Part 39 (2/2)

He aimed close to her leg and fired a deafening shot, which spat splinters of wood into her face and chest. She screamed. 'Just him for now,' she whispered quickly. 'He's got some other people on the way. Listen, just let me go and-'

'Shut up!'

So, Bond reflected, Dunne had used part of his money to bribe security forces in Mozambique to lie that he'd been spotted in the country while he had remained here to back up Felicity. And to hire mercenaries to extract them, if necessary.

Bond glanced round the breakfast room and the nearby lobby. There was simply no way to get to cover. Aiming carefully, he shot out the work lights but the overheads were still bright and too numerous to take out. They gave Dunne a perfect view of the interior. Bond rose but was rewarded with two close shots. He'd seen no target. There was some moonlight but the glare inside rendered outdoors black. He could tell Dunne was shooting from high ground, on the Apostles range. Yet the Irishman could be anywhere up there.

A moment or two pa.s.sed, then more bullets crashed into the room, striking bags of plaster. The dust rose and Bond and Jordaan coughed. Bond noted that the angle of those shots had been different; Dunne was working his way into a position from which he could begin to pick them off.

'The lights,' Lamb called. 'We've got to get them out.'

The switch, however, was in the pa.s.sage to the kitchen and to get to it one of them would have to run past a series of gla.s.s doors and windows, presenting a perfect target to Dunne.

Bond tried but he was in the most vulnerable position and the instant he rose slugs slammed into a pillar and the tools beside him. He fell back to the floor.

'I'll go,' said Bheka Jordaan. She was gauging distances to the light switch, Bond saw. 'I'm closest. I think I can make it. Did I tell you, James, I was a star rugby player at university? I moved very quickly.'

'No,' Bond said firmly. 'It's suicide. We'll wait for your officers.'

'They won't be here in time. He'll be in position to kill us all in a few minutes. James, rugby is a wonderful game. Have you ever played?' She laughed. 'No, of course not. I can't see you on a team.'

His smile matched hers.

'You're better placed to give covering fire,' Bond said. 'That big Colt of yours'll scare the h.e.l.l out of him. I'm going on three. One . . . two-'

Suddenly a voice called, 'Oh, please!'

Bond looked toward Lamb, who continued, 'Those countdown scenes in movies are such dreadful cliches. Nonsense. In real life n.o.body counts. You just stand up and go!'

Which was exactly what Lamb now did. He leapt to his meaty legs and lumbered towards the light switch. Bond and Jordaan both aimed into the blackness and fired covering rounds. They had no idea where Dunne was and it was unlikely that their slugs went anywhere near him, yet whether they did or not, the rounds didn't deter the Irishman from firing a spot-on burst when Lamb was ten feet from the switch. The bullets shattered the windows beside him and found their target. A spray of the agent's blood painted the floor and wall and he lurched forward, collapsed and lay still.

'No,' Jordaan cried. 'Oh, no.'

The casualty must have given Dunne some confidence because the next shots were even closer to their mark. Finally Bond had to abandon his position. He crawled back to where Jordaan crouched behind a table saw, its blade dented by Dunne's .223 rounds.

Bond and the policewoman now pressed against each other. The black slits of windows glared at them. There was nowhere else to go. A bullet snapped over Bond's head it broke the sound barrier inches from his ear.

He felt, but couldn't see, Dunne moving in for the kill.

Felicity said, 'I can stop this. Just let me go. I'll call him. Give me a phone.'

A muzzle flash, and Bond shoved Jordaan's head down as the wall beside them exploded. The slug actually tugged at the strands beside her ear. She gasped and pressed against him, s.h.i.+vering. The smell of burning hair wafted around them.

Felicity said, 'n.o.body'll know you let me escape. Give me a phone. I'll call Dunne.'

'Oh, go to h.e.l.l, b.i.t.c.h!' came a voice from across the room and, staggering to his feet, gripping his b.l.o.o.d.y chest, Lamb rose and charged to the far wall. He swept his hand down on the light switch as he dropped once more to the floor. The inn went dark.

Instantly Bond was on his feet, kicking out one of the side doors. He plunged into the brush to pursue his prey.

Thinking: four rounds left, one more magazine.

Bond was sprinting through the brush that led to the base of the steep cliff, the Twelve Apostles ridge. He ran in an S pattern as Dunne fired towards him. The moon wasn't full but there was light to shoot by, yet none of the slugs. .h.i.t closer than three or four feet from him.

Finally the Irishman stopped targeting Bond he must have a.s.sumed he'd hit him or that he'd fled to find help. Dunne's goal, of course, wasn't necessarily to kill his victims, but simply to keep them contained until his a.s.sociates arrived. How soon would that be?

Bond huddled against a large rock. The night was now freezing cold and a wind had come up. Dunne would be about a hundred feet directly above him. His sniper's eyrie was an outcrop of rock with a perfect view of the inn, the approaches to it . . . and of Bond himself in the moonlight, had Dunne simply leant over and looked.

Then a powerful torch was signalling from the rocks above. Bond turned to where it was pointed. Offsh.o.r.e a boat churned towards the beach. The mercenaries, of course.

He wondered how many were on board and what they were armed with. In ten minutes the vessel would land and he and Bheka Jordaan would be overrun Dunne would have made sure that Victoria Road remained impa.s.sable for longer than that. Still, he pulled out his phone and texted Kwalene Nkosi about the impending beach landing.

Bond looked back up the mountain face.

Only two approaches would lead him to Dunne. To the right, the south, there was a series of steep but smooth traverses narrow footpaths for hikers that led from the back of the Sixth Apostle Inn past the outcrop where Dunne lay. But if Bond went that way, he'd be exposed to Dunne's gunfire along much of the path; there was no cover.

The other option was to a.s.sault the castle directly: to climb straight up a craggy but steep rock face, one hundred vertical feet.

He studied this possible route.

Four years nearly to the day after his parents had died, fifteen-year-old James Bond had decided he'd had enough of the nightmares and fears that reared up when he looked at mountains or rock walls even, say, the impressive but tame foundation of Edinburgh Castle as seen from the Castle Terrace car park. He'd talked a master at Fettes into setting up a climbing club, which made regular trips to the Highlands for the members to learn the sport.

It took two weeks, but the dragon of fear had died and Bond added rock climbing to his repertoire of outdoor activities. He now holstered the Walther and looked up, reiterating to himself the basic rules: use only enough strength for a sufficient grip, no more; use your legs to support your body, your arms for balance and s.h.i.+fting weight; keep your body close to the rock face; use momentum to peak at the dead point.

And so, with no ropes, no gloves, no chalk and in leather shoes quite stylish but a fool's footwear on a damp face like this Bond began his ascent.

70.

Niall Dunne was making his way down the face of the Twelve Apostles ridge, along the hiking trails that led to the inn. His Beretta pistol in hand, he carefully stayed out of sight of the man who'd masqueraded so cleverly as Gene Theron the man Felicity had told him an hour or so ago was a British agent, first name James.

Although he couldn't see him any longer, Dunne had spotted the man a few minutes ago ascending the rock cliff. James had taken the bait and was a.s.saulting the citadel while Dunne had slipped out of the back door, so to speak, and was moving carefully down the traverses. In five minutes he'd be at the inn, while the British agent would be fully occupied on the cliff face.

All according to the blueprint . . . well, the revised blueprint.

Now there was nothing for it but to get out of the country, fast and forever. Though not alone, of course. He would leave with the person he admired most in the world, the person he loved, the person who was the engine of all his fantasies.

His boss, Felicity Willing.

This is Niall. He's brilliant. He's my draughtsman . . .

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