Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

‘Yours, Vasco?’

Vasco unlocked his case. ‘Untouched. Spare Smith & Wesson magazines still there.’

‘Naturally.’ Van Effen opened his own case – it hadn’t even been locked – lifted out a rather battered toilet bag and took from it a burgundy-coloured aerosol can with a chrome top. The side of the can bore the legend: Yves Saint Laurent – Pour Homme – Mousse à Raser . The aerosol, in fact, contained no shaving foam.

‘Well,’ George said, ‘nobody’s been touching or sniffing the contents of that lot.’

‘Obviously.’ Van Effen replaced the aerosol. ‘If they had they’d still be here. Horizontal on the carpet. I doubt if they even opened my toilet bag. If there was anything worth finding, they must have reckoned, it would have been in George’s thief-proof case.’ He took a small tablet of soap from his toilet bag and handed it to Vasco. ‘You know what to do with this.’

‘Hygiene is all.’ Vasco went into the bathroom while van Effen and George crossed to the window opposite the beds and opened it. As far as they could judge in the darkness they were about fifteen feet above the cobbled courtyard below, a courtyard shrouded in almost total darkness.

‘Very satisfactory, George, don’t you think?’

‘Very. Only snag is that you’ll have to make a pretty long detour to keep in the darkness in order to reach the back of the barn. And have you thought of anti-personnel land-mines – you know, the nasty kind that jump three feet in the air before exploding?’

‘George, this place is run and staffed entirely by local villagers. If, say, a laundry-maid was just kind of accidentally blown in half –’

‘True. Point taken. But if you were to run into a patrolling member of the FFF –’

‘Anybody out on patrol on a night like this has to be a head case. Gale, driving rain, bitter cold, thunder and lightning due any time –’

‘But –’

‘I’m not going to run into anyone. Someone might run into me. Velvet gloves. Vasco’s taking his time, isn’t he?’ They moved to the bathroom door, tried to open it and found it locked. Van Effen rattled the door handle.

‘Put out your light,’ Vasco said. They did as he asked. Vasco opened the door of the bathroom which was in total darkness. ‘Sorry about that, gentlemen, but I didn’t want the watcher in the shadows to know that he was being watched by another watcher in the shadows. Not, mind you, that our fellow-watcher is very much in the shadows.’

The bathroom window was, in fact, directly opposite the door in the loft of the barn that held the army truck on the ground floor. The man standing in the doorway was making no great effort to conceal his presence and the courtyard light projecting from the mill verandah was quite strong.

‘Doesn’t seem to me to be guarding against anything very much,’ van Effen said. ‘Unenthusiastic. Don’t blame him. Must seem like a pretty useless exercise on a night like this.’

‘And a pretty freezing exercise, too,’ George said.

‘He generates his own heat,’ Vasco said. ‘Wait.’

They didn’t have to wait long. After less than two minutes the guard reached behind him, lifted a bottle to his lips and took what appeared to be a very considerable swig from it.

‘No mineral water, that’s for sure,’ van Effen said. ‘Let’s get inside.’

They closed the bathroom door behind them and switched on the bedroom light. Vasco handed van Effen a small metallic object sheathed in polythene. Van Effen dropped it in his pocket.

‘I’ve stuck the two pieces of soap together and left them in hot water,’ Vasco said. ‘Should be mushed together again pretty soon. I have an idea. Just after I got into the bathroom I saw a man crossing the courtyard towards the barn. That’s when I switched off the light. He disappeared round the back of the barn, you know, where the outside stairs are, and then joined the man who was then standing at the loft door. Changing of the guard, so to speak. That was exactly at seven o’clock. It occurred to me that it might be very convenient if the condition of my throat has deteriorated so badly that I will be unable to join you for dinner. It might be very convenient if we found out how regularly they changed guards.’

‘It would indeed,’ van Effen said. ‘An excellent suggestion, Vasco. Should have thought of it myself. Promotion guaranteed – if, that is, we survive this lot. I’m sure Samuelson will be most distressed. Probably insist on sending you another toddy.’

‘Make sure it’s a large one, if you please. I’m feeling very weak.’

‘Mr Danilov. George.’ As van Effen and George descended the stairs into the living-room, Samuelson advanced to greet them, beaming as if they were long-lost friends. ‘Just in time for the next TV broadcast. Then dinner. But where’s our dashing young Lieutenant?’

‘Our young Lieutenant isn’t feeling at all dashing. Throat’s worse. Flu, I think.’

Samuelson clucked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Damn flu’s everywhere these days. This awful weather. Most important that he’s reasonably fit tomorrow. Herta!’ This to a flaxen-haired young girl who was setting the table for the evening meal. ‘A toddy. A strong one. Take it up to the Lieutenant’s room. Dear me, dear me. Ah!’

Agnelli had just turned up the volume of the TV set and a rock band, which had been playing, mercifully, in apparent mime, faded from the screen to be replaced by the accustomed announcer looking, if possible, even more lugubrious and funereal than he had on the previous occasion.

‘With reference to the threats being made against our country by the unidentified group calling themselves the FFF, the Ministry of Defence has just issued a statement. The British Government and ours are in constant contact but no announcement as to the results of those negotiations can yet be made pending the outcome of discussions between Whitehall and Stormont. Stormont is the parliament or governing body of Northern Ireland which is, of course, next to ourselves, the country most closely concerned with the outcome of those negotiations. Whitehall, it must be said, finds itself in a most difficult and peculiar position. Ulster, Northern Ireland, that is, although an integral part of Great Britain, retains a certain degree of autonomy as far as decisions relating to its own future is concerned. When further news comes to hand the country will be immediately informed.

‘The FFF have informed us that they will issue a further communiqué after this broadcast. This will be transmitted to you at 8 p.m.

‘In the circumstances, the latest report from the meteorological office is relevant. The wind, due north, is Force Nine and strengthening. Torrential rain is sweeping over most of Scandinavia and is heaviest of all over the Netherlands. The North Sea is expected to reach its highest level for at least the past quarter century inside the next forty-eight hours.’

The announcer’s image faded and Agnelli switched off the set.

‘Dear me, dear me,’ Samuelson said. ‘Things do look very unpromising. Or very promising. All depends upon one’s point of view.’ He gestured towards the bar. ‘Romero, see to it that our friends are not neglected. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I shall be back shortly.’ He disappeared up the stairs.

While the Agnelli brothers busied themselves behind the bar van Effen wandered aimlessly around the room apparently admiring the paintings and the bronze and copper artefacts that decorated the walls. He paid particular but very brief attention to the telephone: the telephone number had been carefully and thoroughly inked out, which neither surprised nor disturbed him. He was reasonably certain that he could, later that night, have given that number to the police HQ in the Marnixstraat in Amsterdam, which would have enabled them to pinpoint the exact whereabouts of the windmill, but that would not have suited his purpose: the answer to the machinations of the FFF lay elsewhere. Samuelson, presumably and for reasons best known to himself, had gone upstairs to use another telephone to deliver the text of the next FFF communiqué.