The main blast had missed him, but several pellets had caught him in the left shoulder and arm and he sat up, his face grey with pain as blood soaked through his sleeve.
Davos moved down the slope towards him and halted five or six feet away. His face was white with rage and a muscle twitched convulsively in his jaw.
“I can forgive you many things, Brady,” he said, “but not the dog. Not Kurt.”
A helicopter swung in from the sea about a quarter of a mile away, its fuselage a vivid yellow smudge against the grey sky. The sound of its engine had no meaning for Davos. He broke open the shotgun and took two fresh cartridges from his breast pocket, his eyes never leaving Brady’s face.
The stone upon which Brady had come to rest was about the size of a tennis ball. His right hand fastened over it and he dashed it into the Hungarian’s face with all his force.
It caught him in the right eye. He screamed and dropped the gun and Brady scrambled to his feet and flung himself forward. Davos, maddened by the pain of his damaged eye, swung out wildly and caught Brady full in the mouth.
Pain had no meaning for Brady and he bored in, forgetting his damaged left arm, forgetting everything except the one fixed idea of smashing Davos into the ground.
Davos clubbed him in the side of the neck and then Brady was in close. He lifted his right knee into the Hungarian’s crotch and then into the face. Davos twisted as he fell and rolled over the edge of the cliff, sliding on his back down the rock slope to the beach.
Brady had no more strength left. He sat there in the grass and fought for breath as the helicopter hovered briefly at the top of the slope and landed.
When the door opened, the first man out was a police constable and after him, came Inspector Mallory holding his Homburg hat on with one hand as he moved out under the swinging blades.
Brady didn’t wait to argue. He turned and went over the cliff feet-first, slipping and sliding down the slope in a shower of stones and tumbled into a heap of sand.
Davos was staggering along the shoreline towards the spur of rock which jutted out into the sea, separating them from the next cove. Brady scrambled to his feet and went after him.
The Hungarian heard him coming. He turned to glance over his shoulder and then plunged wearily into the sea and waded out to round the spur.
When Brady caught up with him, they were waist-deep in water. Davos had no fight left in him at all. He gave a strangled cry and thrashed wildly at the water as Brady seized him by the throat with both hands.
“You’re going to tell them, you bastard!” Brady screamed. “You’re going to tell them everything.”
There was a strange roaring in his ears and he pressed down. The Hungarian’s battered face disappeared beneath the water and then strong arms were pulling him away and Mallory was shouting in his ear, “It’s all right, Brady. We know everything.”
The inspector was standing beside him, the skirts of his raincoat billowing out in the water, somehow looking faintly ridiculous. Two constables supported Davos between them.
Mallory took Brady by the arm and led the way to the shore. They crossed the narrow strip of beach and Brady slumped down in the shelter of a large boulder. He was utterly spent, but his mind was crystal clear.
Mallory crouched beside him and examined his arm. “This looks pretty nasty. From the look of you, you could do with a couple of weeks in hospital.”
“Never mind that,” Brady said. “Tell me how you found out about Davos.”
“Your friend, Miss Dunning, got in touch with me at about five o'clock this morning when she found you’d cleared out.”
“And you believed her?”
Mallory shook his head. “She only gave me food for thought. I was still with her when I got a call from Guy’s Hospital. I’d had a man sitting at the bedside of Mrs. Rose Gordon, waiting for her to regain consciousness.”
“But Haras shot her in the head,” Brady said stupidly. “I was there.”
“He only creased her,” Mallory told him. “She made a most interesting statement. I got on to the R.A.F. at once.”
“The helicopter was a nice touch.”
Mallory grinned. “They picked us up at the South Bank landing stage. I wanted to get here fast. My one fear was that you might have done for Davos before we arrived.”
Stones rattled down in a fine spray. As Brady glanced up Anne Dunning slid the last few feet down to the beach. She wore a belted raincoat and headscarf and her face was white and drawn.
Mallory stood up. “I’ll help them get Davos up top. We’ll come back for you in a few minutes.”
He moved away and the girl came forward and crouched down beside Brady. She removed her headscarf and started to tie it about his arm and shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have left without telling me,” she said.
“There was nothing else I could do,” he told her. “Don’t forget, I thought Mrs. Gordon was dead. In any case, I didn’t want to involve you any further. Things didn’t look too good.”
She smoothed the hair back from his brow. “You look as if you’ve had a bad time.”
“It’s all over now,” he said. “And that’s the main thing. Got a cigarette?”
She produced a crumpled pack and lit one for him. As she passed it across, she said hesitantly, “What are you going to do now?”
“Boston, I think,” he said. “And that job my brother-in-law offered me. I’ve had England for the time being.”
She looked out to sea, pain on her face, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Is that okay with you?”
She turned sharply, sudden tears in her eyes. “Damn you, Matt Brady. I thought you weren’t going to ask me.”
He pulled her close against his chest and somewhere high in the sky, a seagull cried harshly and dipped low over their heads before flying out to sea.
A Biography of Jack Higgins
Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.
Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.
Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster The Eagle Has Landed, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures — such as John Dillinger — and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.