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Subject: {ASSM} Story : Walking the Dog - Conclusion
Date: Wed, 19 Mar 2003 18:10:04 -0500
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Chapter 14

We waited all the next day for Bernie's call. There was nothing on the
News, no big stories of mass arrests or a conspiracy uncovered. The
papers were still running with the car bomb story although there
wasn't much new to report. They had discounted the claims of the IRA
splinter group and fingers were pointing towards Bin Laden and his
gang. At least they were now fishing in the right pond even if they
were still wide of the mark. What we were dealing with was even out of
Bin Laden's league; it had to be State-sponsored in a big way.

I went through the lists again with Angela to translate those entries
in Estonian, Russian and German. The likely picture that emerged was
of a core of individuals at the centre of the plot with a lot of
others who had been suborned to look the other way or otherwise
collude with the schemers. Some probably didn't even know what they
were involved in. A minor official on a border post somewhere was paid
$5000 to look the other way when certain lorries passed. He probably
thought it was contraband of some sort but wouldn't dream he was
turning a blind eye to the deaths of millions.

Apart from the central characters, it wasn't easy to see what many of
those listed had to bring to the party. Our three prime suspects were
a case in point. Perhaps the civil servant could provide false
documents to allow stuff to move cross-border without too many
questions but the MP and the tycoon didn't seem to offer much at all.
We puzzled over this for a while until Liam had the idea of looking on
the web to see if we could gain any clues from what these two posted
on their official web-sites. I'm hopeless when it comes to computers
but Liam and Niall don't go anywhere without a laptop. They plugged
into the telephone line and we had the usual www - worldwide wait -
while they searched. Renfrew's newspaper had its own site and we
trawled back through its archived stories. These were mostly prurient
celebrity tittle-tattle and attacks on the Government, The Europeans,
illegal immigrants and single mothers. Most of the site was devoted to
softcore images of vapid-looking naked girls with surgically enhanced
breasts. A real intellectual, our Mr Renfrew.

He also had his own web page where he rambled on about his philosophy
and the need for freedom of the Press. It didn't tell us a thing as to
why he should be involved but his name was on the list. Charles
Brownlock, MP, had a strident site. It was full of the usual
politicians' rubbish but with the slant of always portraying Charlie
Boy in the best possible light. The most interesting thing to us was a
section that contained transcripts of all his speeches. We read the
turgid maunderings of this spiteful little man without too much
enthusiasm. He had one cause, it appeared, to trample on those who
made money. Profit was the root of all evil. He was rabidly
anti-capitalist and unashamedly socialist. That wouldn't make him too
popular in his Party, these days.

Travers, the civil servant, had one of those free-hosted sites with
pictures of his prize-winning begonias or something. I'm no gardener
but Travers was an absolute fanatic. Nothing political or inflammatory
there. They seemed strange bedfellows, the right-wing newspaperman,
the left-wing politician and the begonia grower. I couldn't see a link
for the life of me. It was Niall who found it. He flicked back and
forth between the various sites. His face was a study in
concentration. Finally, he turned to us with three pages cascaded side
by side. "There, you see?" I had to confess I did not and the others
looked equally nonplussed. "The lapel buttons," he said. They all have
some little flower badge in their lapels."

We all stared hard at the photographs on the websites. Each man had a
formal picture of himself in a business suit, smiling at the camera.
Each had a little emblem in their lapel. It looked like a carnation or
something similar. Angela's father told us that he he'd seen this
badge before. He'd noticed it a couple of times being worn by other
people on his list. It hadn't been worn by everyone and the meaning
escaped him. We tried searching under 'carnation' or 'pink' but
nothing helpful showed up on any of the search engines. There is an
old saying: 'once is chance, twice is coincidence and three times is
enemy action.' The little flower obviously had some meaning. We
checked out a few more on the list who had websites. We found two
others who displayed the badge in photographs of themselves. One was a
German politician and the other an American radical who had made a
name for himself for attacking big business and tying up major
corporations in complicated lawsuits. The German didn't seem to have
done anything much more than get himself elected and was pretty
anonymous even in his own country. It was hard to see any connection
between these five other than the little emblems.

"Could it be an international charity?" I asked. Liam shrugged. "If it
is," he said, "It's bloody ineffective if none of us recognises its
logo." "I think it is some sort of sign," Angela said, "it helps them
recognise each other." Liam agreed. "And if anyone asks, it's a
charity or political club or a branch of the bloody Lions or
something. It makes sense but it is insecure." "Not necessarily."
Niall disagreed. "If there is absolutely no other connection. But it
doesn't conform to any normal pattern of the terrorist cell, I grant
you."

Even I understood that. Terrorists usually organise themselves in such
a way that each little group doesn't know any other little group. That
way, if one lot get arrested, the damage is limited to that cell
alone. It's classic Che Guevara. "I think I'll call Bernie," I said. I
dialled his home number and he answered on the second ring. He didn't
have too much to report but he had found out, through a contact in
Land Registry, that Charles Brownlock had purchased a small farm near
Southwold in Suffolk. He had bought the place a couple of years ago
but it wasn't listed as either of his addresses and wasn't remotely
near his inner-city constituency. We were all immediately struck by
the proximity to Felixstowe.

"Right," said Niall. "I'm going to take a look. Bill and Steve, you
come with me. Liam, you and the colonel stay here with Martin and
Angela." Nobody argued but just as they were getting ready to depart
in the Range Rover, I pulled Niall to one side.

"This has gone way too far, Niall. If you find anything, I want you to
promise me that you'll call Swann at Special Branch and let them run
with it. I feel bad enough about getting you and Liam involved. All
right. I know we're friends and I know you think you owe me. Consider
all debts more than paid in full. And please, be bloody careful!"

"Martin, there are old soldiers and there are bold soldiers. There are
no old, bold soldiers. We'll simply check the place out and if there
is anything amiss, I promise I call the boys in blue."

With that, they left. I still felt uneasy but could see no
alternative. We couldn't go to Swann with what was, let's face it,
just a bunch of suppositions and conjecture. Angela and I walked the
dogs along the beach. We held hands and talked quietly about what the
future might bring once this was all over. "I don't want to stay here
afterwards," Angela said. "It will never be the same. I felt at peace
here but now that is gone." "You could come to London," I said. She
smiled. "Where would I work? It is too expensive in London. I could
not afford a studio and Frau Meyer is already too generous. "We can
sell my house, move out of town a bit and buy somewhere that has the
room for a studio. Somewhere with a garden and green fields nearby to
walk the dogs in."

"What are you saying, my Martin, that you would like us to live
together?"

"Yes. I would like very much for us to live together. If you want to,
that is."

"I think I would like that very much, too."

"Then it's settled. As soon as we get back, I'll put the house on the
market and we start looking for somewhere. It will need to be near a
main line [PtC1]so I can get to London easily. Maybe in Kent or
Sussex."

"It will need to be near a river or a lake. Magic must have his
swims!"

"Of course. We should be able to get somewhere with a good-sized
garden so they can play outside. It will be much better than
Kensington Gardens."

We walked on, planning our new life together. I could work from home
quite a bit, so we would need a study. Angela would need a big room or
out-building that we could convert to a studio. There would have to be
nice walks nearby and a good train service within easy reach. We were
both aware that something was hovering in the air between us, unspoken
but implied. My mouth went dry and my stomach turned over. I turned
towards her. Her eyes were huge and she licked her lips, a quick,
nervous gesture.

"I, uh, shall we make it official?"

"Official?"

"Um, I mean to say, er, that is. Oh shit! Angela Sable, will you marry
me?"

She didn't say a word. She stared at me with those huge eyes brimming
with unshed tears and gripped both my hands tightly in hers. Suddenly
she burst out with a bright peal of delighted laughter. "If my father
will permit it, my Martin!" She flung herself against me, rocking with
mirth. Tears streamed down her cheeks but her face was alive and
radiant with happiness.

"When we were small, Vika and I would sit and discuss who we would we
marry. When my father heard us, he would growl. 'I will not permit any
daughter of mine to marry any man who does not pass the TEST' he would
say. But he would never tell us what this 'test' was. 'You will see
when the time is right,' was all he would ever tell us.' Now I will
find out!"

We walked back to the cottage. The colonel had been watching us all
the while and he rose out of the evening gloom like an apparition.
Angela started to tell him but he held up his hand. I could see that
he was trying hard not to smile and keep his face stony but he
couldn't keep the merry twinkle out of his eyes.

"Colonel," I said, "I suspect that you understand English very well, I
have asked Angelika to be my wife and would like your blessing on this
marriage." The old soldier stared at me. "Why you think I speak
English?" he said in a slow, accented voice that sounded like brick
rubble sliding down a metal chute. "Sometimes you seem to have
understood things before Angela finished the translation," I said. He
nodded. "I don't speak good but some I understand. I speak now to
Angelika. She say my words to you." He fired off some rapid Estonian.
Angela gasped and started to argue but he cut off with a gesture of
his hand. He repeated something very slowly and she shrugged.

"My father says that you must prove yourself worthy of marrying his
daughter. He says, to do this, you must beat him. I try to tell him
that you are not a soldier; you do not fight. He says he understands
this. He says you will know what to do. I don't understand."

I did. The old boy was having some fun at our expense. "Tell him I'll
beat him at Chess," I said, "Tell him I'll wipe the board with him."
She looked at me as if I was mad but the colonel had understood
'Chess' at least and was grinning broadly. "I don't have a Chess set,"
Angela wailed. "I don't need one," I replied. "Pawn to king four."
Throughout my schooldays, I had been a Chess fanatic. I had spent
hours 'playing' without a board with a similar fanatic. Of course,
when you're playing in the middle of a Latin Lesson, you don't have a
board so you play in your head. It takes a huge amount of practice but
I'd had plenty.

The colonel followed me for about five or six moves and then, like
most who haven't played this way before, he lost it. I had him in
checkmate after eleven moves. He started to protest but I repeated
each of our moves to him verbatim. He laughed and shook and his head.
Then he shook my hand. "Clever man. You have Angelika and good
chance!" "Good Luck," Angela corrected him, "In English, you say Good
Luck!" He grinned. "Good Luck, Good Luck!" He then spouted another
burst of Estonian that had Angela blushing crimson. I asked for a
translation but she refused. Her father roared with laughter. Then he
leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks and said something in a
low, serious voice. Angela nodded, muttered a reply and gave him a shy
smile. She turned to me.

"My father asks if you make me happy, if you are gentle with me. I
told him you are the gentlest man in the world. " She turned back and
spoke some more with her father and they walked off together, his arm
draped protectively over her shoulders. He looked back and beckoned
for me to follow. Placing his other arm over my shoulder he smiled at
me with great warmth. His big hand squeezed my shoulder and he spoke
softly in Estonian, leaving Angela to translate.

"I have not been a good father. I was not a good husband. I spent my
life as a soldier playing men's games. I am happy you will be my son.
You are not a soldier and will not always be leaving Angelika as I
did. One daughter is dead. I thought that I had lost this one as well.
Now it is time to end this thing that I began so you may marry and
live your lives in peace. Peace is the job of the soldier, not war.
You have had to be like a soldier and I am sorry for this. We must
fight for a little time more. We must win or there will be no peace
for you. There will be no peace for anyone. You must put aside any
thoughts of tomorrow while it is still today. You both have my
blessing. I think you are good for my Angelika. You love her and wish
to look after her?"

I said I did.

"I know my daughter. We have grown apart in recent times but still I
know Angelika. I saw the way she was with you, saw that she loved you
and you loved her. This is good. This is a good thing for a father to
see. I wish her mother could see it too. But now we must be ready to
fight. Do you understand?"

I understood all right. He was telling me that we mustn't get
distracted, that there was still danger out there. I didn't need
reminding.

Chapter 15
  

The colonel must have been prescient because that was the night all
hell broke loose. Not that we were involved, at least, not then. I got
the story from Niall and, later, Commander Swann. Some of it was
published it the newspaper accounts but an awful lot got suppressed by
the authorities. The Establishment looks after its own and I reckon
there were too many red faces in high places. I doubt even that we
ever learned the full extent of the conspiracy.

Niall, Bill and Steve had made their way to Southwold. They had
located Brownlock's farm and parked the car about a mile away where it
wouldn't readily be seen. They had gone in under cover of darkness on
foot. Bill said it was just like the old days, a three-man patrol in
hostile territory. The farm was in darkness but they had the feeling
it was occupied. They lay up under cover and watched for about two
hours. Patience had its reward. A door in one of the barns opened and
spilled a patch of light out into the farmyard. Niall was looking
through a nightsight and he thought that the man who emerged from the
barn was Brownlock himself. He looked furtive, closing the door
quickly and hurrying away out of sight behind the house. Moments
later, they heard a car start and a large Mercedes crept out of the
farm with its lights off. It negotiated the farm track in darkness and
only switched on headlights once it was on the public road. Then it
speeded up and drove off in the direction of Southwold. They made out
only one person in the car.

After Brownlock had gone, those who remained seemed to relax and got
sloppy. The barn door opened again and this time stayed open. Three
men came out. One of them lit a cigarette and Niall could make out the
submachine gun he had slung over his shoulder as he stooped over the
flame. They had found the Chechens. Niall stayed where he was but sent
Bill and Steve to circle the farm buildings. They were better at
silent movement than he was and he wanted to keep an eye on the barn.
They could make out at least two more figures inside, through the open
door. Bill went off to the left and Steve to the right. Niall swears
he lost sight of them before they had covered twenty yards. Steve came
back first. He'd discovered a Dutch barn - one of those things with a
curved roof supported by steel stanchions but no walls - it was full
of hay. This struck them as odd because there was no other sign that
this was a working farm.

They waited for Bill to come back. He had found a sentry and 'taken
care of him.' The three of them then moved around the perimeter to the
Dutch barn. The hay concealed a shipping container! Niall said there
were no prizes for guessing that this was the shipment of bronze that
had disappeared from Felixstowe. The container was still on a road
trailer but there was no sign of the tractor unit that had hauled it.
The customs seals were broken so it had been opened. They decided to
check on the contents before informing Swann. As Niall said, there
wasn't much point in sending for the cavalry if the thing was empty.

They slipped inside the container and pulled the door to behind them.
Inside, they found the piles bronze ingots. Nothing appeared to have
been disturbed but they started to go through the piles, looking for
those with the foundry mark stamped lengthwise. Sure enough, in the
second pile they examined, they found four such ingots. Niall decided
to pull out then and send in Swann and his men. It was too late. Steve
opened the container door and stepped through. The night exploded into
violence.

Steve was almost cut in half by a hail of machinegun fire before he
was halfway through the door. He was dead before his body crashed to
the ground. Niall and Bill threw themselves behind a stack of bronze
bars and readied their weapons. They couldn't see much so Bill hurled
heavy bronze bars at the door until it stood open. Niall called the
police on his mobile and got ready to die. He said he was convinced
that their 'number was up.' The Chechens tried to rush them. Bill and
Niall fired at the gun flashes. They certainly hit a couple and the
Chechens withdrew. Someone threw a grenade at the container and it
exploded on the roof. It sounded like the clap of doom to the two men
inside. Their ears rang and their senses reeled. Bill loosed off a
short burst 'to keep the bastards honest.' Niall saw them bringing up
some kind of rocket launcher. He shouted a warning to Bill and the
pair dived behind the stacks of ingots.

They were only just in time as the projectile struck beside the door
and exploded with stunning force. The noise made the previous grenade
explosion seem like a tap on a child's drum by comparison. Bill and
Niall were completely deafened. The shock would have disabled most
people but those two were pros. The Chechens followed up with another
wild rush. Once again they had to retreat as the two ex-soldiers
poured a concentrated fire into the running figures. Niall signalled
to Bill, neither could hear a thing still so they couldn't talk to
each other. They made a dash for the door and flung themselves out.
One rolled left and the other right, firing as they went.

As Niall told us later, they were fighting mad by now. They got to
their feet and ran at the enemy, switching clips as they went. It was
over quickly. Bill took a round to the shoulder and another in the
fleshy part of his calf. Niall had seven bullet holes in his parka but
was, by some miracle, unhurt. Two Chechens remained alive but hey were
both badly wounded. Much of the damage had been done when one of the
terrorists was hit in the process of trying to throw another grenade.
It had slipped from his grasp and exploded among his fellows. "Typical
bloody amateurs," according to Bill. Niall applied field dressings to
Bill's wounds and fed him a couple of morphine tablets. He then
treated the wounded Chechens. After all, they might have something to
say under interrogation. Then Niall checked over the farm and the
various buildings. The Chechens had obviously used the lighted barn as
accommodation for he found two more inside, both badly wounded but
having obviously received medical treatment. These must have been hit
during the attack on the cottage. The farmhouse itself was almost
empty. Only one room was furnished and this looked like it had been
their operations centre. Maps of Eastern England hung on the walls and
there were a couple of computer terminals. The room smelt strongly of
stale tobacco smoke.

Niall then got Bill and the other wounded men into the barn. He made
them as comfortable as he could. Bill was in good spirits but
light-headed from the combined effects of blood loss and morphine.
Niall gathered up Steve's body and laid him out in one of the empty
rooms in the farmhouse. Then the reaction set in and he began to
shake. He threw up a couple of times and then went outside, breathing
deeply to try and clear his head. After a while, he phoned Swann
again. The Special Branch man was approaching Southwold by helicopter.
An armed response unit had been summoned from Ipswich and they would
be there soon. Swann asked Niall to illuminate a landing area. He
gathered piles of straw and laid them an out in an 'H' pattern on a
large open area of grass he supposed to be a paddock.

Swann hurried from the helicopter, head bent and his coat flapping in
the downdraft. A dozen heavily armed Special Branch officers quickly
followed him. They rigged up portable floodlights while Swann took
Niall into the house. Niall told him everything we had surmised, how
we had identified the farmhouse and all that happened since the three
of them arrived there. Swann wasn't best pleased and kept demanding to
know why we hadn't called him earlier. He'd been wasting his time in
South London. Niall got mad at him and him and spat back that it was
Swann who had said he couldn't act without evidence. Now he had all
the bloody evidence he'd ever need.

All the wounded and Steve's body were taken by helicopter to a nearby
RAF base. "No need to hang out our dirty washing in public," Swann
said. He walked away from Niall and boarded the helicopter. Niall sat
alone in the farmhouse 'operations room.' Reaction set in and he
started to shake uncontrollably and wept. The task force from Ipswich
had arrived by then and took over the investigation on the ground.
Niall was asked to write an account of everything that happened since
taking that fateful telephone call from me on Saturday morning. He
finished his statement and slipped away. He walked back to the Range
Rover, got in and drove to the nearest pub. He told us later it was
though his brain completely shut down. He was going to call us but
first he needed a drink. One drink became five or six and then a dozen
or more. He floated away from consciousness on a sea on Bushmills. The
pub landlord sighed and helped him to a bedroom for the night.
'Another bloody drunken Irishman,' he thought and left Niall sprawled,
fully clothed, on the narrow bed.

Meanwhile Swann had been very busy indeed. As soon as the helicopter
had landed at the RAF base, he had dashed into the communications
centre and demanded a secure line to London. He had then spoken at
length with New Scotland Yard and with the duty officer at MI5. They
must have loved him! Anyway, as a result of Swann's phone calls, beds
were emptied all over Europe. Weary police and security personnel
dragged themselves to their various Headquarters and almost two
hundred arrests were made, if you believe the newspapers.

***********************************

In the cottage in Norfolk, we were totally unaware of what was
happening. Angela celebrated our 'engagement' with a bottle of 'the
widow' and she got very giggly as the vintage champagne went straight
to her head. Liam and the colonel drank our health in mineral water.
Liam was gloomy all evening and cursed himself for letting Niall go
off without him. His mood was infectious so Angela and I left him to
it and went down to the studio to check out how the model was doing.
The kiln was on a timer so it had switched off hours before but the
process demanded that the fired clay was allowed to cool at its own
rate and couldn't be moved until it was ready.

Angela pronounced herself satisfied and said that the next day she
could begin the delicate task of covering the model with a fine, even
layer of wax. She promised me hard labour, mixing sand and old motor
oil for the mould. Then she would heat the bronze into the mould,
melting the wax in the process. The wax would run out of prepared
drainage channels and the bronze would replace it. Once the bronze had
cooled in its turn, she could extract the model, which by then would
be inside the bronze casting. She would simply shatter it to remove
it; she produced 'one off' pieces and would have no further use for
it. Then her work would start again, burnishing and refining the raw
piece until it was the finished article.

I have probably given the impression that Angela worked exclusively in
bronze. Although that was her main medium, it was not exclusively so.
She worked in other metals and stone as well but her favourite was
always bronze. That metal never seemed cold to Angela. Somehow, she
imbued each piece with life and movement. The rich colour of the metal
added to the impression of something vibrant. I could only stand back
and admire. Lacking any talent whatsoever in that direction, I cannot
due justice in any words of mine to the creative process that she
engaged in. I have made it sound as though it is nothing more than a
simple matter of physics; of one substance having a lower
melting-point than another. It was much, much more than that. You'd
have to witness her at work to understand.

It was around midnight by the time she was finished and satisfied that
all was well. It had taken over two hours to extract the model from
the kiln and clean and prepare it to Angela's demanding standards. I
found myself looking at a life-sized statue of Trotsky. It was a bit
like looking at a photographic negative. The clay lacked that special
quality that bronze brings. It was Trotsky to the life but life was
the one thing that was missing. It must have showed on my face for
Angela gave me a hug. "It looks like his funeral mask," I said. She
laughed and agreed. "At this stage, it does not live, it is true. The
clay is dull. You will see; bronze will bring fire to him. Then it
will come awake." I knew she was right but it didn't stop me from
giving a vague shiver as if someone had walked over my grave.

Liam was extremely anxious by the time we came back into the kitchen.
He was trying to disguise it but he couldn't sit still. By contrast,
the colonel was like one of Angela's bronzes, immobile but filled with
blazing power. There was still no word from Niall and the other two.
We sat around discussing all the plausible reasons for not contacting
us but every one sounded hollow. After a while, Angela and I went to
bed. I heard the colonel and Liam discussing in Russian as to who
should take the first watch. Even without speaking the language I
could guess that Angela's father was urging Liam to get some rest
while Liam was protesting that he couldn't possibly sleep so the
colonel should go ahead. Immovable object meets irresistible force. I
gave up worrying about who would prevail. I trusted either one to keep
us safe.

We made love very tenderly that night. It was almost a transcendental
experience. I had the sense that we became very much a single being. A
rich aura of warmth surrounded us. Our love was a liquid essence that
flowed between us. Love is a deep mystery that only the initiated may
understand. That night, we proved ourselves to be higher adepts of the
rites. It wasn't our most athletic or gymnastic display, it didn't
need to be. There was a quintessential purity about our lovemaking
that made us weep with the utter sweetness of it. We didn't need
pyrotechnics. Angela transported me to places I have never been, whose
existence I had never guessed. Yet it was soft and slow, dreamlike at
times and breathless at others, when her orgasms rolled and crashed
like great ocean breakers.

The darkness of the night itself had the quality of warm velvet. Our
bed was an island in a sea of dreams and hopes for the future. At
times, when my brain was tumbling and spinning and my body poured out
its seed into her, I could catch glimpses of our coming life together,
or so it seemed. The magic was strong that night. It hummed and
crackled between us. Unicorns pranced and dragons flew and fauns
danced in the meadows of Norfolk. Time was suspended, the stars
reversed their courses; and we made love.

I could breathe her scent. Her very presence consumed all conscious
thoughts and seared them from my brain. For a while, we didn't
notice that a thunderstorm had stolen up the coast. Once we realised,
we pulled back the curtains and revelled in the display. Angela's body
looked unearthly in the harsh white flash of the lightning. I saw her
as a sprite, ethereal and fascinating in the oldest sense of that
word. The smooth roundness of her buttocks and the curve of her
breasts; the slightly convex swell of her belly falling towards the
central altar at the junction of her thighs seemed to be dusted with a
phosphorescent glow. It was as though she was lit from within by the
love that burned there. And I knew that love was for me. My heart
swelled in my chest so that I could hardly breathe. My vision swam and
I caught my breath. She looked so lovely that it hurt. A physical
longing consumed me that had nothing at all to do with bodies and
lust. I yearned to be joined to her, soul merging with soul and mind
with mind. I wanted to see through her eyes, feel with her senses the
loving invader penetrating her, filling her and finding its release.

It was a long time later that we finally fell asleep, satiated and
happy.

Chapter 16


The thunderstorm had gone by morning and patches of blue sky were
doing their best to pull apart the low drape of cloud that hugged the
sea. We walked along the beach again though I swear we left no
footprints. Some of the magic from the previous night seemed to linger
about us still. It may sound callous, but I wasn't particularly
worried about Niall. Angela made me feel immortal - that protection
had to include my friends. It sounds lame now but I really felt that.
Of course, there was no justification and anyone who wasn't consumed
by the madness that had seized me could see it. Even Angela, a fellow
traveller in never-never land, was concerned. I dismissed her fears
with a lofty "If anything's wrong we'd have heard by now."

I'd missed the early morning News when we went out so when I did turn
on the radio on our return, the main story had really gathered a head
of steam. The clipped matter-of-fact tones of the BBC announcer seemed
fantastically at odds with the story he was relating.

"Police forces across Europe have made hundreds of arrests following
what appears to have been a plot by international terrorists. Sources
in the Home Office have indicated that this is the result of an
intensive investigation by the Security Services and Special Branch.
Special Branch officers have made a number of arrests in London and
elsewhere in the UK. Prominent among those arrested was Alexander
Renfrew, the media tycoon. A spokesman for Mr Renfrew said that he was
cooperating with the authorities voluntarily and was innocent of any
wrongdoing.

"Reports have been coming in of a gun battle near Southwold in
Suffolk. Local police report that a number of bodies have been
recovered from the scene at isolated Newgale Farm. Those involved are
believed to have belonged to a to an organised crime syndicate with
links to Chechnya. Unconfirmed reports suggest that members of the
security forces were also present. A news conference has been
scheduled for midday.

"Elsewhere, it has just been announced that the body of Charles
Brownlock, the controversial MP for New Malden, was discovered in his
car in a lay-by on the A12 early this morning. Police are not treating
his death as suspicious. Mr Brownlock, an MP since 1987, was
frequently associated with left-wing causes and in recent times had
become a marginalized figure on the Labour back benches."

The announcer then switched to more on the deepening crisis in the
Middle East. Liam rose and switched the radio off. He looked around at
us. "It's over, then," he said. I can't really describe my feelings at
that point. I certainly didn't feel triumphant. I can't even say I
felt a great sense of relief. It was more like a feeling of calm
descended on me. I looked at the others. The Colonel was nodding his
head. Angela looked stunned. Only Magic seemed to react appropriately.
He heaved himself up from the corner where he had been lying and
stalked across the room towards me. His tail was wagging so furiously
that everything aft of his shoulders was wiggling. A large wet nose
pressed into the back of my hand and an even larger paw landed on my
knee. His long, tatty ears twitched forward and he gazed as me as if
to say "what was all that about?" Angela leaned over and hugged his
neck. He looked bemused; then again, he usually does.

We'd just started to discuss what had happened to the other three when
Niall phoned. I took the call but Liam snatched the phone out of my
hand and began to berate his twin in extremely salty language. His
voice trailed away as he listened to Niall's replies until he stood in
silence, face grave. After a brief interval he put the receiver down
slowly and turned to face us. "It got bloody," he said. "Steve's dead
and Bill took a couple of rounds. They found the shipment but got
caught before they could send for the cavalry. Niall's OK and thinks
Bill will pull through."

"Where's Niall?" I asked. 

Liam pulled a face. "On his way back. He said he got pissed and passed
out when it was over. He's sorry he didn't call. Couldn't think
straight. He'll be here in about half an hour."

"Oh! Poor Steve!" Angela looked close to tears. The Colonel said
something filthy in Estonian. It deflated us all. Liam was blazing
with fury:

"The stupid bastard!" He was almost spitting with rage. "They found
the container hidden in a barn. All three went inside. The Chechens
rumbled them and opened up when Steve started to leave. They are lucky
they weren't all killed. Why the fuck didn't one of them keep watch?"

"Bad," the colonel muttered but his face was a picture of
understanding. He knew Liam's anger for what it really was: relief
that his brother was alive. Liam rounded on him.

"How the fuck do you know? You weren't there!" Then he caught himself
and gave a wry smile. "At least the stupid git is all right." The
colonel nodded, his normally flinty eyes full of sympathy. We lapsed
into silence. Angela took my hand and held it like it was a crucifix.
Then we heard the sound of a car approaching. "That was quick," I
said, thinking it would be Niall. Liam shook his head, it wasn't the
Range Rover's V8. Someone knocked at the door. Angela let go of me and
went to answer it. A stranger's voice said, "Miss Sable? Detective
Inspector Fowler, may I come in?"

Fowler walked into the parlour. He was about my age and height with
silvery blond hair and a clean-cut look about him. His suit was
elegantly tailored and looked expensive. I made the brief
introductions and he smiled urbanely before producing his warrant card
from a leather wallet.

"Look," he said, " I'm terribly sorry to bother you but my guvnor,
Commander Swann, asked me to drop by." He reached into an inside
pocket and pulled out the photocopied pages of the colonel's list.
"The thing is, this isn't an original document." He gave me another
dazzling smile. "As I'm sure you know, sir, we have a 'quality of
evidence' issue. The guvnor asked me if you could let us have the
original? We'll also need an affidavit from the good colonel to
explain its provenance. We've got a special sitting at Bow Street
Magistrates Court at six this evening and the CPS (he meant the Crown
Prosecution Service) will need to get this one right. We can hold them
all under the Terrorism Act but we are going to have to produce the
real McCoy."

I nodded understanding. Evidence Rules are such that copies of
documents, rather than originals, can cause problems. He produced a
transfer of evidence form and asked the colonel to sign. Angela
translated; the colonel's English wasn't up to the arcane mysteries of
the British legal system. The old boy wasn't happy about it but he
handed over the oilcloth roll with good enough grace. He asked, via
Angela, for an assurance that the documents would be returned. He
would need them back home in Estonia. Fowler flashed his pearly-white
teeth again and promised this would be no problem. He tucked the
oilcloth into an inside pocket and patted the resulting bulge. "Great
stuff! Well, I won't keep you any longer. I just have to tell you that
you have done an outstanding job. I dare say there will be some more
official recognition in the not-too-distant future."

I don't know why but he grated on me. The bonhomie was just a tad
overdone. He came across as an oily bastard. He made more effusive
goodbyes and headed for the door. The four of us stood there. I had
the feeling we were all glad to see the back of him. Angela had a
strange look on her face. She suddenly paled. "Martin!" she grabbed my
arm. "He is one of them!  He had that badge! It was on the inside of
his lapel!" We stared at her for a second or two. "Are you sure?" Liam
asked. " Yes, yes!" her voice was desperate. All four of us ran to the
door and rushed outside. Fowler was halfway to his car. I shouted
after him "Just a minute!" He turned. He must have realised we had
rumbled him because he started to run towards the car. Just then,
Niall appeared in the Range Rover. Liam made frantic hand signals.
Niall apparently understood for at once the Range Rover accelerated
off the winding track and started bucketing across the grass, cutting
off the angle.

Fowler spun around again, his lips working as he cursed us. He rapidly
calculated that Niall would reach his car before he could. He turned
and started to run off along the edge of the dunes. We took off in
pursuit. I might not be as strong or as fit as the twins but I have
always been faster. I was also better dressed for running in soft sand
than Fowler, I was wearing trainers and jogging pants whereas he was
in a suit. I halved the distance between us in the first hundred
yards. He was now no more than twenty or so yards ahead of me. He put
on a spurt and opened up a bit more of a gap. I knew then that I had
him. The only sport that I had ever been any good at at School was
cross-country running. Even though I didn't run much these days, I
still knew how to do it. Chopping and changing pace takes it out of
you. It's much better to set a cadence, get into a rhythm.

We must have left the cottage door wide open because suddenly I was
joined by Magic and Trotsky. They thought this was a great game. Magic
bounded along beside me while Trotsky obviously thought it would be an
even better game to catch up with the stranger ahead. Fowler threw a
backward glance over his shoulder and his face showed alarm as he saw
the husky bearing down on him. If you don't know your dogs, a running
husky can look pretty scary. They do look like wolves even if their
nature is quite the opposite. Fowler didn't know his dogs; he looked
terrified.

He angled left onto the beach. Trotsky was going flat out by this
point and skidded on past for a few yards before starting to turn. I
leapt to my left over a tussocky mound and went crashing down the edge
of the dunes onto the beach. Magic kept pace with me until he suddenly
swerved in front, causing me to attempt an elaborate side-step that
didn't quite come off. I stumbled on for a couple of paces, arms
wind-milling for balance. The slope was too steep and the surface too
soft and slippery. I tumbled to the ground with a thump that knocked
the wind out of me. I dragged myself to my feet; nothing seemed
broken. Magic was in close orbit around me. His body language seemed
to suggest he loved this game. I cursed him for a useless sod and
staggered after Fowler.

Trotsky, in the meantime, had approached Fowler via the Great Circle
route and was rushing up on him from behind. Fowler must have heard
the huffing breath or the pounding paws for he spun around just as
Trotsky arrived. Trotsky gave his normal greeting jump. For the first
time ever I was grateful that that dog has no manners. Fowler
recoiled, throwing up a protective arm to guard against the imagined
teeth. Two great husky paws impacted on his chest and he lost his
balance, falling flat on his back on the sand like a kid making a
snow-angel. Trotsky danced around a couple of times then took off like
a cream and brown rocket after some seagulls that had caught his
attention.

I'd got my breath back by then and was less than thirty yards from
him. He saw me coming, struggled to his feet and set off again at a
stumbling run. Looking ahead, I saw he'd made a fatal mistake. He was
running towards the estuary where a fierce ebb was rushing into the
North Sea. I turned back to the others and waved them to stay on the
dune path, to head him off if he tried to cut back inland. Liam, or
was it Niall, waved a hand in acknowledgment and carried on at a
determined jog trot. Fowler had recovered and was moving more easily
but I was into my running again and was reeling in him steadily. I saw
him look around wildly. His position had obviously just hit him. He
pulled something white out of his pocket and began to shred it
frantically as he ran. Small pieces of white confetti snowed on the
beach and dispersed in the stiff onshore wind. He headed closer to the
sea.

A series of low wooden groynes lay along this stretch of beach. The
sand was piled high on one side and had been excavated on the other by
the ceaseless tide. We hurdled the barriers like athletes in a
steeplechase. Fowler angled his run out onto a low spit of sand that
curled like a protective arm across the mouth of the estuary. This
spit was hidden at high water so I guessed we were about halfway
through the ebb. The 'rule of twelfths' sprung into my mind. One
twelfth of the water ebbs during the first the hour, two in the
second, three in the third and fourth, two in the fifth and one in the
sixth. The tide would be at its strongest about now. There was no way
he could get across the estuary. There was something like a seven-knot
tide running. If he tried it, he'd be swept away.

I was barely ten yards away now. Fowler skidded to a halt. I saw his
arm come back and caught a flash of yellow tumbling end over end
against the dull grey loom of the sea. He had flung the oilskin roll
of documents out into the turmoil of water that marked where the
wind-driven waves did battle with the rush of the tide. Sandbanks and
currents further confused the sea into a nasty chop of broken grey and
white, shot through with the muddy silty stream of the river itself.
He turned to face me, a look of triumph on his face. "No fucking
evidence!" His scream was high and joyous but his right hand was
fumbling with the latch of a shoulder holster.

A black shadow flashed over the dirty ochre of the sand. Magic hurled
himself into the water, jumping to breast the breaking waves. Fowler's
triumphant look vanished in a flash. He crouched, pistol extended in
both hands, and fired. He got off three shots before I hit him. Angela
told me afterwards that they saw me take off in mid run and launch
myself at him. He must have been turning back towards me because my
head smashed into his nose and I heard and felt it break. We crashed
to the ground. Fury of a type I have never experienced lent me wings.
I was incandescent with rage. The bastard was shooting at my dog! I
lost it completely. I was howling like a soul in torment as I leapt on
him. I smashed my fists into his face. I bit, gouged, kicked and
thrashed. I didn't hear the crack of the revolver or feel the wind of
the bullet that blasted past my face. I didn't feel the pain of the
resulting powder-burn nor was I aware of the skin on my knuckles
splitting. I just kept pounding him until Niall arrived to pull me off
his senseless body.

"Christ!" Niall said, "remind me never to upset you, Martin. You've
damn near killed him." My vision swam back into focus and I looked
down at Fowler. His face was not recognisable as that of a human
being. Blood oozed from his shattered nose and from a number of cuts
around his eyes and mouth. I had driven his front teeth through his
upper lip and bitten off the top of his right ear. He was breathing
harshly through the open mess that had been his mouth. I spun away
from him, sickened by what I'd done, and vomited onto the sand.

Suddenly I remembered Magic and stood, gazing frantically out to sea
and bellowing his name. I could see no sign of him. Angela and her
father arrived, panting heavily. Angela had run back to call Swann and
her father typically had run to get a weapon. He stood there now, a
heavy black automatic trained unwaveringly on Fowler who had started
to groan and twitch as consciousness returned. "There!" said Angela,
"there he is!" I followed her pointing finger and could just make out
a small black dot in the confused sea. He was about a hundred yards
out and being swept further by the tide.

Some instinct must have told him that he couldn't fight the current.
He was swimming parallel to the shore. The tide pushed him further out
to sea but he kept going. "Oh my God, I've lost him," I groaned. "No!"
Angela said. "He's trying to get out of the current. If he can get to
the shelter of the spit, the tide will be less without the water from
the river. I've seen the little fishing boats do it lots of times."

We watched in agony as Magic fought the roiling water. He swam on
strongly though still receding further from the beach. It must have
taken him ten minutes or more to claw his way out of the current and a
further twenty to creep towards the spit where we stood, yelling
encouragement. I could see the yellow roll clamped in his teeth and I
knew he was going to make it now. I laughed with relief. "Good Dog!" I
called to him. "Good Boy! Come on, Magic!" Then I laughed again. "You
know, when he gets that roll ashore he's just going to chew it up. He
never got the hang of retrieving." The others stared at me. Magic
staggered as a wave caught him and then he tumbled over as it broke
over his head. Angela gasped. A soggy black shape reappeared in the
foam and then he his paws touched bottom and he was struggling out of
the backwash. His flanks were heaving with effort and he looked, if
you'll excuse the expression, dog-tired.

He came across the sand at a shambling trot, dropped the oilskin roll
at my feet and subsided onto the sand. He was panting and his pink
tongue lolled out of one side of his grinning mouth. He didn't even
have the energy to shake himself. A bright red furrow ran across the
deep black of his back where one of Fowler's bullets had scored him. I
flung myself down beside him and hugged him. Trotsky decided to rejoin
the party at that moment. He walked up jauntily, sniffed at the
still-prostrate Fowler, raised one aristocratic back leg and pissed
all over him. He wandered over to where Magic and I were crouched on
the sand and began to lick Magic's injured back with gentle delicacy.
Magic gave him a look that seemed to say 'thanks, mate.'

We walked back to the cottage. Liam and Niall half carried, half
dragged Fowler between them. They had secured his hands behind him
with his own handcuffs. He didn't look in any state to try anything.
Angela sat me at the kitchen table and bathed my burned face and
injured hands. I winced as he pulled a splinter of tooth out of my
right knuckles. My hands had started to swell and the skin was rapidly
turning the colour of an aubergine where it wasn't just raw flesh.
I'll never make a boxer. The whump-whump of helicopter blades
announced the arrival of Swann. I left it to Liam to explain. I was in
that state of post-adrenalin torpor. I could hardly keep my eyes open.
Swann took possession of the oilskin roll. He knelt down beside Magic,
who was as knackered as I was. Magic opened one bleary eye and managed
the faintest twitch of his tail. "Good boy," said Swann. He made his
farewells and left after extracting a promise from us all to attend
him at New Scotland Yard the following afternoon.

I yawned loudly. "I guess it really is over this time," I said. "Yes,"
said Liam. "At least for us. I have the feeling Swann's work is just
beginning."


The End



Epilogue



Last night, Angela and I made love for the first time in our new home.
I managed to sell the mews house in Kensington within a week of it
going on the market. That stirred us up a bit and we found this place.
It's not all that big but it is pretty and the acre and a half of
gardens is perfect for the dogs. Just down the road is Battle, where
William the Conqueror beat Harold Godwineson in 1066. The coast is a
mile or two further on. A small lake bounds our house on the northern
side and as I write this, a local builder is restoring a low stone
outbuilding. It will make a very fine studio.

Commander Swann was, as predicted by Liam, very busy indeed in the
weeks that followed and the papers have been full of revelations about
the depth of the plot. At our own request, our names didn't appear
anywhere. Only the colonel, identified simply as a member of the
Estonian Security Service working under deep cover, got a mention.
Swann decided to take no action against Niall, Liam and Bill for their
illegal actions and the last I heard from the twins, they had just got
a government security contract. Bill has recovered from his wounds and
has joined Liam and Niall full-time. Liam has just about forgiven
Niall for getting pissed and falling asleep.

Two days ago, before we moved out of London, Angela and I took Magic
and Trotsky for a last walk in Kensington Gardens. We were wandering
along towards the round pond when I heard someone calling my name.

"Martin! I say, Martin Booth!" 

It was Steph. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a very
expensive piece of Italian engineering. We strolled over. Angela's arm
was firmly gripping mine and she leant into me slightly. I could
almost feel her hackles rising. Steph smiled sweetly up at us. The man
beside her could have been a male model. He gazed at us
disinterestedly.

"Hello, Steph," I said. I gave my feelings a quick once over. Nothing.

"A little bird tells me you're getting married, Martin, can this be
true?"

"It is."

"And is this the lucky lady? Do introduce us, darling."

"Steph, meet Angela; Angela, Steph."

"And how did you two love-birds meet? Somewhere boring, I expect?"

"Oh yes," said Angela. "It was very boring; walking the dogs."

"I see you still you still have those smelly animals, Martin."

I grinned. "We couldn't want for better," I said. 

Steph sniffed. "Each to his own. 'Bye, darling, must rush." 

Trotsky ambled up, sniffed at the Ferrari and pointedly pissed on the
front wheel. I let him finish before pulling him away. Angela and I
walked off laughing, the shout of outrage ringing in our ears.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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