put in his jacket pockets.
The sitting-room furniture had to be rearranged, curtains drawn.
After that, he rubbed soap on the barrel of the.303. He found the small sewing-machine screwdriver in the kitchen drawer. He sat at the kitchen table and worked on the shotgun, testing until both triggers were as he wanted them to be.
The light was going fast. He pumped a lamp and lit it, took it into the sitting room, tried several resting places for it until the shadows were right. Then he did the delicate work, not hurrying.
It was dark when he finished. He went to the bedroom and put on the bulletproof apron, adjusted it until it was comfortable. Second-last thing: pocket the packet of nuts and raisins Jess had bought.
Last thing: he went to the fireplace again and blackened his hands, blackened his wrists and forearms. He rubbed soot into the soap on the.303 barrel
Then he put on the black rolled-up balaclava, took the old.303 and went out the back door.
He went around the barn and up the cold slope into the dark, dark conifer wood. At the place he had chosen earlier, he sat, leant against the tree, listened to the sounds of the night.
It was a pity it had to end here, like this. But you couldn’t keep running away. He thought fleetingly about running away from the boys’ home to the railway yards, about the blood, dried black and crusted, that was still on his filthy legs and buttocks and back when the police took him home.
No more running. He had told Jess to wait until morning, then take the film and Shawn’s documents to a television station. He should have done that after he was shot.
No point in regret.
He tried not to think about Jess, not to think about anything but to go into the empty trance of waiting and listening.
82
…HAMBURG-ENGLAND…
The only passenger in an eight-seater jet, sitting in a leather chair in the hushed and hissing projectile.
The co-pilot came out, young, short dark hair, released the crackling, buzzing sounds of the cockpit.
‘Clear night,’ he said. ‘That’s Gronigen below us. We’ll be over the North Sea in a minute. Can I get you anything, sir?’
Anselm shook his head and the man went back.
Sliding on the night towards England. With luck, towards Constantine Niemand and his film. What did it show that made it so sought after? Was it the end of the long line that Caroline Wishart had drawn from Kaskis’ reference to a village in Angola?
Anselm closed his eyes. The only sound in the capsule was a gentle sibilance, a steady watery murmur. His mind drifted on the current.
The words of Baader. He was right. It was better to die trying to find out what these people had done than to die ignorant.
The firm’s layers of disguise penetrated, their mosaic of inquiries known to someone, laid out somewhere, piece by piece, until the picture appeared. What else had Baader said?
He fell asleep and then the co-pilot was saying, ‘Starting our descent, sir, would you mind fastening your belt?’
83
…WALES…
Niemand heard the sound.
A small sound, a tap.
Close behind him, on the path, a foot had touched something. Perhaps knocked one solid pine cone into another, the path was littered with fallen cones.
Silence.
Niemand rose against the broad tree trunk, inch by inch, not touching it, breathed as shallowly as possible, regularly, just enough oxygen to sustain life.
A breath, a quiet expulsion of air, a hiss.
Someone was almost close enough to touch him. He didn’t move his head, kept it back, didn’t look sideways. The yellow night glasses might glint, catch some light from a star a trillion miles away and betray him.
The figure was beside him, an arm’s length away. He held his breath.
Passing him, moving slowly.
A figure as black as he was, bent forward.
Let him be alone.
Niemand didn’t breath, bent a little at the knees.
He pushed off, swung the Kevlar knife in his right hand. Around and down.
There was an instant when the man’s head was turning, disturbed, then the narrow blade entered the side of his throat above the collarbone, penetrated downwards.
The man made a hawking noise, not loud, and Niemand pulled him to earth, dropped him softly, held the knife in him, moved it.
Waited until he was sure.
Then he took the man’s weapon out of his left hand, ran his fingers over it. Heckler amp; Koch machine pistol, MP5K, three-round burst trigger group, he knew the weapon. He wouldn’t be needing the old.303. He ran his hands over the man’s clothing, felt his footwear.
How many would there be?
Not too many. This man was a soldier. By his weapon and his clothing and his ankle-holster and his knife and his silky night-fighting boots. That was good. Trained to kill, he had been killed. No hard feelings. Soldiers took their chances with death.
How many? Soldiers, trained killers, perhaps four or five, no more. Two from the back, two from the sides, the doorkeeper at the front. One front door, one doorkeeper.
Niemand moved forward, the dead man’s black-bladed knife in his mouth, machine pistol in hand. They would not be able to pick him from the dead man. Just a black figure carrying a weapon coming from where they expected someone to come.
He waited at the forest’s dark edge, looking back and forth. A wind from the north now, not much, just enough to disturb the scrubby trees on the slope.
There.
A shadow moved. On his right.
Again.
Keeping low, hugging the shadow of the conifers, not too concerned about being seen from the house, the big barn blocking the line of sight.
Niemand looked to his left. Another one should come from there, around the corner of the trees.
He didn’t. He came around the stock pen, near the rough path they had taken on their walk. Just his shoulder and his head in view. He had come up from the stream, crawled up, lots of cover, dead ground.
That was three. Three and the doorkeeper. They were confident, they knew they were good. Just two to take out and one of them a woman.
He waited. He couldn’t move first.
The other men weren’t moving, frozen. Were they waiting for him?
