Eye of the Needle(36)
He reached the canal. It was over. The boat looked pretty in the morning sunshine. As soon as he was under way he would make some tea, then—
A man in uniform stepped out of the cabin of the boat and said: “Well, well. And who might you be?”
Faber stood still, letting the icy calm and the old instincts come into play. The intruder wore the uniform of a captain in the Home Guard. He had some kind of handgun in a holster with a buttoned flap. He was tall and rangy, but he looked to be in his late fifties. White hair showed under his cap. He made no move to draw his gun. Faber took all this in as he said, “You are on my boat, so I think it is I who should ask who you are.”
“Captain Stephen Langham, Home Guard.”
“James Baker.” Faber stayed on the bank. A captain did not patrol alone.
“And what are you doing?”
“I’m on holiday.”
“Where have you been?”
“Bird-watching.”
“Since before dawn? Cover him, Watson.”
A youngish man in denim uniform appeared on Faber’s left, carrying a shotgun. Faber looked around. There was another man to his right and a fourth behind him.
The captain called, “Which direction did he come from, corporal?”
The reply came from the top of an oak tree. “From the restricted area, sir.”
Faber was calculating odds. Four to one—until the corporal came down from the tree. They had only two guns, the shotgun and the captain’s pistol. And they were basically amateurs. The boat would help too.
He said, “Restricted area? All I saw was a bit of fence. Look, do you mind pointing that blunderbuss away? It might go off.”
“Nobody goes bird-watching in the dark,” the captain said.
“If you set up your hide under cover of darkness, you’re concealed by the time the birds wake up. It’s the accepted way to do it. Now look, the Home Guard is jolly patriotic and keen and all that, but let’s not take it too far. Don’t you just have to check my papers and file a report?”
The captain was looking a shade doubtful. “What’s in that canvas bag?”
“Binoculars, a camera, and a reference book.” Faber’s hand went to the bag.
“No, you don’t,” the captain said. “Look inside it, Watson.”
There it was—the amateur’s error.
Watson said, “Raise your hands.”
Faber raised his hands above his head, his right hand close to the left sleeve of his jacket. Faber choreographed the next few seconds—there must be no gunfire.
Watson came up on Faber’s left side, pointing the shotgun at him, and opened the flap of Faber’s canvas bag. Faber drew the stiletto from his sleeve, moved inside Watson’s guard, and plunged the knife into Watson’s neck up to the hilt. Faber’s other hand twisted the shotgun out of the young man’s grasp.
The other two soldiers on the bank moved toward him, and the corporal began to crash down through the branches of the oak.
Faber tugged the stiletto out of Watson’s neck as the man collapsed to the ground. The captain was fumbling at the flap of his holster. Faber leaped into the well of the boat. It rocked, sending the captain staggering. Faber struck at him with the knife, but the man was too far away for an accurate thrust. The point caught in the lapel of his uniform jacket, then jerked up, slashing his chin. His hand came away from the holster to clutch the wound.
Faber whipped around to face the bank. One of the soldiers jumped. Faber stepped forward and held his right arm out rigidly. The leaping soldier impaled himself on the eight-inch stiletto.
The impact knocked Faber off his feet, and he lost his grip on the stiletto. The soldier fell on top of the weapon. Faber got to his knees; there was no time to retrieve the stiletto, the captain was opening his holster. Faber jumped at him, his hands going for the officer’s face. The gun came out. Faber’s thumbs gouged at the eyes of the captain, who screamed in pain and tried to push Faber’s arms aside.
There was a thud as the fourth guardsman landed in the well of the boat. Faber turned from the captain, who would now be unable to see to fire his pistol even if he could get the safety off. The fourth man held a policeman’s truncheon; he brought it down hard. Faber shifted to the right so that the blow missed his head and caught his left shoulder. His left arm momentarily went nerveless. He chopped the man’s neck with the side of his hand, a powerful, accurate blow. Amazingly the man survived it and brought his truncheon up for a second swipe. Faber closed in. The feeling returned to his left arm, and it began to hurt mightily. He took the soldier’s face in both his hands, pushed, twisted, and pushed again. There was a sharp crack as the man’s neck broke. At the same instant the truncheon landed again, this time on Faber’s head. He reeled away, dazed.
The captain bumped into him, still staggering. Faber pushed him. His cap went flying as he stumbled backward over the gunwale and fell into the canal with a huge splash.
The corporal jumped the last six feet from the oak tree onto the ground. Faber retrieved his stiletto from the impaled guard and leaped to the bank. Watson was still alive, but it would not be for long—blood was pumping out of the wound in his neck.
Faber and the corporal faced each other. The corporal had a gun.
He was understandably terrified. In the seconds it had taken him to climb down the oak tree this man had killed three of his mates and thrown the fourth into the canal.