Our man in Camelot

importance against the value of the said operative—

Just great, that was. Evaluate comparatively the value of Harry Finsterwald against the importance of Mons Badonicus—how the shit did he do that?

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

Maybe he should do like King Arthur—take up the banner and charge—

Then Sir Mosby bore on his shoulder the banner of the Mothers' Union in St Swithun's Churchyard, and through the strength of St Swithun and the Mothers' Union there was great slaughter of the heathens and they were put to flight—

Well—hell—they might die of surprise, at that. But they sure wouldn't mistake him for the local vicar, so

—

But why not?

Why not?

By the time he reached the vestry, every trapdoor left gaping behind him, every door swinging, he was almost as breathless as he'd been after the climb up to the tower. The soft life on the base keeping the world safe for democracy had taken its toll.

But the vicar's spare dog-collar was no bad fit, he decided gratefully as he fumbled for its button at the back—if it had been too tight God only knew what he could have done, for there was no time left for more ingenuity.

The grey linen jacket wasn't too bad either; a shade too long in the sleeve and a couple of inches too wide at the middle, but when buttoned up not too loose to hold down the black square of material which hung from the collar. Not a shred of his unecclesiastical—and unBritish—T-shirt was now visible, and that was what mattered.

There was nothing he could do about his blue flared trousers, so that risk had to be taken. At least he was all- vicar—all authentic vicar from the hip-line up.

A hat of some sort would have been a bonus, but one glance round the vestry revealed no hat. He could only hope that they didn't know him by sight already.

Then, as he reached for the banner, he felt a hard object move in the side-pocket of the jacket. A spectacle case, complete with spectacles. The bonus after all.

He perched them on his nose and the vestry blurred hopelessly : the vicar had long arms, but short sight

—the only way he could bring things back into focus was by lowering his chin and peering over the frames. But maybe that was no bad thing after all; it might add a vague, even scholarly, look appropriate to his stolen trappings.

But there was no more time. Even now he might be too late.

He seized the furled banner and ran.

At the door at the porch he forced himself to pause. This was the last moment for second thoughts. If they knew him by sight it might be last thoughts once he was outside. But he mustn't think of that.

Instead he must rely at the worst on a few seconds of doubt. For who, after all, was the most natural person in the world to encounter in a churchyard on a fine summer's morning?

The vicar.

He grasped the banner firmly with one hand, drew a final deep breath, and threw open the door.

Light, colour, noise and warmth enveloped him simultaneously, making him blink. The interior of the church had been cool and shadowy, filled with centuries of peace and quiet; in the bright sunshine outside everything was a dazzling green and the sounds of the birds and insects seemed deafening.

Then all these impressions vanished as his senses concentrated on the three figures under the trees near the churchyard gate.

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

With a fierce effort of will-power he allowed himself only the briefest glimpse of them before turning back to fasten the door behind him. He couldn't stop his calf muscles tightening at the knowledge that his fear had become a certainty, but he could force his body to move with the calm deliberation of innocence. He was just a clergyman closing the door to his church.

Two of them.

And they'd taken Harry alive and kicking, without noise or fuss, which marked them as professionals for sure. Their mission had gone sour on them but they were making the best of a bad job: they had Harry and they could still hope for his contact.

Unwillingly, he turned away from the door and started slowly along the gravel pathway towards the gate. Only now he didn't have to try to slow his pace, that was the way his legs wanted it. From ground level things looked a lot more hairy than they had from up above.

Two professionals, one tall and lean and the other medium and thickset, he had gotten no more than that from the glance except to note that they'd backed Harry up against one of the trees. His appearance would have disconcerted them, but they certainly wouldn't be in a hurry to complicate matters with violence if it could be avoided, particularly to a priest in the shadow of his own church. The British police wouldn't like that at all—and the British newspapers would like it a whole lot.

There was a shred of comfort in that; it would confuse them, even slow them a fraction, and that might just give him the edge he needed—

Then Sir Mosby bore on his shoulder the banner of the Mothers' Union in St Swithun's Churchyard—

He pretended to be wrapped in his own ecclesiastical thoughts as he walked down the path, delaying noticing them until the last moment. He must get the words as well as the accent right, which according to Doc McCaslin's formula for speaking British English meant that he had to speak from the front of his mouth in fragmented sentences.