“Is that your bomb?” I asked. “Do you suppose that little thing can blow this house up?” Foot grinned back at me as I went down the steps towards him. He’d picked up a canvas bag and was preparing to leave. Now, he put it down and gestured me towards him.
“The military arts really have moved on since Winston was hoping to direct them,” he said with one of his giggles. “Don’t tell me you thought bombs were still five times the size of oxygen cylinders—let alone black balls with sparklers set in them! Come and look at this.” He waved me closer, and stepped back to show his bomb. He’d slid off a cover from the top that revealed a panel of buttons and an electronic number display. The panel was now lit up a sort of green, and flashing. “20:17,” it said. “20:16, 20:15, 20:14,” going down by one digit every second.
“In just over twenty minutes,” Foot explained, “this will blow, and it will take most of the house with it. There might be a ball of fire and a shockwave. Or an observer outside might simply feel the ground shake and watch the dark shape of this house disintegrate. I rather fancy the ball of fire—so much more dramatic, not to mention so much more likely to divert attention from the helicopter that will have taken off a minute before. But we shall have to see.” He laughed and walked again towards the steps. He paused and looked down at his bag.
“If you’re still interested in my Boswellising offer,” he said, “the least you can do is carry my bag. I’m not displeased by your smashing up of Harold’s stupid plans. Short of what will happen in twenty minutes, it was the dramatic high point of the evening. It showed, nevertheless, an independence of spirit that you will need to curb if you wish to last long in Moscow.
“Oh—and you can bring the lamp as well. I don’t fancy tripping over bodies or disordered rugs on my way to the roof.”
It’s one thing to stiffen your upper lip and say you’ll do what England expects. It’s something else to stand unarmed beside a raving lunatic who has a gun in his pocket. I looked about for a weapon. There was nothing of any use against a gun. I could go for him once we were in the main house. Perhaps I could brain him from behind with a handy vase or bust. Perhaps I might even raise the less useless of Macmillan’s guests against him. I had to stop him from getting away. The question was how?
“Can this thing be turned off, Michael?” I asked, still looking at his bomb. There were dozens of buttons, and that counter was going down with surprising speed.
“The short answer is no,” he said without looking back. “Once the six digit code is keyed in, the countdown can only be stopped by unscrewing the main panel—which, in any event, is booby trapped. These things are not made with safety in mind once they activated. But why would you wish to stop the countdown?”
“Just wondering,” I said. I moved quietly round so that the bomb and the bench on which it sat covered about three quarter of my body. I looked harder at the panel, and tried to understand the Russian words and letters that seemed to explain the use of each button. There were dozens of them. Except for those that were numbered, each might have meant anything or nothing. I gritted my teeth and pushed a button at random. If it was supposed to do anything, it didn’t show on the display. I pressed another with an arrow on it that pointed upward. Now, the time on the display dropped a whole minute. I pressed it again and again. The time dropped by two minutes.
Foot must have heard the gentle accompanying beeps. Already on the lower steps up to the main cellars, he now froze. He turned back to face me. He pointed his revolver at my head.
“Get away from that panel,” he said sharply. He drew back the hammer and squinted as he took aim. “I may have left my killing box upstairs. But, if you press one more of those buttons, I’ll shoot you on the spot.” I squatted down behind the bench. My head was now covered by the bomb. I couldn’t see the buttons on its panel. But I knew well enough where they were. I pressed the relevant button again. We must now have been down to sixteen minutes.
“Put the gun down, Michael, and stand over against that wall,” I said. I pressed the button again. We hadn’t more than fifteen minutes now—perhaps less. “If I take this down another ten minutes, you might as well sit where you are, and put your head between your legs, and kiss your arse goodbye.” I let the fingers of my right hand wave provocatively just above the panel. I was sure he could see them. I heard shoe leather scrape on the floor of the cellar.
“If you move another inch, Michael,” I shouted, “I’ll keep that button pressed until it’s gone all the way down. Do you suppose it will go down to zero? Or will it give you a minute’s grace, so you can die above stairs amid Harold’s pictures and the potted plants? Throw the gun over here, and come with me. We’ll get everyone out into the drive, and you can call the surrender.”
“Look, Anthony,” Foot began. He cleared his throat and started again in a most reasonable tone. “Look, we’ll never get everyone out of this house in time. And it’s bloody murder outside. You really shouldn’t imagine that anyone, on either side, will pay attention to me this far into the battle.
“Anthony, I’ve a better idea. I’ll take out all my bullets and put the gun down. We’ll then walk out of here together. We still have time to get upstairs. Or do you want to be the man who killed yourself and me, and everyone else in this house?”
“I want your gun, Michael,” I repeated with serene conviction. “Whatever the risk, we’ll do it my way. If you come any closer, or try running upstairs, I’ll blow us all up. I’d rather not—but sooner that than let you make that submarine meeting. We’re wasting time as it is. Would you like me to take us down another minute?” I poked my right hand an inch above the cover of the bomb and let my fingers wave about.
“You’re a bloody fool, Markham,” Foot shouted. I heard the snap of his revolver as he pulled the cylinder out. I heard the sound above my head of bullets thrown against the wall. “You can put your head out now,” he called. I looked. He was standing about a dozen feet away. He held the unloaded gun in his right hand. As I poked my head higher beyond the cover of the bomb, he laughed bitterly and tossed the gun out of reach.
“Come on, then Markham,” he jeered, taking up a fighting pose. “Let’s do it fair and square, like in those shite novels that form the ballast of your mind. It’s you against me. If you win, you and everyone else gets a chance out in the drive, and you can hand me over to Powell when he comes through the gates in his armoured car. If I win—well, you can at least tell yourself you tried.”
I broke wind again. Whatever I’d been thinking upstairs, I hadn’t supposed this would come to personal combat. I looked at Foot. He was pushing forty six, and—even forgetting his lungs—didn’t look in very good shape. On the other hand, there was something confident about that fighting pose. He’d squealed for mercy the night before to Pakeshi. But Pakeshi had been armed and in total control. Now, Foot looked as relaxed and confident as any man can be who knows he has only limited time for crushing his opponent.
I took a deep breath and ran out from behind the bench. I took another breath and let out what I hoped was a fearsome cry. I launched myself at Foot. He stepped aside as I reached him, and let me crash into some broken cane furniture that was stacked in a corner. I heard him laugh as I pulled myself upright and wheeled round to face him. He was over by the bomb and was pressing buttons. A relieved smile on his face, he turned back to face me.