who calls in the rebellion. But, well, that’s the way it is sometimes. More often than not the biggest decisions in war come down to just one man. Kind of funny really. Neravista and those people in there think they control this war, when, right now, it’s all down to just you and me.’
‘What are you going to do when you leave this business, Steel? Sell second-hand cars?’
The Marine colonel found the comment amusing, but there was a darkness to his chortle. ‘I like you, Stratton, you know that? You’re a funny guy. Tell you what,’ he said, finishing his drink and collecting up his stuff. ‘I’ll let you sleep on it. But come morning I want an answer, and no answer means no.’
As Steel stepped back out into the rain, Stratton put down his mug. It was possible that Sumners had given the man permission to make use of Stratton but he would bet everything he owned that the conversation had not been recorded. If Stratton was caught both men would deny having anything to do with him and his mission, he was sure of that. They would say that he had done it off his own bat. He had become involved.
Stratton began to clean the various parts of his pistol and put it back together.
Stratton got up as the sun’s rays broke over the treetops and started packing his gear. His gut instinct was to get out of there as soon as he could but he had woken feeling all over the place. Steel’s statement that the rebellion would falter without the attack had got to him, despite his efforts to dismiss it. He felt guilty, in spite of the clumsiness of the American’s manipulation. Then there was Louisa. She was the least of the reasons he had to stay and should not have been one at all. But he could not deny that she had a greater influence on him than anything else. It was crazy. The sooner he got away from the camp the better.
Stratton picked up his pack and parachute, left his charred clothes and unusable M4 on the floor and walked down the stairs.
He dumped his kit on the table and decided to make himself a cup of coffee. While waiting for the water in the old percolator to boil he mulled over the ramifications of getting involved in the rebellion and London finding out. It soon became confusing and he wondered why he was even considering it.
The percolator bubbled and he turned off the heat, checked inside a mug for bugs and half filled it with the hot black liquid. The coffee was strong.
The front door opened and in walked David, Victor and another young rebel soldier carrying two large plastic ammunition boxes between them. Panting with the effort they lowered the cases heavily to the floor, grabbing their aching arms after releasing their load.
‘Whose idea was it not to rest until we reached the cabins?’ Victor asked.
‘Yours,’ David replied, out of breath and inspecting his palms where the ammo-box handles had cut into them. David’s hair was short all over to minimise any contrast with the patches that had been burned away. His face and arms were already beginning to peel.
Victor noticed Stratton’s backpack. ‘I see you’re ready to go.’
‘What are those?’ Stratton asked, knowing the answer.
‘One box of claymore mines, one box of rockets,’ Victor replied curtly.
‘Is that wise, bringing them into the house?’
‘Is that fresh coffee?’ the Frenchman asked, ignoring the question. He poured some into a mug and took a mouthful, savouring it. ‘I was hoping you might show us how to operate them before you go.’
Stratton looked at him as if the man had lost the plot.
Victor unlatched one of the boxes, snatched it open, then shouted in a pantomime fashion, ‘Oh my God! What have I done?’
Stratton watched him as if bored.
Victor burst into a cackling chuckle. ‘I’m sorry. I could not resist. I checked them for grenades as Steel said. I opened the box just enough to slide my hand in and felt around.’
‘You did them all?’
‘Are you crazy? Just these two. I’m not doing any more. I almost had a heart attack. I was up all night thinking about it. But I had to. You brought them all this way. You should at least finish what you came to do . . . This is Bernard, David’s cousin.’ Victor introduced the young man.
Bernard nodded a polite hello.
Stratton nodded back, remembering him from the ambush. He was the one whose cousin had been among the hanging victims.
‘We’d like to know how you would use these to . . . well, to blow up a bridge.’
Stratton studied the man who was making a pathetically obvious job of baiting him. ‘There’s no way I can teach you how to blow up a bridge in a few hours and you know it.’
‘We are not so stupid,’ Victor insisted. ‘Tell us how to prepare them, at least, and we will work out the rest.’
Stratton simply stared at him.
‘Make a sketch. I can work from diagrams.’
‘You don’t know the specifications of the bridge.’
‘Oh,’ the scientist said, feigning deep thought. ‘So, we would need an expert at the bridge to show us how to place the explosives once he had examined it?’
Stratton took a sip of his coffee.
‘I’m not trying to talk you into doing anything, if that’s what you think,’ Victor insisted. ‘No, no, no. You’ll do whatever you feel you should, I know that.’ He faced David, hands on hips and wearing a serious, thoughtful expression. ‘We need to find an expert.’
‘Where do you think we can find one?’ David asked, playing along pathetically.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Stratton interrupted. ‘I can’t do it and that’s that.’
Victor looked into Stratton’s eyes and finally believed the Englishman. ‘You mean it, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m going home. I think I’ve come closer to dying more often here and in the shortest space of time than anywhere else I can remember and I’d be stupid to test my luck any further.’
Victor nodded and lowered his gaze to the floor. The fight seemed to go out of him as he wandered to the other side of the room, unsure what to do. When he turned around his face was determined. ‘Fine. We’ll do it without you. Just show us how to explode these damned things.’
‘You can’t,’ Stratton said.
‘Don’t tell us we can’t!’ Victor shouted, his face turning bright red. ‘Do you see any experts here in anything to do with war? David’s a teacher! Bernard’s a farmer! I’m a conservationist! Go out there and find me a born soldier and you’ll be looking all day! You’ll find a lot of shopkeepers, tailors and cooks! We’ve even got a university professor and a circus clown! Don’t tell us we can’t because we all wake up every morning and have to tell ourselves one more time that we can! If you want to preach to those who can’t, go to our cemetery, it’s filled with those who tried. Now. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind showing us how, please?’
He stood red-faced and shaking but his expression was resolute.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘You’re damned right I’m serious. We leave before midday. This is our fight and we’re here to fight it. Just tell us how to explode these bombs, then you can go and get on with that other struggle against evil you were talking about. Ours is here.’
Stratton looked at them all. They were no longer playing. He sighed heavily. This was going to be hugely problematic. Poole suddenly seemed a long way away. ‘Get me the maps and the satellite photos,’ he said, finishing his coffee and putting the mug down.
‘You don’t need those to show us how to explode the bombs,’ Victor said.
‘Let’s get one thing straight from the start,’ Stratton said, his expression toughening. ‘You never question me, or anything I tell you to do. And you do it immediately. Is that understood? Now get me what I just asked for.’
Victor was suddenly hopeful, his eyes lighting up. ‘You’re coming with us?’
‘No.
The Frenchman’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘He’s coming with us,’ he said to the others. ‘I mean, we’re
