'Right,' she said, fastening a rope ladder to a hook above the window that overlooked the drive and the avenue of walnut trees, 'exit one Countess followed by bear. You can hand the case to me when I'm out. And then we'll head for your car.'
'But I'll never make it dressed like this,' said Glodstone, 'where are my own clothes?'
'If they're back from the dry-cleaners they'll be in the office down below but I wouldn't advise trying to get them. That way the only place you'll make is infinity. Let's hit the fire escape.'
She dropped the ladder out of the window and climbed over the sill. 'Now the case,' she said. Glodstone handed it to her. It was remarkably heavy. As she disappeared he stood irresolute. He had no doubt now that she was the Countess and to some extent he could be said to be rescuing her, but the thought of trying to walk fifteen kilometres in oversize men's wear and lugging that suitcase appalled him. And where was Peregrine? A shot from below should have told him. It certainly decided him. Glodstone climbed over the sill and slithered down the rope ladder.
In the little office Peregrine was in high spirits. This was the life the world, the action he had read and dreamt about and had been prepared for. It was no longer imaginary. It was real and exciting, matter of life and death and in the case of the latter he'd undoubtedly been successful. He'd certainly shot one swine stone-cold dead and had just potted another who'd appeared at a window. The only thing that puzzled him was that no one had fired back. He'd have welcomed an exchange of shots. But none had come and he was trying to work out what this meant when a sound outside gave him the answer. Something had just bumped against the wall of the Château and he heard voices. So the bastards had managed to get round behind him and were preparing to attack him from the rear. Cunning. He'd soon put a stop to that.
Checking that the courtyard was still empty he crossed to the tiny window that gave onto the drive. As he watched, a figure appeared with a suitcase. They were going to blast him out with a bomb. Peregrine aimed the revolver through the window and then hesitated. It was a woman, and he hadn't been trained to shoot women. All the same, he was taking no chances. Slipping out to the gates he gently unlocked them. A man was out there too. He could hear him whisper. He'd strike now. Shoving the gate open with his foot he aimed the revolver with both hands. 'OK, freeze,' he shouted, now identifying with the heroes of every American thriller he'd read. 'Get your hands on your heads and don't move.'
But the woman had already done so. She was off down the drive running as fast as she could. For a second Peregrine was tempted but Bulldog Drummond prevailed. At least he'd got the man and he wasn't giving any trouble. He was wheezing and gasping but his hands were up.
'For God's sake don't shoot,' he whimpered. Peregrine recognized the voice.
'Gloddie,' he said, 'Is that you?'
'Of course it's me,' said Glodstone with a moan and sat down on the suitcase. 'Oh my God!'
'Are you all right?'
Glodstone felt his heart and thought not.
'So who's the frail?' asked Peregrine, reverting to Mickey Spillane.
'I am,' said Glodstone.
'I mean the woman.'
'That happened to be the Countess.'
'And we've rescued her. That's terrific.' Glodstone didn't reply. To his way of thinking the adjective was wholly inappropriate.
'Then we can go,' said Peregrine, 'or do you want me to finish the swine off?'
Glodstone tried to get up and promptly trod on the bottom of his trousers and fell over. 'I don't want you to do another thing,' he said savagely as Peregrine helped him to his feet, 'except see if my clothes are in an office in there and bring them out. And hurry. There's murder going on.'
'Oh I don't know,' said Peregrine, 'They're '
'Well, I fucking do,' said Glodstone.
'Oh, all right,' said Peregrine sulkily. 'Just when it was getting to be fun.'
All the same he went into the office and presently returned wan a brown paper parcel. 'Just one more thing to do,' he said and before Glodstone could protest that even one more thing would be too much for his heart he was gone. Glodstone flapped off down the drive with his clothes. If what he expected occurred he wanted to be behind a walnut tree when it did. For a few minutes everything was quiet and then a volley of shots rang out and Peregrine ran from the Château.
'That should keep them quite while we make our getaway,' he said. 'I've dumped that rope ladder and locked the gates.'
'And shot someone too, I suppose.'
'Nobody to shoot.'
'Well, get that bloody suitcase,' said Glodstone, hobbling along. He couldn't wait to put as much distance between himself and the Château as was humanly possible. The place had nothing romantic about it now.
In the grand salon the delegates crouched in the darkness surrounded by broken glass. Their concern for the future of mankind had assumed a personal and more interested dimension, but they were still at odds with one another. Dr Abnekov particularly objected to Sir Arnold Brymay's insistence that the only way to treat a badly wounded penis was to apply a tourniquet. 'But not around my scrotum,' shouted Abnekov.
'It stops the venom getting into the bloodstream,' said Sir Arnold, with a peculiar logic that stemmed from his experience of treating snakebite victims in the Tropics.
'Not the only thing it stops,' yelled the Russian. 'You want to castrate me or something?'
'I suppose we could try cauterizing it as well,' said Sir Arnold, getting his own back for the Soviet delegate's accusations that he was personally responsible for the atrocities committed by the British Army in Ireland.
Dr Keister intervened. 'Perhaps I may be of assistance,' she said. 'In Denmark I have had experiences with the genitals of sexual offenders and '
'I am not a sex offender, you filthy cow. You do what you like in your rotten little country with all your pornography but if you touch me you'll learn what a sex offence is.'
'In Africa,' said Professor Manake, 'Some of the less progressive peoples still practise female circumcision. In Ghana it is naturally unknown but elsewhere I have studied initiation rites among males. They are a symbolic preparation for manhood.'
'And what's that got to do with me, you bloody witch-doctor?' yelled Abnekov. 'There's nothing symbolic about my manhood. And stop twisting that piece of string, you imperialist pig.'
'Actually, it's my last pipe-cleaner,' said Sir Arnold. 'Still if you want to bleed to death I suppose you're entitled to.'
Under the table Dr Grenoy and Professor Badiglioni was arguing about the theory and origins of international terrorism. The Italian placed the blame squarely on Robespierre, Babeuf, Blanqui, Sorel and any other Frenchman he could think of, while Dr Grenoy countered with the Carbonari, the Mafia, Mussolini and Gramasci, whom he'd never read. The shooting of Botwyk had put all thought of the Countess' connection with gangsters in Las Vegas out of his mind.
Only Pastor Laudenbach and Sheikh Fahd bin Riyal, united by their faith in a spiritual future and certain unspoken prejudices, remained unmoved. 'It is the will of Allah. The Western world is decadent and the infidel Botwyk was clearly a Zionist. He refused to acknowledge that the return of Jerusalem and all Arab lands can only be achieved by force of arms. It is the same with Berlin and the occupied East Bank of your country.'