none too gently in the groin.
‘Henderson, pick him up and just get the hell out of here,’ Richter snarled. ‘I’m losing patience with you two idiots.’
He watched the two men stumble through the front door, then pushed it closed and slammed the bolts home. Richter hurried back to the inner hall, located the den and stepped inside. The car parked on the drive outside was clearly visible, as Blake, bent almost double, climbed slowly into the rear seat. As Richter watched, Henderson came into view, half-dragging the other guard Richter had subdued earlier around the side of the house. He seemed to be protesting furiously, but Henderson ignored him and shoved him into the back of the car. He glanced over at the house for a moment before getting into the driver’s seat, then started the engine and drove away.
Richter looked at his watch. Four zero four. On the button.
‘So where are the flasks now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Westwood shrugged.
‘What the fucking hell do you mean? Of course you know where they are. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t even be here, so don’t try and play games with me. Remember, I can have your wife and kids brought here within an hour, and I can have you talking within three minutes of my starting work on them.’
Westwood nodded. ‘You probably could,’ he said, ‘but it still wouldn’t help. I can’t tell you what I don’t know, and I don’t know where the flasks are because I haven’t got them.’
‘Bullshit,’ Nicholson snorted. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You will,’ Westwood said. ‘Just think it through. I’ve been here in Virginia every day for the past week. The flasks were discovered in a steel case on Crete. How the hell could I have got hold of them?’
‘You sent someone over,’ Nicholson suggested.
Westwood shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t – someone else recovered them from Stein. Your hired killer Murphy blundered onto the scene, yes, but he was far too late. He collected a lead lunch, courtesy of the guy who’s now got them.’
Nicholson felt for the first time as if the situation was slipping out of his control. ‘So who is this man?’ he demanded.
Westwood shook his head. ‘All in good time – and there’s something else. I didn’t come alone.’
‘This house is secure. My men are in control here,’ Nicholson snapped.
‘Are you so sure about that?’ Westwood glanced again at his watch. Four zero five. He mentally crossed his fingers. ‘So if somebody pressed the buzzer of that door now, that would be one of your men, right?’
‘Yes, but nobody’s going to press the buzzer, Westwood. My men have orders not to disturb us.’
As his voice trailed away into silence, the shrill sound of the buzzer cut through the briefing-room.
Richter had found his way down to the cellar and stopped outside the closed door to the secure room. He had then checked his watch yet again, taken something from his pocket and placed it in the middle of the floor just in front of the door, then stepped to one side and pressed the buzzer, twice.
For several long seconds John Nicholson did nothing. Then he motioned Westwood across to the side of the room where he could keep an eye on him while opening the door. He checked that his pistol’s safety catch was off, walked across to the door and slipped the lock.
He eased it open a couple of inches and called out, but there was no reply. Then he glanced through the gap and saw what Richter had intended him to see. A small flask stood innocently on the floor a couple of feet away, the letters ‘CAIP’ clearly visible on its side.
And then the heavy door swung violently inwards, catching Nicholson sharply on the side of his head. He dropped the pistol and fell back, crashing to the floor. In his last seconds of consciousness, he heard a brief exchange begin between Westwood and the new arrival.
‘Is that the way we planned it, or not?’ an unmistakably English voice inquired.
‘It’s probably taken ten years off my life,’ Westwood replied, ‘but yes, Paul, that’s the way we planned it.’
Chapter 28
Monday
The third guard’s name was Ridout, and to say he was annoyed considerably understated the case. Henderson had ripped the duct tape from his mouth before hauling him to the car, and as it turned out of the drive and onto the road, Ridout expressed his sentiments loudly and volubly.
‘That scruffy blond bastard’s not going to get away with this,’ he grimaced. ‘Nobody kicks me around like that.’
‘You won’t be doing anything about him until we fix your shoulder,’ Henderson said, pulling the car off the road less than a quarter of a mile on.
‘We’re going back?’ Blake asked hopefully from the back seat, the pain from his bruised testicles already easing.
‘We’re going back,’ Henderson confirmed, switching off the engine and climbing out. ‘Now this is going to hurt,’ he warned, motioning Blake to grab Ridout around the chest.
‘Just do it,’ Ridout snapped, his face white and sweating.
Henderson seized his upper arm and with one swift movement pushed upwards and out. There was an audible click as the end of the humerus snapped back into its socket, the sound immediately eclipsed by Ridout’s howl of pain.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Ridout gasped, his voice weak and strained. Cautiously, he rotated his right arm. ‘It still hurts like hell,’ he said, ‘but I can move it.’
‘Right.’ Henderson continued to the rear of the vehicle. ‘We’ve got Kevlar jackets and three Uzis here. We can take that guy easily, and Murphy as well.’ He opened the boot and passed out the bullet-proof jackets, then used his security key to unlock a steel box bolted to the floor. Inside were four Glock 17 semi-automatic pistols, three Uzi sub-machine-guns and six boxes of ammunition.
With hardly a word spoken, they donned the jackets, picked up a pistol and sub-machine-gun each and swiftly began pushing 9mm shells into the magazines. Six minutes after Henderson had halted the car they were ready to go.
‘How do we get back inside?’ Blake demanded.
‘The back door,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s got an electric lock and an external keypad, and I know the code.’
Nicholson came to slowly, a searing pain on one side of his head where the door had struck it. For several seconds he had no recollection of where he was, but then recognized the briefing-room. He tried to stand up but his arms and legs refused to respond. He looked down and saw that his wrists were lashed firmly to the arms of the chair. He also realized that his jacket had been removed.
When he examined the small table in front of him, he noticed a strange collection of objects – a SIG automatic pistol, a kitchen knife, a container of salt, a tin of lighter fluid and a box of matches. Beside them stood the object that he’d seen earlier outside the briefing-room: a small metal vacuum flask bearing the letters ‘CAIP’. Near by, Westwood and another man – fair-haired and slightly untidy – were standing staring at him.
‘This is Paul Richter,’ Westwood began, ‘who sorted out your thug Murphy on Crete—’
‘Let’s just get some answers to a few simple questions,’ Richter interrupted. ‘First of all, what was CAIP?’
Nicholson shook his head firmly and then wished he hadn’t as a bolt of pain shot across his skull.
‘OK,’ Richter continued, ‘it’s facts-of-life time. You’ve now got two choices. Tell us about CAIP and you might walk out of here alive. Clam up, and we’re going to do some unpleasant things to you until you do tell us. It’s up to
