As he was about to turn again and climb aboard, another flare went up, and then another. Once more, we were bathed in their lurid glow. I thought at first Macmillan had been shocked by the sudden burst of light. Like one who’s been turned to stone, he stood beside the helicopter, still looking in my direction.
I felt a hand strike me from behind and went sprawling onto the rain-soaked lead.
“Get down and stay down,” I heard Pakeshi yell above the rising noise of the engine. He released the catch of his sub-machine gun and fired off a burst into the sky. He pointed it straight at Macmillan, who put up both hands.
“There’s a bomb in the house,” I shouted up at the dark-clad figure. “It will go off at any moment.” I didn’t think Pakeshi heard me, so shouted again. Now, he scooped me up with his free hand and hurried me towards Macmillan. Dropping me, he spun Macmillan about and frisked him. Out came the gun. It fell onto the roof. Pakeshi kicked it hard so that it flew out of sight.
“Get in,” he shouted, pushing me at the helicopter. It was already swaying about a foot above the roof. There was no point asking what the bloody hell was going on. If we had a minute before Foot’s bomb blew everything sky high, we were lucky. As I clambered in and tripped, I caught a glimpse at the pilot, who was pulling on levers and checking dials. I was about to sit up from where I’d fallen. But Macmillan was now roughly dumped on top of me. I heard Pakeshi shouting at the pilot to get us moving. Suddenly, the helicopter pitched and there was a bump that sent my face crashing against the metal floor of the helicopter. We were down again.
“It’s the weight,” the pilot cried. He pointed at the boxes that almost filled the back seats. “We’re carrying too much weight.” I thought of telling Pakeshi that fissile materials need lead sheathing. But he was already pulling vainly at one of the boxes with his free hand. It might have taken all four of us to get the thing shifted. For all he could move it, Pakeshi might have been trying to rip out the seats. The pilot fussed and struggled with his controls. But, even though the blades moved faster and fast overhead, the helicopter didn’t manage more than a wobble.
“Get out!” Pakeshi screamed at Macmillan. He prodded him with the barrel of his gun. “Get out now!” There was a screamed reply, and pleading. But Pakeshi landed a kick in Macmillan’s chest and sent him sprawling onto the roof. I pulled myself up into a seated position and looked out. In just a few seconds, we’d now managed to rise six feet or so above the roof. In the bright but inadequate light of the flares, I saw Macmillan scramble to his feet and raise his arms in a gesture of supplication.
We were rising higher. But there was a laboured sound of the engine, and the roof below seemed to be pitching like a turbulent sea. The pilot flicked a couple of switches and pulled frantically on a lever. I held on grimly to the tubular steel of one of the chair supports as we plunged again and twisted, Now, we were somehow ten and then twenty feet above the roof, and were moving across it. With more pulling of levers, the strangely arthritic helicopter swayed again, and I was looking down into blackness. I tried to pull myself properly up, but found that I had no control over any of my limbs. My hands were clamped immovably about the steel support. I looked up at Pakeshi. Holding on with one hand, he had his gun in the other, and was holding it as steadily as he could at something outside. I followed the direction of his arm. Back on the roof, I could see Macmillan. He’d got onto his knees. His hands were pressed against each side of his face, his mouth opened in a long, horrified scream that I couldn’t hear.
There was a sudden crack, and the helicopter spun out of control.
“We’ve lost the tail rotor,” the pilot screamed. He pulled again and again at his levers. It was to no effect. Every two seconds, I could look out at the roof. Now increasingly distant, Macmillan still knelt there, his hands raised again in despairing supplication. We were moving away. But we were spinning about and about as if on an out of control funfair ride. I remembered Foot’s invisible light show. If the pilot hadn’t been made aware of it, I was in no position to tell him. Would one of those beams shear us straight in two? I tried to shout a warning, but no words came out. Pakeshi wrestled again with one of the crates. Again, it wouldn’t shift.
As we rose higher, I looked back for another two second inspection of the roof. It was now buckling and folding with a motion entirely of its own. On one spin, Macmillan was still there. On the next, he was gone. I couldn’t see what happened next. Foot had been right to doubt if there would be a fireball. But I felt the shockwave. It hit us like a tennis racket strikes a ball. Still spinning round and round, we now turned over, and, with the sudden acceleration, I felt as if my innards were being forced into my chest. Suddenly, all our lights went out, and I had the sensation that we were falling.
I heard Pakeshi chanting something in a loud and oddly calm Hindi. The pilot was shouting encouragement at himself as he pulled and pushed on controls that might as well be attached to nothing at all. I felt the scraping of tree branches on the glass bubble that contained us. With a sickening lurch that tore me from my grip on the steel support and sent me into a somersault that ended with a smash into one of Foot’s boxes, our descent stopped, and there was silence. Then, after a moment’s apparent equilibrium, we turned on our side and fell again. It must have been no more than a second before we hit the ground. It seemed an age, nonetheless. Feeling like a bug that’s been squashed underfoot, I was pressed harder and harder against a new place on the floor. The last I recall is a burst of incredible light inside my head.
“But he must be alive,” I heard Vicky sobbing as if from a great distance. “He can’t be dead. He really is the most beautiful writer Daddy ever contracted. His skin—his skin is so wonderfully smooth.” I felt a hand thrust inside my shirt and take hold of my left nipple. It squeezed hard, and I felt long nails scratch against my chest.
“I do assure you, my dear, young woman,” Pakeshi burbled happily—“I assure you on the authority of more certificates than the excellent Major Stanhope has had time to inspect, that my patient is very much alive. I shall, of course, feel happier once he is on a stretcher. But I do have the highest confidence in his capacity for survival.”
I opened my eyes and tried to smile. Vicky fell back with a little scream. So far as I could tell, I was lying on damp earth. I could smell Pakeshi’s foul, curry-laden breath somewhere close in the darkness. I blinked as a torch was shone into my face. Then the beam was turned away, and I could see Stanhope’s grinning face above me. For the first time, I noticed how the grey hairs of his moustache began deep inside his nostrils.
“Is it over?” I asked weakly. The large face twisted into a broader smile.
“It is over, my lad,” he boomed at me. “And, by God, you’ve done us all proud. You’ve done your duty to Queen and Country—and more than that besides.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Big Ben was striking eleven as I presented my letter to the doorman at the Foreign Office. The uniformed man sat up and saluted me, He pressed a button on his telephone, and someone else came over to take my hat and coat. I ignored the offer of help and walked slowly towards the lift. I’d left my walking stick in Stanhope’s club. It hadn’t matched the blue of my suit, and I hadn’t realised the effort involved in walking even a few hundred yards. But I got to the lift, and even managed a smile at the attendant as he pulled the doors shut.