Blood Hunt

TWENTY-THREE

THERE WERE POLICE ON DUTY at Heathrow, a lot of uniforms. Reeve would bet there were some plainclothes detectives around, too. Maybe they were looking for him. At this point, he could only trust to luck. Everyone deserved one lucky break per mission. They might have a description of him, but it would be pre-haircut. They couldn’t have a recent photograph; ever since his days in the SAS, Reeve had been camera-shy. The weekend soldiers sometimes wanted photographs, and he didn’t refuse. But before posing for their cameras, he would don a balaclava and dark glasses. The weekend soldiers loved it.

Reeve had a lot of planning to do. He wasn’t too happy about returning to Jim’s Saab, which he had parked in a long-term parking lot only a courtesy bus ride away from the Heathrow terminals. He didn’t know how clever the police would be; he didn’t think they would trace him as far as the Saab, but he couldn’t be sure. To add to this, the car was a liability, and might break down at any minute. But he had very little alternative. He didn’t want to rent a new car. That would mean handing over his credit card, and he guessed the police would be tracking its use. (They probably didn’t know about his secret bank account, and even if they did they might not want to freeze it: if he accessed cash or wrote a check they’d have another way of tracking his movements.)

The people at the parking lot, on the other hand, knew only the false name he’d given them. He’d paid cash up front-so probably there wouldn’t be a problem. But Reeve didn’t enter the single-story office straightaway. First he took a look around the lot. He could see the Saab. It wasn’t hard for him to spot among the shiny new Jags and BMWs and Rovers. The company had hemmed it in behind more expensive cars, reckoning them a better ad to potential customers. Reeve didn’t blame them-he was actually relieved the Saab had been hidden from view during his time away.

He walked into the office.

“Had a good trip?” the girl behind the desk asked.

“Yes, thanks,” he said. There was complimentary coffee on a table nearby, and he helped himself to a cup. There was powdered milk only, so he took it black. It was bitter, but it woke him up a bit.

“Now, Mr. Fleming, you didn’t specify a return date, so we’ve not been able to valet your car.”

“No problem. The dirt is the only thing holding it together.”

She smiled and filled in the rest of the form, which he had to sign at the bottom. He couldn’t recall what first name he’d given, but saw it printed at the head of the sheet. Jay. He’d called himself Jay Fleming.

“And here are your keys,” the receptionist said, handing them over.

“I think you’ll need to move a few of the other cars.”

“Oh, you’re blocked in. I’ll get Tom to see to it.”

Tom was outside, drinking tea from a flask. He wore overalls, a slicker, and Wellingtons, and was without doubt the valet. Reeve watched as he started up and moved a gleaming red BMW 635 and a silver Rover 200. He thanked him and trundled the Saab out of the parking lot and into the lanes of traffic. It was the start of what was going to be a long twenty-four hours.

He headed north, stopping only for gas and coffee and to read all the newspapers. He cursed the Saab’s lack of a radio-he needed to know whether the police had connected him to the Marie Villambard killing. McCluskey had mentioned Interpol interest, but that could have been a bluff. But when he stopped near the border and bought some Scottish newspapers, he caught his first mention of the story, relegated to an inside page. Police, it said, were “anxious to contact Scots climbing instructor Gordon Reeve.” There was no description, but they could have published one in a previous day’s edition. He stopped at a Little Chef to replenish his caffeine level, and telephoned Joan’s sister. Joan herself answered the phone.

“Joan, it’s Bob Plant here, any sign of Gordon?”

She recognized his voice immediately. There was a slight pause as she came to understand what was going on. (She’d had a crush on Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin at one time.) “Bob,” she said, “sorry, I’m not thinking straight.”

“Are you all right, Joan?”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a shock, with the police and everything.”

“They’ve been asking you questions?” He sounded like a solicitous friend.

“Well, they just want to know where Gordon is. You know they found his car in France, near where three bodies were found, one of them a woman’s.”

“Gracious.”

“They’re keeping watch on the house here, just in case he shows up.”

“They think he had something to do with the murders?”

“Well, Bob, what would you think if you were them? Gordon’s Land Rover burned out and no trace of him anywhere.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Bob, I’m worried about him.”

“Gordon can take care of himself, Joan.”

“Yes, I know, but-”

“Might he go back to the island?”

“I don’t know. There are police watching the ferries.”

“A real manhunt, eh?”

“They may even be watching the house.”

“Ach, unlikely he’d head back there.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But where else would he be? Where could he go?”

“You know him better than I do, Joan.”

“Well, I thought I knew him, Bob.”

Silence on the line.

“Joan,” Reeve said, looking in at the diners-families mostly, “he’ll be all right. I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong.”

“Try telling the police that.”

“Maybe he needs evidence first, I mean before he can come back.”

“Evidence?”

“Of his innocence.”

Joan sniffed. He could tell she was crying.

“I’ll phone again,” he told her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her nose.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

“No, I’m glad you did. It’s been a while, Bob.”

“Yes, it has. Is Allan all right?”

“Missing his dad. But at the same time-I know this is wrong-he seems to quite like the idea of having a father who’s a wanted man.” She laughed.

Reeve smiled, and blinked back tears. At one table, a father was admonishing his son, who still had a full plate of food in front of him. The kid was nine, maybe ten. The man spoke in a low voice, but his eyes were blazing.

“Bye, Joan,” he said.

“Good-bye, Bob.”

He kept the receiver to his ear after she’d put down the phone, and heard a double click and what sounded like a stifled sneeze. The bastards were listening in, just as he’d suspected. Not Jay or Kosigin this time, but the police. He ran through the conversation again, satisfied he hadn’t given anything away. And he’d learned so much.

“Thanks, love,” he said quietly, heading back to his table and a refill of coffee.

If they were watching the ferries, they’d be watching Oban and Tarbert on the mainland, both of which had direct sailings: Oban to South Uist and Tarbert to North Uist. The two islands were separated by the smaller island of Benbecula, and all three were linked by bridges. They might also be watching Uig, a small port on Skye. But to get to Skye he would have to take a short ferry ride from Kyle of Lochalsh, the bridge to Kylerhea, or the much longer ferry crossing from Mallaig. Unless there was manpower to spare, Reeve doubted anyone would be watching Mallaig.

Which was precisely why he ignored Oban and drove instead to Fort William and from there to Mallaig on the coast. There were no direct ferries from Mallaig to the Outer Hebrides.

At the same time, he couldn’t afford to relax. His face was known in the town, and a few people even knew him by name. There would be police in the vicinity, maybe not in Mallaig itself, but nearby. And if his description had been in the papers…

He was there to seek out one of the people who knew him by name, an old rogue called Kenneth Creech. “Creech short for creature,” Kenneth sometimes said in introduction-and he had a point. He reminded Reeve in particular of a lizard; all he was missing was the green skin.

Kenneth Creech had a narrow, jagged face that fell to two distinct points-his chin and the extruding tip of his nose. When you looked at him face-on, his nostrils couldn’t be seen at all. His eyes bugged from his face, and his tongue, which slid an inch or two from his mouth between utterances, was thin and pointed like his face. He was known to cheat at cards, siphon gas from any unlocked fuel tank (to which end he sometimes carried a gallon drum with him, empty at the start of the evening), and be foulmouthed in front of the opposite sex, while nary a curse passed his lips in the company of his fellow men.

People steered clear of Kenneth Creech. Reeve had got to know him when Creech had tricked him out of some money which was to pay for the transportation of some stuff between North Uist and the mainland. Creech owned a couple of small boats and some creels and lobster pots. He never actually used these, but somehow managed to be the recipient of a European Community “Business Expansion Grant,” which had paid for the second boat and kept Creech well-enough off besides.

In the summer, Creech sometimes tricked tourists into going with him on one of the boats for what was supposed to be an all-day pleasure cruise around “the beautiful Hebrides.” In fact, he’d head straight for the choppiest waters and most dangerous wind-torn straits, after which the tourists would beg to return to land. At this point, they’d be told there were no refunds. If they argued for their money back, Creech would pay them, then would drop them off somewhere on the far side of Skye, pretending they were a mile or so south of Mallaig.

Reeve liked Creech. He liked him so much he had eventually let Creech keep the money he’d been cheated of.

Creech hated mankind, but he surely did love money. Reeve was counting on this fact.

Kenneth Creech had a boathouse just north of the town. It was six in the evening when Reeve got there, having driven through town without stopping. The sky to the west, out over Skye and the Minch, was a palette of pinks and grays, thin threads of silver and softly glowing red. Reeve gave it all of a second of his time then kicked at the boathouse door, which rattled on its hinges.

The door was locked, but that didn’t mean Creech wasn’t inside. At last a bolt slid back and the door opened.

“You’ll pay for any damage,” Creech snapped, examining his door first and his visitor second. His mouth made an O when he recognized Reeve.

“Well now, Gordon,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“Money,” Reeve said, holding up a thickish fold of notes. “To wit, my desire to give you some.”

Creech couldn’t take his eyes off the cash. “Well now, Gordon,” he said, the tongue darting in and out of his mouth, “you must be wanting a boat.”

“How did you guess?”

Creech didn’t say anything, just ushered him inside. The back of the boathouse opened onto the Sound of Sleat. Reeve could see the southern tip of Skye. The larger of the two boats was tied up in the water; it had bench seats both sides, and could carry a dozen passengers. In the middle of the deck stood the control console with a small steering wheel, like that of a sports car. In fact, if you looked closer, there was the MG insignia in the center of the wheel. Creech had stolen it from a crashed car south of the town. By the time the insurance investigators reached the vehicle, there hadn’t been much left but a shell.

Creech’s other boat was smaller, but boasted an outboard motor and was a lot nippier as a result. It had been hauled out of the water and now hung by winches over the wooden floor. Old newspapers were scattered beneath the hull, which Creech was in the middle of repainting.

“You’re painting over the barnacles,” Reeve told him. Creech was wiping his hands on a rag. The paint tin looked to Reeve like ordinary vinyl silk emulsion. The color, according to the lid of the tin, was taupe.

“Well, it’s a sight easier than scraping them off.”

Reeve nodded, and smiled at Creech, who looked nervier even than usual. He kept jerking his head and blinking his bulbous eyes.

“You know about me?” Reeve said.

Creech started to deny it. Denial was an instinct, like breathing. But then he broke off, knowing Reeve knew.

“I’ve heard a few stories,” he said at last, sounding like it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Reeve looked around. “You’ve no phone here, Kenneth?”

Creech shook his head slowly, then spoke carefully. “I wouldn’t turn you in, Gordon.”

“That’s unusually friendly of you, Kenneth. What’s wrong, isn’t there a reward?”

The momentary look in Creech’s eyes told Reeve he’d never considered the possibility until now.

“Don’t,” Reeve warned him.

Creech got back some mobility and went over to the boat, picking up his paintbrush. He’d left it lying on the edge of the newspaper, and some paint had dribbled onto the floor. He wiped the spot with his rag, but that just spread the stain farther.

“I’m painting this boat,” he said.

“I’d never have guessed.” Reeve paused. “But that’s the boat I want.”

Creech glanced towards him. “Now?” Reeve nodded. “Can’t it wait till I’m finished?”

“Do I look like a man who can wait?”

“No.” The word took a long time coming out. “But you surely don’t want to take a boat out at night?” Creech paused. “No wait, of course you do. There’s less chance of them spotting you at night.”

“Well done, Kenneth. How many police are there?”

Creech considered lying, but looked at the money again, the money Reeve was still holding in his hand.

“There’s more where this came from,” Reeve told him.

Creech wet his already glistening lips. “Well, there’s nobody in Mallaig,” he said, “but I’ve heard tell there are a couple of strange faces on Skye.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Oh, aye, they were in Oban yesterday.”

“And Tarbert?”

“I couldn’t tell you about Tarbert.”

“And on South Uist?”

“Well, they’ve been to your house a couple of times, that much I’ve heard. You’re big news around here, Gordon.”

“I didn’t do anything, Kenneth.”

“I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it, but the police used to have a saying in Glasgow: you don’t arrest an innocent man. If they take you in, they’ll try their damnedest to find something against you, even if it means planting the evidence.”

Reeve smiled. “You sound like you’ve been there.”

“I was in trouble enough in my early days. I’m from Partick, remember. One look at my face-I know it’s no beauty-and the polis would stop me.” Creech spat into the water.

“You’ll help me?”

Creech considered the question. The tension left his shoulders. “Ach, maybe I’m too sentimental for my own good,” he said. “Of course I’ll help you.”

And he held out his hand for the cash.

Reeve helped him move the boat back over the water and lower it in, so that its side scraped that of the larger vessel, leaving smears of paint on the wood. Creech went to check that the boathouse doors were locked. When Creech returned, Reeve was standing at the workbench, his back to him. Creech licked his lips again and moved forward quietly. When Reeve turned, Creech let out an involuntary gasp. Reeve was holding the biggest knife Creech had ever seen. He had it in his right hand, a coil of Creech’s best rope in the other.

“What… what are you going to do?” Creech said.

Reeve showed him. He sliced through the thick braids like they were string, then let the long part of the rope fall to the floor. “I’m going to tie you up,” he told Creech.

“No need for that, Gordon. I’ll come with you.”

“And you’d wait in the boat for me? You wouldn’t for example sprint off the minute I was on dry land and head for the nearest mainland telephone?”

“No,” Creech said. “You know I wouldn’t.”

But Reeve was shaking his head. “This way we both know where we stand. Or in your case, sit.”

And he made Creech sit on the floor with his back to the workbench, tying his hands behind him around one thick wooden leg of the structure. For good measure, he cut another length of rope-“That stuff costs a fortune,” Creech protested-and tied Creech’s ankles. He thought of sticking the paint rag in Creech’s mouth, but he wanted to restrain the man, nothing more. He doubted anyone would come to see Creech during his absence. Creech had no friends, no one who’d miss him; he spent most of his time in the boathouse, and had even put up a partition so he could sleep there, too. Reeve glanced into the “bedroom” to make sure there was no telephone. He’d seen no cables outside, but it was best to check. All he saw was a mattress and duvet on the floor, a candlestick, an empty whiskey bottle, and a pornographic magazine.

Satisfied, he brought his bag in from the car and got to work, changing into dark clothes and balaclava, donning face-blacking. Creech’s face told him he had achieved the right effect. There was a good-sized moon in a clear sky. He wouldn’t have any trouble navigating; he knew the islands and the potential obstacles pretty well. He had a choice of two routes: one would take him into the Sound of Eriskay so he could approach the western side of South Uist. The advantage of this route was that he’d have a shorter hike at the end of it, two or so miles, but it meant a lot more time spent in the boat than the second route, which would land him in Loch Eynort, a seawater loch. This way he would land farther away from Stoneybridge, maybe as much as a six-mile hike away. It made for a longer time on land, more time for him to be spotted. Plus, of course, if forced to retreat, he’d have a lot farther to run to reach the safety of the boat.

He decided in the end to head for Loch Eynort. If all went well it would cut hours off the mission time, being a much shorter boat crossing. He still doubted he’d complete his mission under the cover of darkness, but the sooner he started the better chance he’d have. He loaded spare fuel into the boat, and took one of Creech’s better sets of rain gear, plus a flashlight and mooring rope. Then he cut himself a length of twine, and tied about a dozen knots in it, each one a couple of inches from its neighbor.

Finally he went back over to Creech, who’d been complaining throughout about aching arms. “I could always amputate,” he said, showing Creech the knife. That shut him up. “What’s the water in the Minch likely to be like tonight?”

“Cold and wet.” Reeve inched the knife closer to Creech, who gave in quickly and told Reeve the prevailing winds and the forecast: it would be blustery, but far from unmanageable. Of course, he could have been lying, but Reeve didn’t think so-it was in his interests for Reeve to return. For one thing, he might starve to death otherwise, since chances were nobody came near the boathouse from one week to the next. For another, he loved his boats too much. He wouldn’t want one tipped and sunk in a gale, especially not the one with the expensive European Community outboard motor.

“Take care of her,” Creech begged.

“Thanks for your concern,” Reeve said, climbing down the ladder into the boat.

The crossing was worse than he’d anticipated, but that was typical of Little Minch: you thought it had done its worst, then it did a little more. He was glad he didn’t have to tackle the sounds; Eriskay could be particularly hair-raising. He wondered no amusement park had sought to emulate it-talk about a white-knuckle ride. His own knuckles were quite white enough as he wrestled with the outboard. The only good news was that it wasn’t raining. Still, he was glad he was wearing the rain gear, considering the amount of spray that was being washed over him. He kept close to the Skye coast for as long as he could before heading out into Little Minch proper. He was taking as direct a line as he could, hoping he would hit the coast in the right place. The way the wind was blowing, and without much in the way of navigation save his small compass, he knew he might be blown off course by as much as three or four miles, which would only add to the trek if he decided to land the boat.

He saw a couple of boats, warning lights flashing to let others know they were there, but they didn’t see him, and they certainly couldn’t hear him. He changed hands often on the outboard’s throttle, but even so wished he’d thought to bring gloves. He used his breath to warm his fingers, then worked them in the raincoat’s pocket, rubbing life back into them.

His mind was on nothing but the crossing itself. He couldn’t afford not to concentrate his full attention on it.

Finally he saw land and, checking to the south, could make out the small island of Stuley, which meant he was just south of Loch Eynort. He’d been adjusting direction to account for the winds, and was pleased to find he had corrected his course wisely. The water was already much less choppy, and as he entered the inlet he felt the wind drop. He took the boat as far into the loch as he could. Stepping onto land was a relief and a strange sensation. He felt his feet weren’t wholly connected to the ground, as though gravity had lost its grip. He knew the feeling would not last long. It was a trick his brain was playing on him.

Reeve grabbed his bag and headed along the road.

There were a couple of crofts nearby, but no signs of life in them. At this hour, the only things awake might be a few sheep and the night birds and animals. The road he was on would soon cross the A865. If he stayed on the road, he’d round the southern side of Loch Ollay and come to a junction. Left would take him to Ormiclate; right would take him towards Stoneybridge and home. He’d checked the time upon landing: he wanted to know how long the hike took. He was also pacing it out. He had the twine in his hand, and was counting his steps. Every hundred steps he slid another knot through thumb and forefinger. At the end of the piece of twine, he could then multiply by length of stride to find roughly how far he’d gone, which would help him estimate how fast he was traveling.

He didn’t really need this information. What he did need was to feel like a soldier again. Because soon he’d be coming up against Jay, one way or another, and he had to be mentally sharp. At short notice, there wasn’t much he could do to bolster his fitness or physique-the years had taken their toll. From what he’d seen of Jay, the man would be stronger than him: fighting him physically would be a lost cause. What Reeve needed to do was become strong mentally; he needed to hone his attitude and his instincts. He needed proper planning and procedure, starting right now.

Knowing the roads as he did, he made good time to the house. He could have shaved minutes off by crossing country, but he’d have been more likely to get lost, and running on a road was easier on the muscles than running over rough terrain.

He took his time approaching the house.

He did one full circuit around it at a distance of half a mile, then closed in and circled it again. If anyone was watching for him, they were well concealed. He knew policemen, and knew they weren’t trained that way. For one thing, they liked their creature comforts; for another, they didn’t have the necessary patience. There might be a presence inside the house, but he’d swear there was no one out here with him.

Silently, he entered the compound, crouching low, keeping to the shadows along the walls. There was an added advantage to staying close by the walls: the drive itself was gravel and noisy underfoot, but there was a two-foot border of earth between the driveway and the walls, a concession to Joan, who had planted small flowers and climbers there. Reeve crushed them underfoot in silence.

He had the keys he needed in his free hand, the keys to the killing-room door. But the police had been there first. They’d taken a sledgehammer to the door, which looked like it had re-sisted their onslaught bravely. The door swung inwards to the touch. He wondered what they’d thought when they’d found the room, with empty cartridge casings on the floor and shop-window dummies acting as hostages. He knelt down in front of the baseboard and shone the flashlight against it. It looked undisturbed. Reeve pulled it open and reached in, touching the oiled rags, feeling the metal bulk beneath their wrapping.

And he smiled.

He unwrapped the Beretta and found the right pack of ammo for it, filling his pockets as well as the gun. Pushing his hand back into the wall, he pulled out a package of plastic explosive with all the trimmings. The material itself was fairly fresh; he’d been using it to rig up explosions some weekends, to keep his soldiers on their toes. Reeve checked for detonators, wire, and wire cutters; everything he needed was in the package, including the crocodile clips, which acted as triggers. He put everything in his holdall, then replaced the baseboard and made sure he’d left no footprints.

He crossed the courtyard, moving slowly on the gravel and pebbles. Peering through the kitchen window, he saw nothing. He circled the house, looking in the windows on all four sides: still nothing. He couldn’t tell about upstairs. It was just possible that a guard could be asleep in one of the bedrooms. The curtains in Allan’s room were closed, but maybe he’d just forgotten to open them the morning they’d been cleared out.

Reeve unlocked the front door and entered the hall. He didn’t need to disable the alarm: the police must already have done that. He wondered how long it had rung before they’d found a way to silence it. Not that it mattered out here; the nearest croft wasn’t within hailing distance.

He double-checked the downstairs rooms then made for the stairwell. The second step from the bottom was the creaky one, so he avoided it, just as he avoided the middle of the third step from the top. He didn’t use the banister for fear of a warning sound. On the landing, he held his breath and listened. There was no noise. He waited there three full minutes: when someone’s asleep, they usually make some sort of sound every three minutes or so. Reeve suspected that a policeman would have some regard for property, so any guard would probably choose to sleep in the guest room. He opened the door slowly and pointed his pistol through the crack. The curtains weren’t closed, and moonlight filled the room. The bed was made up, with several throw pillows and costume dolls arranged on it. Joan’s work. She’d spent a lot of time lovingly decorating a room nobody ever came to stay in.

He turned and crossed the landing, opening Allan’s bedroom door. The room was a mess: bedclothes thrown onto the floor, pajamas draped over the end of the bed, comics everywhere; the computer’s power light shone lemon-yellow in the gloom. Either Allan had left it on, or the police had checked it and forgotten to turn it off. Reeve left the room and quickly checked the main bedroom and even the bathroom.

Then he breathed a sigh of relief.

Downstairs he found milk in the fridge, but it was sour. There was an unopened carton of orange juice, and he cut it open with scissors, then gulped from it. There was an unopened packet of ham in there, too, so he peeled it open and lifted out two slices, rolling them up and stuffing them into his mouth. Back in the living room, he assessed the visit by the police. They had dusted. Probably they wanted his fingerprints for the file they were opening on him. It looked like they’d shifted everything and put it back not quite in the right place. Searching for clues, he supposed. He unscrewed the telephone handsets. The bugging devices had been removed. He suspected this had been done by Dulwater rather than the police.

He didn’t suppose anyone would be listening in, so he went upstairs and took a quick hot shower, thanking God for the in-stantaneous water heater. He left the light off in the bathroom, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was because it felt like procedure.

He dried himself off and searched for clean and, above all, warm clothes. There were a few other things he needed, but they were in his workshop. He walked into Allan’s room again, restless, unable to sit down. The yellow light caught his attention. The screen was black, but when he nudged the mouse it came to life, showing him the games menu from the hard disk. There were a couple of good games there, and some which must have been new from the last time he and Allan had played together.

Then Reeve saw the game Allan had loaded from the disk sent to him by Jim. The game Allan couldn’t get on with. It was called Prion.

“Jesus,” Reeve whispered. Prion, as in PrP, as in the bad chemicals which had started this whole nightmare. His hand was fairly steady as he moved the pointer onto Prion and double-clicked to load the game.

When the title screen came up though, it wasn’t called Prion at all. It looked like a fairly straight arcade game called Gumball Gulch, which is what Allan had called it, Reeve recalled. Which screen was it Allan had said he couldn’t get past? Five? Six?

It took Reeve a while to follow the instructions and get into the game. As far as he could tell, he was a turtle in the Wild West, just made sheriff of the town of Gumball Gulch. In screen one, he rode into town and was voted sheriff after killing the three bad guys who had just shot the sheriff to bust their comrade out of the jail. In screen two, there was a bank robbery to foil. The graphics, so far as Reeve could judge, were pretty good, as were the sound effects, complete with voices.

After maybe half an hour, he was in screen four. In screen three he’d had the option of taking as deputy a one-legged drunk. Reeve had accepted “Stumpy,” who now guarded the villains from the bank robbery.

Suddenly Reeve paused. “What the hell am I doing?” he asked himself. But he kept on going.

Screen four was a difficult one. Reelection time was coming up, and Reeve’s popularity was only 40 percent, two of the bank robbers having escaped, and one innocent bystander having been gunned down during the shoot-out. Reeve granted a new license to the Brawlin‘ Barroom, which pushed his popularity to 50 percent. But then the rowdiness factor increased, and soon the cells were bursting. Reeve opted to take another deputy, a fresh-faced young kid.

“This is Rio Bravo ,” he muttered.

The real trouble started on screen five. There was a mass breakout attempt at the jail. Stumpy had the place locked tight with himself inside. He wasn’t letting anyone in, the sheriff in-cluded, which left Reeve outside with one kid deputy, a restless populace, and a possible lynch mob. In a little while, the escaped bank robbers would be coming into town intent on revenge. Reeve’s guns and ammo, of course, were in the jail.

And Stumpy was asking for the password.

Reeve tried a few obvious things, some only a Rio Bravo buff would know. Then he sat back, arms folded, and did some thinking. Jim had changed the name of the game to Prion. Why? Suddenly it became clear. As Marie Villambard had said, Jim was a journalist from his head to his toes. He would have kept files. He would have kept backups, and kept them well hidden.

Reeve knew now the purpose of the password. He typed in CWC, but it didn’t work. He tried Co-World, then PrP, then Prion-to no avail. He tried Killin and Preece. Nothing.

So then he tried Kosigin.

And suddenly he wasn’t in Gumball Gulch anymore. The bottom of the screen told him he was reading page one of twenty-eight. The print size was small; Jim had crammed a lot in. Single-spaced, too. At the top was a message in bold:

I’ll let you get back to the game soon, Gordon. I’m assuming it’s you reading this, and if you are reading it then I’m most probably dead. If I am dead and if you are reading this, then you’ve probably been sniffing around and I thank you for your concern. The following may be of help. I’d dearly love to get it published. A friend called Marie in France may help; I’ll give you her address at the end. But first, I have a story to tell you…

And what a story. Reeve already knew it, of course, but Jim had more information than anyone had suspected. There was the stuff about Preece’s history, his “revolutionary” shock-sex therapy, and Kosigin’s hiring of Alliance Investigative to dig up the details. Kosigin’s blackmail of Preece had been implicit, but Jim’s report made it explicit by actually interviewing two ex-investigators at Alliance who had worked on the job, as well as members of the original research team headed by Preece.

Including a Dr. Erik Korngold.

Jim had had two very cordial meetings with Korngold. It was Korngold who had admitted the blackmail. Preece had spoken to him about it at the time. But then Dr. Korngold had turned up dead, leaving Jim pretty well stuck unless he could get corrobo-ration. The only other scientist he knew of from the original research team was Dr. Killin. So he’d started pestering Killin, and Killin had gone to Kosigin.

And Kosigin had decided the reporter had to be taken out of the game.

Jim’s research was impressive-and scary. He detailed countries around the world where neurological diseases were on the increase, and showed how these increases correlated to the introduction of CWC herbicides and pesticides onto those countries’ farms. There were snippets of interviews with farmers and doctors, agrichemical experts and environmentalists. Farmers everywhere were getting more and more ill. Stress, the skeptics had said. But Jim had found out different. And when the police did start to get curious about pesticide side effects, CWC simply shifted spheres, concentrating on third world countries.

Jim found a correlation with tobacco companies who, as western markets contracted after health scares, merely opened up new unsuspecting markets-Africa, Asia… CWC was doing the same thing with chemicals. What was more, Jim had been getting, at the time of writing, inklings of crooked deals to introduce pesticides into third world countries. Deals were done with governments, regimes, and dictators, money slipped into secret bank accounts, and import barriers suddenly disappeared. Jim hinted at links between CWC and the CIA, since the CIA wanted a presence in countries that CWC was opening up. It was a global conspiracy, encompassing governments, the scientific community, and everyone who had to eat.

Jim had worked hard and fast building up his case. He did so for a simple reason, one he stated towards the end of the file: “I think some people would kill to keep this secret, because while bits and pieces are well-enough known, certainly among the environmental pressure groups, no one has really been able to link it globally. They say you are what you eat. In that case, we’re poison.”

At the end, Jim gave Marie Villambard’s address, and beneath that were some instructions. They told Reeve where he would find the “hard evidence.” Jim had hidden all the documents-transcripts, notes, archive material, and tapes of interviews. They were in a box at Jilly Palmer’s farm outside Tisbury. Jilly Palmer: Reeve remembered her long braid of chestnut hair, her rosy-red cheeks. Jim had been introduced to her by Josh Vincent, and had trusted her from the off. He’d asked her to store a large box for him, and to say nothing to anyone about it unless they told her they’d read about it on the disk.

“I’m keeping copies of some of the stuff with me,” Jim concluded, “so that if any burglaries suddenly and mysteriously occur, they’ll think they got what they came for.”

Then a final message: “To access the next game level, press Ctrl+N. To quit, press Esc.”

Reeve hit the Escape button and shut down the computer. The story had been here all the time, here under his own roof. His legs weren’t the steadiest as he got to his feet. He couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate on anything but his brother. He got down to the kitchen somehow and made himself a hot drink, then sat at the table sipping it, staring at nothing.

The mug was one-third empty when he started to cry.

He planned to call Jay’s hotel that evening, which gave him a full day to prepare. High on his list was sleep, but first he had to re-turn to the boat.

The early-morning waters were calmer, and the dawn made navigation easier. He made good time back to Mallaig. He could tell Creech had been sleeping, but he was awake now, looking miserable. Even so, he studied the boat carefully as Reeve brought her home.

“Not a scratch on her,” Reeve said, clambering out with his stuff. He checked Creech’s wrists. They were red-ringed, the skin broken at a couple of points. “Trying to escape, eh?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Creech snarled. Reeve had to agree. “Man my age and condition, trussed like a Christmas turkey.” Reeve untied him and told him to put the kettle on. When Creech came back, Reeve was laying out bank notes on the workbench.

“What’s that for?” Creech tried not to sound too interested.

“I need your help, Kenneth. I’m sorry I had to tie you up, but to be honest I’d very little option. If I’d taken you with me, you’d‘ve had to walk from Loch Eynort to Stoneybridge and back. But now I’d like you to help me. If you do, you pocket this money for starters.”

Creech eyed the money. “How do you mean, starters?”

“I’ll give you some passengers. They’ll pay you whatever you ask. They’ll just want to take one of your boats, perhaps both. Like I say, you can name your price.”

The kettle was boiling. Creech didn’t go to switch it off.

“What do I have to do?” he said.

There were old wooden boards lying around the place. It wasn’t difficult to find two or three the right size, along with some fixing poles. They used the taupe paint to put a few words on the boards and, when it was dry, used a hot-air gun to peel some of it back off. Creech got some earth and rubbed it into the boards. In the end, they looked fairly authentic.

Then Reeve dipped into his bag and brought out a packet of red powder he’d brought from his workshop. It was like powdered paint, but mixed with a little water, it produced a thick bubbly liquid which looked just like blood. He used it some weekends, laying a fake trail for his soldiers. He didn’t tell Creech what it was, or what it was for.

They stopped for more tea. Creech kept asking about these men who’d want to hire his boats. How did Reeve know about them? When would they come?

“I’ll tell you later,” Reeve said, standing up. “First though, I’m going to borrow your mattress for an hour or two. Okay?”

Creech nodded vigorously. Reeve lifted the Beretta out of the bag, waved it at Creech, and took it and his tea with him to the mattress.

Creech decided not to move from the table until Gordon Reeve awoke, no matter how long that took.

Reeve took Creech with him when he went to make the telephone call. Not because he didn’t trust Creech, but because Creech didn’t trust him. Creech wanted to hear him make the call.

They squeezed into a telephone box at the end of a farm road, and Reeve made the call.

A hotel receptionist answered, and Reeve asked to be put through to Mr. Rowe’s room. Jay answered on the first ring.

“It’s me,” Reeve said icily.

“Who else? I want to thank you, Philosopher. I’ve always wanted an excuse to come back home. And all-expenses paid, too.”

“Kosigin’s a generous man. You weren’t worried I’d sic the regiment onto you?”

“I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“You’re right.”

“So when and where do we meet?”

“An island. Not far from my home.”

“You want home advantage, eh? Well, I’d do the same. Give me the details.”

“Head to Mallaig.” Reeve spelled it out. “Just north of the town, there’s a boathouse with an old Saab parked outside. You’ll see it easily enough. The boathouse is owned by a man called Creech.” He spelled this, too. “He’ll hire you a boat.”

“A boat? Hey, do I get to row it, like in the song?”

Reeve ignored this. “Will you need just the one boat?”

Jay laughed. “It’s just you and me, Philosopher.”

“I’ll bet. Creech will know where you’re to go. He’ll give you directions. Naturally, he’ll want paying for the hire.” Reeve watched Creech’s tongue flick momentarily from his mouth.

“Naturally. I’m looking forward to seeing you again. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Reeve blinked away the pink fog. Soon, he thought. Soon. But he mustn’t let the anger get the better of him. He had to control it.

“Kosigin must really want those tapes,” he said.

Jay just laughed. “Come on, Philosopher, we both know this isn’t about the tapes. Screw the tapes. Screw Kosigin. This is about you and me, am I right?”

“You’re a clever man, Jay.”

“Not as clever as you, Philosopher, but I’ve been trying.”

Reeve put down the receiver and pushed his way out of the box.

“Is he coming?” Creech asked.

“He’s coming.”

“When?”

“As long as it takes him. Come on.”

“Where to?”

“The boathouse. I want you to drop me off somewhere.”

“An island?” Creech guessed.

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

So Reeve told him.

TWENTY-FOUR

JAY AND HIS MEN took three cars from London.

They drove steadily, without saying much. The front car had a map. All three cars were equipped with comms: two-way radios, cell phones, beepers.

“And if those don’t work,” one man had said, “we’ll just have to whistle.”

There were ten men altogether. Jay split them as two four-man patrols and one two-man patrol. His was the two-man patrol. His second-in-command was an ex-L.A. cop called Hestler. Hestler was very good; Jay had worked with him before. However, Jay hadn’t been given much notice of the mission, had needed men in a hurry, and a few of the others in the group were unknowns. There were a couple who weren’t much more than street kids, ex-gang members. They looked mean, but looks counted for very little. Reeve could sneak up from behind them and take them out. The first he’d see of their mean looks, their eyes would already be glazed over.

Jay and his squad hadn’t flown direct to Heathrow. He knew Heathrow customs could be tough. They’d flown to Paris instead, and got a French operative to organize cars to take them across the channel by ferry. It was slow, but it meant no one checked the contents of the large metal cases they’d brought with them from the French capital.

The cases were polished aluminum, the sort of rigid carrier camera equipment was often shipped in. There could have been video cameras inside, but there weren’t. Instead, the cases were packed with the same equipment they’d taken on the Villambard mission.

Everyone was tired, Jay knew that. They’d hardly checked into the hotel before Reeve’s phone call had come. Probably Reeve was playing on that factor. He would keep Jay moving, keep him from sleeping. Jay had considered staying put in London, getting some rest and setting off next morning. But he was keen to get this over and done with. He was good and ready. There’d be plenty of time for sleep afterwards.

He knew his own enthusiasm wasn’t shared by everyone. The car passengers were trying to sleep. They’d switch drivers every hour, and stop every two hours for a stretch and some coffee. The map was a Collins road atlas, and it showed them that Mallaig was in the Scottish Highlands, a hell of a way from London but very close to Reeve’s own home. Reeve wanted them on his territory. Mallaig was coastal, not quite wilderness. Jay didn’t mind. When he wasn’t working, he liked to take off east out of L.A. to the forests and mountains of San Gabriel and San Bernardino. There was no terrain he didn’t know. He was an adept skier, climber, and runner. Last fall he’d taken off into the wilds for fifteen days, not coming across another living soul for fourteen of them. He knew Reeve had been running survival courses, but doubted they could be anything near as arduous as his own survivalist training. Plus, of course, Jay had been through the same training as Reeve, the same grueling marches over moor and mountain. He didn’t think the Highlands would faze him.

But that was another thing about his troop-they were city dwellers for the most part, used to street-fighting and gun law. Only two, Jay apart, had served in armed forces. One of these was Hestler, the other was a big but paunchy Native American called Choa whose main line of work these days was as a bouncer at a nightclub on Sunset Boulevard. Some actor had died there a while back, but Choa’s name hadn’t been mentioned…

Reeve had done all right so far. He’d handled himself pretty well. But he’d been operating swift strikes, vanishing again afterwards. Jay didn’t think he’d cope with confrontation quite so well. The odds still favored Jay, which was the only way he’d play them.

They reached Mallaig at ten in the morning. It had been raining ever since they’d crossed the border. The windshield wipers were on full and still were barely coping. There wasn’t much of a road north out of Mallaig, and the next settlement along, Mallaigvaig, was the end of the line. The only thing you could do when you got there was turn back to Mallaig itself.

But just before they reached Mallaigvaig, they saw the boathouse and the Saab.

“Hestler, with me,” Jay said. At the last service station, they’d opened the metal cases, and when the two men left the front car, each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 set at three-round burst. They ran to the boathouse door, and Jay banged on it with his shoe. Then they stood to either side of the door, and waited for someone to answer.

When the door started to open, Jay shouldered it inwards, throwing Kenneth Creech onto his back, from which position he peered up into the mouth of the submachine gun.

“Are you Creech?”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“Are you Creech?”

Creech eventually managed to nod that he was. Hestler had recced the shed and now said, “All clear,” then went to the door to signal for the others to come in.

“You know someone called Reeve?”

Creech nodded again.

“What did he tell you?”

“He said you’d… you’d need a boat.”

“To go where?”

“Skivald. It’s a small island off South Uist.”

Jay turned to Hestler. “Tell one of them to bring the map.” He turned back to Creech. “I notice you’ve wet yourself.” The stain on Kenneth Creech’s trousers was spreading fast. Jay smiled. “I like that. Now, Mr. Creech, how big is Skivald?”

“About a mile and a half by three-quarters of a mile.”

“Small.”

“Aye.” Choa handed the map book to Jay, who put it on the floor and crouched down to flick its pages. The MP5 was still trained on a point between Creech’s eyes. “I don’t see it,” Jay said at last. “Show me.” Creech sat up and looked at the map. He pointed to where Skivald was, north of Loch Eynort.

“There’s nothing there.”

“No,” Creech said, “it’s not marked. You won’t find it on a map.”

Jay narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on, Mr. Creech?” The tip of the gun touched the bridge of Creech ’s nose. Creech screwed shut his eyes, which were watering. “Dear me, Mr. Creech, you’re leaking from every orifice.”

The men who had gathered around laughed at this. Creech didn’t feel any better for them being there, but he could hardly feel worse about their massive presence either.

“He’s ugly,” said one of the street-gang youths. He’d been wearing his uniform of sawn-off black T-shirt and sleeveless denim jacket for most of the trip, but had insisted they stop at a service station just south of Carlisle so he could find something warmer to wear. The others had stayed in their cars.

“I doubt the shops here will sell clothes,” Jay had murmured. But the street youth had come out with a wool-lined brown leather jacket. Jay didn’t ask where he had found it. He knew he should be angry; it was a very public announcement of their presence, ripping off someone’s jacket. But he doubted the victim would run to the police, who would have to listen to a story about an American Blood on the loose in Carlisle…

“I fucking hate ugly people, man,” said the youth, shuffling his feet.

“Hear that, Mr. Creech?” Jay asked. “He hates you. Maybe you’d better help me pacify him, or you never know what he might do.”

As if in answer, the youth, whose name was Jiminez, expertly flicked open a gold-colored butterfly knife.

“Reeve made me take him to the island,” Creech spluttered.

“Yes? When was this?”

“Last night.”

“Does he have any way off the island?”

Creech shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. He could always swim, but that’s about it.”

“Anything else, Mr. Creech?”

Creech licked his lips. “No,” he said.

Jay smiled and stood up. “Cut him,” he ordered. Jiminez had been waiting. The knife flashed across Creech’s thigh and he winced, covering it with his hand. Blood squeezed out from between his fingers.

“We can do you a lot of damage, Mr. Creech,” Jay said, walking around the boathouse. “You have some nice tools here, any one of which could be turned on you. All it takes is a little… creativity.” He picked up the hot-air gun. “Now, where’s the socket?”

“I swear to God!” Creech said.

“What did he take with him, Mr. Creech?” Jay asked. “You say you took him to this island, you must at least have seen what he took with him.”

“He had a bag, a holdall sort of thing. It looked heavy.”

“And?”

“And he had… he had a gun.”

“Like this one?” Jay asked, waving the MP5.

“No, no, just a pistol.”

“A pistol? Is that all?”

“It’s all I saw.”

“Mmm. You didn’t see anything else? No traps?”

“Traps?”

“Yes, for catching animals.”

“I didn’t see anything like that.”

Jay had finished his tour of the room. He crouched down again in front of Creech. This was his show. He wasn’t performing so much for Creech-who had been terrified from the outset anyway-as for his own men. He wanted to impress those among them who didn’t know him. He needed their respect, their loyalty, and even a measure of fear. That was how to command.

“Anything else, Mr. Creech?”

He knew if he kept asking Creech would keep telling. He’d tell until he was telling the tiniest details, because he knew if he stopped he might start to bleed all over again.

“Well,” Creech said, “he made some signs.”

“Signs?” Jay frowned. “What sort of signs?”

“He made them so they’d look old. They were danger warnings, warning about the island.”

“Warning of what exactly?”

“That it was out-of-bounds. That it was infected with an-thrax.”

Jay stood up again and laughed. “That’s crazy!” he said. He turned to Hestler, who was smiling without knowing what the joke was. Hestler had cropped black hair, a long black beard, and a face whose blotchiness was disguised by a year-round tan. “You know what he’s doing?” Jay asked. Hestler admitted he didn’t. “He’ll scatter those signs around half-hidden, like he’s pulled them up. When we come across one, we’re supposed to panic. And while we’re panicking, he picks us off with his toy pistol.”

“What’s anthrax?” the other Chicano asked.

“A poison,” Jay explained. “A tenth of a millionth of a gram can kill you. The army did experiment with it in the fifties.” He turned to Creech again. “Isn’t that right?”

Creech nodded. “But the island you’re thinking of is north of here.”

“And not on any map?” Creech nodded again. “Yes, maybe that was his thinking. He chooses an island the map-makers haven’t bothered with and makes it look infected. Too elaborate, Gordon. Way too elaborate.” He turned to Choa. “Take Watts and Schlecht and start bringing the stuff in.” Choa led the two men outside. Watts was tall and as thin as a reed, but deceptively strong. Jay had come up against him in an arm-wrestling contest in the gym, and had bet $300 on himself to win inside half a minute. Watts had beaten him in eleven seconds flat.

Schlecht was someone Watts knew, and that was about as much as Jay knew. He was small, but with massive biceps and a bull neck, an Ollie to Watts ’s Stan Laurel. Schlecht even had Hardy’s mustache, but his face was like an animal’s, nicked and scarred and mean.

The other three in the team had been suggested by Hestler, which was good enough for Jay. They were brothers: Hector, Benny, and Carl. For some reason, they didn’t reveal their surname. They looked like the weakest links, wide-eyed during the flight from L.A., amazed to be visiting hotels and Paris and car rental offices, like Europe was one giant theme park. One of them had even brought a camera with him, which Jay had confiscated straight off.

Hestler agreed that they acted like kids, but he’d seen them in fights. Once they got going, he said, they were real bastards. He thought they’d had their whole moral training from video games and spaghetti westerns.

It took a couple of trips to bring all the stuff in. Everyone was damp, and not liking it.

“Start unpacking,” Jay ordered.

Hestler looked at him. “Are we going now?”

“Why not?”

“It’s raining hard!”

“Hestler, we’re going to be in a fucking boat. We’d get wet even if the sky was blue as a South Carolina morning. I bet you’re the sort who runs out of the swimming pool when the rain starts.”

There was more laughter at this. Hestler didn’t appreciate being its butt, but he stopped questioning Jay’s decisions.

Jay turned to Jiminez. “See if you can find any oilskins.”

Jiminez nodded and set to work. Choa, Watts, and Schlecht were handing out armaments. Each man had a submachine gun, either the MP5 or a Cobray M11. They also received a pistol, ammo, and knife. Jiminez refused the knife, preferring his own blade. Hestler and Jay were the only two to be given grenades-Jay’s orders. The other men could be professional baseball pitchers, he still wouldn’t have trusted them with a grenade.

“We take those three bags with us,” Jay said, pointing to the ones he meant. “If you have dry clothes with you, put them in a backpack.”

Watts and Schlecht handed out the backpacks. They were day-walker spec, big enough for a change of clothes and some provisions. Belts and holsters were next. Creech could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes. He didn’t feel so bad now about ratting out Reeve. After all, Reeve hadn’t warned him what he was getting him into.

All Creech hoped now was that he’d get out of this alive. Jiminez had found some waterproof clothing, not quite enough to go around. Jay examined the two boats, only one of which was big enough to accommodate all of them. He decided they should take both: a backup was always useful.

“Are these ready to go?” he asked Creech.

“Might need some fuel,” Creech said, trying to be helpful.

“Do it. Hector, you watch him. Benny and Carl, go move the cars, see if you can get them out of sight.”

The three brothers nodded. Jay still didn’t know which of them was which. He bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. This mission was costing Kosigin dearly; he didn’t want one single fuck-up.

“Hey, Hestler, you ever skippered a boat?”

“Some,” Hestler said. Hestler had done most things in his life, one reason why he was so useful.

“Okay,” Jay said, “you take the motorboat. You can take the three stooges with you. The rest of us will take the bigger boat.” He looked down on Creech, who was carrying a canister of fuel down the short metal ladder that led to both boats. “You’re in charge of the bigger boat, Mr. Creech.”

Creech managed to nod. “Er…” he said. But then he swallowed. He’d been about to ask about the hire fee, but looking into Jay’s eyes it suddenly didn’t matter anymore.

It was a terrible day to be in a boat. The Minch was notorious anyway, and this was the sort of day which merely added to its reputation. The two boats kept in radio contact, for though they were only thirty feet apart, there was no way a shout could be heard from one to the other, and even hand signals were difficult, since most of the men were holding on with both hands to stop from being pitched over the side.

“I think we should go back!” Jay had heard Hestler say more than once. He’d just shaken his head towards Hestler’s boat, not caring whether Hestler saw him or not. The Chicano whose name Jay had forgotten was puking over the side, his face close to green. Jiminez didn’t look too good either, but stared ahead, refusing to acknowledge he was having any problem. Watts and Schlecht had sailed before, “but never when we weren’t carrying dope.” Choa was staring at the sea like he could control it with his anger, the way he could control people. He was learning a very old lesson indeed.

“What happens if we capsize?” the Chicano squealed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What happens then?”

Jay said something the youth couldn’t make out. Jiminez repeated it for his friend.

“Fallback.”

“Fallback? What fallback?” The youth turned to spew again, and that ended the argument.

“The wind’s easing,” Creech said. He was pale in the face himself, but not from the weather. “Forecast said it would be better in the afternoon.”

“We should have waited,” growled Choa.

Jay stared at him, then looked at the sea again. It was the same shade of gray they painted navy ships, with great spumes of white where the waves clashed. Yes, he should have waited. This way, they would land on the island less than a hundred percent ready to do battle. He wondered if the Philosopher had worked that out…

Hestler wiped stinging water out of his eyes; he was thinking much the same as Jay.

Jiminez and his friend were staring at Jay, not sure what to think. “What the fuck is he doing?” Jiminez’s friend asked.

“He’s singing,” Jiminez told him. Jay was singing “Row, row, row your boat” at the top of his voice.

Nobody joined in.

“There!” Creech said eventually. “There’s the island.” He was as relieved as anybody, though he was filled with a certain dread, too. Hands tightened around guns; eyes peered at the coastline. “There’s only one real place for a landing, that wee bit of beach.”

The beach was a narrow strip of sand so dark it might have been coal dust. The land adjoining it had been worn away, so that there was little more than a steep step up from the beach onto earth and grass.

“What do I do?” Creech asked.

“Beach the boat.”

“She’s not built for that.”

“Then get us as close as you can and drop anchor. We’ll wade ashore. Boots off, everybody!”

Choa was studying the pocket-handkerchief beach. Jay asked him what he thought.

“He’s been here since last night,” Choa said. “He’ll be ready. If it were me, I’d pick us off as we go ashore.”

“I don’t see him.”

“Like I say, he’s had time to get ready.”

“You mean camouflage?” Jay accepted the point and brought his binoculars up to his eyes. He scanned the horizon slowly, carefully. “He’s not there,” he told Choa, handing him the binoculars. Choa peered through them.

“Maybe,” he said, “we should circle the island in the boats, see if we can spot anything. He could’ve booby-trapped the beach. No footprints, but with this wind and rain that’s no surprise. Any footprints would be erased in minutes.” Choa had a deep molasses voice, and looked like he knew his stuff; he came from a race of hunters and trappers, after all.

But Jay shook his head. “He won’t play it that way.”

He couldn’t say why he felt so sure.

They tied the motorboat to the larger vessel and dropped anchor. “You’re coming with us,” Jay told Creech. “Don’t want you buggering off and leaving us.” Creech seemed resigned.

With trousers rolled up, they waded ashore, boots tied around their necks, packs on their backs, the first men in the water keeping their guns aimed at the beach, the men to the rear carrying the three large cases.

The rain was blowing almost horizontally as Jay gathered his troops around. “Remember,” he said, “there are signs warning of anthrax. They’re a bluff, so don’t be surprised if you stumble across one, even if it’s been well hidden. Okay? Let’s get off the beach.” He looked around, his eyes finding the nameless Chicano. “Stay here with Creech. Don’t let him near the boats, understood?”

“Understood.”

The rest of them set off towards a narrow trail which snaked up from the beach. The trail divided into two, and Jay split his men into two units.

The Chicano waved his friend good-bye, and turned his gun on Creech. “This is horrible country.”

“You get used to it,” Creech said, heading for the shelter of the step. It formed a nice windbreak, so that if you crouched down you were completely protected. The Chicano didn’t sit beside him-he had to keep watch-but he didn’t stray too far either. He paced the beach, alternating between keeping a lookout for Reeve, and keeping an eye on Creech. He knew they’d finish off the man eventually, probably as soon as they got back to the mainland. The youth shivered and shrugged his shoulders. He was freezing, and he noticed that Creech’s jacket looked warm.

“Hey,” he said, “you don’t need that. Give it to me.” And he used his gun instead of “please.” Creech shrugged off the brown corduroy jacket. The Chicano had to put his gun down to put the jacket on. “Move and I kill you,” he told Creech, who held up his hands peaceably. The Chicano placed his gun on the sand and stood up.

As he stood, he saw something incredible. The earth at the top of the step opened up and a man sprang to life, for all the world like a zombie. The man sprang forward and leapt on the youth, knocking him backwards. The young man wrestled to get his pistol out of its holster, then stopped suddenly, intent on the hilt of a dagger which was protruding from his chest.

Creech leapt to his feet, mouth open in a silent scream.

Gordon Reeve stood up and looked down at the youth, whose hands were fluttering around the grip of the knife like moths around a flame. Reeve placed a foot on the dying man’s stomach and pulled out the dagger, blood spewing out of the slit. Creech turned away and threw up on the sand. The Chicano’s eyes were starting to close when Reeve wiped the knife clean on Creech’s jacket.

It had taken him some time to find the perfect spot, and then longer still to dig his foxhole. He’d used a collapsible spade, brought from his workshop, first scraping off a three-inch-deep layer of topsoil and grass. And when the hole was finished, and Reeve installed in it, he’d placed the section of turf back, convinced he was invisible.

He’d been in that hole the best part of ten hours, fearing trench foot as the water table rose and the rain kept coming down.

“One down,” he said now.

“Th-there are’t-ten altogether,” Creech stammered, wiping his lips.

“I know, I saw you arrive.” Reeve stared at him. “And I heard Jay talking about those signs we made.”

“Ach, Mr. Reeve, I had to say something. I was shite-scared, I admit it.”

“It’s okay, Kenneth. I knew Jay would find out about them.”

“What?”

“He was expecting a trap, and you handed him one. He wasn’t so ready for another. Come on.”

“Where?”

“Back to the boat.”

Creech managed to let out a yip of relief. They waded into the water and were halfway to the boat when there was a roar from the island. Jiminez had come back to check on his friend. Now he was sprinting towards the body, yelling something in Spanish at the top of his voice.

“Hurry!” Reeve urged. As if Creech needed telling. They grabbed for the side of the larger boat and hauled themselves in, Creech finding an energy he hadn’t used in years. There was a sudden explosion behind them, and Reeve turned his head to see smoke rising into the sky, and earth raining down all around.

“Looks like someone stumbled on one of my surprises.”

He’d run trip wires across both paths. The explosive charges were big enough to take out two, maybe three men if they were close enough together. Only one explosion though; the other party had stopped short of the trip wire. They must have heard the scream and turned back towards the beach. They were starting to appear. Two ran straight to the water’s edge, firing as they ran.

Creech started the engine. It was still warm and started quickly. Reeve dealt with the anchor by slicing the rope with a single hack of his dagger.

“Let’s go!” he yelled.

They went, the motorboat trailing after them. When they were out of the range of bullets, Reeve ordered Creech to cut the engine. Creech had to be told twice; even then he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Why?”

“Because I want to watch.” Reeve had a backpack of his own, and took from it a small pair of powerful binoculars. Jay seemed to be talking to his men as they stood around the cooling body. From the looks on their faces, Reeve knew he had scored an important victory. They didn’t look angry or set on revenge; they looked horrified. Doubts would now start to enter their minds. There were four of them, including the Hispanic-looking youth who’d run onto the beach first. Four. Which meant the explosive had been tripped by a unit of the remaining five men. The Hispanic had recovered a little and was yelling at Jay, waving his arms at him accusingly. Tears were streaming down his face.

Reeve moved the binoculars and saw the survivors of his little group come staggering down onto the beach. There were only two of them, both spattered with blood and badly wounded. One man had a branch sticking out of his leg; the other looked to have lost an ear. They were the only two to emerge.

Reeve took a moment to slip his boots back on before putting the binoculars back to his eyes. Jay was standing on the beach, his own binoculars trained on Reeve.

And he was smiling.

The smile seemed to anger the Hispanic youth still further. He turned Jay around so they were face to face. Reeve saw what the young man, so close to Jay, could not. He saw Jay’s hand go to the holster, saw him ease the gun out. Saw him take a step back, raising his gun hand, and blow a hole in the young man’s forehead. Then Jay turned around again, so he was looking towards Reeve.

Reeve got the message.

“What’re they doing?” Creech said. “Shooting each other?”

“Getting rid of excess baggage,” Reeve corrected him grimly.

Through the binoculars, he watched Jay order the two uninjured men remaining to open one of the cases. The two others, the ones injured in the blast, were huddled together, seated on the sand. Jay looked towards them, but wasn’t about to offer any comfort. He was more intent on the metal case. Then Reeve saw why, and saw, too, why Jay had been happy Reeve and Creech had stuck around.

A grenade launcher.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

“What is it?” Creech came to the side to see. “What are they doing?”

“Get us out of here,” Reeve said quietly. His voice fell away as he saw the contents of the other cases.

Two small dinghies, gas-inflatable, and the paddles to go with them.

Creech was at the wheel. The beach faced the South Uist coastline, and Creech was headed there in as straight a line as he could navigate.

“Can they hit us at this distance?” Creech yelled.

“Depends what model of launcher they’ve got. Knowing Jay, it’ll be a good one.”

Reeve could do little but watch. It wouldn’t help, but he wished he’d brought the dead man’s Cobray with him. The success of his own “trap” had led him to underestimate Jay. The bastard wasn’t stupid.

“Proper planning,” Reeve muttered. Jay had taken charge of the grenade launcher. He was crouched by the water’s edge, one knee on the sand, his eye busy at the sight’s crosshairs.

“Here it comes,” Reeve said, watching the wisp of smoke as the first grenade was launched. It flew past the boat and hit the water a hundred yards ahead.

“That answers your question,” Reeve told Creech, who was now steering wildly, serpentining the boat and throwing Reeve about.

A second grenade came over, landing short of their boat but hitting the motorboat full on. There was an explosion, wood and metal rising into the sky above a pall of black smoke.

Creech let out a shriek. Reeve thought he was panicking, until he saw the jagged point of wood protruding from his shoulder. Reeve went to help him, but the boat started circling. He had to get them out of range. He pulled the splinter out of Creech’s shoulder with no ceremony, then pushed Creech aside and gripped the wheel tight, setting them back on course.

Another grenade just reached the boat, hitting it aft and blowing a hole in the wooden structure. Water started pouring in.

“Can you swim?” Reeve asked Creech, who nodded, his teeth gritted against the pain. “Even with one arm?”

“I’ll be all right. How far are we from land?”

Reeve looked up. The answer was less than half a mile. He took his boots off again and put them in his backpack, zipping it tight. It was waterproof, and didn’t weigh very much. As a last resort, he would ditch it and trust to his dagger, which was in its scabbard attached to his leg.

“Come on then,” he told Creech, “let’s go for a swim.”

They swam away from the sinking boat. Creech couldn’t help but look back at it, watching the hull tip, seeing barnacles and wood that was in dire need of repainting.

They swam together. Reeve couldn’t see, but he guessed Jay would be setting out in the dinghies by now, bringing his two remaining men with him. Reeve had taken seven men out of the game.

But at a price.

They were swimming across the current, which made half a mile seem like three times that. Creech grew quickly exhausted, and Reeve had to help him. This is great, he thought, just what I need. Lying in a foxhole all night, and now a half-mile swim pulling an injured man with me.

Meantime, Jay would be paddling, not straining himself. The odds were turning against Reeve all the time.

He eventually pulled Creech ashore. Creech wanted to lie down and rest, but Reeve hauled him to his feet and slapped his face a couple of times.

“You’ve got to get out of here!” he yelled. Creech’s leg wound, the slice the Chicano had given him, had opened up again. They were six or seven miles shy of the nearest village, but Reeve knew there was a croft to the south, maybe three miles distant. “Keep to the coast,” he told Creech. “Don’t try crossing the hills. Okay?”

He waited till Creech had nodded. The man made to stumble away, but Reeve grabbed his arm. “Kenneth, I’m sorry I got you into this.”

Creech shrugged free and started to walk. Reeve watched him go, trying to feel something for him. But the soldier had taken over. Creech was a casualty; that didn’t mean you had time for flowers and sympathy. It was sink or swim. Really, Reeve shouldn’t even have helped him ashore. He should have conserved his own energy, which was what he did now. He took off his wet clothes and wrung them out, then lay them out to dry. They wouldn’t have time to get really dry, but the wind might help. The things in his backpack were almost completely dry, which was good fortune. He trained the binoculars on the din-ghies. There were two men in the front one, only one in the second. The man with Jay looked grim with a large black beard, the man paddling alone looked American Indian. Reeve scanned the boats for armaments: pistols and submachine guns; no rocket launchers that he could see. Nothing heavy. But there was something on Jay’s lap… He’d thought at first it was a transmitter, but saw now that it was a cassette player.

“What the hell is that for?” he asked himself.

He examined his surroundings. He knew this area fairly well, which was to his advantage. The hill range had two peaks, Hecla to the north and Beinn Mhor to the south, each at about two thousand feet. Reeve had managed to go unnoticed for whole weekends when tracked by up to a dozen men, and he’d only had part of this wilderness to play with. But now he had to assume he was up against professionals.

This time, he really was playing for his life.

Creech was out of sight. Reeve knew Jay wouldn’t bother with him anyway: he couldn’t afford to lose one-third of his force. But just in case, Reeve bided his time until Jay and his men could see him clearly. He pulled on trousers, socks, and boots, and tied the arms of his shirt around his neck, so it flapped like a cape. It would dry quicker that way. Then he picked up his backpack and pistol and headed into the hills, making sure his pursuers could see the direction he was taking.

He heard the bullet crack behind him but didn’t slow down. His pursuers were carrying MP5s; Reeve knew the things were as accurate as rifles up to about a hundred yards, but he was well out of that range. They were just wasting ammo, and soon realized it. Reeve came to the top of the first rise and turned his head to watch. They were close to the shore now. He had maybe four or five minutes on them.

He started running.

TWENTY-FIVE

JAY WAITED TILL THE LAST POSSIBLE MOMENT before leaping out of the dinghy onto land. He was still fairly dry, and wanted to stay that way. The others didn’t mind splashing into the knee-deep water, clambering over the rocks onto land. They brought the inflatables with them, and weighed them down with rocks so they wouldn’t be blown back to sea.

“Do we split up?” Choa asked.

“Let’s stick together,” Jay said. “If it becomes necessary later, we can split up.” He had torn a page out of their map book-the one showing the Western Isles-but it was a driver’s map, not a walker’s. It didn’t tell him much about the terrain except that they were a long way from civilization.

“Let’s go,” he said, folding the map back into his pocket. “Choa, check your ammo clip.”

Choa had been the one who had blasted away at Reeve, on the principle that if you could see your target, you were as well to have a go at hitting it. Choa had never used the MP5 before. He’d liked firing it so much he was itching to fire it again. He held it ready, safety catch off.

“Space out,” Jay told his men. “Let’s not make any easy targets. Choa, you watch our backs, in case he comes around us.”

“You don’t think he’ll just run?” Hestler asked.

“It would make sense,” Jay admitted. “He’s wet and most probably tired. He knows the odds. But I don’t think he’ll run. He wants this over as badly as I do.”

“No matter who wins?”

Jay looked at Hestler. “No matter who wins,” he said. “It’s playing the game that counts.”

They marched in silence after that, Jay using hand signals to show when he thought they were bunching up too much. They didn’t march in a line, but spread themselves out, making a more random pattern which would be harder for an enemy to hit. Jay wondered if Reeve had a plan. Reeve’s house was only five or so miles distant; it made sense that, running an adventure center, he’d know these hills better than they did. He might know them very well indeed.

Jay knew it was three against one, but taking everything else into account, those weren’t ideal odds. He wished he had an Ordnance Survey map of the area, something that would give him a better idea of what they were up against. But all he had were his eyes and his instincts.

And the knowledge that Gordon Reeve had almost got them both killed.

The rain started again, like mischievous needles jabbing the skin. They walked into it face-on. Jay knew Reeve wouldn’t keep moving in a straight line; that direction would take him to civilization too quickly. He’d be circling around at some point, either towards Hecla or Beinn Mhor. If there had been three men with him, Jay would have split the group in half, a two-man patrol in either direction, but he only had two men left. He didn’t regret killing the Chicano, not for an instant, but another man would have been useful. He had Benny and Carl’s word for it that their brother Hector, plus Watts and Schlecht, were lying dead back at the scene of the explosion. Jay had promised to come back for the two injured men. He wasn’t sure if it was a promise he would fulfill.

He’d been right about one thing: the phony anthrax signs had been crazy. The Philosopher had known what he was doing. Creech had been allowed to know about them, and had spilled his guts to Jay… and Jay had been tricked into thinking he knew something important. They’d been a ruse, nothing more, the real trick had been the trip wires. He guessed now that his own unit had stopped just short of encountering one.

Nice, Gordon-very nice.

Jay and his two men came to a high point and looked into the deep valley below. There was no sign of Reeve and no visible hiding place. But Choa, with his hunter’s eyes, spotted something, a dark shape against the hillside. They approached cautiously, but it was just a groove in the earth, maybe a foot deep, six feet long, and a couple of feet wide.

“It’s a scrape,” Jay said.

“A what?” Hestler asked.

“A hide. You scrape away the earth, then lie in the hole. Put some netting over you and you’re hidden from a distance.” Jay looked around, realizing. “He uses this area for his training courses. There must have been a manhunt at some stage. There could be dozens of these spread out across the hills.”

“So he could be hiding?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe we’ve walked right past him; maybe he’s already behind us.” Hestler eased his catch off. “I say we split up, that way we cover more ground. We could be here all night otherwise.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants,” Choa offered. “Get us cold and lost, wet and hungry. Stalking us, just waiting for concentration to lapse.”

“He’s only one man,” Hestler growled. He was still looking around, daring anything to move. Jay noticed Hestler’s MP5 was set to full auto.

“All right,” Jay said, “you two head north. I’ll head south. There are two peaks. We each circle one and RV back at the dinghies. Keep in touch by two-way. It might take a few hours. It won’t be dark by the time we finish. If there’s no result, we think again.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hestler said, setting off. “Sooner we start, sooner we finish.”

Choa gave Jay a doubting look, but set off after his partner.

Jay decided after they’d gone to make straight for the summit of Beinn Mhor. He’d be more of a target, but on the plus side he could take in the country below with a single sweep.

“Just do it,” he told himself, beginning to climb.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” Hestler told Choa. “There were ten of us at the start, how the fuck did we get to this?”

“Search me.”

“Ten against one. He’s fucked us up nicely. I’d like to tear him a new asshole.”

“You think he needs two?”

Hestler turned to Choa. “He’s likely to be shitting himself so much, maybe he will at that.”

Choa said nothing. He knew words came free; as a result people talked too much. Sometimes people could talk themselves into believing they were superhuman. Talking could make you crazy.

The last they saw of Jay he was clambering on all fours up a steep slope. Then they rounded the hillside and lost him.

“This weather is the pits,” Hestler said.

Choa silently agreed. The last time he’d known anything like it was up in Oregon, near the mountains there. Rain so thick you couldn’t see through it. But afterwards, the trees had smelled so beautiful, pine and moss bursting underfoot. There weren’t many trees here. There was practically nowhere to hide, except for these scrapes. He didn’t like the idea of these invisible hides. “We’re a long way from Los Angeles,” he said quietly.

Hestler chuckled. “Killing’s killing,” he said. “Doesn’t matter where you do it or who you do it for.”

“Look,” said Choa, pointing. He had good eyes. He’d been the first to spot the scrape, and now he’d noticed another smallish patch on the ground. When they got up close, it was wet, greasy to the touch. It was blood.

“Bastard’s winged!” Hestler said.

“Let’s radio Jay and tell him.”

“Fuck that, the bastard could be around the next bend. Let’s get him.”

Hestler set off, but Choa held back. He had the two-way hooked to his belt and now unclipped it.

“Got something here,” he said. Then, with Hestler almost out of sight, “Hey! Hold on a minute!” But Hestler kept on going.

“What is it?” Jay’s voice said. He sounded a little out of breath, but not much.

“Blood, very fresh.”

“No way.”

“I’m telling you-”

“I don’t think he’s hurt.”

“One of the grenades maybe?”

“Not the way he swam to shore. I watched him, remember. He clambered up that first slope like a mountain goat.”

“Well, it’s blood.” Choa rubbed some of it between thumb and forefinger. It was sticky and cold.

“Taste it,” Jay said.

“What?” Choa couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Put some on your tongue,” Jay commanded.

Choa looked at his fingers.

“Do it!”

Choa put the tip of his tongue against the blood. He couldn’t taste anything. He licked at it, tasted it, then spat.

“Well?”

Choa spoke into the radio. “Tastes funny,” he said.

“Is it metallic, the way blood is?”

Choa had to admit it wasn’t like that. “Sort of chalky,” he said.

“Like paint?” Jay guessed.

“How did you know?”

“It’s fake. He’s laying a false trail.”

Choa looked ahead of him. There was no sign of Hestler.

“Hestler!” he shouted. “Get back here!”

Then there was a single gunshot. Choa knew better than to run towards it, but he didn’t freeze either. He moved off downhill and circled around towards the noise. He’d switched off the radio so it wouldn’t give away his position. He carried his submachine gun cocked and ready.

There was a body ahead of him, lying in a gully. It looked like Hestler had taken a shortcut. Instead of rounding the gully, he’d headed down into it, which made him easy prey for anyone hiding just over the ridge. What was the phrase? Like shooting a pig in a tub.

Choa daren’t descend into the gully. Besides, the hole in the back of Hestler’s head was big enough and clear enough. He held the radio to his face.

“What?” Jay said quietly. He’d heard the shot.

“Hestler’s down,” Choa said simply.

“What happened?”

“Someone tore him a new mouth, wrong side of his head.”

Choa cut the radio. He needed both hands for his gun. Reeve was nearby. He rounded the gully. There were so many dips and rises in the landscape, he couldn’t see farther than eighty feet in any direction. Reeve could be as close as eighty feet. Apart from the rain hitting him and the wind in his ears, there was no noise at all. No birds, no leaves rustling. The sky overhead was like a slab of stone.

Choa came to a decision which seemed immediately right to him: head back to the dinghies and take one, then paddle away from here. The thought made him feel better. This was Jay’s fight, not his. He felt like Reeve was watching him, even though he couldn’t see a damned thing. His excellent eyesight didn’t work so well in driving rain. A storm was directly over the island. Choa dropped the MP5 and his pistol, then started walking with hands held high above him. He guessed he was heading the right way; away from here seemed exactly the right way.

Reeve saw him go.

He was naked apart from his boots. His clothes were in the backpack, staying dry. He watched for a full ten minutes, then went to pick up the armaments. He scrabbled down the side of the gully and quickly unloaded Hestler’s weapons, leaving them with the body but taking the ammo. Then he found the two grenades, and he took those, too. He liked these odds better now. He knew the Indian had simply walked away from the fight, which was entirely sensible.

Then he heard the music. It was a long way off, but between the squalls, fragments of it drifted to his ears. It was Jay, and he was singing that damned song. Reeve made towards the sound, but he took his time. He knew it wasn’t really Jay-it was the cassette recorder. Jay had recorded himself singing the song over and over again, his voice rising the longer the recording went on.

Reeve had to cross a wide valley between the two peaks, and knew he would be most vulnerable here. There was no sign of Jay, just the music, getting closer now. He edged around towards it, moving in a crouch, backwalking part of the way, staying to the shelter of slopes wherever he could. Until he came to the final slope. The music sounded just the other side of the ridge. Reeve crawled up the slope, hugging the ground.

There was a saucer-shaped dip beyond the ridge, and in the center sat the cassette recorder. Reeve lay there for a few minutes, until he could stand the music no longer. He took aim with the MP5 and hit the fat black box dead center.

The box exploded, flames shooting out radially from it. Booby-trapped. Maybe now Jay would come looking.

Suddenly there was another explosion, much closer to Reeve. The ground quivered, and divots showered down around him. For a split second he was back in the scrape in Argentina, and Jay was about to crack.

Now another explosion, very close. He realized what was happening. Jay was in hiding somewhere, and had guessed the direction of Reeve’s burst of gunfire. Now he was tossing grenades in that direction, and they weren’t landing far short of their target. Reeve stood up to see if he could spot the grenades in flight. Smoke from the explosions was being dispersed by the sharp breeze, but pungent tendrils still coiled up from the plastic remains of the cassette player.

Suddenly a figure stood up on the far side of the gully. Naked, body and face smeared with earth, white teeth grinning through the improvised face paint.

Jay.

Sixty feet away and firing from the hip.

Two bullets thudded into Reeve, pushing him off his feet. He rolled back down the slope, just managing to keep hold of his gun. He came to a stop on the gully floor, but knew he had no time to check the damage. He had to get out of the gully. He scraped his way up the other side, cresting the rise before Jay came into view. He just made it. Rain stung his eyes as he ran, feet slipping in mud. Another narrow valley, across a stream… he knew where he was going, knew where he’d end up. One bullet had caught him in the left shoulder, the other between shoulder and chest. They burned. The scabbard was still strapped to his right leg, but it slowed him down, so he undid the straps and drew out the dagger, discarding the scabbard.

“Hey, Philosopher!” Jay called, his voice manic. “You like hide-and-seek? You were always chicken, Philosopher! No guts.”

Reeve knew what Jay was doing: trying to rile him. Anger made you strong in some ways, but so weak in others.

But there was no pink mist now, nothing in Reeve’s heart but cool procedure and searing pain. He crested two more rises be-fore he found himself at the chasm, a rupture in the land which ran in a jagged tear to the sea. At high tide, the base of the cavity filled with gurgling, murderous water. But just now it was a damp bed of jagged rocks. It was dark down there, no matter what time of day, whatever the weather above. A place of shadows and secrets never brought up into the light. Reeve walked its edge. He wasn’t scared of it-it was too familiar to him-but he’d seen his weekend soldiers cower in its presence. He picked his spot and waited, taking time to examine his wounds. He was bleeding badly. Given time, he could create makeshift dressings, but he knew time was short.

“Hey, Philosopher!” Jay yelled. “Is this blood real?” A pause. “Tastes real, so I guess it is! Want to know something, Philosopher? I’ve done a lot of thinking over the years about Operation Stalwart. I’ve been wondering why they chose us. I mean, I was fucked up after that fiasco on the glacier. I should never have been allowed off the ship, never mind sent behind enemy lines. I wanted to kill those bastards so badly. And you… well, you weren’t popular, Philosopher. You had too many ideas in your head, including your own ideas. You were the Philosopher, reading too much, turning yourself on to anarchism and all that other stuff. As far as the brass were concerned, there was half a chance you were becoming the enemy. See, Philosopher, we were both of a kind-loose wires, expendable. That was always going to be a one-way mission, and it would’ve turned out that way if I hadn’t saved our hides.”

The voice sounded maybe a hundred yards away. Two-thirds of a yard per stride… Reeve started counting, at the same time snaking his way back up the slope, listening intently for any clue as to the line Jay was taking. He guessed he would simply follow the trail of blood.

Reeve was just below the crest now. Suddenly he heard a grunt as Jay started to climb. In a few seconds he would crest the rise, Reeve just the other side of it, hugging the land. Reeve stopped breathing. Jay was so close, not even six feet away.

Reeve concentrated all his energies, closing his eyes for a moment, finally taking a deep breath.

“Hey, Philos-”

He threw out his good arm with all his strength, plunging the dagger through Jay’s boot and into his foot. As Jay started to scream, Reeve yanked his ankles away from him, hurling him down the slope. Jay could see what was at the bottom of the slide and tried digging his heels, elbows, and fingers in, but the ground was slippery and he just kept on sliding. Reeve was sliding, too. The force of his momentum when he’d hauled Jay over the crest had sent him into a roll. His shoulder banged against the ground, almost causing him to pass out. Below him, he saw Jay slip three-quarters of the way over the precipice, his hands scrabbling for purchase. Reeve was rolling straight towards him. They’d fall into the ravine together.

Reeve struck out with his right hand, the hand which still held the dagger. The blade sank into the earth, but started to cut through it, barely slowing his descent. He twisted the blade so the meat of it was gouging into the wet soil. It was like applying a brake. He jolted to a stop, his legs hanging into space. He found the edge with his knees and started to pull himself up, but a hand grabbed one of his ankles. And now Jay’s other hand let go of the lip of the ravine, and he used it to gain a better grip on Reeve, hauling himself up over Reeve’s slippery legs while their combined weight started the dagger cutting through the earth again, so that as Jay climbed, Reeve slid farther over the edge.

He waited till Jay was preparing to slide farther up; while he was unbalanced, Reeve rolled onto his side, shrugging Jay off and at the same time lashing out at him with his feet. For an instant they were side by side, the way they had been that final night in Argentina, their faces so close Reeve could feel Jay’s breath against his cheek.

“Well,” Jay panted, trying to grin, “isn’t this cozy? Just the two of us, like it was always meant to be.”

“You should have died back in Rio Grande,” Reeve spat.

“If we’d stayed in that damned trench, we’d have died,” Jay hissed. “You owe me, Philosopher!”

“Owe you?” Reeve was clawing at the ground with the fingers of his left hand, feeling pain shoot through his shoulder. When he had a good handhold he started to ease the dagger out of the ground.

“Yes, owe me,” Jay was saying, readying to pull them both over the edge and onto the rocks below.

Reeve raised the dagger and plunged it into Jay’s neck. Blood gurgled from Jay’s mouth, his eyes wide in amazement as one hand went to the wound. He lost all grip and started to slide over the edge.

Reeve watched him go, the head disappearing last of all, eyes still wide open. He didn’t hear the body hit the ground. Reeve let out a roar which echoed down the chasm walls and up into the sky. Not a roar of pain or even of victory.

Just a roar.

“All debts repaid,” Reeve said, digging the dagger back into the ground, and for some reason he saw Jim in his mind, content.

Then he started slowly, carefully, to climb back up the treacherous slope, not relaxing until he was at the top, his head and trunk hanging over the crest of the rise. He closed his eyes then and wept, not feeling the pain in his shoulder or the chill damp ground robbing him of his core temperature, degree by willful degree.

TWENTY-SIX

THERE WAS A LOT OF MESS still to be cleared up: Gordon Reeve knew that. The police might or might not accept his story. It sounded pretty farfetched when he thought about it. But he had Jim’s computer file, and soon he’d have the documents to go with it, as soon as he could arrange a trip to Tisbury.

As for CWC itself and Kosigin… he didn’t know what would happen. He only knew that something would. The same applied to Allerdyce and Alliance Investigative. He didn’t really care anymore. He’d done what he could.

He made his way back home and staggered indoors. He knew he should clean his wounds, make fresh dressings, call a doctor. But he sat at the kitchen table instead. He wanted to phone Joan, wanted to tell her it was all right now, that Allan and she could come home. He wanted that most of all.

He wasn’t sure what they’d do after that. Go back to the old routine? Maybe. Or maybe he’d dig up some of their land, turn it into a vegetable garden… go organic, and worry less that way. He didn’t think so, though.

He started to laugh, resting his head on his forearms.

“I’m one of Nietzsche’s gentlemen,” he told himself. “I’ll think of something.”

Ian Rankin is the #1 bestselling mystery writer in the United Kingdom. He is the winner of an Edgar Award for Resurrection Men, and he is the recipient of a Gold Dagger Award for Fiction and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons.