Red Crystal (53 page)

He shivered with excitement.

He pulled the object out and held it up until it was silhouetted against the windscreen. A machine pistol. With silencer.

He replaced it carefully on the seat. He felt around the floor. Nothing. Closing the door as quietly as possible, he went round to the back of the van and pulled open one of the rear doors. He thrust a hand in and felt clothing, shoes, a polythene bag.

He decided to risk a little light. Taking a penlight from his pocket he shone it over the floor. A sleeping-bag, pillows, clothing … And in the polythene bag five magazines of ammunition.

And a stick of explosive.

He flicked off the light and closed the rear door.

Returning to Williams, they retreated a short distance into the trees and radioed back to Conway.

Less than fifteen minutes later there was a reply from London. No one was to move until further notice. Under no circumstances was the house to be approached. Nick found a tree trunk with a good view of the house and drive and, pulling his collar up, settled himself against it. He might as well make himself as comfortable as possible. It was going to be a long cold night.

Gabriele lay on the bed in the darkness, knowing she would never sleep. Once or twice she almost dozed off, only to be woken by the distant hum and click of the nearby lift. She kept thinking about Giorgio, wondering if he was caught, wondering if he was even now in some pig-hole. If so, she would get him out, with the others. She would demand it.

As the long night drew on she finally dropped into a fitful sleep, and saw Giorgio in her dream, a Giorgio who was very distant and strangely uninterested in what was happening. She called out to him, but he was separated from her and somehow couldn’t hear …

She awoke, troubled, and heard the sounds of early traffic rising from the street outside and realized it was almost morning.

At seven she got up and tried the Paris number again. It rang for a long time without reply: the loneliest sound in the world. Gabriele suppressed a feeling of despair.

Going to the window, she watched the street for several minutes. The first glimmerings of dawn delineating the grey outlines of the small but expensive Chelsea houses. The Ford was just opposite, parked under a street lamp. Apart from the occasional passing car, nothing stirred.

She kept thinking about the Paris number. Why didn’t it answer? Raymond knew how urgent it was. There were only a few hours to the deadline. When had she first phoned him? Yesterday morning. So he’d had twenty-four hours to contact people. It
must
be long enough.

Eventually she went to the kitchen and, searching the cupboards, found some coffee. There was no food. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she unwrapped the bundle she had left behind the fridge so many days before. She had already brought all the weapons up from the car. The Kalashnikov gleamed at her, sleek and deadly.

She levered open the plinth beside the cooker and pulled out the parcel she had hidden there. She opened it, pleased with her own resourcefulness. Her planning had paid off.

She examined the Argentinian passport, checked the money, and laid out the change of clothes, ready to put on.

Still time to kill. There was no radio to listen to. She sat drinking coffee as the minutes dragged by. At last it was seven thirty; in Paris eight-thirty: all the offices would be open by now.

Trembling, she dialled the number yet again.

It answered straight away. She felt a warm flood of relief. It was a man’s voice.

‘Raymond?’ she breathed.

Raymond was not there, the voice replied, but he was expected in at any moment. Did she want to leave a message?

It was vital to speak to him direct, she told the voice. Could he call her?

‘What is your name and your number?’ the voice asked.

She told him and rang off, bitterly disappointed.

Then she remembered that she had to go out and buy
The Times
. Supposing he rang back while she was out? Would he give up and never call back again? Stay calm.
Stay calm
.

Giorgio would have helped her to think.
Giorgio
…

She suddenly felt very alone.

She pulled on her jacket and hurried out into the street. There was no one about; she looked over her shoulder a couple of times to make sure. She found a newsagent in the King’s Road and, picking up a copy of
The Times
, leafed quickly through it.

Where would they have put it?

She tried the Personal Column. She felt a shiver of excitement. It jumped out at her: the first item, prominent in block capitals.

It read: ‘
CRYSTAL. OFFER ACCEPTED. PLEASE CONTACT SOONEST.
01-875 2289
.’

Henry’s body was icy cold, but nothing could ever feel so cold as the chill in his heart. The minutes passed ruthlessly, and with each moment he became more bitterly aware that in all probability he would die quite soon.

He had until midday. He knew that. He had heard the man telling Victoria.

And now Victoria would probably die too.

As long as he had believed that only the lid could trigger the explosives he had been able to cope; there was a strange security in being locked in the box with the means of one’s own destruction. But then had come the bolt from the blue: the realization that he had a finite amount of time; and then he had discovered a fresh and more incisive fear. Though he tried not to, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the final moments. Though he might be unaware of exactly how long remained, there was the ghastly possibility that he might know –
sense
– the final moment approaching. He would probably be overcome by panic of the most debasing and loathsome kind, he would probably sweat or – even worse – call out. And he couldn’t bear the idea of any of that. Better to go quickly, thinking of Caroline …

She would be all right in time. She was so young. And she would have the child. What a blessing that would be. What a consolation. And, though she would find it hard to believe at first, she would find someone else in time, someone to take care of her.

The thought was reassuring. Though not half as reassuring as being able to tell her himself. That would be his great regret. Not having the opportunity of a final word or a last message.

He thought about Victoria. He must tell her that he bore her no grudge: that he forgave her. It wasn’t quite the truth. He didn’t think he could ever completely forgive her. But he must make his peace with her; and he must tell her soon before it was too late. It was the right thing to do, and he very much wanted to do the right thing.

There were no other sections of his life that he could tidy up. It would have been marvellous to tell Caroline how much she had meant to him, but then she knew that already. He had said it often enough. So many people went through life
without
saying these things, but he had never been embarrassed by emotion. Quite the contrary. How very glad he was of that now.

The thought brought him a transitory peace and for a few moments he lingered in the memories of that warm and simple love.

Nick drifted out of a dream. He was dimly aware that he had slept for an unusually long time. A sound disturbed him, something scratched at his face. He sprang awake. There was a branch against his face. He pushed it away and thrust his watch up to his face. Nine.
Christ!
He sat upright and looked wildly about him.

But it was all right. The three officers who had relieved him and Williams in the early hours were just moving away, and a new team were taking over, crouching in the undergrowth, their rifles across their knees.

Kershaw had put men everywhere: behind the ridge, throughout the woods and hidden beside all the access roads to the village. The place was sealed tight. But what were they waiting for? As far as Nick could tell, they were waiting simply to watch helplessly as the terrorists left the farmhouse and got clean away.

If they were there at all. There still hadn’t been a sign of life.

Nick wondered whether to head back towards Kershaw’s base, which had been set up at a neighbouring farmhouse. Quite apart from anything else he was wolfishly hungry.

He went to tell one of the men that he was leaving and began to retreat through the woodland. But a sound came from behind and he stopped. One of the officers was speaking into a walkie-talkie. Nick retraced his steps. The officer turned to him and whispered, ‘Car approaching.’

They waited silently, watching the track where it emerged from the avenue of trees. But they heard it long before they saw it, the innocent sound of a car being driven along at a moderate speed.

The engine note slowed a little, then it appeared: a red Morris 1300. It carefully negotiated the stationary van, then progressed down the drive towards the farmhouse. Nick followed it with the binoculars. There was a single occupant: male, youngish, collar and tie. A picture of respectability.

The car drew up in front of the farmhouse. After a moment, the driver’s door swung open and the young man got out. He slammed the door shut and stood still for a moment. Then he sauntered about. He turned his back to the farmhouse and stared back up the hill.

Looking at the van.

After a moment he turned away and leaned against the car bonnet.

Waiting. Very relaxed. Who on earth?

Then Nick shook his head. He called up Kershaw on the walkie-talkie and reported: ‘I think we’ve got ourselves one estate agent.’

A
RCHIE
P
INKER LOOKED
at his watch. Five past nine. He always gave clients a reasonable time before giving up on them – at least twenty minutes, sometimes longer if he was in a good mood.

It was a lovely morning. He would give this one until nine-thirty. Probably too generous. Some people could leave you waiting for hours without feeling a moment’s remorse.

It occurred to him that he should open the house up. It had been empty for quite a time and probably smelled musty inside. Women were always on about throwing windows open and airing rooms. Maybe they had a point.

He sorted through the bunch of keys in his hand and selected the one that looked most promising for the front door. He tried it in the lock but it wouldn’t turn. He was a little put out: he usually prided himself on matching keys to locks.

From hard-gained experience of the perversity of people who fitted locks to doors, he twisted the key the other way.

To his surprise it turned. He tried the knob. The door wouldn’t budge. Finally he realized: he had just
locked
the door. When he had first tried the key, it had been
open
.

Perhaps that mad hippy girl who owned the place had been down here. Or her equally mad friends. That would account for the open door and the van parked half-way up the track.

He went in and walked through the hall into the kitchen. He tutted. Just as he’d thought: food and drink on the draining board. How one could be expected to sell a place when there were hippies coming and going, he didn’t know.

On his way to the living-room he passed through the hall again, and noticed a scrap of paper on the floor. Typical, he thought. Litter all over the place. He scooped it up. It had writing on it.
KEEP AWAY. FROM BOTH DOOR AND GIRL. THE SLIGHTEST VIBRATION AND BANG! THE CRYSTAL FACTION.

Some weird game they’d been playing, no doubt. Quite mad. He screwed the paper into a neat ball and threw it in a waste bin in the living-room. He drew back the curtains and opened a window. The room certainly needed the air: it smelled of spilled drink and old cigarettes.

He wandered back into the hall, humming softly to himself.

A sound startled him. A muffled female voice.

‘Hello?’ he called cautiously.

The voice came again. This time he heard the words quite distinctly: ‘Who is it?’

Archie Pinker advanced slowly towards the door which, he remembered from the details, led down to the cellars.

‘Hello?’ he said again.

‘Whatever you do, don’t open this door!’

Archie blinked. The voice sounded –
awful
. And what on earth was someone doing in the
cellar
? ‘Um – is there anything the matter?’ he asked uncertainly.

‘Yes! Please phone for the police. Straight away.
Please
. It’s desperate.
Please
. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death and that they must come immediately.’

There was a pause.

Archie was a bit taken aback. What was going on? Good God –
of course
. It must be another drug orgy, like the one in which the chap had died. Lord. What a nasty thought. And now
he
was being dragged into it. It really was most unreasonable. At the same time, it would be quite a thing to inform the police. A good story to tell in the pub.

The voice was saying, ‘Please, please, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you from the estate agent’s?’

‘Yes. Archie Pinker.’

‘Well, please tell the police it’s to do with the Attorney-General.
Please
. They’ll understand. You will tell them,
won’t
you?’