Eighteen
Leiser lay in the bracken on the spur of the hill, stared at the luminous dial of his watch. Ten minutes to wait. The key chain was swinging from his belt. He put the keys back in his pocket, and as he drew his hand away he felt the links slip between his thumb and finger like the beads of a rosary. For a moment he let them linger there; there was comfort in their touch; they were where his childhood was. St. Christopher and all his angels, please preserve us from road accidents.
Ahead of him the ground descended sharply, then evened out. He had seen it; he knew. But now, as he looked down, he could make out nothing in the darkness below him. Suppose it was marshland down there? There had been rain; the water had drained into the valley. He saw himself struggling through mud to his waist, carrying the suitcase above his head, the bullets splashing around him.
He tried to discern the tower on the opposite hill, but if it was there it was lost against the blackness of the trees.
Seven minutes. Don’t worry about the noise, they said, the wind will carry it south. They’ll hear nothing in a wind like this. Run beside the path, on the south side, that means to the right, keep on the new trail through the bracken, it’s narrow but clear. If you meet anyone, use your knife, but for the love of heaven don’t go near the path.
His rucksack was heavy. Too heavy. So was the case. He’d quarreled about it with Jack. He didn’t care for Jack. “Better be on the safe side, Fred,” Jack had explained. “These little sets are sensitive as virgins: all right for fifty miles, dead as mutton on sixty. Better to have the margin, Fred, then we know where we are. They’re experts, real experts where this one comes from.”
One minute to go. They’d set his watch by Avery’s clock.
He was frightened. Suddenly he couldn’t keep his mind from it anymore. Perhaps he was too old, too tired, perhaps he’d done enough. Perhaps the training had worn him out. He felt his heart pounding his chest. His body wouldn’t stand anymore; he hadn’t the strength. He lay there, talking to Haldane: Christ, Captain, can’t you see I’m past it? The old body’s cracking up. That’s what he’d tell them; he would stay there when the minute hand came up, he would stay there too heavy to move. “It’s my heart, it’s packed in,” he’d tell them, “I’ve had a heart attack, Skipper, didn’t tell you about my dickie heart, did I? It just came over me as I lay here in the bracken.”
He stood up. Let the dog see the rabbit.
Run down the hill, they’d said; in this wind they won’t hear a thing; run down the hill, because that’s where they may spot you, they’ll be looking at that hillside hoping for a silhouette. Run fast through the moving bracken, keep low and you’ll be safe. When you reach level ground, lie up and get your breath back, then begin to crawl.
He was running like a madman. He tripped and the rucksack brought him down, he felt his knee against his chin and the pain as he bit his tongue, then he was up again and the suitcase swung him around. He half fell into the path and waited for the flash of a bursting mine. He was running down the slope, the ground gave way beneath his heels, the suitcase rattling like an old car. Why wouldn’t they let him take the gun? The pain rose in his chest like fire, spreading under the bone, burning the lungs: he counted each step, he could feel the thump of each footfall and the slowing drag of the case and rucksack. Avery had lied. Lied all the way. Better watch that cough, Captain; better see a doctor, it’s like barbed wire in your guts. The ground leveled out; he fell again and lay still, panting like an animal, feeling nothing but fear and the sweat that drenched his woolen shirt.
He pressed his face to the ground. Arching his body, he slid his hand beneath his belly and tightened the belt of his rucksack.