Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“Yes, it is,” Melissa Scoby said when it became evident that her husband wasn’t going to answer. “And from what we’ve seen of it so far, it’s certainly a beautiful country.”

“That it is,” the priest agreed.

Whitlock put a hand lightly on the priest’s arm. “Father, could we proceed to the cemetery?”

“Of course. If you’ll follow me.”

Eastman fell in line beside Whitlock as he followed the Scobys into the cemetery. “Where’s Tillman? Didn’t he fly over with you?”

“No, he decided to stay behind in London.” Whitlock looked across at the photographers who were massed behind a police cordon at the edge of the cemetery. “It is supposed to be a personal visit, after ail.”

The priest stopped beside the double grave of Kieran and Estelle Scoby. Jack Scoby removed his sunglasses and stood over the grave, his head bowed as he read the epitaph which had been carved into the headstone more than a hundred years earlier.

Graham and Sabrina exchanged anxious glances. Scoby was the perfect target. Stationary and exposed. She caught Whitlock’s eye. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead then looked across at the thick woodland a couple of hundred yards beyond the cemetery. He knew there were over forty policemen combing the area. But what if Fiona Gallagher had still managed to evade them, assuming she was even in there? Eastman followed Whitlock’s gaze for several seconds then looked toward the church. His eyes finally settled on the belfry and the window which looked out over the cemetery. It all seemed so peaceful …

The heat was stifling in the belfry. Fiona wiped her forearm across her face then reached underneath the tunic and pulled her damp blouse away from her back. But within seconds it was clinging uncomfortably to her skin again. She had monitored Scoby’s progress from the time he had left the helicopter but it was only when he stopped in front of the grave that she reached for the rifle which was propped against the wall beside her. She wound the strap tightly around her arm then kneeled down on one knee and pressed the butt firmly against her shoulder. She lined up the top of Scoby’s bowed head in the cross hairs and, after making a minor adjustment to the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight, she slowly curled her finger around the trigger. She knew she had only one shot. She had to make it count …

Scoby stood silently in front of the headstone for over a minute before he finally looked up at the RUC officer standing on his right. The policeman handed him the flowers he’d brought with him from London. He placed them across the grave then stood up and caught Melissa’s eye. He smiled gently at her then reached out and took her hand.

The soft-nosed bullet hit him above the right eye and exploded through the back of his head. His flailing arm caught Whitlock painfully on the side of the face as he was knocked off his feet as if hit by a hammering punch to the jaw. He landed heavily on the ground, his arms outstretched, the blood streaming down the side of his face. Melissa Scoby screamed in horror then fell to her knees beside her husband and cradled his bloodied head in her lap. Whitlock yelled at the nearest RUC officer to get the paramedics whose vehicle had been parked discreetly out of view of the cemetery.

Eastman, Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances then started running toward the church. The shot had to have come from there. A dozen armed policemen had already surrounded the building by the time they got there.

“The sniper’s in the belfry,” a senior officer told them breathlessly. “But the doors are locked and the keys are with the sergeant inside the church.”

“I got a spare front door key from the priest last night,” Eastman said, taking it from his pocket. “You take the back, Sabrina. Take some men with you and break the door down if necessary.”

Sabrina quickly picked out half a dozen men and disappeared around the side of the church. Eastman unlocked the front door and eased it open. Graham pushed past him and went inside, Beretta drawn. Calling to the remaining policemen to cover the door and windows, Eastman hurried after Graham who had already reached the foot of the stairs.

“Hey, wait up,” Eastman hissed, grabbing Graham’s arm. “I know these stairs better than you. Let me lead the way.”

Graham pulled his arm from Eastman’s grip and reluctantly let him go first. Eastman unholstered his Browning then began to climb the stairs. Graham winced every time Eastman stepped on a creaky floorboard. So much for him knowing the stairs! Gallagher would certainly know they were coming.

Eastman suddenly held up his hand and whispered to Graham that they would be visible from the belfry as of the next turn in the staircase. Graham watched as Eastman pivoted around sharply, training the Browning on the top of the stairs. He held up his hand again to halt Graham. Eastman negotiated the last few stairs by himself.

“Mike, up here,” he called out anxiously over his shoulder. “Hurry.”

Graham hurried up onto the catwalk and immediately swung his Beretta on Fiona. In that instant Eastman pressed the Browning into Graham’s back and quickly disarmed him. He pushed the Beretta into his belt.

“What the hell’s going on?” Graham demanded, looking from Eastman to Fiona.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” Fiona said, watching Graham’s face closely.

“Should I?” Graham replied hesitantly.

“You saw me talking to Keith outside the pub in Soho the day you arrived in London. What we didn’t know was whether you’d seen my face. If you had you’d have been the one person still capable of blowing this whole operation. We couldn’t afford to take that chance.” She levelled the sniper rifle at Graham’s chest.

“It’s a simple scenario, Mike. You reached the belfry first and Fiona shot you before I managed to overpower her.” Eastman stepped away from Graham. “Kill him.”

Fiona’s finger curled around the trigger.

“Drop the gun!” Sabrina yelled from beneath the belfry, a Heckler & Koch machine-pistol trained on Fiona.

“Take her out,” Fiona snarled at Eastman without taking her eyes off Graham.

“I can’t see her from here,” Eastman snapped back, peering over the railing. “Dammit, I can’t see her.”

“Fiona, drop the rifle,” Sabrina ordered. “Now!”

Fiona suddenly swung the rifle downward. Sabrina fired. The bullet took Fiona high in the shoulder, knocking the rifle from her hands. Clutching her shoulder in agony, Fiona stumbled back against the railing which gave way under her weight and she screamed in terror as she lost her footing and fell from the catwalk. She caught the side of her head on the bell as she fell and her body hit the floor with a sickening crunch of breaking bones.

Graham brought his elbow up sharply into Eastman’s midriff and the Browning clattered onto the catwalk. As he stumbled backward Eastman pulled the Beretta from his belt but Graham managed to grab his wrist as he pulled the trigger. The bullet fired harmlessly into the roof. Graham delivered two hammering blows to Eastman’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The Beretta slipped from Eastman’s fingers when he dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering as he struggled to catch his breath. Graham quickly retrieved both weapons and when the first two uniformed policemen appeared on the catwalk they found him standing over Eastman, who was on his knees, his hands clutched tightly over his stomach.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Graham demanded as the two policemen hovered hesitantly at the top of the stairs. “Get him out of here.”

Moments later Whitlock arrived breathlessly with a senior RUC officer. “OK, Mike, let the police take it from here. Sabrina’s told us what happened.”