“If the guests don’t bolt it all down. Those people can eat like wolfhounds when they’re at a house-party.”

  “True enough,” said the first. “But I don’t think we’ll lack. We haven’t before.” Another rakeful of stall-muck hit the heap.

  “This is a bit different,” said the second. “Time will tell.”

  “You mean all that hush-hush business?” The first man laughed once as he continued to toss the latest additions to the midden onto it. “It’s a lot of show, if you ask me.”

  “Show?” The second paused. “It may be, but it’s more than that: what Sissons expects is more than entertainment.” He, too, began to unload his mucking basket. “He’s nervous as a rat facing a terrier.”

  The first man laughed again. “Well, you could be right, Oliver. I still say it’s a bubble.” He worked in silence, then said, “I’m for having a pint while I can. You care to come with me?”

  “Into the village?” Oliver asked.

  “No. We’re not to go out until after the house-party is over; we’re all supposed to stay close at hand, in case we’re needed—didn’t you see the notice on the bulletin board? I thought I’d run along to the back lodge. There’s beer there and no one will begrudge us a pint; we’ll have it with cheese and call it high tea. No one will mind. I heard Mister Collins say so.”

  “Then I’d be glad to join you,” said Oliver, completing his task. “We can feed when we’re through.”

  “Plenty of time for that,” the first conceded. “The dogs won’t be set loose for another three hours, after that gammon caterer comes up with his staff. Right loose in the haft, I’d say.”

  “May be, but he cooks a treat,” said Oliver.

  Fleming heard the muck baskets being pulled away as the two grooms prepared to go off for their late afternoon drink. Left on his own, Fleming considered his options, deciding he had two hours to scope out the place before he would have to find a safe haven for the night. If he could discover what was going on here in that time, he might be able to get out before the dogs were turned loose. If not, then he would be hard-pressed to accomplish anything before morning, when more guests would begin to arrive.

  He made his way along the side of the stable, taking care to keep in the shadow of the stable-roof. All the stalls had small, fenced paddocks behind them, and in a few of them, the horses stood, occasionally flicking flies with their tails but otherwise moving in that listless way that suggested a storm was building. Fleming found himself encouraged by this, hoping that a good, solid rain would work on his behalf, providing cover, washing away his scent, and furnishing enough confusion to permit him to accomplish everything he intended to do. He wished he had some of those listening devices he’d found on the Packard—he could use them now, or more sophisticated tools that would give him an edge in this dangerous enterprise. A mobile camera about the size of a fly to show him what lay ahead; that would be useful, with a viewing screen built into the face of his wristwatch. At least he had a pistol once again nestled in the holster at the small of his back—little enough if it came to a fight, it was still better than nothing at all. He would have liked to have at least another two of them on his person, and perhaps a hand-grenade, suitably disguised, and a bolt-cutter. He made himself stop yearning for impossibilities and instead to pay attention to his immediate predicament.

  Beyond the stable he had to face a broad stretch of lawn to his left, with the north wing of the house rising at the far end of it, and a cluster of various species of palms to his right. He hesitated a moment, then struck off for the trees, anticipating their protection. It would be better, he thought, to have a higher vantage-point so that he might work out the lay of the land rather better than he already had done, but the highest spot for some distance around was the roof of the Sissons house, and that was not only inaccessible, it was very likely patrolled and guarded. He studied the trees above him and decided it was highly unlikely that he could climb any one of them undetected. He decided he would have to take stock some other way. For the time being, he kept to the shade of the fronds and did his best to look about from his concealed position.

  After about twenty minutes, his inactivity began to rankle, and he started toward what appeared to be a large garden with a number of paths meandering through carefully laid-out beds of ferns and flowers. He spent half his time bending over various buds and blooms as if he were a gardener, hoping that any casual observer might dismiss him as such. He had worked himself around to the west flank of the house, continuing his pose as a gardener while looking for doors that might give him access to the building when he reached a stretch of slate paving where chairs and tables were set out, large umbrellas ready to be unfurled against the sun when it appeared. Tantalizingly near were two doors, one leading into the main part of the house, the other, less conspicuously, seeming to lead to the servants’ sector of the building. Fleming paused, wondering how he might approach it when he heard a soft footfall behind him.

  “Ah, Fleming,” said Sir William Potter. “I had almost given you up.”

  Chapter 41

  FLEMING TURNED to face a silenced Beretta that was leveled at his head from about eight feet away. “So this was a trap?” He kept his voice cool, though his gut knotted hot within him.

  “Ruse would be a better word for it. You were the one who turned it into a trap, for which I thank you. But I have been most fortunate: Henry Long has no notion that the reports he has sent so diligently to MI5 found their way to me instead of the intended recipient. His work has been invaluable to me. One could call it providential, at least from my point of view.” He was looking hale and rested, his skin pink from exposure to the tropical sun. No longer in woolen pin-stripes, he sported a linen blazer and slacks in a pale blue-green over a silk shirt of lilac; his tie was pearl-white. “To be candid, I didn’t think you’d return from America—in a way it’s inconvenient that you did. Still, I’m not adverse to improvisation.”

  “Was your disappearance an improvisation as well?” Fleming asked.

  Sir William used the barrel of his Beretta to gesture to Fleming, indicating he should move away from the house. “No. No, that was very much a part of the plan. Once you were willing to take on the assignment I offered you, it was only a matter of going out to the cove. You made that particularly easy, by the by. I must say I’m grateful for your good manners. Once I reached the far end of the cove, Soleilsur had a cigarette boat standing by to take me aboard.”

  “And the slashed suit-coat?” Fleming inquired as he began to walk along the path Sir William pointed him toward. “What was the reason for that?”

  “Why, it served two purposes: first, it convinced you that my plight was real—it did, didn’t it?” He smiled as Fleming nodded. “And it kept you from examining my role in subsequent events, for you assumed I was a victim, not an instigator. That bought me a fair amount of time.”

  “I’m afraid that much is true, at least until—” He stopped, not wanting to recall the dreary hours of waiting for Doctor Bethune to finish his work on Cesar.

  “Yes, until. Well, it had to come: I supposed even you would eventually put an end to my pretense,” said Sir William with intensely false sadness. “It’s unfortunate that you were so assiduous in your efforts. Had you been more lax, your discoveries would have come too late and none of this would have been necessary.”

  Fleming decided to do his best to keep Sir William boasting, in the hope that he might find an opportunity to overset him, or to escape. “It was a very tricksy dance you led me.”

  “I’m sorry it wasn’t more so,” said Sir William. “Have I been careless?”

  Although this was exactly Fleming’s opinion, he said, “I wouldn’t think so, no. I was lucky. I was able to get a fair amount of information that linked you to the murdered men; I don’t imagine I would have made the connection without a little serendipity. If I hadn’t got that report at Los Alamos, I don’t suppose I would have seen the pattern that linked you to Krandall, Cathcart, and Preussin. Even with that, I assumed at first that you were among the targets.”

  “I hope you haven’t been reckless enough to share your information with anyone?” Sir William shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to have to kill too many more of your associates. It would be difficult to implicate you in all of them.”

  “That is your plan, I assume? To make it appear that I’m responsible for your mischief? That I have done your killings? You need a—what do the Americans call it?—a patsy, a fall-guy. As I’ve been all along.” Fleming wanted to make it seem that he had overreached himself in coming here, that he was without any protection. “You’ve been planning this for some while, haven’t you?”

  “No, not for very long,” said Sir William with relish. “Hardly more than four weeks. It took me a while to choose you for the goat, however. I wanted to find just the right man.”

  “Because you can point to my work and travel as the means of my activities? Using my journalism to cover the work of an assassin? Sounds like a Hitchcock film to me; The Thirty-Nine Steps. Adventure wrapped up in a riddle?” Fleming inquired, hoping that Sir William would tell him more. “Do you think you can make me responsible for everything you’ve done?”

  “Not all of it. I don’t reckon I can lay Preussin’s death at your door, but there are ways to link you to a conspiracy that may implicate you in that aspect of his death.” Sir William was less willing to delay his work now. “You will see a shed on the path ahead of you. When you reach it, open the door.”

  Fleming regarded the garden uneasily. “Aren’t you taking a bit of a chance? I might escape.”

  “My dear Fleming, I am counting on that. Do escape, please. The dogs haven’t had a treat in over a month. It will be unfortunate that no one was able to reach them in time to keep them from mauling you to death.” He stopped walking.

  “And if I don’t escape, what then?” Fleming asked nonchalantly, trying to cover his growing unease.

  “Then I shall have to release you and set you running, after I put a bullet in your thigh to make you ready prey. That reminds me: do give me your handkerchief. I need something for the mastiffs to take your scent.” His voice became sharper. “Drop it on the ground. I’ll pick it up later.” He cleared his throat. “Now, Fleming. Do not make me tell you twice, or I might be forced to put a bullet through your foot.”

  “Doesn’t it worry you that I might scream?” Fleming asked.

  “Not a bit of it. Scream away—for all the good it would do you.” Sir William was gloating. “The handkerchief?”

  “You want something of mine to show the police, to prove I was in the house. You’re relying on the laundry mark to provide identification,” Fleming guessed, and took Sir William’s silence for confirmation. He did as he was told, then continued down the path, and came at last to the shed.

  “Stop,” said Sir William. “Open the door.” When Fleming had done this, he went on, “There are lengths of heavy twine used to bind plants. Take three of them out and toss them toward me. Carefully.”

  As he did as he was told, Fleming asked, “Is this about mining harbors, and using the mines to blackmail the ships and countries using the harbors? Are you intending to take control of the seas? And are you planning to make an example of Jamaica?”

  Sir William laughed. “That’s Soleilsur’s contribution, and I don’t think I’ll tell you where we plan to begin. There are so many possibilities, just in the Gulf of Mexico. Consider the ramifications. Think about how thoroughly the world can be brought to its knees, without setting off a single atom bomb. That will give you something to wile away the hours while you’re locked in the shed. Incidentally, mine is rather a more political role than that, the second phase of the campaign, if you like. Perhaps you might contemplate the permutations of our plan during your incarceration. There are so many, and some of them will probably be right. Köln. Hamburg. Marseilles. Cadiz. Southampton. Glasgow. Barcelona. Venice. Tunis. Tokyo. Cape Town. Rio de Janeiro. Vladivostok. Baltimore. Hong Kong. Sydney. Bombay. Panama City. Lima. Copenhagen. Singapore. Manila. There are so, so many.” He kept far enough away to make it impossible for Fleming to make a successful lunge at him.

  “Do you mean to tell me you have mined all those harbors?” Fleming asked, thinking back again to what David Dunstan had said.

  “I don’t mean to tell you anything,” Sir William said bluntly. “I can see you are cleverer than I gave you credit for being. Kneel down if you would.”

  “So you can shoot me?” Fleming challenged even as he went onto his knees, facing a display of rakes, clippers, pots, soil, and hoses. “There are a fair number of witnesses about, I should think.”

  “I’m not going to shoot you, not even with the silencer, not unless you compel me to. You would be hard to explain, and there would be blood to deal with. I’ll leave your disposal to the dogs. They won’t mind the blood.” Sir William giggled.

  “Does this amuse you?” Fleming asked testily, wondering if he could goad Sir William into an impulsive act that he might turn to his advantage.

  “No. You do not.” He lost all trace of levity. “I want to tie your hands but I also want to minimize your opportunity to turn on me. You’re just temerarious enough to do it. I think, given your training and your service record, you might try that, no matter how foolhardy it may be.”

  Fleming put his hands behind his back, trying not to rest them on top of his holster. He hoped he might be able to keep the pistol if he didn’t do anything to draw Sir William’s attention to it. He held his hands out, as if to make the binding easier for his captor. “Be careful not to tie off my circulation,” he warned. “You’d be hard-pressed to explain swollen, blackened hands, no matter what the dogs might do.”

  “You’re assuming your death will be investigated,” said Sir William with smug satisfaction. “You can’t be sure of that, you know.” He began to tug on the cord as he spoke, pulling Fleming’s hands toward him with each emphasis. “Oh, no doubt there’ll be an inquiry. And questions will be asked. There’ll be speculation, but it will come to nothing. Whoever drove you up here will have to tell what he knows. But no one here will have seen you. No one.” He grunted as he tied the knots, then shoved Fleming between the shoulder-blades, sending him onto his face. “Now for your feet. I shouldn’t try anything stupid if I were you.”

  Fleming felt the twine go around his ankles, once, twice, three times, and then it was pulled tight. He could feel scrapes on his face that he supposed must be bleeding. A moment later, Sir William went to his side and began to roll him the last little distance into the garden shed; Fleming knocked his jaw on the slate flagging and resigned himself to a bad bruising.

  “There you go,” said Sir William as he closed the shed door. He was breathing hard now, as if he was too excited by his exertions. He went away from the shed quickly, his steps fading rapidly.

  Fleming lay on the floor of the shed, his face on the loamy floor, the damp of the ground sinking into him and chilling him in spite of the warmth of the day. Uncomfortable as he was, he made himself think. He wriggled around so that he could reach the knots at the back of his ankle. That was an oversight, he thought, to tie his ankles where he could reach the knots. He worked his hands until he could pull at the cords, pushing the rough hemp back through the knots by fractions of an inch at a time. All the while he thought about what Sir William had said, at the staggering number of harbors he had mentioned. If even half of those had been compromised the blow to world commerce would be catastrophic. Sir William had mentioned over twenty cities, all of them important centers of commerce and politically significant. He had loosened the first part of the knot. He continued his efforts, ignoring the tingling in his fingers that indicated coming numbness. How was he going to continue if he couldn’t feel the cord? Would he still be able to get the knots undone if his fingers were insensate? He banished that worry and kept on, refusing to consider defeat.

  There was a spurt of water against the shed, and another: the sprinklers had been turned on, even though rain was threatening for the night. Somewhere nearby two gardeners called to one another; Fleming could not make out what they were saying, but he caught the word supper and the phrase enough for today, and assumed that the day’s work was coming to an end. He recalled the grooms had said something about a lodge, and assumed that other members of the staff were bound there. Which meant that the guards might be off duty, but the dogs would soon be patrolling the estate. In a perfect world, he told himself, using his anger to augment his determination, there would be a simple tool he could use to cut through the heavy hempen twine quickly and easily—a fountain pen, a wrist-watch, a cigarette lighter, something. If he had been able to reach one of the clippers or pruners, he could have been out of this quickly, but they were on shelves up above him, so out of reach they might have been on the moon for all the good they could do him.

  The second level of the knot gave way; Fleming now began to pull his ankles apart, increasing the play in the cord. He redoubled his efforts, and in a short while his feet were free. At least Sir William hadn’t known to tie him in such a way that he couldn’t loosen the cords; he had neglected to put a loop around Fleming’s neck or to use some other detriment to his escape. He reminded himself that Sir William was planning on his getting free, but he rolled onto his back, his pistol making a hard lump against his spine, pulled his knees up to his chest and worked his arms down and over his rump, then brought his bound wrists to his teeth and began to pull the knots. In forty minutes he was free. He stood up, trying to ignore his numb fingers, but realized he would need to feel in order to escape. Shaking his hands to try to restore sensation to them, he took stock of his situation, knowing with utter certainty that Sir William would be returning within a short while to force him out into the night.

  He opened the latch and glanced out into the gloomy dusk. He could hear someone calling for his companions to join him at table; Fleming decided that the dogs would be out soon, and thought he had better not take a chance. He selected a small sickle from the array of tools, thrust it through the front of his belt, and stepped out of the shed into the spray from the sprinklers. Instead of making his way down the path, he managed to climb the shed to the roof, where he lay down, waiting for Sir William’s return, shivering in the slow, cool wind. He thought about his pistol and decided against using it for fear of the attention it would attract—after one shot it would be more trouble than it was worth. Perhaps he would want it later, when he had got away from this dreadful place, when he might have to discourage pursuit.