‘You could be right. We don’t want to broadcast our presence.’
‘We?’
‘You and I. Captain Collins thought you’d be better off with someone who can use a Sterling, as well as the gun itself.’
‘I can use it. I had a course three years ago.’
‘And they thought you were useless. I know – we looked at your papers last night.’
‘Were you ordered, or are you a volunteer?’
‘Bit of both. If I hadn’t suggested it Captain Collins would have said he was coming along himself, so I volunteered to stop that.’
‘Why?’
She pushed a strand of blonde hair away from her forehead.
‘Army business, Charlie – not yours. Are we going to sit here discussing military policy all day, or are we going to get your pal?’
She had a nice determined, straight mouth. I also thought she had the look; was probably a better soldier than most of the men I’d met. And there was no arguing with her, so it was an easy decision to make.
‘You coming up front, or going back to sleep?’
‘Give me a second, and I’ll be with you.’
The Hawk had an automatic choke, so she was a great starter. I toyed with the idea of driving off whilst Thirdlow was changing seats, but for all I knew she had a girl’s gat in her khaki shoulder bag, and would shoot out the tyres before I moved ten yards. Besides, the old Humber had a great big bench seat of polished, slippery leather across the front – it would be interesting to see how she coped with sliding along it every time we changed direction. That was my excuse, anyway.
The first time I made a hard right she almost ended up in my lap, snorted with laughter but didn’t make the same mistake again. I noticed her hand as she reached for the car radio, and tuned it for a talkie programme – maybe she didn’t do music. Her fingers were small and slim. Fingernails short and perfectly manicured. Killer’s hands. Maybe things would be OK.
More than two hours later, as we crossed a humpy bridge over the Setrachos river she taught me a lesson I’d never forget as long as I live. I’d slowed for the bridge, and then accelerated away from it past a wide T-junction on our left. The random shots also came from our left – a scattering of them; maybe half a dozen. One smacked into the boot, and I hoped it hadn’t found the jerrycan of petrol I had stowed there. I shouted out, ‘Bastards!’ and floored the throttle pedal. I’ve already told you the Humber could shift when she felt like it.
Thirdlow was already bending to clip a mag on the silenced Sterling. When she saw a field entrance ahead – we were probably still just in sight of our ambushers, or at least our dust plume was – she shouted, ‘Stop! Turn here!’
I stopped because I was too stunned by the power of command to do anything else.
‘What?’
‘Turn. Go back.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Do as you’re bloody well told, Charlie!’
She was the one with the gun in her hands, so I did what I was bloody well told. If you shout loudly enough at me it works every time.
The shots had come from an olive grove raised away from the road above a low stone wall. The twisted old trees were not much bigger than bushes. One guy was already on the road, and three were scrambling down to join him. Thirdlow launched herself over the back of our seat and into the back. It’s funny what your mind notices and remembers when it’s going flat out: her knickers were a creamy yellow. I heard her frantically winding the window down on the side of the car nearest the olive grove. Then she leaned out of the window, and swept them away with a full burst of nine mil. It was a controlled summary execution: she got all three, and none got up again. One rolled out of the raised grove and into the road. The man already on the road had turned to face us as I drove towards him. He crouched, and aimed a big automatic pistol at us. I crouched down myself, reasoning that the big Humber engine block between us would give me a chance. I didn’t need one as it happened, because he never pulled the trigger. He rose up again as he saw his three pals go down, and jumped for the side of the road. I must have been doing seventy when I hit him. I think he was thrown at least ten feet in the air by the impact of the car, and my brain made those little photographs we wished we could forget, and never can. Even in the air I could see that his body was fundamentally broken: that was before he came down across a dry-stone wall.
I reckon the Humber made half that height when we took off over the highest ridge of the bridge. I kept the wheels centred. I had never been in a flying car before, and it seemed to be the right thing to do. We hit the road the other side with a hell of a thump, the boot lid flew open, and it took me about thirty yards to pull her up. I hadn’t even stalled the engine. I was quite proud of that. Thirdlow got out, and slammed the boot shut. She needed two goes at it.
When she got back up alongside me she said, ‘Your petrol can hasn’t leaked, and the tyres still look OK.’
I was looking ahead, but seeing nothing. My hands, clamped to the steering wheel now, were trembling. I said, ‘Fuck!’
‘Turn the car round
