The Old Vengeful

'You haven't shot her too, by any chance?'

'Don't be funny, Aske. Just tell Bannen to get moving.'

Two?

Two! Elizabeth's knees weakened, and only the wall supported her. She wanted to get back to the safety of the armchair in case he came to check up on her, but her legs had mutinied.

She heard the car start up, and then the front door closed again. Relief flooded over her as she heard the second voice again.

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'What the devil have you been doing, Mitchell? You said this was just routine, damn it!'

Paul Mitchell half-grunted, half-groaned. 'So it was! If I hadn't spotted Novikov . . . my God, man—I'd have walked in here like a lamb to the slaughter!'

There was a moment of silence. Then she heard the study door open with its characteristic squeak.

Again she wanted to move, but couldn't.

In the garden at the back, in the bushes—

Lamb to the slaughter— meat waggon—

The door squeaked shut. 'Who the hell's that?'

'Don't ask me—I don't know any of them, they're not in any files I've ever seen.' Paul Mitchell sounded as though he disbelieved himself. 'They're all new to me.'

'What about her?'

'You may well ask!' Pause.

'What d'you mean?'

Elizabeth held her breath.

'They were just about to do something very nasty to her when I crashed their party.' Pause. 'I tell you, Aske . . .

whatever they want here, they want it badly, and that's the truth.'

'What sort of state is she in?'

'Not bad, considering what she's been through—and considering what I've done to her, filling her up with brandy dummy3

while she's still in shock. I wanted her to talk—and now I can't stop her.'

'Charming! What are you going to do to her next?'

A tear ran down Elizabeth's cheek. He had been so kind and sympathetic, she had thought. And she had confided in him.

'I'm not going to do anything to her—you are.' Pause. 'I'm going to take this house apart.'

'And just what exactly am I going to do to her?'

'Take her to the safe house. David Audley will have to decide what to do with her after that.'

'And if she doesn't want to go?'

Elizabeth's knees weakened, and she slid down the wall to the floor.

'She's in no condition to argue,' said Paul Mitchell harshly.

'Tell her it's for her own good—tell her anything you bloody-well like, Aske. But just get her out of here.'

'Mmm . . . well, if this massacre is anything to go by, it probably is for her own good. Because, I must say ... it does rather look as though the Russians mean business this time, old boy.'

The Russians? She must have misheard—the Russians didn't make sense . . . But then nothing made sense.

'For God's sake don't mention the Russians—I didn't mean that. She's frightened enough as it is, I don't want her to have hysterics,' Paul Mitchell whispered angrily.

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She hadn't misheard. It still made no sense, but she hadn't misheard.

'She's the hysterical type is she? Just my luck! And Bannen tells me she's plain as a pikestaff, too,' groaned Aske. 'All right—let's get it over.'

Elizabeth closed her eyes for an instant. Then, because she didn't trust her legs, she began to crawl back towards her chair.

She wasn't going to have hysterics—she wasn't going to give them that satisfaction: that was what anger did for her.

On the other hand, the way she felt, she was about to be unpleasantly sick to her stomach.

IV

ONE THING SHE had learnt in nearly 24 hours, thought Elizabeth, was that none of them looked like any sort of policeman—not hateful Dr Mitchell, not polite Mr Aske and monosyllabic Mr Bannen, and certainly not the man in the doorway.

'Good afternoon, Miss Loftus.' He closed the door behind him. 'I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting so