I dropped to my knees to examine him but as my reactions slowed to normal I felt a sudden, deep pain. I looked down and realised that the pistol bullet hadn’t missed after all – there was a hole in my tee-shirt, and the material was darkening with blood. As if following some basic instinct I immediately lay down so I could focus entirely on the wound. The pain was dismissed easily enough and I concentrated on the deep wound channel which penetrated my body, passing through my liver. I found I was able to stop the blood flow, sealing off the countless blood vessels sliced through by the bullet. The liver repair took a little longer.
I was then left with a bullet buried in my body, and a hole running through me. Still not sure what I was able to do, I focused on the flesh around and in front of the bullet, and forced it to close, slowly pushing the bullet backwards. After ten minutes of effort, the bullet popped out of my abdomen, and the hole sealed behind it. I slowly got up, feeling a little weak and tired but otherwise unaffected, and examined the bullet. It had a coppery-coloured base but the nose was of lead and had been expanded into a broad star shape by the passage through my body – a hollow-point, I guessed.
I knew something about guns from friends in America who had taken me down to a firing range on more than one occasion to try out different weapons. I picked up the rifle and worked the bolt, ejecting the fired cartridge case. I examined the headstamp and winced. The lettering spelled out “norma 7 MM REM MAG”. I recalled that the 7mm Remington Magnum was a high-velocity hunting round which normally fired expanding bullets. A hit from that would have been much more difficult to repair – it would have blown a large hole right through me.
I looked down at the paralysed assassin, who was clearly going nowhere, and went to the hospital to find a phone.
Richards came personally that night, accompanied by the usual pair of silent men who quickly loaded the assassin and his weapons into the back of their vehicle. He was full of concern and apology for the danger he had exposed me to, and anxious to make amends.
‘I need to get away from here, quickly.’ I said. ‘I’m putting my friends in danger by staying here. I need to leave tonight.’ I had had time to think this through, and knew that my stay at the hospital had to end.
He blinked in surprise, then thought quickly. ‘Very well, we have some discreet accommodation we can offer until we can sort out something more permanent. You’d better come with us.’
‘First I have some people to see.’ I went into the hospital and, after warily scanning the area, entered my room. No-one had been there, I could somehow tell. I picked up my spare clothes and stuffed them in a bag, added some fruit and nuts, glanced around, then left. There was nothing more I needed.
Brian had gone home for the night but Zara was still on duty and after tracking down her mental signature I met her in a quiet corridor. She gasped when she saw my bloodied and perforated shirt but I pulled it up to show my unmarked skin and she relaxed a little.
‘Zara, I’m afraid I have to leave, now. I’ve become a target and I’m putting everyone in danger just by being here. They’ve tried twice in two days with guns, the next time it might be a bomb.’
She grimaced, shocked and angry. ‘Who’s “they”?’
‘I didn’t stop to ask. I expect I’ve accumulated quite a range of enemies. But whoever it is, they’ve taken a serious and determined dislike to me.’ I was reluctant to involve her in any speculation about security services; as far as she knew, I had gone to London to advise on some medical issue.
‘What about your patients? We’ve got the usual week’s worth stacked up in a holding pattern around the hospital.’
‘I know, and I will get to them, I promise. They’ll just have to wait until I can operate from somewhere more secure.’
She looked at me, radiating anger and sadness – and something more. ‘I knew this would happen some time, but not so soon. I’ll miss you,’ she said softly.
‘Me too.’
She was suddenly in my arms, hugging me tight and trying not to cry. I held her for a while, soothing her mental turmoil, and she gradual relaxed into acceptance.
‘I hate goodbyes. Just be very careful, all right?’
‘All right’.
She turned suddenly and walked away down the long corridor without looking back. I stood and watched her go, realising with sadness that yet another turning point in my life had been reached. And the next stage was likely to be a lot less pleasant.
3
The military base was sited in the Brecklands, a part of East Anglia whose sandy soils were mainly covered with heathland and conifer woodlands. The base was in some ways not dissimilar to the hospitaclass="underline" the same sprawling buildings with the anonymous cubism of 1960s construction, the same institutional feel. In other respects it was quite different; the extensive grounds were surrounded by a double row of fencing topped by a thick coil of razor wire, covered by sensors to detect any attempt at penetration. Set back from the fence was a belt of pine trees which screened the activities within. The only entrance was an elaborate controlled gateway, with a chicane of concrete blocks to thwart car bombers, and several men always on duty. As we first drove through I glanced into the open doorway of their guardhouse and spotted grenade launchers as well as machine guns. They clearly had no intention of letting any unauthorised visitors enter, and were prepared to do whatever it took to stop them. I wondered what would happen if I decided to walk out of the gate.
These defences seemed to be to rather more thorough than at a typical military base, but I was not told what went on there and the sign at the entrance was singularly bland and uninformative. I was assigned a house not far from the entrance, standing by itself in its own copse of trees. The downstairs rooms had been rapidly refurnished as a pair of consulting rooms and my living accommodation was upstairs. It was made politely clear to me that wandering around the base was not encouraged. A businesslike and efficient army nurse called Karen was assigned to me; I was already missing Zara’s warmth and good humour.
For security reasons my patients, who had followed me in a forlorn trail across the country, were directed to the nearest large town where (as one of them told me with some indignation) they were thoroughly vetted, searched, made to change clothes, metal detected and sniffed at by dogs. They were then loaded into a military bus and driven to the base, a small batch at a time.
I was at first puzzled why the military should go to the trouble of housing me when it clearly caused them much inconvenience and concern about security. Matters became clearer the week after, when I went into a consulting room to find Richards sitting there, a bland smile on his face.
‘Which part of you needs treating? Conscience needs paralysing perhaps?’
This only made his smile widen. ‘Glad to see you’re recovering your sense of humour. How are you settling in here?’
I shrugged. ‘Can’t complain. They even let me into the base swimming pool at specified times, under escort.’
His smile moderated to a nicely-judged degree of sympathy. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, it must feel a bit prison-like. The trouble is, we have to keep you safe and that requires rather tight security.’
‘I know, I know.’ I sighed.
He brightened. ‘However, I can offer you some variety every now and then.’
I looked at him dourly. ‘Like the last time?’
‘Well, not quite like that, I hope. Your involvement will be kept very secret this time, and you will be closely guarded throughout.’