The Alamut Ambush

Lee Enfield threw its bullet, high or low, left or right.

Except the instructor always said it wasn't the gun but the concentration behind it that hit the target.

Concentrate then. At this range aiming off didn't matter: the man had to reach the wire; it was too high to jump, so he'd have to stop and climb.

Wait and concentrate. It wasn't a man, but a piece of knowledge running towards the wire. If it crossed the wire into the thicket beyond it would be on its way to Alamut. And whatever happened, nothing must wake Hassan to the truth.

Squeeze with the whole hand until you feel the first pressure — he was almost at the wire ... now he was climbing and it had snagged his coat sleeve – restrain the breathing and continue that steady squeeze!

God! Roskill winced as the kick seemed to travel down his body, dummy2

exploding low down and spreading outwards, fogging his vision momentarily.

The man was crucified on the wire, half hanging over it. Then, as Roskill watched, he started to slide backwards the way he had come, jerkily as each strand of wire caught his clothing, took the strain and then ripped free. Roskill stared sickened as the body crumpled in slow motion to the bottom of the fence, one arm finally harpooned on the lowest strand. Inside the field.

He felt cold. A killer ought to feel cold, though. Jack the Giant-Killer. Wyatt Earp. Dead-Eyed Dick – no, not Dead-Eyed Dick.

Dead-Eyed Someone, surely.

It would be nice to pass out now, warm and safe – cold and safe, anyway. But the damned adrenalin hadn't stopped pumping.

He frowned, trying to catch his thoughts: there was something else to do, that was why!

Something else to wait for with the family heirloom. Three more silver studs and room for a fourth now: two for safety, one for duty, but the fourth strictly personal – for Alan.

It was curious, he reflected, how it was possible to feel lightheaded and clear-headed at the same time. He would have to discuss it in the squadron mess tonight with Doc Farrell – say to him he was dead right about the fear of God sharpening the wits!

Damn it all – he'd been so close – and then Audley had twisted it and forced the wrong answer on him!

The Firle meeting had been the key, not because Razzak had met Shapiro there – but because those dead men in the field hadn't been dummy2

told about it by the Watcher who was dogging Razzak's footsteps.

Majid!

So Majid was the young man with the hot-headed little sister –

Razzak's man inside Alamut.

That was why Razzak and Shapiro had been so scared, so bloody scared – yet so confident today that Hassan wasn't on to them .. .

he'd never been on to them at all: so long as Majid had been

'watching', nothing of value ever reached Hassan ...

So it didn't matter what Alan had seen, but only that Majid's lies about the Paris trip must never be exposed. For if they were blown, Majid was blown – and when Majid was blown there would be no Alamut flight, and Razzak's chance would be gone forever!

Oh, Razzak had been good, and never leaked Majid's true role to anyone! But he'd not been quite good enough all the same, because he'd fallen into the oldest pitfall of all: he'd despised his old dog, Jahein – his simple peasant soldier who was Hassan's extra insurance, unknown even to Majid. And in the end it had been the faithful old dog that had the rabid bite, not the sleek hound at his side!

And yet it had been the sleek hound that had made Alan's death a necessity.

Roskill patted the rifle. They wouldn't be long now. The meeting would be over, and they'd be waiting for him to trot up obediently.

And then they'd begin to worry.

All he had to do was to wait, all alone with his thoughts and his handiwork; resolved now, all those contradictions and dummy2

inconsistencies he'd pushed unresolved to the back of his mind. His desire for vengeance had blinded him then, but now everything but vengeance was stripped away.

Another wave of pain, above the steady throb of it, brought tears to his eyes. Much more of that and he'd pass out. Think of something nice then.

Isobel.

High time he resolved that, too. What he had was the ashes of happiness, genteel planned adultery. But in a flash of despairing self-knowledge he knew that he could never give up Isobel, and no well-placed rifle bullet could cut that knot satisfactorily ...

Think about Harry. That debt would be paid, if only indirectly, through Alan. No wergild for them...

One Roskill seemed to float away, to look down on the other one, the blood-stained, mud-caked wreck cradling the rifle and shivering in the sunlight.

The detached Roskill could see clearly. He could see the field. He could see the four of them at the stile. He