“On the verge, not the gravel,” McKinnon murmured. “Coming this way. I can take him.”
“Leave him alone.” Nicolson shook his head strongly. “Too much noise.”
“He’ll hear us crossing the gravel.” McKinnon’s voice sank even lower, and Nicolson could hear the man coming now, could hear the soft swish of feet in the wet grass. “There’ll be no noise. I promise it.”
This time Nicolson nodded and gripped his arm in token of consent. The man was almost opposite them now, and in spite of himself Nicolson shivered. To his certain knowledge this would be the soft-spoken Highland bo’sun’s fourth victim that night, and only one of them, so far, had managed to get even a breath of sound past his lips. How long one could live with a man—three years in his case—and not really get to know him …
The man was just a foot past them, head turned away as he looked towards the two lighted windows and the far-off murmur of voices from behind them, when McKinnon rose to his feet, noiseless as a wraith, hooked hands closing round the man’s neck like a steel trap. He was as good as his word. There was no noise at all, not even the faintest whisper of sound.
They left him behind the bushes and crossed the gravel at a steady, unhurried walk, in case there were still some guards in the grounds to hear them, mounted the steps, crossed the portico and walked unchallenged through the wide open double doors.
Beyond lay a wide hall, softly lit from a central chandelier, with a high, arching roof, walls panelled in what looked like oak, and a gleaming parquetry floor, finely tesselated in jarrah and kauri and some light-coloured tropical hardwoods. From either side of the hall, wide, sweeping staircases, a darker coloured wood than that of the walls, curved up to meet the broad, pillared balcony that ran the full length of both sides and the back. At the foot of either stairway was a set of double doors, closed, and between them, at the back, a third, single door. All the doors were painted white, lending an incongruous note to the dusky satin of the walls. The door at the back of the hall was open.
Nicolson gestured to McKinnon and Telak to take up position one on either side of the double doors to the right, then padded catfooted across the hall to the open door at the back. He could feel the cool, hard floor under the pads of his feet; that gruelling crosscountry run must have torn off most of what charred remains of canvas soles had been left him after he had carried Van Effen out of the burning council house. His mind registered it automatically, but disregarded it, just as it disregarded the pain of the raw, burnt flesh. There would come a time for suffering, but that time was not yet. That feeling of ice-cold indifference coupled with its razor-edged calculation was with him still, more strongly than ever.
He flattened himself against the far wall, cocked his head in listening, his eyes turned towards the open doorway. At first he could hear nothing, then faintly he caught the far-off murmur of voices and the occasional chink of crockery. The kitchens and the servants’ quarters, obviously—and if the men behind these double doors were eating, and they might well be, this being about the hour of the late evening meal, servants would be liable to be coming down that long passage and across the hall at any moment. Nicolson slid noiselessly forward and risked a quick glance round the edge of the door. The passage was dimly lit, about twenty feet in length, with two closed doors on either side and one at the far end, open, showing a white rectangle of light. There was no one to be seen. Nicolson stepped into the passage, felt behind the door, found a key, withdrew it, stepped back out into the entrance hall, pulled the door softly shut behind him and locked it.
He recrossed the hall as softly as he had come and rejoined the others at the white-painted double doors. Both men looked at him as he approached—McKinnon still grim and implacable, his surging anger well under control but ready to explode at any moment, Telak a ghastly, blood-smeared sight under the lights, dusky face drawn and grey with fatigue, but revenge would keep him going for a long time yet. Nicolson whispered a few instructions in Telak’s ear, made sure he understood and waited until he had slipped away and hidden himself behind the right-hand staircase.
There was a low murmur of voices from behind the double-doors, a murmur punctuated by an occasional guffaw of laughter. For a few moments Nicolson listened with his ear to the crack between the two doors, then tested each in turn with an infinitely gentle pressure of a probing forefinger. Each yielded an almost imperceptible fraction of an inch, and Nicolson straightened, satisfied. He nodded at McKinnon. The two men lined up the guns at their sides, muzzles just touching the white-painted woodwork in front of them, kicking the doors wide open and walked into the room together.
It was a long, low room, wood-panelled and parquet-floored like the hall, with wide bay windows, mosquito-curtained. The far wall of the room had another, smaller window, and the two doors in the left wall had a long, oaken side-board between them, this last the only wall furnishing. Most of the floor space was taken up by a U-shaped banqueting-table and the chairs of the fourteen men who sat around it. Some of the fourteen were still talking, laughing and drinking from the deep glasses in their hands, oblivious of the entrance of the two men, but, one by one, the sudden silence of the others caught the attention of those who still talked, and they too fell silent, staring towards the door and sitting very still indeed.
For a man allegedly mourning the death of his son, Colonel Kiseki was making a magnificent job of dissembling his sorrow. There was no doubt to his identity. He occupied the ornate, highbacked chair of honour at the top of the table, a short, massive man of tremendous girth, with his neck bulging out over his tight uniform collar, tiny, porcine eyes almost hidden in folds of flesh, and very short black hair, grey at the temples, sticking up from the top of his round head like the bristles of a wire brush. His face was flushed with alcohol, empty bottles littered the table in front of him and the white cloth was stained with spilt wine. He had had his head flung back and been roaring with laughter when Nicolson and McKinnon had entered, but now he was sitting hunched forward in his chair, tightly-gripping fists ivory-knuckled on the arms of his chair, the laughter in his puffy face slowly congealing into an expression of frozen incredulity.
No one spoke, no one moved. The silence in the room was intense. Slowly, watchfully, Nicolson and McKinnon advanced one on either side of the table, the soft padding of their feet only intensifying the uncanny silence, Nicolson to the left, McKinnon advancing up by the wide bay windows. And still the fourteen men sat motionless in their seats, only their eyes slowly swivelling as they followed the movements of the two men with the guns. Half-way up the lefthand side of the table Nicolson halted, checked that McKinnon had his eye on the whole table, turned and opened the first door on his left, let the door swing slowly open as soon as it had clicked, swung noiselessly round and took a silent step towards the table. As soon as the door had clicked an officer with his back to him, his hand hidden from McKinnon on the other side, had started to slide a revolver from a side holster and already had the muzzle clear when the butt of Nicolson’s automatic rifle caught him viciously just above the right ear. The revolver clattered harmlessly on to the parquet floor and the officer slumped forward heavily on to the table. His head knocked over an almost full bottle of wine and it gurgled away in the unnatural silence until it had almost emptied itself. A dozen pairs of eyes, as if mesmerised by the only moving thing in that room, watched the blood-red stain spread farther and farther across the snow-white cloth. And still no one had spoken.
Nicolson turned again to look through the now open door. A long passage, empty. He shut the door, locked it, turned his attention to the next. A cloak-room lay behind this, small, about six feet square and windowless. This door Nicolson left open.
He went back to the table, moved swiftly down one side of it, searching men for weapons while McKinnon kept his tommy-gun gently circling. As soon as he had finished searching he waited until McKinnon had done the same on his side. The total haul was surprisingly small, a few knives and three revolvers,
all of the latter taken from army officers. With the one recovered from the floor that made four in all. Two of these Nicolson gave McKinnon, two he stuck in his own belt. For close, concentrated work the automatic rifle was a far deadlier weapon.
Nicolson walked to the head of the table and looked down at the grossly corpulent man sitting in the central chair.
“You are Colonel Kiseki?”
The officer nodded but said nothing. The astonishment had now vanished, and the watchful eyes were the only sign of expression in an otherwise impassive face. He was on balance again, completely under control. A dangerous man, Nicolson thought bleakly, a man whom it would be fatal to underestimate.
“Tell all these men to put their hands on the table, palm upwards, and to keep them there.”
“I refuse.” Kiseki folded his arms and leaned, back negligently in his chair. “Why should I—” He broke off with a gasp of pain as the muzzle of the automatic rifle gouged deeply into the thick folds of flesh round his neck.
“I’ll count three,” Nicolson said indifferently. He didn’t feel indifferent. Kiseki dead was no good to him. “One. Two—”
“Stop!” Kiseki sat forward in his chair, leaning away from the pressure of the rifle, and started to talk rapidly. Immediately hands came into view all round the table, palms upward as Nicolson had directed.
“You know who we are?” Nicolson went on.
“I know who you are.” Kiseki’s English was slow and laboured, but sufficient. “From the English tanker Viroma. Fools, crazy fools! What hope have you? You may as well surrender now. I promise you—”
“Shut up!” Nicolson nodded at the men sitting on either side of Kiseki, an army officer and a heavy-jowled, dark-faced Indonesian with immaculately waved black hair and a well-cut grey suit. “Who are these men?”
“My second in command and the Mayor of Bantuk.”
“The Mayor of Bantuk, eh?” Nicolson looked at the mayor with interest. “Collaborating well, I take it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kiseki looked up at Nicolson through narrowed slits of eyes. “The mayor is a founder, a member of our Greater East Asia co-prosperity—”
“For heaven’s sake, shut up!” Nicolson glanced round the others sitting at the table—two or three officers, half-a-dozen Chinese, an Arab and some Javanese—then looked back at Kiseki. “You, your second in command and the Mayor remain here. The rest into that cloakroom there.”
“Sir!” McKinnon was calling softly from his place by one of the bay windows. “They’re coming up the drive now!”
“Hurry up!” Again Nicolson jammed his rifle into Kiseki’s neck. “Tell them. Into that cloakroom. At once!”
“In that box? There is no air.” Kiseki pretended horror. “They will suffocate in there.”
“Or they can die out here. They can take their choice.”
Nicolson leaned yet more heavily on the rifle and his forefinger began to whiten on the trigger. “But not until you go first.”
Thirty seconds later the room was still and almost empty, three men only sitting at the head of the banqueting-table. Eleven men were jammed into the tiny cloakroom, and the door was locked against them. McKinnon was pressed fiat to the wall close by one of the open double doors, and Nicolson was in the open doorway that led into the side passage. He was placed so that he could see the entrance to the double doors through the crack between his own door and the jamb. He was also placed so that the rifle in his hand was lined up on the centre of Colonel Kiseki’s chest. And Colonel Kiseki had had his orders. He’d had his orders, and Colonel Kiseki had lived too long, had seen too many desperate and implacable men not to know that Nicolson would shoot him like a dog even on the suspicion, far less the certainty, that he was being doublecrossed. Colonel Kiseki’s reputation for cruelty was matched only by his courage, but he was no fool. He intended to carry out his orders implicitly.
Nicolson could hear young Peter crying, a tired, dispirited wail, as the soldiers crossed the gravel and mounted the steps to the portico, and his mouth tightened. Kiseki caught his look and his muscles tensed in expectancy, waiting for the numbing crash of the bullet, then saw Nicolson shake his head and visibly, consciously relax. And then the footsteps had crossed the hall, halted at the doorway, then advanced again as Kiseki shouted out an order. A moment later the Japanese escort—there were six of them altogether—were inside the room, pushing their prisoners in front of them.
Captain Findhorn was in the lead. A soldier held him by either arm, his legs were dragging and he was ashen-faced and drawn, breathing quickly, hoarsely and in great pain. As soon as the soldiers halted they released his arms. He swayed once backwards, once forwards, his bloodshot eyes turned up in his head and he crumpled and folded slowly to the floor, fading into the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness. Gudrun Drachmann was directly behind him, Peter still in her arms. Her dark hair was tangled and dishevelled, the once-white shirt ripped half-way down her back. From where he stood, Nicolson couldn’t see her back, but he knew the smooth skin would be pock-marked with blood, for the soldier behind had his bayonet pressed into her shoulders. The impulse to step out from behind the door and empty the automatic rifle’s magazine into the man with the bayonet was almost overwhelming, but he crushed it down, stood where he was, still and quiet, looking from Kiseki’s impassive face to the smudged, scarred face of the girl. She, too, Nicolson could see now, was swaying slightly, her legs trembling with weariness, but she still held her head proudly and high.
Suddenly Colonel Kiseki barked an order. His men stared at him, uncomprehending. He repeated it almost immediately, smashing the flat of his hand down on the table before him, and at once four of the six men dropped the arms they were carrying on to the parquet floor. A fifth frowned in a slow, stupid fashion, as if still unwilling to believe his ears, looked at his companions, saw their arms on the floor, opened his hand reluctantly and let his rifle crash down on the floor beside the weapons of his comrades. Only the sixth, the man with the bayonet in Gudrun’s back, realised that something was very far wrong. He dropped lower into a crouch, glanced wildly round then collapsed to the floor like a stricken tree as Telak came up feather-footed from the hall behind him and smashed his rifle down on the unprotected back of the soldier’s head.
And then Nicolson and McKinnon and Telak were all in the room, Telak herding the five Japanese soldiers into a corner, McKinnon kicking the double doors shut and keeping a wary eye on the three men at the table, Nicolson unashamedly hugging the girl and the young boy still in her arms, smiling his delight and immense relief and saying nothing, while Gudrun, stiff-backed and straight, stared at him, for a long, long moment in uncomprehending wonder and disbelief, then sagged heavily against him, her face buried in his shoulder, murmuring his name over and over again. McKinnon was looking at them from time to time, grinning hugely, all the savage anger gone from his face. But he didn’t look at them for more than a fraction of a second at a time, and the muzzle of his gun never wavered from the three men at the top of the table.
“Johnny, Johnny!” The girl lifted her head and looked at him, the intensely blue eyes now shining and misted, rolling tear-drops cutting through the dark smudges on her cheek. She was shivering now, shivering from reaction and from the cold of her wet rainsoaked clothes, but she was quite oblivious of all that. The happiness in her eyes was something that Nicolson had never seen before. “Oh, Johnny, I thought it was all finished. I thought that Peter and I—” She broke off and smiled at him again. “How in the world did you get here? I—I don’t understand. How did you?”
“Private aeroplane.” Nicolson waved an airy hand. “It was no trouble. But later, Gudrun. We must hurry. Bo’sun?”
“Sir?” McKinnon carefully removed the smile from his face.
“Tie up our three friends at the head of the table there. Their wrists only. Behind their backs.”
“Tie us up!” Kiseki leaned forward, his fists clenched on the table top. “I s
ee no need—”
“Shoot ‘em if you have to,” Nicolson ordered. “They’re no use to us any more.” He thought it as well not to add that Kiseki’s usefulness was yet to come but feared that the knowledge of his intentions might provoke the man to an act of desperation.
“Consider it done, sir.” McKinnon advanced purposefully towards them, tearing down several mosquito curtains as he passed. Twisted, they would make excellent ropes. Nicolson turned away from Gudrun after seeing her and Peter into a chair, and stooped low over the captain. He shook him by the shoulder and Findhorn finally stirred and wearily opened his eyes. Aided by Nicolson he sat up, moving like a very old man and gazed slowly round the room, comprehension slowly dawning on his exhausted mind.
“I don’t know how on earth you did it, but well done, my boy.” He looked back at Nicolson, inspected him from head to toe, wincing as he saw the cuts and savage burns on his chief officer’s legs and forearms. “What a bloody mess! I hope to God you don’t feel half as bad as you look.”
“Top of the world, sir,” Nicolson grinned.
“You’re a fluent liar, Mr. Nicolson. You’re as much a hospital case as I am. Where do we go from here?”
“Away, and very shortly. A few minutes, sir. Some little things to attend to first.”
“Then go by yourselves.” Captain Findhorn was half-joking, wholly earnest. “I think I’d rather take my chance as a prisoner of war. Frankly, my boy, I’ve had it, and I know it. I couldn’t walk another step.”
“You won’t have to, sir. I guarantee it.” Nicolson poked an inquiring toe at the bag one of the soldiers had been carrying, stooped and had a look inside. “Even brought the plans and the diamonds right here. But then, where else would they bring them? I hope, Colonel Kiseki, that you hadn’t set your heart too much on these?”
Kiseki stared at him, his face expressionless. Gudrun Drachmann drew in a quick breath.
“So that’s Colonel Kiseki!” She looked at him for a long moment, then shivered. “I can see that Captain Yamata was right enough. Thank God you got here first, Johnny.”