Frederick Forsyth - Avenger

At the extremity of his vision, hidden in the morning mist, was the third portion of the estate, the walled five-acre compound at the end of the foreland. He knew from his aerial pictures it contained the magnificent white mansion in which the former Serbian gangster lived; half a dozen villas in the grounds for guests and senior staff tonsured lawns, flower beds, and shrubbery; and along the inner side f the fourteenfoothigh protecting wall, a series of lean-to cottages and stores for domestic staff: linen, food, and drink.

In his pictures and on his scale model, the huge wall also went from cliff edge to cliff edge, and at this point the land was fifty feet above the sea, which surged and thumped on the rocks below.

A lone but massive double gate penetrated the wall at its centre with a road of pounded rubble leading up to it. There was a guardhouse inside that controlled the gate-opening machinery, and a parapet ran along the inside of the wall to enable armed guards to patrol its entire length. Everything between the chain-link fence below the watcher and the wall over two miles away was the food-producing farm. As the light rose, Dexter could confirm what his photos had told him; the farm produced almost everything the community within the fortress could need. There were grazing herds of beef and lamb. Sheds would certainly contain pigs and poultry. There were fields of arable crops, grains, legumes, tubers; orchards producing ten kinds of fruit; and acre after acre of vegetables either in the open or under long domes of polyethylene. He surmised the farm would produce every conceivable kind of salad and fruit, along with meat, butter, eggs, cheese, oil, bread, and rough red wine. The fields and orchards were studded with barns and granaries, machine stores, and facilities to slaughter the beasts, mill the grain, bake the bread, and press the grapes.

To his right, near the cliff edge but inside the farm, was a series of small barracks for the guard staff, with a dozen better-quality chalets for their officers and two or three company shops.

To his left, also at the cliff edge, also inside the farm, were three large warehouses and a gleaming aluminium fuel storage farm. Right at the very edge of the cliff were two large cranes or derricks. That solved one problem: Heavy cargoes came by sea and were hefted or pumped from the ship below to the storage facilities forty feet above the freighter's deck.

The peons finished their morning meal and again came the harsh clang as the iron bar smashed against the hanging length of rail. This time there were several reactions.

Uniformed guards spilled from their barracks farther up the coast to the right. One put a silent whistle to his lips. Dexter heard nothing, but out of the farmland a dozen loping Dobermans emerged in obedience to the call and entered their fenced compound near the barracks. Clearly they had not eaten for twenty-four hours; they hurled themselves at the plates of raw offal set out and tore the meat to pieces.

That told Dexter what happened each sundown. When every staffer and slave was closed off in their respective compounds, the dogs would be released to hunt and prowl the three thousand acres of farmland. They must have been trained to leave the calves, sheep, and pigs alone, but any wandering burglar would simply not survive. They were far too many for a single man to begin to combat. Entry by night was not feasible.

The watcher had buried himself so deeply in the undergrowth that anyone below, raising his or her eyes to the crest of the range, would see no glint of sun off the lens, nor would he catch a glimpse of the motionless, camouflaged man.

At half past six, when the farming estate was ready to receive them, the iron clang summoned the labourers to work. They trooped toward the high gate that separated the village from the farm.

This gate was a far more complicated affair than the one from the airfield to the estate. It opened inward to the farmland in two halves. Beyond the gate, five tables had been set up and guards sat behind each. Others stood over them. The peons formed into five columns.

On a shouted command, they shuffled forward. Each man at the head of the line stooped at the table to offer a dog tag round his neck to the seated official. The number on the tag was checked and tapped into a database.

The workers must have lined up in the right column, according to their type of number, for after they were nodded through, they reported to a foreman beyond the tables. In groups of about a hundred, they were led away to their tasks, pausing at a number of tool sheds beside the main track to pick up what they needed.

Some were for the fields, some for the orchards, others were destined for animal husbandry, or the grain mill, the slaughterhouse, the vineyard, or the huge kitchen garden. As Dexter watched, the enormous farm came to life. But the security never slackened. When the village was finally empty, the double gate closed, and the men dispersed to their stations. Dexter concentrated on that security and looked for his opening.

It was midmorning that Colonel Moreno heard back from the two emissaries he had sent out with foreign passports in their hands.

In Cayenne, capital of French Guiana to the east, the authorities had wasted no time. They were not pleased that three innocent game fishermen had been detained for the crime of breaking down at sea, nor that five technicians had been picked up and detained without good cause. All eight French passports were pronounced 100 percent genuine and an urgent request was lodged that their owners be released and sent home.

To the west, in Paramaribo, the Dutch Embassy said exactly the same about their two nationals: The passports were genuine, the visas in order, what was the problem?

The Spanish Embassy was closed, but Colonel Moreno had been assured by the man from the CIA that the fugitive was about five feet, eight inches tall, while the Spaniard was over six feet. That just left the missing Mr. Henry Nash of London.

The Secret Police chief ordered his man in Cayenne to come home, and the man in Parbo to hunt through every carrental agency to find out what kind of car the Londoner had rented and its registration number.

By mid-morning the heat on the hills was intense. A few inches from the unmoving watcher's face a lizard with red, erect ruff behind its head, walking on stones that would fry an egg, stared at the stranger, detected no threat, and scuttled on its way. There was activity out by the cliff-top derricks.

Four muscular young men wheeled a thirty-foot aluminium patrol boat to the rear of a Land Rover and hitched up. The Land Rover towed the vessel to a gas pump where it was fueled. It could almost have passed for a leisure craft except for the.30-calibre Browning machine gun mounted in the midsection. When the boat was ready for sea, it was towed beneath one of the derricks. Four webbing bands suspended from a rectangular frame ended in four tough steel cleats. These were fixed into strong points on the boat's hull.

With the crew on board, the patrol boat was lifted off the hard pad, swung out to sea, and lowered to the ocean. Dexter saw it go out of sight. Minutes later he saw it again out at sea. The men on board hauled up and emptied two fish traps and five lobster pots, rebaited them, threw them back, and resumed their patrol.

Dexter had noted that everything in front of him would collapse into ruin without two lifegiving elixirs. One was gasoline that would power the generator plant situated behind the warehouses of the dock. This provided the electricity that would power every device and motor on the whole estate, from the gate to a power drill to a bedside light. The other elixir was water; fresh, clean, clear water in a limitless supply. It came from the mountain stream that he had first seen in the aerial photographs.