‘It’s war,’ Howe said.
‘I’ll take her,’ I said. ‘I know the river. I know the defences.’
Howe nodded.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘It’s no longer a sightseeing mission. It’s a demolition job.’
Freddie sat up straighter.
‘If it’s anything close to what we think it is, we can’t risk leaving it operational.’
‘We haven’t trained with explosives,’ I said.
‘I’m ready,’ Freddie said. ‘I’ve been reading up on it.’
‘That’s settled then,’ Howe said. End of discussion.
He raised his hands from below the table, and I saw what the Blackshirt had given him. A cigar tube. Sealed at one end with wax to keep the water out. The seal had been broken.
Howe put the cigar tube in his inside pocket.
‘Ladies, you’ll have to excuse us. Gentlemen, we’ve got an issue to attend to.’
74
The rain was deafening on the leaves, soaking us as we pushed our way single-file through the undergrowth. Me, Vaughn and Freddie, with Howe and the tall Blackshirt leading the way.
Vaughn and the Blackshirt carried battery-powered torches, the Blackshirt shining his on the ground in front of Howe. Freddie and I had to fend for ourselves.
The Blackshirt seemed to know where he was going. He held a rifle slung over his shoulder, like he was on parade. Useful for showing your sergeant major your arms, and nice to look at when you had a hundred men in formation, but not particularly effective in terms of readiness. If I ran, he’d have to swing the barrel off his shoulder, reverse the gun, get his finger in the trigger guard, then aim. I’d be long gone, with fifty feet’s worth of ancient oak trees between me and him.
I should have run, but it would have meant abandoning Margaret, and the mission. I assumed one of the Blackshirts had seen me leave the message. They must have known about the drop site. Been watching, just in case.
After all the places I’d fought, all the life-or-death situations, I was walking to my execution in the Sussex countryside. They’d take me far enough from the house to be discreet, put me against a tree, and shoot me.
Perhaps they’d rough me up first. Try to get me to spill the beans on what I was up to. But they wouldn’t get anythingfrom me. Let them do their worst. I’d do my bit, even if doing my bit at this point was dying quietly.
We arrived at a clearing, and the Blackshirt pointed his torch to the far side. I assumed that was where he wanted me, up against an old oak. It took me a moment to realise what I was seeing, in the weak light of his torch, through the curtain of rain.
The butler, William Washington, was strung up against the tree, his arms behind him, wrapped backwards around the trunk. He was unconscious, and one of his shoulders was dislocated. His face was bloodied, both his eyes swollen. It looked like someone had used him for batting practice and hadn’t held back.
‘What’s this?’ Vaughn asked.
‘You’ve got a mole,’ Howe said.
‘Impossible,’ Vaughn said. ‘This man’s been with me for years.’
‘Saw him going for a walk,’ the shorter Blackshirt said, stepping out from behind a tree. He was cleaning a large hunting knife, the kind you’d use to gut a deer. Eight inches of steel.
‘Going for a walk’s not a crime,’ Vaughn said.
Howe took the cigar tube from his inside pocket and passed it to Vaughn. Vaughn tapped it on his palm and a roll of paper slid out. He unrolled the paper. I knew what it said.
Tonight.
‘What did he say?’ I said.
‘I didn’t ask him any questions,’ the shorter Blackshirt said. ‘You hurt a man that much, he’ll say anything to make you stop.’
