The Killing Ground

Chapter 14

HAL STONE HAD A MEWS COTTAGE IN CHAPEL LANE, Cambridge, even though his position at Corpus Christi entitled him to rooms at the college. The cottage was somewhere to hide from the incessant demands of students when he was writing a book.

It was a Victorian cottage consisting of three bedrooms, a study, a kitchen and a lovely sitting room, its old-fashioned French windows opening to a garden that was a great pride to him, the garden surrounded by flint walls with a door that led to a back lane.

He was in the kitchen making tea when his phone rang. He answered it, declaring, “Hal Stone has gone away.”

“No, he hasn’t, you daft bastard,” Roper said. “You’ve just got back.”

“Ah, Roper, is that you? You’re not wanting me for anything active again? After Hazar, I need a rest. Indiana Jones I’m not.”

“Don’t worry, old boy, I’m just bringing you up to speed on what’s happened. Just listen.” He went through everything, Hussein’s departure from Hazar with Khazid, what had taken place in Algeria, the stolen floatplane to Majorca, the security film at Palma, the plane to Rennes.

“Well, I see where you’re coming from. It looks like a stage-by-stage progress to England.”

“Where else could it be? No point in bringing the French in because of that plane at Rennes. He would have been out of France to wherever long ago.”

“I still can’t see it, him coming to England, it would be suicide. I mean, his face has been all over the place. Somebody somewhere would be bound to recognize him. He’s hardly had time for plastic surgery.”

“God knows, it’s beyond me, but at night alone in front of the computers and fighting my own personal pain with more whiskey, I look at him on the screen and think he’s on his way.”

“So what are you doing about it?”

“We’ve persuaded the Rashids to vacate the Hampstead house and fly down to the depths of West Sussex for a week in a safe house. Zion House.”

“Now, that does sound interesting. Tell me more.”

Roper did, everything, including the report he’d just had in from Levin. “Molly Rashid’s a tough one. Likes her own way too much. The business about her mobile, all that fuss. Too damn much.”

“She’s a truly fine surgeon, and people like that are obsessive. They think that what they do is more important than anything else. Unfortunately, it often is.”

“Anyway, now you know the present score,” Roper said. “To a great extent, we’re in Hussein’s hands.”

“And I think he won’t come at all.” Hal Stone laughed, “After all, he’s a Harvard man. He’d have more sense.”

“Try telling them that at Yale,” Roper told him.

“I wish you luck, my friend. Take care.”

“So long.”

Hal Stone shook his head. Crazy, the whole business. He returned to making his tea.

AT THAT MOMENT, Hussein and Khazid, having arrived without incident on the Cambridge train, were in a shop specializing in academic gowns, college scarves and the like. Khazid, under Hussein’s orders, purchased a short gown of the type favored by undergraduates, but not a Corpus Christi scarf.

“I expect the porters pride themselves on knowing their own students.”

Khazid went down the list and chose a New Hall scarf and a dark beret and they left. Entrance to the college was no problem, students passing in and out through the gates, students everywhere, or so it seemed. They moved up a floor and Khazid, in his Henri Duval persona, stopped a passing female undergraduate and inquired for Professor Stone in English heavily laced with French, his beret helping establish his nationality.

She was obviously amused, but waved toward the other end of the corridor. “Down there, but he’s never in.”

“Then where would he be, mademoiselle?”

“Don’t ask me, try the phone book.”

She hurried away, Khazid shrugged and then they reached the end and found a wooden sign hanging on the door saying simply, Hal Stone Is Not Here Today.

Khazid tried the door, but it was locked. “Now what do we do?”

“The obvious,” Hussein told him. “We do what the girl suggested and look in a phone book.”

“And what if he’s not in?”

“You’re a pessimist, my friend. He’s a famous man at one of the great colleges, a professor of the University of Cambridge -of course he’ll be in the phone book. Now let’s find one.”

AT ZION PLACE, Caspar was exploring the garden with his daughter and found some of his cares slipping away. The three Russians sat on the terrace and watched.

“That girl is really quite amazing,” Greta said. “She can be a child and adore childish things at one minute, and the next, she’s like a mature woman.”

“But then if you consider what she’s been through,” Levin said, “the death, the destruction at such a young age.”

Chomsky said, “In Chechnya, one could see the same look a hundred times on the faces of children that on occasion I have seen on hers. The face goes blank to conceal what lies inside.”

“God help her survive it all in herself. I know I’ll do everything to help that I can,” Greta said.

“But the mother,” Levin said, “is something else.”

“A brilliant surgeon.” Greta nodded and said the same thing as Hal Stone. “An obsessive who is convinced that what she does is more important than anything else in her life.”

“Good for her ego, but lousy from a relationship point of view,” Levin pointed out.

And upstairs Molly Rashid was proving him right to a certain extent, locking herself in the bathroom and calling the particular hospital where she’d operated on the Bedford child, on the direct mobile number of a Dr. Harry Samson, who, to a great extent, had taken over for her. She caught him on the ward itself, a private one.

“It’s me, Molly Rashid,” she said. “How is she?”

Although the news was mixed and there was much to say, finally he got personal. “How are you?”

“Oh, well, I think. We had a problem with Sara, but a rest in the country is doing good and I’ll be back in a week definitely. But never mind that, it’s Lisa Bedford I’m concerned about.”

“Can I have the number in case I need to contact you?”

“We’re moving around a bit, Harry. It’s not my phone.”

“No, please don’t go. I’m really concerned about little Lisa Bedford. You did a wonderful operation and I’ve got to give this my best shot. It would be good for me to be able to check with you if things do take a turn for the worst.”

And in the end, she was trapped, by both feelings and situation. “Dammit, Harry, when you’ve taken a call, you can call me straight back on a mobile, you know that. I said it wasn’t my phone, but it is. Call me back anytime you want. I’ll switch off the sound and leave it on vibration.”

He was concerned. “Look, are you all right?”

“Oh, everything’s in a mess,” she burst out. “I’m here with Caspar and Sara, at this sort of country retreat in West Sussex. Zion House.”

Instantly regretted, but it was too late.

“You mean some sort of clinic?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean. Good-bye, Harry.”

“Zion House,” he murmured, put down his mobile on the table and started doing his notes.

The nurse on duty was a young Muslim woman named Ayesha, who had been ordered by Ali Hassim to swap shifts to get on the Bedford case, precisely because of the connection with Molly Rashid.

“What was that you said, Doctor?”

He looked up, slightly abstracted. “It was Dr. Rashid, wanting to know how the child is getting on. Said she was somewhere called Zion House in West Sussex. She’ll be away for a week. Her daughter’s had some problem or other.”

The loudspeaker crackled, calling him on an emergency, and he ran out, leaving his mobile. She pressed the return call button and copied Molly’s number and went into an empty room. Since there was no other nurse there she was able to phone Ali Hassim on her own mobile.

When he answered, she said, “Dr. Rashid phoned up to check on the child. She said she was in West Sussex at somewhere called Zion House. I’ve also got her mobile phone number for you.”

“Excellent, girl, you have done well.”

“I have only done my duty. I’m sure you can find this place on the Internet.”

And she was right, of course, for Ali immediately phoned for the assistance of a member of the Brotherhood, giving him the facts and telling him it was urgent. An hour later, the man appeared at the shop with his laptop and Ali took him in the back room.

“There are several mentions. The marshland about the place is National Trust. The house itself is mentioned a number of times in an official history of the SOE, which used to train agents there during the Second World War. Since then, it’s been in the hands of the Ministry of Defence. Apparently, there are various restriction orders in place. There is also a concrete runway. Then I’ve found mention in general West Sussex tourist guides. Zion Village is three miles from the house, with a medieval church called Saint Andrew, two pubs, several bed-and-breakfasts, a caravan site.”

“Brilliant,” Ali said.

“No, it’s really very simple. These machines can do anything you want them to. You should learn. I’ll go now. I must earn a living, you know.”

He left, and Ali sat there trying to think who he should call first.

THEY FOUND THE COTTAGE in Chapel Lane easily enough. There was another message on a board hanging from the front door. Students Definitely Not Welcome.

“A humorist,” Khazid said.

“I knew professors just like that. It’s an academic thing. However, if he means it, we don’t get in. That’s a voice box on the door. If you touch the button to call, it usually puts you on screen. Look, there’s a camera up there.”

“So what do we do?”

“Let’s explore.”

There was a narrow flagged path down one side of the cottage that turned in behind the back garden wall. There was a stout wooden door that was locked and the top of the wall was crowned with ancient Victorian spikes.

“What do we do?” Khazid asked. “Try and climb over?”

“If he’s there in the kitchen or sitting room he’d be certain to see us and reach for the nearest phone.” Hussein shook his head. “That notice probably means what it says. There are times when he values his privacy. On the other hand, a young undergraduate in gown and scarf with a beret on his head and a very French accent, seeking advice, might interest him. Go and give it a try at the front door. If it works, take him prisoner. Don’t harm him in any way, and let me in through this door.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

“No, make it a performance. Now go.”

HAL STONE, in the sitting room, reading a rather indifferent thesis, the French windows open to the garden, heard the buzz of the entry phone with irritation. He put the thesis to one side, went into the hall and found Khazid on the small screen.

“Who on earth are you?”

“I am Henri Duval of New Hall College, Monsieur le Professeur. I am an archaeology student. I seek your assistance.”

“Well, as a student at Cambridge you must be able to read English, and my notice board is on the door, so clear off.”

Khazid excelled himself with a stream of very fluent French. “I beg you, with all my heart. My first-year exams are coming up, and I have to write a thesis. I genuinely need your advice.”

Hal Stone paused before replying in the same language. “What’s your thesis subject?”

Khazid was feeling more into his role and returned to fractured English, “The influence of Spartan mercenaries on the wars in Persia.”

Hal Stone laughed out loud. “That’s a tall order, but a glamorous one, which I suppose is why you chose it. All right, I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

The door clicked open and Khazid stepped inside, dropping his flight bag and trench coat to one side, but still wearing the beret and short undergraduate gown. He clutched the silenced Walther in his right hand against his leg and opened the inner door into the hall. Hal Stone was waiting, a smile on his face, which faded instantly as Khazid covered him with the Walther.

“Just do as you’re told or I’ll shoot you in your left kneecap.”

“Who the hell are you? Is this some kind of joke?”

“We have a debt to settle.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“But I’ve seen you.” Khazid was so absorbed he’d virtually forgotten about Hussein waiting. “At Hazar, I used to watch you on the deck of the Sultan through Zeiss glasses as I stood on the terrace at the great house at Kafkar. You and your people murdered two of my best friends.”

“Dear God,” Stone said. “You’re not Hussein, so you must be the other one, Khazid.” He shook his head. “Come for your revenge.”

“And I intend to have it,” Khazid told him. “Your world is a world of books, Professor, but in mine one sword is worth ten thousand words, so it teaches us in the Koran.”

“To hell with your damned ideology. What do you want with me?”

“We intended to call on Sara and her parents at their house in Hampstead, but Ferguson has had them spirited away. We want to know where.”

“And you think I know?”

“You’ve been involved in the whole business since the beginning, and you’re Ferguson’s cousin. I’m sure you do.”

“Actually, I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t oblige you.”

“Be it on your own head. Get into the sitting room.”

Stone turned, opened the door, then swung it behind him and ran through the open French windows and made for the garden door. Khazid fired twice. The first shot hit Stone below the left shoulder, driving him against the door. He managed to reach for the large bolt at the top of the door and pull it to one side, and Khazid shot him again in the lower back. Hussein, waiting impatiently, pushed on the door, sending Stone staggering to fall flat on his face.

The body twitched and went still. “What in the hell are you playing at?” Hussein demanded.

Khazid said, “He tried to make a run for it.”

“Why-what did you say to him?”

Khazid, calmer now, was reduced to a certain dishonesty as regards the facts. “He said I was the other one. He knew my name. All I did was try to get the information about where the Rashids have gone from him. He said he had no idea and wouldn’t tell me if he could.”

“And you threatened him?”

“What did you expect me to do, pat him on the head? I told him I’d start with his kneecap; he slammed a door on me and made a run for it.”

“You should have waited for me.”

Hussein knelt on one knee, Hal Stone’s face was turned slightly to one side. He looked terrible, blood seeping through his shirt. Hussein felt in the neck. He shook his head. “He’s dead.”

“Are you certain? Another in the head, perhaps?”

“I studied medicine, fool. How many times have you been glad of that in the past two years?” He stood. “Leave him in place and let’s get out of here.” He pushed Khazid before him. “Hurry, I tell you. Straight to the railway station and back to London.”

“As you say, brother.” Khazid dumped his gown and scarf, put on his trench coat again and followed Hussein as they left the cottage, walked up to the main road and turned to the railway station. They got there with fifteen minutes to spare, just in time to use their return tickets to board.

Once the train was moving, Khazid lay back in the seat, exhausted. “Now what?”

“Give me time to think about it.” Hussein turned to stare out the window, wondering what was happening. His lie to Khazid, the still beating pulse in Hal Stone’s neck that his fingers had felt. Why had he done that? There was no answer, and for Hal Stone, life or death was a matter for Allah.

ALI HASSIM HAD BEEN IMPRESSED when Khan told him Hussein would be in touch with him for any help or aid that Ali could offer. For him, Hussein was the great warrior, the Hammer of God, a liberator for the people from Allah himself. He remembered his shock on first hearing Hussein’s voice on the radio news program from the Middle East, and then in the middle of his Arabic rhetoric, Hussein describing himself in a simple English phrase, Hammer of God. It was a gesture of contempt for his enemies, but that name was now known to millions of Arabs in the Middle East who were not familiar with the English language at all.

So, thinking over his problem about who to first tell about Zion House, he realized that he had found a new and worthier allegiance. But he needed to make everything perfect, so he called in another member of the Brotherhood, a young accountant in a financial firm in the city. A short chat over the phone, the suggestion that he could be of great service to the Brotherhood, produced the man he wanted within an hour, and he also sent for his laptop expert and waited.

SAM BOLTON WAS actually Selim Bolton, his father English, his mother Muslim. He had been raised in an English culture until his first year at London University, studying business and accountancy, and then his father had died of cancer. An immediate consequence of this was that his mother was restored to Islam.

There were those in the Brotherhood who saw great possibilities in individuals with a similar background to his, and he joined their ranks as a sleeper, a handsome young man in a good suit and a university tie, accepted anywhere.

He turned up at the shop and discovered Ali waiting with the laptop expert. Ali said, “Listen carefully while our brother explains,” and the laptop man told him everything regarding Zion House.

Bolton took it all in. Finally, he said, “So what you really want to know is the feel of things generally, the attitudes of the villagers, perhaps to Zion House itself?”

“Exactly. What’s special about it.”

“I think you mean what its purpose is, if any.” He stood up. “I might as well get on with it. I called in at the flat, so I’ve got an overnight bag in the Audi.”

“So you accept this assignment?”

“Of course.”

“You could not do our cause a greater service.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

The laptop man left and Ali nodded to himself. He was doing the right thing. No phone call to Khan. He had set things in motion and could afford to wait to hear from Hussein.

HAL STONE’S CLEANING LADY, a widow named Amy Robinson, usually only worked mornings, but she had her own key and his laundry to deliver, so she called in at the cottage and discovered him in the garden. She had once been a nurse and was still expert enough to establish that he was alive. It was roughly an hour and a half since Hussein and Khazid had left.

She dialed 999 and called for ambulance and police, stipulating gunshot wounds, then she went out with a rug and pillows and tried to make him comfortable. She was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair, when his eyes opened. He looked at her, bewildered.

“Amy?”

“Don’t fuss, love, lie still. There’s an ambulance on its way. Who did this to you?”

“My cousin General Ferguson-you met him when he visited the other year. My address book’s on the desk. His private mobile number. Call him for me.”

“Don’t upset yourself, love, I’m sure he’ll be contacted in time.”

“You don’t understand.” He clutched at her with a bloodstained hand. “Tell him they were here, both of them. They were here in England. The other one shot me.” He closed his eyes and opened them. “I didn’t mention Zion.”

He lost consciousness again and there was a sudden confusion outside as the ambulance arrived.

She went to the front door and admitted the paramedics, who followed her as she showed what waited in the garden. And then, of course, the police came, first one car, then two. She waited, bewildered by it all, and then a man in civilian clothes arrived, who she was told was a Chief Inspector Harper. He had a quick look round the cottage and went outside to the wall. When he returned, a police sergeant was taking a written statement from Amy.

“He did say something strange when he came to for a moment.” She told him what it was.

Harper, coming in through the French windows, heard. “Did you say General Ferguson?”

“Yes, Professor Stone’s cousin. He’s very important in one of the ministries.”

“You can say that again, if it’s who I think it is.”

“The professor said the General’s personal number was in his address book on the desk.”

Harper rushed to find it, and so it was that Ferguson, who had just arrived at the Holland Park safe house to discuss progress, heard the dreadful news.

THE TRAIN WAS just twenty minutes out of King’s Cross when Ali received the call from Hussein. “We’re just arriving from Cambridge. A waste of time. We’ll come round to your shop. We’ll need somewhere to stay.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I have discovered where they have taken the Rashids.”

“But where does such information come from? Khan, I suppose, and presumably he would have got it from the Broker?”

“No, neither Khan nor the Broker know about it. It was the action of the Rashid woman, the doctor, which came to our aid. She was concerned for the welfare of a child she had operated on and telephoned the surgeon who has taken over the case. He wanted to be able to get in touch with her if there was a change in the child’s condition. One of the nurses, a member of my network, was on duty and obtained the address for us.”

“This is truly unbelievable. They are still in England then?”

“West Sussex, a place called Zion House. Not only can I show it to you on a laptop when you get here, I’ve also sent a trusted agent straight down there to scout the place out for you. I’ve impressed on him the urgency of his report.”

“It is hard to imagine that Ferguson let them make phone calls.”

“She probably broke the rules,” Ali said.

“And must pay the price. It would suit me very well for the enemy not to know that we are here. If you mention your discovery of Zion House to Dreq Khan, he will in turn inform the Broker.”

“And that one you distrust?”

“He has had his uses, but he has his fingers in too many pies. You must not take this as an attack on Osama bin Laden, whom Allah protect, because on the ground, he represents Osama in certain matters. In those affairs, he is simply serving a great man’s needs and he must remember his place. Sometimes such men see themselves as being more important than they are.”

“Professor Khan, for example?”

“It is difficult for some people to remember that the cause they represent is more important than themselves,” Hussein said.

Ali said calmly, “Khan will not be told of Zion from me. I look forward to receiving you.”

“We shall be seeing you soon,” Hussein told him.

He turned off his phone. Khazid said, “What was all that about?”

“Brother, Allah is on our side. Ali Hassim has discovered where the Rashids have been taken.” He proceeded to tell Khazid as much as he needed to know.

“Perfect,” Khazid said. “With the professor dead, no one in Ferguson’s organization even knows we are here.”

“Of course,” Hussein said, a faint shadow on his face as that wavering pulse came back to haunt him. He took a deep breath. “Nothing can go wrong now.” A few moments later, the train arrived at King’s Cross.

AT HOLLAND PARK, Ferguson was speaking to Harper again. “Chief Inspector, I’m invoking the Terrorism Act, to put a blanket on this for the moment. Some very nasty people are involved.”

“We are dealing with terrorists here, sir?”

“I have a special warrant from Downing Street on this one. I also have an official request to your chief constable that you act as my liaison there.”

Harper’s spirits lifted. “Very good of you, sir. Happy to be on board.”

“I’ve borrowed a police helicopter from the Met, thanks to the commissioner. They’re lifting me from a school football field just down the road from here.”

“Stone’s hanging on by inches, General, that’s what the surgeon in charge informs me. The scans show two bullets, one under the left shoulder that’s apparently fragmented much of the shoulder blade, and there’s a major artery close by that will give a problem.”

“And the other?”

“Low in the back. It’s done a lot of damage to the pelvic girdle. What I’m telling you is what the scans show. I expect the major surgery will reveal much more.”

“Thanks very much. I’ll see you soon.”

Roper said, “What a bastard.” Dillon and Billy looked grim.

Billy said, “What did he say to the cleaning lady?”

“He said to tell me they were here, both of them, they were here in England. The other one shot me. I didn’t tell them about Zion.”

“It was them, all right,” Dillon said. “Has to be.”

“And the other one, the bastard who shot him in the back, was this Khazid guy.” Billy was angry.

“I think that’s obvious,” Ferguson said, and there was the chatter of the helicopter passing overhead to the football field. “Sean,” he said to Dillon, “Hal is the closest relative I have left. Would you come with me?”

It was a direct appeal that couldn’t be refused. “Of course I will.”

“Good luck,” Roper called as they went out the door.

The noise of the helicopter was with them for about ten minutes and then the aircraft lifted and moved away. Roper reached for the scotch.

Billy said, “Knock it off. At a time like this, a man needs friends to drink with.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had for some time.” Roper started his wheelchair and Billy followed him out.

ON HIS WAY TO ZION, Sam Bolton had stopped in Guildford and visited the army and navy store, where he purchased an anorak, a jumper, a waterproof bush hat and trousers to go with it and some boots. He then cast around for a pair of binoculars and found something suitable in a camera shop. He also purchased a canvas carrying bag from a nearby store, then went into a convenient hotel and found the gentlemen’s toilets.

He changed clothes in one of the cubicles, putting his smart suit, tie and shoes into the bag. When he emerged, he was wearing everything else he had bought and hung the binoculars around his neck.

“Nothing like looking the part,” he said softly, examining himself in the mirror. “But what do you really know about birds except the female variety?”

He returned to the Audi, drove around looking and found a book-shop. Within minutes, he was emerging with a suitable item covering the coastal areas of England. It was a magazine type of book with an illustrated cover. Good to carry under your arm to let the uninformed know what you were. Pleased with himself, he got back in the Audi and continued his drive toward the coast and Zion.

HE ARRIVED AT ZION in the middle of the afternoon, put the Audi’s top down and had a look round. What he saw was a typical English village: one pub called the Ploughman and another down the street named the Zion Arms, old cottages, a church. He parked the Audi and went into the Zion Arms. Everything you expected from an English country pub was there, from logs burning on the hearth of a stone fireplace, to the beamed ceiling, the mahogany bar, the mirrored shelves and the stout late-middle-aged lady behind it, with rosy cheeks and wearing a floral dress. It seemed too good to be true. There weren’t many people, a party of three, a young couple, talking in low voices, a very ancient-looking man on the wooden settle by the fire, alone, a half-empty pint of beer in front of him.

Selim Bolton he might be, but it was Sam Bolton who approached the bar. In previous adventures for the Brotherhood, he had seldom used an alias. He was himself a university graduate and a middle-ranking executive in a private bank in the City of London. Anyone who wished to query him, even the police, would discover that quickly enough and look elsewhere. He even had a company card with Sam Bolton engraved on it.

Outside the village, he had pulled into a lay-by and looked up Zion in the bird book. He had an extremely good memory, noted Zion Marsh, the fact that it was National Trust and a brief mention that the house was not open to the public.

“Ah, you’d be staying here for the bird-watching?” she said as he placed the book on the counter. “Plenty of people come here for that.”

He’d concocted his story in advance. “I work in London in finance. Sometimes you feel trapped, you just want to get away for a few days. I’ve got friends further along the coast, Aldwick Bay, the other side of Bognor Regis. Lovely shingle beaches up there. I’m making my way back to London, taking my time, and I noticed in the book that Zion marshes are a bit special.”

“People seem to think so. What will you have?”

“A pint, please.”

The old man by the fire emptied his glass and spoke up. “I was eighty-seven last month and I’ve lived here all my days, mainly working the land farming. When I was a lad, birds were just birds, part of life you took for granted. Now we have the bird-watchers like you, people who take it seriously. Last year we had people turn up in coaches to try and catch sight of some lapwing in the marsh. Supposed to be special. God knows why.”

“I see your point. I don’t take it seriously. I work hard in an office most of the time. I like to get out in the fresh air, but I like to have a reason, so I’ve started on birds. Could I buy you a drink? I see you’ve run dry.”

“A pint wouldn’t be a burden. That all right with you, Annie?”

“Shame on you, Seth Harker, you’re an old cadger.”

She pulled the pint and Bolton paid her and took the glasses over.“All right if I join you?”

“Why not?”

“Good health.” Bolton drank some of his beer. “Do they cause a problem, bird-watchers, on this Zion Marsh?”

“National Trust, that. No, they’re a harmless lot and it’s good for the economy. These days, any kind of tourist is welcome. Creates jobs for people, There’s the caravan site, bed-and-breakfasts.”

“All from birds.”

Harker chuckled. “That’s a fact, when you think about it.”

“I passed a stately home when I was approaching the village. I checked in my book and it said visitors weren’t allowed. Zion House it was?”

“Oh, you can’t go there. Owned by the government and has been as long as I can remember. I wasn’t allowed to go into the military in the Second World War, farming, you see, reserved occupation, so I was here right through.” He nodded his head. “All sorts of dodgy things went on at Zion House, planes in and out from the runway, a lot of it at night. All highly secret.”

“Is that so?”

Seth Harker nodded. “The thing is, the Ministry of Defence still runs it like that. High security, guards in blue uniforms.”

“Jobs for the villagers?”

“Oh, no, the guards are all outsiders. The housekeeper, Mrs. Tetley, lives in, and she’s got three young women on staff who help with the catering and other duties. Looking after guests really. Kitty, Ida and Vera. Nice girls, but not from around here. They keep themselves to themselves.”

“You said guests. That could mean some kind of hotel?”

“Where the guests never show themselves?” Harker cackled. “And don’t visit in the village.”

“Yes, but you must see them arrive? They must visit the pub?”

The bar had emptied and Annie was in the back. Seth Harker was reasonably drunk by now. “Ah, but they always come in by airplane. There’s a concrete runway by the house. That was the way it was in the big war and still the way it is today.” His glass was empty and he looked at Bolton’s. “You’re not drinking.”

“Well, you know how it is. I’ve got the car, the driving to think of if I carry on back to London. You know what the police are like these days.”

“Pity to waste it.” Bolton pushed it across and the old man drank deeply. “My cottage is on a small rise overlooking things. Fern End it’s called. You get a good view of the runway from there. I’ve watched people come and go for years. I’ve got a pair of old binoculars. There was a plane in at round about half-eleven this morning. It dropped off two women and a girl and three men. They were picked up by Captain Bosey, head of security, and taken up to the house.” He patted the side of his nose with a finger. “Not much I don’t know, I think I could do with the necessary.”

He took Bolton’s arm to stand and was surprisingly steady as he crossed the bar and went into the lavatory. Annie came in from the back. “Has he been a nuisance?”

“Certainly not, he’s a real character. Is he fit to get home? He told me about his cottage.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. If he wants a snooze, he can use the room in the back. When he does that, some villager will give him a lift. Can I get you anything else?”

“I’ll be fine, actually. I’ll be off, I think.”

“Well, if you decide to stay, we do have four rooms for the night and there’s always the caravan site. I own that as well.”

She went into the back again and Seth Harker returned. “Ah, going, are you?” He eased himself down.

“I must.”

Harker really did have drink taken. “What we were talking about, security. All balls really. There’s always a way. Take Zion House, walls, electric wiring, cameras. All for nothing if you could go under.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“In 1943 during the war, there was only a grass runway and small planes used it on a nightly basis for flights to France. Bad weather of any kind, rain, flooding from the marsh, sometimes made it unusable. So they dug a tunnel that started in the wood, continued it under the wall into the garden.”

“What was the idea?”

“A network of clay piping under the grass from the runway that would drain into the tunnel. By putting the other end in the garden, they had the idea of linking it up with ordinary drains from the house.”

“Who told you about this?”

“RAF lads based at Zion House and they also had some Royal engineers. It was done on the quiet, and then some RAF group captain inspected it and said it was a lousy idea and ordered them to just concrete the runway, so planes could land even if it had water on it.”

“And the tunnel and drainpipes?”

“They ordered a stop to that work, blocked off the end in the wood with a big manhole cover and used grass turfs to cover it. It’s a creepy sort of place. There’s a granite pillar there with some lettering that doesn’t make sense. Rubbed away with time.”

“Did you ever take a look?”

Harker smiled. “ ’Course I did, over fifty years ago a bit after the war. It was there all right. Iron rungs to help you down and you had to paddle in water then. God knows what it would be like now.”

“And the garden end?”

“There was another manhole cover there, too, which I couldn’t budge. So what they covered it with, I’ve no idea. I never went down there again, but I always thought it a bit of a laugh over the years with all their security improvements.”

“And nobody knew about it?”

“It was the war, you see, top secret stamped on everything. Who on earth cared when it was done and who on earth would care after so many years? Any mention of it was lost in RAF files years ago.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Bolton got up again and held out his hand. “You are a fascinating man, Seth.”

“And what would your name be, boy?”

“Bolton-Sam Bolton.”

There was a kind of knowing look on Harker’s face, a touch of cunning. “I hope you got what you came for?”

“I met you, didn’t I?”

He went out, and behind him Annie came in with a long tray of glasses and put them on the bar. “He’s gone, has he? What a nice young man.”

“A good listener,” Seth said. “I’ll have another pint.”

BOLTON FOLLOWED THE ROAD past Zion House, noting the electronic gates at the entrance, and saw a uniformed security guard outside his hut smoking a cigarette. He carried on past, came to a large signboard saying zion marshes and wildfowl protection area. national trust. Beyond it was the car park, the wood parallel to the wall of the house at that point and stretching toward the marsh and the runway.

Late in the afternoon of a gloomy day, the car park was empty and it started to rain, but that suited him. He hurriedly raised the roof of the Audi, opened the back, found the tool kit and pulled out the steel tire lever.

The rain increased as he walked along the edge of the wood, paused to look at the concrete runway. At that point you could see over the wall onto the garden, the terrace at the back of the house with binoculars, of course, through the electric fencing with the warning notices telling the public to keep out. He turned and walked into the wood at what seemed to be the point the old man had meant. And it was there, the granite stone, just as he had been told, slightly tilted to one side.

The grass was long all around. He started prodding into it with the tire lever, bending over, moving backward, reaching to the left and then the right, persevering as the rain increased, and then it came, the clang of metal on metal.

He knelt there in the pouring rain, secure in his waterproof clothes, and hacked away at the grass and soil beneath, holding the tire lever in both hands, and gradually a patch tore away. He scrabbled with his hands, and there it was, a portion of a cast-iron manhole cover. He managed to reach a part of the circular edge, forced the tire lever in, hoping to lift it. It was hopeless. It needed the right tools, but that wasn’t his problem. He looked around him. A crowded thicket of bushes and undergrowth pushed in and the trees were close. It was certainly private enough.

He went back through the rain, immensely cheered by the way things had turned out, and his extraordinary good fortune in meeting Seth Harker. He got in the Audi and called Ali Hassim on his mobile. There was an instant answer, for Ali was entertaining Hussein and Khazid in the back room of the shop.

“Where are you?”

“Zion, of course. I’m coming back. I’ll see you in about three hours.”

“But why aren’t you staying overnight?”

“Because I’ve finished the task you’ve given me. Zion House has a purpose. I believe it to be a high-security safe house. People only arrive by plane. They have their own personal runway. They received a plane at eleven-thirty this morning with two women passengers, a young girl and three men. I haven’t the slightest idea who they are, but I suspect you do.”

“This is incredible,” Ali told him.

“No, but the fact that in spite of all their security, I’ve found a way in-that’s incredible.”

“If that is so, truly Allah is on our side.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Bolton drove away fast.

At the shop, Ali turned to face Hussein and Khazid and told them everything.