!' he murmured and, heading in the opposite
direction to the lavatories, melted into the shadows of
the great sleeping house. He felt no fear.

Chapter Fifty

Having captured and corralled him, they had a problem:
what to do with him. Jack Boulder could imagine the
agitated discussions going on elsewhere in Fern Hall.
They had abandoned him for the night, during which
he had slept fitfully and had woken once with a tremendous
thumping of his heart. He had had the dream again.
The shadow-wreathed woman . . . the horror and the
screaming . . . the final realization that oblivion waited.
He was sweating like a pig, and reluctant to close his eyes
again. But exhaustion overcame him and some time later
he woke with a start at the sound of the door opening.
How long had he been asleep? Jack looked along his
body and between his splayed feet saw Sir Gilbert
Metzhagen, carrying a brandy bottle and a glass. He was
alone, and he kicked the door closed behind him.
He walked round Jack's prone figure at a distance and
then closed in. His teeth flashed white in his dark, Slavic
face. He studied Jack thoughtfully through grey eyes, the

unusual colour acting as a veil drawn over whatever he
was thinking.
His masculinity was cast in an exotic mould and Jack
could see at this close range what the newspaper pictures
failed to capture: his charisma. He could have been a
forceful leading man in one of the movies he financed.
Now he used his fine teeth to tug the cork from the bottle
and half filled the tumbler. 'Here, drink this.'
Jack turned his head away.
'It's not spiked. You've been unconscious long
enough. Here. Look.' Metzhagen took a generous swig
himself and topped up the glass.
Jack accepted it with his free hand and swallowed
gratefully. Metzhagen nodded his approval.
The industrialist presented an odd, hastily clothed
figure in open-necked, lace-fronted shirt, and white
cricket trousers held up by a knotted old school tie. He had the appearance of a swashbuckler more at home
climbing the rigging of a pirate ship than presiding in a
boardroom. The effect was enhanced by Jack's Glock
tucked into the waistband.
Metzhagen leaned against a rack that contained rows
of weights in varying sizes. 'Captain Boulder, you have
invaded my property, armed and intent on killing me.
Why?' He shot the words at Jack like bullets.
Jack took a second slug of the brandy and felt himself
beginning to revive. He set down the glass deliberately and said, 'First of all, I did not come to kill you. Yes, I did invade your property but your men have, no doubt, told you I was in the act of withdrawing when they
pounced on me.'
'Then why did you come?'
'I wanted to confront you. I didn't know you were having a party.'
Metzhagen took the tumbler and drank some of Jack's
brandy, as if trying to establish a form of comradeship.
'And if I had not had a house full of people?'
'I would have hunted you down, put the muzzle of
that pistol to your mouth and forced you to tell me what
I needed to know. The moment was delayed, that's all.'
'But if you had no intention of killing me, why should
I tell you anything?'
'You're well aware that I've killed at least two people.
Why would you believe I'd extend any mercy to you?'
'Ah, yes. I see your point. A case of your reputation
preceding you.'
"That's why I'm here. I never wanted that reputation.
The first man I killed deserved his death sentence. The
second man died because I was tricked, lied to, given to
understand I was on an undercover operation for my
country. My reward has been to have three attempts
made on my own life.'
Jack observed that his words were having a depressing
effect on Metzhagen. He was staring at the floor, lost in
thought. Then he said almost sadly, 'Captain Boulder,
in that much I owe you an apology. I realize now we
should never have dealt with you at arm's length. Given
your praiseworthy disposal of that Irish scum, we should
have welcomed you openly as a brother-in-arms. We
needlessly offended you. Is it too late to appeal to you to
take the hundred thousand pounds we provided and hold
your peace?'
'Far too late,' said Jack bluntly, gazing at Metzhagen,
hard and uncompromising. 'You'd simply continue
trying to kill me. You only have to succeed once.'
Metzhagen made a motion with his hand as if this was
a minor irritant in their new relationship. 'I might even
be able to arrange for the million-pound bounty to be
paid by the Iranians into a bank account of your choosing.
I believe we've already opened for your benefit one
of those handy little Austrian accounts that defy all
probing.' Metzhagen essayed a twinkle.
'It's also far too late for bribery,' said Jack. 'What you
don't know is that Scotland Yard is closing in. That
copper, Ringrose, has already visited me. He knows I did
it. He knows there's a link between me and you.'
'MerdeF said Metzhagen. He began to pace between
the machines. He looked back at Jack over his shoulder.
'What did you say to him?'
'I said nothing that he didn't know already. It can only
be a matter of time before he acquires enough hard
evidence and takes me in. Before I ruin my family's
happiness, I want to know why it was so vital to go to
such elaborate lengths to assassinate Conrad Niven.'
Metzhagen said nothing. He stopped his pacing and
took a slug of brandy directly from the bottle.
Jack prompted him: 'You're at the heart of this - this
conspiracy, or whatever you call it. Only you could have
provided the considerable funds needed to organize the
operation. I know for a fact Mrs Canning's - Miss
Tintagel's - body was brought directly to your house by
members of the British Secret Service.'
'Yes, you have been extremely clever,' murmured
Metzhagen. He was deep in thought. He looked up
., abruptly as if an important decision had been made.
'Captain Boulder, you must not doubt your patriotism
for one moment. You performed a fine service for your
country by disposing of the Irishman, and you were right
again to kill Conrad Niven. Like you, everyone in my
unofficial little group - from government departments
Ś- and from the Security Services - is a patriot, deeply committed to furthering the cause of the United Kingdom
and its ancient institutions. If anything, my 
patriotism runs deeper than yours. I chose to be an Englishman.
My father was a victim of Admiral Horthy's torturers. I
could take you to the very room in the Gellert Hotel in
Budapest where they removed his ten toenails and
branded him on his buttocks with a red-hot wire.
'Noble British friends of my father took me in, a lost
and bewildered child refugee, just another piece of flotsam
thrown up by Continental Europe's violent upheavals.
They could have given me a bun and a cup of tea
and handed me on to an orphanage or the Sisters of
Mercy. Speedily washed their hands of this little nuisance.
Instead, they welcomed me into their homes, put
me into fine schools, raised me alongside their own
children. Made me an English gentleman.
'The philosopher George Santayana said that in the
days of their mighty empire, the British were the sweetest
masters. I experienced the full force of that pronouncement.
I love Britain with a passion that you, native-born,
taking your immense good fortune for granted, cannot
begin to understand. I have poured many millions of my
personal fortune into this dear country's institutions libraries,
colleges, art galleries, hospitals, medical
research establishments. I have also poured much money
into a secret endeavour to save those institutions from
the barbarians.'
Metzhagen, Jack realized, was not making this speech
for the first time. The words were spilling out of him in a
torrent. There was no challenging his fervour.
He was still speaking. 'I should correct one thing: my
group cannot actually save any of those institutions any
more. At best, we shall succeed only in prolonging their
existence. I'm a realist. You don't know it yet, Captain
Boulder, but our country is doomed.'
For the first time, it crossed Jack's mind that Metzhagen
was mad. Jack equated doom-sayers with wild
eyed men on boxes at Speaker's Corner and those ragged

visionaries patrolling Oxford Street with their sandwich
boards and their predictions of God's wrath to come.
Metzhagen had the weary look of a man who'd spent a
troubled night. But the fatigue was not diminishing his
passion.
'Little by little, this sweet and heroic island is slipping
into history. We are becoming an irrelevance. The rot
cannot be stopped. We have sucked up the wealth from
beneath the North Sea and thrown it into the bottomless
pit of our debts. Desperate governments have raised cash
by selling everything from the water you drink to the
Queen's right to be portrayed exclusively on our postage
stamps. And still it has not been enough. Our proud,
unconquered island has become an outer province of
Europe. There is no money for true universal education
and the cretinization of a brave and steadfast people
proceeds at a reckless speed. Their minds are assaulted
by imbecilic television spewing from a hundred poisoned
channels, by music fit only to be heard by animals of the
farmyard, by newspapers produced for idiots and movies
that glamorize a primitive appetite for violent behaviour.
'The people have lost their nobility. They've become
cynical, debased. They feel betrayed. They have no gods
any more. Their cathedral is the shopping mall.'
Metzhagen wiped his mouth on his white cuff. Jack
stayed silent in the face of the rant. Where was it leading?
In his rage, Metzhagen had drawn incautiously near to
Jack's feet. For a moment, he contemplated lashing out
and kicking the tycoon in the shins. But the satisfaction
would have been short-lived. Jack could not have got his hand on the gun as he reeled away.
Metzhagen said mournfully, 'Our governments give the impression of robust activity to counter these ills but, in actuality, all they do is construct illusions to ensure their own survival. Lesser breeds will build their
monuments on our rubble. It is the ultimate fate of all
empires. We may only hold back the day.'
Jack watched him take yet another swig at the bottle.
A drunk with a handgun was a dangerous combination.
He said in a placatory tone, 'This is all very interesting,
Sir Gilbert, but I don't see where Conrad Niven fits into
your alarming picture.'
Jack waited for him to elaborate but Metzhagen
resumed his pacing, deep in his tortured thoughts.
Jack tried again. 'Sir Gilbert, a man should know the
reason why he has killed another man.'
The tycoon wheeled round and came up close - so
close that Jack's free hand was just within grabbing
distance of the Glock. But Metzhagen, despite the
amount he had drunk, must have detected the calculation
in Jack's eyes. He moved smartly back two paces.
'Captain Boulder, the man you so brilliantly shot was
a reckless and worthless individual. A vain man and an
adulterer. Islam is a great religion but it is a vengeful
one. By deliberately taking a distinguished author's
unhappy experience and using it as a basis for his movie,
despite the unfortunate man's pleas and protests, he
slapped all of Islam in the face. A deadly business. I
warned him not to do it. I even offered him a contract to
direct a Hollywood feature on another more elevated
subject that would have enhanced his career. But he was
arrogant and stupid. He craved notoriety and, perhaps,
martyrdom. Well, thanks to you, he got it.'
'Why did you send me after Niven and not Rushdie?'
Metzhagen gave a snort. 'I think the ayatollahs have
come to realize that, alive and existing in a twilight
world, Rushdie remains a warning to all non-believers
that you cannot insult the Prophet with impunity. It suits
their purpose that he continues to live.'
'Did you collect the Niven bounty?'

'Do not insult me. No one collected the bounty. The
money was never the object.'
'Then what was?'
'Niven was the human sacrifice. Niven's corpse was
evidence of our sincere wish to restore good relations
with the world of Islam. I promised Iran I would deliver
him up.'
Jack swore. 'You had a man killed so that a bunch of
fucking diplomats and deal-hungry businessmen could
be pals again? You're so fucking sick, you should be in a
padded cell.' He struggled angrily, tugging at his manacle
and widening the red weal around his wrist.
Metzhagen reacted furiously. He made a claw of his
right hand. 'I would have plucked out his heart with my
own hands and carried it to Tehran myself if I could
have got away with it.'
Jack watched the Glock weaving backwards and forwards
as Metzhagen's features became wilder. He'd put
the brandy bottle on the floor. It was now two-thirds
empty.
The magnate fell silent, brooding. He gazed at Jack
speculatively and came to a decision. 'Captain Boulder,
I will now reveal for you the heart of the matter. Then
you must judge for yourself whether or not your own role
was justified. Thanks to my initiative, there is now a
small unofficial British mission in Tehran. Its members
have been received most cordially. The ostensible purpose
is to restore the trade between our two countries,
the loss of which caused grievous economic problems on
both sides. But the underlying and more urgent purpose
is to establish a sting operation.'
'A sting operation?' echoed Jack. 'To catch whom?'
'To catch the thieves who would destroy the planet
; with their greed. The smuggling of fissionable materials
has become a nightmare. The breakdown of the Soviet
Union has created a deadly black market. Plutonium,
some of it in the weapons-grade 235 and 239 isotope, is
leaking out of Russia as fast as fake icons. It is being
plundered from warheads, submarines, research laboratories
and nuclear storage bunkers. Underpaid workers
in the nuclear industry are selling uranium pellets in
exchange for botties of vodka. Old East German Stasi and
Russian KGB officers have set up smuggling networks. Poles, Czechs, Germans, Hungarians are all endangering
future life on Earth. The International Atomic Energy
Agency is floundering under the onslaught. For every so
called 'mule' caught with a lead-lined suitcase in his
possession, a score may be getting through to hawk their
deadly cargoes to Islamic fundamentalists who dream of
a twenty-first-century reconquest of Europe.
'It was the Germans who first had the idea of setting
up a nuclear sting operation - which they did with some
success in Bremen. But it has made the smugglers wary.
They're suspicious now of doing business with agents in
Europe. Instead, they head for the Iran border and what
they think will be a safe trade.'
Jack was gripped. 'Why should the Iranians allow us to
set up a sting to trap plutonium smugglers?'
'Ah, Captain Boulder, I see I have at last wiped the
look of resentment from your face. Good! You will,
perhaps, learn something about the difficulty of clinging
to moral absolutes.'
Metzhagen rubbed his hands together vigorously in a
gesture of great satisfaction, like a schoolmaster who had
at last penetrated the skull of an obtuse pupil.
'For a long time working with the Iranians has been
unthinkable and, officially, still is. They are international
pariahs. They've secretly pursued their nuclear bomb
programme for which they recruited a number of renegade
scientists from Russia and we have maintained our
trade embargoes. But it is beginning to get through to
them that co-operation with the West will make them
stronger - not in nuclear weaponry but in the peaceful
uses of nuclear energy. They have watched the North
Koreans abandon their illicit gathering of nuclear
materials in favour of American economic aid and help
in developing their legitimate energy sources.
'All this has begun to have a telling effect on the
Iranians. But when I went to Tehran, put this to them
and handed them a blueprint of the proposed sting, they
still looked for the catch. They wanted evidence of good
faith.'
Metzhagen drew breath. 'I told them getting rid of
Rushdie was out of the question. Even though the British
Government would dearly love to see the back of him,
they have invested too much prestige in keeping him
alive and his death could bring them down. That was a
price no British politician would risk paying.
'It took all the power of my tongue to keep the talks
going. Then they said, "Conrad Niven. You either deal
with Rushdie or that piece of camel dung Niven. It's
your choice".
'Once again, I pleaded for a more civilized approach
to our differences. But they were adamant. So, finally, I
thought, why not? It would mean one worthless human
being exchanged for the lives of countless millions in the
next century - millions who would not die because the
threat of nuclear war between the West and the forces of
fundamentalist Islam would have been removed.
'They sent me away to think it over. I asked Professor
Askew about the possibility of infecting Niven with a
fatal disease. He said such an attempt would be hit and
miss and could possibly kill others.
'We considered an engineered accident but that, too,
might have killed his innocent bodyguards. In any case,
an accident would have to take place anywhere but on
British territory. I believe that no matter how efficiently
it was executed, the deed would still have raised grave
suspicions of a conspiracy that had been permitted to go
ahead by a government known to be less than enamoured
of Conrad Niven.
'After we had considered and dismissed all other
approaches to this problem, we arrived at you, Captain
Boulder.
'You might be heartened to learn that, three days after
you had done your job with such clinical skill, the
Iranians sent me a message. Our mission to Tehran is
even now setting up the sting. The bargain is being
sealed.
'Yes, Captain Boulder, the human sacrifice that you
presented to the Iranians is about to be rewarded. So let
us hear no more of your contempt. Rather, start to feel
some pride in the service you have rendered.'
Jack asked quietly, 'Who else have your little band
of renegades killed as the final solution to the world's
ills?'
Metzhagen scoffed, 'We're not an assassination
bureau. Conrad Niven was at an extremity of our operations.
Our methods of ridding Britain of those who
could undermine it - the drug barons, the disloyal
politicians, the financiers who would wreck the currency
- are usually much more subtle. These are people who
buy juries and lawyers, people who mock all legitimate
attempts to bring them to book for their treachery.' He
waved a hand airily. 'There are car accidents, suicides to
be encouraged, public careers wrecked by exposed sex
scandals, incriminating documents niched and placed
into the hands of those who will exact justice . . . We are
able to call on the good offices of some of the most
upright people in the country.'
He looked sadly at Jack. 'With your extraordinary skill
with firearms, you could have joined the elite, Captain
Boulder. Once in a while, you would have received a
phone call from a new-found colleague, a sum of money
would have been placed in that Austrian bank account,
and you would have gone off to rid the world of some
swine who was using our country as a public lavatory.'
'What about the rule of law?' said Jack. 'You and your
grand friends are above it, are you?'
'Go ahead, indulge your ruptured sense of morality,
Captain Boulder. Your own government is not so fastidious,
I assure you. At this very moment, Israel has its
agents from Mossad roaming Britain and winkling out
its Arab enemies. Those Israelis illegally carry arms but
the British government looks the other way.
'You see, Captain Boulder, the truth is our government loathes trapping foreign terrorists. To capture one
alive means a messy public trial, retaliation, perhaps the
shedding of yet more innocent blood and certainly it
means serious harm to trade, our lifeline. Far better to
let Mossad drug, kidnap and shoot, and in other ways
clean up any mess that is too embarrassing for us to clean
up for ourselves. My little group can do only so much.
You could have taken a crucial role in that work.'
Jack did not like Metzhagen's mournful use of the past
tense. 'It's too late for me, is it?'
'Far too late, Captain. The play, as far as you are
 concerned, is ending. In your mindless pursuit of expla')
nations you have undone the work of a decade. That is
Ť how long it has taken me to evolve our band of helpers.
Now you know everything and now you must pay for
: your knowledge.
'I had intended confronting you with your family '
letting your lovely wife persuade you to cease your activities. But since, as you say, Ringrose has already
pinpointed you, you cannot now save yourself by a
sudden change of heart. He must never be allowed to
squeeze from you the secrets of our higher purpose.'
'My death won't help you,' said Jack. 'I've told others.'
Metzhagen gave a thin smile that Jack did not like.
'Told others? I don't think so, Captain Boulder. Perhaps
only your wife . . .'
Jack felt the chill from Metzhagen's accurate insight.
He said, as casually as he could, 'She'd be the last person
I'd tell. Have you ever known a woman able to keep a
secret?'
'Well,' said Metzhagen, once again with that unsettling
smile, 'we shall soon have the opportunity of finding
out.'
'How's that?' Something icy clutched at Jack's chest.
'For convenience, I've had her and your two sons
brought here to the house.'
'You don't even know where they've been staying.'
Jack heard his voice rise in incipient panic.
'Captain Boulder, we made one blunder with you. We
would not make another. Does Southwold in Suffolk
hold any meaning for you?'

Chapter Fifty-One

Tom Ringrose had three pieces of paper on his desk. One
alarmed him, one impressed him and one made him
extremely angry.
The first was the note that Jack Boulder had taped to the back of his movie poster. It read simply, 'I've gone to
see Sir Gilbert Metzhagen. He has the answers. If I

'; disappear, go to Frant.' Boulder had headed this:
; 'Friday, 7 p.m.'
The second piece of paper, at substantial length, was a
computer print-out prepared by Inspector Colin Dawson  detailing Sir Gilbert Metzhagen's many financial and
; industrial interests, his known charitable bequests - and,
ominously, his close friendships with many powerful
	figures in political life. The biography said to the wise
	that he was not a man to cross lightly.
; The third was a single sheet, a message from the
.; Assistant Commissioner (Crime) that he tossed across
' for Lionel Firth to read. The Home Secretary, weekending
with friends in the Cotswolds, had urged caution in
the matter of Miss Nancy Tintagel's exhumation. He
 wasn't refusing the order but he wasn't approving it,
) either. It was an extraordinary business and he'd like
more time to consider aspects of the case of which
Commander Ringrose was perhaps not cognizant. When
he was back in Whitehall on Tuesday and a fuller report
available to him, the Minister would take the matter
under review once again, etc. etc. . . .
'We've touched the parallel universe again, guv'nor,'
said Firth. 'What now? Do we obtain warrants and turn
over Metzhagen's country drum?'
'No,' said Ringrose, shaking his head. 'What have we
got to justify a raid? That Niven was a guest aboard his
yacht? That he gave a part in a film to one of the female
Witnesses? A cryptic note from our chief suspect? There
isn't enough there for us to nick Metzhagen for causing
an obstruction on the pavement. Besides, the magistrate
would take one look at the name on the search warrant
and become as coy as the Home Secretary. He'd need a
report, need to take the matter under advisement,
and so on . . . However,' Firth saw his chief turn cunning,
'we do have reason to believe that a deranged
gunman is on the loose and that Sir Gilbert is in personal
danger. The least we can do is follow the trail which surprise!
- leads direcdy to Sir Gilbert's country seat at,'
Ringrose consulted the print-out, 'Fern Hall, near the
village of Frant in East Sussex. We can offer him night
and day protection until the miscreant is caught - the
very same miscreant who is nursing a bizarre notion that
Sir Gilbert, perish the thought, had a hand in the
conspiracy to assassinate Conrad Niven. Now what could
have occurred to make this insane individual think such
a terrible thing? Can Sir Gilbert throw any light on this?'
Firth laughed at the slyness of Ringrose's scenario. 'Do
we go mob-handed and tooled up?'
Ringrose shook his head. 'No. You may draw a
sidearm, Lionel. Though I wouldn't fancy your chances
against Jack Boulder. Otherwise, it's just you and me
taking a pleasant Sunday drive in the country to make a
helpful call on a distinguished public figure.'
Ringrose had an afterthought. 'To cover our asses,
you'd better let the East Sussex constabulary know we'll
be on the patch.'

Chapter Fifty-Two

Ben Boulder guessed he was having the same astral
experience that a ghost would have, flitting and gliding
through the silent corridors and panelled rooms of a
great castle, except that he couldn't pass through brickwork.
He wished he could. The sensation of haunting
was eerie but it was also exciting enough to make him
forget his fatigue.
On the ground floor, there was plenty of light slanting
in through the tall windows to cast his moving shadow
onto carpets and walls, because the terraces surrounding  the house were floodlit. Through the panes, he 
occasionally glimpsed a patrolling security man and hurriedly
; drew back, but the interior of the house was quiet. He { found the vast drawing room, the library, a long dining gallery lined with oil paintings, which Ben was careful not to touch - he knew about art galleries where each  painting was wired to an alarm system.
Up the broad white marble staircase, he put his ear to
 carved doors and sometimes heard snoring and nocturnal murmurings. Up a further flight of less impressive stairs,  he pushed through a padded, soundproof door into a
. realm lacking fine panelling or pictures. He heard some
one moving about and hastily withdrew.
] His dilemma was that he had no idea of what sort of
 situation his father was in. Could he really be working
with the men Ben had met so far? Ben agreed with Mai:  they were a bunch of creeps. He hated the one who : looked at his mother like that.
Ben finally decided that his dad, like Mum, Mai and
; himself, was under guard. He remembered the warning
about strangers that Dad had given Mum when he
handed over the pistol. But where in this rambling hulk
of a building would he be?

All the upstairs doors opened when he silently turned
the knobs so Ben eliminated those as prisons. The top
floor accommodation seemed to be for the servants and
he returned to the basement baffled. Perhaps daylight
Would bring enlightenment. He peered down the corridor
to where his exploration had begun. Fatty was on his
chair, chin slumped on his mighty chest, apparently
asleep.
Ben retreated. In one storage room he discovered a
{stack of delicate gilt chairs. He wriggled between the
rows and found himself a shielded space against the wall.
He unhooked his backpack and slipped it under his head
as a makeshift pillow. They'd have to move chairs to find
him here. Ben decided he'd snooze till dawn and then
eavesdrop on the wakening house in the quest for his
father. The backpack felt a bit lumpy against his cheek but
also reassuring - and Ben fell Instantly into a deep,
dreamless sleep.
When he woke he had no idea of the time because it
was dark. Then he remembered: the sound that had
roused him had been someone passing the store-room
door.
Ben wriggled frantically out from under the chair
stacks, pushing his backpack before him, and peered into
the corridor. A man in cricket whites was walking away
from him, carrying a bottle and a tumbler in one hand.
In the other - Ben barely suppressed the gasp - was his
father's Glock, or its twin. He had helped clean it several
times.
Ben opened the backpack, took out the object that he
had guarded so zealously since yesterday tea-time, and
went in pursuit.
His quarry had vanished, but Ben spotted him again
from the next corner in the maze. The man was making
heavy-footed, determined progress. 'Marching as to war'
came to Ben's mind from a rousing hymn he sang at
school assemblies.
He repeated his tactic of waiting for the man to
disappear before speeding on his trainers to the next
corner. This time when Ben peered round he pulled his
head back sharply. The man in white had stopped to
speak to the underling who, the previous evening, had
brought Fatty his supper. He, too, had a chair outside a
closed door. He was now opening that door with a key.
Ben, at last, understood Fatty's cryptic remark that his

father was getting his exercise. At the corner junction was
a small arrowed plaque with gymnasiumsauna etched
into the metal.
He watched the door open and the guard stand aside
deferentially. White Trousers was framed in profile by
; the brilliant strip lighting inside the gymnasium. The ; man turned to the right and was speaking to someone
out of sight. Ben was too far away to catch the words.
The door slammed shut, leaving White Trousers inside
. with ... his father?
 He glanced back along the corridor down which he
had tracked White Trousers. He could hear voices. He felt no fear.
The guard still faced the entrance to the gym. Ben took the opportunity to nip across the mouth of the
corridor and, on the far side, find a door that yielded. The room was in darkness. Ben squatted down and  peered out once again, at ground level. The two men
who had escorted them from Southwold wheeled into
view and approached the gym. He could hear them ; murmuring with the guard.
For the first time, he experienced real apprehension.
He was intensely aware that a man armed with a deadly
weapon had gone into a room where he now believed his > father was being held. Furthermore, that man had done
the unthinkable, taken that gun from his father. He
 would never have surrendered the Glock without a
struggle.
Ben rocked on his haunches. Three men outside and at least one in the gym: too many for him to tackle. The
minutes dragged by. He made one resolve: if he heard a
.shot, he would go for it, regardless of the consequences.
He ceased rocking and came alert like a gundog. The
Voices were getting louder. He peered out as the two he
knew from Southwold emerged from the gymnasium
corridor and went back the way they had come. They
were arguing. The fair-haired one who had eyed his
mother was saying, 'There's no alternative. We just have
to let him do it.'
Ben watched them disappear. Now was his moment.
He stepped boldly into the gymnasium approach and
began walking forward. The guard saw him immediately.
They faced each other, like gunslingers of the Old West.
'Who let you out?' the guard said, truly surprised.
'You're not supposed to be wandering about like this,
you little bugger.'
'I let myself out,' said Ben.
'Oh, yes? And what was Harry doing all this time?'
'If you mean Fatty, he was sleeping his stupid head
off.' Ben was amazed at how calm he felt.
The guard's eyes narrowed angrily. 'You cheeky little
sod.'
He took a step forward.
Ben took the object he had nursed so long from behind
his back. The guard took one look and laughed.
Ben assumed a firing position with the Walther and
said, 'Mister, you will turn round and open that door.'
The guard was still laughing. 'I'm sorry. I didn't realize
it was you, Clint.' He took another step forward and now
loomed only six paces from Ben. The boy could not
miss.
'I'm warning you. This is a real gun. Open the door.'
'Where d'you buy it? Hamley's?' The guard made his
lunge and Ben fired.
The round nicked the guard's thigh, ricocheted along
the cement floor with a fearful whine and embedded
itself in the door's architrave.
The effect on the man was paralysing. He froze and
grasped his stinging leg through the torn jeans. 'You little
bastard, you've shot me.'

'The next one,' said Ben, composed, 'goes straight
through your face. Now open the door.'
'It's not locked.'
'Open it, you bastard!' Ben thrust the Walther forward
and aimed directly at the guard's face.
He flinched and shuffled about painfully, trying to
stem the trickle of blood with his hand. 'All right. All
right. Take it easy. Don't be a silly boy.'
'I'll show you just how silly I can be if you don't get
that door open by the time I count three. One . . .' The
guard put blood on the handle as he pushed the door
inward and shuffled into the room. In his shadow, Ben
heard White Trousers ask anxiously, 'Who's shooting?
What's happening?'
Ben stepped into view and said, 'This is happening.
Drop your weapon and raise your hands in the air.'
Gilbert Metzhagen's gaze, levelled at the Walther in a
small boy's hands, was one of incredulity. The single
syllable, 'Who . . . ?' hung in the air. But the look of
amazement switched Instantly to one of fury. The man
who gave orders and never took them snarled, 'Like hell,
I will,' and began to raise his firing arm.
Ben hesitated. Did he really have the nerve to shoot a
man down?
He was concentrating so hard on White Trousers that
he was only dimly aware of a figure in the corner of his
eye. But that figure - his father - was suddenly moving.
, Jack Boulder drew his legs up to his chest and kicked
out with all his strength at Metzhagen's knees. The
tycoon screamed in agony. The Glock waved wildly and
Sent a round into the ceiling. The guard cried, 'Jesus!'
and threw himself to the ground.
Metzhagen was tottering backward. He tried desperately
to save himself from falling and would have succeeded
if he had not backed himself up to the rim of the
empty plunge pool. He fell backwards and they all heard
his head crack on the tiles. The Glock fell from his grasp
as Ben rushed forward and looked down. Metzhagen was
out cold.
Jack Boulder was as thunderstruck as his captors at the
sight of his son wielding a handgun like a veteran. But he
was still self-possessed enough to shout, 'Ben, the man
on the door has the key to these 'cuffs in his right-hand
jacket pocket.'
The boy walked over to the guard, who was still
stretched out alongside a rowing machine. He pointed
the Walther at his head and said, 'Come on, mister, hand
it over.'
'You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you,
son?' The guard had lost all his bounce.
'They're the best ones,' said Ben coldly. 'They can't
shoot back.'
'Jesus,' said the guard again. He groped in the pocket
and produced the key.
Keeping the gun trained on him, Ben backed towards
his father and handed it over. 'Can you manage, Dad?'
'Perfectly, Ben,' said Jack, bounding to his feet and
massaging his sore wrist. 'Keep an eye on him and on
the corridor while I have a look at Mr Big.'
In passing his son, Jack ruffled the boy's hair. 'You little demon, you. Well done.' The tears in his eyes
signified part-gratitude for his deliverance and part
sadness for his son's premature introduction into the
world of violence.
Metzhagen was stirring and groaning. Jack seized the
Glock and briefly inspected it for damage. It seemed in
working order and there was plenty of persuasion left in
the magazine.
Ben said, 'Mum and Mai are here, Dad. We've got to
rescue them.'
Jack cursed under his breath. He looked around at the
section of the gym he hadn't been able to see from his
position on the workbench. In a rack hung a number of
skipping ropes attached to ballbearing handles, the kind
used by boxers in training.
He heaved Metzhagen from the pool and hogtied him
back to back with the guard who was whingeing. 'I'll
bleed to death.' Jack inspected the livid furrow in his
flesh and said, 'I'm sorry to say we won't have that
pleasure yet.'
Now that their immediate danger had passed, father
and son lowered their weapons and hugged each other
fiercely. 'Ben, I think I owe you my life,' said Jack,
kissing the top of his head.
'Any time,' said Ben awkwardly.
'Now tell me about Mai and your mother. And for
God's sake be careful with that gun.'
Ben led the way through the maze of corridors back to
the boiler room. The chair still stood opposite the door,
which was now open, but it was empty. As they came
nearer they could hear Fatty bellowing, Grace crying and
Mai screaming. Father and son broke into a gallop.
They could hear Fatty shouting, 'Where is the little
prick? How did he get out,' accompanied by the sound
of flesh being slapped.
'Here I am,' said Ben, appearing as if by magic in the
doorway.
'Why, you little . . .' Fatty's eyes bulged and he lunged
forward. As he came through the doorway, Jack stepped
into view and punched him hard on the side of the jaw.
he did not go down so Jack hit him again. The man was
an ox who had just survived a stun gun but this time
he collapsed groggily onto one wide knee. Then he prised
himself back to his feet, still bellowing like a bull after cie picadors had begun to work him over.
He lashed out at Jack and caught him on the shoulder.
With awe, Ben watched his father react. A flurry of
punches and kung-fu blows rained on Fatty's neck, chest
and head. Slowly, he sank to both knees, his piggy eyes
losing focus and his ham-like arms drooping as if the
weight of his own great fists had proved too heavy a
burden. Jack finished him with two merciless blows
behind the ear. Over he went, sideways like a reclining
Buddha.
They found Mai backed tearfully into a corner and
Grace picking herself up off the floor. Her face was
already beginning to show the bruises where Fatty had
slapped her.
Jack scooped up Mai and embraced his wife fiercely.
As they hugged, he said, 'Ben, do you know the way out
of here?'
'Follow me,' said his son, who was feeling marvellous
and leaped happily over Fatty's prone form.
Then Grace noticed what he was carrying in his right
hand. 'Where did you get that gun?' she gasped.
Jack said, 'Grace, there's no time for questions now.
Let's get out of here."
Ben led them through the corridors and up the flight
of stairs that he knew came out into the grand entrance
hall. They had not quite reached the top when Rupert
Strang's face appeared over the rail. Jack placed a round
in the wall over his head.
The sound was deafening. Strang's head disappeared
and they heard him say, 'God Almighty, Boulder's out
and armed. Everybody get back!'
Jack said to Ben, 'If you see anyone, aim a single shot
to strike the floor at their feet. I don't want you killing
them.' He heard Grace give a small shriek at this but she
did not argue.
At a rush, the Boulder family came out into the room.
Immediately they saw heads bobbing in the shelter of the
marble balustrading. Jack fired over their heads, sending
splinters of wood panelling showering down on them.
They could hear Strang shouting, 'Jack, Jack. There's
no need for this. Let's talk.'
Jack's response was to send another round overhead.
'Talk about what? Murdering my family?' he roared.
'Jack, I swear, that was never our intention.'
'In that case, you won't mind if we leave now.'
Father and son, back to back with Mai in the crook of
Jack's left arm and Grace following in a crouch, edged
towards the main double doors.
Ben saw a man in a dark suit appear in a doorway and
obeyed his father's instructions to the letter, sending a
round skittering along the marble floor. The man jumped
quickly out of sight.
Jack said to Grace, 'Open the front door, then stand
 back.'
[ She did so and Jack handed Mai to her. He sidled out
cautiously and surveyed the terrace and gardens. Two
security men were standing uncertainly in the mid
distance. Jack made up their minds for them. He fired over their heads and they dived for cover.
 His hired Range Rover was standing on the gravel. He
shouted back into the hall, 'Quick, follow me!'
The family came out into the sunlight and raced after
him. Ben, bringing up the rear, was suddenly tempted.
 For fun he placed a round in the closed half of the great
> oak door. 'Stop that!' said his father sharply. 'Never
waste ammunition.'
Jack opened the rear passenger door and rummaged
 under the seat. His captors had been lazy. They had
discovered neither the Cobray nor the spare ignition key.
'Everybody get in. Ben, you sit in front,' said Jack. He
took out the Cobray and said, 'I'm going to discourage
anyone from following us.'
He stood four-square to the great house, shimmering
in its summer glory, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and
its blazing Virginia creeper. Then he raised his daunting
weapon and deliberately enfiladed the ground floor from
corner to corner, sending glass shards exploding into the
elegant rooms and pock-marking the grey stone facings
of Sir Gilbert Metzhagen's home.
Satisfied, he climbed into the driving seat, placed the
Cobray on Ben's lap for safe-keeping, and said, 'We're
going on holiday.'
His hand gripped the wheel. His sleeve fell back
revealing that Metzhagen's heavies had stolen his wristwatch.
'What's the time?' he asked Grace. He was
surprised when she told him it was still not eight a.m.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Tom Ringrose wished he had not allowed Lionel Firth to
utter the words 'deranged gunman' to the East Sussex
Constabulary. This, plus his own nationwide reputation
coupled with the name of Sir Gilbert Metzhagen, had
achieved the same effect as poking the Chief Constable's
finger into an electrical socket.
At dawn, with only the newspaper boy and the
anxious-to-please village bobby as witnesses, an operational
control van and two batde-wagons packed with
East Sussex's best uniformed and body-armoured officers
rolled to a halt on Frant Green.
Instead of a tactical team leader of middling rank,
Ringrose and Firth were confronted by the Deputy Chief

Constable, no less. They were being deliberately
outranked.
Inside the van, the reason was made Instantly clear.
The DCC said anxiously, 'The Chief is extremely concerned,
Ringrose. Sir Gilbert Metzhagen is a highly
regarded figure, leader of the community and all that.
And, enormous, personal friend of his.'
The DCC was actually wringing his hands, another
jobsworth who no doubt applied to every selection board
for a county of his own.
Ringrose said mildly, 'We merely wish to make a
courtesy call on the man. For reasons connected with my
investigation, it has to be a surprise and I have, perhaps,
overstressed the danger from our quarry. He does not
use firearms haphazardly. Our understanding is that he
wants to talk to Sir Gilbert rather than shoot him.'
'Well, if he tries anything in East Sussex, he'll rue the
day,' said the DCC vigorously.
'Oh,' said Ringrose innocently, 'I'd have your chaps
keep their heads down, if I were you. The chap we're
interested in could shoot the buttons off your uniform
one by one and not leave a mark on you. He's probably
the world's greatest living sharp-shooter. A quite
uncanny talent.'
The DCC's handwringing went into overdrive.
A sergeant had rigged an Ordnance Survey map on the
van wall and used a pointer to oudine for Ringrose and
Firth the extent of the Fern Hall estate.
Tom turned back to the DCC. 'Perhaps, sir, as a
precautionary measure, the deployment of men along the
boundary walls might be in order . . . When DCI Firth
and I go up to the house, there may be persons other
than our sharp-shooter who may not wish to see us. I
don't want anybody to be permitted to leave the premises
until we have checked them out.'

Before the tactical team leader, who so far had stood
by deferring to the DCC and saying nothing, could make
his move, a flurry of radio traffic from the set at the far
end of the van halted them in their tracks.
The radio man swivelled in his seat, pressing his
earpiece to his skull, listening. 'We have a mobile unit
reporting gunfire from the direction of the Wadhurst
Road.'
Ringrose and Firth exchanged baffled glances. 'Early
huntsmen?' suggested Lionel Firth tentatively.
The DCC gave him that look, a mixture of pity and
contempt, that country people reserve for ignorant
townsfolk. 'Huntsmen don't shoot.'
The radio man said, 'It's automatic fire, sir.'
The senior officers raced to their cars with the battle
wagons following in pursuit.
The gate of Fern Hall was jammed two-thirds open.
The leading edge was buckled where a vehicle had
ploughed through and the metalwork had been punctured
by three rounds of ammunition. The gateman was
sitting on the gravel holding his head, gibbering.
Ringrose raced to his side and forcibly pulled his hands
from his face. 'Stop that! Tell me what happened.'
The man looked up with wild eyes. 'The crazy bastard
shot my hat off my head.' Sure enough, over by the
gatehouse, a sunhat Was lying in a flowerbed showing
signs of ill-treatment. 'He said the next one was for me if
I didn't get the gate open double-quick,'
'Who was he?'
'I dunno. Big bloke, youngish. I was having my
breakfast. I came out when I heard a vehicle coming. He
just leaned out the window and let fly.'
Firth joined Ringrose as the tactical boys in their
bulletproofs began to spread out through the grounds. 'A

bit late for that,' said the gateman, nodding at the frantic
activity. 'They're well gone.'
Ringrose and Firth said simultaneously: 'They?'

'Yes.' The gateman squinted up into their faces.
'Fancy spraying bullets around like a lunatic when you've
got your wife and kids with you.'
Again the two officers spoke simultaneously: 'Wife and
kids?'
The gateman was recovering his equilibrium. 'Are you
two Siamese twins or something? It was his wife and
kids. She was in the back with a young 'un and he was
driving with an older boy by his side.'
He stopped speaking abruptly and swore. 'You know
something? It's coming back now. I think that little
bugger had a gun of his own. What was it? Bonnie and
Clyde on a family outing?'
'Describe Bonnie,' said Ringrose quickly. He could see
the DCC stalking self-importantly across the drive.
'Oh, a real looker. Sort of silver blonde. She had a kid
pressed into her shoulder and was covering his ears. I
should bloody well think so. What sort of a parent
exposes a child to that kind of thing?'

The two detectives lifted the gateman and led him to
his own front door. 'Don't go away. We'll need you later.
By the way, was the car a Range Rover?' asked Ringrose.
'Yeah. How did you know that?'
'It's Clyde's favourite marque,' said Ringrose
solemnly.
The DCC caught up with them. 'Do we have a line on
the car and number?'
'No need to bother, sir.'
'No need to bother, Commander?' The DCC's blood
pressure rose visibly under the film of sweat caused by
these unaccustomed early-morning exertions. 'This man
has committed serious firearms offences.'
Ringrose said quietly, 'You do understand, sir, that I
am engaged in an investigation of the utmost delicacy a
task for which I was personally chosen by the Home
Secretary?'
Looking into the DCC's doubtful face, Ringrose
decided to elaborate: 'And with the full approval of the
Prime Minister.'
That did the trick. 'Ah, yes, of course. I understand perfectly,' jabbered the DCC, not understanding at all
but not prepared to make an enemy so close to the seat
of power.
Ringrose lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper
and Firth, hands behind his back, stood innocently by,
watching the blue uniforms advancing on Fern Hall.
'There is no need for pursuit because I know where I'll
find the man,' said Ringrose. 'By all means, prepare
firearms charges, but other matters may yet have to take
precedence.'
Ringrose raised his eyebrows, which were showing the
first tendrils of grey. They signalled that he had imparted
vital information to the DCC. 'Utmost discretion is
crucial,'
'Am I permitted to know his name?'
Ringrose was soothing. 'Later, sir, everything will fall
into place. Meanwhile, if you could have your men
assemble everyone on the premises, DCI Firth and I
would like to ask a few questions.'
They watched the DCC march away, scattering orders
to his blue army. Firth said, 'Is it possible? Could
Metzhagen have been holding Jack Boulder's family here
all this time to guarantee his silence?'
They surveyed the shot-up frontage of Fern House and
Ringrose whisded. 'Well, something just as upsetting
sure got our Jack good and mad.'
For the remainder of the day, Ringrose and Firth

listened to lies. No one knew the identity of the hooligan
- perhaps a business rival? - who had rampaged through
the house. Sir Gilbert himself had nothing to say about
anything. He was taken to hospital suffering from concussion.
His lawyer was soon by his bedside.
A member of the household security staff, one Kenneth
Cross, was taken in the same ambulance suffering from
an obvious flesh wound caused by a passing bullet but
which he insisted had been the result of his own clumsiness
when handling equipment in Sir Gilbert's personal
gymnasium.
Another, Harry Dixon from Bermondsey, refused
medical aid for facial bruising - the result, so he said, of
walking into a glass door although the police could find
no glass door on the premises.
But by late afternoon, Ringrose and Firth had sifted
out the staff, and the hired thugs and were left with a
quartet of 'house guests' who, naturally, hadn't the
faintest idea of what was going on.
Rafe Cummings, Rupert Strang and Peter HopeCasson
presented bewildered faces to the world and
identified themselves as friends of Sir Gilbert, and civil
servants in the Foreign and Commonwealth Service.
Ringrose couldn't be bothered with any more Whitehall
bullshit. He knew where he'd find out what he
wanted to know.
He stepped out to the Constabulary control van, now
parked in front of the house, and placed a secure call. It
was patched through to a private house in Hampstead and Ringrose read over the three names. 'They're at MI6,' said Jake Bishop promptly. 'Cummings is a senior
officer, Hope-Casson is an awful shit. likes pulling the wings off flies. Strang is a straight arrow.'
Ringrose said, 'Jake, I have another name here. BulwerTancred. Says he's an Under-Secretary in the Cabinet
Office.'	
'Hold the Don Ameche. I have to go to another
extension.'
Ringrose could hear Jake Bishop opening and shutting
filing cabinets. He returned to the phone. 'Yeah. That's
kosher. He's a low-profile kind of guy. There's not much
else I can tell you about him except, with a name like
that, his father must have had one hell of a sense of
humour.'
Ringrose thanked the CIA chief and was about to ring
off when Bishop said, 'Hey, Tom. I hope I'm going to
get the full works over a five-course dinner at Rules.
That's a colourful cast of characters you have there.'
"I'm booking the table where Mark Twain sat. It'll be
real soon,' Ringrose promised.

Chapter Fifty-Four

On the race back to the East Anglian coast, the Boulder
family stopped off at a Little Chef. They were all
famished and tucked into eggs and bacon. They were in
such high spirits that people began to stare. Grace had to
hush Ben and warn him to keep his voice down as he
related his night's adventures.
He acted out his part, excitedly jumping up and
crouching alongside the table leg to demonstrate his
tracking skills.
Jack's knuckles were raw from the beating he had
administered to Fatty. 'Kiss them better,' piped up Mai.
And Grace, swollen face not-with-standing, obliged. She
even held her tongue over Ben's suddenly revealed
knowledge of handguns. Her one-woman board of
inquiry would come later.
Jack shot fitful glances out of the window to where the
Range Rover was parked. Would Metzhagen's people
come after him? He now knew everything and the sooner
he placed on record every last detail - his confession, in
fact - the sooner he would have insurance against further
attempts to kill him.
Would they really have slaughtered his family? He
looked with anguish at Grace, Ben and Mai, the morning
sunlight slanting through the plate-glass windows and
wreathing their heads in gold. He couldn't bear to think
of life without them. The Glock was back in his belt. Just
in case.
Metzhagen had made him his unwitting instrument so
that businessmen could snare fat contracts and wrap
their greed in perverted patriotism. Bile welled in Jack's
mouth. He was trapped between Metzhagen's murderous
intentions and Ringrose's duty to call him to account.
Grace was forced to pay the breakfast bill because
Metzhagen's lackeys had emptied his pockets. This
prompted Mai to inquire as to the whereabouts of his
Indiana Jones backpack. Ben clapped a hand to his
mouth and said, 'Oh! It's still in the store-room.' His
brother wailed but Grace cuddled him and said,
'Daddy'll buy you another.'
Back on the road, they stopped briefly for Jack to buy
a large notepad. He would write a true account of the
past weeks the instant they reached Southwold. Would
he then simply hand it over to Ringrose with all that that
meant for his own future? Unnoticed by a still euphoric
Grace, his eyes turned bleak as the road unreeled beneath
his wheels.
That night, with the first words on paper, Jack slept
downstairs with the Glock, the Walther and the Cobray
all at hand. At two a.m. the phone rang. An upper-class
voice said, 'Jack, this is Rupert Strang. Please don't hang
up.'
Jack moved swiftly across the darkened room to the
window. There was no suspicious movement outside.
'Well?' he said.
'Jack, some of us have been having a very serious
meeting and we have spent the day having further
consultations with . . . well . . . let's say with associated
parties. We have devised a plan of damage limitation that
requires only one thing from you.'
'And that is?'
'Your confirmation that our version of events is the
only true one.'
'And what does that mean for me and my wife and
kids?' Jack glanced up. Grace was tiptoeing downstairs
in her cotton nightie.
'It means you may have to stand in the corner for a
bit. Plead guilty to a certain naivety. But there should be
no question of prison.'
'And you and your Secret Service friends - how do
you come out of it?'
'Smelling of ordure, I'm afraid. We, too, have explaining
to do. I gather Metzhagen told you why we've been
doing these things as a breakaway group. He didn't lie to
you, Jack. We're still proud of what we've done for our
country. We weren't misguided then and we don't accept
we're misguided now that we're in this quandary and let's
be honest - this fight for survival.'
'Don't you have any doubts at all about the morality
of what you and your friends have been doing?'
'No,' said Strang. 'Just as you had no doubt when you
went after Sean McGurk. You cannot escape it, Jack.
We're all of a kind. We've lost faith in the democratic
process to save us from the barbarians. The only difference between us is one of degree. You see the individual
outrage. We see the big picture and what's happening to
this country.'
'I don't like the idea of vigilantes,' said Jack. 'If I had
my time again, and knowing what I know now, I'd leave
McGurk strictly alone. He was the sort of rat who would
eventually have walked into a bullet without any intervention
on my part. I was idiotic not to see that at the
time. Instead, I've come near to disgracing my regiment
and destroying my family. My own son, at the age of
twelve, already knows what it's like to fire a lethal weapon
at a fellow human being. It's not the upbringing I
planned for him.'
Strang remained silent. Jack beckoned Grace over to
share the earpiece. 'You spoke of a plan. What is it?'
Rupert Strang talked for nearly an hour, carefully
refracting the events of the past month through the prism
of his own Machiavellian mind. By the end of this
exposition, nothing was as it had seemed.
Jack and Grace listened without interruption. Finally,
Strang said enticingly, 'That's it, Jack. One bound and
you're free.'
Jack looked inquiringly at Grace. She said slowly, 'It's
ingenious. Will Commander Ringrose go for it?'
Rupert Strang heard the question. 'Mrs Boulder, fear
not. No matter how distinguished, Ringrose is a serving
police officer. Even he has his superiors. Each of us who
serves has to yield occasionally to others. My colleague
and I are working on this aspect.'
Grace shrugged and put a bare arm round Jack's
shoulders. 'Tell him we'll co-operate, but there are
conditions.' She laid them out and Strang listened.
Before he rang off, he said, 'Gilbert has a nasty
headache but I'll be able to talk to him at length first
thing in the morning. I'm sure Mrs Boulder's suggestions
will find favour.'
He paused, and then added, 'I'm relieved at your
attitude, Jack. You and your family sleep easy.'

Chapter Fifty-Five

Ringrose and Firth called on Inspector Colin Dawson at
7 a.m. on Monday morning. With Dawson at the word
processor, they sealed themselves in Ringrose's office and
began to compile their report on the assassination of
Conrad Niven.
They carefully picked through the evidence and in four
hours had constructed a picture of the truth that was
admittedly part-deduction but in most respects was
accurate. They named Jack Boulder as the suspected
sniper, with four members of the Secret Intelligence
Service (one female deceased), as co-conspirators, along
with a senior civil servant currently working in the
Cabinet Office.
Ringrose pointed to Sir Gilbert Metzhagen as financier
of the complex and expensive operation, with the strong
likelihood that the aforesaid renegade members of the
SIS had made unauthorized use of their service's facilities
for covert operations.
Ringrose requested that the Foreign Office be asked to
confirm an unofficial report (source not stated) that the
bounty money had not been claimed.
Ringrose and Firth said frankly that they could furnish
no other motive for the killing but pointed out that, in
English law, none was necessary to obtain a conviction.
However, as the major crime in their catalogue of

offences had been committed on French territory, Ringrose
recommended that he be allowed to fly to Paris to
present the complete dossier to Commissaire Victor
Massillon and invite the French government to apply for
the arrest and extradition of the named persons to stand
trial in France.
He applied again for an exhumation order on the grave
of Nancy Tintagel.
Dawson made a single printed copy and Ringrose sent
it upstairs in a locked file. Dawson made a further copy
on a floppy disc which he handed to Ringrose. He then
wiped clean the computer's memory of this item.
The three men sat looking quietly satisfied. A long,
intricate investigation had been brought finally into focus
on eight foolscap sheets of paper.
'I give it thirty minutes until we hear the first cries of a
body in pain in the Assistant Commissioner (Crime)'s
office. We should be able to hear it from right here. Then
another half-hour until the sound of sobbing from the
Commissioner himself.'
Ringrose checked the time. 'Let's go and eat.'
They were summoned back from the canteen in exactly
fifty minutes.
The Commissioner looked as if a brilliantined gigolo
had run off with his wife. He was ashen. 'Tom, in my
entire police service I've never come across a hotter
potato.' He was balancing the report gingerly on his
fingertips demonstrating the point.
Ringrose could see him struggling to hold back what
he really wanted to say, which was: 'Ringrose, this is a
heap of shit. I don't believe a word of it.'
Instead, the Commissioner managed: 'It's shocking. The
SIS involvement . . . after all the reassurances . . . hard
to credit... the fallout will be cataclysmic . . . God, the
French will gloat!'
He had a sudden alarming thought: 'How many people
in the building know about this?'
'Five. You, me, the AC (Crime), Firth and Dawson.'
'Is there anything in the computer system that can be
accessed by unauthorized personnel?'
'No, and there's nothing to be accessed by authorized
personnel, either. Dawson has cleaned house.'
The Commissioner jumped up and paced his carpet.
He was beginning to regroup. 'Right. Let's keep it that
way. Where's Boulder now?'
'He hasn't returned home yet, but he won't be far
away. He has his family with him - and a traceable hired
Range Rover. If you give the word, I'll pull him in.'
'No, no!' The Commissioner was horrified - as
Ringrose had expected he would be. 'For the moment,
don't let's launch any course of action that we can't stop.
Anyway, the man hasn't actually confessed, has he?'
'No, but Jack Boulder is as ready to unburden himself
as he'll ever be. I take him for a basically decent man
who has been led with a ring in his nose by the people
who concocted this business. The caper has come apart
at the seams because they made the mistake of threatening
his family.'
Ringrose was not going to give the Commissioner any
straw to clutch that might allow him to bypass the
incendiary file burning a hole in his mahogany desk top.
Ringrose said bluntly, 'If I bring him in, he'll tell me
everything.'
The Commissioner's hands were fluttering at his frizzy
ginger hair. 'I don't doubt it, Tom. Don't doubt it at all.
There's enough here,' he pushed the report across the
desk as if he desired to return it permanently to its
author, 'for you to nail him to the floor.'
'So what's our next move, sir?' Ringrose asked, as if he
did not already know the answer.
'Well, of course,' said the Commissioner, starting to
bluster, 'there are extensive political ramifications here.
This is going to tear Whitehall apart. From the start,
they've been sour on the prospect of your discovering
that the assassin was British. I just don't care to predict
what the reaction will be when they learn that not only is
their worst fear confirmed but that he's part of a conspiracy
involving our own Security Services. It's
altogether too shocking.'
Ringrose decided to have mercy on him. 'You'd like
me to shut down while you finesse this through the
Whitehall jungle?'
The Commissioner looked grateful for not having to
utter the words himself. 'It's going to be a delicate
business, Tom. They have long memories for bad-news
bearers.'

Chapter Fifty-Six

Tuesday. After twenty-four hours of pandemonium in
Whitehall and at Vauxhall Cross, garish headquarters of
MI6, the ranks had been steadied.
The Commissioner wore his civilian clothes, which
was his own way of signalling that a matter for discretion
was in progress. He and Tom Ringrose made the short
journey to the Cabinet Office in Whitehall in the Commissioner's
official limousine.
The assembly awaiting them was as august as it gets:
the Secretary of the Cabinet and Head of the Home Civil
Service, the Director-General of MI6, and the elderly
knight who was Co-ordinator of all the secret branches
of British Intelligence.
The policemen were seated facing them.
The Cabinet Secretary was in snappish mood. 'There
will be no notes taken. This is a meeting that never took
place.' He shifted his cold gaze from face to face looking
for dissent. He detected none.
Tom Ringrose was interested in the single sheet of
paper in front of the Co-ordinator. It was the only item
on the highly polished round table. He could not quite
read the upside-down typescript.
'I need hardly tell you that the Prime Minister and the
Home Secretary were horrified to learn the contents of
Commander Ringrose's report,' said the Cabinet Secretary.
Tom noted wryly that it was still his report and
not the report of the Metropolitan Police. He glanced
sideways at the Commissioner, who kept his gaze steadfastly
to the front.
'The potential scandal is on the Burgess-Maclean
scale. However, in the past twenty-four hours the Director-General
has conducted intensive inquiries in which
he has had the fullest co-operation from those members
of his service identified in Commander Ringrose's report.
He has also been assisted by Sir Gilbert Metzhagen, who
is still recovering from an accident.'
The Cabinet Secretary paused to take a delicate dab at
his nostrils with a cambric handkerchief produced from
his sleeve. 'The Co-ordinator has subsequently interviewed
the Director-General and is satisfied that we now
have the true account of what transpired. This differs
markedly from Commander Ringrose's version but,
given the various handicaps under which he carried out
his investigation, his interpretation of events is entirely
understandable. Therefore, no blame attaches.'
That's big of you, thought Ringrose savagely. The oily
bastards were all looking at him, smiling at the invalid,
and murmuring, 'Hear! Hear!'

'Of course,' said the Director-General, bluffly butting
in. 'Commander Ringrose did absolutely the right thing
hauling in my chaps. They've been bloody fools. Went
way in over their heads. They're going to get some stick,
I promise you.'
Get some stick? Was that all? Ringrose registered the
first intimation of what was to come.
The Cabinet Secretary came in again. 'I think we had
better let the Co-ordinator take things from here. He has
the briefing paper.'
The old boy, an admiral without a fleet, harrumphed
noisily and grasped his document in both liver-spotted
hands. 'I am satisfied,' he began reading, 'that the MI6
officers referred to by the DG, with the aid of a senior
civil servant from this office and financed by Sir Gilbert
Metzhagen, a noted patriot, were engaged in a foolhardy
and entirely unauthorized attempt to save their service
from a public humiliation. They were trying to cover up
the misdeeds of a colleague who, acting alone, plotted
the death of Conrad Niven for the squalid purpose of
collecting the million-pound bounty on his unfortunate
head. When they discovered what the colleague had
done, this group of close friends held what we might call
a council of war. Stupidly, instead of confiding in their
Director-General, they chose to go it alone.'
Tom Ringrose interjected, 'I take it that the renegade
colleague is, in fact, the MI6 officer Nancy Tintagel who
went under the name of Jane Canning?'
The admiral glared. 'Quite so. Quite so.'
Ringrose continued, 'My information, admittedly
from unofficial sources because our people in Tehran
appear to have gone to sleep, is that Miss Tintagel made
no attempt to collect her reward.' He wasn't going to let
them off the hook that easily.
The Cabinet Secretary at his most mandarin murmured,
'Perhaps we could have questions later . . .'
The Co-ordinator rumbled on. 'Miss Tintagel, quite
unaccountably, took leave of her senses. Her father, a
personal friend of mine, I might say, is devastated. The
reason she failed to claim her blood money is quite clear.
When she returned from what her superiors had taken to
be a holiday in France, she was immediately placed on
an official surveillance operation that necessitated a
cross-country journey on horseback. Tragically, she was
thrown and killed before she could make her claim on
the Iranians. To disguise the nature of her work, the
service sought the co-operation of their consultant
pathologist, Professor Askew. A verdict of accidental
death was arranged.'
Ringrose was not having it. 'May I now have the
exhumation order to confirm this?'
'No, you may not!' The retort rang across the table
from the Cabinet Secretary. He was no longer indulging
Commander Ringrose. 'The Home Secretary says, and I
agree, that no one is best served by turning over more
stones. Let the wretched woman lie in peace.'
The admiral asked, 'Shall I finish this?' To give the old
boy some credit, he now appeared to be executing a most
distasteful act.
But before he could carry on, Ringrose - his Commissioner
looking agonizedly at him - interjected, 'How
do you propose to deal with the actual sniper, Jack Boulder? He isn't answerable to any government agency.'
The admiral, looking increasingly unhappy, said, 'Ah.
Here we come to the nub of the matter.' He peered over
his half-glasses at Ringrose in a quite kindly way. 'I'm
sorry to say, Commander, that the central premise of
your report has gone entirely off the rails. The sniper was
actually Miss Tintagel.'
'What?' Despite the hushed and gentlemanly nature of
the proceedings, Ringrose could not contain himself. He
leapt to his feet, sending his chair toppling backwards.
'That's absolute bollocks.'
The blunt expletive, far removed from the silky
language of diplomacy, hit them like a flicked wet towel
in a locker room. He could hear the Commissioner at his
side imploring him to resume his seat.
The Cabinet Secretary recovered first. He turned
steely. 'Bollocks or not, Commander Ringrose, that is
the gospel we shall all carry from this room. We will not
have SIS disgraced because of the mad doings of one
greedy operative. Please pick up your chair and hear out
the Co-ordinator.'
'Ah, yes. Thank you,' said the old boy, going back to
his sheet of fabrications. 'Somehow, Miss Tintagel
obtained the Army record of Boulder, noted his skill with
a rifle and recruited him to give her an intensive course
on the shooting range. We believe they secretly travelled
to Scotland for this purpose and, at some stage, became
lovers. She had discovered that her friend Metzhagen
would have Niven aboard his yacht at that film festival in
the South of France. Everything fell neatly into place.
Thanks to Boulder's training, she was ready in May to
make the attempt.'
The admiral rattled on, anxious to get the beastly
business over with. 'Boulder appears to have been excessively
trusting. She took him to Cannes as her lover not
as her accomplice. Only after the event, after she had
sent him off on some errand while she dispatched Conrad
Niven, did he discover the appalling truth and realize
that no one would ever believe he had not been party to
the crime. That's when he enlisted the American girl to
try to cover both his own and Miss Tintagel's tracks.'
Ringrose said evenly, 'The two shots that killed Niven,
at the distance required, were possibly within the competence
of no more than ten sharp-shooters in the entire
world. Nancy Tintagel could have trained in the Highlands
for half her lifetime and still not achieve such
expertise.'
'Let's just say she was a very gifted learner,' said the
Cabinet Secretary irritably.
Ringrose waited for the Commissioner to speak, but as
his boss was taking a sudden interest in his lace-up black
shoes he asked what the Commissioner should have
asked: 'What do we do about all the cover-up artists?'
He did not bother to disguise the sarcasm.
'As the DG has indicated, those in his employ will feel
the full force of his disapproval, as will Bulwer Tancred
in my bailiwick,' said the Cabinet Secretary, impervious
to Ringrose's hostility. 'Gilbert Metzhagen, apart from
being warned by me personally, will not be charged.
Neither will Boulder. He'll be left strictly alone. He
could bring the temple tumbling down. At best, you
could only hand him over to the French on minor charges
from which he would certainly walk away once SIS officers had given evidence confirming his unsuspecting
role in the crime.'
'You've forgotten one thing,' said Ringrose.
'What?'
'Not only do I have a witness who happens to be a Daily Mail reporter, but, out of necessity, he has seen the
videotapes of Nancy Tintagel at the Berthier Hotel. He's
keeping quiet because I asked him to. He won't hold off
for ever.'
They looked stumped. Then the Cabinet Secretary
said, 'If you can't shut him up with the Official Secrets
Act, you'll just have to brazen it out and confess that
your investigation took the wrong turning. Nancy Tintagel
was in the clear. Just wild coincidence that she
happened to be in Cannes with a lover answering the
wanted man's description.'
'He's no fool. He won't buy it,' predicted Ringrose
heavily. He got up and turned away. He found himself
facing a superb oil painting of one of Villeneuve's warships
taking a Nelsonian broadside. He immediately
thought of Victor Massillon. Christ, what would he tell
him? Victor wouldn't buy it, either.
On the return journey to the Yard, Ringrose and the
Commissioner were silent until the limousine was rounding
Parliament Square. Then Ringrose said, 'You hold
the Queen's Commission. They can't sack you. You can
tell them all to go fuck themselves and let me go ahead
with the charges.'
The Commissioner actually squirmed in his seat. He
said tiredly, 'Life isn't that simple, Tom. They have all
the witnesses by the goolies. It'll be a concert party.
They'll sing what they've been ordered to sing. The only
consoling factor is that Nancy Tintagel paid the penalty
just as if she'd had a breakfast appointment at Wandsworth
Prison with Albert Pierrepoint. Justice was done,
even if not seen to be done.'
'Jack Boulder and his family will be dancing in the
streets,' said Ringrose.
'Put it behind you, Tom. He's the one that got away,'
said the Commissioner, gazing morosely out of his
window at Churchill, in a foul mood on his stone plinth.
And they left it at that.


Epilogue

Within one year, this is what happened to those who had
been caught up in the plot to assassinate Conrad Niven.

	Sir Gilbert Metzhagen was created a life peer in the
New Year Honours List for his services to charity. He
made headlines for his generosity in setting up a
million-pound trust fund to benefit the two divorced
wives and three children of the late Conrad Niven.
The gesture had been recommended to him by a
Shepherd's Bush housewife.

	Mrs Jessie Pocock, a Battersea widow, was surprised to
receive an annual pension of 4,000 pounds from an ex
servicemen's charity that had received a donation of 86,500, pounds which happened to be the exact sum that the
Boulder family had in their savings account.

	Inspector Colin Dawson was promoted to the rank of
Superintendent. Underlings ceased calling him the
Dalek.

	Miss Betty Bentinck suffered a career setback when her
feature movie failed to recover its negative cost. She
returned to daytime television hell.

	Ben Boulder disobeyed his parents' orders and told his
schoolmates of his extraordinary adventures. No one
believed him.

	Malcolm Boulder never did get a substitute Indiana
Jones backpack. He settled for a Fred Flintstone
wristwatch.

	Commissaire Victor Massillon accepted with cynical
amusement the Whitehall account of the assassination.
He was told this on the day preceding publication of a
London Daily Mail exclusive story in which a British
peer's daughter was sensationally fingered as the
executioner. In the House of Commons, the Prime
Minister confirmed that this possibility had been
investigated but that he had been advised that the
allegation was untrue. He refused an independent
inquiry.

	Peter Lancing was nominated for the tide of Reporter
of the Year but, in view of the Prime Minister's denial,
didn't get it.

	Lionel Firth and Tom Ringrose remained in their ranks
and at their posts. It was implied to Ringrose that if he
cared to petition the Selection Board, who were sitting
to fill a vacancy at Deputy Commissioner level, he
would be warmly received. Recognizing the bribe, he
declined.

	Jake Bishop and Paul Kaiser got dinner at Rules - and
the truth from Ringrose, who withheld only Jack
Boulder's identity. At his regular weekly meeting with
the President, the CIA Director relayed Bishop's information.
The President was alleged to have said, in an
admiring tone, 'Those fucking Brits! They'd have
taken the Nixon tapes and sworn they were really
spaghetti.'

	Sidney Zuckerman still has not had a female FBI agent.

	Bulwer Tancred was transferred to the European Commission
in Brussels at a vastly increased tax-free salary.






He took his Albert Pierrepoint poster with him. He
developed an interest in the life of Dr Guillotine.

	Rafe Cummings and Peter Hope-Casson were posted
abroad. Hope-Casson had an unfortunate experience
in Mexico City where he received a severe knife wound
in the chest. There appeared to have been a dispute
over someone's wife.

	Rupert Strang continued his career at Vauxhall Cross.
He subsequently attempted a friendship with Jack
Boulder, with future utilization of Jack's special skills
in mind. It was bad luck that Mrs Boulder picked up
one of his calls and sent him packing.

	Mrs Grace Boulder banned all firearms from the family
home and the boys were forbidden to touch them ever
again.

	Jack Boulder never again had that dream of descending
into the underground and following the dark lady into
unspeakable horror. In high places, it was decided that
Captain Boulder - in Lyndon Baines Johnson's heartfelt
words - was safer inside the tent pissing out, rather
than outside pissing in. Following Strang's failure to
net him, Jack Boulder's army record was discreetly
laundered and he was returned to duty, promoted to
major and posted to the Special Air Service where his
talents would be of some future use to the State.


The End.