LITMIR.BIZ

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her. But he could hardly believe all this. Carrington said, ‘As regards your freighter, she’ll sail on schedule, with a captain provided by us. While officially you are on a hiking holiday in Scotland.’

      Morgan felt feverish. For Anna’s safety. He looked at them, bemused. The civil service faces he once upon a time thought were incorruptible.

      He took a deep breath. Then he held a shaky finger out at them.

      ‘Now let me make one thing abundantly clear.’ He glared. ‘I’m going on this operation for her sake – not for Queen and so-called Country!’ He shook his finger once. ‘And after I get her off that island, if you so much as lay a finger upon her …’ He raised his eyebrows: ‘I’ll blow this story sky-high. Do you understand that? Blow Queen and Country and Margaret Thatcher …’

Part Three

9

      In the middle of that rainy night several groups of SEALs landed on the north-eastern shores of Grenada from their rubber boats, to reconnoitre landing beaches for the assault at dawn. They radioed back to their ships that there were many dangerous coral reefs and the old grass airport of Pearls was heavily defended by the People’s Revolutionary Army and Cubans. At the same time a Specter helicopter gunship was flying high over the new airport at Point Salines, where the US Rangers would land, and the report they radioed back was worse: the runway was blocked with vehicles, construction equipment and metal spikes.

      At the same time, two more parties of SEALs were approaching the western shore of the island, near the capital of Saint George’s, in their raiding boats, twenty-two men counting Jack Morgan. They ran up the beach for the blackness of the palms. Eight of them started along the dark treeline towards the big house of Max Hapsburg on the point of the bay.

      There were no lights burning. There was a double garage, both doors open, one car visible inside. The big house was surrounded by trees and shrubs and lawns. The front door was ajar.

      Morgan crouched in the rain beside the commander, his heart knocking. Two SEALs broke cover and ran at the door, and flung themselves on either side of it. Then they burst inside and disappeared.

      Morgan waited. He could still hardly believe he was here. Then a light snapped on in the hall. A figure reappeared, and signalled. Morgan and the commander ran for the door

      ‘Empty. But there’s signs of a fight.’

      Morgan looked around feverishly. The rugs in the hall were bunched, and a chair was knocked over. He crouched and examined the marble floor for blood. He saw none. ‘Come upstairs,’ the SEAL said.

      Morgan followed him, bounding up the wide staircase. The rugs on the landing were also bunched. They strode down the corridor. Into a bedroom.

      It was obviously hers. It was the first time he had seen it, of course, and it was unreal that he was standing in it now. A big double bed, elegant furniture. There was another bedroom leading off this one, with another double bed. There were two dressing rooms. There was the sound of running water, coming from a bathroom. A wall safe stood agape; it was empty. Some wardrobe doors stood open. Morgan strode into the next bedroom. A drawer from a bedside table lay on the floor. He strode for the bathroom.

      The shower was beating down into the tub. Why? He felt the water: cold. A towel lay in one corner, a stool had been kicked over. He crouched and examined the tiled floor, looking for blood. There was none. He stood up. Then he saw it.

      His heart missed a beat, and he feverishly crouched and examined it. It was on one corner of the bathtub: one small smear of blood. He strode out of the room.

      He ran down the staircase, back to the hall. ‘Definitely nobody in the house?’

      ‘Nor in the gardens. No new graves either, as far as we can see in this light.’

      ‘Then let’s get the hell on to Government House.’

      The dark rain wept down.

      Government House stands on a hill, overlooking the old harbour of Saint George’s. Nearby is Fort Ruppert, headquarters of the People’s Revolutionary Army. Government House is an old colonial building, set in gardens, with a big iron gate bearing the royal coat of arms. Surrounding the walls were the soldiers of the People’s Revolutionary Army, holding the people inside hostage.

      At dawn the Marines landed at the old Pearls airport in the north, midst teaming rain and anti-aircraft fire; at the same time the Rangers flew in from Florida over New airport midst even heavier anti-aircraft fire; at dawn a party of SEALs attacked the Radio Free Grenada station. At dawn the twenty-one SEALs and Jack Morgan stormed Government House.

      They came fighting up the streets towards the hilltop, midst the clatter of guns and the stink of cordite, and they stormed the perimeter of Government House.

      Morgan frantically threw himself at the wall midst the cacophony of gunfire, swung his leg up, and rolled over the top. He landed with a crash in a flowerbed. He scrambled up and crouched there, rasping, thanking God, getting his breath. Over the wall came the others. They ran off in different directions to cover different aspects of the house; the commander rasped ‘Go’ and Morgan ran.

      He ran flat out across the lawn, for the kitchen. The commander flung himself at the door handle. It was locked. He stepped backwards and kicked, and the door crashed in. They burst through the door together.

      ‘Freeze! – US soldiers! – Freeze!’

      The dark kitchen was empty. The commander bounded for the door to the corridor, stood flat against the wall. Morgan crouched, dry-mouthed. The commander shouted:

      ‘Freeze! – We’re US soldiers! – Freeze!’

      Nothing. Only the crack and thud of gunfire out there. The commander burst through the door. He ran up the corridor, to the hall.

      It was empty. He looked into the dining room. There was nobody. Morgan came running up the corridor. The commander bounded up to the living room door, and flung it open.

      ‘Freeze! US soldiers! – ’

      There was a mass of shocked faces, black and white, people on the floor. There was a moment’s silence; then an elderly black man got to his feet shakily.

      ‘Praise the Lord …’ he said.

      ‘Are you the Governor, sir?’

      The black man nodded his head. ‘I am, Paul Scoon …’

      Morgan’s eyes were sweeping every face in the darkened room. He rasped, ‘Is Mrs Anna Hapsburg in the house?’

      The Governor was saying to the commander, ‘Our radio was shot out –’

      ‘Anna Hapsburg! Is she in the house?’

      ‘Oh,’ the Governor said distractedly – ‘She must be upstairs …’

      Morgan’s heart turned over. He turned and hurried out of the room. He bounded up the stairs.

      The thud of gunfire was muffled. Morgan strode down the upstairs passage, looking into each room. They were all empty, the curtains drawn, mattresses on the floor. His mouth was dry. He came to the last room.

      ‘Anna?’ He twisted the door handle.

      The door moved, then it was stopped by an armchair.

      ‘Anna?’ He shoved. The armchair slid.

      The room was in half-darkness.

      He looked in at. A pistol, pointed straight at him. Behind it, a woman crouched, at the end of the bed. He could only see her forehead, and her two white hands.

      His heart was pounding. It was unreal. He lowered his gun.

      ‘Anna? Put the gun

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