No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Frank Palmer drove his Saab through the village and past the entrance to Colebrooke House. A line of police tape was stretched across the gateway, with a metal sign warning visitors to stay out.

He turned the car round and drove back. Across the road from the entrance, he spotted a narrow, disused track overhung with the branches of a horse chestnut tree. He stopped and reversed until the car was hidden beneath the foliage, then turned off the engine and climbed out, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark.

He slipped across the road and over a section of dry-stone wall, and padded through the trees parallel with the long driveway. There was no sound save for the wind in the branches, the flapping of a pigeon somewhere overhead and the bark of a fox in the distance.

He reached the edge of the tree line and studied the house. The building was in darkness, but the ground security lights along the front threw up an unearthly glow across the walls and windows. In contrast to the glamour and glitz of the wedding party, the effect was cold and unwelcoming, as if all life had been sucked out, leaving a skeleton in its place.

He waited five minutes, totally immobile. Satisfied he was unobserved, he slid along the tree line to his left and crossed the drive, towards the rear of the house. If it turned out he was wrong, and Henzigger and his men were already here, their vehicles would be in evidence somewhere.

No cars.

He jogged back to the Saab, hugging the trees. He might need a fast exit from here, and his car was too far for a quick getaway. He climbed in and drove out of the track and straight for the main gate.

He slowed before the tape, steering past the police sign and allowing the plastic strip to slide up the bonnet and over the roof. It was a tight stretch, but he made it without snapping it. He doubted if the local police had the resources to send an officer to check the place around the clock, but leaving signs of a forced entry would certainly be enough to raise the alarm if one happened along. And Henzigger could read those signs just like anyone else.

He followed the drive to the rear of the house, pulling in alongside an old coach-house that was now used as a maintenance workshop. He edged the car back out of sight and went to check the house and surrounding gardens.

Ten minutes later, he’d covered the grounds and stables, and was about to try the house when he heard the hum of vehicles approaching. Headlights flared across the front of the house as two cars barrelled up the drive, spitting gravel. They skidded to a stop near the front door and a tall figure carrying a shiny briefcase jumped out of the first one, issuing orders.

Palmer guessed it was Henzigger.

The American was joined by three armed men. One was carrying a large canvas bag, grunting with effort. The other two men reached into the second car and dragged a figure from the rear seat, bundling him roughly towards the side of the house under Henzigger’s directions. The man was having trouble walking and had to be supported by the others.

In the glow of the security lights, Palmer recognised Sir Kenneth Myburghe.

He followed their progress to the rear of the house, where they pushed Sir Kenneth down against the wall. He sat uncomplaining, his head lolling back against the brickwork, and Palmer guessed they had sedated him.

Henzigger issued orders in Spanish, and two of the men ran across the gardens carrying the canvas bag between them. None of the motion-detector lights came on, and Palmer realised they must have been disabled. The men disappeared from sight, to reappear moments later in the distance, now several yards apart. As they ran, they each set something down on the ground, following parallel lines running from the house to the woods in the distance. As each object was left, it was glowing brightly.

They were laying out a landing strip.

Palmer was surprised. It looked far too short a space for a plane to land and take off. If the pilot misjudged his approach and speed even by a fraction, he’d hit the house or the trees. Unless, he reflected, it wasn’t the first time they’d done it. It explained why the security lights at the back had been disabled: the glare would have interfered too much with the pilot’s night vision.

The two men returned, the canvas bag discarded, their breathing laboured. Behind them, the twin line of lights curved away down the slope across the open ground.

Palmer thought about what he could do to stop the plane taking off once it landed. His options were limited. Four armed men were suicidal odds, and he wasn’t keen on ending his life just yet. He might be able to stop the plane physically, but that would mean using his car to ram it. And unless he timed it just right for when all the men were on board, that still placed him in danger of being riddled with gunfire in the process.

He stayed where he was. He’d deal with that problem when it happened

Henzigger, meanwhile, was pacing up and down, glancing repeatedly at his watch. He seemed in a state of high anxiety, his movements erratic. At one point he took out a mobile phone and made a call. Whatever the response, he clearly wasn’t happy, because he took the phone away from his ear and swore at the top of his voice: ‘God damn you to hell!’

His men were looking at him nervously. One of them asked a question. The reply was furious and curt, and the three Colombians exchanged looks and began shuffling their feet. Palmer didn’t need a translator to know they’d been given bad news.

The plane wasn’t coming.

Henzigger waited another fifteen minutes, staring up at the sky. Then he walked over to where Myburghe was still lying slumped against the wall. He said something to the former diplomat, but Palmer couldn’t hear. Then he bent down and cuffed the older man savagely about the head. When there was no response, he followed it with a vicious kick to the ribs and a torrent of abuse in Spanish and English. The assault ceased only when Myburghe toppled over sideways and lay still.

Palmer watched, gritting his teeth. He felt sickened by such casual brutality. He had little sympathy for Myburghe; having got into bed with these people for his own ends, the diplomat was now having to experience the down side of the arrangement. Even so, it took all Palmer’s self-control not to go out there and give Henzigger some of his own medicine.

The American turned and gave instructions to his men. They reluctantly dragged Myburghe off the ground and hustled him indoors. It was clear they would sooner have left him there, but Henzigger clearly had further use of him. He followed, his phone clamped to his ear.

Palmer waited until they were out of sight, then slipped round to the front of the house. The lights here were now dead, too, and he supposed one of the men must have come round to knock them out as a precaution.

The two cars had been left with their doors open. Making sure he wasn’t being observed, Palmer leaned in and took out the keys, then hurled them away into the darkness.

He made his way back to the maintenance workshop and rooted around in the dark until he found what he needed. It was time to prepare a diversion and reduce the numbers.

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