said the doctor, nursing his wrist. 'And if you're sensible you'll keep her in a cell. If she gets loose she could foul things up properly.'
'As if they weren't already,' said the Superintendent and made his way back to the Communications Centre. It was situated in Mrs de Frackas' drawing-room and there incongruously, set among mementos of life in Imperial India, antimacassars, potted plants and beneath the ferocious portrait of the late Major-General, the SGS and the Anti-Terrorist Squad had collaborated to install a switchboard, a telephone amplifier, tape recorders and the voiceprint analyser.
'All ready to go, sir,' said the detective in charge of the apparatus. 'We've hooked into the line next door.'
'Have you got the listening devices in position?'
'Can't do that yet,' said the Major. 'No windows on this side and we can't move in across the lawn. Have a shot after dark, provided those buggers haven't got night sights.'
'Oh well, put me through,' said the Superintendent. 'The sooner we begin the dialogue the sooner everyone will be able to go home. If I know my job they'll start with a stream of abuse. So everyone stand by to be called a fascist shit.'
In the event he was mistaken. It was Mrs de Frackas who answered.
'This is Ipford 23... I'm afraid I haven't got my glasses with me but I think it's... Now, young man...'
There was a brief pause during which Mrs de Frackas was evidently relieved of the phone.
'My name is Misterson, Superintendent Misterson,' said the Superintendent finally.
'Lying pig of a fascist shit,' shouted a voice, at last fulfilling his prediction. 'You think we are going to surrender, shit face, but you are wrong. We die first, you understand. Do you hear me, pig?'
The Superintendent sighed and said he did.
'Right. Get that straight in your pigshit fascist head. No way we surrender. If you want us you come in and kill us and you know what that means.'
'I don't think anyone wants...'
'What you want, pig, you don't get. You do what we want or people get hurt.'
'That's what I'm waiting to hear, what you want,' said the Superintendent, but the terrorists were evidently in consultation and after a minute the phone in the house was slammed down.
'Well, at least we know the little old lady hasn't been hurt and by the sound of things the children are all right.'
The Superintendent crossed to a coffee-dispenser and poured himself a cup.
'Bit of a bore being called a pig all the time,' said the Major sympathetically. 'You'd think they could come up with something slightly more original.'
'Don't you believe it. They're on a Marxist millennium egotrip, kamikaze style, and what few brains they have they laundered years ago. That sounded like Chinanda, the Mexican.'
'Intonation and accent was right,' said the sergeant on the tape recorder.
'What's his record?' asked the Major.
'The usual. Rich parents, good education, flunked University and decided to save the world by knocking people off. To date, five. Specializes in car bombs, and crude ones at that. Not a very sophisticated laddie, our Miguel. Better get that tape through to the analysts. I want to hear their verdict on his stress pattern. And now we settle down to the long slog.'
'You expect him to call back with demands?'
'No. Next time we'll have the charming Fraulein Schautz. She's the one with the brains up top.'
It was an unintentionally apt description. Trapped in the bathroom, Gudrun Schautz had spent much of the afternoon wondering what had happened and why no one had either killed her or come to arrest her. She had also considered methods of escape but was hampered by the lack of her
