High Citadel

I

Aguillar looked dispassionately at a small cut on his hand — one of many — from which the blood was oozing. I will never be a mechanic, he thought; I can guide people, but not machines. He laid down the broken piece of hacksaw blade and wiped away the blood, then sucked the wound. When the blood ceased to flow he picked up the blade and got to work on the slot he was cutting in the length of steel reinforcing rod.

He had made ten bolts for the crossbows, or at least he had slotted them and put in the metal flights. To sharpen them was beyond his powers; he could not turn the old grindstone and sharpen a bolt at the same time, but he was confident that, given another pair of hands, the ten bolts would be usable within the hour.

He had also made an inventory of the contents of the camp, checked the food supplies and the water, and in general had behaved like any army quartermaster. He had a bitter-sweet feeling about being sent to the camp. He recognized that he was no use in a fight; he was old and weak and had heart trouble — but there was more to it than that. He knew that he was a man of ideas and not a man of action, and the fact irked him, making him feel inadequate.

His sphere of action lay in the making of decisions and in administration; in order to get into a position to make valid decisions and to have something to administer he had schemed and plotted and manipulated the minds of men, but he had never fought physically. He did not believe in fighting, but hitherto he had thought about it in the abstract and in terms of large-scale conflicts. This sudden plunge into the realities of death by battle had led him out of his depth.

So here he was, the eternal politician, with others, as always, doing the fighting and dying and suffering — even his own niece. As he thought of Benedetta the blade slipped and he cut his hand again. He muttered a brief imprecation and sucked the blood, then looked at the slot he had cut and decided it was deep enough. There would be no more bolts; the teeth of the hacksaw blade were worn smooth and would hardly cut cheese, let alone steel.

He fitted the flight into the slot, wedging it as Willis had shown him, and then put the unsharpened bolt with the others. It was strange, he thought, that night was falling so suddenly, and went out of the hut to be surprised by the deepening mist. He looked up towards the mountains, now hidden from sight, and felt deep sorrow as he thought of Rohde. And of Forester, yes — he must not forget Forester and the other norteamericano, Peabody.

Faintly from the river he head the sound of small-arms fire and his ears pricked. Was that a machine-gun? He had heard that sound when Lopez and the army had ruthlessly tightened their grip on Cordillera five years earlier, and he did not think he was mistaken. He listened again but it was only some freak of the mountain winds that had brought the sound to his ears and he heard nothing more. He hoped that it was not a machine-gun — the dice were already loaded enough.

He sighed and went back into the hut and selected a can of soup from the shelf for his belated midday meal. He had just finished eating the hot soup half an hour later when he heard his niece calling him. He went out of the hut, tightening his coat against the cold air, and found that the mist was very much thicker. He shouted to Benedetta to let her know where he was and soon a dim figure loomed through the fog, a strange figure, misshapen and humped, and for a moment he felt fear.

Then he saw that it was Benedetta supporting someone and he ran forward to help her. She was breathing painfully and gasped, ‘It’s Jenny, she’s hurt.’

‘Hurt? How?’

‘She was shot,’ said Benedetta briefly.

He was outraged. ‘This American lady — shot! This is criminal.’

‘Help me take her inside,’ said Benedetta. They got Miss Ponsky into the hut and laid her in a bunk. She was conscious and smiled weakly as Benedetta tucked in a blanket, then closed her eyes in relief. Benedetta looked at her uncle. ‘She killed a man and helped to kill others — why shouldn’t she be shot at? I wish I were like her.’

Aguillar looked at her with pain in his eyes. He said slowly, ‘I find all this difficult to believe. I feel as though I am in a dream. Why should these people shoot a woman?’

‘They didn’t know she was a woman,’ said Benedetta impatiently. ‘And I don’t suppose they cared. She was shooting at them when it happened, anyway. I wish I could kill some of them.’ She looked up at Aguillar. ‘Oh, I know you always preach the peaceful way, but how can you be peaceful when someone is coming at you with a gun? Do you bare your breast and say, “Kill me and take all I have”?’

Aguillar did not answer. He looked down at Miss Ponsky and said, ‘Is she badly hurt?’

‘Not dangerously,’ said Benedetta. ‘But she has lost a lot of blood.’ She paused. ‘As we were coming up the road I heard a machine-gun.’

He nodded. ‘I thought I heard it — but I was not sure.’ He held her eyes. ‘Do you think they are across the bridge?’

‘They might be,’ said Benedetta steadily. ‘We must prepare. Have you made bolts? Tim has the crossbow and he will need them.’

‘Tim? Ah... O’Hara.’ He raised his eyebrows slightly, then said, ‘The bolts need sharpening.’

‘I will help you.’

She turned the crank on the grindstone while Aguillar sharpened the steel rods to a point. As he worked he said, ‘O’Hara is a strange man — a complicated man. I do not think I fully understand him.’ He smiled slightly. ‘That is an admission from me.’

‘I understand him — now,’ she said. Despite the cold, a film of sweat formed on her forehead as she turned the heavy crank.

‘So? You have talked with him?’

While the showers of sparks flew and the acrid stink of burning metal filled the air she told Aguillar about O’Hara and his face grew pinched as he heard the story. ‘That is the enemy,’ she said at length. ‘The same who are on the other side of the river.’

Aguillar said in a low voice, ‘There is so much evil in the world — so much evil in the hearts of men.’

They said nothing more until all the bolts were sharpened and then Benedetta said, ‘I am going out on the road. Will you watch Jenny?’

He nodded silently and she walked along the street between the two rows of huts. The mist was getting even thicker so that she could not see very far ahead, and tiny droplets of moisture condensed on the fabric of her coat. If it gets colder it will snow, she thought.

It was very quiet on the road, and very lonely. She did not hear a sound except for the occasional splash of a drop of water falling from a rock. It was as though being in the middle of a cloud was like being wrapped in cotton-wool; this was very dirty cotton-wool, but she had done enough flying to know that from above the cloud bank would be clean and shining.

After some time she walked off the road and crossed the rocky hillside until the gigantic cable drum loomed through the mist. She paused by the enormous reel, then went forward to the road cutting and looked down. The road surface was barely visible in the pervading greyness and she stood there uncertainly, wondering what to do. Surely there was something she could be doing.

Fire, she thought suddenly, we can fight them with fire. The drum was already poised to crash into a vehicle coming up the road, and fire would add to the confusion. She hurried back to the camp and collected the bottles of paraffin she had brought back from the bridge, stopping briefly to see how Miss Ponsky was.

Aguillar looked up as she came in. ‘There is soup,’ he said. ‘It will be good in this cold, my dear.’

Benedetta spread her hands gratefully to the warmth of the paraffin heater, and was aware that she was colder than she had thought. ‘I would like some soup,’ she said. She looked over to Miss Ponsky. ‘How are you, Jenny?’

Miss Ponsky, now sitting up, said briskly, ‘Much better, thank you. Wasn’t it silly of me to get shot? I shouldn’t have leaned out so far — and then I missed. And I lost the bow.’

‘I would not worry,’ said Benedetta with a quick smile. ‘Does your shoulder hurt?’

‘Not much,’ said Miss Ponsky. ‘It will be all right if I keep my arm in a sling. Señor Aguillar helped me to make one.’

Benedetta finished her soup quickly and mentioned the bottles, which she had left outside. ‘I must take them up to the road,’ she said.

‘Let me help you,’ said Aguillar.

‘It is too cold out there, tio,’ she said. ‘Stay with Jenny.’

She took the bottles down to the cable drum and then sat on the edge of the cutting, listening. A wind was rising and the mist swirled in wreaths and coils, thinning and thickening in the vagaries of the breeze. Sometimes she could see as far as the bend in the road, and at other times she could not see the road at all although it was only a few feet below her. And everything was quiet.

She was about to leave, sure that nothing was going to happen, when she heard the faint clatter of a rock from far down the mountain. She felt a moment of apprehension and scrambled to her feet. The others would not be coming unless they were in retreat, and in that case it could just as well be an enemy as a friend. She turned and picked up one of the bottles and felt for matches in her pocket.

It was a long time before she heard anything else and then it was the thud of running feet on the road. The mist had thinned momentarily and she saw a dim figure come round the bend and up the road at a stumbling run. As the figure came closer she saw that it was Willis.

‘What is happening?’ she called.

He looked up, startled to hear a voice from above his head and in a slight panic until he recognized it. He stopped, his chest heaving, and went into a fit of coughing. ‘They’ve come across,’ he gasped. ‘They broke across.’ He coughed again, rackingly. ‘The others are just behind me,’ he said. ‘I heard them running — unless...’

‘You’d better come up here,’ she said.

He looked up at Benedetta, vaguely outlined at the top of the fifteen-foot cutting. ‘I’ll come round by the road,’ he said, and began to move away at a fast walk.

By the time he joined her she had already heard someone else coming up the road, and remembering Willis’s unless, she lay down by the edge and grasped the bottle. It was Armstrong, coming up at a fast clip. ‘Up here,’ she called. ‘To the drum.’

He cast a brief glance upwards but wasted no time in greeting, nor did he slacken his pace. She watched him go until he was lost in the mist and waited for him to join them.

They were both exhausted, having made the five-mile journey uphill in a little over an hour and a half. She let them rest a while and get their breath before she asked them, ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Willis. ‘We were on the trebuchet; we’d let fly when O’Hara told us to — it was ready loaded — and then he yelled for us to clear out, so we took it on the run. There was a devil of a lot of noise going on — a lot of shooting, I mean.’

She looked at Armstrong. He said, ‘That’s about it. I think O’Hara got one of them — I heard a man scream in a choked sort of way. But they came across the bridge; I saw them as I looked back — and I saw O’Hara run into the rocks. He should be along any minute now.’

She sighed with relief.

Willis said, ‘And he’ll have the whole pack of them on his heels. What the hell are we going to do?’ There was a hysterical note in his voice.

Armstrong was calmer. ‘I don’t think so. O’Hara and I talked about this and we came to the conclusion that they’ll play it safe and repair the bridge while they can, and then run jeeps up to the mine before we can get there.’ He looked up at the cable drum. ‘This is all we’ve got to stop them.’

Benedetta held up the bottle. ‘And some of these.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Armstrong approvingly. ‘Those should help.’ He thought a little. ‘There’s not much your uncle can do — or Miss Ponsky. I suggest that they get started for the mine right now — and if they hear anyone or anything coming up the road behind them to duck into the rocks until they’re sure it’s safe. Thank God for this mist.’

Benedetta did not stir and he said, ‘Will you go and tell them?’

She said, ‘I’m staying here. I want to fight.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Willis. He got up and faded into the mist.

Armstrong caught the desperate edge in Benedetta’s voice and patted her hand in a kindly, fatherly manner. ‘We all have to do the best we can,’ he said. ‘Willis is frightened, just as I am, and you are, I’m sure.’ His voice was grimly humorous. ‘O’Hara was talking to me about the situation back at the bridge and I gathered he didn’t think much of Willis. He said he wasn’t a leader — in fact, his exact words were, “He couldn’t lead a troop of boy scouts across a street.” I think he was being a bit hard on poor Willis — but, come to that, I gathered that he didn’t think much of me either, from the tone of his voice.’ He laughed.

‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it,’ said Benedetta. ‘He has been under a strain.’

‘Oh, he was right,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’m no man of action. I’m a man of ideas, just like Willis.’

‘And my uncle,’ said Benedetta. She sat up suddenly. ‘Where is Tim? He should have been here by now.’ She clutched Armstrong’s arm. ‘Where is he?’

II

O’Hara was lying in a crack in the rocks watching a pair of stout boots that stamped not more than two feet from his head, and trying not to cough. Events had been confused just after the rush across the bridge, he had not been able to get to the road — he would have been cut down before going ten yards in the open — so he had taken to the rocks, scuttling like a rabbit for cover.

It was then that he had slipped on a mist-wetted stone and turned his ankle, to come crashing to the ground. He had lain there with all the wind knocked out of him, expecting to feel the thud of bullets that would mean his death, but nothing like that happened. He heard a lot of shouting and knew his analysis of the enemy intentions had proved correct; they were spreading out along the edge of the gorge and covering the approaches to the bridge.

The mist helped, of course. He still had the crossbow and was within hearing distance of the noisy crowd which surrounded the man he had shot through the chest. He judged that they did not relish the task of winkling out a man with a silent killing weapon from the hillside, especially when death could come from the mist. There was a nervous snapping edge to the voices out there and he smiled grimly; knives they knew and guns they understood, but this was something different, something they regarded with awe.

He felt his ankle. It was swollen and painful and he wondered if it would bear his weight, but this was neither the time nor the place to stand. He took his small pocket-knife and slit his trousers, cutting a long strip. He did not take off his shoe because he knew he would not be able to get it on again, so he tied the strip of cloth tightly around the swelling and under the instep of his shoe, supporting his ankle.

He was so intent on this that he did not see the man approach. The first indication was the slither of a kicked pebble and he froze rigid. From the corner of his eye he saw the man standing sideways to him, looking back towards the bridge. O’Hara kept very still, except for his arm which groped for a handy-sized rock. The man scratched his ribs in a reflective sort of way, moved on and was lost in the mist.

O’Hara let loose his pent-up breath in a silent sigh and prepared to move. He had the crossbow and three bolts which had a confounded tendency to clink together unless he was careful. He slid forward on his belly, worming his way among the rocks, trying to go upwards, away from the bridge. Again he was warned of imminent peril by the rattle of a rock and he rolled into a crack between two boulders and then he saw the boots appear before his face and struggled with a tickle in his throat, fighting to suppress the cough.

The man stamped his feet noisily and beat his hands together, breathing heavily. Suddenly he turned with a clatter of boots and O’Hara heard the metallic snap as a safety-catch went off. ‘Quien?’

‘Santos.’

O’Hara recognized the voice of the Cuban. So his name was Santos — he’d remember that and look him up if he ever got out of this mess.

The man put the rifle back on safety and Santos said in Spanish, ‘See anything?’

‘Nothing.’

Santos grunted in his throat. ‘Keep moving; go up the hill — they won’t hang about here.’

The other man said, ‘The Russian said we must stay down here.’

‘To hell with him,’ growled Santos. ‘If he had not interfered we would have old Aguillar in our hands right now. Move up the hill — and get the others going too.’

The other did not reply but obediently moved off, and O’Hara heard him climbing higher. Santos stayed only a moment and then clattered away noisily in his steel-shod boots, and again O’Hara let out his breath softly.

He waited a while and thought of what to do next. If Santos was moving the men away up the hill, then his obvious course was to go down. But the enemy seemed to be divided into two factions and the Russian might still have kept some men below. Still, he would have to take that chance.

He slid out of the crack and began to crawl back the way he had come, inching his way along on his belly and being careful of his injured ankle. He was pleased to see that the mist was thickening and through it he heard shouts from the bridge and the knocking of steel on wood. They were getting on with their repairs and traffic in the vicinity of the bridge would be heavy, so it was a good place to stay away from. He wanted to find a lone man far away from his fellows and preferably armed to the teeth. A crossbow was all very well, but he could do with something that had a faster rate of fire.

He altered course and headed for the trebuchet, stopping every few yards to listen and to peer through the mist. As he approached he heard laughter and a few derogatory comments shouted in Spanish. There was a crowd round the trebuchet and apparently they found it a humorous piece of machinery. He stopped and cocked the crossbow awkwardly, using the noise of the crowd as cover for any clinkings he might make. Then he crawled closer and took cover behind a boulder.

Presently he heard the bull-roar of Santos. ‘Up the hill, you lot. In the name of Jesus, what are you doing wasting time here? Juan, you stay here; the rest of you get moving.’

O’Hara flattened behind the boulder as the men moved off to the accompaniment of many grumbles. None of them came close to him, but he waited a few minutes before he began to crawl in a wide circle round the trebuchet, looking for the man left on guard. The bridge was illuminated by headlights and their glow lit the mist with a ghostly radiance, and at last he crept up on the guard who was just in the right position — silhouetted against the light.

Juan, the guard, was very young — not more than twenty — and O’Hara hesitated. Then he steeled himself because there was more at stake here than the life of a misguided youth. He lifted the crossbow and aimed carefully, then hesitated again, his finger on the trigger. His hesitation this time was for a different reason; Juan was playing soldiers, strutting about with his sub-machine-gun at the ready, and, O’Hara suspected, with the safety-catch off. He remembered the man he had shot by the bridge and how a full magazine had emptied in a dead hand, so he waited, not wanting any noise when he pulled the trigger.

At last Juan got tired of standing sentry and became more interested in the trebuchet. He leaned over to look at the mechanism which held down the long arm, found his gun in his way and let it fall to be held by the shouldersling. He never knew what hit him as the heavy bolt struck him between the shoulders at a range of ten yards. It knocked him forward against the long arm, the bolt protruding through his chest and skewering him to the baulk of timber. He was quite dead when O’Hara reached him.

Ten minutes later O’Hara was again esconced among the rocks, examining his booty. He had the sub-machine-gun, three full magazines of ammunition, a loaded pistol and a heavy broad-bladed knife. He grinned in satisfaction — now he was becoming dangerous, he had got himself some sharp teeth.

III

Benedetta, Armstrong and Willis waited in the cold mist by the cable drum. Willis fidgeted, examining the wedge-shaped chock that prevented the drum from rolling on to the road and estimated the amount of force needed to free it when the time came. But Benedetta and Armstrong were quite still, listening intently for any sound that might come up the hill.

Armstrong was thinking that they would have to be careful; any person coming up might be O’Hara and they would have to make absolutely sure before jumping him, something that would be difficult in this mist. Benedetta’s mind was emptied of everything except a deep sorrow. Why else was O’Hara not at the camp unless he were dead, or worse, captured? She knew his feelings about being captured again and she knew he would resist that, come what may. That made the likelihood of his being dead even more certain, and something within her died at the thought.

Aguillar had been difficult about retreating to the mine. He had wanted to stay and fight, old and unfit as he was, but Benedetta had overruled him. His eyes had widened in surprise as he heard the incisive tone of command in her voice. ‘There are only three of us fit to fight,’ she said. ‘We can’t spare one to help Jenny up to the mine. Someone must help her and you are the one. Besides, it is even higher up there than here, remember — you will have to go slowly so you must get away right now.’

Aguillar glanced at the other two men. Willis was morosely kicking at the ground and Armstrong smiled slightly, and Aguillar saw that they were content to let Benedetta take the lead and give the orders in the absence of O’Hara. She has turned into a young Amazon, he thought; a raging young lioness. He went up to the mine road with Miss Ponsky without further argument.

Willis stopped fiddling with the chock. ‘Where are they?’ he demanded in a high voice. ‘Why don’t they come and get it over with?’

Benedetta glanced at Armstrong who said, ‘Quiet! Not so loud.’

‘All right,’ said Willis, whispering. ‘But what’s keeping them from attacking us?’

‘We have already discussed that,’ said Benedetta. She turned to Armstrong. ‘Do you think we can defend the camp?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s indefensible. We haven’t a hope. If we can block the road, our next step is to retreat to the mine.’

‘Then the camp must be burned,’ said Benedetta decisively. ‘We must not leave it to give comfort and shelter to them.’ She looked at Willis. ‘Go back and splash kerosene in the huts — all of them. And when you hear noise and shooting from here, set everything on fire.’

‘And then what?’ he asked.

‘Then you make your way up to the mine as best you can.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I would not come up this way again — go straight up and find the road at a higher level. We will be coming up too — as fast as we can.’

Willis withdrew and she said to Armstrong, ‘That one is frightened. He tries to hide it, but it shows. I cannot trust him here.’

‘I’m frightened too. Aren’t you?’ asked Armstrong curiously.

‘I was,’ she said. ‘I was afraid when the airplane crashed and for a long time afterwards. My bones were jelly — my legs were weak at the thought of fighting and dying. Then I had a talk with Tim and he taught me not to be that way.’ She paused. ‘That was when he told me how frightened he was.’

‘What a damned silly situation this is,’ said Armstrong in wonder. ‘Here we are waiting to kill men whom we don’t know and who don’t know us. But that’s always the way in a war, of course.’ He grinned. ‘But it is damned silly all the same; a middle-aged professor and a young woman lurking on a mountain with murderous intent. I think—’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘Hush!’

He listened. ‘What is it?’

‘I thought I heard something.’

They lay quietly, their ears straining and hearing nothing but the sough of the wind on the mist-shrouded mountain. Then Benedetta’s hand tightened on his arm as she heard, far away, the characteristic sound of a gear change. ‘Tim was right,’ she whispered. ‘They’re coming up in a truck or a jeep. We must get ready.’

‘I’ll release the drum,’ Armstrong said. ‘You stay on the edge here, and give a shout when you want it to go.’ He scrambled to his feet and ran back to the drum.

Benedetta ran along the edge of the cutting where she had placed the Molotov cocktails. She lit the wicks of three of them and each flamed with a halo in the mist. The rags, slightly damp with exposure, took a long time to catch alight well. She did not think their light could be seen from the road below; nevertheless, she put them well back from the edge.

The vehicle was labouring heavily, the engine coughing in the thin air. Twice it stopped and she heard the revving of the self-starter. This was no supercharged engine designed for high-altitude operation and the vehicle could not be making more than six or seven miles an hour up the steep slopes of the road. But it was moving much faster than a man could climb under the same conditions.

Benedetta lay on the edge of the cutting and looked down the road towards the bend. The mist was too thick to see that far and she hoped the vehicle had lights strong enough to give her an indication of its position. The growlings of the engine increased and then faded as the vehicle twisted and turned round the hairpin bends, and she thought she heard a double note as of two engines. One or two, she thought; it does not matter.

Armstrong crouched by the cable drum, grasping the short length of electric wire which was fastened to the chock. He peered towards the cutting but saw nothing but a blank wall of grey mist. His face was strained as he waited.

Down the road Benedetta saw a faint glow at the corner of the road and knew that the first vehicle was coming up on the other side of the bend. She glanced back to see if the paraffin wicks were still burning, then turned back and saw two misty eyes of headlamps as the first vehicle made the turn. She had already decided when to shout to Armstrong — a rock was her mark and when the headlights drew level with it, that was the time.

She drew her breath as the engine coughed and died away and the jeep — for through the mist she could now see what it was — drew to a halt. There was a whine from the starter and the jeep began to move again. Behind it two more headlights came into view as a second vehicle pulled round the bend.

Then the headlights of the jeep were level with the rock, and she jumped up, shouting, ‘Now! Now! Now!’

There was a startled shout from below as she turned and grabbed the paraffin bottles, easy to see as they flamed close at hand. There was a rumble as the drum plunged forward and she looked up to see it charging down the slope like a juggernaut to crash over the side of the cutting.

She heard the smash and rending of metal and a man screamed. Then she ran back to the edge and hurled a bottle into the confusion below.

The heavy drum had dropped fifteen feet on to the front of the jeep, crushing the forepart entirely and killing the driver. The bottle broke beside the dazed passenger in the wrecked front seat and the paraffin ignited in a great flare and he screamed again, beating at the flames that enveloped him and trying to release his trapped legs. The two men in the back tumbled out and ran off down the road towards the truck coming up behind.

Armstrong ran up to Benedetta just as she threw the second bottle. He had two more in his hand which he lit from the flaming wick of the remaining one and ran along the edge of the cutting towards the truck, which had drawn to a halt. There was a babble of shouts from below and a couple of wild shots which came nowhere near him as he stood on the rim and looked into the truck full of men.

Deliberately he threw one bottle hard at the top of the cab. It smashed and flaming paraffin spread and dripped down past the open window and there came an alarmed cry from the driver. The other bottle he tossed into the body of the truck and in the flickering light he saw the mad scramble to get clear. No one had the time or inclination to shoot at him.

He ran back to Benedetta who was attempting to light another bottle, her hand shaking and her breath coming in harsh gasps. Exertion and the reaction of shock were taking equal toll of her fortitude. ‘Enough,’ he panted. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ As he spoke, there was an explosion and a great flaring light from the jeep and he grinned tightly. ‘That wasn’t paraffin — that was petrol. Come on.’

As they ran they saw a glow from the direction of the camp — and then another and another. Willis was doing his job of arson.

IV

O’Hara’s ankle was very painful. Before making his move up the hill he had rebound it, trying to give it some support, but it still could not bear his full weight. It made clambering among the rocks difficult and he made more noise than he liked.

He was following the line of beaters that Santos had organized and luckily they were making more noise than he as they stumbled and fell about in the mist, and he thought they weren’t making too good a job of it. He had his own troubles; the crossbow and the sub-machine-gun together were hard to handle and he thought of discarding the bow, but then thought better of it. It was a good, silent weapon and he still had two bolts.

He had a shock when he heard the roar of Santos ordering his men to return to the road and he shrank behind a boulder in case any of the men came his way. None did, and he smiled as he thought of the note of exasperation in Santos’s voice. Apparently the Russian was getting his own way after all, and he was certain of it when he heard the engines start up from the direction of the bridge.

That was what they should have done in the first place — this searching of the mountain in the mist was futile. The Russian was definitely a better tactician than Santos; he had not fallen for their trick of promising to give up Aguillar, and now he was preparing to ram his force home to the mine.

O’Hara grimaced as he wondered what would happen at the camp.

Now that the mountainside ahead of him was clear of the enemy he made better time, and deliberately stayed as close as he could to the road. Soon he heard the groan of engines again and knew that the communist mechanized division was on its way. He saw the headlights as a jeep and a truck went past and he paused, listening for what was coming next. Apparently that was all, so he boldly stepped out on to the road and started to hobble along on the smooth surface.

He thought it was safe enough; he could hear if another truck came up behind and there was plenty of time to take cover. Still, as he walked he kept close to the edge of the road, the sub-machine-gun at the ready and his eyes carefully scanning the greyness ahead.

It took him a very long time to get anywhere near the camp and long before that he heard a few scattered shots and what sounded like an explosion, and he thought he could detect a glow up the mountain but was not sure whether his eyes were playing tricks. He redoubled his caution, which was fortunate, because presently he heard the thud of boots ahead of him and he slipped in among the rocks on the roadside sweating with exertion.

A man clattered past at a dead run, and O’Hara heard the wheezing of his breath. He stayed hidden until there was nothing more to be heard, then came on to the road again and resumed his hobbling climb. Half an hour later he heard the sound of an engine from behind him and took cover again and watched a jeep go by at a crawl. He thought he could see the Russian but was not sure, and the jeep had gone by before he thought to raise the gun.

He cursed himself at the missed opportunity. He knew there was no point in killing the rank-and-file indiscriminately — there were too many of them — but if he could knock out the king-pins, then the whole enemy attack would collapse. The Russian and the Cuban would be his targets in future, and all else would be subordinated to the task of getting them in his sights.

He knew that something must have happened up ahead and tried to quicken his pace. The Russian had been sent for and that meant the enemy had run into trouble. He wondered if Benedetta was safe and felt a quick anger at these ruthless men who were harrying them like animals.

As he climbed higher he found that his eyes had not deceived him — there was a definite glow of fire from up ahead, reflected and subdued by the surrounding mist. He stopped and considered. The fire seemed to be localized in two patches; one small patch which seemed to be on the road and another, which was so large that he could not believe it. Then he smiled — of course, that was the camp; the whole bloody place was going up in flames.

He had better give both localities a wide berth, he thought; so he left the road again, intending to cast a wide circle and come upon the road again above the camp. But curiosity drew him back to where the smaller fire was and where he suspected the Russian had gone.

The mist was too thick to see exactly what had happened but from the shouts he gathered that the road was blocked. Hell, he thought; that’s the cutting where Willis was going to dump the cable drum. It looks as though it’s worked. But he could not explain the fire which was now guttering out, so he tried to get closer.

His ankle gave way suddenly and he fell heavily, the crossbow falling from his grasp with a terrifying loud noise as it hit a rock, and he came down hard on his elbow and gasped with pain. He lay there, just by the side of the road and close by the Russian’s jeep, his lips drawn back from his teeth in agony as he tried to suppress the groan which he felt was coming, and waited for the surprised shout of discovery.

But the enemy were making too much noise themselves as they tried to clear the road and O’Hara heard the jeep start up and drive a little way forward. Slowly the pain ebbed away and cautiously he tried to get up, but to his horror he found that his arm seemed to be trapped in a crevice between the rocks. Carefully he pulled and heard the clink as the sub-machine-gun he was holding came up against stone, and he stopped. Then he pushed his arm down and felt nothing.

At any other time he would have found it funny. He was like a monkey that had put its hand in the narrow neck of a bottle to grasp an apple and could not withdraw it without releasing the apple. He could not withdraw his arm without letting go of the gun, and he dared not let it go in case it made a noise. He wriggled cautiously, then stopped as he heard voices from close by.

‘I say my way was best.’ It was the Cuban.

The other voice was flat and hard, speaking in badly-accented Spanish. ‘What did it get you? Two sprained ankles and a broken leg. You were losing men faster than Aguillar could possibly kill them for you. It was futile to think of searching the mountain in this weather. You’ve bungled this right from the start.’

‘Was your way any better?’ demanded Santos in an aggrieved voice. ‘Look at what has happened here — a jeep and a truck destroyed, two men killed and the road blocked. I still say that men on foot are better.’

The other man — the Russian — said coldly, ‘It happened because you are stupid — you came up here as though you were driving through Havana. Aguillar is making you look like a fool, and I think he is right. Look, Santos, here is a pack of defenceless airline passengers and they have held you up four days; they have killed six of your men and you have a lot more wounded and out of action because of your own stupidity. Right from the start you should have made certain of the bridge — you should have been at the mine when Grivas landed the plane — but you bungled even there. Well, I am taking over from now, and when I come to write my report you are not going to look very good in Havana — not to mention Moscow.’

O’Hara heard him walk away and sweated as he tried to free his arm. Here he had the two of them together and he could not do a damn’ thing about it. With one burst he could have killed them both and chanced getting away afterwards, but he was trapped. He heard Santos shuffle his feet indecisively and then walk quickly after the Russian, mumbling as he went.

O’Hara lay there while they hooked up the Russian’s jeep to the burned-out truck and withdrew it, to push it off the road and send it plunging down the mountain. Then they dragged out the jeep and did the same with it, and finally got to work on the cable drum. It took them two hours and, to O’Hara, sweating it out not more than six yards from where they were working, it seemed like two days.

V

Willis struggled to get back his breath as he looked down at the burning camp, thankful for the long hours he had put in at that high altitude previously. He had left Benedetta and Armstrong, glad to get away from the certainty of a hand-to-hand fight, defenceless against the ruthless armed men who were coming to butcher them. He could see no prospect of any success; they had fought for days against tremendous odds and the outlook seemed blacker than ever. He did not relish the fact of his imminent death.

With difficulty he had rolled out the drum of paraffin and went from hut to hut, soaking the interior woodwork as thoroughly as possible. While in the last hut he thought he heard an engine and stepped outside to listen, catching the sound of the grinding of gears.

He struck a match, then paused. Benedetta had told him to wait for the shooting or noise and that had not come yet. But it might take some time for the huts to catch alight properly and, from the expression he had seen on Benedetta’s face, the shooting was bound to come.

He tossed the match near a pool of paraffin and it caught fire in a flare of creeping flame which ran quickly up the woodwork. Hastily he lit the bundle of paraffin-soaked rags he held and ran along the line of huts, tossing them inside. As he reached the end of the first line he heard a distant crash from the road and a couple of shots. Better make this quick, he thought; now’s the time to get out of here.

By the time he left the first line of huts was well aflame, great gouts of fire leaping from the windows. He scrambled up among the rocks above the camp and headed for the road, and when he reached it looked back to see the volcano of the burning camp erupting below. He felt satisfaction at that — he always liked to see a job well done. The mist was too thick to see more than the violent red and yellow glow, but he could make out enough to know that all the huts were well alight and there were no significant gaps. They won’t sleep in there tonight, he thought, and turned to run up the road.

He went on for a long time, stopping occasionally to catch his labouring breath and to listen. He heard nothing once he was out of earshot of the camp. At first he had heard a faint shouting, but now everything was silent on the mountainside apart from the eerie keening of the wind. He did not know whether Armstrong and Benedetta were ahead of him or behind, but he listened carefully for any sound coming from the road below. Hearing nothing, he turned and pushed on again, feeling the first faint intimation of lack of oxygen as he went higher.

He was nearing the mine when he caught up with the others, Armstrong turning on his heels with alarm as he heard Willis’s footsteps. Aguillar and Miss Ponsky were there also, having made very slow progress up the road. Armstrong said, falsely cheerful, ‘Bloody spectacular, wasn’t it?’

Willis stopped, his chest heaving. ‘They’ll be cold tonight — maybe they’ll call off the final attack until tomorrow.’

Armstrong shook his head in the gathering darkness. ‘I doubt it. Their blood is up — they’re close to the kill.’ He looked at Willis, who was panting like a dog. ‘You’d better take it easy and help Jenny here — she’s pretty bad. Benedetta and I can push up to the mine and see what we can do up there.’

Willis stared back. ‘Do you think they’re far behind?’

‘Does it matter?’ asked Benedetta. ‘We fight here or we fight at the mine.’ She absently kissed Aguillar and said something to him in Spanish, then gestured to Armstrong and they went off fairly quickly.

It did not take them long to get to the mine, and as Armstrong surveyed the three huts he said bleakly, ‘These are as indefensible as the camp. However, let’s see what we can do.’

He entered one of the huts and looked about in the gloom despairingly. He touched the wooden wall and thought, bullets will go through these like paper — we’d be better off scattered on the hillside facing death by exposure. He was roused by a cry from Benedetta, so he went outside.

She was holding a piece of paper in her hand and peering at it in the light of a burning wooden torch. She said excitedly, ‘From Forester — they prepared one of the mine tunnels for us.’

Armstrong jerked up his head. ‘Where?’ He took the piece of paper and examined the sketch on it, then looked about. ‘Over there,’ he said pointing.

He found the tunnel and the low wall of rocks which Forester and Rohde had built. ‘Not much, but it’s home,’ he said, looking into the blackness. ‘You’d better go back and bring the others, and I’ll see what it’s like inside.’

By the time they all assembled in the tunnel mouth he had explored it pretty thoroughly with the aid of a smoky torch. ‘A dead end,’ he said. ‘This is where we make our last stand.’ He pulled a pistol from his belt. ‘I’ve still got Rohde’s gun — with one bullet; can anyone shoot better than me?’ He offered the gun to Willis. ‘What about you, General Custer?’

Willis looked at the pistol. ‘I’ve never fired a gun in my life.’

Armstrong sighed. ‘Neither have I, but it looks as though this is my chance.’ He thrust the pistol back in his belt and said to Benedetta, ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

‘Miguel left us some food,’ she said. ‘Enough for a cold meal.’

‘Well, we won’t die hungry,’ said Armstrong sardonically.

Willis made a sudden movement. ‘For God’s sake, don’t talk that way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Armstrong. ‘How are Miss Ponsky and Señor Aguillar?’

‘As well as might be expected,’ said Benedetta bitterly. ‘For a man with a heart condition and an elderly lady with a hole in her shoulder, trying to breathe air that is not there.’ She looked up at Armstrong. ‘You think there is any chance for Tim?’

He averted his head. ‘No,’ he said shortly, and went to the mouth of the tunnel, where he lay down behind the low breastwork of rocks and put the gun beside him. If I wait I might kill someone, he thought; but I must wait until they’re very close.

It was beginning to snow.

VI

It was very quiet by the cutting, although O’Hara could hear voices from farther up the road by the burning camp. There was not much of a glow through the mist now, and he judged that the huts must just about have burned down to their foundations. Slowly he relaxed his hand and let the sub-machine-gun fall. It clattered to the rocks and he pulled up his arm and massaged it.

He felt very damp and cold and wished he had been able to strip the llama-skin coat from the sentry by the trebuchet — young Juan would not have needed it. But it would have taken too long, apart from being a gruesome job, and he had not wanted to waste the time. Now he wished he had taken the chance.

He stayed there, sitting quietly for some time, wondering if anyone had noticed the noise of metal on stone. Then he set himself to retrieve the gun. It took him ten minutes to fish it from the crevice with the aid of the crossbow, and then he set off up the mountain again, steering clear of the road. At least the enforced halt had rested him.

Three more trucks had come up. They had not gone straight up to the mine — not yet; the enemy had indulged in a futile attempt to quench the fires of the flaming camp and that had taken some time. Knowing that the trucks were parked above the camp, he circled so as to come out upon them. His ankle was bad, the flesh soft and puffy, and he knew he could not walk very much farther — certainly not up to the mine. It was in his mind to get himself a truck the same way he got himself a gun — by killing for it.

A crowd of men were climbing into the trucks when he got back to the road and he felt depressed but brightened a little when he saw that only two trucks were being used. The jeep was drawn up alongside and O’Hara heard the Russian giving orders in his pedantic Spanish and fretted because he was not within range. Then the jeep set off up the road and the trucks rolled after it with a crashing of gears, leaving the third parked.

He could not see whether a guard had been left so he began to prowl forward very cautiously. He did not think that there was a guard — the enemy would not think of taking such a precaution, as everyone was supposed to have been driven up to the mine. So he was very shocked when he literally fell over a sentry, who had left his post by the truck and was relieving himself among the rocks by the roadside.

The man grunted in surprise as O’Hara cannoned into him. ‘Cuidado!’ he said, and then looked up. O’Hara dropped both his weapons as the man opened his mouth and clamped the palm of his hand over the other’s jaw before he could shout. They strained against each other silently, O’Hara forcing back the man’s head, his fingers clawing for the vulnerable eyes. His other arm was wrapped around the man’s chest, clutching him tight.

His opponent flailed frantically with both arms and O’Hara knew that he was in no condition for a real knockdown-drag-out fight, with this man. He remembered the knife in his belt and decided to take a chance, depending on swiftness of action to kill the man before he made a noise. He released him suddenly, pushing him away, and his hand went swiftly to his waist. The man staggered and opened his mouth again and O’Hara stepped forward and drove the knife in a straight stab into his chest just below the breast-bone, giving it an upward turn as it went in.

The man coughed in a surprised hiccuping fashion and leaned forward, toppling straight into O’Hara’s arms. As O’Hara lowered him to the ground he gave a deep sigh and died. Breathing heavily, O’Hara plucked out the knife and a gush of hot blood spurted over his hand. He stood for a moment, listening, and then picked up the sub-machine-gun from where he had dropped it. He felt a sudden shock as his finger brushed the safety-catch — it was in the off position; the sudden jar could well have fired a warning shot.

But that was past and he was beyond caring. He knew he was living from minute to minute and past possibilities and actions meant nothing to him. All that mattered was to get up to the mine as quickly as possible — to nail the Cuban and the Russian — and to find Benedetta.

He looked into the cab of the truck and opened the door. It was a big truck and from where he sat when he pulled himself into the cab he could see the dying embers of the camp. He did not see any movement there, apart from a few low flames and a curl of black smoke which was lost immediately in the mist. He turned back, looked ahead and pressed the starter.

The engine fired and he put it into gear and drove up the road, feeling a little light-headed. In a very short space of time he had killed three men, the first he had ever killed face to face, and he was preparing to go on killing for as long as was necessary. His mind had returned to the tautness he remembered from Korea before he had been shot down; all his senses were razor-sharp and his mind emptied of everything but the task ahead.

After a while he switched off the lights. It was risky, but he had to take the chance. There was the possibility that in the mist he could lose the road on one of the bends and go down the mountain out of control; but far worse was the risk that the enemy in the trucks ahead would see him and lay an ambush.

The truck ground on and on and the wheel bucked against his hand as the jolts were transmitted from the road surface. He went as fast as he thought safe, which was really not fast at all, but at last, rounding a particularly hair-raising corner, he saw a red tail-light disappearing round the next bend. At once he slowed down, content to follow at a discreet distance. There was nothing he could do on the road — his time would come at the mine.

He put out his hand to the sub-machine-gun resting on the seat next to him and drew it closer. It felt very comforting.

He reached a bend he remembered, the final corner before the level ground at the mine. He drew into the side of the road and put on the brake, but left the engine running. Taking the gun, he dropped to the ground, wincing as he felt the weight on his bad ankle, and hobbled up the road. From ahead he could hear the roar of engines stopping one by one, and when he found a place from where he could see, he discovered the other trucks parked by the huts and in the glare of headlights he saw the movement of men.

The jeep revved up and started to move, the beams of its lights stabbing through the mist and searching along the base of the cliff where the mine tunnels had been driven. First one black cavern was illuminated and then another, and then there was a raised shout of triumph, a howl of fierce joy, as the beams swept past the third tunnel and returned almost immediately to show a low rock wall at the entrance and the white face of a man who quickly dodged back out of sight.

O’Hara wasted no time in wondering who it was. He hobbled back to his truck and put it in gear. Now was the time to enter that bleak arena.