Morgan said, "The computer is scanning and absorbing every detail of the note. The knowledge will now be fed to the etching, printing and numbering sections. Now come with me."
He led them to the far end of the machine. They saw brand-new pound notes stacking themselves with lightning rapidity into a glass receiver.
Morgan signaled to the man in the white coat. The sound of the motor died to its original low humming. The stream of notes stopped.
Morgan picked the top dozen from the pile and splayed them fanwise. "You see? They are numbered individually — but not consecutively. When they go into circulation there'll be no chance of putting a warning out to block a series. The numbering is quite random."
"Very clever," Illya said. "It's almost a pity your boss will be picked up before the scheme has time to get under way."
"If he is," Morgan retorted surprisingly, "it won't matter. He's expendable, like the rest of us. What gave you the idea he was heading the operation?" He motioned toward the door. "You've seen all there is to see. It's time I put you to bed."
As they passed the man in the white coat he grinned and invited, "Come again."
"We should live so long," Blodwen said gloomily.
They went out through the hall and the kitchen into the yard.
Rafferty asked, "The usual?" and Morgan said, "Where else?" He led the way across the yard to the brick-built barn and opened the door. There was a warm smell of cows and hay. The concrete floor was newly washed.
A heavy oak door was set into the far wall of the barn. Morgan unlocked it and stood aside. Rafferty said, "In!" It seemed to be his favorite word. He jabbed Illya in the back with the muzzle of the tommy-gun. Illya stumbled over the threshold, almost sending Blodwen sprawling. The door slammed behind them and the key turned in the lock.
Blodwen looked around her. She said, "Charming, though perhaps a bit austere."
The chamber in which they were standing measured about ten feet by eight. Walls, ceiling and floor were smooth concrete and the inside surface of the door was a sheet of steel. There were no windows. The only light came from a low-wattage bulb behind a thick glass cover set into the ceiling. There was no furniture of any kind. The air smelled cold and damp.
Illya ran his hand down the wall. His fingers came away wet. He said, "If they keep us here long they won't need to send in the execution squad. We'll die of pneumonia."
"You say the nicest things," Blodwen told him. "I like a man who looks on the bright side." She rubbed the poodle's head. "I wish I had some food for this animal. The poor little soul must be starving."
Illya looked at his wristwatch. "It's half after one. I don't think they intend to bring us lunch, somehow."
"Ah, well. We mustn't expect too much. After all, like the man said, we're expendable."
He glanced at her, puzzled. "You seem to be taking things remarkably lightly."
She shrugged. "Not much point in doing anything else, is there? The next move is up to them." She took off her jacket, folded it as a cushion and settled herself as comfortably as could be expected in a corner of the cell. She said, " I wish that little horror in the blue jeans hadn't taken my handbag. I'm dying for a cigarette. You wouldn't have one, I suppose?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Never mind. It's a killing habit." She clasped the poodle tight and closed her eyes. Illya, looking down on her, thought she looked unbelievably young.
She slept for three hours. Then Illya shook her gently. She sat up, instantly alert. "What is it?"
"Somebody's coming."
She listened, heard the faint sounds of approaching footsteps. "Good!" she said. "It's time Dolly did her parlor trick. Let's hope it comes off."
She unbuckled the poodle's jeweled collar and tugged at it. The buckle came away from the strap, exposing a length of fine steel wire. She shook out her jacket and spread it over her knees, putting her hands holding the wire beneath it. As the key turned in the lock she slumped over, suddenly the picture of dejection.
The door opened and the teenager came in. He carried a tray with two tin mugs of tea and a plate of sandwiches. "You better make the most of it," he said. "It's all you'll get tonight." He looked at the girl huddled in the corner. "What's wrong with her?"
She gasped, "I'm ill."
"Too bad." He sneered. "I'm no bloody doctor."
She said painfully, "There must be someone."
"Not here, there ain't. You'll just have to suffer."
She looked up, pleading. "Well, can you give me a cigarette? Maybe that will ease the pain."
"Yes, I can manage that." He took a packet of Players from his jacket pocket and threw a cigarette into her lap. She picked it up, put it in her mouth, and put her hand back under the jacket, shuddering as if with cold. She said weakly, "I don't have a light."
"A proper little nuisance, aren't you?" He produced a lighter, flicked it into flame, and bent over her.
Her hands came up swiftly, expertly twisting the wire around his neck. He made a retching sound. His tongue came out and his eyes bulged. Illya completed the demolition with a swinging right to the jaw. The teenager fell forward in a heap.
Blodwen wriggled from under him and grabbed the poodle, which was yapping shrill encouragement. She said, "Nice work, pardner. Now all ashore that's going ashore. I think we've outlived our welcome."
They raced to the outer door of the barn. Illya peered out cautiously. The yard was empty. He said, "The boundary wall is on your left, about a hundred yards away. Keep low and sprint for it. The quicker we're among the bracken, the better."
Blodwen tucked the poodle under her arm like a parcel. She said, "Right, men! Hold on to your hats."
They ran.
They got across the yard unseen and scrambled over the wall. They were fifty yards up the hillside when there came a rattle of machine-gun fire and a bullet sang past Illya's ear like a hornet. He looked back over his shoulder. Rafferty was pounding across the yard from the house. Behind him were Morgan and the man in the white coat. Another man was racing toward the hill at a different angle.
Illya said, "Keep going. Our only chance is to lose them in the high fern."
"You believe in fairies, too?" Blodwen panted.
Another burst of slugs thudded into the ground uncomfortably close. She said, still struggling upward, "He's getting the range. It won't be long now."
"Save your breath," Illya advised. "And try to zigzag."
She said, "I haven't got enough troubles?"
They forged on, the stiff bracken stems whipping and cutting at their faces. The growth was getting thicker, affording them more protection, but the going got tougher by the minute. To add to their difficulties the short grass beneath the fern was slippery as a ballroom floor.
Illya risked another backward glance. Rafferty, legs straddled, was steadying himself for another burst. As he brought the tommy-gun up to position, a shot cracked from somewhere higher up the hill. Rafferty stumbled and went down slowly as if he were praying.
Three more shots came from the hidden marksman. The man in the white coat screamed and clutched his shoulder.
"Dear me!" Illya said mildly. "Now where did the Seventh Cavalry spring from?"
"Whoever it is, he's tucked away somewhere above us and to the right," Blodwen said. "We'd better try to reach him."