(1995) By Any Name (22 page)

‘No.’

‘You’ve slowed me down enough; they’ll be bringing up floodlights any minute.’

She donned the suit. Gripping her hand, he set off.

Elizabeth found it difficult to keep up with him as he scrambled down the hillside. Every part of her was in pain. Her elbows, knees, she had even grazed her face and the raw, bleeding flesh stung in the freezing wind and rain, but she forced herself on, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Just as they reached the shelter of a few close growing bushes on the valley floor, the hill behind them was bathed in the blinding white glare of floodlights.

‘Damn them, they were quick with the floodlights,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. The ground was frozen solid and the cold had permeated through his feet and legs to his whole body. The air wasn’t much warmer and the rain needled his face like shards of ice.

He looked up at the sky, heavy with dark grey snow clouds, and shivered in his jeans and thin sweatshirt. He still carried the blankets, but their colour was wrong, there was nothing worse than red for showing up in spotlights. Holding the bundle in front of him he followed the path of the stream on the valley floor. Hoping their pursuers would expect them to head down the valley towards Merthyr, he directed his steps back towards Libanus and Brecon.

He glanced up at the road, the outlines of soldiers, rifles and machine guns slung across their chests, stepped out of range of the floodlights and into the darkness. A single figure was silhouetted in the glow of one of the lamps. It was where he would have stationed himself if he’d been in charge of the operation.

He considered the terrain. If he was directing the men, he would fan them out from a central point, and it looked as though the CO was doing just that. He had to get as far from here as quickly as possible.

Elizabeth stumbled behind him. A snowflake hit his sweatshirt. It turned to water as it touched the cloth, but he knew the country and this weather. Soon they’d be up to their neck in drifts. He glanced back.

Elizabeth’s face shone pale in the darkness. He didn’t have to ask her how she felt. He recognized exhaustion when he saw it. If only she’d stayed in the ambulance. Another hour and they’d be leaving tracks.

He recalled the stone sheep pens that littered the hills. Ancient, rough circular walls the farmers used to corral their sheep during snowstorms. Had this storm been forecast?

What he needed right now was a pen full of sheep.

Warm, smelly sheep that would mask the odour of the perfume and soap, he could smell on Elizabeth. The icy rain was becoming heavier, softer. Sleet or snow?

At this rate they wouldn’t even have an hour before their tracks became visible.

He continued down the frozen stream bed. Once, his foot broke through the thin layer of ice, and water splashed noisily over the top of his boot. He stood stock still, holding Elizabeth. Behind them torch lights continued to sweep the hillside. Gravel rattled downwards as the soldiers’ feet slipped on the steep slopes. He continued to stand, Elizabeth’s breath warm on his ear. Taking her hand, he set off again, setting a cruel pace, showing neither himself, nor her, mercy.

* * *

‘Who shot this man?’ Heddingham demanded of Chaloner.

‘We don’t know whether he was alive or dead before our men entered the room, sir.’

‘Your men may be responsible for killing him?’

‘We won’t know who shot him until after the post mortem, and maybe not even then,’ Chaloner divulged uneasily.

Heddingham walked over to where the body, wearing only army issue underclothes, lay slumped on the floor of the office. Blood had leaked out on to the wooden floor from a dozen bullet wounds sprayed over the chest. He noticed the single bullet wound in the arm. ‘Issue a press release, Simmonds. John West has just killed his fifth victim.’

‘Sir!’ the major clipped smartly to attention, before leaving the room.

‘Sir,’ Chaloner stepped forward. ‘We can’t be sure West killed this man.’ Chaloner tried not to think of the man Alex Hood had been. Friend – drinking partner – comrade – ‘after the way our men burst into this room it is entirely feasible that he was felled by friendly fire.’

‘Until a post mortem and inquest proves otherwise, I say this man was killed by John West.’

‘Sir,’ Chaloner murmured disconsolately.

‘Don’t forget that whoever John West is, he’s a professional,’ Heddingham advised. ‘One crack SAS

team, God knows how many squads of soldiers and policemen and he slipped through the net. Just as he’s done every time we have him cornered. We need to find and neutralise him. Preferably as of yesterday, with this country playing host to an International Peace Conference. Surely I don’t need to remind you of the importance of that?’

‘No, sir’

‘Any charge we can use to negate misplaced sympathy that some quarters of the public might be harbouring towards West, has to work in our favour.

If he is innocent of this particular death, we’ll apologize – after we have captured him.’

‘Sir.’

‘I’ve just spoken to Captain Perkins. West did a first class job of convincing the bomb disposal officer of his innocence. And, from the driver and officer’s account, Dr Santer is no more West’s hostage than you or I.’

‘Are you saying she is with him voluntarily, sir?’

‘Apparently he tried to leave her in the ambulance but she jumped down the hillside after him. There’s a battalion running around the Beacons right now trying to find them.’

Chaloner walked to the window and looked at the snow falling over the vehicles that remained in the street. ‘He won’t last long on the Beacons in this.’

‘I wouldn’t take a bet on it. The man seems to have more lives than a cat, and more luck than a Cabinet Minister. And don’t forget,’ Heddingham looked down at the body on the floor. ‘He’s wearing one of our uniforms now.’

‘Have the men been issued with red armbands, sir?’

‘Not yet, arrange it, Chaloner. I just hope Dr Santer isn’t wearing anything red so he can make his own and join our search from the rear.’

It was snowing thick and fast when West struck out and up the slope that led to the Beacons. His eyes panned wide, searching for a ring of dry stone walling. If he’d been alone, he might have been tempted to keep going. With luck he could have crossed the summit of Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak, before morning, and then he could have headed down the other side of the hillside to Tal y Bont. That’s if he hadn’t died of exposure en route. He could steal another car and then – then where? There was nowhere left for him to run.

Elizabeth was slowing up. What was the use in making plans? He’d saddled himself with a woman who wasn’t used to exercise and was close to exhaustion. A woman who happened to be his only link with humanity; a woman, he reminded himself, who had risked her life for him.

‘Just a few more yards.’

‘I can’t go another step.’ She sank to her knees.

‘You were right, I am slowing you down. Go on without me.’

He scooped her into his arms. Another fifty yards and he’d have to leave the stream and the cover of the trees. She slumped against his chest. He was still walking in the stream bed, but his feet were so wet and cold he couldn’t tell whether he was stepping on ice or in water. He could hear voices but they were muffled by the steep sides of the hills and it was impossible to judge how close they were. He drew some comfort from the outline of the Beacons. He even knew the names of the peaks.

Corn Du was the one closest to him, Pen-y-Fan the highest and Cribyn the lowest of the three, but still a bastard to climb with its slippery, scree slopes. Hill walking! Had he ever regarded it as fun? A few more steps… he crept out of the shelter of the trees and then he saw it. A sheep pen filled with sheep. He looked at the ground searching for their tracks. He found them lightly covered by snow, but still lying darker than the surrounding blanket of white. Careful to tread only in their prints he headed for the pen. The sheep ran back as soon as they sensed his presence.

He had to be careful not to spook them. They were stupid, nervous animals and the slightest movement would alert the troops. He walked around the outside of the wall sticking close to the crumbling stones to avoid alarming them.

He laid a finger on Elizabeth’s cheek. If he didn’t raise her temperature soon, hypothermia would set in.

He crept around the pen. When he reached the topmost part, he stumbled, hitting his knee painfully against something sharp that sliced through his jeans.

Suppressing a cry, he fingered a sheet of corrugated metal. It must have been used to shore up the crumbling, centuries-old walls. Stooping, he felt where it was propped against the wall, bolstering a low section where most of the stones had fallen away.

Still carrying Elizabeth he crept between it and what remained of the wall.

The ground was frozen solid, sheep were already moving away from that part of the pen. He felt in his pocket for his gun, screwed on the silencer and shot the three closest to them. The others bolted to the bottom of the pen.

Unrolling a thermal blanket he laid Elizabeth on it and covered her with the red woollen blankets.

Creeping out cautiously, he dragged the carcasses of the dead sheep back to the sheet of corrugated metal.

He plugged one entrance with a single carcase and blocked the other with the remaining two.

Scrambling down the centre of the pen he retrieved the bale of hay the farmer had left for the stock. He hauled it towards the top of the pen, scattering it about in an effort to entice the sheep to crowd around the corrugated metal. Throwing it liberally around his lair, he moved one of the dead sheep and crept inside pulling its body after him to plug the gap.

He crawled as close as he could get to Elizabeth and lay alongside her, wrapping the second hypothermia sheet and blankets around both of them.

Gripping the machine gun he lay still and listened.

Tomorrow, if the weather was fine the army would call out the heat seeking helicopters. If he and Elizabeth kept very quiet and still, the sheep might settle closer. It wasn’t an ideal camouflage, but it was the best he could do – for now.

Rubbing Elizabeth’s frozen fingers and face, he forced a trickle of brandy between her lips.

The last thing he did before he finally relaxed, was place his finger on the trigger of the Heckler and Koch. If he shot the first man to reach them, he might be able to barter enough time to ensure Elizabeth’s safety. Suddenly that seemed the most important thing in the entire sorry mess that was his life.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The sound of a helicopter engine rent the stillness.

West tensed his muscles and lay rigid. His face was so cold it was numb and he was grateful for the warmth of Elizabeth’s body lying along the length of his. It was agonizing to move his arm up towards the cold, but he brushed aside a strand of her hair that had fallen across his eyes. He could barely feel his other hand; the only sensation registering in his chilled fingers was the even colder trigger mechanism of the Heckler and Koch.

He flexed his hand, only just remembering in time that the gun was primed. He peered at Elizabeth trying to establish whether her warmth was normal, or signified a feverish rise in temperature. It felt normal, but the air was so cold it was difficult to gauge. He lifted his head. The only light that trickled into their gloomy, makeshift shelter came from beneath the rough metal walls and around the heads of the dead sheep. The one above them appeared to be leering at him, its eyes wide open, glassy in death.

He glanced down at his feet and made out the outline of the heads of the other two animals that he’d shot. The helicopter moved away and he could hear the munching of the rest of the herd feeding on the hay he’d scattered around their rough hide. The combination of cold that had frozen the carcasses, stifling the smell of blood, stillness and silence had worked. The sheep had edged towards the side of the pen where they were hiding to get at the hay.

Then he heard it again. The harsh whirring of helicopter blades returning – coming closer – closer – he looked down again to reassure himself that the sheet of metal completely covered them.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. He moved his finger to his mouth and motioned her to silence. They continued to lie; bodies meshed together, their combined breathing resounding louder than any drum-roll in their ears, staring through the gloom into the depths of one another’s eyes. The border around the sheet of iron was blindingly white. Snow! It wouldn’t be so light if it was still falling and he couldn’t hear the patter of rain. The day must have dawned clear, and they’d been left, sitting ducks on the hillside.

Without the sheet of corrugated metal, they’d be visible for miles.

He imagined the heat seeking camera in the helicopter moving over the pen. Visualized the images it would generate on screen. If the operator looked down he’d see the back ends of the sheep sticking out of the cover of metal. Hopefully, he’d assume that the images outlined beneath the improvised shelter would also be sheep. But what if he didn’t? What if he made out their human shapes and radioed the troops on the ground…

Heart thundering, West heard the crunch of feet compacting virgin snow. Slowly, inexorably, the footsteps drew closer. He gripped the machine gun tightly. The cold was seeping downwards from his face; his brain was a hyperactive frenzy. He prepared to spring into action the moment the corner of the sheet was lifted. The crunching stopped.

‘Nothing but bloody sheep.’ The voice was close.

‘He could be hiding among them?’

There was a short burst of laughter. ‘You don’t know bleeding sheep, mate. They run a mile if anyone goes near them. Come on, sooner we finish this patrol, sooner we get back into the warm.’

‘I reckon he headed for Merthyr last night. If he nicked a car there, he could be halfway to London by now.’

‘Who’d want to go to that God-forsaken hole?’ A broad Northern accent asked.

‘You want a fist in your mush?’

‘Nah, just a Welsh-free patrol.’

‘Why would any target head for these bloody hills?’