Authors: John Gordon Davis
He smiled at her, but did not believe he deserved such happiness; after all these years here they were together, the dream he had never believed would come true: and the last nine weeks was just a bad dream from which they had woken up. He got up, and walked around the table, and he picked her up from her chair. And he carried her out of the kitchen, and bumped her through the doorways, into the bedroom, and he dumped her on the big double bed and collapsed beside her, and they were both laughing.
December went like that. They laughed a lot, and drank a lot, and loved a lot, and slept a lot, deep in each other’s arms. They felt wonderful, and safe. Each day he still went out to look for strange footprints. But each day he left it later and
later, and he only did it when he felt like a walk, or had to collect some firewood. Each day he saw nothing. Each day he grew more relaxed.
December went that way. It was on New Year’s Day that he saw the footprints in the snow.
He stopped in his tracks, his heart knocking: then he unslung the rifle and crouched down, every muscle tensed. He peered through the forest, all around.
He examined the footprints again, feverishly. There had been no fresh snow that day. The prints were crisp. Several hours old. He stood up slowly.
The footprints stopped here. From here the man could have seen the house clearly. He had come through the woods to this point, stopped, then retraced his steps. Morgan looked at his watch shakily. It was after two o’clock. About another two hours of daylight. He started following the footprints.
They were as clear as a tramtrack. They headed through the trees for the forestry road a mile away. He followed them fast, striding running, striding again, his eyes darting through the trees. Ten minutes later he could see the road. He went creeping forward.
There were car tyre marks on the road. The footprints disappeared at the car tracks. The car had turned around and driven off the way it had come. He examined the snow all around. There was definitely only one set of footprints.
Morgan started running flat out through the forest, back towards the house.
He burst into the courtyard. He locked the big door behind him. ‘
Anna?
’
There was no answer. He ran into the house. ‘Anna!’
She answered from the kitchen: ‘Yes?’
He burst into the kitchen.
‘Go pack our things.’ She was astonished. ‘A man was here
a few hours ago. He’s gone to fetch reinforcements. You’ve got fifteen minutes, I’m going up to the water tower to keep watch.’ He snatched up the pistol and the machine gun. He ran through the house.
He clattered up the steps, into the tower. He clambered up through the trapdoor. He crouched between the two water tanks and peered over the top of the wall.
He could see all the borders of the farm. He swept his eye along the edge of the forest. There was only the silent stillness of the snowy trees.
He turned feverishly and looked down towards the river. He moved his eyes slowly along the winding banks. Nothing. He turned, and peered all along the other two boundaries, searching the old fruit trees on either side.
He sat back on his heels. He looked at his watch feverishly. Almost three o’clock. Only one hour of reliable daylight left. He scrambled back down the ladder.
He ran out of the house, into the courtyard, then to the stable and scrambled into the Fiat. He started it, and reversed out. He lined the car up with the wooden door. He scrambled out, started back towards the house; then he remembered the geese.
They couldn’t leave the animals locked in …
He opened the big outer door, then ran for the back of the barnyard. The ducks and geese were floating in their pond. He went to the pigsty and chased the piglet out. He ran back to the pond. The ducks and geese came flapping out. He waved his arms and they started running, their webbed feet padding and their heads up high. They ran worriedly towards the big wooden door, honking and quacking. The gander shied away from it when he saw the big wide world out there.
‘
Out! Get out!
’
The gander plunged ponderously through, looking alarmed. The female blundered flappily after him. They went honking and quacking out into their new hinterland. Morgan slammed the door behind them. He turned and ran back into the house.
‘
Hurry up and load the car!
’
He ran up the steps of the water tower again. He scrambled up the ladder, back to the water tanks.
He snatched up the FN rifle. He looked at his watch. Then peered over the ledge.
He swept his eyes along the forest. Nothing. Then, as he was about to turn and look down to the river, he saw the movement.
He froze, his heart pounding.
All he had glimpsed was a movement in the trees. But had he seen a man? Or a fox? The form had gone behind a tree. He stared at the place, desperately waiting for it to show again. Then he saw it again, and his stomach contracted.
It was a man, creeping. Then, he saw another movement, twenty yards away. It was another man. He swung around frantically and looked down at the river.
He stared at the river, keeping his eyes still, to catch any movement. Nothing. He swept the banks. Not a movement. But the banks were thick with trees and shrubs. He scrambled around and looked up along the borders of the land. Nothing. But there were all those gnarled fruit trees, black and grey against the snow. He looked desperately back up to the forest again.
He could not make the escape by car. That left the river route. But if there were men up in the forest there were probably more, covering the orchards. That meant the only hope was darkness. He looked feverishly at his watch again. He scrambled over to the ladder and called down: ‘Anna!’
She came running up the steps. He thrust the pistol down to her.
‘They’re here. Take cover at the main front window onto the courtyard. If they come over the wall, shoot the moment you see their heads.’
She looked aghast; then snatched the pistol and ran back down the stairs. Morgan snatched up the FN, and slid off the safety catch. He peered over the wall, up towards the forest.
Then he saw the car coming.
For a wild moment he thought it was Makepeace dropping back like a guardian angel. An emissary from the Pope … Then he knew it was too much of a coincidence. It was a trick! These were the guys come to take them alive, to get into the house posing as visitors …
The car was coming through the forest towards the top of
the orchard. Morgan looked along the treeline for the men – he could not see them. Now the car was coming out of the forest. It began down the track towards the house.
Morgan slid the rifle up, the barrel on the wall. The car was a Ford. Blue. Two people in it. It rolled down the track towards the big main doors; then it stopped. Morgan waited, heart pounding. Then both doors opened, and two policemen climbed out.
Morgan stared, astonished.
Police … The police had arrived in the nick of time! …
The two
gendarmes
walked towards the big door. Morgan thought: Ford …
Since when do French police drive around in blue Fords?
Everybody opens the door for a policeman … Take us by complete surprise … The policemen disappeared from his line of vision. Then there was a loud knocking on the outer door.
‘
Alio? Police. Alio?
’
Morgan’s heart was knocking. His eye swept the orchards, up to the forest again. Then two men came running out of the forest. They disappeared into the fruit trees.
‘
Alio! Police!
’
Anna came scrambling up the ladder: ‘
They’re police,
’ she whispered.
‘It’s a trick! They’re Russians! Get back! As soon as it’s dark we’re making a run for the motorbike at the bridge!’
She disappeared back down the ladder. There was knocking again. This time the big door shook. ‘
Police! Open up!
’
Morgan crouched, waiting. Silence. Only the pounding of his heart. Waiting for a head to show over the wall, for somebody to show himself in the orchard. But nothing moved. The two men could be creeping around the outside of the wall and he would not see them from here. Then he heard a crash against the outer kitchen door. He jerked around. Another kick. But the door held.
Another silence. Ten seconds. Twenty. Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw a hand appear over the top of the wall at the corner of the house, and he swung his rifle onto it. He could not see the other hand. Then a leg swung up on top of the wall. Morgan waited, his gun sights trained on it. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw two men break cover from the
fruit trees, and he fired at the leg on the top of the wall, then swung the rifle across the orchard and fired blindly,
crack, crack.
He swung the rifle back to the wall top. He saw a foot protruding around the corner of the house, inside the courtyard. The foot of a man lying down. Then a shot rang out and chips of masonry flew and he jerked his head down.
He crouched behind the water tanks.
That bastard was inside the courtyard, wounded.
And where was the other one? They knew he was up here now … He snatched up the sten gun, turned for the ladder, and scrambled down it.
He ran down the narrow steps, and burst into the hall below. Anna was crouched at the window. He rasped: ‘There’s a man in the yard, wounded. Maybe another one. Stay here.’
He ran through the dining room to the living room door. He pressed himself against the wall, his chest heaving, and peered round the corner. He could see the french window overlooking the courtyard. That was where the bastard had fallen. But he could see nothing. He dashed across the living room, to the window, and peered.
There was blood on the cobblestones. But no body.
He unlocked the french window. He clutched the sten gun to his hip, and he burst out into the courtyard.
Nobody …
But the trail of blood. It led up the side of the house, past the front door, past the bedroom windows. It disappeared around the corner.
Morgan ran up the side of the house. To the corner. He stopped, flat against the wall, his chest heaving. He peered around the corner.
Nobody. He swept his eye across the courtyard. The blood trail disappeared across the snow and from here he could not see where it went. He came out from behind the corner. Then there was a crack and a blow knocked him sideways, and he sprawled.
He hit the cobblestones and the same instant he scrambled up, and ran. He ran flat out for the car and flung himself behind it.
He crouched, rasping, gasping. He feverishly felt his thigh. There was no real pain. He felt warm blood. He looked down
at the wound. His thigh was sodden. He feverishly looked along the outer wall top. They would be closing in on them out there. No, they thought he was still up in the tower, with a good field of fire – they-would wait till dark now. The light was going already. In twenty minutes they would close in …
Suddenly the pain came into his thigh. He screwed up his eyes, trying to think. He did not know where the wounded man was. He could be in the stables, in the cowstalls, in the pigsty, behind the barrels in front. But
he
knew where Morgan was, behind this car … Get back to the house. The bastard had a bad leg wound, he couldn’t do much. And just then he saw him.
Suddenly a barrel tipped over, and the man scrambled. He hobbled for the cowstall and threw himself behind the wall. Morgan swung his gun on him – but too late.
Danziger … That was fucking Danziger! …
He yelled, full of hate: ‘
Danziger, you bastard, I saw you! …
’
And oh God, God the fury. And oh God, God, Makepeace …
He scrambled down the side of the car, towards the rear. He really felt the pain in his thigh now. He crouched behind the rear wheel a moment, then clenched his teeth and ran.
He ran flat out for the bedroom corner, and flung himself around it. He stopped, pressed against the wall, gasping, trying not to feel the pain. Then he ran back to the living room. He slammed the door shut behind him, and bolted it.
It was almost dark inside. He hurried into the dining room, into the hall. She was crouched by the front door, her gun pointed at the window, ashen. She whispered: Ts it really Danziger?’
‘Makepeace must have opened his big mouth!’ He took a trembling breath. ‘We’ll make a run for it in ten minutes, when it’s dark. Get our passports and money, and the diamonds and the confessions, that’s all. Then come up to the tower.’
He turned and made for the steps. She gasped: ‘Your leg …’ He ran up the narrow steps, wincing at the bloody pain.
He crouched between the water tanks, getting his breath back.
Then he raised his head.
He looked up at the forest. Nothing moved. Down the orchard. Nothing. He turned and peered down at the river. Not a thing moved.
The light was going. He checked the rifle, then slid it over the wall. He aimed at the treeline of the forest. He squeezed the trigger.
His shot rang out, sharp and shocking, and he shifted the barrel and fired twice more,
crack – crack.
Then he swung the barrel and he let go down the middle of the orchard in a sweeping, shattering line, just to impress them. He pulled the rifle back and crouched down again. He rammed in a new ammunition clip.
Anna whispered: ‘I’m here.’
He turned, on his haunches. She was crouched against the tanks, her face white. He said: ‘We’re safe up here. We dominate the field of fire. If they break in, we’ll hold them off on the stairs.’
She unzipped her tracksuit blouse and pulled out a cognac bottle. She uncorked it and took a swig. She closed her eyes as she swallowed. Then held out the bottle to him.
He put it to his mouth and took a big swallow. It burned down into his gut. He took another mouthful. She was holding a newly lit cigarette out to him. He took a drag, and inhaled deeply. ‘All right,’ he said.
He crouched up, and peered. The light was going fast. He swept his eyes over the snowy orchard, up to the forest. Nothing. He turned and peered the other way towards the river. Nothing moving. He dared not put his head right over and look down into the courtyard below. He crouched down again. He said: