I glared at her. I was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and about as vulnerable. She knew that and pushed me ahead of her. The words human and shield flashed up in my mind. So much for gaining her confidence.
I stumbled down the rough track in the darkness.
Ruts in the land were deep and well worn. Had Apollyon prepared a hideout nearby? I sincerely hoped we weren’t anywhere near where the Texas Chainsaw Massacre was filmed.
‘Hang on,’ Sara whispered, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I turned and watched her look ahead. It was pitch-dark and there was no moon. I could see only a few faint stars. She nodded and I started walking again, my breath making the gag round my mouth damp. We must have gone at least a couple of hundred yards. Where had Apollyon gone?
Then my foot hit something hard. There was a loud click and we were blinded by a spotlight. I couldn’t raise my hands, so I had to lower my head.
‘Don’t move!’ came a harsh male voice.
‘Do as he says,’ Sara whispered from behind me. ‘I’ll deal with them when they come closer.’
‘You at the rear! Drop your weapons!’
‘Screw you,’ Sara muttered.
‘Final warning!’
Jesus, what was going to happen? I was sure Sara wouldn’t disarm herself.
‘All right,’ said the voice, ‘let him go!’
Let him go? Who? There was a crash of metal and I heard padding paws and a slavering noise. Narrowing my eyes, I looked ahead and saw a large canine coming straight toward us.
I did the only thing I could. I dropped my shoulder and waited for the impact.
Twenty-Nine
Peter Sebastian was sitting outside the interview room in the Hoover Building, a cup of cold coffee on the floor between his feet. Arthur Bimsdale had gone to find some food for them while Sir Andrew Frogget made his telephone call. The investment banker had insisted he talk to his lawyer, even though Bimsdale had faxed the slippery Martin Mallinson a selection of the juiciest photos of his client.
There would be some very angry people when Bureau staff started knocking at their doors. They had finally found a way into the secret world behind Rothmann’s activities. Although a lot of the companies were little more than fronts, the financial crime experts would have plenty to work on.
It should have been a triumph, though Sebastian couldn’t see it that way. Valerie Hinton hadn’t called yet, but she would, as soon as the news got out. And then the full might of the CIA would be turned on him. Not even the Director would be able to protect him from that. Why had he done it? Partly, he was sick of being at the Agency’s beck and call-it was nearly fifteen years since he’d been caught in its tentacles, and he’d had enough. But that wasn’t all. There was something about this case, about the whole vicious conspiracy centered on Heinz Rothmann, that he couldn’t stomach. Not only had the President nearly lost his life and a member of his cabinet been killed, but everything to do with the extended case was pure poison. The Hitler’s Hitman killings showed that. Rothmann’s Nazism, combined with his cynical use of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, was bad enough, but the conditioning program developed by his sister was the clincher-it had attracted big business, international investors and the CIA, and it had enabled him to place his people in law enforcement and the armed forces. If someone didn’t put a stop to things now, the entire structure of government would be irreparably damaged.
That someone had to be Peter Sebastian.
He sat on the bench with his head bowed, thinking of his kids-his wife had long since written him off. Astrid and Roy were at college and had almost flown the nest. Would they remember him? Would they be proud of what he’d done? Most likely there would be a cover-up; perhaps he would even be implicated by people who were much better at the game than he was. He would be quickly forgotten by everyone who had known him, an embarrassment, one of the bad apples. Who did he think he was kidding with this pathetic act of disobedience?
Sebastian told himself to get a grip. It wasn’t so bad. The Director was in on what he was doing; the Director had sanctioned his actions, despite the fact that he hadn’t told him of the English knight’s arrest until after it had happened. There was still room for honorable people in the Bureau, even if his previous assistant had turned out to be one of Rothmann’s brainwashed automatons. But had he made a terminal mistake in using Matt Wells? Would the conditioning he’d undergone turn out to be deeper and more resistant than the scientists thought? If that was the case, Rothmann would reclaim him and Sebastian’s strategy to trap him would be turned on its head. Given that Wells and his bodyguard had disappeared, Sebastian was prepared for the worst.
Arthur Bimsdale came down the corridor, carrying a tray piled high with packages of sandwiches and paper cups.
‘Ham without mustard on the left, sir,’ he said, bending toward his boss. ‘Your coffee’s next to it.’ He straightened up. ‘I’ll give the prisoner his.’
Sebastian nodded, unwrapping his sandwich. The last thing he felt like doing was eating, but his stomach was an acid bath that needed something to work on. He managed half of it, while Bimsdale wolfed his down in under a minute.
‘Here,’ Sebastian said, handing over the remainder of his. ‘You’re obviously still growing.’
‘I’m excited, sir,’ Bimsdale said, with a smile. ‘We’re about to break the case.’
They went back into the interview room. Sir Andrew Frogget hadn’t touched his sandwich, but his coffee cup was empty. He was sitting straighter than he had been and had folded his hands. Sebastian didn’t like the look of that.
‘Gentlemen,’ the investment banker said. ‘I’ve had a change of heart. I’m afraid our conversation is at an end.’
Then he gave a strained smile, flinched as if he’d stepped on a live cable and pitched forward onto the table.
Sebastian felt for a pulse. There was none.
The dog hit me like a demolition ball. I was almost knocked backward, the creature’s jaws going for my throat, but I had managed to brace myself just enough. I also managed to get my bound hands in between, in the process detaching the gag. After a few seconds’ wrangling, the dog went after what it thought was an easier target-Sara. She brought her pistol to bear, but was slammed to the ground on her back before she could fire, the weapon dropping out of her grip. She landed on top of the gun and unable to reach it. I scrambled over the dusty ground and opened my arms to get my roped wrists round the animal’s neck. I managed to exert enough pressure to pull its head away from Sara.
‘Heel, Caesar!’ came a commanding voice. ‘Heel!’
The dog slipped its head out from my hamstrung grip and headed for its master. Before Sara or I could move, we were surrounded by men in olive drab fatigues and caps, carrying assault rifles that were all pointed at us.
‘Have you finished?’ came a harsh voice.
I looked round and was hit on the side of the face. A heavily built man in the same uniform, but with insignia on his headgear, raised a short stick.
‘You want some more?’
‘No, thanks.’
That got me a second blow, on the other side of my face.
‘You learned to keep it shut now?’
I nodded. Even without my hands tied, I’d have struggled to handle him. He was carrying a lot of weight and most of it seemed to be muscle.
‘How about you, bitch?’
Sara had been grabbed by a couple of gorillas. She kept quiet, having presumably decided against having her features rearranged again.
‘Get them inside,’ the big man ordered.
We were halfdragged, halfwalked toward a high fence with razor wire all over the top of it. A gate as wide as the largest truck was opened and we went through. There were more armed men around. Now that we were out of the spotlight, I made out a series of low buildings. There was no sign of Apollyon’s pickup.