A Prospect of Vengeance

banged three times — a different sound from the preceding small-arms knocking . . . deeper and louder — and probably the loudest noise this peaceful valley had known since —

The Citroen was bowled over like a rabbit, rolling and exploding in the same instant, its four little tyres and underside visible for a last fraction-of-a-second before it became an incandescent ball of fire, shooting out flame and black smoke as it became unrecognizable.

'Don't look!' This time Mitchell's grip was irresistible: he swung her round to face him. 'He's dead now. He's no problem now — it's called 'Shot while resisting arrest', Miss Fielding. So ... he's got no problems now, either: no one forced him to run, Miss Fielding ... do you see?'

It was strange how quiet it was. There had been the loudest bang! of all as the Citroen had exploded. But now she couldn't hear anything as she stared accusingly at Mitchell.

'You knew that was going to happen.'

'No. That is to say ... no ... I didn't know for sure.' He was stone-faced. 'But you don't need to waste any sympathy for him, Miss Fielding. He'd never met your nice Mr Robinson, who goes to church on Sundays. But he'd been paid to kill nice Mr Robinson, so that was what he was going to do — at maybe two thousand yards, and with a soft-nosed bullet. And that was what he was going to do ... and it frightened the shit out of me when he got out of his car, and the Spaniards dummy2

hadn't turned up, I can tell you.' His jaw tightened. 'Because then I had to decide whether I was going to shoot-to-kill, or not . . . And this contraption — ' He lifted the rifle ' — this was just supposed to be insurance. They said it wasn't really necessary, because they'd be here once he showed up. And then they offered me a hand-gun . . . But I didn't want to let him get that close. Because he's an expert, and I'm not—'

'No — ?' She remembered what Reg Buller had said. And what, from her own observation of only a few minutes ago (so little time?) . . . she also remembered.

'No — damn it — no!' He showed his teeth. 'You don't know what you're talking about, Miss Fielding. Whatever you think you know . . . you-don't-know — ' He let go of her arm, and straightened up. 'But I'm not about to tell you.'

What she knew was that she mustn't let him confuse her with either sincerity or very good acting: for some reason he had given her too much, up to now, but she didn't know why. And that was no reason to trust him now.

He looked away from her, dismissing her.

The unrecognizable wreck of the Citroen continued to blaze fiercely, with its black smoke rising up in a mini- mushroom-cloud in the still air. And the uniformed men were converging on it ... But the civilians were getting into their car — even as she watched the doors closed one by one, and then the car turned on to the track and moved slowly towards them.

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Then she realized that she was alone: Paul Mitchell was retracing his steps, back to the monument, walking across the autumn crocuses as though they didn't exist — as though she didn't exist —

'Dr Mitchell!'

He stopped, and turned. 'Whatever you want to know — you ask Dr Audley now, Miss Fielding. And I wish you joy of it.'

There was a knot in her stomach. Just as Audley had so strangely reminded her of Philly, now Paul Mitchell recalled Ian — the new Ian, for whom she also didn't really exist as she had formerly done.

He looked past her for an instant, then at her, very coldly. 'I must go and make our peace with the Spaniards. Not that it'll be too difficult, I suspect.' His mouth twisted. 'Don't worry —

they won't ask you any questions. Just so long as you go straight home now, and forget what you've seen.'

Her mouth opened.

'Oh yes — forget, Miss Fielding.' The twist became a travesty of a smile. 'A wanted man — a known foreign terrorist who has worked for ETA in the past? And I wouldn't like to guess what's happened to his little fat chum, either. So two known terrorists, believed to be working for ETA, have been shot by security forces, while resisting arrest. And that has nothing to do with any British tourists who may have been passing through, on their holidays: that wouldn't be good for the tourist industry, would it?' He flicked a glance past her for an dummy2

instant. The Spaniards have waited a long time to close the MacManus file, and balance their books. So this way there are no complications — no messy trial, or anything like that.

But next time ETA may not find it so easy to hire outside talent.'

Jenny watched him bend down, to disassemble the rifle and replace each bit of it in its place in the case — right down to retrieving a final round from his back pocket, and putting it too in its box, with the two empty cases of the bullets he'd fired. Then he looked up again. 'Of course, you may not want to forget — not after you've witnessed such a saleable event, eh? Pity you didn't have a camera!' He snapped the case shut and stood up. 'And the Spanish won't touch you, either.

Because, apart from being your father's daughter, you haven't done anything — have you?' He stared at her. 'Which is funny really, when you think about it. Because that's all your own work — ' He pointed into the valley ' — that, and what happened to John Tully.'

'John — ?'

'But you'll be in the clear there, too. He 'surprised an intruder' . . . going through the files in his office. Only I'll bet there aren't any files on all this, because you'd only just started, hadn't you? And our chaps will not want to make a fuss about us, I shouldn't think . . . And I expect he was into a lot of other things, in any case. So, although they'll maybe want to talk to you, I doubt whether they'll ask any difficult questions. In fact, I guarantee they won't.' He gave her a dummy2

dreadful reassuring smile.

All my own work! She looked down at the old-and-new battlefield for a moment, suddenly aghast. 'But why — ?'