"Around the back of the cobbled yard there are two barns — one Dutch, one modern brick — a brick stable and cowshed. All normal as far as I could judge. Built on to the stable is a garage for two cars. They were both in when I got there. One is a big Vauxhall, number LP0094, finished black. The other is a Minivan, gray, number XL4454."
She took a notebook from the glove compartment, tore out a leaf and passed it to him. "There's the layout of the buildings."
Illya studied it carefully. He said, "Did you get into the house?"
"No. A man working in the garage stopped me. A big guy in overalls. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and spoke like a Londoner."
"Rafferty," Illya said.
"Yes? Well, I talked Welsh at him till he was in a flat spin. He told me to wait, went over to the back door of the house and knocked. Your chum Morgan came to the door. They talked for a few seconds and I think Morgan got suspicious. He called me over and started shooting questions at me.
"I told him I was starting a new job at Rhys's farm and lost my way.
"He checked and cross-checked every angle — how long I'd been in the dairymaid business, where I'd come from, which Labor Exchange had sent me to Rhys's — but all so it seemed like ordinary Welsh curiosity. Finally he seemed satisfied and gave me my route. But the other chap walked right back to the lane with me to see that I took it."
Illya asked, "You didn't see anything of Price Hughes — the old man?"
"No. Nobody but Morgan and this other fellow. Didn't you tell Solo there were six men up there?"
"Don't quote me on it," Illya said. "All I saw was three. But if Davis is right, there are seven — counting Price Hughes himself."
"That's ---Blast! What does that fool think he's doing?"
A big combine-harvester was backing slowly out of a side lane only a few yards ahead, blocking the entire road. Blodwen had to jam the brakes on hard to avoid a collision. She said furiously, "What the hell is he trying to do? He can't possibly turn in that space."
She wound down the side-window, leaned out and tossed a torrent of Welsh. The combine driver grinned back stupidly.
Illya was looking through the rear window. He said, "Oh, oh! Don't bother. We've got company."
A black Vauxhall saloon was coming up behind them, fast. It's number plate read LP0094.
Illya's hand went to the P38 under his left armpit, then dropped away. Rafferty was sitting beside the Vauxhall's driver, cuddling a Thompson sub-machine gun. And his finger was on the trigger. He could have put a burst through the Austin's rear before Illya's pistol had cleared its holster.
The black car came to a halt about ten feet behind the Austin. The driver climbed out and took up a position where he could cover both Blodwen and Illya with his wartime-issue Sten gun. He was a sullen-looking teenager, dressed in jeans and a check shirt. His hair hung Beatle-style to his unwashed neck.
Rafferty walked forward, pulled open the car door and stood back a pace, tommy-gun at the ready.
"Get out," he said. "And don't try anything."
He motioned to the teenager with the snout of the gun. "Give'em a rubdown."
The grubby youth cradled the Sten in the crook of his arm and came around the hood of the car. There was a glint in his unpleasant eyes that said he was going to enjoy searching the girl.
Illya said, "I'll make it easy for us all." He took the P38 from its holster and threw it on to the grass.
"You think I'm crazy?" Rafferty sneered. "Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the jalopy."
"How can I?" Blodwen demanded. "I'm holding my dog."
"Well, put the bloody thing on the ground," he said. "Unless you want me to wring its neck. Now come on. Get weaving."
She obeyed. The poodle crouched by her feet, making high-pitched whimpering sounds. She was a pup who liked her comfort.
The teenager ran his hands down Illya's body, patting at chest and hips. "'E's clean," he announced.
"Which is more than could be said for you," Illya murmured. "Did you ever try taking a bath, my smelly friend?"
"Ah, button yer lip."
He moved on to the girl. This time his examination was more lingering. Blodwen shuddered. When his grimy fingers curled near her pelvis she revolted. Her brogue-shod foot lashed back viciously.
The youth screamed and bent double, clutching his groin.
Rafferty laughed.
"Serve you right, you bleeding little creep," he said. "You asked for it." Then his voice hardened. "All right, you two mugs. You're going for a ride."
He marched them to the Vauxhall and opened the rear door. "In!" he ordered. And to Illya, "You first, then the dame."
He wedged himself in beside them, the tommy-gun's snout uncomfortably close to Blodwen's midriff. He warned again, "Don't try anything. I'm liable to get nervous."
Illya said, "You should take something for it. Where are we going, or shouldn't I ask?"
"The boss wants to see you. Now shut up!"
The teenager got behind the steering wheel and made a thumbs-up signal through the windshield. The man on the combine-harvester made an answering gesture. The big machine started up with a jolt and lumbered back the way it had come. The teenager put his foot on the accelerator and the Vauxhall nosed forward.
After a few miles the car turned right off the main road and jolted through a fir plantation along a rutted track that was hard on the springs. The track ended in a farm gate and beyond there were outbuildings and a gray house flanked by macrocarpas.
Illya said, "Ah, the old homestead."
The driver sounded the car horn twice. Morgan, wearing overalls and gumboots, came out of the brick barn and opened the gate. The Vauxhall rolled through into the yard of Cwm Carrog and stopped by the back door of the house. The driver slid from behind the wheel, picked up the Sten gun and opened the door on Illya's side of the car.
Rafferty waggled the tommy-gun and said, "Out!"
Illya stepped down, followed by Blodwen. While the teenager kept his gun on them Rafferty walked forward and opened the house door. He said, "In here," and stood aside for them to pass.
They found themselves in a stone-flagged, white-washed kitchen, furnished with a long Welsh dresser, a plain card table and six straight-backed chairs. An old-fashioned iron range took up most of one end of the room. At the other end there was an open door. Rafferty motioned them toward it.
He herded them through and along a passage that opened into a wide, oak-paneled hall. Heavy gilt frames on the walls held pictures of somebody's ancestors. There was a somber grandfather clock with a tick that sounded like the rap of a hammer on a coffin lid. A broad staircase with dark oak banisters led up to the first floor.
Morgan came through from the kitchen, knocked on a door at the right-hand side of the hall and flung it open. He said, "They're here."
The bright, dry room could have been the parlor in a vicarage. It had cream-pained walls, high and well-proportioned, a molded ceiling with a pattern of wreaths and cherubs, and a fireplace that might have been Adam. The chairs and sofa had loose covers of flowered cretonne somewhat in need of laundering. High leaded windows looked out onto flowerbeds and a green expanse of lawn.