A squall threw itself against the window once again, causing tiny rivers of rain to slip down the panes like a flood of tears. Damn, it was one of those nights when he wanted so very much to be home, yet even as the desire came to him he wasn’t entirely sure where home was. He wanted that sorted, and soon, but for the moment anywhere would do so long as it was away from this place with its dirty trades and bloody conceits. He wished he’d never come.
The panes rattled in their frames once more. That’s when Harry thought, from somewhere behind him, he could hear a door being gently opened.
Saturday, 11.48 p.m. Castle Lorne.
The man crept through the house in stockinged feet, the noise of his passing drowned by the wind and the rumble of the heavy sea. Down the stairs, through the hallway, past the dining room, struggling to get his bearings in the dark, until he reached the kitchen.
It took him only moments to locate the oil line, plastic-coated 10mm copper piping, that ran round the skirting board until it ended in a brass elbow joint beside the Aga ovens. He knelt down and wrenched at it, once, twice, three times.
Castle Lorne was large and relatively inaccessible, not the sort of place you wanted to get stuck without fuel, which was why Alan MacDougall had decided to install one of the larger types of oil tank that would provide a safety margin in case of difficulty with supply. It worked with a simple gravity feed, no fancy mechanics, just old Isaac Newton. Ater the third tug at the fuel line, and using nothing more than the power of gravity, thousands of litres of heating oil began spewing out across the stone floor.
The man retreated as the oil advanced. He struck a match, threw it into the spreading pool, a little tumbling arc of flame that flickered through the darkness, but it spluttered and died as soon as it hit the oil. So did the next three matches. Heating oil wasn’t explosive like petrol, it needed much more persuasion, but the man had foreseen this, had come prepared. He disappeared from the kitchen, returning two minutes later with a plastic container, which he emptied across the floor. Now the intoxicating smell of petrol began to mix with the sweeter scent of the heating oil.
He stood behind the door when he lit the next match. It was a sensible precaution, because when he threw it into the kitchen the petrol vapour ignited explosively
and a fireball flashed straight past him and into the hallway. It was followed in close order by a tide of flame that surged across the kitchen floor, and was soon beyond.
Castle Lorne was burning.
Sunday, 12.23 a.m., Castle Lorne.
As Harry had turned in the hallway, he had discovered Blythe by the open door to her bedroom. She stood tall, willowy in her flowing pale silk dressing gown, and vulnerable.
‘I hoped it might be you, Harry Jones,’ she’d said, her voice hesitant.
He’d moved towards her to comfort her and she’d stepped back to lead him inside. Without a word she’d poured two large whiskies and stretched herself out on the bed, her back to the headboard, patting the place beside her. ‘Here, Harry. I need you right now as my best friend in the world.’
Cool, calm, yet in turmoil. So they’d sat on the bed, side by side, like two kids at a sleepover.
‘You think we’re being hasty?’ she asked.
He knew she was testing herself as much as him.
‘Mark said something to me, about how we dig our own graves.’
‘Better that than letting the Chinese dig them for us.’
They paused, reflecting, sipping.
‘You really sure?’ Harry enquired.
‘Sure? Hell, no, but…’
‘But what?’
‘We have to come to a decision, and yet…the others talk about a new world order. Truth is, I’m not sure there’ll be any sort of order, not after this.’
‘More like the Little Big Horn after the Apaches arrived.’
‘I think you’ll find they were Cheyenne, but we’re not talking bows and arrows, Harry. You know Mao is a monster.’
‘Agreed. But what does that make us if we climb into bed alongside animals such as Sergei Shunin?’
‘You mean what does that make
me
. And suddenly I feel like a twenty-bit hooker.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘Oh yes you did.’ She sighed. ‘And maybe you’re right. I feel like I’ve been cornered. I’m so
angry
. And every time I try to get my thoughts in a row, the anger pushes in and kicks them all over the place.’
And then they had talked, a litle about Arnie, much more about Abigail, and she had cried, and they’d sipped more whisky, and cried some more, and eventually Blythe had fallen asleep on Harry’s shoulder. Yet even in her sleep her agitation continued, mumbling, stirring, until she reached out for him and held him tight. She needed someone, something, to hold on to.
Harry didn’t disturb her, he let her sleep, her breath falling gently on his chest. Perhaps the greatest service he could perform this weekend was to enable Blythe to sort through her troubles. Not that people would understand if he were discovered here. Damn it, Jones, you’ve got yourself into some tight spots, but never before into a president’s bed.
He was in the process of debating whether he was more likely to be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor or to get himself shot when, through the jumble of conflicted thoughts, he had some sort of premonition that all was not well. It was a sense more than a sound, but it caused him to unravel himself from her arms and creep back out once more into the hallway. That’s when he knew what was wrong–could smell it, scouring out his nostrils. Burning. He bounded down the stairs, and almost immediately he could see the glow of the fire from the ground floor.
What the hell had happened to the fire alarms? he wondered. He had no way of knowing they’d been disarmed, every one. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, it was already too late. The hallway was a puddle of fire, the generous wooden panelling beginning to smoke and split, the ancient silk tapestries already streaking with soot, the tide of flame advancing inch by quickening inch, devouring the thick tartan carpet and grabbing at everything in its path. Soon it would reach the stairs, and since it was coming from the direction of the kitchen Harry rightly reckoned that the back stairs were
already gone. Fingers of acrid, evil smoke were reaching for his throat. He began to choke, retreating, his eyes stinging. As he stumbled backwards he knocked into the dinner gong. He grabbed it and began beating it with all his strength, shouting for their lives as he hurled himself back up the stairs.
Harry threw the gong aside as he crashed into Blythe’s room. The metal dish gave a last scream of protest and tumbled into a corner, but she was still no more than stirring, half awake and completely unaware. He scooped her up in his arms and ran into the hallway to discover the tall, gangling figure of Washington tumbling down the stairs from the floor above.
‘Thank God!’ Harry cried. ‘Get the others. Then get out!’
He continued his own charge towards the ground floor when Blythe came to her senses. ‘Put me down! For God’s sake, put me down!’ she cried.
‘You’re OK, Blythe. I’ll get you out.’
‘I’m fine, Harry, you idiot. Go get the others!’ The fire was already licking up the banister rails at the foot of the stairs. She put her arms around his neck and, for one brief moment, held him. ‘I’m really fine,’ she whispered. ‘Save the rest of them.’
He turned to discover that Washington was already behind him, D’Arby at his side, and between them they were struggling to carry Flora. Nipper was dancing in agitation behind them, his eyes wide in alarm. Blood was dripping from the old lady’s temple.
‘She fell,’ Washington cried, ‘but I think she’ll be fine.’ His eyes wandered to the pool of fire that was waiting for them below. ‘Holy Mother,’ he groaned, and stumbled on.
‘The Russians?’ Harry shouted after him.
‘The young one’s already gone, his door’s open,’ Washington replied. ‘Shunin’s seems to be locked. I couldn’t hang around to check…’
But already Harry was running.
He found the door to the Russian President’s room as Washington had reported. Shunin had to be inside, no way would he have locked it behind him on his way out. Harry suspected that he was doused in so much alcohol that only the fires of Hell would ever stir him, and by then it would be far, far too late. He heaved himself at the door, and gave a sharp grunt of pain as he bounced off; like the rest of the castle, the doors were solid and would break almost any shoulder in a straight fight. Smoke was drifting up the stairs, clinging to the ceiling, soon it would thicken and drop, and set about its killing. From below came the sound of glass or something ceramic shattering in the heat.
He tried to force the door with his shoulder once more but he knew it was futile. He cast desperately around him, the glow of the advancing fire growing all too bright, when he caught sight of a pair of antique battleaxes several hundred years old arranged in a display on the wall. He grabbed one, wrenching it from its setting, swinging it for balance before attacking the lock. Two stout swipes and the ancient head came off,
flying back across the hallway, but the second axe did better. The door began to shudder, the lock starting to give. Harry forced the blade into the jamb of the door and heaved. It was enough. With a shower of splintering wood, he burst into Shunin’s room.
By now Shunin was awake, sitting up in bed, deeply alarmed.
‘Get out,’ Harry shouted. ‘The place is going up.’
Yet Shunin took no heed. He sat staring at Harry from the darkness, his expression lit by the glow of the approaching fire and filled with suspicion. This man trusted no one.
Then understanding dawned. Shunin jumped from his bed, gathering his clothes in his arms, stopping only to push his feet into his shoes. ‘I wonder, are you here to save me, or to kill me, Mr Jones?’
‘I told you, never had a Russian die on me yet, Mr President,’ Harry replied. It wasn’t entirely true, he’d never had a Russian die on him by accident, but this was neither the time nor the place to explore Harry’s past. He grabbed the Russian’s arm, but even as they started back down, one half of the staircase was already being chewed away by the flames. The tall, upright walls of Castle Lorne were turning into a chimney with the great oak staircase as its fuel.
Harry squeezed past the fire, Shunin one step behind. The flames were grabbing for them, clawing at their clothes, singeing their hair, pummelling at them with fists
of heat. And when at last they stumbled, coughing, through the great front door of Castle Lorne, they found the others in varying states of disarray scattered across the forecourt and lawn. Washington was in his tracksuit, pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. Blythe had covered her dressing gown in a jacket that D’Arby had given her. The Prime Minister seemed unreasonably well presented given the circumstances, Harry thought; he’d even found time to put on his socks. Shunin was struggling into the clothes he had managed to salvage, pulling them directly over his pyjamas, while Lavrenti was there, too, in the shadows, keeping himself apart. Blythe was bending over Flora, who was laid out on the grass wrapped in a blanket. Harry kneeled down beside the old lady to see if he could assist, but even as he did so she moaned and began to show signs of recovery.
There was no saving the castle. The front door was gaping wide, like a flue, left open as they had fled, while the gusting wind seemed to seek out the fire and fan it to an ever-greater intensity. Windows were shattering, ceilings collapsing, flames roaring in triumph.
Then, through the sounds of destruction, came a scream of terror. Flora was sitting up, watching her beloved home being consumed by fire, her lips letting forth one agonizing cry that continued until there wasn’t an ounce of breath left in her.
The cry was formed of one word.
Nipper.
One moment he’d been with them on the stairs, the next, not. They’d all assumed amidst the confusion of Presidents and Prime Minister that the boy had carried on down, with one of the others, but now they could see him waving and shouting from the window of his room at the very top of the castle. Instantly Harry realised what had happened. Nipper had gone back for his dirk. Now he was alone, trapped.
Some men see life as little more than a journey to their deaths. They string out their time in caution, with every breath and every beat of the heart seen as one more to be struck off an ever-shortening list. Harry Jones wasn’t like those men. If life was a race to the death, it was a race in which death was cheated as often as possible so that every day became a victory. It wasn’t so much a matter of not knowing fear, as of conquering fear in order to know what it was like simply to be alive. Even Nipper had known that.
They tried to stop him, D’Arby in particular, but Flora’s cry spoke louder than all the Prime Minister’s spluttering entreaties. Harry grabbed the blanket they had put around Mrs MacDougall, wrapped it around his shoulders and threw himself into the seawater that was chasing waves across the causeway, soaking himself to the skin. Then he covered his head like a shawl, running past the flailing arms of D’Arby straight back into the house.
Harry knew Nipper was still up there, alive, but even now the smoke would be seeping under his bedroom
door. It might already be too late. And between Harry and the boy lay a highway of fire, of retching smoke, noxious gases, flaming obstacles, pain. It was a road Harry started on without any rational hope of survival.
The oil had been burning for many minutes and was finding its grip on the things it touched. Furniture. Curtains. Antique silk tapestries that Alan MacDougall had spent a lifetime hunting down. And by the time Harry squeezed through the foul-smelling curtain of flame and smoke that shrouded the entrance, the fire had begun to eat away at the main body of the stairs as well. It didn’t surrender easily, but the fuel had seeped into the space beneath and fire was eating the treads from below. The burning point of wood is about two hundred and eighty degrees Celsius, that of skin nearer fifty, and the furnace effect of the wind and fire were already stoking temperatures far beyond these levels. Yet oak is a dense wood, it gives itself up slowly and retains some internal strength even as it burns. Harry hit the stairs praying that they would still be strong enough to carry his passing weight.
He leapt up more by instinct than by sight, the soaking blanket pulled around his eyes to protect them from the heat and filthy smoke, keeping close to the wall where the structure might have more strength, struggling not to panic, but it wasn’t easy, the noise and heat jarring at his senses, clouding his mind, cheating his resolve. Even as he started his charge he felt the fourth step collapsing beneath him, but only in the moment
that he was past. The fire attacked him more ferociously with every step he took, he could feel it on his feet, his legs, arms, face; the blanket was beginning to smoulder, making it ever more difficult for him to see, the noxious, superheated air attacking his throat, even as every muscle in his body screamed at him to take a deep lungful of air. He knew that if he did it would be his last. From somewhere close at hand came an explosion that sent sparks chasing through the air and clinging to his cheeks like drops of acid snow. The skin on his ankles and calves was beginning to burn. His knuckles felt on fire, searing with pain as he tried to grip the blanket ever more tightly around him for all the meagre protection it gave. His head began to fall, his focus to waver. Even as he turned the stair and started up the second flight, he knew his gamble had failed.
He was forced to take a shallow breath and immediately his lungs began to fill with the caustic, searing smoke; now he was burning from the inside, too. His legs began to buckle, the muscles no longer willing to listen to his commands, paying heed only to their own pain, and Harry began to falter. He was going, falling.
Suddenly Harry felt his arm being grabbed, pulling him on. It was Marcus Washington. ‘Couldn’t have you tripping over again,’ the American roared above the fire. The man seemed almost to be smirking. And as they stumbled onward, they could see parts of the stair that were not yet afire, where they could tread without their
shoes beginning to melt, and by the time they reached the second floor it seemed as though they were through the worst, for the moment, at least. Harry tried to take another breath and screamed inside as his lungs tore themselves apart in the struggle to grab oxygen from the poisoned air. Beside him, Washington slumped against a wall, his tracksuit on fire. Harry smothered it in the blanket, as Washington cried out with the pain.