then one more shot. When that too was still, Grierson heard the urgent clanging of the fire engine's bell, and hoped that Craig was alive to hear it too. It would tell him that at least Grierson had got into the house.
Craig heard it all right, and moved slowly closer to the door, ready to act when the time came. There was more than one man outside, he was sure of that, but the riot gun would give them all the edge he needed, if Grierson could only get close enough. It was too bad he hadn't got into Schiebel's room.
Grierson moved down a bend in the stairs. Below him four men were facing a doorway. Two of them held automatic carbines, one held a pistol, one a heavy rifle. The rifleman wore a chefs white overalls and hat. None of them was Schiebel. Behind them was a steel door; that was where Schiebel would be. Suddenly one of the men fired a stream of bullets at the door he faced. Grierson moved in closer, walking as if a fast tide were moving against him. Twelve feet, ten, eight. The man who had fired extracted an empty clip. Grierson pumped the action of the gun, and as the men spun round he took one more step, fired, pumped the action, and fired again. The effect was immediate and horrifying. The nearest man fell at once, the second was blasted back against the banister rails, the third looked in horror at the raw wound the buckshot had torn in his arm. Grierson pumped the action again and the fourth man looked at the gun's wide mouth, dropped the rifle and raised his hands. Craig appeared softly behind them and pushed up his mask.
"I told you that gun gave us an edge," he said.
Grierson tried not to think of the man who had taken the first appalling blast of shot. This was the most terrible thing he'd ever done. He gestured at the fourth man. Craig struck with the edge of his hand, and he fell. The third still gaped at his wound. Craig pushed him down on to the stairs, and passed him the fourth man's handkerchief and his own. The Arab was too dazed with shock to know what to do with them. Craig covered the wound, and left him, then his hand went into his pocket, and emerged holding a long, slotted key of hardened steel.
"There's an Arab in there had this on him," he said. "I think it opens the prison door. He and his woman nearly killed me." He looked at Grierson; his hands were clasped so tight round the riot gun that the knuckles showed white, and he hadn't moved. Craig touched his arm. "Come on," he said.
Slowly, with leaden heaviness, Grierson turned and followed him.
They went up to the door, and Craig slowly, silently, inserted the key, standing square in front of it. The bullet wasn't made that could penetrate that steel. The key turned easily, without a sound. Opposite the door was a mirror in a gilt frame. Craig tilted it slightly, then went to kneel by the door. Across its frame Grierson stood, holding the gun. Craig motioned him to get down, and he knelt slowly, like an old peasant at the confessional, then Craig reached out to push open the door. In house-to-house fighting it was always the same. Open the door and face the death behind it. That was how it had been today, until now, and here was another door that Grierson should have opened, but this one was different. Behind it was a man he must kill, and a woman who, whatever happened, must not die. And the door was of steel. He leaned his weight on it, and it swung in massive slowness as he crouched and looked into the mirror out of its angle of reflection.
He saw what he had expected to see. Schiebel had Phihppa in front of him, and a gun at her back.
"You're too cautious, Craig," he said. "The door wasn't locked."
Craig lifted the bomb in his hand, and Schiebel continued:
"li you do anything at all, I'll shoot her. She won't die quickly, I promise you. No more bombs, Craig."
Craig put the smoke bomb down, and looked across at Grierson, once again motionless, on his knees.
"I'm going out," Schiebel said, "and she goes with me. And so do you. You'll take me out of this house, and you'll drive us to where I want to go. Then you can have her. A fair exchange—my life for hers. All right?"
Craig said nothing.
"You have to trust me," said Schiebel. "And you've won anyway. I concede that. Once I give you the woman you can do what you like. But as far as she and I are concerned, this is stalemate. If I live, she lives. You try to kill me and she dies. Now put your gun down, like a sensible fellow."
"No," said Craig.
"Try to be rational," said Schiebel, and his voice was detached, cool. "I can't kill you today. I need you as much as you need the woman. But later I will kill you. I promise you. Now put down your gun. Stick it forward where I can see it. I mean it, Craig. If you won't I'll shoot her and take my chances."
Craig slid the Magnum across the floor.
"Now the other," said Schiebel.
"All right," said Craig, and inevitably, because of his trade, he cheated. The other Magnum slid across the floor, but there was still in his pocket the little .22 Bernadelli he had taken from the Arab woman. The magazine had six shots, and she had fired at him once. He could afford to wait.
"Good," said Schiebel, and pushed Philippa forward to the door. Craig stood up to meet them, and moved into the doorway, blocking their view of Grierson.
"Take us out," Schiebel said, "or she'll suffer. And you will suffer after her. That wouldn't be so good as getting away, but it would be good enough." Suddenly the voice lost its detachment. "I'd enjoy that—making you watch what happens to her, then doing the same to you."
Flip said: "He means it."
Her voice was a hoarse whisper of remembered pain. "I'll take you out," said Craig.
Grierson heard it all, and remembered Loomis's instructions: whatever happened Schiebel must die. His mind held on to that fact, and no other. As Craig walked to the door, he pumped the action of the shotgun again. Without hesitation Craig kicked out at the gun barrel, knocking it aside as Grierson squeezed the trigger. The mirror shattered, and Craig lashed out at Grierson's neck, the only point unprotected by the mask and helmet, in a knife-hand strike, the hard edge of gristle and bone hitting the nerve. Still kneeling, Grierson slumped face forward, then rolled over. Schiebel laughed aloud, and Phihppa's head jerked upright, her glazed eyes cleared, her body cringed. Craig realized that she understood that laughter. She looked down at Grierson and saw a man in uniform with the face of an animal—round, straining eyes, the gross snout of a hog. And the man who had attacked him, he was like that too—wide, sightless eyes, hog snout, but below it the mouth and chin of a man whose strength she had so desperately needed. She began to scream, over and over, then the scream muted to a whimper of pain as Schiebel drove the muzzle of his pistol into her back, and pain brought her to full consciousness, and the realization that the animal face in front of her was a smoke mask.
"Good work, old chap," said Schiebel. "Now let's go, shall we?"
He pushed Philippa forward, then hesitated as he saw the dead men on the stairs. The hesitation made him loosen his grip on her arm for a second, then pain scalded through her as he grabbed her again.
Schiebel said: "You did this?"
"Yes," said Craig.
"Alone?" Schiebel asked, and Craig nodded. "You he," Schiebel said: "The other man held the shotgun."