It was then he realized exactly what was happening: she was drawing his strength, sapping his will. Her power was not in her body, but in her mind. It drank in his will, drew him into a mental whirlpool, her deep eyes sucking him in, drowning him. Her hand took his and placed it on her breast, holding it there, making him feel her firmness, the nipple hard and thrusting. Their thighs pressed close, his body stirring, no longer unwilling, oblivious to the legend, subject now only to physical need. Their lips were almost touching, only minimal resistance preventing him from crushing his against hers. But it was the physical stirring in her that suddenly froze his movement, that tore through the overwhelming net of carnality she had cast over him. For her own desire had manifested itself against his lower body, a protuberance that pushed against her clothes, and deemed to match his.
With a cry of rage he pushed her away, driving his fist hard into her face. She screamed with the shock and sudden pain, falling to the floor, and he knew why they’d sent her to seduce him. Why he would have been humbled before them, and more importantly, himself, if he had succumbed. The door flew open and Pope stood there, others behind him with guns drawn. There was anger in Pope’s eyes as he looked at Steadman then down at Kristina who lay propped up with one hand against the floor, the other clutching an already-swelling face.
Kristina spat at Steadman. ‘You bastard!’ she screamed, and her voice had become guttural. ‘You lousy bastard!’
Disgustedly, and before Pope’s muscle-men could rush him, Steadman took a step forward and aimed a vicious kick at the hermaphrodite lying prone on the floor.
It took two minutes for Pope’s men to knock him senseless, but as Steadman sank into unconsciousness, he took relish in the sobs of pain coming from the creature lying only a few feet from him.
Holly Miles stood on the bed and reached up towards the light bulb, a pillowcase cover draped over one hand to prevent her fingers being burnt by the calescent glass. With a deft twist, the light bulb was free of its socket and the room plunged into darkness. She stood still for a few seconds, allowing her eyes to adjust to dense blackness, the hand clutching the light bulb becoming warm with the heat. The full moon outside suddenly broke free from smothering clouds and she was grateful for the increased visibility, although it might work against her in a few moments. She stepped off the bed and moved silently towards the thin bar of light that shone beneath the door from the hallway. Once again, Holly listened with her ear pressed against the woodwork, praying she would not hear sounds of muffled conversation indicating there was more than one guard outside; she didn’t think she could tackle two of them. Reasonably satisfied, she tapped lightly on the door with her fingernails.
‘Hey,’ she called softly. ‘Open up. I want to see Gant.’
There was no reply and this time she rapped harder, using her knuckles.
‘Hey, you! I’ve got something to tell Gant. It’s important.’
Still no answer, and she began to wonder if there was still someone out there. ‘Can you hear me?’ she demanded to know, thumping the door angrily.
‘Keep it down, lady,’ came the surly reply.
‘Ah, the zombie speaks,’ she said, loud enough for the guard to hear. ‘Listen to me, I’ve got to see Gant.’
‘Mr Gant’s busy.’
‘No, look, I’ve got information for him. I warn you, it’s important.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ came the lazy reply.
‘Cretin!’ she said, and gave the door a powerful kick.
‘Cut it out, lady, I’m telling you!’ There was menace in his voice now.
She kicked it again.
‘I’m warning you, I’ve got orders to keep you quiet,’ Holly heard the disembodied voice say, and she smiled grimly. She kicked at the door again.
‘You’d better let me see him, moron. You’ll regret it if you don’t.’
There was a brief silence as though the guard was pondering, then his voice came through the woodwork again. ‘What have you got to tell Mr Gant?’
‘That’s between me and him.’
‘Oh no. There’s a meeting going on tonight and I’m not interrupting it just for you.’
‘Then let me see whoever’s in charge of you – your commanding officer.’ She used the description of rank scornfully, refusing to accept that these mercenaries were genuine soldiers. Perhaps if he went to find his superior she would have a chance to work on the door. It was a slim chance, but slim was better than none at all.
‘Major Brannigan’s busy.’
Yes, probably supervising the missile launch, Holly told herself. ‘Okay, your captain or sergeant, or whatever,’ she shouted back.
‘Leave it out, lady. There’s enough going on tonight without you causing problems.’
She swore furiously and began to pummel at the door. My God, what if she really had some vital information for Gant? This cluck would still carry out his orders and keep her imprisoned here, no matter what.
‘Cut it out!’ the guard shouted. ‘I’m telling you, I’ll come in there and sort you out!’
She nodded to herself and increased the rain of blows on the door.
‘Right!’ she heard him say. ‘You’ve asked for it!’
The rattle of a key entering the lock was music to her ears. She flew across the room, diving on the bed and rolling over it on to the floor beyond. She crouched there, praying for a cloud to snuff out the moon’s brightness. The door opened, slamming back against the wall, the guard’s way of ensuring she wasn’t lurking behind it. Light flooded in from the hallway and she heard him curse and the light-switch being flicked.
Holly knew if he was professional he would immediately step back into the hallway and to one side, to make his silhouette less vulnerable, so she had to act first.
Without showing herself, she hurled the still-warm light bulb into the corner of the room to the left of the guard. The glass popped and shattered, the noise resembling the blast of a small firearm. The guard whirled towards the sound, his single-hand submachine-gun aimed at the corner.
Holly was like a banshee streaking from the shadows and it was already too late for the guard as he turned to meet her rush. She hurled herself at him, twisting her body as she leaped, so that her back and one shoulder struck him just below chest level. He cried out in alarm, falling backwards, striking the door frame as he went down, the shock of the blow causing him to lose his grip on the submachine-gun. They sprawled halfway out into the hall and Holly, lithe as a cat, rolled to a crouching position, her eyes already searching the long corridor for other guards. With relief, she realized it was empty.
The guard’s gun was lying back through the door, bathed in light from the hall, and she scrambled towards it. A hand grabbed her ankle and tripped her, sending her flat.
The guard, still stunned and wincing at the numbing pain between his shoulder-blades, had seen her intent and was quick enough to snatch at her leg. He pulled her towards him and that was his second mistake.
His first had been to underestimate her because she was a woman. His second was to clutch at one lethal appendage while allowing the other to remain free. Her other foot shot out and struck him just below the chin, snapping his head back so it struck the hard wood of the door frame once more. The foot struck again with deadly skill as his head bounced back, smashing his nose and hastening his already speedy flight into unconsciousness.
Holly sprang to her feet, the guard’s hand falling limply away from her ankles. She cleared the curtain of blonde hair that screened her vision with a toss of her head and peeped back into the hallway, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. Satisfied that their struggles had not aroused anybody’s attention, she reached down for the unconscious guard’s ankles and dragged him away from the doorway and further into the room. Flicking his eyelids up, she was careful to avoid the blood flowing from his broken nose, and guessed he would be out for quite some time. Nevertheless, she decided to bind him with bedsheets just to be safe. Within minute
s it was done, and his inert body lay beneath the bed out of sight of anyone who should casually check on the room. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, for she knew her mere absence and the sight of the unguarded hallway would set off alarms throughout the estate, but she was a firm believer that in her business, every little detail could sometimes help. Her one concession to the man’s condition was to leave him ungagged; with his nose and throat clogged with blood, she knew he could easily choke if air from his mouth was cut off. She even positioned him on his side to help the flow of blood run on to the carpet rather than down his throat, feeling slightly foolish and knowing her past instructors would have cursed her vehemently for her unprofessionalism. But she was prepared to take the small risk of his coming to his senses and calling for help rather than let him die in such a defenceless manner.
Holly straightened, running her hands down her jeans, trying to wipe the bloody stickiness from them. She walked over to the submachine-gun still lying near the doorway, light bouncing off its oily, black surfaces, and noted it was similar to an Ingram. Small and compact, inaccurate over any great distance, but deadly effective at close quarters. She wondered if it had the same firing power of twelve hundred rounds a minute as the Ingram. A small stock was hinged to the main body, providing a recoil buffer when pulled back and held against the upper arm. She picked it up, surprised because it was even lighter than the Ingram: Gant’s private army was privileged with the finest equipment.
Once again she checked the hallway, listening for sounds, her senses keened to the atmosphere. All was quiet.
She closed the door, locking it with the key still protruding beneath the handle, and crept stealthily down the long corridor, keeping close to the wall, prepared to use the recessed doorways as cover should anyone suddenly appear. Holly made her way towards the back of the house, away from the main stairway, and towards the curiously castle-like older part.
The wind howled around the ancient church tower, the breeze cold, sweeping over the land from the sea, biting and tangy with salt. As the moonlight struggled through the thick, rolling clouds once again, a group of men was revealed crouching for shelter behind the parapet at the top of the tower. At all times, however, one man remained kneeling, his elbows resting against the cleft in the fort-like wall, night-sighted binoculars held to his eyes, watching the dim white house in the dip of the land almost a mile away.
‘Still no movement, sir,’ he muttered, ducking his head behind the parapet so his words were not whisked away by the wind. ‘Reckon they’ve settled down for the night.’
The man he was speaking to half-covered his watch with a hand so that the luminous dial could function. ‘Nearly half-eleven,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘The last helicopter arrived about ten, didn’t it?’
Sexton, crouched next to him, nodded and said, ‘Yes, about that time. Look, it must have been the last of ’em. Can’t we move in now?’
‘Sorry, we can’t go in until we’ve been given the order from the Commissioner.’ Detective Chief Inspector Burnett sympathized with the retired police officer, Blake, but there were bigger things at stake here than the safety of one man. He was acting under the directions of the Commissioner and the Home Secretary. They were running the show – so if his orders were to wait, then wait he would.
‘But what are you hanging on for?’ Blake persisted. ‘For fuck’s sake, he could be dead by now.’
The chief inspector turned to him and said patiently, ‘Look, Mr Blake, I can appreciate your concern, but this Steadman went in there of his own free will . . .’
‘He said he had to. He had to play it out the way Gant wanted. He was worried about the girl, he didn’t know if she was involved or not, whether she was safe or . . .’
‘Holly Miles. Yes,’ Burnett said wearily, ‘we know all about her now.’
‘Why weren’t we informed about her before, governor?’ a voice came from close by.
‘Mistrust, Andy. They played everything close to their chests. Christ, who would have thought Pope was dodgy?’
The detective sergeant shook his head in the dark. ‘How long have they known about him?’
‘God knows. You can bet that’s why the CIA were in on it, though – nobody knew who could really be trusted in MI5. If someone with Pope’s rank could be part of Gant’s group, then who else – upstairs or downstairs – could be involved. Aah,’ he waved a hand disgustedly, ‘makes you sick to think of it.’
Sexton rose to his feet, his cramped position making his bones ache. The wind hit him instantly and he pulled the lapels of his overcoat up around his neck, tucking one point beneath the other to protect his chest. He looked over the edge and could clearly make out the ugly, twisted tree that stood by the roadside at the base of the old church. On the other side of the ancient stone building, groups of cars and Special Branch Land-Rovers lay hidden from the road, all filled with cold, bored men, impatient for the action to start.
It had been a frustrating twenty-four hours for Sexton and with every passing minute his concern for Steadman’s safety grew. They had done what Harry had told them, he and Steve, continuing their vigil on the house at Guildford, waiting for the police to arrive, trying to keep awake through the night. All that had happened was that the guards had come and locked the gates, seemingly unconcerned with thoughts of escaping, gathering up the bodies of the man and the two dogs, loading them into a truck, and driving back up to the house. He and Steve waited beyond that time because Harry had said to wait a few hours, give this man Pope the chance to act – give him the benefit of the doubt.
Nothing had happened though, and in the early hours of the morning, Sexton had felt sure nothing was going to happen. He had left poor Steve there – the boy had really acted well throughout all this – and driven back to town, straight to New Scotland Yard. It was fortunate he still had good contacts there, otherwise he would have had a difficult time convincing them his story was true. It sounded unlikely even to him as he related it, but eventually the police had been persuaded to make a few enquiries, strictly as a favour – and there were a few of them there who owed him a favour or two – about Pope. Special Branch had been contacted to see if they knew anything of the matter, then the whole thing had taken on a new pace.
When questions are asked by Scotland Yard about a member of MI5, the reaction is swift and tight. Sexton had soon found himself being interviewed by several obviously senior people, one of whom was an American. He told them all he knew, which wasn’t much; but it seemed to be enough for them. Events took on a new impetus and a clampdown on internal security was immediate; only a select few seemed to know exactly what was going on.
Steve was brought in and a discreet guard placed around the Guildford house. The house was still under observation, untouched and unwarned. The men inside were probably feeling very smug.
There was much Sexton didn’t understand and it was obvious the Special Branch officers he was now with were not fully in the picture either. But one thing was certain: the authorities – those at the very top – were aware something was afoot, otherwise action on such a grand scale would never have happened so promptly. It was as though Harry Steadman was the trigger that had set it off. And the American who had interviewed him earlier that day – did that mean the CIA were involved too? It seemed Harry had uncovered a hornets’ nest.
He crouched down again, out of the stinging wind, cursing softly under his breath.
‘We can’t just sit here!’ he shouted at no one in particular.
Burnett placed a hand on Sexton’s arm and moved his head closer. ‘We’ve got to wait, Mr Blake. It won’t be much longer, I promise. The Commissioner’s coming down himself to direct operations. That’s how important it is.’
‘Then why isn’t he here now?’ Sexton said angrily. ‘Why is he keeping us bloody waiting?’
‘I don’t know for sure. I think he’s got to make arrangements at the other end. The word is that it’s not just a bunch of terrorist fanatics
we’re bringing in, but some very high-placed bastards, men as rich and powerful as Gant himself, maybe even more so. If you ask me, the Commissioner’s consulting the PM himself on just how to handle the whole affair.’
‘It’s wasting so much bloody time, though!’
‘We’ll be in there in a matter of minutes once we get the word. We’re having a force of Marine Commandos flown up from their base in Plymouth by RNAS helicopters. We know Gant’s got his own private army, so if he resists there’s going to be some bloody battle. Now I’m just as keen to get it over with as you – waiting makes me nervous – but there’s nothing we can do until we get the order. So be patient and try not to worry about this Steadman. He hasn’t done too bad so far, has he?’
Sexton turned his head away in frustration. No, Harry hadn’t done bad so far. But how much longer would his luck last?
18
‘He clipped him in such a way that he can never more give pleasure to any woman. But that meant suffering for many people.’
Wolfram von Eschenbach
‘We are more valuable than the others who now, and always will, surpass us in numbers. We are more valuable because our blood enables us to invent more than others, to lead our people better than others. Let us clearly realize, the next decades signify a struggle leading to the extermination of the sub-human opponents in the whole world who fight Germany, the basic people of the Northern race, bearer of the culture of mankind.’
Heinrich Himmler
Steadman’s eyes slowly began to focus on the moving floor beneath him. His head still rang with the blows it had received.
He realized he was being hauled along a corridor, hands gripping him by the armpits and his feet dragging behind on the dark wood floor. He twisted his head to see where he was and recognized the voice that spoke; it belonged to Griggs.