(1995) By Any Name (26 page)

Delving into the back he filled a rucksack with a smaller camouflage suit and boots for Elizabeth, a torch, two sleeping bags, first aid kit and emergency rations. He only hoped the weather would ease enough for him to get back. He didn’t relish the idea of digging in, even with all the gear he’d commandeered.

Piling the rucksacks and bags at the back of the Land Rover he shone a torch over the inside to check if he’d missed anything that might prove useful. At the side, half hidden by a mound of emergency rations and first aid kits was a rack of skis and poles. He had a pair fitted to his boots in minutes. Slinging the rucksack on his back and the two bags over his shoulders, he slipped on a pair of thermal gloves, took a pole in each hand and set off, back up the road to Libanus, careful to follow in the tracks of the Land Rover.

Although the wind had dropped, it was still snowing, less vigorously than before, but enough to cover the groove the skis cut in the tyre tracks. It was hard going, but he soon became accustomed to the darkness. He avoided the road blocks by leaving the road and skiing across country. Occasionally he hit a patch of ice and moved too fast for comfort but it was proving quicker and easier to ski over the drifts than trudge through them.

The ropes of the bags burned his shoulders and his arms and back were aching when the first houses on the outskirts of Libanus came into view. He had no idea of the time, but it was still dark and everything seemed quiet.

He halted at the beginning of the lane. The snow ahead of him was pristine, virgin white, crisp and untouched. He made his way forward as close to the garden walls as he could. Brushing great clumps of snow from the walls, he sprinkled them behind him in an attempt to cover his tracks. He stuck close to the wall when he entered the yard of the guest house.

Lobbing the two bags and the rucksack on to the extension roof, he removed his skis and poles and pushed them up to the window. Dislodging as little snow as possible he climbed on the roof. Wrenching open the casement, he threw in the rucksack, bags and finally the skis and poles. The last thing he did before climbing in was stretch up to the roof and brush down a clump of overhanging snow, hoping, as he looked up at the sky, that just enough snow would fall before daylight to cover the worst of the marks he’d made.

Pushing the splintered wood back into the hole he closed the window and, leaving the skis behind, walked down the corridor with his rucksacks and bags. Heat blasted out, warm and enervating when he entered the bedroom. Elizabeth was lying on the mattress he’d dragged next to the fire, a blanket wrapped around her, basking in the glow from the fire. Her clothes and shoes had been laid out to dry on the bed springs. Following her example he stripped off. Laying his gun on the mattress, he took out the sleeping bags and unzipped them. He shook one out over Elizabeth and wrapped the other around himself.

The plastic that covered the mattress felt damp to the touch, but he was too tired to care. He stretched out next to Elizabeth, closed his eyes, and seconds later he too slept.

‘We’ve received a report from one of our undercover intelligence operatives.’ The minister looked down the conference table in the Cabinet Office briefing room.

‘He has confirmed that an organisation affiliated to an Islamic fundamentalist group has plans to sabotage the peace conference. Captain Cartwright, an expert in Middle Eastern terrorist organisations, has the details.’

An officer rose to his feet. He looked ridiculously youthful in the company of so many middle-aged and elderly men. He opened a file, looked up and addressed the room in general. ‘An experienced mercenary and assassin flew into London via an internal European flight that landed in Gatwick five days ago. He was met on arrival by operatives working for the fundamentalists.’

‘Do you know the identity of everyone within the fundamentalist group?’ a thin, anxious looking brigadier enquired.

‘Not at present. We have all known members under surveillance but there may be others,’

Cartwright conceded.

‘Could these “others” be in positions of trust, possibly even within the security forces?’ Lieutenant-Colonel Heddingham asked.

‘Possible, but improbable. All members of the security forces are subject to rigorous background checks. However we are studying the files and backgrounds of all personnel assigned to the conference.’ The captain continued to deliver his prepared statement. ‘We believe the assassin’s brief is to infiltrate the conference and kill delegates.’

‘Is John West the assassin?’ Heddingham asked the captain. Due to delays caused by the weather, both in the air and on the road, he hadn’t reached London until two in the morning, and urgent messages, paperwork and a debriefing session had kept him awake until five. Which had given him exactly one and a half hours sleep before he’d had to rise at seven to attend the breakfast conference.

‘We were hoping you would be able to answer that question for us by now, Lieutenant-Colonel,’ the minister interceded. ‘Is West in custody?’

‘Unfortunately not, sir,’ Heddingham answered.

‘This will be the fourth day of the search since John West escaped from the hospital, will it not?’

‘It will.’ Heddingham wished himself anywhere but the conference room.

‘Are you any closer to capturing him?’

‘We believe so, minister,’ Heddingham answered.

‘A media conference is scheduled after this meeting. Can I intimate that you are close to capturing this man, without incurring the risk of looking extremely foolish in today’s news bulletins and tomorrow’s press?’

‘When I left the Brecon area last night we had thrown a fifty mile cordon around the area he was last seen in.’

‘Am I to assume that he’s within that cordon?’ the minister enquired.

‘Not even our special forces operatives can cover fifty miles over that terrain within the allotted time span, particularly given the present weather conditions on the Brecon Beacons,’ Heddingham replied confidently.

‘Are you suggesting that this man’s training is on a par with that given to our Special Forces, sir?’ Captain Cartwright asked.

‘I think Brigadier Cullen-Heames can answer that question better than I.’ Heddingham looked to the brigadier, who cleared his throat before speaking.

‘Bearing in mind the projected age of this John West, we have searched through all our records covering the last fifteen years, and we have accounted for all of our present and ex-personnel, so whoever this man is, I can confidently say that he wasn’t trained at British taxpayer’s expense.’ The brigadier looked to Captain Cartwright. ‘If you have any information that might help us pinpoint his identity we would be most grateful.’

‘You know as much as the rest of us, Brigadier,’

the minister said flatly. ‘You have his photograph, description and psychological profile and an account of all the moves he has made since he was picked up on the motorway.’ He gazed at Heddingham.

‘Hopefully we’ll find out more when you have him in custody.’

‘I hope to have him before the end of the day, sir.’

‘Before he kills anyone else, I trust.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The minister rose from his chair, and the entire company stood to attention. ‘See to it that I am informed the minute he is in custody, Lieutenant-Colonel.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Heddingham watched the minister leave the room.

His aide was at his shoulder. ‘Back to Brecon, sir?’

‘To Stirling Lines, and get them and the Storey Arms on the telephone before we leave.’

West woke to a blinding headache. The room was hot and airless with a stuffy, dry heat that had parched his throat and seared his lips. Elizabeth slept soundly next to him. He touched her forehead lightly with the back of his hand. It was no warmer than his. He looked around. Grey light filtered through the grimy cream and blue flowered curtains, casting grubby rays on the dust balls that littered the floor. The carpet beneath the mattress they were lying on smelt damp and fusty, its green pile heavily worn and stained around the bedstead, where too many feet had trodden and too many cups of tea and coffee had been spilled.

He moved, the soft, padded sleeping bag he had wrapped himself in felt warm, light and comfortable against his bare skin. He reached out to the springs of the bed where he had abandoned his clothes next to Elizabeth’s. They were dry. He stretched his arms above his head. He was aching, either from the exertions of last night, or the long, cold hours he had lain cramped and immobile beneath the tin sheeting on the freezing hillside.

He turned back to Elizabeth, watching her as she slept, her arm bent beneath her head, her lips slightly parted, her long dark lashes grazing her flushed cheeks, her hacked hair spread loosely over the mattress, her whole body passive, relaxed.

He read the watch on her wrist. It could still be called morning – just. Reluctant to move, he continued to lie there until Elizabeth opened her eyes.

She smiled sleepily.

‘Good morning, Dr Santer.’

She stretched out languidly and held her hands out to the fire. ‘After yesterday I thought I’d never be warm again.’

‘I’m sorry; I’ve put you through hell.’ Unable to resist touching her he stroked her shoulder with his fingers. Without thinking, she cupped his face gently in her hands. Leaning on his elbow he bent his head to hers and kissed her, a long, drawn out caress that ultimately embraced their entire bodies.

Blankets and sleeping bags were tossed aside as they fused, breath to breath, lips to lips, skin to naked skin, with a sensuous, tantalizing fervour that left her wanting more – much – much more of him.

All thought fled. Passion heightened and held sway. Elizabeth was aware of the beating of his heart, the clean, sharp smell of his perspiration, the whisper of his breath, the texture of his fingertips as they travelled over her throat to her breasts. But when she crushed her body against his, tenderness waned, to be replaced by a fierce, all-consuming hunger that was only sated when he finally pierced her body with his own.

It had been so long since she had made love, or wanted to. She had never thought another man could touch her body or her emotions in the way Joseph had; but there was no shame, no sadness in what she did with John.

He was not a substitute for Joseph. His body did not even feel like Joseph’s. His muscles were like steel beneath her hands, and his lovemaking was altogether harsher, more savage and passionate than Joseph’s had ever been.

Afterwards, she curled against him, wrapped her arms around his chest and wished she could hold him, imprisoned against her forever.

Forgetting hunger, thirst, the danger they were in, she sank back into a dreamless sleep, happier than she had been in two long, lonely years.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Are you really all right, sir?’ Lieutenant Dawkins hovered irritatingly around Chaloner. The captain was sitting at a table in the pub dining room, a cafétiere of black coffee and a cup and saucer in front of him.

‘Perfectly well.’ Chaloner filled the cup with coffee. ‘I enjoy spending the odd night trussed like a chicken on a kitchen floor.’

‘They’ve found the Land Rover, sir.’ Sergeant Price stamped the snow from his boots on the doormat. ‘It was parked on the outskirts of Sennybridge.’

‘Damage?’ Chaloner asked.

‘Initial reports indicate none. They’ve searched the back, and if you went out fully loaded… ’

‘Which I did,’ Chaloner interrupted.

‘Some items of survival kit and a pair of skis have been taken. There’s nothing there that shouldn’t be.

Forensic are checking the vehicle for DNA and prints.’

‘I don’t know why they’re bothering. They checked the flat in Brecon after we stormed it and found plenty of samples, but no matches on any data bank. Any clothes in it that belonged to our man?’

‘None, but HQ are sending us dog handlers, although I doubt there’s much of a trail for them to follow after the blizzard last night.’

‘Let’s go and meet them, sergeant.’

‘Sir.’

Chaloner finished his coffee and left the table. The humiliation of being overcome by the target in his own Land Rover incensed him. It was an incident that had made him a laughing stock, amusing half the men in his regiment and infuriating the others who’d undoubtedly feel that he’d let them down. He knew the episode would be recounted time and again, attracting more embellishments with each retelling.

He could still hear the biting sarcasm in Simmonds’

voice when he’d telephoned him at Stirling Lines earlier that morning.

“And exactly what were you doing on the Libanus to Defynnog Road, Major Chaloner?”

Not a word about allowing himself to be overpowered by the man half the army was out searching for. No doubt that would be something to bring up later, when he faced Heddingham.

The woman who had found him in the kitchen that morning came in. ‘You off now, captain?’ she asked in a cheerful voice.

‘I am. Thank you for rescuing me.’ He tried to forget the screams that had roused her husband, and the ten embarrassing minutes of hard explaining he’d had to do after her husband had cut through the gag.

‘If you catch him ask him if he enjoyed that veal and ham pie. It wasn’t touched and we would have got eighteen lunches out of that.’

When West woke for the second time, he found himself curled around Elizabeth, his arm resting on her waist, his face buried in her hair, both of them naked beneath the down filled sleeping bag. The headache that had been caused by cold, stress and lack of sleep had gone. He felt warm, comfortable, and when he gazed at Elizabeth, dangerously relaxed considering the precariousness of their situation.

Sliding carefully away so as not to wake her, he eased himself out from beneath the sleeping bag, took the soap from the rucksack, grabbed one of the blankets he’d taken from the ambulance and sneaked to the door. A blast of damp, freezing air, hit him the moment he stepped into the passage. There was an electric oil filled radiator fitted in the bathroom. He turned it, the immersion heater in the airing cupboard, and the electric shower on. Putting the plug in the bottom of the bath lest the sound of water running in the outside drainpipes alert the neighbours to the presence of someone in the house, he washed quickly, rubbing his hand ruefully over the stubble on his chin, wishing that he’d thought to look for a razor in the back of the Land Rover.