A Prospect of Vengeance (36 page)

‘I was the one who was to blame, actually,’ said Audley. ‘At Thornervaulx.’

‘But I was the one who should have got the bullet.’ Mitchell examined the valley carefully, from the far-off white blue of the village, round the deceptive roll of the cornland between to where the track curved towards them. ‘So it all adds up to the same thing, really.’ He looked at Reg Buller suddenly. ‘You were quite right, Mr Buller: if I’d thought of it … then I might just have done it, at that!’

‘No, you wouldn’t have done: you’re not that stupid,’ snapped Audley.

‘Aren’t I?’ Mitchell’s mouth twisted.

‘Yes.’ Audley looked from Mitchell to Jenny, and then at Ian. And then back to Jenny. ‘We were working for Fred Clinton then, Miss Fielding. And he had a rule—a very strict rule. And Sir Jack has the same rule. It’s what you might call our “Rule of Engagement”, from the Falklands War—? Although it goes back much further: it goes back to Lord Mansfield giving judgement in the case of
Eurdett v. Abbot
, in 1812.’

‘Uh-huh …
Burdett v. Abbot
—
‘ Mitchell swung towards Audley ‘—you know, David, I never
have
been able to trace that exact case—not even though Jack Butler’s so fond of quoting it at us, at regular intervals … I asked a clever girl I know who works for the Law Society to trace it for me … and she couldn’t. So, maybe Fred just made it up—to annoy us?’

Ian stirred. ‘What did—what was Lord Mansfield
supposed
to have said—? In the case of “Burdett versus Abbot”, Dr Audley?’

‘Oh, it’s quite simple, my dear fellow!’ Mitchell annexed the question quickly. ‘It’s all to do with what you
can
do—and what you
can
’
t
do—if you’ve taken the Queen’s Shilling, as David and I have … Which puts us in quite impossible situations, of course—‘

‘But “if you don’t like the heat in the kitchen”—then you add that, Mr Robinson, eh?’ Audley relaxed. ‘No one ordered you to visit the battlefield of Salamanca, did they? You came here of your own free will, I take it?’

What were they both driving at
? ‘But we haven’t taken the … the “Queen’s Shilling”, Dr Audley.’ Their own old rule drove Jenny to defend Ian. ‘We’re just … journalists.’

‘Doesn’t make any difference, Miss Fielding.’ A similar rule brought Paul Mitchell back. ‘Not to you—not to Peter Wright, or Clive Ponting—or even to Kim Philby: whatever we are, or whatever we do, the same rule applies, according to Chief Justice Mansfield: “
It is therefore highly important that the mistake should be corrected which supposes that an Englishman, by taking on the additional character of a soldier
—
“ (but it doesn’t matter what additional character you put on: soldier, or journalist, rat-catcher) “—
puts off any of the rights and duties of an Englishman
”
. So how about that, then?’

Jenny thought, suddenly …
1812!
Because now they were here, on the top of the Greater Arapile, where the Duke of Wellington had also ruled, on a military truth, in 1812, while Chief Justice Mansfield had ruled on this other legal truth.

‘That’s the second “hard-saying”,’ murmured Audley. ‘Fred Clinton and Jack Butler, and St Matthew and Lord Mansfield … they all put us on our mettle.’

‘Yes.’ Mitchell was staring past him. ‘And now Paddy MacManus is about to put us on our mettle, I rather think—what can you see through those field-glasses of yours, Ian?’ He pointed into the great open sweep of the valley. ‘What car is that—?’

Ian lifted his binoculars, towards a distant dust-cloud on the track.

‘Mr Buller!’ Mitchell didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You go down and say “hullo” to Mrs Audley, and Miss Audley—okay? And keep them down there, in the rocks, until I call you. And do be a good fellow, and make a noise when you’re going down, so as not to embarrass Mrs Audley—
okay!
’

‘It’s a little car—a SEAT, or a Citroen—or a Renault … a
little
car—‘ Ian read back what he could see automatically.

That will do.’ Mitchell was taking on his ‘additional character’ now. ‘Off you go, Mr Buller.’

‘I’m goin’—I’m bloody-goin’—Dr Mitchell!’ Reg Buller was going.

‘It’s a Citroen 2-CV, Dr Mitchell,’ Ian confirmed his sighting.

‘That’s just fine!’ Mitchell was Field-Marshal Montgomery and Alexander of Macedon. ‘You stay up here, Mr Robinson: talk to Dr Audley about the battle of Salamanca—tell him how you would have fought it from here—
okay
?’

‘Oh—that’s just fine!’ Audley complained as he surrendered. ‘We walk up and down, to give him a target—?’

‘He doesn’t want you, David. His payment is on Mr Robinson.’ Mitchell looked at Ian. ‘Are you prepared to walk, Mr Robinson?’

That was too much
! ‘Ian—‘

‘Shut up, Jen.’ But he grinned at her. ‘Like the man said—“
the rights and duties of an Englishman
”
—
? And … at least I’ve got a better chance than Mrs Fitzgibbon had, this time—haven’t I, Dr Mitchell?’

Mitchell picked up the rifle. ‘Down there, Miss Fielding—on your tummy, by that flat rock—
there
? See?’ He held the rifle to his chest with one hand and pointed with the other. The moment he gets out of the car, then I’ve got
carte blanche
, if he’s got his rifle with him. And you can drop down then, Mr Robinson. And when you’re down you stay down. Because I’m not at all sure that I can hit him, with this gun, at this range—not with my first shot, anyway.’ He reached down into the open case, and scooped up a handful of the left-behind cartridges, and stuffed them into his pocket. And then grinned at Jenny. ‘But … no problem, eh?’

It didn’t seem like that at all, to her. But, then, it was quite out of her experience.

‘What about behind us?’ Audley’s voice was cold. ‘MacManus always operates with a partner—a back-up? And … my family is down there, Paul.’

‘Don’t worry about behind us.’ Mitchell nodded at Jenny. ‘
If you please, Miss Fielding
—
? Go!’

There was something in Mitchell’s face which made any sort of protest contemptible, however much she wanted to argue with him, to assert herself.

So … over the dead grass, and the scatter of autumn crocuses, to where he’d indicated, and down behind a safe rock—

Mitchell was saying something, behind her; and so was Audley—but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then he was beside her—first, on his knees—on his knees, but with the rifle carefully cradled in one hand, to keep it off the ground … and then easing himself carefully alongside her. ‘No need to watch, Miss Fielding. In fact, I’d prefer that you didn’t—you’ll only distract me.’ He took a khaki handkerchief from his pocket and spread it out behind the rock and put two of his spare cartridges on it. ‘Nothing to see, anyway. He’s just stopped to have a final look around, just in case.’

She lowered her head, keeping her eyes on him. Because there was something to see, of course—something she’d never expected to see at all, ever … let alone like this, within touching distance: one man preparing to kill another man.

‘And now there’s a further delay—an unforeseen occurrence.’ Mitchell was peering round the edge of the rock, keeping his own head low. ‘There’s a farm tractor coming behind him, towing a load of something. So he’ll have to pull into the side to let it past, and wait for it to disappear. And he won’t like that—not one bit.’

She could hear the tractor. ‘Why not?’

‘A witness.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘Not that he plans to stay around afterwards, to be identified. And there’ll be a different car waiting for him, another vehicle, anyway—maybe a lorry, or something like … Goods for Portugal, maybe. We’re only two or three hours from the frontier, after all.’ He looked at her suddenly. ‘”Quickly in—quickly out”: that’s his usual method. You can never tell for sure, of course—not with a wild animal. But it’s always worked for him in the past.’ He returned his attention to the front again as the noise of the tractor’s diesel rose. ‘And he certainly doesn’t want to hang about in Spain, that’s for sure. He’s taken one hell of a risk already, as it is … Although his friends will have looked after him this far … so they may have other plans for him now, at that!’

‘His friends?’ The sound of the tractor rose to a crescendo, but then suddenly died away as it passed the headland of the Greater Arapile and continued on towards the ridge behind them. ‘His friends—?’

‘Now he’s waiting again. And, if he’s got any sense he’ll turn round and wait for another chance …
Go on, you bastard! Turn round
—
there
’
s a gap just ahead where you can do it easily! Don
’
t be an idiot
!’ Mitchell drew a deep breath and stared fixedly into the valley, with his chin almost into the dirt. ‘No … of course you’re not going to—are you! You missed out once—and the old juices are pumping now: this is what turns you on—‘ He stopped suddenly ‘Yes … “friends”, Miss Fielding. He did a difficult contract job for ETA a few years back—one the Basques didn’t fancy doing themselves for domestic reasons. It was a car bomb, actually. Although he prefers guns to bombs, himself. But it was a big bomb: it blew the damn car clear over the block … so they owe him one.’ Just as suddenly he turned to her again. ‘And a penny for your thoughts
now
, Miss Fielding?’

There was something not right with all this. ‘I’d like more than a penny’s-worth, Dr Mitchell—‘ She caught the edge of her own doubt:
why was he giving her so much, when he didn
’
t need to
?

He looked away again. ‘Well … we’ll see, eh? I’ll ration the pennies, maybe—
Ah! He
’
s moving again
…
very slowly …
and now he
’
s stopped again, at the gap
…
well, well! Does he smell a rat—does he?’

‘How did he know we’d be here, Dr Mitchell.’

‘Now
that
is asking.’ Mitchell’s chin was on the dirt now. ‘We didn’t know for sure ourselves, not at first: we did it by logic first—what
we
might have done, in your shoes, if we were stupid … before we managed to frighten one of Mr Reginald Buller’s friends into confirming.’ He slid the rifle forward, and applied the eye-piece of the telescopic sight to his left eye, adjusting its focus. ‘It could … just be … that your Mr Buller isn’t as clever as he thinks he is—‘ With a deft little movement, quickly and yet unhurriedly, he extracted a small screwdriver from the breast-pocket of his shirt and made an adjustment to the sight ‘—or … judging by the way he got out of England with his little fat chum … with a certain country’s CD plates on his luggage … it
could
be that the devil you raised—Mr MacManus’s employer, that is—is a very smart devil, as well as a very stupid one—‘ He applied the eye-piece to his eye again ‘—
that will do.
’
He lowered the rifle for an instant, and looked at her squarely. ‘We won’t know until we ask him—will we, Miss Fielding?’

She wanted, quite desperately, to raise her head. And …
how could he be so cold-blooded, damn him
! ‘How are we going to do that, Dr Mitchell—if you are about to kill him?’

‘Kill him?’ Paul Mitchell frowned at her for only a fraction of a second, before rolling back to his rifle, and bringing it up to his shoulder, and settling himself comfortably—long legs splayed out behind him, ankles flat to the dirt (one foot gouging away a swathe of autumn crocuses regardlessly). ‘What d’you think I am—a
murderer
… not that it wouldn’t give me the
greatest
of pleasures—the greatest of pleasure … and it’d be a bloody-sight easier, too—
don
’
t look: he may spot your little white face over the top
—
‘

What stopped her from looking, even more than his final shout, was that he wasn’t looking at her: he had known, without looking, that she couldn’t resist looking at the last—

The rifle kicked, sending a tremor through him and deafening her as he fired in the very instant that his order held her motionless, so that she witnessed the unforgettable professionalism of his second shot—
the practised bolt-action-empty-cartridge-flying-out-live-round-off-the-khaki-handkerchief-slid-into-the-breach
—
bolt-snapped
—
rifle-up
—
aim
—
FIRE
!

And then the whole thing started again
—

But then stopped.

And then Mitchell’s face momentarily sank on to his rifle, his unshaven cheek distorting it, with his eyes squeezed shut.
And with that all bets
—
all shouted orders
—
were off, and Jenny was on her knees, above the rock
—

The little car was moving again: it was backing, in a cloud of dust, down the track—
it was turning
—
swerving and skidding in its own dust into the gap in the track behind it, in a racing turn-about, to escape
—

‘What’s happening—?’ As she spoke, Mitchell stepped up beside her. ‘Did you miss?’

‘Yes. I missed.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘One does sometimes.’

The Citroen’s tyres churned up the track, with its little engine screaming at them to get it moving, so violently that it rocked and bucked this way and that before engine and tyres were both fighting to obey the driver.

‘My rifle fires high, and to the right,’ continued Mitchell. ‘But
he
wouldn’t have missed: he had a rather special gun, I think—a Voss Special, I think they call it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’ve never seen one of them—I’ve only
heard
about them. They’re like the old buffalo-hunters’ long rifles, only better: on a windless day they can manage a couple of miles, supposedly … It’s got a very long barrel and a marvellous sighting-device.’