LITMIR.BIZ

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thing I’ve never tried.’

      ‘Oh, you’ll take to it like a duck to water. I have a couple of Montesa dirt bikes. Spanish job. Go anywhere. Good if you’ve got sheep in the high country. I’ll show you tomorrow.’

      They had an excellent, though very simple dinner, all prepared by George Farne’s wife: steak, new potatoes, salad and some sort of cream tart. Afterwards, Lang opened the French windows and they stood on the terrace with their brandies, listening to the silence.

      ‘Do you only have the Farnes working here?’ she asked.

      ‘That’s right. George’s dad worked for my father, so he’s known this place as long as I have. He and his wife caretake. He brings in local help when he needs it.’

      ‘What a heavenly existence,’ she said.

      ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Tom Curry told her. ‘You’d be screaming your head off by the second week.’

      ‘Philistine,’ she said and turned back to Lang. ‘What now – bridge?’

      ‘Actually, I have a shooting range in the barn. I thought you might like to try your hand.’

      For a moment, she stared at him and then she smiled. ‘Why not.’

      When he switched on the lights in the barn they revealed a very professional shooting range with a wall of sandbags at the rear, fronted by six-foot cardboard replicas of charging soldiers. An assortment of weaponry was laid out on several trestle tables – hand guns, machine pistols and rifles.

      Curry lit a cigarette and stood watching. Lang picked up the first pistol. ‘Recognize this, our old friend the Beretta? This is how you load it.’ He picked up an ammunition clip and rammed it in the butt. ‘Would you like to try?’

      ‘Why not.’

      He ejected the clip and handed her the Beretta. She loaded it for herself. ‘Good, now pull the slider and you’re in business, but don’t fire. Let me give you some ear muffs.’ He adjusted them. ‘Good. Take aim, both eyes open, then squeeze gently.’

      She did as she was told, hitting the target she was aiming at in the shoulder, then firing one round after the other in a widely dispersed pattern. He showed her how to discharge the magazine.

      ‘Not bad. At least you hit him.’

      She was suddenly angry. ‘Could you do better?’

      Rupert slammed another magazine in the butt of the Beretta, pulled the slider and his hand swung up. He fired three times very rapidly, shooting out the target’s eyes and putting the third in between.

      ‘My God!’ she said.

      ‘He’s got nothing to do with it. I’ve got a selection for you here. Walther PPK, Browning, both similar to the Beretta, and a Smith & Wesson revolver.’

      She moved to the other table. ‘And this lot?’

      ‘Stun grenade, standard-type hand grenade. The rifles are an Armalite and an AK47, both with sonic noise suppressor – silencer to you. The big job is a Barret Light Fifty Rifle with a laser guide night sight – .50 round, that thing fires, guaranteed to penetrate a Kevlar at two thousand yards.’

      ‘A Kevlar?’

      ‘Flak jacket like the Army wears in Ireland. Actually, I’ve got a neater job here, rather like a waistcoat. Titanium and nylon. Should suit you down to the ground.’

      She examined it. ‘You were sure of me, weren’t you? Do I get to try the rifles?’

      ‘Plenty of time, we have all week, but why not.’

      He reached for the AK47, unfolded the butt and Curry came forward. ‘Just one thing before you two start having fun.’ He picked up the Walther, slammed in the magazine and said to Grace, ‘Come on.’

      He walked down the range and paused about five feet from the targets. ‘You want to make sure? I’ll show you how.’

      He walked to the centre target, held the gun to it and pulled the trigger. ‘See what a brilliant marksman I am?’

      He came back to her. ‘But if that isn’t possible, never further away than five or six feet.’

      He raised the Walther and emptied it into the target.

      Grace said, ‘I get your point.’

      Curry turned, walked to the table and put down the Walther. ‘She’s all yours, old lad,’ he said and walked out.

       5

      It was a bright, clear morning although rain threatened and Grace Browning was enjoying herself on a track high up above the forest. She wore black biker’s leathers which Lang had provided and a rather sinister black helmet. Lang was riding behind her, wearing jeans and a bomber jacket but no helmet. Danger ran alongside with them. After his initial instruction it was fun to find how well she could handle the bike. He pulled in beside her, lit two cigarettes and passed one to her.

      ‘You’ve got flair. Typical actor, I suppose. Chameleon-like ability to take on anything at short notice.’

      ‘Nothing typical about me, darling,’ she said. ‘But I like physical things and this is fun.’

      ‘Good. You’ve mastered the rudiments. We’ll take a twenty-mile run round the moor and back to the house. You’ll be amazed how quickly you’ll pick it up. Just one thing. There’s a very good reason why the Montesa is so popular with shepherds in mountain and moorland country. They’ll do half-a-mile an hour over rough ground if you want. On the other hand, you can go rather faster.’

      He turned the throttle and zoomed away and after a moment’s hesitation she went after him.

      Curry returned to London on the Navajo the following day. After breakfast, Lang took Grace up into the forest to give her more practice on the Montesa.

      After an hour, they stopped for a break and sat on the grass. He lit two cigarettes as always and gave her one. She lay on her back. ‘I like you, Rupert, I like you a lot.’

      ‘Snap, my sweet,’ he said. ‘Except I love you a lot.’

      ‘Yet you’ve never put a hand on me once.’

      ‘I know, my gorgeous one,’ he teased her. ‘But you see, I’m terribly faithful. Fell in love with Tom first time we met at Cambridge. Women – and please don’t get upset – don’t do the slightest thing for me.’ He turned over and kissed her. ‘Having said that, I adore you. I suppose you think I’ve got a piece missing in my personal jigsaw.’

      ‘Oh, Rupert, my lovely Rupert, don’t we all?’ she said and kissed his cheek.

      He rolled away and raised himself on one elbow. ‘The Navajo’s doing a return; bringing an old friend of mine down just for twenty-four hours. George is picking him up.’

      ‘Who would that be?’

      ‘Ian McNab. Used to be my company sergeant major in the Paras. He runs a gym in London. Karate, judo, aikido – all that sort of thing for those who want it.’

      He paused and she said, ‘And something more?’

      Rupert lit another cigarette. ‘Most martial arts and defence techniques generally are designed to help you defend yourself, ward the attacker off, that sort of thing. To come to terms with those techniques takes years of training. Ian McNab offers something quite different.’

      ‘And what would that be?’

      ‘His self-defence system is delivered with extreme prejudice. No point in using it except to kill or maim.’

      ‘Good God!’ she said.

      ‘There we go again, you invoking the almighty.’

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