“Oliver!”
“Over here! I think I’ve killed him.”
“Noordhof’s squad is on the way. We must run.”
Webb sprinted back into the room. “I need a telephone!” he shouted, forcing his bleeding feet into shoes.
“A telephone? Where?”
“In the hacienda. At the reception desk.”
“You madman!” Judy shouted in reply. A flicker of light threw her face into harsh relief, revealing wild eyes and water streaming down her sodden hair: a witch from Macbeth.
“I have no choice.”
“They’ll cut you off with bullets.”
“No time to discuss it. Look, we’ll go on a wide circle round the back and approach the ranch from the front. That way we don’t bump into the squad. Do you know cars?”
“I’ve been around them since I was fourteen.”
“So steal one. Bring it round to the front.”
“Ollie, enter the hacienda and you’re dead.”
“I have to try. Go!”
They sprinted across the sodden ground, away from the ranch, and took a wide curve towards the front, risking exposure from a single flash of light; but for the moment there was only a distant flickering on the horizon. They made for the dark, squat outline of a small building. It turned out to be a football shelter and they arrived, gasping, just as a thunderbolt lit up the landscape and hammered on the ground. They stood at the back, puffing, and looked out through a waterfall streaming down from the corrugated roof. A dull glow came from the hacienda entrance.
“I don’t think we were seen,” Judy said breathlessly.
“Two red lights, about thirty yards to the left of the entrance.”
“Soldiers smoking. I think I see a jeep.”
“Don’t even think about it. It’s hardly twenty yards from them.”
“There are three wires behind the steering column. Two must be joined together. When you touch them with the third, the engine starts.” The sky flashed blue and there was an instantaneous glimpse of three caped soldiers huddled under a clump of trees. Three jeeps were parked not far from them. But the thunderbolt had shown something new, a tableau of four soldiers striding purposefully along the covered verandah, in the direction of the rooms.
“Oliver,” she said quietly, “your death squad.”
Webb felt the old scrotum contraction, and this time his scalp shrank with it. He said, “A jeep, front entrance, ninety seconds,” and ran into the dark. At the hacienda, he strolled casually out of the shadows, an eccentric foreigner walking in the rain, sodden. Dice were clattering on the hard wooden floor. Half a dozen GIs were shouting incantations and exchanging paper money. At the far end, Arkle and a few officers were lounging in armchairs, drinking coffee. Arkle looked up startled, but recovered quickly and gave Webb a wave. He returned it, casually, wiping wet hair back from his eyes. A long-faced, weary corporal at the desk was reading Playboy.
“Are the lines open yet?” Webb asked.
“Sure. Where do you want?”
It would be the early hours in London. Webb gave him the Astronomer Royal’s ex-directory number. The corporal started to dial. The squat, bullet-headed sergeant left the game and wandered over.
“Hi Doc,” he said, with exaggerated casualness. “Problem?”
“Not really.” Don’t give him a handle. Arkle had left the officers and was striding over. Webb was light-headed and sweating, and Arkle’s face told him what he had feared: that he would never make the call.
“Ringing for you, sir,” the corporal said, holding out the receiver.
Arkle reached them. The sergeant stayed within arm’s length.
“Hi Doc, you’re up early,” the general said.
Webb took the receiver. “Couldn’t sleep with all the noise.”
The Astronomer Royal, sounding tired, said: “Waterstone-Clarke.”
Arkle killed the connection, a chubby finger going down on the button. “Can’t let you make the call, Doc. Security.”
“Security?”
“That’s right. Security.”
The sergeant sensed an atmosphere, stepped back nervously.
“First I’ve heard of it, General. I need to speak to my London contact.”
“This is an open line, son. We don’t know who could be listening in. London contacts are out until Nemesis has passed.”
Webb nodded, mentally setting a new priority: Get out of this alive.
“By the way,” Arkle added, “Colonel Noordhof’s been looking for you.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Webb said, moving towards the stairs.
“He’ll be along. Join us for coffee.”
“Thanks, but I need to dry out. I’ll just get to my room.”
“I insist,” said Arkle.
“Okay.” Moving to the stairs. “Join you in a minute.”
“I reckon you’re not hearing too good, son. Join us now.”
“Sure. I’ll join you now in a moment.”
Games with words. The sergeant glances uncertainly between them, his lips twitching. A few yards away the GIs play their own esoteric word game as the dice clatter along the floor: don’t come, baby’s new socks, it’s a natural. Arkle stands, baffled and tightlipped. Slowly up the wooden stairs. Slowly along the short stretch to the door. Almost there. Don’t run, for God’s sake don’t run. Slowly open the door. Turn to Arkle: a final wave. Casual, unhurried. Don’t blow it now; don’t run.
On to the verandah. Rain teeming down. Somebody shouting. A jeep without lights roaring up. From behind, Webb senses the ranch door opening. Shadowy figures rushing along the verandah, boots clattering on stone flagons. Another shout, this time from Arkle. The loud assertiveness of command.
“Stop them!”
Webb takes a running jump into the vehicle. Somebody seizes him by the collar. Webb punches him hard on the nose and cries out with the unexpected pain in his knuckles, but the sergeant staggers back, covering his face with his hands.
“Hit the boards!” Webb yells.
She hits them.
The pilot sprinted the hundred yards from the Portakabin to the helicopter, splashing through puddles and bent double against the rain. He quickly climbed in, threw off his baseball cap, put on his headphones and went through the check routine at superhuman speed. As the rotor started to chop he checked the radar; the other ship was ten miles to the south, six hundred feet above ground and following the pre-arranged perimeter patrol. There was a brief exchange on the radio. The pilot pulled on the collective and the gunship rose above the pyramids and the paraboloids. From above, the whole complex was lit up like some bizarre Alcatraz. He did a hard banking turn over the ancient city, switched on the thermal imager and followed the road north.
Ten minutes later he picked up the lights of Xochicalco, every detail of the ranch complex visible, pale and ghostly, like a snowscene tinged with green. The roof of the main building glowed as if aflame. He drifted over the complex and picked out Noordhof’s bungalow. A man was standing outside it and the pilot switched on the Night Sun as he descended, to be seen.