Desmond Bagley - High Citadel / Landslide

Benedetta’s head jerked up. ‘You talk nonsense, Uncle. His anger is directed against those others across the river. He would do us no harm.’

Aguillar looked at her sadly. ‘You think so, child? His anger is directed against himself as the power of a bomb is directed against its casing – but when the casing shatters everyone around is hurt. O’Hara is a dangerous man.’

Benedetta’s lips tightened and she was going to reply when Miss Ponsky approached, lugging a crossbow. She seemed unaccountably flurried and the red stain of a blush was ebbing from her cheeks. Her protection was volubility. ‘I’ve got both bows sighted in,’ she said rapidly. ‘They’re both shooting the same now, and very accurately. They’re very strong too – I was hitting a target at one hundred and twenty yards. I left the other with Doctor Armstrong; I thought he might need it.’

‘Have you seen Señor O’Hara?’ asked Benedetta.

Miss Ponsky turned pink again. ‘I saw him at the pond,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘What are we having for lunch?’ she continued brightly.

Benedetta laughed. ‘As always – stew.’

Miss Ponsky shuddered delicately. Benedetta said, ‘It is all that Señor Willis brought from the camp – cans of stew. Perhaps it is his favourite food.’

‘He ought to have thought of the rest of us,’ complained Miss Ponsky.

Aguillar stirred. ‘What do you think of Señor Forester, madam?’

‘I think he is a very brave man,’ she said simply. ‘He and Señor Rohde.’

‘I think so too,’ said Aguillar. ‘But also I think there is something strange about him. He is too much the man of action to be a simple businessman.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Miss Ponsky demurred. ‘A good businessman must be a man of action, at least in the States.’

‘Somehow I don’t think Forester’s idea is the pursuit of the dollar,’ Aguillar said reflectively. ‘He is not like Peabody.’

Miss Ponsky flared. ‘I could spit when I think of that man. He makes me ashamed to be an American.’

‘Do not be ashamed,’ Aguillar said gently. ‘He is not a coward because he is an American; there are cowards among all people.’

O’Hara came back. He looked better now that he had shaved the stubble from his cheeks. It had not been easy; the clockwork rotary shaver had protested when asked to attack the thicket of his beard, but he had persisted and was now smooth-cheeked and clean. The water in the pond had been too cold for bathing, but he had stripped and taken a sponge-bath and felt the better for it. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Miss Ponsky toiling up the hill towards the shelter and hoped she had not seen him – he did not want to offend the susceptibilities of maiden ladies.

‘What have we got?’ he asked.

‘More stew,’ said Aguillar wryly.

O’Hara groaned and Benedetta laughed. He accepted the aluminium plate and said, ‘Maybe I can bring something else when I go up to the camp this afternoon. But I won’t have room for much – I’m more interested in the paraffin.’

Miss Ponsky asked, ‘What is it like by the river?’

‘Quiet,’ said O’Hara. ‘They can’t do much today so they’re contenting themselves with keeping the bridge covered. I think it’s safe enough for me to go up to the camp.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Benedetta quickly.

O’Hara paused, his fork in mid-air. ‘I don’t know if …’

‘We need food,’ she said. ‘And if you cannot carry it, somebody must.’

O’Hara glanced at Aguillar, who nodded tranquilly. ‘I will be all right,’ he said.

O’Hara shrugged. ‘It will be a help,’ he admitted.

Benedetta sketched a curtsy at him, but there was a flash of something in her eyes that warned O’Hara he must tread gently. ‘Thank you,’ she said, a shade too sweetly. ‘I’ll try not to get in the way.’

He grinned at her. ‘I’ll tell you when you are.’

Like Forester, O’Hara found the going hard on the way up to the camp. When he and Benedetta took a rest halfway, he sucked in the thin, cold air greedily, and gasped, ‘My God, this is getting tough.’

Benedetta’s eyes went to the high peaks. ‘What about Miguel and Señor Forester? They will have it worse.’

O’Hara nodded, then said, ‘I think your uncle ought to come up to the camp tomorrow. It is better that he should do it when he can do it in his own time, instead of being chased. And it will acclimatize him in case we have to retreat to the mine.’

‘I think that is good,’ she said. ‘I will go with him to help, and I can bring more food when I return.’

‘He might be able to help Willis with his bits and pieces,’ said O’Hara. ‘After all, he can’t do much down at the bridge anyway, and Willis wouldn’t mind another pair of hands.’

Benedetta pulled her coat about her. ‘Was it as cold as this in Korea?’

‘Sometimes,’ O’Hara said. He thought of the stonewalled cell in which he had been imprisoned. Water ran down the walls and froze into ice at night – and then the weather got worse and the walls were iced day and night. It was then that Lieutenant Feng had taken away all his clothing. ‘Sometimes,’ he repeated bleakly.

‘I suppose you had warmer clothing than we have,’ said Benedetta. ‘I am worried about Forester and Miguel. It will be very cold up in the pass.’

O’Hara felt suddenly ashamed of himself and his self-pity. He looked away quickly from Benedetta and stared at the snows above. ‘We must see if we can improvise a tent for them. They’ll spend at least one night in the open up there.’ He stood up. ‘We’d better get on.’

The camp was busy with the noise of hammering and the trebuchet was taking shape in the central clearing between the huts. O’Hara stood unnoticed for a moment and looked at it. It reminded him very much of something he had once seen in an avant-garde art magazine; a modern sculptor had assembled a lot of junk into a crazy structure and had given it some high-falutin’ name, and the trebuchet had the same appearance of wild improbability.

Forester paused and leaned on the length of steel he was using as a crude hammer. As he wiped the sweat from his eyes he caught sight of the newcomers and hailed them. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Is anything wrong?’

‘All’s quiet,’ said O’Hara reassuringly. ‘I’ve come for one of the drums of paraffin – and some grub.’ He walked round the trebuchet. ‘Will this contraption work?’

‘Willis is confident,’ said Forester. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘You won’t be here,’ O’Hara said stonily. ‘But I suppose I’ll have to trust the boffins. By the way – it’s going to be bloody cold up there – have you made any preparations?’

‘Not yet. We’ve been too busy on this thing.’

‘That’s not good enough,’ said O’Hara sternly. ‘We’re depending on you to bring the good old U.S. cavalry to the rescue. You’ve got to get across that pass – if you don’t, then this piece of silly artillery will be wasted. Is there anything out of which you can improvise a tent?’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Forester. ‘I’ll have a look around.’

‘Do that. Where’s the paraffin?’

‘Paraffin? Oh, you mean the kerosene. It’s in that hut there. Willis locked it up; he put all the booze in there – we had to keep Peabody sober somehow.’

‘Um,’ said O’Hara. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘He’s not much good. He’s out of condition and his disposition doesn’t help. We’ve got to drive him.’

‘Doesn’t the bloody fool realize that if the bridge is forced he’ll get his throat cut?’

Forester sighed. ‘It doesn’t seem to make any difference – logic isn’t his strong point. He goofs off at the slightest opportunity.’