“Did you go along with this?”
“Of course. I had no choice. It’s a direct order.”
“Not for me it isn’t.”
“James. Be reasonable. They’ll want to please you. There’s talk of an MBE, even an OBE, for your good work. Don’t make it more difficult for us all than it already is. Be reasonable.”
“And if my idea of reasonable isn’t the same as yours, what then?”
“That’s a hypothetical question, James.” Cartwright leaned forward to touch Boyd’s knee. “Help me, James. You won’t regret it.”
“That’s a word you shouldn’t have used, Cartwright. Regret. It’s been in my mind for days. One thing I know is that if these bastards get away with what they’ve done, and it’s me who lets them off the hook, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
“For God’s sake, Jimmy. You’ve done far worse than this many times.”
“Sure I have. But not to innocent people. The ones I killed were in the business. They knew the risks the same as I did. It was them or me. It could have been me. But not Walker and the girl. They were just bystanders. These bastards just decided they could be useful, and took them. They don’t even know what’s been done to them. They didn’t volunteer. There were no risks for these bastards. If it worked—great. If it didn’t—too bad. This isn’t what the SIS is all about. It isn’t what this country’s about. Nor the United States. It isn’t what I’m all about either. You have to draw the line somewhere, Cartwright. I wanted to hear what you’d have to say. I hoped you might have found some scruples while you were down in London.” Boyd stood up and Cartwright looked up at him.
“Your scruples are at other people’s expense, Boyd.”
“How do you make that out?”
“If it was just that you wanted to draw the line for yourself you could take some leave and be out of it. Or you could resign.”
Boyd shook his head slowly. “You really don’t understand do you?”
As the door closed behind Boyd, Cartwright wondered what to do. And as he was thinking the phone rang.
“Yes.”
“Is that you, Cartwright?”
“Who’s that?”
“Carter.”
“Where are you?”
“In a dump called Seahouses.”
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
“Playing sheepdog, pal. What’s the position with our friend?”
“Why are you up here?”
“Flycatcher’s orders. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, what’s the situation?”
“He won’t cooperate.”
“So what’s he going to do?”
“God knows.”
“OK. Now listen, you stay right where you are. I’m taking over as of now. We’ve found where he’s holed up. But don’t interfere. I’ll come back to you when we’ve dealt with it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What do you think, sweetheart?”
Cartwright could hear the derisive laugh long after he had hung up.
Carter posted Maclaren and Sturgiss at the back of the cottage, and the marksman with his rifle in a piece of dead ground where the lawn met the wire fence of the adjoining field. Their small van in Post Office livery was parked a hundred yards down the lane alongside a telegraph pole. Grabowski and Carter were crouched below the window of the wooden shack at the far end of the cottage. There was only one way for Boyd to get to the cottage and there was still light enough to see him clearly.
As Boyd turned the car into the bend in the lane he glanced at the Post Office van as he passed. He wondered why it was there, and then he jammed on the brakes. Switching off the engine he got out of the car and walked back to the van. He stood on the grass verge and looked up. As he had thought, it wasn’t a telephone pole, it was a pole carrying the electricity supply to the farm across the fields and to the cottage. So why a Post Office van instead of a van from the North East Electricity Board?
The doors at the front of the van were both locked, and when he tried the double doors at the rear they were locked too. He looked around but there was nobody in sight. Everywhere was quiet except for the distant lowing of cows and a blackbird singing in the hedge.
He walked slowly back to his car and unlocked the boot. He looked through the tool-kit and took out the tyre-lever and the heaviest spanner. Despite all his efforts the tyre-lever was too thick to go between the door and the body of the van. Taking off his jacket he draped it over the driver’s side window and smashed it with the spanner. Sliding his hand through the jagged hole he released the lock and opened the door. Sitting in the driver’s seat he went over the interior, checking it carefully. There was nothing. And the rear of the van was completely empty.
Back in the road he stood away from the van. A working van was never that empty. There would be job tickets, cigarette ends and packets, driver’s manuals, toffee papers. Some sign of human beings. There was something wrong but he didn’t know what it was. And then he saw it. The tiny tell-tale shadow.
Standing alongside the van he ran his nail along the edge of the “P” in Post Office and it lifted, the whole legend coming away as he peeled it off. It was hand-lettering on a self-adhesive strip. He threw the strip into the ditch and walked back to his car. Sliding into the driver’s seat he reached across and unlocked the glove recess and took out the gun. Watching the road ahead he smacked his hand against the base of the magazine and heard it snap into place.
Boyd sat there trying to remember what the area looked like on the map. All he could remember was the orchard at the back. Further back still was a pond or a lake, and marking the boundaries were rough wooden posts carrying three or four strands of
