The Alamut Ambush

him.

And someone cried out in agony and shock.

The trees whirled round him and the leaf-mould came up towards his face.

There was blackness and a terrible weight on his chest. Blackness and wetness and the weight on his chest that pressed him down, expelling all the air from his luags.

Can't breath — dead — dying — the chip of wood spinning in the sunlight –

'Are they dead?'

A voice a long way away.

A grunt. 'At this range they are dead.'

Roskill wanted to cry out that he was not dead – maybe dying, but dummy2

not dead. And maybe not dying if only someone would take the weight from his chest.

But that hoarse grunt and that voice had been familiar – appallingly recognisable. He thought: 'If I cry out, if I move, then I am dead.'

'Are you sure?'

An English voice.

Grunt. The known grunt.

'Uzis make no mistakes. But we can make sure.'

A third voice, not English, not known. Roskill felt the hope draining out of him and the lethargy of the inevitable coup de grace taking its place.

'My God!' The English voice again, closer and trembling. 'You've cut them to pieces!'

'I told you – at this range – '

Hope flickered again. Roskill forced himself to take tiny, shallow breaths; it was difficult enough to breath at all with the whole world crushing him down into the ground.

'No choice. They would have seen us, and they knew me – both of them.' Contemptuous.

'They would probably have recognised all of us.' The third voice was matter-of-fact. 'And the Jew was reaching for his gun anyway.

It is unfortunate, but he is right.'

'So what do we do now?' The English voice still shook. 'God! What a mess they're in!'

'We get them off the path. Then we go on.'

dummy2

'Go on? We leave them?'

'We leave them until we find out what Razzak is doing and who he's meeting. These two won't go away.'

'Someone may find them, damn it!'

'Don't panic.'

'Panic?' Anger overlaid the fear in the Englishman's voice now.

'There was to be no killing in England – that was an order! You can't kill people here and walk away, can't you understand that?'

'We're not going to walk away. When we've got what we came for, we'll come back and deal with them. But Razzak comes first.' The voice hardened. 'How much time do we have, Jahein?'

'He left five minutes ago – we have no time to spare.'

'Oh, God!' There was a sob in the English voice: the man was crumbling.

'Look – ' The third voice softened now, as though its owner recognised the danger that lay in the Englishman's collapse. Roskill strove to listen with a part of his mind, while the other part attempted to control his body – to make it lifeless. They already thought him dead, and half the possum's trick was in the mind of the hunter...

The third voice was wheedling, justifying, explaining: Majid had been wrong to have been so sure Razzak was a harmless fool – the dead Jew was proof of that ... so he had missed something, maybe during the Paris trip when he'd been alone with Razzak... he had been over-confident and careless. It was even possible he was treacherous, and if so it had been a blessing that they'd sent Jahein dummy2

to watch too without telling him. But until they knew for certain they were all at risk now . . . and they needed him to operate the Shibasaki microphone –

' – We'll just carry them off the path – down there – in the groundsheet. Here, Jahein – help me with the Jew.'

Roskill summoned up every last reserve of self-control: he mustn't brace himself as the crushing weight was lifted off him, mustn't breathe, mustn't twitch... he must be dead!

'Get his pistol, Jahein -'

The weight was gone.

'And get the other's gun while we hide the Jew.'

There was a pause, and then a hand touched Roskkill's shoulder, started tentatively to move him – and then stopped. There was a spasm of retching...