Jennifer tried to think. “Do you—do you think my parents were brought here and killed?” In the darkness, he might have shrugged. She bit her lip. “Do you know where in France the priest’s men would put us down?” Michael still said nothing. She tried harder for a sensible thought. “What do you think we should do?” she asked in the tone she’d always before used when she couldn’t get one of her father’s tougher Latin exercises.
“The priest was right that our paths have converged. Your father was up to something that Hooper didn’t want to succeed. I don’t want her to succeed in whatever she is doing. Move her out of the way, and your Government might be worth trusting. And I’d really like to know more about the Turkish presence. If it was Turkish agents trying to kill you, why was your father working with a group of people who are in with the Turks? Above all, what are the Caliph’s men up to in England?”
He got to his feet, and Jennifer heard him brush soil from the back of his shorts. Now outlined against the reflected glow of the security lights, he stood over her. He bent down and stared into her face. “Come on, then,” he said, for some reason amused. “Since you must be right that there’s no way in over the wall, the only way left is through the main gate.” He tapped her on the chest and snorted at the wince of pain he drew. “I told you to get out of those bandages,” he said grimly. “It doesn’t matter now what sex you appear to be. Even if you won’t be bruised for days, I need you able to move freely. Get that shirt over your head, and I’ll untie you.”
At his third and obviously clumsy attempt, the guard made a dull clicking noise with his weapon, and stepped from the flood of light that fell all about the open gateway. His eyes still not adjusted, he tried to look forward into the undergrowth. “Who is out there?” he cried uncertainly in Arabic.
“I am sick, O brother,” Michael called back. “The Infidel beer has surely killed me.” He let out one of the high pitched giggles of the Eastern races, and reached over to shake a bush that was a few feet to his right. The guard had taken out his communication machine, and was dithering between it and his weapon. Michael could feel that Jennifer was beginning to panic. “Surely, I shall die out here in this cold northern darkness,” he sobbed in a voice that dribbled out the self-pity of the badly hung-over. Still looking from weapon to communication machine and back again, the guard took a step deeper into the shadow beneath the wall.
“Who are you?” he asked. “I don’t recognise your voice.” It looked as if he might put his weapon down. But he checked himself and tried once more to see who was calling at him from the undergrowth.
Michael forced out a convincing burp, and gave another groan of pain. “Help me to safety, my brother—or, let the Prophet be my witness—you shall answer to the Commander of the Faithful in person. I have messages for the one called Basil, and cannot appear before him in a raiment covered in vomit.” The guard stepped back against the wall. He looked about as if for advice. He looked again at his communication machine, now for a long time. As he took a step towards the light and raised the machine to his ear, Michael got him just below the turban with the large stone he’d been holding in reserve. He shook himself free of Jennifer’s hold on his arm and rushed forward. He got himself within the shadow of the wall and reached for the guard. But controlling a man who must have been twice his own weight, and who was only stunned, was easier said than done. Michael hadn’t got him by the legs before he was raising himself on both arms and opening his mouth for a cry of alarm. Giving up on his first plan, Michael threw himself forward and snapped the man’s neck before he could finish drawing breath.
“Come and help me,” he called softly to Jennifer. “I can’t lift him by myself.”
“But you’ve killed him!” She didn’t move from where he’d left her.
“Were you expecting me to try bribing him?” he laughed. He pulled again at the dead body, this time rolling it over. “Now, come and help me. Since no one’s running out from the house, I’ll guess we haven’t been observed.”
“You’re mad!” Jennifer said again as he finished arranging the turban. Michael shook with quiet laughter and set about pulling the stripped body deeper into the shadow of the wall. Not helping, she sat down. “Couldn’t you at least have questioned him first?”
He stood up and shrugged. “Things don’t always work out as you wanted.” He gave the body a kick that rolled most of it under a bush. The bits that showed might not be seen till morning. “The key to success in all these matter, though, is to keep moving.” Jennifer gave him a worried look as he played with the three foot projectile weapon. He’d seen these used many times on the entertainments on the picture machines back in his lodgings. But he tested its weight. It was heavier and more complex than he’d expected. He put it down. He kicked the still dormant communication machine fully under the bush.
“Very well,” he said, now brisk and commanding, “we’ll go in together, and make it look as if I’ve caught an intruder. Don’t struggle. Depending on what happens next, we may need to change that story.”
“But you’re the wrong colour!” Jennifer groaned. “We’ll not get a dozen paces in there.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. As for the colour, this is a funny light.” He pulled her close. “Do remember that speed is of the essence. Shall we go in?”
Their feet crunched loud on the gravel as they covered the hundred or so feet that lay between the gate and the main door of the house. Take away the elaborate machinery that secured it, and Michael failed to see how anyone, of whatever quality, could bear to sleep in a house like this. Even its ground floor was studded with glazed windows. His own family’s manor house had windows only to its inner courtyard. The outer walls were of rendered brick, and his father had always been fussing over the depth of the surrounding moat. This house, so far as he could see, was a single block, with glazed windows on every side. England must long have been a very safe country if the rich could trust themselves in the like.
The front door opened inward as he set foot on the steps leading to the porch. Michael had three stories ready in Arabic that should cover all the possibilities. He hadn’t expected the red and bleary face of a native. Swaying slightly, he began a nagging lecture in an English that he spoke slowly and expected to be understood. Before Michael could step on her foot, Jennifer answered for him. At once, the man was sober. A close look at Michael, and he was stepping backwards, and pulling out what might be a communication machine, or something else.
Not moving from the rectangle of light that stretched a dozen feet beyond the open door, Jennifer looked down at the man’s flickering eyes. She wanted to cry out at the enormity of what she’d seen. But her mouth was too dry.
Michael looked at her and sniffed. He pulled her into the shadows. “First rule of intruding is that you kill everyone you can’t avoid or trick. I don’t suppose you’ve ever killed anyone yourself. But haven’t you seen enough death in the past few days?” Not answering, she looked at the body. “Now, if you don’t want me to kill too many more of these people, you’ll keep your mouth shut, and stay out of sight!” He thought she would be sick. He put both hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Jennifer, did you suppose diplomacy was all a matter of giving presents and general buttering up?” He shook her again and stared into her moist and wide open eyes. “I can’t remember how many men I’ve killed in the past two years. Nearly every one of them would have killed me, if I’d given him the chance.” He let go of her and smiled. “What did the man say?”