The BMW righted itself and its twin spotlights now came on, rippling down the edge of the last strip of metalled road. It swerved again when it reached the oil-drums, but the driver was ready this time, and it swept past them, its distance steadily closing with the Mercedes.
Philby now realized what was going to happen, and in a confused moment wondered whether he should mention Dempster’s map: but before he had time to speak, he was flung back against the stiffly-sprung seat, as the Mercedes surged forward, swaying slightly on the loose gritty surface.
They passed a column of mud-spattered yellow bulldozers and digging machines; then a huge tip-truck swept into view, parked half across the road. Peters screeched round it, and the Mercedes began to slide into a slow dry skid. Peters’ hands hardly moved, and just as slowly, he corrected the drive, almost without reducing speed.
The driver of the BMW seemed either less skilful or less lucky. Through the rear windows of the Mercedes Philby could now see little but a white fog of chalk-dust churned up under their wheels; but then he saw the lights of the smaller car slewing sideways until for a second it seemed to be held rigid, its headlamps wobbling frantically across the edge of the claybank. Then the long hard beam of a spotlight straightened again and settled back to follow the broken line of the verge.
The race went on for another seventy seconds. Ahead the hills had turned black. The white chalk road snaked away under the two pairs of headlamps, rounding a sharp bend as the Mercedes began to gain. Scattering lights glimmered high in the hills; while several hundred feet below them, as the unfinished autoroute began to climb out along tall concrete stilts, they could see the blur of traffic on the distant main road running parallel to them along the lakeside. And all the time the white chalk kept coming on and on, thundering under the wheels and swinging into another bend around a dark shoulder of hill.
The wake of white dust was now so dense Philby could see nothing behind; and the next thing he knew, he was thrown forward against the painful pressure of his seatbelt, then swung sideways against the corner of Peters’ adjustable seat. One hand brushed Peters’ shoulder, the other collided-painfully with the door. He found himself half on his knees, the whole weight of his body suspended by the safety harness. There was a shriek and a howl of machinery that seemed to explode from under the floor of the car. He could smell burning rubber, and this time he was tossed to the other side, slamming his elbow against the window, and cutting his hand on the upper door-handle; then his head bounced up against the padded roof and the floor came up to meet him as he flopped back again into his seat.
The whole incident had taken less than five seconds. During the last two, part of Philby’s mind had registered the lights of the pursuing BMW. They had lit up the inside of the Mercedes with a distorting glare, as the smaller car careered past them with a spray of flint and gravel that rattled off the Mercedes’ windows, then vanished like a ghost car fleeing into the cloud of chalk dust.
Philby had time to see the cloud drift out into a pool of empty twilight, hang for a moment with the car’s four beams of light waving wildly into the sky, then topple forwards and plunge down into darkness.
Peters had cut the Mercedes’ lights and engine; and in the sudden hush, through the closed windows, came a faint clanking, crumpling sound. For two seconds there was silence again; then a dull boom, and ahead a white-orange glow swelled upwards, outlining the column of naked concrete stanchions and the hard black line that marked the end of the autoroute.
Philby’s door had jammed, and he had to slide out after Peters, his feet sinking into clay and his shoes scraping against lumps of rock. He saw that the Mercedes had spun round in its own length, leaving two scooped-out trenches of chalk blackened with scorched rubber, and had come to rest lying at a steep angle along the clay bank.
In the darkness the only light was the flickering glow from beyond the edge of the road. Behind were no lights, no sound. Peters and he walked together the thirty-odd yards to the brink. The road ended at a few rusted iron rods twisting out of a concrete shelf. Together they peered over. About three hundred feet below, the skeleton of a toy car was silhouetted in a ball of flame that was beginning to lick at the gorse up the sides of the ravine.
Philby said dispassionately, ‘Excellent work, Peters.’ He turned away; but Peters stood watching a moment longer. ‘Come on,’ said Philby. ‘It’ll be spotted from the villas above — although it’ll take them some time to get down there,’ he added, and started back towards the Mercedes, nursing his injured hand. Peters caught him up a moment later and the two of them climbed in through the doors that weren’t jammed against the clay bank.
Twenty minutes later, they joined the steep track up to Pol’s villa. Peters drove into the garage and let Philby go on ahead, up to the trellised patio which was now lit by coloured lanterns under the Moorish arches. Pol was still in his rocking chair, but dressed now in a butter-scotch silk suit and a heavy matching cravat. He was still drinking champagne, and rose with some difficulty to greet Philby. ‘You’ve hurt your hand, my friend? Nothing more serious, I hope.’
