Crossfire

19

I approached the stables in such a way as to take me past the muck heap near the back end of the passageway in which I had hidden the previous week.

I was ultracareful not to trip over any unseen debris as I eased myself silently through the fence that separated the stable buildings from the paddock behind. How I longed to have a set of night-vision goggles, the magic piece of kit that enabled soldiers to see in the dark, albeit with a green hue. My only consolation was that it was most unlikely that my enemy had them either-we would be as blind as one another.

I stood up close against the stable wall at the back of the short passageway, closed my eyes tight and listened. Nothing. No breath, no scraping of a foot, no cough. I went on listening for well over a minute, keeping my own breathing shallow and silent. Still nothing.

Confident that there was no one hiding in the passageway, I stepped forwards. Here, under the roof, it was truly pitch-black. I tried to recall an image in my head of the inside of the passageway from my time here last week. I remembered that I had used an empty blue plastic drum as a seat. That would be here somewhere in the darkness. I could also recall that there were some wooden staves leaning up against one of the walls.

I moved along the passage very slowly, feeling ahead into the darkness with my hands and my real foot. The canvas basketball boots were thin-in truth, rather too thin for such a cold night-but they allowed me to sense the underfoot conditions so much better than I could have in regulation-issue thick-soled army boots.

My foot touched the plastic drum, and I eased around it to the door. I pressed my face to it, looking through the gaps between the widely spaced wooden slats.

Compared to the total blackness of the passageway, the stable yard beyond seemed quite bright, but there was still not enough light to see into the shadows of the overhanging roof. I couldn't see if any of the stable doors were open but, equally, that would mean that no one would be able to see me as I eased open the slatted door from the passageway and stepped out into the yard.

I slowly closed the spring-loaded door and then stood very still, listening again for anyone's breathing, but there was no sound, not even the slight rustling of a breeze.

Provided he hadn't changed his position, the man I had seen from the woods on the hillside, the man who had made a movement, would have been out of sight from where I was, even in bright sunshine, but I knew there had to be at least one other person around here somewhere. And if Alex Reece had joined Warren and Garraway, there would be three of them to deal with. The quote from Sun Tzu in The Art of War about relative army sizes floated into my head once more. If you are in equal number to your enemy, then fight if you are able to surprise; if you are fewer, then keep away.

I was one and they were two, maybe even three. Should I not just keep away?

Another of Sun Tzu's pearls of wisdom drifted into my consciousness. All warfare is based on deception… When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near… Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.

I folded back the sleeve of my black roll-necked sweater and looked at the watch beneath. It was four forty-seven.

In eighteen minutes, at five minutes past five precisely, a car would drive through the gates at the bottom of the Greystone Stables driveway and stop. The driver would sound the car horn once, and the car would remain there with the headlights blazing and the engine running for exactly five minutes. Then it would reverse out again onto the road and drive away. At least, it would do all of those things if Ian Norland obeyed to the letter the instructions I had left him.

He hadn't been very keen on the plan, and that was putting it mildly, but I'd promised him that he was in no danger, provided he kept the car doors locked. It was yet another one of those dodgy promises of mine. But I didn't actually believe that Jackson Warren and Peter Garraway would kill me there and then. Not before I'd returned the million dollars.

"Warfare is based on deception… When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away." When I was in the stable yard searching for my mother, I'd make Warren and Garraway believe I was down near the gates.

"Hold out baits to entice the enemy." Make the car wait with its lights on to draw them down the hill away from the stables, and away from me.

"Feign disorder, and crush him." Only time would tell on that one.

I moved slowly and silently to my right, around the closed end of the quadrangle of stables, keeping in the darkest corners under the overhanging roof. Where would my mother be? I felt for all the bolts on the stable doors. They were all firmly closed. I decided, at this stage, not to try to open any, as it would surely make some noise.

Unsurprisingly, no one had mended the pane of glass in the tack-room window that I'd broken to get out. I leaned right in through the opening, closed my eyes tight and listened.

I could hear someone whimpering. My mother was indeed here. The sound was slight but unmistakable, and it came from my left. She was in one of the stalls on the same side of the stables as I had been.

I listened some more. Once or twice I heard her move, but the sound was not close, and other than an occasional muffled cry, I could not hear her breathing. There were ten stalls down each of the long sides of the quadrangle, and I reckoned she must be at least three away from the tack room, probably more. Maybe she was in the same stall in which I had been imprisoned.

I looked again at my watch. Four fifty-nine.

Six minutes until the car arrived-I hoped.

I withdrew my head and shoulders from through the broken window and moved very slowly along the line of stables, counting the doors. I could remember clearly having to climb over five dividing walls to get to the tack room. I counted four stable doors, then I stopped. The stall I had been in was the next one along.

Would there be a sentry? Would anyone be on guard?

I stood very still and made my breathing as silent as I could. I dared not look again at my watch in case the luminosity of the face gave me away.

I waited in the dark, listening and counting the seconds-Mississippi one, Mississippi two, Mississippi three and so on. Just as I had done here before.

I waited and waited, and I began to doubt that Ian was coming. I was well past Mississippi twenty in the third minute when I heard the car horn, a long two-second blast. Good boy.

There was immediate movement from the end of the row of stables not twenty yards from where I was standing. Someone had been sitting there in silence, but now I clearly heard the person walk away, back towards the house, crunching across the gravel turning area. I heard him call out to someone else, asking what the noise was, and there was a murmured reply from farther away that I couldn't catch.

I went swiftly to the door of the stall and eased back the bolts. They made a slight scrape but nothing that would be heard from around near the house. The door swung open outwards.

"Mum," I whispered into the darkness.

There was no reply.

I stood and listened, trying hard to control the thump-thump of the heart in my chest.

I heard her whimper again, but it still came from some way to my left. She wasn't in this stall but in one a bit farther along.

I recognized the need to be as fast as possible, but equally, I had to make my search undetected. I moved as quickly as I dared along the row of stables, carefully sliding back the bolt on the upper half of each door and calling into the space with a whisper.

She was in the second stall from the end, close to where the man had been sitting on guard, and by the time I found her, I was becoming desperate about the time it was taking.

I thought that Ian must surely be about to reverse the car to the road and depart. Five minutes would seem a very long time to someone simply sitting there afraid that something would happen, and hoping that it wouldn't. Ian must have been so nervous in the car, willing the hands of his watch to move around faster. I wouldn't have blamed him if he'd decided to leave early.

When I'd opened the stable door and whispered, my mother had been unable to answer me properly, but she had managed to murmur loudly.

"Shhh," I said, going towards the sound and down onto my left knee. It was absolutely pitch-black in the stable. I removed one of my black woolen gloves and "saw" by feel, moving my left hand around until I found her.

She had tape stuck over her mouth and had been bound hand and foot with the same plastic garden ties as had been used to secure me. Thankfully, she hadn't been left hanging from a ring in the wall but was sitting on the hard floor close to the door with her back up against the wooden paneling.

I laid my sword down carefully so it didn't clatter on the concrete, then I swung the rucksack off my back and opened the flap. Ian's carving knife sliced easily through the plastic ties holding my mother's ankles and wrists together.

"Be very, very quiet," I whispered in her ear, leaning down."Leave the tape on your mouth. Come on, let's go."

I helped her up to her feet and was about to bend down for the rucksack and the sword when she turned and hugged me. She held me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. And she was crying. I couldn't tell if it was from pain, from fear or in joy, but I could feel her tears on my face.

"Mum, let me go," I managed to whisper in her ear. "We have to get out of here."

She eased the pressure but didn't let go completely, hanging on to my left arm. I prized her away from me and swung the rucksack over my right shoulder. As I reached down again for my sword, she leaned heavily against me and I stumbled slightly, kicking the sword with my unfeeling right foot. It scraped across the floor with a metallic rattle that sounded dreadfully loud in the confines of the stall but probably wouldn't have been audible at more than ten paces outside.

But had there been anyone outside within ten paces to hear it?

I reached down, grabbed the sword and led my mother to the door.

Ian must have completed his five-minute linger by now, and I hoped he had safely departed back to his flat to sit by the telephone, waiting for my call and ready to summon the cavalry if things went wrong. But where, I wondered, were my enemies? Were they still around at the driveway? Or had they come back?

My mother and I stepped through the stable door and out into the yard, with her hanging on to my left arm as though she would never let it go again.

There were no shouts of discovery, no running feet, just the darkness and the stillness of the night. But my enemies were out there somewhere, watching and waiting, and they outnumbered me. It was time to leave.

"He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day."

But I never did get to run away.

My mother and I were halfway across the stable yard, taking the shortest route to the muck-heap passageway, when the headlights of a car parked close to the house suddenly came on, catching us full in their beams.

Whoever was in the car couldn't help but see us.

"Run," I shouted in my mother's ear, but running wasn't really in her exercise repertoire, even when in mortal danger. It was only ten yards or so to the passageway door, but I wasn't at all sure we would make it. I dragged her along as all hell broke loose behind me.

There were shouts and running footsteps on the gravel near the house.

Then there was a shot, and another.

Shotgun pellets peppered my back, stinging my neck and shoulders, but the rucksack took most of them. The shooter was too far away for the shot to inflict much damage, but he would get closer, especially as my dear mother was so slow.

We reached the passageway door, and I swung it open, pushing her through it ahead of me, both of us nearly falling over the blue plastic drum.

"Mum, please," I said loudly to her. "Go through the passage and out the back. Then hide."

But she wouldn't let go of my arm. She was simply too frightened to move. Conditioning young men not to freeze under fire was a common problem in the army, and one that wasn't always solved, so I could hardly blame my mother for doing so now.

Another shot rang out, and some of the wood of the door splintered behind us. That was a bit closer, I thought-far too close, in fact. The shooter had now closed to within killing range. Maybe I'd been wrong about them wanting the million dollars returned before they'd kill me. Another shot tore into the wooden roof above our heads.

"Come on," I said to my mother as calmly as I could. "Let's get out of here."

I firmly removed her hand from my arm and then held it in mine as I almost dragged her down the passageway and out into the space behind. I could hear shouts from the stable yard as someone was directing his troops around the end of the building to find us. However, the man who was doing the shouting stayed where he was, in the yard. He obviously didn't fancy walking into the dark passageway, in case I was in there waiting for him.

I pulled my mother around behind the muck heap. There was a tall, narrow space between the rear retaining wall of the heap and a hay barn beyond.

"Get in there," I said quietly, in my best voice-of-command. "And lie facedown."

She didn't like it, I could tell by the way she kicked at the wet ground, but she couldn't protest, as the tape was still over her mouth. She hesitated.

"Mum," I said. "Please. Otherwise, we will die."

There was just enough light from the stars for me to see the fear in her eyes. Still she clung to me, so I eased up the corner of the tape over her mouth and peeled it away.

"Mum," I said again. "Please do it now." I kissed her softly on the forehead, but then I firmly pushed her away from me and into the gap.

"Oh God," she whispered in despair. "Help me."

"It's all right," I said, trying to reassure her. "Just lie down here for a while and it will all be fine."

She obviously didn't want to, but she didn't say so. She knelt down in the gap and then lay flat on to her tummy, as I'd asked. I pulled some of the old straw down off the muck heap and covered her as best I could. It probably didn't smell too good, but so what? Fear didn't smell great, either.

I left her there and went back to the end of the passageway. Whoever had been shooting had still not come through, but I could see that the car was being driven around the end of the stable buildings so that its lights were about to shine down the back, straight towards where I was standing.

I stepped again into the passageway.

The car's headlights were both a help and a hindrance. They helped in showing me the position of at least one of my enemies, but at the same time, their brightness destroyed my night vision.

Consequently, the passageway appeared darker than ever, but from my previous visits, I could visualize the location of every obstruction on the floor, and I easily stepped silently around them. I pressed my eyes up against the gaps between the door slats and looked out once more into the stable yard beyond.

There was plenty of light from the still-maneuvering car for me to see clearly. Jackson Warren was standing in the center of the yard, talking with Peter Garraway. They were each holding a shotgun in a manner that suggested that they both knew how to use them. What was it that Isabella had said? "The Garraways always come over for the end of the pheasant-shooting season-Peter is a great shot."

I think I'd have rather not known that, not right now.

As I could see Warren and Garraway in the stable yard, it must be Alex Reece who was driving the car.

"You go round the back," Jackson was saying to Garraway."Flush him out. I'll stay here in case he comes through."

I could tell from his body language that Peter Garraway really didn't like taking orders. I also suspected that he didn't much fancy "going round the back" either, good shot or not. "Why don't I wait here and you go round the back?" he replied.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Jackson, clearly annoyed. "All right. But keep your eyes fixed on that door and, if he appears, shoot him. But try to hit him in the legs."

That was slightly encouraging, I thought, but the notion of being captured alive was not. I had already experienced their brand of hospitality in these stables, and I had no desire to do so again.

Jackson Warren walked off towards the car, leaving a nervous-looking Peter Garraway standing alone in the stable yard.

Yet another Sun Tzu quote floated into my head. "In war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak."

Peter Garraway was weak. I could tell by the way he kept looking towards the car and in the direction that Jackson had gone in the hope of being relieved, rather than towards the door to the passageway, as he'd been told. He obviously didn't like being left there alone. And shooting pheasants was one thing, but shooting a person would be quite another matter.

Reece had finally managed to get the car around behind the stables, and I could see the glow of its lights at the back end of the passageway. That was not good, I thought, as my position was becoming outflanked and I would soon find myself liable to attack from opposite directions.

I looked at my watch. It was only five-seventeen. Just twelve minutes had elapsed since Ian had sounded the car horn, but it felt like so much longer, and there would still be another hour of darkness.

I took another quick glimpse through the slats at Peter Garraway in the stable yard. He was resting his double-barreled shotgun in the crook of his right arm, as someone might do while waiting for the beaters to drive pheasants into the air from a game crop. It was not the way a soldier would hold a weapon-and it was not ready for immediate action.

I threw open the passageway door and ran right at him with my sword held straight out in front of me, the point aimed directly at his face, like a cavalry officer but without the horse.

He was quite quick in raising his gun but nowhere near quick enough. I was on him so fast, and as he swung the barrels up, I struck his right arm, the point of my sword tearing through both his coat and the flesh beneath. In the same motion, I hit him full on the nose with the sword's nickel-plated hand guard. He immediately went sprawling straight down onto the concrete floor, dropping the gun and clutching at his bleeding face with both hands.

I stood over him with my sword raised high, like a matador about to deliver the coup de grace. Garraway, meanwhile, curled himself into a ball with his arms up around his head, whimpering and shaking like a scolded puppy.

I aimed at his heart, and my arm began to fall.

"What are you doing?" I suddenly asked myself out loud, stopping the rapidly descending blade when it was just inches from his chest.

Values and Standards of the British Army, paragraph sixteen, states that soldiers must treat all human beings with respect, especially the victims of conflict, such as the dead, the wounded, prisoners and civilians. All soldiers must act within the law. "Soldiering," it says, "is about duty: so soldiers should be ready to uphold the rights of others before claiming their own."

Killing Peter Garraway like this would certainly not be within the law, and would definitely be a breach of his rights as my unarmed and wounded prisoner. I would simply be taking revenge for the pain and suffering that he had inflicted on me.

I noticed that he had peed himself, just as I had done the previous week in the stable, although, in my case, it hadn't been from fear. Maybe that would have to be revenge enough. I leaned down, picked up his shotgun and left him where he was, holding his face and arm, and quivering like a jelly.

I went quickly across the yard and out towards the house with the gun in one hand and my sword in the other. But the sword had now outlived its usefulness. I tossed it into the shadows at the end of the stable building and put both my hands on the gun-that was better.

I had no real plan in mind, but I knew that somehow I had to draw Jackson Warren towards me and away from my mother.

I broke open the shotgun. There was a live cartridge in each of the two chambers, but I cursed myself for not having looked for more in Peter Garraway's pockets. I could hear him behind me, calling out pitifully for Jackson, so I reckoned it was too late to go back and find them now.

So I had only two shots. I would need to make both of them count. I closed the gun once more and pushed the safety catch to off.

If I wanted to draw Jackson and Alex away from my mother, I would have to reveal my position, something that was utterly alien to any infantryman.

The headlights were still shining brightly down the back of the stables towards the muck heap, but I wasn't there anymore. I was about forty yards away, where the driveway met the turning circle near the house. I could see the car clearly from where I stood; at least I could see the headlights but from side-on.

How could I attract attention to myself?

I lifted the shotgun to my shoulder and fired one of my precious cartridges at the car. At this range the shot wouldn't penetrate the vehicle's skin, although it might just break a window. However, one thing was for sure, Alex Reece in the car would certainly know all about it.

I could hear Jackson shouting. Perhaps he had been too close to the shot for comfort. But did I care? Now they would know exactly where I was, and the car was already turning my way.

I purposely lingered a moment too long, just long enough, in fact, for the headlight beams to fall on my departing back. I weaved in the light for a split second before diving once more into the darkness down the side of the house. A shot rang out, but I was already safely protected around the corner.

I moved swiftly, grateful that I had made an extensive reconnaissance here the previous Thursday. I knew that the concrete path alongside the exterior walls ran completely around the rectangular building, the only obstacle being a small gate at one of the back corners.

In no time, I had completed the circuit and approached the front of the house again, but now I was behind the car, its headlamps still blazing towards where I had been just seconds before. In the glow I could see Jackson creeping forwards towards the corner, his gun raised to his shoulder, ready to fire.

The driver's door of the car suddenly opened, and Alex stood up next to the vehicle, facing away from me, watching Jackson intently.

I moved slowly forwards, being very careful to be as silent as possible in my basketball boots on the loose gravel. Alex would have certainly heard me if the engine of the car hadn't been left running. As it was, I was able to approach him completely undetected.

He was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and a large woolen cap.

I lifted the shotgun and placed the ends of the barrels firmly onto the bare skin visible just beneath his left ear.

"Move an inch and you will die," I said to him in my best voice-of-command. But he immediately disobeyed me and turned around. But when I saw his face I realized I'd been so wrong, the car driver wasn't Alex Reece, as I'd thought.

"Hello, Tom," said Isabella.

I was stunned. I lowered the barrels.

"But why?" I asked.

"I'm so sorry," she said in answer.

"Was it you who unlocked the gates?" I asked her.

She seemed surprised that I knew, but she nodded. "Jackson was in Gibraltar."

It had been a VW Golf that I had seen that night. Perhaps I had been subconsciously convincing myself ever since that it hadn't been Isabella's car, but it had.

"Why didn't you come and help me?"

All the misery of those three days in the stable floated into my mind.

She looked down at her feet. "Because I didn't know that you were there, not last week. I only found out tonight when I heard Peter talking about it, and how he couldn't believe you'd managed to escape." She gulped. "Jackson just phoned home on Thursday and asked me to unlock the gates."

I wanted to believe her, but then why was she driving the car here tonight? She couldn't claim now that she didn't know what was going on, not with Warren and Garraway running around with guns.

"Why are you here?" I asked. "Why are you doing this?"

She looked back up at my face and then towards Jackson. "Because I love him," she said. It was almost an apology.

I too looked at Jackson, who was still inching carefully away from me towards the corner of the house, oblivious to the fact that I was standing behind him next to the car. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to shoot him, to kill him in revenge for what his greed had done to us all. And he was not a prisoner but an armed enemy combatant. There were no Value and Standards concerns here. I lifted the gun and aimed.

"No," Isabella screamed, grabbing the barrels.

Jackson turned towards the noise, but he would have been unable to see anything, as he would be looking straight into the headlights. But he started to move back towards the car.

I threw Isabella to the ground and again raised the shotgun towards Jackson, but I hadn't bargained on Isabella's panic-driven determination. She grabbed my knees like a rugby player and pushed against the car, forcing me backwards over onto the gravel.

One of the huge disadvantages of having an artificial leg is that it seriously hampers recovery from a horizontal position, as it's impossible to bend the knee sufficiently. I rolled over on the gravel to be facedown and drew my good leg under me, but Isabella had been quicker.

She was already on her feet, and she wrenched the shotgun from my hand, stamping on my wrist for good measure.

How embarrassing, I thought, to be disarmed by a woman. Perhaps the major from the ministry had been right all along.

But Isabella didn't turn the gun on me, she simply ran away with it while I struggled to my feet, using the car door handle to pull me up.

A shot rang out. It was very close.

I turned quickly to see Jackson running towards a figure lying very still on the ground in the light from the headlights, a figure whose hat had come off, revealing long blond hair, hair that was already soaking up an ever-increasing pool of bright red blood.

In another incident of what the military euphemistically call "friendly fire," Jackson Warren had killed Isabella.

He sank down onto his knees beside her, dropping his gun onto the gravel alongside the one that Isabella had been carrying. I walked the few yards from the car and picked up both weapons. I unloaded their second barrels, placing the unfired cartridges in my pocket. There had been enough shooting for one night. In fact, there had been far too much.

Jackson turned his head slightly to see me.

"I thought it was you," he said. He made it sound like an excuse, as if shooting me would have been acceptable. He turned back and cradled his wife's lifeless head on his lap. "I'd told her to stay in the car. I saw someone running with a gun." He looked up at me again, now with tears in his eyes. "I just assumed it was you."

He should have checked.