One more, one more for the road, and when he looked to the bar counter he saw that old Vic had gone. He had the gun in his hand and he advanced across the bar towards Bissett, and bissett shrank from him.
He saw it go. Erlich saw the first flutter beats of the ghost flight.
It was gone without sound. There was a scudding moment of moonlight, enough to catch at the wide wingspan ol the owl.
There was the silence of the flight, then the sharp warning cry of the bird, and it was gone.
He heard the movement of the cars down at the other end of the road through the village, and when he stood to his full height he could see, slashed by the winter trees, the lights that were white and blue.
He came from his hiding place. He walked across the Manor House's lawn and onto the drive to the road.
Ahead of him was the facade of the pub, bathed in warm lights.
He walked forward. This was his war. Colt was his He saw policemen crouched down behind the opened doors of their cars, and far away in the night he heaid the clatter of a helicopter.
He walked to the Sergeant.
'My name's Erlich, Federal Bureau ol Investigation
'Oh yes. Heard about you from young Desmond Young lad just told me …'
'You have him in there? Colt?'
'Right now I do. If he doesn't do a runner…''
'You got firearms?'
'On the way.'
'What you got to stop him running?'
'There's nine of us.'
'Where is he?'
'Back bar, through the side entrance, it's where he was last Erlich pulled the Smith and Wesson from the holster at his belt. The Sergeant didn't seem to want to argue. Erlich thought the Sergeant was bright, wasn't going to fuss that a Fed was on his territory, and armed. Round the corner of the building, into the glare of the light came the girl and a youth with a shaven head and tattoo work over his arms and they carried the slumped weight of a policeman. Erlich remembered him, and he remembered his cup of tea on the best china and homemade cakes. And he remembered the girl and the way that she had stared her hatred into the torch beam when she had come to take away her dead dog.
He walked forward and the headlights threw his shadow huge against the front stonework of the pub. He could hear, mingled with the wind, the closing thump of the helicopter's rotors.
Colt was his.
The military policeman locked the door behind him.
The Station Officer carried the tray into his office.
The Swede was crouched on the low camp bed that had been made up for him, and there was a second bed against the far wall from the door. The Station Officer put the tray down on his desk.
He took out from his pocket, where it was awkward, his P. P. K. pistol and laid it on the desk alongside the tray of sandwiches with the bottle of champagne.
'Will you surrender me?'
'Give you up? Good God, no.'
' D i d Bissett get onto the flight?'
' H e was blocked.'
'Thank God. '
'It's what you risked your life for… The champagne comes with warm wishes from your friends in Tel Aviv. '
The Swede started to eat, and when he drank he coughed and then giggled his appreciation.
He watched.
With fast and controlled movements, Colt had the pistol cleared and the magazine out and there was the dead metal rattle of the mechanism firing, and then Colt had checked each round before feeding it into the stick magazine.
Bissett watched.
They were going to break out. He did not have to be told.
They were going to run at the cordon of white and blue light, they were going to sprint for the dark shadow line beyond the brilliance of the perimeter that was strung around the pub. He heard, muffled by the thickness of the old stone walls of the building, a distant pulse of growing sound.
All the time he was watching the sharp and more confident hand movements of Colt.
He thought of his father and mother, of the small terraced home in the small streets of Leeds. He thought of their letters, abandoned in his suitcase at the airport. They would not have understood. He had told them so little from the time that he had first taken his appointment at the Establishment. His father and his mother were against the Bomb, they all were in that street. He had won for them no pride for working as a government scientist.
He might as well have been a deputy manager at an amusement arcade, or running a local Radio Rentals… Yes, he thought they would despise him now, his mother and his father. He would never go home to greet his father on the day that his mother died. They would not have understood. It was not his fault.. He had outgrown them. They were no longer a part of his life…
He watched.
Colt had finished with the pistol, and now he crouched and undid the knots at both his trainer shoes, and he had retied the laces.
It was not possible that Colt could not hear the coming thunder sound breaking through the windows of the back bar, permeating the stone walls.
'It'll be all right, Colt…?'
'Why not?'
'We're going together?'
' O f course.'
' D o you think we can do it?'
' N o problem.'
There was sick fear in Bissett's stomach. They would run at the lights. He would let Colt hold him by the wrist and he would cling to Colt's sleeve, and they would run.
'What's that noise?'
Colt said, like it didn't matter, ' I ' m just going upstairs. I want a better view of the ground. You shouldn't worry, Dr Bissett.
It's a helicopter, they'll be bringing in their heavy mob, I expect
… nothing to worry on, Dr Bissett.'
' I ' m sorry about your mother, Colt, really sorry.'
'I'll be a minute, then it's running time.'
He heard the shuffle ripple of Colt's feet, and he was gone onto the narrow and twisted staircase that led out from behind the bar counter.
And the silence in Bissett's ears was broken by the drum beat of the helicopter banking on its flight path over the village.
He heard the helicopter put down.
Erlich thought it sounded, from its power, a big transporter.
They would be getting their act together at last. Armed men, and the big guys from London. He thought that they would not have room in their plan for Bill Erlich, number three from Rome, wanted for questioning in connection with the death of James Rutherford. He was in the porchway to the back bar. He had the Smith and Wesson in his hand. Held beside his ear.
The helicopter had cut its rotors.
He strained to hear the sound of voices, Colt's voice. He listened for the sound of movement.
Bill Erlich readied himself for the charge through the closed heavy door.
He was the law-enforcement man. He was small-town America's hero. He was the Mid-West glamour kid. He
