Two nodded, relieved to be going back outside. The office, despite the cold coming in through the open door, was stuffy with fumes. A portable gas fire burned away furiously in one corner.
‘Cozy,’ said Six, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I mean, the whole setup’s cozy.’
‘Look, pal, what’s this all about?’ This came from the other man, his voice quieter than that of his partner, but his eyes infinitely wilder.
‘This is about bomb-making, this is about the murder of innocents and of Her Majesty’s forces, this is about the two of you.’
‘You’re right out of order,’ said the handsome one.
‘You’re over the damned border!’ shouted the other one, confirming Miles’s worst fears. His eyes were burning, but those of Six burned right back at him. ‘The bloody English army! I don’t believe it. You’re way out of your territory. You better get the hell out of here. This is an international incident!’
‘Listen to it, would you?’ said One, speaking for the first time, and in a voice as cold as his gun. ‘A terrorist calling this an outrage.’
‘They never learn, do they?’ the handsome one said to the wild-eyed. ‘They think they can do whatever they like.’
Miles knew for the first time that he was about to witness an execution. Reason demanded it. They could not cross the border and take these men back: there would be too many questions at the trial, accusations, witnesses (Macdonald for one), and the shit would hit the fan all around the world. Nobody had any intention of letting that happen. This was an assassination run, and he was right here in the middle of it. He wanted to speak, but his jaw muscles would not move. He felt paralyzed, like the prey of some insidious and poisonous insect.
‘Seven?’ said Six, and it took Miles fully a second to realize that he was being addressed.
‘Yes?’
‘Come here, would you?’
‘Are you in charge here?’ said wild-eyed. Then, to Six, ‘Is he in charge?’
It was only when One laughed, a low, heartless chuckle, that Miles knew for certain that he was in trouble, though really he supposed that he had had some inkling all along. They were about to incriminate him in the act. They were going to make him fire the shots.
But I’m a watchman, he wanted to shout. That’s all, I just watch, I don’t do. Someone else always does the doing, not me, never me.
Instead of which he shuffled forward, his legs full of sand and water, noticing several things as he moved: the girlie calendar on the wall, the fact that one window and one door of the office led inward, right into the factory itself, the sheen of animal fear on the faces of everyone, and the facts of his isolation and his unfitness to be here at all. Throughout his adult life, he had trained himself to blend in, to be anonymous and invisible, and now these men were destroying his life’s work. They were turning him into the main attraction.
And then the pistol was pointing at him.
While the look on Six’s face said everything there was to say about domination and betrayal.
‘Will you go and stand with these gentlemen, please?’
‘What the hell is this?’ Miles tried to sound amused, realizing deep within himself that this was no joke.
‘Will you go and stand with these gentlemen, please?’
‘Do what you’re told, prick!’ This came from One, who was laughing again, clearly a man upon whom no trick had ever been played. He had the look of a machine, preprogrammed for this moment.
Miles’s head was spinning.
‘There’s been some terrible—’ But the words seemed far too vague and inadequate.
‘Some terrible mistake?’ mimicked Six. ‘No, there’s been no mistake. The orders were unambiguous. Orders always are. These two’ — waving his gun at the terrorists — ‘and you.’
‘Whose orders?’ Miles was trying to think fast, while half his mind tried to control his suddenly aching bladder.
‘There’s no mistake, Mr. Scott, honestly.’ Six was speaking very gently.
‘My name’s not Scott. It’s Miles Flint. You can check that.’
Again, very quietly, ‘There’s been no mistake.’
Three of them in front of the desk. Three behind.
‘Get it over with,’ said handsome.
‘Patience, Collins,’ said Six. ‘It’s not every day we get to execute someone.’
One was about to laugh again, his stomach distending and his head arching back, and Miles was opening his arms to make another attempt at explanation, when the wild-eyed man heaved the desk with sudden fierceness onto its side, sending Six and One off balance. The handsome man opened the door into the factory, while his counterpart made a spectacularly clumsy dive through the window. After an almost fatal second’s hesitation, Miles followed them, and the first shot flew an inch above his head.
In the darkness of the factory, there was nothing to do but survive for the moment. Every second he stayed alive now was a bonus. He slipped behind some machinery, ran through a maze of what appeared to be lathes, then crouched. He breathed hard, summoning up all the adrenaline he could, and shook his head to clear it of dizziness and any lingering indecision. That pause back there had nearly cost him his life. For the moment he could think of no way out, but he was not dead: that was a start.
He heard One, Six, and the spare RUC man come into the darkness, quite close to him but not too close. There were two fire exits, but both were covered from outside. The shot would have alerted the two men keeping watch. He was as trapped as a baited badger.
A shot rang out suddenly from the other end of the building, and Miles heard One screech, ‘They’ve got guns!’
Good for them.
‘Find a light switch,’ hissed Six. ‘Must be around here.’
‘Or maybe back in the office,’ whispered One. ‘We want to kill the lights in there anyway. We’re sitting targets while they’re on.’
‘Right, Five, slip back into the office.’
‘Why me?’ Five sounded in some distress. Miles judged that if he were going to move farther away, then this confusion was offering him his best cover. The problem, of course, was that in moving farther away from the assassins, he was moving closer to the enemy, who might mistake him for their foe. A badger had never been so baited.
His eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, he moved silently forward, bent double, watching the floor so that he did not bang his feet against anything metallic. Noise would travel far in here.
Rather than traveling in a straight line toward the opposite wall, he moved around the edge of the interior, staying well out of any stray bullet’s way. Perhaps there was another means of exit, but he thought not: the planning had been immaculate, well, almost immaculate. His pounding heart was proof of a slipup. Six would be hoping that the slipup was temporary. So would One. Miles did not fancy having to tackle either of them on the issue.
And then, coming around one corner, he found the mouth of a pistol staring him in the face.
‘I think I’m on your side,’ he whispered. The handsome one put his finger to his lips and motioned for him to follow.
Wild-eyed was crouching behind a bench. He ignored Miles.
‘They’ve got both fire exits covered,’ Miles told handsome, ‘and they’re trying to turn on the lights in here.’ He felt a shiver in his abdomen: he was betraying his country, and it felt good. He remembered fights he had been in, drunken half brawls at university. He had to relearn that old aggression, and fast.
‘Then we’d better get out before that happens,’ said handsome, ‘otherwise they’ll pick us off no trouble at all.’
‘Give it a few more seconds,’ said wild-eyed, ‘give the bastards outside time to relax again. If they heard the shots, they’ll be as jumpy as a bitch in heat.’