Walking the Dog

Chapter 10

The two SAS men slipped away from the cottage as soon as it was fully dark. The four of us ate dinner together in a strained atmosphere. Liam and Niall were almost visibly quivering with anticipation. They were preternaturally alert. The speculation and the good-humoured jibes at me had vanished. Now they all business. No alcohol for them tonight. Somehow we could sense that a line had been crossed. Before, they had taken it seriously but not felt we were in any real danger, not mortal danger at any rate. All that had changed. The word 'operational' popped into my head. We were now 'operational.'

I took the dogs outside for a last pee before turning in. The sky was crystal clear, a halo hung around the moon that was just a couple of days off being new. Ice particles in the atmosphere made the stars shimmer and dance. They appeared unusually close that night. I was standing in the small untidy garden at the back of the cottage, taking all this in and breathing in the tangy sea air when I felt, rather than saw, Trotsky stiffen. I could just make out his pale coat in the feint light. He stood tall, head erect, the posture tense and guarded. I tried to pick out Magic but his black fur blended perfectly into the deeper shadows by the low wall. 

I called them to me and pulled them quickly inside, shooting the bolts on the door, someone was definitely out there. The dogs sensed it and I caught their mood. I muttered the news to Niall and he gave a quick whistle for Liam. They waved me out of the room and then crouched, one each side of the door, against the thick stone walls.

There was a light tap on the glass and a laconic voice said, 

"It's Steve, I think you'd better let us in." 

Niall moved away, to be behind the door when it opened. Liam pushed the bolts open, taking care to keep his head and body in the cover of the wall. The door swung inwards with a crash and Steve was propelled into the room. A tall figure stood just outside of the pool of light spilling from the open doorway. A harsh voice called out, "Angelika!"

Angela flew into the room, thrusting me to one side in her rush. 

"Papa? Papa?"

She let go a rapid-fire burst of what I took to be Estonian. The half-hidden figure answered in the same tongue. She turned to me, her face drained of all colour. 

"It's my father," she said, "he wants to come in and talk. He say's it's very important." 

Niall looked at me and I nodded. He grimaced and then told Angela to tell her father to come in. Steve was looking sheepish. Niall raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"Sorry, boss," he said, "I fucked up big-time." 

Liam muttered a terse "Later." 

All our attention was on the tall, slim figure that emerged from the darkness into the lighted kitchen.

It was his eyes that I noticed first. They were incredibly like Angela's but not the same. There was a feral glint to his that Angela's lacked. His face was grave and unlined. He had short grey hair that showed just a hint of curls. It was cut high on his forehead, emphasising the regularity of his features. He reminded me a little of the English actor, Terence Stamp, even down to the cleft in his strong chin. His face was transformed when he smiled at his daughter. He looked at the rest of us and gave a sort of short bow. Liam shut the door and the Colonel turned and smiled at him, one professional recognising another. 

We all sat down at the table and the Colonel began to speak. Angela did her best to give us a running translation but at times, she was so shocked, she would utter another burst of lightening-quick Estonian before turning back to us. He spoke for about half an hour. When he finished, we were all in shock. 

The Colonel told us he had been watching us for about a day and a half. He had come at first to rescue Angela but had quickly realised, this with a nod in my direction, that she was among friends who were protecting her. He had never meant for either of his daughters to become involved. When Vika had been murdered in Gothenburg, he had vowed to take revenge. He traced the man who killed Vika to London. He had found him and killed him, early on Monday morning. Mickey-the-Mouth. Then he had driven to Norfolk to make contact with Angela. The Colonel had seen Bill and Steve arrive. He had guessed what they would do; it was what he would have done. He set up the decoy observation post and had baited the trap with the assorted rubbish Liam had found, knowing that someone would have the place under surveillance. He had dug a scrape a few yards away, covered himself with camouflage netting and tussocks of marrom grass, and waited. Steve had obligingly showed up. The former SAS man shrugged and mouthed, "sorry, boss." Liam shook his head. No use crying over split milk. Steve had been careless, overconfident. 

Angela's father had related all this in a light easy, matter-of fact tone. Then Angela had asked him the question we all needed an answer to, 'Why?' His voice had grown flatter, harsher somehow, as he told us his incredible story. It had started when the Colonel returned from Afghanistan in 1986. He had been bitter, disillusioned by his experiences. A group calling themselves the Estonian Democracy Committee had made contact with him. At first he had resisted their courtship but the more he thought about it, the more he realised they were right. The USSR was rotting from within. It couldn't last too much longer. One day soon, Estonia could take back the freedom it had lost in 1941. 

He did nothing, but stayed in touch. When the Berlin Wall came down and the Russians didn't react; when one by one, the former Soviet satellite states exerted their own free will and became self-governing once more; it was the Estonian Democracy Committee who moved to fill the political vacuum left behind. Now, as the legitimate government, they approached him again. Would he go to Russia, they had asked him. He was to take a job, keep his ear to the ground. They were particularly worried about the amount of former Soviet armaments that seemed to be flooding out of the old USSR. He agreed. His daughters had left home, one to marry; the other had fled to the west to be a 'bohemian'. 

He had set up his 'security consultancy and waited. Inevitably, his clients had been of a dubious nature, crooks, conmen, people on the make. He had picked up snippets here and there, had reported back to Tallinn. Some shipments of small arms and explosives, bound for who-knows-which 'liberation' army, had been intercepted and impounded. There had been a handful of arrests, no-one significant, of course, just couriers and low-grade operatives. The work was easy, he was making a good living and he had a comfortable life in St Petersburg. 

All that changed about a year and a half ago. He was urgently summoned home to Tallinn. The government were in a state of near panic. It had come to light that 20 tonnes of weapons-grade plutonium had gone walkabout in the old USSR. Originally, it was ascribed to inefficiency, poor record-keeping, that sort of thing. Then someone caught a whisper. Someone else heard talk of an 'Islamic Bomb'. Little accretions of evidence emerged here and there. Not proof positive, you understand, but enough links in the chain to get the politicos shitting themselves. He was sent back and told to dig some more.

It had taken him a while, almost a year. He had it all now. The Chechens, of course, were deeply involved. Some were in it in solidarity with their co-religionists but the majority were in it for the money. Half a billion dollars. A certain Arab country whose leader had pretensions of leading the great Jihad against Israel and its supporters provided the money. He traced the links out of Russia into the West; Germany, Spain, Britain, even into the USA. There were those, some of whom worked in their own government agencies, for whom the lure of half a billion dollars overwhelmed any scruples. He had pretended to be one such. They had rumbled him. He had fled to Sweden, faked his own death. Somehow Vika had learned of her father's death and followed him to Gothenburg. He believed she had been sent as bait to trap him. He had avoided her. It hadn't saved her.

At this point, the Colonel took out a roll of papers, wrapped in oilskin to protect them from the damp. He tossed it on the table. 

"Five good men have died for this," he said and looked grim. "It is all there, names, places, facts and figures." 

We all stared at the bundle. The room was completely silent. We were all shattered by the enormity of what we had heard. The Colonel's mouth was a hard, compressed line; his steely blue eyes gazed frankly back at us. He gave a shrug. Angela continued translating.

"The problem I have is to know who to trust. There are Estonian names on that list, too. Everywhere, there are people prepared to sell their country. No! To sell the World! They must be stopped."

I had a sudden thought. 

"Ask him what he has to do with the ikon," I said to Angela. 

He laughed when he heard the question and Angela smiled when she heard the reply. She turned to us and when both father and daughter were smiling, the resemblance between them was clear. 

"My father traced me through Frau Meyer. He went to see her after reading an article about her and he saw my name mentioned as one of those artists she patronised. The article had also said that Frau Meyer was a great opponent of extremism in the new Germany. He thought she would be disposed to help him. He explained a little of the situation and suggested that she might help. They hit on the idea of putting the ikon up for sale in the UK to mislead Cornell, who was getting too close. 

"Frau Meyer wanted to do more so they agreed that she would send me some bronze to work with. Hidden in that shipment is about one hundred pounds of plutonium. My father thinks it will be at Felixstowe Docks tomorrow or the next day. He stole it from a shipment and substituted plain lead rods. The plutonium is wrapped in a lead sheath and a thin skin of bronze."

"Why send it here?" I asked, puzzled.

Angela smiled again, "It is his evidence. Anyone could come up with a list of names and things on paper. He needs our help. He wants someone to contact, someone above suspicion. Everything in the East is too corrupt; he doesn't know who's involved and who isn't. Do you know anyone in the Government, Martin?" 

I admitted I knew one person, an MP I had once done some work for. I hadn't liked him much but as far as I knew, he was straight but didn't know too much about him. Then Liam chimed in. 

"Do you remember Rollo Yeates?" 

I did, he had been Head Boy at school when we were there. 

"Rollo's now a half-colonel in I Corps, he might be the very man!" 

I had to agree. If Rollo Yeates was now a Lieutenant Colonel in Army Intelligence, he could certainly point us in the right direction. All of this was explained to Angela's father and he thought for a moment or two before answering. He puffed out his cheeks and then grinned. "Good, a soldier!" 

It was agreed that Liam should contact Rollo Yeates and get him to meet us at Felixstowe Docks the following day. I picked up the roll of papers and began to scan them. They were written in a variety of languages but I saw a few names I recognised, Cornell's among them. Another I recognised was a former MP, well known for his venal nature and habit of attracting scandal and a third was a high-profile radical journalist with a history of penning attacks on Israel and the USA. There were other, obviously Western, names that didn't ring any bells. The one name that brought me up short was that of a prominent European Industrialist. How the Hell could someone like that involve themselves with this bloody mess? I voiced this aloud and Angela's father understood instantly. He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Gelt!" he said, money. 

It had got pretty late by this stage and we were all starting to flag a bit. I left Angela alone to talk with her father and retired to our bed alone. I could still hear the soft murmur of conversation as I drifted into a troubled sleep. At least I now knew what was going on. At any rate, I thought I did.

Chapter 11

Angela woke me sometime later, sliding into the bed beside me and assuming her usual position, head on my chest, one leg thrown over me. She nuzzled my neck and whispered that she was very happy. Her father was alive and not a criminal: she'd never believed that he could be. I grunted some sleepy reply and lapsed back into unconsciousness. She wasn't having any of this and proceeded to wake me again by the simple expedient of grabbing my cock and starting to pump it lightly while lightly caressing my face with her lips and tongue. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light and I could see the flash of her teeth as she smiled down at me. 

"Martin, I want to make love. There is madness all around us. I want you inside me, to make me feel real again."

I have never been able to refuse a polite request from a beautiful woman. I rolled her onto her back and kissed her gently. My fingers found her opening, wet and ready and I slipped into her in one smooth movement. Whether it was the situation or whether it was simply my love for her, I couldn't say, but I was seized by the need. I slammed myself into her with uncontrolled passion. Her legs went around my back and she bucked her hips to match my frenzied pace. We didn't say a word; the only sound was our rapid breathing. This was a different type of lovemaking. Up until this moment we had been gentle, thoughtful lovers. This was animalistic; fucking is the only word to describe it. 

I could feel the wetness dripping out of her and soaking my pubic hair, my balls and my thighs. Her head was thrown back, her eyes half shut and her mouth was contorted into a feral rictus that parodied her normal sweet smile. I felt rage boiling within me. Rage that we had been placed in this nightmare, rage that we had not been allowed to just be lovers, anonymous, happy, untroubled. The rage fed my passion and pounded away like a man possessed. She was gasping now, getting close to orgasm. I pulled away and turned her over, seizing her around the waist, I hauled her buttocks back towards me and rammed myself into her again. Reaching under her, I grasped her breasts and rubbed her nipples between fingers and thumb with one hand and slid the other down to where we joined. 

Angela was panting now and uttering a continuous low moaning sound that I could somehow feel deep down in my balls. I rubbed her clitoris with the knuckles of my right hand, pressing firmly. My other hand still alternated between her breasts, squeezing and rolling the erect nipples. She came with a huge shudder and her fists drummed on the bed as the climax gathered and roiled. Her vaginal muscles went into spasm and she clamped down hard on my thrusting, hammering prick. 

A measure of sanity returned and I slowed my pace, giving her long slow thrusts as she came down from her high. She was sobbing quietly, murmuring endearments. My rage returned and I set off again, pounding and pumping until my own orgasm shook me to the core and I poured all my anger, love and fear into her. I cried out as I came that I loved her. She slammed back at me, swivelling her hips and buttocks, milking me with her contractions. 

Afterwards we lay side by side in the spoon position. I hugged her and stroked her hair, telling her over and over again that she was wonderful, glorious, that I loved her. She turned towards me and planted kisses all over my face. 

"I love you, my Martin," she said. "I love you when you are gentle and I love you when you are fierce, like a lion, just now. How did you know that was what I wanted?" 

I had to admit that I hadn't known, that I had been following my own driven needs. I tried to explain about the rage and the love but she hushed me with a kiss. "

It will be all right," she said. "You will look after us. Always you keep me safe, yes?" 

I didn't reply but uttered up a silent prayer - please, God, let it be so. 

We slept then. No dark dreams troubled my rest and I awoke the next morning feeling utterly refreshed and ready for anything. I woke Angela with a light kiss and she smiled up at me, her hair a dark storm spread on the pillow and love in her blue, blue eyes. We could hear the sounds of others up and about in the kitchen so we showered quickly and dressed, to see what the day might bring.

Angela's father was with Steve and Bill in the kitchen. Steve had obviously got over being duped and the three of them were conversing in what I took to be Russian. Bill looked up as we came in and said "Morning, all. Just been chatting to the colonel here, miss. Swapping old soldiers' stories." He had an engaging grin and twinkling eyes. They all looked completely at ease, like old friends. It would be too easy to forget just how lethal these three men could be. 

Niall and Liam were out patrolling the perimeter that they had set up around the cottage. It had been agreed that they would stay in the area while the rest of us went to meet Rollo Yeates. Angela and her father went into Cromer, taking Steve with them as a bodyguard, to photocopy the colonel's papers at one of those little printing and stationery shops. I walked the dogs with Bill as my guardian. He told me something of their history with Liam and Niall. 

Niall had been their company commander in 2 Para - the 2nd Battalion, Parachute Regiment. Liam had commanded another company but they saw a lot of him too. The twins were known in the regiment as 'the gruesome twosome.' They were very well respected by both officers and men. Apparently, they had a reputation for bringing their troops back alive. 

"Bags of low cunning, those two," said Bill. 

After Desert Storm, Bill and Steve had volunteered for the SAS and had undergone the gruelling selection process in the Brecon Beacons. Niall had helped them prepare, training with them and encouraging them to use their initiative whenever the situation allowed. 

I had often wondered why neither Liam nor Niall had volunteered for Special Forces and voiced this question aloud. Bill shrugged. 

"They would have walked in if they'd bothered," he said. "I asked the Boss meself, once. He said it wasn't for them; that they were regimental officers and preferred it that way, but I don't think that was the reason. There was a rumour that they objected to what the SAS was doing in the Six Counties. They're both 'left-footers' and Irish to boot, so it could be true, but I reckon it was something else."

"What?" I asked. 

Bill grinned. "They wouldn't have been allowed to serve together. Those two have always been joined at the hip. The SAS wouldn't have let them both in at the same time. One wouldn't go without the other. Sometimes it's like they're two halves of the same person, if you get my meaning. Finishing each other's sentences, knowing exactly what the other is going to do. In combat it was brilliant. I mean, imagine the advantages you get when one company is supporting another and he knows exactly what his brother will do when the wheels come off! I think it was Napoleon who said 'no plan survives contact with the enemy.' Well, the Boss and his brother could make it up as they went along."

I sort of understood. I've never been a man of action but I thought I could grasp what the chaos of the battlefield could do to pre-prepared plans. Just as life itself can sometimes bowl you a bouncer, only in war, the consequences could be a lot bloodier than mere inconvenience and wasted effort. 

Bill was trying to get Magic to act like a proper retriever and bring him back the sticks he hurled into the sea. Magic, being the daft dog he is, would rush off full of enthusiasm and return with the stick. As soon as Bill went to pick it up, he'd dash off again and then lie down on the sand to chew the offending stick to splinters. 

"He hasn't really got the hang of his trade, has he?" Bill said with a chuckle. 

I laughed and told him that Magic was not the brightest bulb in the box. 

"What about the other one?" Bill asked. 

"Trotsky doesn't do retrieving," I said, "it's far beneath his dignity." 

Bill tried anyway and was rewarded with one of Trotsky's 'are you completely mad?' looks. He then stalked off in the opposite direction, a disdainful tail held high. Bill laughed out loud.

"I guess that told me!" 

We made our way back to the cottage after an hour or so and were just in time to meet the others on their return from Cromer. We loaded everyone into the Volvo. Steve insisted on driving and Bill sat beside him. Angela sat in the back flanked by the colonel and I. There wasn't much conversation as we drove south through Norfolk and into neighbouring Suffolk. Angela's father questioned me, via Angela, as to my job, my income and, to Angela's intense embarrassment, my intentions towards his daughter. To this latter enquiry I said simply that keeping her from harm was my immediate priority and he beamed at me like a schoolboy. 

Then he wanted to know if I spoke any other languages. I admitted to bad French and passable Greek. I had learned Classical Greek at school and had taken evening classes with a mad old Cypriot in demotic Greek. He spoke Russian, Swedish and German so we had no common means of communicating. I asked him why he did not speak English, as I knew many in the Russian military learned the language of the 'enemy', particularly during the cold war. He laughed and said that as an Estonian, he wasn't trusted not to listen to the BBC or the Voice of America. He made it into a joke but there was a bitter undertone to it. He then struck a desultory conversation in Russian with Bill. I couldn't make out a single word so I sat in silence, holding Angela's hand.

Felixstowe has an interesting history. At one time it was the base for many of the great Flying Boats of the pre-war era. It was from here that the Mayo-Mercury combination flew to South Africa in the 1930's. The Mayo was a large Flying Boat that carried the Mercury, a fast four-engined seaplane, piggyback. The Mercury would then be launched while airborne to continue the journey. It was revolutionary at the time. Flying boats went out of fashion with the coming of the jet engine and for a while, Felixstowe lapsed back into a sleepy little fishing port on the Suffolk coast. Then came the great Container revolution and the port became the busiest in the UK. 

The modern Dock area is enormous and we had to drive around for a while and ask several times until we found the right part of the terminus. I recognised Rollo Yeates instantly even though I hadn't seen him for twenty years. He was a tall, gangly individual with thin sandy hair and a pink complexion. He obviously recognised me too, for he walked briskly towards the car, hand outstretched, as soon as he saw me emerge. Rollo ushered us into one of those temporary office huts that had a sign reading HM Customs & Excise on the single door. 

There were three men inside, one in the uniform of a senior Customs Officer, the other two, like Rollo, in business suits. I made the introductions and noticed Rollo did not reciprocate. Whoever his companions were, we didn't need to know. I gave a quick summary of events to date. The others listened in complete silence. Rollo nodded once briefly when I had finished and then turned to Angela's father and began to question him closely in fluent Russian. The Colonel handed over the photocopies of his information and Rollo quickly scanned the top few sheets. His face went pale as he started on the list of names. He shoved them into the hands of one of the other suits and turned to study us.

"If this is true," he said, "and I have to say I believe it probably is, then we are in a world of shit." 

That struck me as a particularly accurate summary. The other three said nothing but I could see by their faces what they were thinking. Either we were all mad or it was really true. The customs man was the first to react.

"We've isolated the bronze shipment. How do we tell which of the ingots contains this supposed plutonium?" 

Rollo asked the colonel and he replied that the manufacturer's mark was stamped lengthways on the bars as opposed to horizontally. About a quarter of the shipment was comprised of the false bars. He had had to spread the plutonium thinly to allow for the lead sheathing and a thin skin of bronze over the top. They were otherwise identical in size and weight.

The Customs officer said, "right, we'll take it from here" and departed shouting rapid instructions into a walky-talky. We were left alone with Rollo and the suits. One of the anonymous men, the one Rollo had given the papers to, looked at us. His face was set and he held our eyes in turn with an unblinking stare.

"I don't suppose I have to tell you how much panic this would cause if it were to become public knowledge," he said. "I am going to have to ask you all to sign the Official Secrets Act, of course. This matter is now classified. If any of you chooses to divulge this information to anyone else, anyone at all, there will be the severest consequences. And I do mean severe. Do I make myself plain?" 

Bill gave him a grin. 

"Bollocks," he said. "If this gets out, pal, the last thing you'll be worrying about is the Official Secrets Act. Anyway, me and Steve have signed the bloody thing so often we could recite it by heart. As for the colonel here, what are you going to do him? He is a representative of the Estonian government. Miss Angela's an Estonian as well and that only leaves Mr Booth here." 

He turned to me, his eyes twinkling with enjoyment at the suit's obvious discomfort. 

"Looks like you're bound for the Tower of London, sir!" 

He winked broadly as he said it. Bill turned back to the two men. His smile had gone and his tone was curt and dismissive. 

"We have come to you with this information because we understand what a bloody mess this all is, chum. You can take your Official bloody Secrets Act and your little threats and shove 'em up your jacksie." 

He gave Steve a brief look and went on. 

"Come on, folks, we're leaving."

Rollo Yeates put a hand up and caught my shoulder. 

"I know you will keep it quiet, Martin," he said. 

I nodded. Rollo compressed his lips in approximation of a smile that didn't touch his eyes. 

"We really owe you people a debt if all this turns out to be true." 

I shook my head. "Rollo," I said, "I just want my life back." 

He looked like he was about to say something else but just shook his head. "

I understand," he said.

Chapter 12

We drove back to Norfolk in silence, sunk in gloom. I'm not sure what it was that affected us so; it was maybe a combination of things. The attitude of officialdom certainly hadn't helped but we all had the feeling that somehow nothing had been resolved to our satisfaction. We had told our story and were now out of the loop. We had no idea whether the plutonium had been found. We had even less of a clue as to how the authorities would now proceed. We could only hope they would act rapidly to address the appalling situation. The thing that bothered me was that there were at least a dozen armed Chechens running about free as birds in England's green and pleasant land. No one had seemed concerned in the slightest by that fact. 

It was already full dark by the time we pulled up outside the cottage. Heavy cloud cover obscured what moon there was so it was black as ink. There were no lights showing in the windows and my heart sank. Supposing something had happened to Liam and Niall while we were away? I got the dogs out of the back of the car while Angela opened the door. Niall's voice rang out. 

"Get inside, don't touch the lights and keep away from the windows!" 

Needless to say we complied with alacrity. 

Once inside, Niall told us what had been going on. 

"We were hit by about twenty of the bastards at dusk," he said. "They're out there somewhere. I think we winged a couple but these pop-guns aren't that accurate over about twenty yards." 

Bill muttered something to Steve and they disappeared into Angela's studio. When they came back they looked to have enough armament to start a small war. They each carried some sort of sub-machine gun and Bill had a rifle with a large nightsight fitted to its long barrelled frame. Steve was carrying a holdall that contained more sub-machine guns and a load of spare ammunition clips taped together in pairs. When one clip was empty, they could simply turn it over to insert the other. They offered me a weapon but I declined.

"I think I'd be more dangerous to you than anyone else," I said. 

The colonel took a weapon and proceeded to strip and reassemble it with obvious expertise. "Good!" His smile was wolfish. 

Angela and I went into the inner hall and sat down. There were no windows and the thick stone walls of the cottage would protect us from any stray bullets. I felt useless but knew it was best to leave it to the professionals. I said as much to Angela and she gave me a weak smile.

"You are right, my Martin, and it is brave of you to admit it." 

I didn't feel very brave at that moment, just very useless. 

The odd thing about tension is that it can't last. The human brain can only take so much, and then it begins to shut down. It's absolutely impossible to stay scared witless and with every nerve stretched taut and humming with dread for an extended period. After about an hour of squatting there in the darkness with my arms around Angela, I began to yawn. The old soldiers obviously knew a trick or two because every so often they would exchange their positions. Fresh eyes always surveyed the scene outside. I guess it kept them from staring for too long at the darkness and starting to imagine things. What really struck me was that they seemed not to need words to communicate. A look, a brief nod and everyone moved in unison. It was as though they had been working together for years.

"Here they come!"

It was a harsh whisper but I recognised Bill's voice. 

"This side, too." 

That must have been Steve. The next thing the enclosed space of the hall was filled with the harsh chatter of machinegun fire and the stink of the explosive propellant. The flashes from the short bursts of gunfire split the darkness and scarred their images onto my retinas. Angela made a dive for me and I wrapped in her my arms, trying to shield her from the awful reality with both my body and my love. 

Over and above the cacophony within the house I occasionally caught the fainter sound of fire being returned and glass smashing in the windows. Once there was a shrill scream. Liam, Niall and the rest fought in complete silence. I let Angela go and crawled forward. I had this overwhelming desire to make myself useful. Shit-scared though I was, I grabbed the holdall and slithered about the floor, passing out fresh ammunition clips. Magic was whimpering in a corner of the parlour. He hates fireworks so God knows what gunfire at close quarters was doing to him. There was a sudden almighty BOOM!!! It felt like the house rocked on its foundations and glass cascaded from all the windows at the back of the place. I was so stunned I was frozen in mid-crawl. 

"Bastards have got a grenade launcher," I heard Liam say, or it might have been Niall, I couldn't tell in the darkness. 

Steve had the rifle fitted with the nightsight. "Got him," he said and the flat crack of the rifle cut across the yammering of the sub-machine guns. Steve fired again, once, twice in quick succession.

"Got his mate, too. I think they're pulling back." 

The firing died away as suddenly as it began. I was suddenly conscious of the sound of my own breathing, harsh and rapid, like I'd just run a marathon. My eyes smarted from the fumes and my head was ringing. Angela's father said something to Bill in Russian. 

"Colonel says they won't be back. Took too many casualties. They're mercenaries, no commitment. Least ways, something like that." 

The colonel nodded his head and I had the sneaking suspicion that the old bastard could speak English after all.

We waited about half an hour with Steve surveying the surrounding area through the nightsight. He shook his head. 
"Nothing moving, Boss." 

Liam and Niall slipped out of the front door and vanished into the darkness. The three ex-soldiers waited with apparent total calm. I was beside myself with nerves until they reappeared. Liam grinned and said,

"Eight down for sure. Another couple, possibly more, wounded. Blood trail withdrawing into the dunes. We counted twenty earlier. I think we got a couple first time around. Best guess is they are down to about eight or nine effectives. They won't like those odds, not now they know our fire-power." 

We heard the sound of approaching sirens in the distance. 

"Trust the Old Bill, " said Steve, "Bloody late, as usual." 

The 'Old Bill' - a cockney nickname for the police - duly arrived. Several white-faced young constables and a couple of old hands in flak jackets ringed the cottage. Niall called out to them.

"It's OK, gentlemen. The bad guys have already left. Do come in!"