Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Betty Mayne tried to imagine how Sarah Cochrane felt. During her service as an operative in Fourteenth Intelligence Company and her subsequent deployment by Will and others in MI6, she’d done a lot of protection work. It had taught her that the emotions felt by those in her care varied enormously depending on the circumstances of the threat against them, what types of person they were, how much freedom of movement they were given, what age they were, their gender, and, crucially, how long they’d been kept under protection. But over time, there were common patterns of behavior. If the duration of protection was longer than a week, the sequence was often absolute fear and confusion, open hostility toward the guardians, resignation to the situation, rebellion toward the protection detail, reckless behavior, confrontation, then resentment. The sequence was very different from patterns of behavior displayed by hostages. But sometimes the people Betty had protected had tried to hide their emotions by acting as if they were fine or resigned to their situation. Then they might try running away in the dead of night. Fortunately, she’d been wise to their playacting and had stopped them from making an idiotic mistake. She’d quickly learned that for the sake of their safety, it was vital that she never trust the people she protected.

But Sarah was different. Since she’d been in Betty and Alfie’s care, she’d gone deeper and deeper into her shell-barely speaking, getting out of bed only at her husband’s insistence, struggling to eat, her appearance deteriorating. She wasn’t pretending, Betty was sure of that. Instead it seemed that she was in some kind of trauma that was the result of something far bigger than her current circumstances.

They’d arrived in the Scottish Highlands three days ago, having left their previous location in the West Country’s Dartmoor within thirty minutes of receiving a call from Joanna. Located on the shores of Loch Damph in the Northwest Highlands, the large four-bedroom hunting lodge would ordinarily have made a stunning holiday retreat. It was surrounded by mountains, had a stream that ran through a copse at the back of the property, was located at the end of a mile-long track beyond which it took twenty minutes to drive to the nearest residence, and had recently been renovated and extended to include a big dining room and conservatory, a gun room, and a double garage containing a walk-in freezer for hanging deer.

Betty had chosen it not only because it was isolated, provided an excellent view of anyone driving toward the house, and was very difficult to access on foot from other directions, but also because she thought the location would change Sarah’s mood. It hadn’t. If anything she’d grown even more withdrawn.

From the kitchen fridge, Betty withdrew bacon, venison sausages, eggs, mushrooms, and roasted potatoes left over from last night’s meal. She doubted Sarah would eat much, but that wouldn’t stop her cooking for everyone. At 1:00 P.M. exactly, they would all sit down around the kitchen table with food in front of them. And at 7:00 P.M. they would sit at the conservatory dining table to eat their dinner. When not on the move, routine was essential. It helped to normalize each day.

She walked out the kitchen door to fetch the men. Alfie was walking toward her, down one of the mountain slopes. The former SAS sergeant looked much more at home in the wilds of Scotland than he had when they’d collected Sarah and James from their elegant London home. Dressed in hiking gear, he was striding and leaping over the uneven and frozen ground with the vigor of a man half his age. He’d been checking his traps-primitive alarm systems made out of wire and empty coke cans that if walked into would trigger sufficient noise to be heard from within the house. They knew the alarms were effective. It was the off-season of the tightly regulated deer-hunting calendar; at this time of the year, deer would often come down from the mountains to seek shelter in the valley and to eat food that was left for them by the estates’ gillies. Last night, Alfie had jumped out of bed three times because of the noise of cans rattling against each other, only to discover that each time his traps had been triggered by large red deer.

James was visible between trees in the copse. Standing beside the mountain brook, he was cursing loudly because his fishing line had got caught in the trees. It was the third time today it had happened, much to Alfie’s amusement, though the ex-Special Forces man was the one who’d had to clamber up trees and untangle the line. Betty had disliked James on first meeting him-though no doubt highly intelligent, he was also pedantic, fussy, weak, and foolish-but the more time she spent in his company the more he’d endeared himself to her. He always got up at 6:00 A.M., called in to his law firm and lied to them that his wife was still ill and he needed to stay home to care for her, played cards with Alfie until the early hours, and washed dishes. And now he was hopelessly trying to catch their supper.

Betty looked around. Right now, the loch and its surrounding mountains had four climates. In the north, it was raining; east, snow was falling; west, the sky was clear and blue; and in the south, dark clouds obscured mountain peaks. She lowered her gaze and looked at the track. At the top of it was a stationary blue car.

Alfie reached her and said, “Second sighting I’ve had. What about you, petal?”

“The same.” She kept her gaze fixed on the vehicle.

“Do we move locations on the third or fourth sighting?”

“Third sighting.”

Alfie put one hand into his jacket pocket and placed a filterless cigarette into the corner of his mouth with the other. “I think you’re right. Reckon they’re just tourists who’re back for a photo shoot.” He lit his cigarette. “But third sighting means they’re a bunch of bad ’uns.”

Betty squeezed her husband’s hand and said quietly, “I can’t let Sarah see anything messy, angel. She’s in a bad enough way as it is.” She sat down on the frozen heath. “If anyone comes for us, we should try to minimize fuss.”

Alfie passed his half-smoked cigarette to Betty, who took a drag on it and gave it back to him. “Where is she?”

“On the sofa, doing nothing.”

“It’s to do with her brother, isn’t it?”

Betty nodded. “I think so.”

Alfie flicked ash off the cigarette. “Can never get my head around the deep and meaningful stuff.”

Betty kept her attention on the blue vehicle as it drove off. “That’s one of the reasons why I love you. You’re straightforward.”

Alfie grinned. “Either that, or it’s ’cos I ain’t got the brain cells to know how to answer you back.” An idea came to him. “After lunch how about I drive her to Lochcarron, make her useful, tell her she’s got to buy some stuff for dinner, and by the way she’s cooking?”

“It’s worth a try.” Betty held her hand out, and Alfie gripped it and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll get lunch on. Be a love and help James with his tangled line. But don’t call him a stupid plonker this time.”

“Right you are.” As Betty walked off to the lodge, Alfie placed his concealed handgun’s safety catch on, withdrew his hand from his jacket, watched the stationary blue car, and muttered under his breath, “Best you don’t come back.”

One of Kurt Schreiber’s men watched Alfie through his sniper rifle’s telescopic sight. “He’s looking in our direction, but there’s no chance he can see into our car from this distance.”

His colleague turned on the ignition. “Let him watch. The others are all in position to take over surveillance.”