weeks of it. No future for them. Heading back to Jane, and asking shyly how it had been, and a cold kiss on his cheek that was formality, and Tom's wet mouth on his face that was a stranger's, and nothing… But there was no future for them. And the morning after,.. The morning after he was home he would go down to the station at Raynes Park where there was a florist and he would buy the flowers, big bunch and bright blooms, and walk them home and fill the little living room of 57B the Cedars with life, and he would kiss his Jane, and tell her that he was going out of her life. And the morning after, the day after tomorrow, he would catch the train into London and take the Underground to Goodge Street, and walk down Gower Street, and sit in the front reception as if it were his right and not give a shit what the guards thought, and wait for Arnold bloody Browne to take the lift down… The day after tomorrow he would make Jane laugh, and leave her. The day after tomorrow he would tell his story to Arnold bloody Browne and have the pleasure of walking out on him.. . He would go to search for space for himself, go where the de wed fields were quiet in the morning, and where the trees threw shadows in the evening… It was the way that Dorrie had shown him, and he would go to private places in the months ahead, years to come, and he would think of Dorrie and be with Dorrie. It was his dream… The bramble stems clawed at him, held him. He did not hate the man. He almost felt a pity for the man. And the man had a wife who had loved him, and a child who fought for him. The man was craven, bare-arsed and bare-balled because they stripped from him even the love of his wife and the pride of his child… For what? For principle, for the God Almighty 'feel good' factor of those who wanted to see 'something done', for Mary bloody Braddock's peace of mind. He wouldn't get the chance ever to talk with the man, like he would have talked to the man in a cafe or a bar or on the beach if they, Jane and him, had ever come for a holiday in what they called former Yugoslavia, and way back, and before the madness… For what? For the killing of Dorrie Mowat, what else…? Was she laughing, was she bloody mocking? Dorrie Mowat… up high, up on the bloody mountain, looking down and laughing, mocking, had caught him. Caught in the brambles at the side of the path. His boot kicked at the clinging bloody mess. Caught him, caught Mary, caught Marty Jones, caught and hurt them all, like she'd hurt him, like she'd hurt Milan Stan-kovic, would have liked to have talked with the man… caught in the brambles' hold… The wire would have been set across the path that they avoided. His boot tripped the wire. The wire would have been fastened to a cut peg that had been buried in the brambles' mess. His boot was held for a moment by the wire as he lurched for balance. The wire might have been visible if the bloody moon had not been hidden behind the bloody cloud. His boot snagged the wire. One movement, throwing himself back. One movement, flattening Ulrike and the man. The thunder of the explosion numbed his hearing, cut the whistle spray of the grenade's shrapnel. He was pulling her up, then grasping for Milan Stankovic, and he felt the wet run of blood because the knife blade had been against the man's beard and throat and the sharpness of the knife's blade had slashed the hair of the beard and the skin of the throat. Pulled her up, grasped and lifted him. Going for the path and running. Clutching back behind him for the jacket of Milan Stankovic and dragging him, and Ulrike was pushing him. It was the start of the stampede run for the river bank. High up, above the tree canopy and below the cloud that masked the moon, away to the east, the first flare burst. He had taken the telephone call, broken his meeting, charged from his office and gone like a mad puppy down the stairs to the operations room. The Director stood in front of the wall map, and the tip of the pointer danced against the clear sheeting that covered Sector North. The Canadian colonel said, 'It's what we're getting from the monitoring. He's in trouble… They're in close pursuit. He'll be running for his life, but there's the river ahead of him. No rendezvous, right, sir…?' In the cause of the greater good… The Director nodded, dumb. He stared up at the map. The Jordanian major asked, knowing the answer, 'No rendezvous, no boat waiting for him?' In the interest of the greater number… The Director shuddered, numb. For a few brief seconds the tip of the wand held the clear-cut line of the Kupa river. The Argentine captain lit his cigarette, 'No rendezvous, no boat waiting, with or without his prisoner there is not a possibility of him coming out. It is what you wanted, sir, yes…?' Penn was running, trying to see the path, trying to take the man and Ulrike with him. Bad pain… His hand was behind him, gripped deep into the material of the man's coat. The pain was the man's teeth buried into his hand. Penn loosed him. He was crushed by the pain. He staggered free of the burden of the man. There was another flare falling behind them, gone from its summit arc, and the flare threw brilliant white light down through the trees' canopy, and he could hear shouting and whistles blowing. He gripped his bitten hand and he was bent and he was rocking and he squeezed at the hand as if that way he could shed the pain. The pain was his own world and private, and the pain brought smarting tears welling from his eyes. Penn turned. Light fell from the flare. It gleamed on the knife's blade. She had lost the knife. Penn stood and suffered his private pain and watched. The knife was beyond her reach, as if it had fallen clear when the man had moved. She was on the floor of the wood, and she was writhing in the leaves, and she clung to one leg of the man, and the boot of Milan Stankovic kicked with savagery at her body. The flare was guttering, failing. He saw her body bounce away from the impact of the kick, and her hands seemed to have the last clinging hold of his legs. If he had had his hands, if his hands had been free
… If the flare had not been fired, if there had not been the light.. . Penn thought the man realized he was at the edge of freedom. One more kick, one more blow from the boot at her head, and she would loose him. It was the last moment before the flare fell. He could hear the shouts and the whistles closing. In the last moment of the light of the flare, the last moment before the final kick that would free the man, Penn tried to learn to be cruel. With the heel of his hand he hit at the back of Milan Stankov-ic's neck. Penn hit with his bitten hand, and the man fell, and they writhed in the coming darkness. He punched at Milan Stankovic, as an animal at war. Penn beat at Milan Stankovic and he seemed not to hear her voice in the night's blackness, and she was calling to him that he had hit enough. She had the knife.
They took the prisoner, sullen quiet, on towards the bank of the Kupa river.
The knife's blade was back at his throat.
Penn led the charge, and his bitten hand dragged the man forward. He had needed to be cruel to have hit so hard with the heel of his hand. He did not hate the man. There were flares, all the time, bursting high behind them… He had respect for the man… He knew of the deep and raw courage that was required to make a break. He felt that the man was in his care. He did not think about Mary Braddock, nor about Katica Dub-elj, and he did not think about Dorrie Mowat. The man was in his care, and he owed Milan Stankovic his protection. The man would not fight again… it was finished for Milan Stankovic, he had fought and failed, but respect was won. When the flares died, when they fell back doused, then there was the full moon's light, and the fast-going clouds had moved on. They ran, stumbled, charged, pulled and pushed the weight of Milan Stankovic, down the path that ran beside the single length of barbed wire that marked the minefield. He could not judge how far behind the chasing pack were, but all caution was gone…
Ahead, through the trees, he saw the dark mass of the Kupa river.
There were silver trellis lines on the darkness where the force of the current swirled.
They burst the last cover of the trees. They came onto the narrow path that ran along the upper bank of the great river. She was tugging at his coat, pecking at him for his attention. The cover of the trees was behind him. The reeds nestled along the bank ahead of him. The shouting and the whistle blasts were behind him. The river and the silver network of lines were ahead of him.
There was a killing flatness in her voice.
'We came too early. We are an hour ahead of the rendezvous. You said we should lie up, but we cannot… We came too early for Ham, for the rendezvous, for the boat. Did you not know that…?'
She was at his back, the barrier was ahead of him.
Another flare soared high behind him, and he saw the far width of the river ahead of him. Milan Stankovic rocked with muffled laughter, and he would not have understood what she said, only the tone of despair. Penn turned. Eyes going past the babbled laughter of the man who croaked under the gag, and he was trying to speak as he laughed, as if now the knife at his beard and his throat no longer terrorized him.
She destroyed him because he had not thought it through when he had led the stampede flight towards the Kupa river.
He rifled at her pockets, felt first the weight of the pistol, then the bulk of the torch. He stood on the path above the deep flow of the river and he shaded with the palm of his hand the beam of the torch.
He made the signal. He flicked the button of the torch, on and off, on and off, waited for the answering light, on and off, on and off, waited to see the boat dragged down the far-away bank, on and off, on and off.
The voice carried by the loud-hailer echoed sharply across the river width.
'Penn, you have no boat. There is not going to be a boat…'
'… You should abandon your prisoner. Penn, you and the woman, Schmidt, should take your chance in the water. Penn, Hamilton is not here, there is no boat. You should immediately release your prisoner …'
