I switched off all the lights and stayed in the house for some while to accustom my eyes to the dark; before finally stepping out I scoured the area with my binoculars, but could see no sign of anyone watching. The wind was now blowing very strong and that, combined with the roar of the sea, was more than adequate cover for any noise I might make. I went around to the side of the bungalow, checking every few steps with the binoculars. I didn’t have to worry about Karavenoff; in spite of my favourable views about his sincerity I had still done a good job on his ropes and it would be several hours before he wriggled free.
As I reached the side of the bungalow I lifted the binoculars up to the roof of the house opposite; the figure was still up there, mac fluttering in the wind. I envied him his job even less than mine; I knew how he must be feeling, not that I felt a lot of sympathy. I’d had to do something similar; it had been colder than this and I’d had to stay put for near on three days.
I crept up closer and took cover behind the garden hedge; I was within 20 feet of him. I transferred my gun to my left hand and gripped the small rock I had scooped up from the ground in my right hand. I took careful aim, knowing I wasn’t going to have a second opportunity, and flung it very hard at him. It struck right in the small of his back; even above the wind and the sea I heard the thump, followed immediately by a gasp that was a mixture of pain and surprise. There was a clattering sound of the rifle sliding down the tiles, closely followed by the scream of the man sliding down the tiles after it, a small thump as the rifle hit the ground, and a positively loud thump as the man hit the ground. My gun was back in my right hand as I looked on from behind the bush. The man lay in a still heap; I waited a while but there was no sign of any movement.
I walked over to the man; he was unconscious but not dead. He looked familiar, even in this dark garden. I looked closer. There was no mistaking his identity. I was shocked to the core. It was six years since we had last met, in a cell in Paris, but there was no doubt at alclass="underline" it was MI5’s peanut-munching recruiter, Wetherby.
I ran my hand into his breast pocket, and pulled out a wallet containing some credit cards and a driving licence identifying him as one Arnold Edward Rolls, insurance loss adjuster, of Leeds, England. However, in his mackintosh pocket I found all the identification I needed: an old crumpled paper bag full of unshelled peanuts.
What on earth, I wondered, was this strange man, who had gone to such extraordinary and devious lengths to press-gang me into the service, now doing going to such extraordinary lengths to get rid of me; at least I presumed it was me he had been waiting for.
A fury welled up inside me but I told myself to calm down; there were so many peculiar happenings right now that one more wasn’t going to make any difference. It was possible that his visit to this island wasn’t connected with my own, or possible that he was here to protect me. Unlikely, I felt, but possible. I was damned if I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt, but decided to allow him a small amount of leeway.
There was a thin trickle of blood coming from the back of his head where it had made contact with the ground. I couldn’t tell if any bones in his body were broken but his breathing was normal and I reckoned he probably had concussion and a lot of bruises. I looked at my watch; I had about thirty-five minutes to the last ferry — it had taken less time to topple him than I’d thought. We were on the Atlantic side of the island, and the wind was blowing offshore. There was a small catamaran lying at the top of the beach only a short distance away — I’d noticed it earlier in the evening through my glasses. I heaved Wetherby’s nut-nourished hulk onto my shoulders and staggered down onto the beach with him, dumping him on the sand. I heaved the boat down to the water’s edge, then dragged Wetherby down to it and pushed him underneath the tarpaulin into the cockpit.
He was going to have one hell of a time figuring out what was happening when he came too. At worst, the craft would get sliced in half by a tanker. At best, Wetherby would be off my back for a day or two and, provided he was off my back for a day or two, I didn’t give a damn what happened to him. I heaved the boat into the water, the icy water clamming my trousers to my legs, my shoes filling with wet sand, and then suddenly the boat was afloat and without my having to give it even a parting push, it surged away from the shore; turning first this way, then that, it headed off at a steady drift in the general direction of Nantucket. Beyond Nantucket was the whole Atlantic Ocean. It was with no small grin that I thought to myself that if Wetherby missed Nantucket, he was going to find himself up something one whole lot bigger than the proverbial Shit Creek.
I got back to my car at a quarter to one and headed off through the night up towards Canada. I wasn’t sure how good my knot-tying was, nor whether Karavenoff really could be trusted, nor whether Sleeping Beauty would go blurting the story of the break-in to the police. If the police were to start looking for a burglar, right now I would be their most likely candidate for openers. I wanted to get back to England, and I wanted to get back quickly, before anyone found out I was coming. I had an uneasy feeling that a certain person or persons not unconnected with an outfit in London that Wetherby worked for, might be keeping more than a casual eye on the Kennedy Airport departure lounge.
I crossed the Canadian border at half-nine in the morning, pulled into the first service station I came to and slept for half an hour in the car. I felt a little refreshed, but not much, when I awoke and downed a plateful of eggs and bacon and several cups of black coffee in a cafe before heading on to Toronto.
I reached the airport at half-eleven and booked a seat on the first available flight to London. It was the Air Canada 7.00 pm flight. I asked for seat 14B, and the girl told me she was sorry, it was reserved, she could give me A or C. I smiled and took A.
On an empty row of seats in the lounge I crashed out for a few hours. I slept fitfully, assembling all the events of the past few days, then pulling them apart and reassembling them again. Fifeshire wasn’t involved. Nor Sumpy. Karavenoff was telling the truth. Where did Wetherby fit in and why was he suddenly playing the role of hit man? Why had these attempts been made on me? Was it my knowledge of the way Orchnev had died, or of the contents of his letter or of the plastic chip? Nobody except me knew how Orchnev had died, so it must be because of the letter or the chip or, most likely, both. But the letter was addressed to Fifeshire. Why did anyone want to kill me for it — particularly, as it now seemed, my own side? Because they knew I had stumbled into something major and didn’t want me to screw it up? Unlikely. Could Fifeshire be the Pink Envelope? Was Orchnev trying to warn him that his cover was blown? Did my own side, knowing this, believe I was in this too and want to stop me getting away? It fitted, fitted perfectly. But I didn’t believe it.
16
There was a uniformed policeman on guard outside Fifeshire’s room at the London Clinic, who informed me that no one was allowed in. I scribbled a note and asked him to take it to Fifeshire. He agreed, and was back within moments, ushering me in.
I had never seen Sir Charles Cunningham-Hope anywhere other than behind a desk before, and it was quite a shock to see him sitting, in a paisley silk dressing gown, in a small chair by the window, looking weak and vulnerable. There was an ugly mark on his neck, just below his left ear, and turning his head was evidently uncomfortable for him. There were piles of war history books all over the room, and sheaths of notes, but no despatch boxes or any other sign of official work papers.