The question was, how to cross the forty feet of trimmed, open lawn between the treeline and the eastern edge of the house? There would doubtless be motion sensors in addition to body-heat detectors, not to mention the guards and their dogs. But again, it would seem that all such sensors were directed at ground level.
Still cloaked in the dark, Adams started to unravel the long, thin rope that was coiled round his body.
‘Do you think he’s there yet?’ Lynn asked Thomas with more anxiety than she wanted to display.
‘Well, he’s possibly at the treeline by now, looking out over the house, probably trying to assess whether he can make it all the way with that rope of his,’ Thomas responded. When he saw that this did not immediately reassure her, he added, ‘But he must be doing OK, we’ve not heard any alarms, and there’s not been any shouting or barking, so I think he must be doing all right.’
‘From what I’ve heard about him, there shouldn’t be a problem anyway,’ Jacob Najana, the youngest of the brothers, interjected. ‘I mean, he’s a legend, right? He—’ Jacob was interrupted by a bleep from the secure digital satellite radio resting between them.
‘Guys,’ they heard Ben’s voice come through loud and clear, ‘there’s a problem.’ Ben Najana was stationed up on Cemetery Road, observing the main access route to the house. ‘Eight big SUVs just passed the main gates and are turning down the driveway. They’ll be at the house in two minutes.’
Lynn went white. Matt didn’t even have a radio. There was no way to warn him.
7
Adams heard them before they had even entered the estate, picked out the rough, V8 burble of large vehicles — eight or nine of them — travelling in convoy on the main access road to the north of his position. He heard the deceleration, the sound of tyres turning, and knew they were on the driveway, heading towards the house.
He considered his options as he hung suspended thirty feet above the side lawn from his black nylon rope. He had had to throw the rope to the far rooftop, hoping that his aim was sound. He had watched with trepidation as it had gone sailing through the night, the weighted end aimed at one of the roof’s railed edges, all too aware that if it failed to hit the right spot, it would tumble uselessly to the lawn below, its forty-foot length impossible to haul back up before it hit the ground and activated every sensor and detector in the area.
But it had flown true, and anchored on the correct point, and after breathing a sigh of relief, Adams had started climbing, upside down and hand over hand, legs secured over the rope for stability.
Now he was halfway across, with around eight vehicles carrying maybe five people in each — forty extra, unknown people — about to arrive. Should he go back, or press on? The decision had to be made instantly, as within two minutes the headlights of the oncoming vehicles would hit the house and illuminate him like the proverbial sitting duck.
Never one for retreat, there was hardly a decision to be made, and he continued doggedly on his way, one fist pumping steadily over the other.
Jacobs looked up from his paperwork as Wesley Jones entered his study.
‘We’ve got a problem, sir,’ he announced with military understatement.
Jacobs stared at Jones through his half-moon reading lenses. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Secret Service has just entered the estate,’ Jones said uncertainly.
‘What?’ Jacobs nearly spilt his brandy over his papers. ‘What the hell for? Where’s Tony?’
‘Tony is still at the White House, I just called him. He doesn’t know anything about it.’
Jacobs’ mind was racing. What was going on? Why had the Secret Service decided to visit him, so close to the end?
‘Who are they?’ Jacobs asked agian. ‘How many?’
‘Gate security reports eight cars, four men in each. And one of them is Lowell himself.’
Jacobs groaned inwardly. Harvey Lowell was the Director of the Secret Service. He had been a guest at a Bilderberg meeting just last year and, unknown to him, had been under consideration to become one of the chosen. He hadn’t made the grade in the end, though, and the offer had never been made. His psychological profile, as well as his answers during their private, informal interview, indicated that he would have moral issues with the sacrifices that were going to be made.
But did he suspect something? Had he figured out what was going on? And why had he arrived with so many agents? Why the show of force?
Jacobs slowly took the glasses off the end of his nose and rested them on his desk, pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘Well,’ he said resignedly, ‘I suppose I’d better go and meet him, hadn’t I?’
Adams heard the vehicles getting closer and closer, could almost feel the heat of the incoming headlight beams, so heightened were his senses.
Finally, he reached the house, fingertips touching the railings, his thin-soled climbing boots resting carefully on top of the exterior brickwork of the window frame below. He would have rolled directly on to the roof, but the information gathered by Stephenson suggested that it would have its own infrared sensors strung out along the top. He therefore clung to the side of the building, melting into the dark as he disconnected the rope from the railing. He would have loved to have used the rope to get back to the treeline, but knew that a forty-foot rope spanning the space between the woods and the house would not go unnoticed for long. And so he took the weighted end and hurled it as hard as he could back at the trees he had come from, watching as it once again sailed through the air, mercifully coming to rest hidden in the uppermost branches, even as the bright headlights arrived at the turning circle at the front of the house.
He quickly pulled himself further back into the wall, flattening himself as much as he could, becoming immobile, aware that any movement now could give him away. And then the lights were brighter as the vehicles moved round the turning circle, and for a few brief seconds Adams was sure he would be spotted, certain that his dark, mud-covered silhouette would be all too visible against the white stucco of the mansion’s wall.
And then, mercifully, there was dark again as the vehicles — large, black SUVs with government plates, Adams noticed — completed their turns and came to rest at the front entrance.
Adams started to edge his way down the building.
‘Lowell, to what do we owe the honour?’ Jacobs asked charmingly as he opened the large front door of his home.
Before him stood Harvey Lowell, tall, angular and thin, with a receding hairline and a look of fierce intelligence. He was flanked by six men, all dressed in identical dark suits.
‘We need to talk,’ Lowell said evenly.
‘Well, why don’t you come in then?’ Jacobs said graciously, although he was feeling nothing of the sort. ‘Where are the rest of your agents?’ he asked, gesturing at the eight SUVs parked outside.
‘Securing the estate,’ Lowell answered simply, the implication clear: the visit was not friendly.
Jacobs smiled stiffly. ‘I am sure there is no need for that,’ he said. ‘But you better come in anyway.’
In the study, Lowell sat down and gestured at the papers still scattered across Jacobs’ desk. ‘Doing a little research?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.
‘You know how it is,’ Jacobs said non-committally.
Lowell grunted in reply.