16. My brainbox told me that the chances of spotting him were a bit remote, and I didn’t suppose any bookies would entertain bets on a successful interception either. But if I let my thoughts stray too far in that direction Michael would be a goner. The heart part of me was bigger than the brainbox, and just as reliable, and if I got them working together like the old pals they’d always been, and kept on keeping on, I would meet up with him right enough. Confidence is the thing, and we never lacked that, did we sir?
17. Two roads shoot off to the little place I had decided Michael was most likely to go for. They were about eight miles apart, but the first he wouldn’t dream of going into because it wasn’t signposted, and didn’t look as if the Rolls Royce would take it anyway. Therefore, in the flush of overconfidence, which I had always known to be his besetting sin, he wouldn’t care whether he bottled himself into a deadend or not. So I posted myself on a hill overlooking the turn off, thinking that if by any chance he went by there would be plenty of time for me to get in the car, tail him, and flash him down.
18. When I saw him go into the road I had staked out I gave myself a pat on the back, and laughed so loud a crow jumped out of an almond tree as if a snake was after him. Slotting the binoculars into their neat leather case, I had a long and satisfying urination over a hot rock, then ate a bar of chocolate. Michael had gone right into my net. There was no hurry. I would give him time to indulge in a shave and shower at the hotel, even a half hour snooze if that was what he craved (Oh, did I know him!) because he’d earned it for coming this far unscathed. You can understand that I was also impatient to give him a big embrace as soon as possible, but out of kindness I decided to let him look forward to a relaxed evening first. Wouldn’t he be surprised and delighted when I walked towards him with outstretched arms?
19. I gathered a few sticks, made a fire, and mashed some tea. It was only four and a half miles from me to the hotel — I’d clocked it a couple of times on the dashboard tacheo — so I could get there in a few minutes. I opened a bag of sweet cakes, savoured another cigar in the warm and balmy air, and strolled around the hillside. At the same time I kept the junction well in view. A motorbike-carrier loaded with packages and melons turned in, and a couple of taxis, then a little black hatchback.
20. I was taking a pebble out of my boots, when an ache in my stomach told me there might be less time to waste than I supposed. Something nagged me, I couldn’t think why, so I threw my tranklements into the car, and belted off, just missing a battered old Merc coming the other way along the narrow road.
21. I will now, Major Blaskin, conclude this operational report, which has been put together in a simply furnished cell, though not the type you must be thinking of, I’m glad to say. In fact it’s the only one I’ve never wanted to escape from with a hacksaw, because it’s in a remote monastery in the middle of Greece, where I decided to lay up for a day or two before driving my tinpot Corsa back to the airstrip at Athens, and boarding a plane for Blighty.
22. I had the luck to find a typewriter to do the job on. I was told that a German author had left it by mistake, and the monks — bless ’em! They were blessing me all the time, which I very much appreciated — didn’t have any use for it. So it’s come in handy for me, though the ribbon’s getting a bit worn, as you can see.
23. I’ve done my duty, sir, all fair square and above board. One of the monks has just come in with a pot of juniper tea, and if I don’t swig the lot he’ll be offended. Perhaps after you’ve heard Michael’s version of subsequent events you’ll put me in for the Military Medal, at least. Believe me when I say that he is as safe as I could make him, so I’ll now do an amen, because the bells of Hell (or Heaven — I wouldn’t know) are bonging fit to burst my head.
24. Operation Strawforce (Greece) concluded.
Signed: William Straw, Sergeant, late Sherwood Foresters.
Chapter Eleven
Beer splashed, and glass between me and the sun turned into purple and carmine dust above the table, showering me so completely I was lucky not to be blinded, which I supposed was what they hoped for. Here I was, all set for a deserved rest, and there was this big blond bastard coming towards me with no less than murder in his eyes, but as yet too far off to know there was murder in mine as well, though I wondered what good it would do, because when I stood to go for him I saw that his companion — nowhere as tall — looked equally menacing and determined to kill. I could have cried at such a balls up, yet where had I gone wrong? And where had they come from? The fact that I had no time for answers was, however, right up my street.
You’d think they’d been picking up suitable stones all the way from Milan, because after the first one missed by a few inches another skimmed from a hundred yards off, grazing my left temple. Such a form of combat was hardly sporting, nor could I admire the expertise as I zig-zagged the distance to baffle their aim, which Bill Straw had once shown me how to do. My only thought was to let fists decide, but on the way another heavy stone hit me at the kneecap and almost brought me down.
The shock did a fine job in turning me wild. I felt part of a show put on for an English couple at a table by the water’s edge, and wondered whether any applause would come at my collision with the big one, getting such a punch at his dumkopf — so fast was I running — that he skidded and went down.
While waiting to give him some more as soon as he got up — I disdained to boot him on the ground as he deserved — a rabbit chop from his sidekick nearly sent me the same way, and before I could properly recover, the big swine, though no bigger than me, put his arms around my waist and tried dragging me to the deck.
My open finger found his eyes, and I swung away, fighting for a life I’d never had any complaints about, and with my guard well up, and fencing blows from him, I got in another hefty thump at his clock. Turning to deal with his dark-haired assistant, though not liking to fight on two fronts, I saw him coming — from between the black hatchback and a powder blue Corsa parking nearby — holding a monkey wrench almost as big as his arm.
I leapt away from both but kept my fists up, well knowing I ought to be sensible and scarper at my best speed, though not caring to, since I would disappoint the couple looking boggle-eyed at the show from the next table to mine. I was aware in any case that running away would be more perilous than staying to fight, that I had no option but to hold them off, and in the process deal out enough of a pasting to both, eventually discouraging any further intent at molestation, or at least pursuit.
I went for the blond one first, his face a grimace of rage, as much blood out of his nose as, I knew, was coming from mine, because my tongue and throat said so. But I wondered if I wasn’t dead already, or on the way there, or delirious, at seeing someone unthread himself from the Corsa who was the spitten image of Bill Straw even while I couldn’t yet see his mug.
Was I unconscious from the punishment coming my way, and having a last dream before the lights went finally out? I didn’t know anyone able to clone people like Bill in Greece, though supposed everyone had their doppelganger lurking around to do them an injury by raising hope, and I thought no more about it in my peril, knuckling for advantage in mutually pounding away.