car park at Cambridge railway station, a little green Ford delivery van with a completely enclosed rear compartment. They had moved the girl from the maroon
Triumph to the Ford in the covering dusk of the autumn evening, and they had parked again in the lot of a roadside cafe on the A10 while Dr.
Jameson did the job.
All the instruments had been ready for him in the van, but he had botched it badly, his hands shaking with nerves and the need for liquor. The brat had bled copiously, and now the hand was infected.Gilly O’Shaughnessy felt his irritation rising sharply when he thought of the doctor. Everything he touched seemed to turn to disaster.
He had delivered the bottle to a pick-up car that had been exactly where he was told it would be, and it had dipped its headlights in the prearranged signal. Gilly had hardly stopped, but merely drawn up alongside and handed the bottle across, then driven straight into the
West, and caught “4
the early morning ferry long before any general alarm was out for the girl.
Then there were the telephone calls. They worried Gilly
O’Shaughnessy as much as anything else in this whole bloody business.
He had made the first call immediately they reached Laragh. It was an international call, and he had to say one sentence: “We arrived safely.” And then hang up. A week later a call to the same number, and again only one sentence: “We are enjoying ourselves.” And then immediately break the connection.
Gilly remembered how each time the girl on the local exchange had called him back to ask if the contact had been satisfactory and each time she had sounded puzzled and intrigued.
It was not the way Caliph had worked up until then, it was leaving a trail for the hunters to follow and he would have protested if there had been somebody to protest to, but there was only the international telephone number, no other way of contacting Caliph. He decided as he stood by the gate that he would not make the next telephone call to that number which was due in four days” time.
Then he remembered that was the day the hand was due and he would probably receive his orders for delivery of the hand when he made the call but he didn’t like it. Not even for the money and suddenly his mind went back to an incident long ago.
They had wanted to pass false information to the English, details of an intended operation which would in fact take place at a different place and a different time.
They had fed the detailed but duff information to a young unreliable Provo, one who they knew would not hold out under interrogation, and they had put him in a safe house in the Shankhill
Road and that was where the English took him.
Gilly O’Shaughnessy felt a little electric prickle run down his spine like ghost-fire, and that feeling had never let him down before never. He looked at his cheap Japanese wristwatch; it was almost four o’clock, and evening was lowering on the hills of grey and cold green.
When he looked up again, there was movement on the road.
From the top of the hill a vehicle was following the curve of the road, down towards the bridge. It was a small black saloon car, and it went out of sight behind the hedge.
Gilly O’Shaughnessy watched for it to reappear without particular interest, still worrying about those two telephone calls. Trying to find the need for them, why Caliph should want to take that chance.
The small black car turned onto the bridge, and came directly down towards the Manse, but the light was wrong and Gilly could make out only the shape of two heads beyond the rhythmically flogging windscreen wipers.
The car began to slow up, coming down almost to walking speed, and
Gilly straightened up instinctively, suddenly completely alert as he peered through the slit.
There was the pale blur of faces turned towards him, and the car slowed almost to a halt. The nearest side window was lowered slowly and for the first time he could see clearly into the interior. He saw the peak of the uniform cap, and the silver flash of a cap badge above the straining white face. The ghost-fire flared up Gilly
O’Shaughnessy’s spine and he felt his breath suddenly scalding his throat.
The small black car disappeared beyond the corner of the stone wall, and he heard it accelerate away swiftly.
Gilly O’Shaughnessy whirled with the cape ballooning around him and he ran back to the house. He felt very cold and sure and calm now that the moment of action had come.
The kitchen was empty and he crossed it in half a dozen strides,
and threw open the door to the second room.
The doctor was working over the bed and he looked up angrily.
“I’ve told you to knock.” They had argued this out before. The doctor still retained some bizarre vestige of professional ethics in his treatment of his patient. He might surgically mutilate the child for the money he so desperately needed, but he had protested fiercely when Gilly O’Shaughnessy had lingered at the doorway to ogle the maturing body whenever the doctor stripped it for cleansing, treatment or for the performance of its natural functions.
The dark Irishman had halfheartedly attempted to force him to back down, but when he had encountered surprisingly courageous opposition he had abandoned his voyeuristic pleasures and had returned to the inner room only when called to assist.
Now the child lay face down on the soiled sheets. Her blonde hair was matted and snarled into greasy tresses; the doctor’s attempts at cleanliness were as bumbling and gin ineffectual as his surgery.
The infection and the use of drugs had wasted the flesh off the tender young body, each knuckle of her spine stood out clearly and her naked buttocks seemed pathetically vulnerable, shrunken and pale.
Now the doctor pulled the grubby sheet up to her shoulders, and turned to stand protectively over her. It was an absurd gesture, when you looked at the untidy, stained dressing that bound up her left hand and Gilly O’Shaughnessy snarled at him fiercely.
“We are getting out.”
“You can’t move her now, protested the doctor. “She’s really sick.”
“Suit yourself,” Gilly agreed grimly.
“Then we’ll leave her.” He reached under the dripping cape, and brought out the pistol. He thumbed back the hammer and stepped up to the bed.
The doctor grabbed at his arm, but Gilly pushed him away easily,
sending him reeling back against the wall.
“You are right, she’ll be a nuisance,” he said, and placed the muzzle of the pistol against the base of the child’s skull.
“No,” shrieked the doctor. “No, don’t do that. We’ll take her.”
“We are leaving as soon as it’s dark.” Gilly stepped back and uncocked the pistol. “Be ready by then, “he warned.
The two helicopters flew almost side by side, with the number two only slightly behind and higher than the leader; below them the Irish
Sea was a sheet of beaten lead flecked with feathers of white water.
They had refuelled at Caemarvon and had made good time since leaving the Welsh coast, for the wind drove them on, but still the night was overtaking them and Peter Stride fretted, glancing at his wristwatch every few seconds.
It was only ninety miles of open water to cross, but to Peter it seemed like the entire Atlantic. Colin slumped beside him on the bench that ran the length of the hold, with the cold stump of a cheroot in the corner of his mouth in deference to the “No smoking” light that burned on the bulkhead behind the flight deck. The rest of the Thor team had adopted their usual attitudes of complete relaxation, some of them sprawled on the deck using their equipment as pillows, the others stretched out full length on the benches.
Peter Stride was the only one tensed up, as though his blood fizzed with nervous energy. He stood up once again to peer through the perspex window, checking the amount of daylight and trying to judge the height and position of the sun through the thick cloud cover.
“Take it easy, Colin counselled him as he dropped back into his seat. “You will give yourself an ulcer.”
“Colin, we’ve got to decide.
