Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

I limped back up through the woods and got into Micky’s car. We went north, threading the maze of deep lanes that led to Dartmoor.

I was silent, wondering just what we had got ourselves into, while Micky was ebullient, scenting a story that would splash itself across the headlines of two nations.

We climbed up to the moor. Low dark cloud was threatening from the west and I knew there would be lashing rain before the evening was done. We left the hedgerows behind, emerging on to the bare bleak upland where the wind sighed about the granite tors.

We were over an hour early reaching the village pub in the moor’s centre where Jill-Beth had said she would meet me. Micky took me into the pub’s toilet where he fitted me with the radio-microphone.

It was a small enough gadget. A plastic-coated wire aerial hung down one trouser leg, a small box the size of a pocket calculator was taped to the small of my back, and the tiny microphone was pinned under my shirt. “I’m going back to the bar,” Micky said, “so they don’t think we’re a couple of fruits, and you’re going to speak to me.” He had the receiver, together with a tape-recorder, in a big bag.

To hear what was being recorded he wore a thin wire which led to a hearing-aid.

The device worked. After the test we sat at a table and Micky gave me instructions. The transmitter was feeble and if I went more than fifty yards away from him he’d likely lose the signal. He said the microphone was undirectional and would pick up every sound nearby so I should try and lean as close to Jill-Beth as I could. “You won’t mind that, will you?” Micky said. “You fancy her, right?”

“I used to.”

“Fancy her again. Get in close, Nick. And keep an eye on me. If I can’t hear what she’s saying I’ll scratch my nose.”

“Is this how we trap one of the world’s richest men?” I asked.

“With nose-scratching and toy radios?”

“Remember Watergate. It all spilt out because some CIA-trained prick couldn’t tape up a door latch. You are suffering from the delu-sion that the world is run by efficient men. It isn’t, Nick. It’s run by constipated morons who couldn’t remember their own names if it wasn’t printed on their credit cards. Now, what are you going to say to her?”

“I’m going to tell her to get lost.”

“Nick! Nick! Nick!” he groaned. “If you tell the birdie to fuck off, she will. She’ll do a bunk and what will we have? Sweet FA, that’s what we’ll have. You have to chat her up! You have to go along with her, right? You’ve got to say all the things she wants you to say, so that she says all the things we want her to say. Especially, my son, you have to ask her just what Kassouli plans to do out there. Is he trying to knock Bannister off? Or is he just trying to scare the bastard? Got it?”

“Got it,” I said. “What about the money?”

Micky closed his eyes in mock despair. “God, you’re a berk, Nick.

You take the ruddy money! It’s proof!” He drained his whisky. “Are you ready for battle, my son?”

“I’m ready.”

“To war, then. And stop worrying. Nothing can go wrong.” He finished my whisky then took himself across the bar. I waited nervously. The pub slowly filled, mostly with hikers who shook water from their bright capes as they came through the door. It had begun to rain, though not heavily.

I switched from whisky to beer. I did not want to fuddle my wits, not with so much at stake. If I was successful this evening I would stop an obsessed millionaire from pulling thousands of jobs out of Britain. I would start a scandal in the newspapers. I would also drive Angela away from me, because I knew she would never forgive me for bringing Bannister’s name into the story. I had so often, and often unjustly, accused her of dishonesty, now she would say that I had been dishonest. She would say that I should have told her everything, and perhaps she was right.

But I was going to sea anyway, and that always meant an abandonment of loves left behind. I would render Kassouli’s threats impotent, then I would leave Bannister to make his attempt on the St Pierre and Angela to her ambitions. After tonight I would be free, and Sycorax and I would go to where the wind willed us.

I waited.

“Hi!” After Angela’s slender paleness, Jill-Beth looked tanned and healthy; a glowing tribute to vitamin tablets, exercise and native enthusiasm. I wondered why Americans were so often enthusiastic while we were so often drab. She was wearing a blue shirt, tight jeans and cowboy boots, as if she had expected a rodeo. She carried a raincoat and a handbag over her arm. She stooped to offer me a kiss, then sensed from my reaction that such a gesture was inappropriate. Instead she sat next to me. “How are you?” she asked. Her back was towards Micky who offered me a surreptitious thumbs-up to indicate that he could hear her through the concealed microphone.

“You’d like a beer?” I asked.

She shook her head. “How about going for a walk?”

“In this?” I gestured at the rain that was now blurring the window panes.

“I thought you were a soldier! Are you frightened of rain?” I was frightened of getting out of range of Micky’s radio, but Jill-Beth would not take a refusal, so I followed her on to the road where she pulled on the raincoat and tied a scarf over her hair. “Yassir says hi.”

“Great.”

She seemed not to notice my lack of enthusiasm; instead she opened the handbag and showed its contents to me. “One hundred thousand dollars, Nick. Tax-free.”

I stared at the tightly wadded notes, each wad bound in cello-phane. I’d never seen so much money in my life, but it didn’t seem real. I tried to look impressed, but in truth I found the situation ludicrous. Did Jill-Beth really believe I could be bought?

“It’s all yours.” She closed the bag. The rain was getting harder, but she seemed not to notice it as we crossed the bridge and headed towards Bellever Forest. I dared not look behind in case Jill-Beth also turned and saw Micky Harding’s ungainly figure following us.

My jacket was getting soaked and I hoped the microphone was not affected by damp. “Do we really have to walk in this muck?” I asked.

“We really do.” She said it very casually, then frowned with a sudden and genuine concern. “Are you hurting? Is that it?”

“A wee bit.”

She shrugged and took my arm, as though to help me walk. “I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t abide all that cigarette smoke in the pub.” She glanced up at the sky which was threatening an even heavier downpour. “Perhaps we’d better get into cover?” She led me into the pines of Bellever. The rain was too new to have dripped through the thick cover of needles and we walked in comparative dryness. I once heard a footfall behind us and knew that Micky had kept up. He’d be silently cursing me for dragging him out of the pub, but his sacrifice was small in comparison to the rewards that this evening would give him.

Jill-Beth let go of my arm and leaned against a tree trunk. For a moment neither of us spoke. I was awkward, and her self-assurance seemed strained. She offered me a quick smile. “It’s nice to see you again, Nick.”

“Is it?”

“You’re being hostile.”

She pronounced the word as ‘hostel’, and sounded so hurt that I could not resist smiling. “I’m not being hostile, it’s just that my back’s hurting.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I did. She couldn’t help.”

“Then see an American doctor.”

“I can’t afford that.”

“They are expensive bastards,” she admitted.

We were both being wary, and I supposed that if I really was being

‘hostel’ then I was risking all the hard work that Micky had put into this meeting. I was here to convince this girl that I would help her, however reluctantly, and so I forced another smile. “Are you here to get me wet, or rich?”