It didn't seem like that at all, to her. But, then, it was quite out of her experience.
'What about behind us?' Audley's voice was cold. 'MacManus always operates with a partner — a back-up? And . . . my family is down there, Paul.'
'Don't worry about behind us.' Mitchell nodded at Jenny. ' If you please, Miss Fielding— ? Go!'
There was something in Mitchell's face which made any sort of protest contemptible, however much she wanted to argue with him, to assert herself.
So ... over the dead grass, and the scatter of autumn crocuses, to where he'd indicated, and down behind a safe rock —
Mitchell was saying something, behind her; and so was Audley — but she couldn't hear what they were saying. Then he was beside her — first, on his knees — on his knees, but dummy2
with the rifle carefully cradled in one hand, to keep it off the ground . . . and then easing himself carefully alongside her.
'No need to watch, Miss Fielding. In fact, I'd prefer that you didn't — you'll only distract me.' He took a khaki handkerchief from his pocket and spread it out behind the rock and put two of his spare cartridges on it. 'Nothing to see, anyway. He's just stopped to have a final look around, just in case.'
She lowered her head, keeping her eyes on him. Because there was something to see, of course — something she'd never expected to see at all, ever ... let alone like this, within touching distance: one man preparing to kill another man.
'And now there's a further delay — an unforeseen occurrence.' Mitchell was peering round the edge of the rock, keeping his own head low. 'There's a farm tractor coming behind him, towing a load of something. So he'll have to pull into the side to let it past, and wait for it to disappear. And he won't like that — not one bit.'
She could hear the tractor. 'Why not?'
'A witness.' He didn't look at her. 'Not that he plans to stay around afterwards, to be identified. And there'll be a different car waiting for him, another vehicle, anyway —
maybe a lorry, or something like . . . Goods for Portugal, maybe. We're only two or three hours from the frontier, after all.' He looked at her suddenly. '"Quickly in — quickly out": that's his usual method. You can never tell for sure, of course
— not with a wild animal. But it's always worked for him in dummy2
the past.' He returned his attention to the front again as the noise of the tractor's diesel rose. 'And he certainly doesn't want to hang about in Spain, that's for sure. He's taken one hell of a risk already, as it is ... Although his friends will have looked after him this far ... so they may have other plans for him now, at that!'
'His friends?' The sound of the tractor rose to a crescendo, but then suddenly died away as it passed the headland of the Greater Arapile and continued on towards the ridge behind them. 'His friends — ?'
'Now he's waiting again. And, if he's got any sense he'll turn round and wait for another chance . . . Go on, you bastard!
Turn round — there's a gap just ahead where you can do it easily! Don't be an idiot!' Mitchell drew a deep breath and stared fixedly into the valley, with his chin almost into the dirt. 'No ... of course you're not going to — are you! You missed out once — and the old juices are pumping now: this is what turns you on — ' He stopped suddenly 'Yes . . .
"friends", Miss Fielding. He did a difficult contract job for ETA a few years back — one the Basques didn't fancy doing themselves for domestic reasons. It was a car bomb, actually.
Although he prefers guns to bombs, himself. But it was a big bomb: it blew the damn car clear over the block ... so they owe him one.' Just as suddenly he turned to her again. 'And a penny for your thoughts now, Miss Fielding?'
There was something not right with all this. 'I'd like more than a penny's-worth, Dr Mitchell — ' She caught the edge of dummy2
her own doubt: why was he giving her so much, when he didn't need to?
He looked away again. 'Well . . . we'll see, eh? I'll ration the pennies, maybe — Ah! He's moving again . . . very slowly . . .
and now he's stopped again, at the gap . . . well, well! Does he smell a rat — does he?'
'How did he know we'd be here, Dr Mitchell.'
'Now that is asking.' Mitchell's chin was on the dirt now. 'We didn't know for sure ourselves, not at first: we did it by logic first — what we might have done, in your shoes, if we were stupid . . . before we managed to frighten one of Mr Reginald Buller's friends into confirming.' He slid the rifle forward, and applied the eye-piece of the telescopic sight to his left eye, adjusting its focus. 'It could ... just be ... that your Mr Buller isn't as clever as he thinks he is — ' With a deft little movement, quickly and yet unhurriedly, he extracted a small screwdriver from the breast-pocket of his shirt and made an adjustment to the sight ' — or ... judging by the way he got out of England with his little fat chum . . . with a certain country's CD plates on his luggage ... it could be that the devil you raised — Mr MacManus's employer, that is — is a very smart devil, as well as a very stupid one — ' He applied the eye-piece to his eye again ' — that will do.' He lowered the rifle for an instant, and looked at her squarely. 'We won't know until we ask him — will we, Miss Fielding?'
She wanted, quite desperately, to raise her head. And . . .
how could he be so cold-blooded, damn him! 'How are we dummy2
going to do that, Dr Mitchell — if you are about to kill him?'
'Kill him?' Paul Mitchell frowned at her for only a fraction of a second, before rolling back to his rifle, and bringing it up to his shoulder, and settling himself comfortably — long legs splayed out behind him, ankles flat to the dirt (one foot gouging away a swathe of autumn crocuses regardlessly).
'What d'you think I am — a murderer ... not that it wouldn't give me the greatest of pleasures — the greatest of pleasure . . . and it'd be a bloody-sight easier, too — don't look: he may spot your little white face over the top — '
What stopped her from looking, even more than his final shout, was that he wasn't looking at her: he had known, without looking, that she couldn't resist looking at the last —
The rifle kicked, sending a tremor through him and deafening her as he fired in the very instant that his order held her motionless, so that she witnessed the unforgettable professionalism of his second shot — the practised bolt-action-empty-cartridge-flying-out-live-round-off-the-khaki-handkerchief-slid-into-the-breach — bolt-snapped — rifle-up — aim — FIRE!
And then the whole thing started again —
But then stopped.
And then Mitchell's face momentarily sank on to his rifle, his unshaven cheek distorting it, with his eyes squeezed shut.
And with that all bets — all shouted orders — were off, and Jenny was on her knees, above the rock —
dummy2
The little car was moving again: it was backing, in a cloud of dust, down the track — it was turning — swerving and skidding in its own dust into the gap in the track behind it, in a racing turn-about, to escape —