Queen Victoria's Revenge (10 page)

Telephone. It would mean calling the police, 999, he even remembered the number to dial, which would probably mean arrest on the hot money charge. He could get out of that, the FBI would find a way and, no matter how uncomfortable he would be as a jailbird, it was far superior to nipping about the Scottish Highlands with murderous Cuban gunmen on his heels. The house it would be.

He started to rise—then instantly sat again. No. As clearly as though he were seeing it projected on a screen, he saw himself walking into the colonel's unwelcome embrace. This was too obvious and the colonel would be expecting it. The farmhouse was out. Something more subtle, and strenuous, was in order. He could not,
must
not, take the obvious course. He had to carry on, up the steep slope through the trees to the highest point, then down the other side. Anything less would be as good as surrendering to the colonel.

Soaked with sweat, dampened by a sudden rainstorm, stumbling with fatigue, he reached the summit of the hill, which now had assumed Everestian proportions, and dropped with a trembling sigh onto a handy boulder. On all sides the slopes fell away from him and, through the thin rank of trees, he could see the waters of the Sound on three sides. The hill obviously formed a small peninsula projecting into the sea, with the road skirting its base. To escape from the peninsula he must turn right and walk back through the rising hills inland. This seemed the obvious course, the only intelligent one, so he vowed not to follow it. That way the minions of the colonel undoubtedly lurked. To be completely irrational he should go to the left, down the hill to the tip of the peninsula, from which the only escape would be by sea or road. This was so impractical that he knew at once he must do it. He had no idea what he would find there—and neither did the colonel. It was the only course open to him. If no possibility of escape then offered itself he could always hide in the trees until dark, then try to make his way out by road, get a lift from a car, find a friendly farmhouse, anything. This was what he had to do.

Going downhill was harder than climbing up and he had to stop often to rest. He wished now that he had led a cleaner life lately, worked out in the gym every day, lost a few pounds, kept regular hours, got the old muscle tone back. But he hadn't. Sighing deeply, he stumbled on. When he was almost three quarters of the way down, the land fell away in a sudden cliff. Concealed by this formation up until now, a small building presented itself by the side of the road, just on the tip of the peninsula. It was solidly built and charming, flowers growing at its walls, a sign of some sort on its side. There were no trees here but plenty of shelter from the shrubbery as long as he stayed low. With great care he went down the slope until he could read the sign.
HIGHLAND HANDICRAFTS.
That sounded nice. A tourist shop of some kind, people inside used to hearing the strange accents of foreigners, certainly a telephone for commercial contact with the world outside. But should he risk it? The colonel could have no idea he had come this way, not over the entire mountain, well, hill. Was it a chance he should take?

As though he had asked the colonel himself the colonel answered. Around the hill below, buzzing with unleashed Teutonic mini-power, the VW bus came. It was going flat out, top speed, tires squealing as it negotiated the turn. Past the Highland Handicrafts without slowing, around the turn again, where it buzzed away out of sight. Now was the time, before it could come back—if it were coming back. The colonel was obviously checking both sides of the hill and had never considered the far end at all. Stumbling and sliding, Tony made it to the road with a rush. Brushing the worst of the leaves and debris from his clothing, he went to the door and opened it cautiously. There was no one inside. Still as carefully, ready as a frightened doe to retreat to the hills, he edged inside.

There were some very attractive paintings and prints on the wall that instantly caught his attention. No! He was an FBI man at this moment, not a dealer in fine art. Nevertheless he admired the handcrafted jewelry, the stoneware and weaving. By the windows, facing the road, was a desk with a handsome white-haired woman behind it.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?” He turned and saw the telephone by her elbow.

“Yes, good afternoon, you certainly can.”

Smiling victoriously, he sauntered across the room between the fishing rods and cases of ornaments, rubbing his hands together. Success was his!

“You are late,” a voice said behind him. “I didn't think your stroll would take so much time.”

A puppet on a string, Tony spun about to face the smiling colonel, who stood in an alcove where he could not be seen from either the window or the door. He was reading a book, which he lowered just long enough to show Tony the silenced revolver he held beneath it. Then he strolled over to stand close behind him.

“You naughty chap. You know we must be going. Here, I know your tastes, I am sure this is what you want.” He took a toy sheep from the counter and handed it to Tony. It rested on his hand, empty glass-bead eyes staring into his from under curled horns made from pipe cleaners, fuzzy rabbit fur wool, black wooden legs peeking out below. “I'll even pay for it. Now we must be going.”

“Good-bye, sir,” the proprietress said cheerily, ringing up the sale. “Those sheep are nice, aren't they? Made by a local girl, does everything herself.”

When the door closed behind them the colonel ground the gun viciously into Tony's already sore side where guns had been ground before.

“You stupid fool. If I did not need you I would shoot you here and now. I will next time … I lose my patience. Now walk along the road until the car comes back. Your pathetic attempt at escape has not only earned you nothing but has raised my anger. Beware. Now, we are out of sight of the building, hands in the air—higher. Do you have more of the grenades?” The gun emphasized the question and Tony decided that lying was out of the question.

“In my pocket, I'll…”

“No you won't! Just stand where you are until the car gets here.” It arrived all too quickly and Tony was brusquely and efficiently searched, the grenades transferred to one of the violin cases. Shoved and insulted, he was hurried back into the VW and the trip resumed. The road wound on through Tarbert, and a few miles farther on they turned off on a smaller road that followed the Sound that led to Carradale.

“We will be there soon, and no more foolish games from you,” the colonel said, tracing their course on the map with a well-manicured finger. “When we arrive you, Jorge, will park the car and stay with it. I will stroll about the town with this creature Hawkin, who will be looking at faces and will co-operate with me or he will be loathsomely dead before the day is out. While we do this the rest of you will stroll as well, keeping us always in sight, but staying apart as though simple tourists here for a day's outing, wandering musicians with your instruments ready to play at a moment's notice. Guard my back at all times and beware of suspicious circumstances. Always remember the gun in my pocket, Hawkin. I will use it if I have to.”

Over a hump-backed bridge and through meadows and forests the road twisted, then straightened out and widened as it reached the few shops that made up the village center. The colonel took it all in with his Cyclops eye.

“A butcher, nothing there, general goods, post office—there! The hotel, sure to contain a bar and a bar possibly to contain those we seek. Stop next to it.”

“We'll have to order a drink to appear natural,” Tony hinted.

“A single whisky, no more. Inside.”

Inside was a long room with a dart board at one end, being industriously punctured by two elderly men with arthritic, palsied fingers. They blinked moistly at the newcomers, then turned back to their more interesting game, plunking the darts into the target numbers with incredible ease. Youth was also catered to by a pinball machine that was tinkling and clunking steadily under the attentions of an adenoidal, spotty teen-ager. Between these extremes lay the bar, where a half-dozen men were downing large glasses of beer. Tony looked at them closely; he recognized none of them. “Not here,” he murmured.

“Two whiskies,” the colonel ordered, standing so his shoulders were near the wall, his eyes upon the room. A young, exceedingly pink girl behind the bar took two wine glasses and pressed them each in turn up under a bottle of scotch secured upside down to the wall. A windowed device on the neck measured out an infinitesimal amount of drink into each glass. The colonel paid, their drinks vanished in a single small gulp, then they were back on the road again.

“We shall stroll down to the harbor there. Look carefully at everyone.”

A jetty closed off one side of the circular harbor and two fishing boats were tied up to it. The sun shone brightly on this very pleasant scene, tiny cottages crouched along the shore, nets dried on poles, a small shop displayed rope and tackle in its window. The colonel inclined his head in that direction.

“In this store, eyes open.”

There were big men there in rubber boots and heavy sweaters; they looked up in interest when they entered. Tony was sure he had never seen them before. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” the man behind the wooden counter asked. Also a stranger. The colonel looked around quickly at the wrenches, cans of grease and red lead—then saw a rack of paperback books.

“Yes, something to read.” He flipped through them unseeingly, eyes on Tony, who gave his head a quick shake. The colonel threw a small booklet on the counter, it was nearest to hand. “I'll take this.”

“That'll be twenty-five pence.”

Colonel Juarez-Sedoño passed it to Tony while he dug in his pocket for silver. There was a dim and watery seascape on the front cover of the booklet, fishing boats emerging from a cove, with the title below. “THE FLEET and other poems” by Ian A. Brown. The colonel was having difficulty fishing out small change and Tony flipped the pages. “A la Cart” sounded like a nice title for a poem:

Herring swimming in Loch Fyne

feed on plankton in the brine;

those seen on the surface frying

soon inside a net are lying;

then may this simple fish

fried in meal—a tasty dish!

A very nice poem that set Tony's salivary glands to secreting and brought an answering mutter of interest from his stomach. It had been a long time since he had eaten. The colonel tugged at his arm.

“Along the shore, look at the men on the boats.”

They ambled over to the water's edge, while in the background simple Cuban musicians strolled as well, violin cases hanging heavy from their hands. A man was gutting a large fish on the deck of the nearest boat, throwing the waste parts into the water where gulls screamed and fought for the tidbits. He looked up when they came close and Tony recognized the driver of the Rolls-Royce, the man who had helped Angus Macpherson take the money. Tony turned away and spoke softly:

“That's one of them, the driver of the car.”

The colonel smiled broadly and took the gun from his pocket.

“Come here, you,” he ordered.

The sailor responded instantly by hurling his knife at the colonel.

EIGHT

For all his skill as a torturer, the colonel was not much of a combat specialist. He neither fired his gun nor attempted to dodge, but simply shrieked shrilly as the knife lodged in his thigh, flinging his arms wide and falling backward, sending the gun flying across the cobbles. The shrieking cut off as he crashed to the ground, his eyes rolling up so only the whites showed, his mouth lolling open. The knife fell from his leg with the impact and a small splotch of blood stained the spot where it had gone in. His jacket had fallen open, and there, projecting from the inner pocket, was the wallet with the skyjacked bills peeping greenly from it.

There would never be another chance like this—and Tony took it. The fish cleaner had vanished from the boat while startled Cubans were still fumbling with violin case closures. Now! Grabbing the wallet from the colonel's pocket, Tony raced across the cobbles and into an alleyway next to the store. There was a path here that rose sharply up the hillside. He thrust the wallet into his pocket and scrabbled up it, almost on all fours. There was only silence from the harbor behind him and he risked a quick look over his shoulder. None of the Cubans were in sight—but the knife wielder from the boat was coming up the path behind him.

There is nothing like a quick whiff of fear to flush out the adrenals and start the heart pumping. Tony whirred up the steep side of the hill, arms and legs churning like windmills, between the houses at the top toward the beckoning road beyond. A sturdy young man came out of one of the houses and looked at him with interest. Tony slowed to a walk and tried to think of something inconsequential to say. Before he could open his mouth his pursuer called out:

“Hold him, Bruce, he's one of them from the plane.”

Bruce's reactions were not the quickest. He frowned in thought and Tony pushed by him, then reluctantly made his mind up at the last possible instant. A large hand reached out and seized Tony's jacket and that was that. He struggled fiercely but to no avail, and was drawn in steadily like the Loch Fyne herring of the poem. His grinning pursuer came quickly up and the two of them had no trouble in forcing Tony through the door into the building. It closed behind him with a very final sound. They were in a large, beamed kitchen. A short man with sandy hair and steel-rimmed thick glasses looked up from the table where he was drinking a cup of tea. “What's this?” he asked quietly.

“This one is from the plane, the American FBI man. He came to town with a whole shoal of those Cubans. One of them showed me a gun and I stuck him in the leg. Where's Angus?”

“In the parlor with the fencing-cully. We can't bother him now.”