About ten minutes after he had got onto the roof of the shed, Fleming heard steady footsteps coming down the slates of the walkway, pausing, apparently to turn off the sprinklers, for the water stopped spraying over the plants, and the steps resumed their progress toward the shed. Fleming pulled the sickle from his belt and prepared to move.

  Chapter 42

  SIR WILLIAM pulled open the shed door and stopped still. Then he took a step back, chuckling. “So you’ve decided to take your chances with the dogs?” he called out, almost merrily. “Well, they have your scent. They’ll find you in short order.”

  Fleming moved to the edge of the roof, gathered his knees under him, and dropped down immediately behind Sir William, the sickle held at the ready as he touched the ground. He wrapped his arm around Sir William’s neck, the sickle lying against his throat, and seized his right hand, twisting it and forcing him to drop his Beretta. Fleming kicked this away into the shrubbery and whispered, “If the dogs find me, they also find you.”

  Sir William went stiff, trying to break away from Fleming’s grasp. “Bugger all, you sod.”

  “Ah, ah,” Fleming admonished, “remember how easily I can nick your throat.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Sir William.

  “Don’t wager on that horse,” said Fleming. “You’ll lose.” He shoved Sir William, forcing him to walk with him down the path.

  “You need me to get out of here,” said Sir William, his voice rising in pitch.

  “What do you think I’m doing now?” Fleming said, and made him walk a little faster. He was going in the general direction of the stable, planning to get out the way he came in.

  “You won’t make it thirty feet,” said Sir William with more bravado than conviction.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” said Fleming. “But I’m willing to put your theory to the test.” The blade of the sickle caressed Sir William’s neck. “Just hope I remain calm. You wouldn’t want me to nick you by accident.”

  Sir William did his utmost to move slowly, but Fleming kept moving him on. “No matter what you’ve found, it will come to nothing.”

  “Do you really think so?” Fleming asked, avoiding the spreading branches of a bougainvillea.

  “You have nothing to back up your ludicrous theories,” said Sir William defiantly. “Anything I may have said cannot be supported.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Fleming, making sure he could see what lay ahead of them across the expanse of lawn between the garden and the stable. “Keep walking. If you try to break away, I will cut your throat.”

  “Are you willing to take such a chance?” Sir William challenged.

  “Do you think I am not?” Fleming countered. “You are the one who has been working to compromise the peace in the world.”

  Sir William laughed once. “Do you think the dogs will care? Do you think they’ll assess your motives before they attack?”

  “They will attack you first,” said Fleming, feeling oddly petty for arguing with Sir William, particularly now and in this place: his only excuse was that it kept his fear at bay. He glanced about swiftly and uneasily, keenly aware that the most efficient guard dogs wouldn’t bark.

  “They have your scent,” Sir William reminded him. “They know me. They don’t know you. Whom do you think they’ll go after.” He laughed once. “You don’t know how soon they’ll find you.”

  Fleming felt his body go tight at the thought, but he banished his fear as best he could. “Keep moving,” he said as much to himself as Sir William.

  “Someone will see the two of us,” Sir William kept on. “You won’t get to the stables without detection.”

  “Take the turn on your left,” Fleming said coldly, remembering the way he had come, behind the stable midden. “You’ll have to be careful. The footing isn’t easy.”

  “Then we will have to fall together,” said Sir William with a confidence that Fleming distrusted.

  “You might not like what happens if I trip,” he told his captive, pushing the sickle into his neck. “I’m as apt to slit your throat by accident as to release you. Sickles are sharpened on the inside, remember.”

  Sir William went silent, picking his way stiffly along the edge of the sloping lawn; only a small portion of the upper floor of the house could be seen from here, and Sir William was beginning to fret. “You know you can’t get away.”

  “Then neither can you,” said Fleming, all but frog-marching him toward the rear of the stables. “There are empty stalls. I’m going to tie and gag you and leave you in one of them, unless you make it necessary for me to do more.” They were at the base of the midden, the odor of horse manure was strong, giving Fleming reason to be encouraged, an emotion that faded as he became aware of the sound of pursuit behind them—dogs running, panting, determined.

  “So close and yet so far,” Sir William mocked. “They know not to attack me. But they will rip your guts out.”

  “You had better hope they do not,” said Fleming, his grip on the sickle tightening. He looked about quickly, shoving Sir William as he began a desperate rush toward the stable.

  The first dog caught up with them just as they staggered into the wide aisle between the box stalls. It launched itself at Fleming, a great brute, half German shepherd, half English mastiff, weighing well over a hundred pounds. The impact of his striking was lessened as Fleming brought up his knee, catching the animal in the chest; he kicked at the dog and thrust Sir William ahead of him. “Open the first stall,” he ordered, keeping his grip on Sir William and the sickle.

  The dog had recovered enough to attack a second time, and now Fleming kicked it as hard as he could and was rewarded by a yelp of pain. Almost at once, a second dog slammed into Fleming’s back, its teeth tearing his jacket. Luckily the holster and pistol kept the dog’s teeth from sinking into his flesh. Fleming heard the rattle of the stall door latch as Sir William pulled it open and pressed forward into the stall, Fleming immediately behind him, tugging the door closed as the two dogs hurled themselves at the door from outside.

  “Clever,” Sir William approved, then screamed as the bad-tempered mare who occupied the stall sank her big square teeth into his shoulder.

  Fleming nearly dropped the sickle as Sir William lurched in an attempt to get away; outside the dogs were growling, their claws scrabbling on the wood as they tried to climb. In the next stall, the horse became restless, pacing in the limited confines and chuffing in distress.

  “Get her off me!” Sir William demanded, his free arm swinging in an attempt to push the mare away.

  Fleming dropped the sickle, then reached out and struck the mare sharply on the nose. She shrieked but let go of her prize, half-rearing, her neck snaking out to find another opportunity to strike; Fleming thrust Sir William into the corner of the stall.

  “That bloody horse broke my collarbone!” Sir William exclaimed through tightened teeth. There was blood welling over his fine silken shirt. “God damn it, Fleming!”

  The mare squealed again, her teeth bared. Fleming thought her carrying on would soon attract the attention of the grooms, and decided on a desperate gamble: he drew his pistol, motioning to Sir William to remain where he was, and then threw the stall-door open, whistling to the mare to go, and getting out of her way as she charged out of the stall, directly into the pair of dogs.

  Outraged neighing and infuriated barking erupted as the mare kicked and bucked while the dogs leaped at her, their rage turning them against the horse with the pent-up fury of their thwarted hunt.

  Fleming knew time was crucial now. He reached out and seized Sir William by his bleeding arm, wrenching him out of the stall. Staying next to the stall, he dragged Sir William along to the next stall, opened it, and stood aside as the horse rushed out. He managed to release another three horses before he saw the outside lights come on. “No time,” he muttered, and dragged Sir William with him toward the fence at the bottom of the slope behind the stable.

  Sir William was moaning, as much from dread as from pain, and as they got to the chain-link, he began to whimper. “I can’t. Fleming, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  “Then you can stay here with the dogs,” said Fleming, who had no intention of leaving Sir William behind.

  “I can’t climb.” Sir William tried to drop to his knees only to be held up by Fleming’s hand on his lapel.

  “You’ll go up that fence and over it, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.” Fleming could hear shouting from near the stable and knew he had to go now or risk capture or death. “Go!” he cried.

  Astonishingly, Sir William did turn and begin to climb. As he neared the top he faltered, and Fleming slid his pistol back into the holster, then hooked his fingers in the chain-link and began to pull himself upward. He was half-way up the fence when Sir William lashed out with his foot in an effort to dislodge Fleming from his precarious hold on the fence. In the next moment, Sir William began to shout for help, calling for Sissons to come to his rescue.

  “Stop!” Fleming ordered, moving sideways on the fence to get out of range of Sir William’s feet.

  “Call the police!” Sir William yelled. “Sissons! Call the police! Get them here! Now!”

  “Shut up!” Fleming ordered, and climbed higher on the fence.

  “Help!” Sir William bellowed. “HELP!”

  There was a flurry of excitement near the stables as the grooms struggled to catch the escaped horses and calm the infuriated dogs. The men scrambled amid the animals, the dogs becoming hysterical. A number of voices were raised to order and cajole to end the confusion.

  “HELP!” Sir William screamed. His hold on the fence was growing unsteady, and his breathing was shallow. With a look of loathing, he pointed at Fleming. “You did this! Fleming! You!” Although this was little more than a whisper, the intensity of his contempt filled the air between them. His next attempt at shouting was a faint echo of his previous cry.

  Fleming continued on up the fence and climbed over it. “Come!” He reached for his pistol, pointing it at Sir William. “You’re coming with me. You have a lot to answer for.”

  “No.” Sir William let go of his hold, falling back on the inner side of the fence; he wailed as he landed, and sat for a moment as if winded. “You’ll die for this, Fleming.”

  The sound of sirens announced the arrival of the police—a suspiciously quick arrival—and Fleming knew he was in danger of being caught or killed. He saw four men in the same uniforms as the guards Fleming had seen earlier patrolling the grounds as they came toward the fence, automatic weapons at the ready.

  Hesitating no longer, Fleming aimed his pistol and fired, striking two of the men with four shots.

  “Over there!” Sir William shouted. “Kill him! Kill him!”

  Fleming fired toward Sir William, hoping to frighten him to silence, and instead, he saw him waver, then topple, blood spattering from the wreckage of his ear.

  There were men on both sides of the wall, most of them shouting. The police were clambering through the undergrowth, their torches showing their way through the darkness. Inside the estate the guards had converged upon Sir William, one of them shouting for medical help. Two of the others began to peer beyond the fence, looking for Fleming.

  Just as the guards began to point their weapons in Fleming’s general direction, a policeman’s torch caught him in its beam, and Fleming raised his hands, his pistol dangling by the trigger-guard from his thumb. He stood very still and completely silent, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself, certain that Sissons’s guards would take advantage of any excuse to kill him.

  “Hold out your hands!” ordered a police sergeant as he came toward Fleming.

  “We have him now,” he called toward the fence. “Mister Sissons was right to alert us.” He stared at Fleming. “I am going to take your pistol.”

  “Please do,” said Fleming, hoping that the police would not decide to save the Crown the trouble of bringing him to trial. “If you will look in my wallet? I’d appreciate it. You’ll find it in my inner jacket pocket.” He tried to sound calm, although he was beginning to feel the shock of all that had happened that day. “I’m sorry,” he said as his hands began to shake. He reminded himself to maintain a steady demeanor: the situation was far too volatile and would need very little to get out of hand.

  “Your wallet?” The sergeant gingerly retrieved the object in question.

  “Open it,” said Fleming.

  The sergeant had three of his men at his side now. “What is it that you want me to see?” He held up Fleming’s driving license. “You are Ian Fleming, with a London address, I see.”

  “There’s more,” said Fleming as the guards on the other side of the fence came to tend to Sir William.

  “Press credentials,” said the sergeant. “Four pounds and a half-crown.”

  “Behind that,” said Fleming as he watched the guards put a horse-blanket over Sir William’s body.

  The sergeant found the folded paper. “Is this it?”

  “Open it,” said Fleming, a hard note in his voice.

  The sergeant whistled as he caught sight of the crest on the fine paper, and the formal heading. “Authorization to use deadly force. Signed by the PM. I’ve heard of these things, but I’ve never seen one. Is this authentic?”

  “You may check it out. In fact, I ask you to check it out,” said Fleming as he glimpsed Walter Sissons striding down to the fence, a shotgun slung in the crook of his arm.

  The sergeant made up his mind. “I’m taking you in.” He looked toward Walter Sissons. “We’ve taken him in hand.”

  Walter Sissons scowled. “He killed Sir William Potter.”

  “That he did,” said the sergeant. “And he may have the authority to do so. We will have to determine this, which may take some time. I’ll let you know what we learn.”

  Fleming moved a little closer to the sergeant, holding out his hands for cuffs. “I am surrendering willingly. I am not resisting.” And with that he turned his back on the men on the other side of the fence and went off with the police toward the road.

  Epilogue

  “YOUR MATERIAL confirms everything we have,” Hotchkiss told Fleming that Friday. “Sir William Potter and Gadi Soleilsur have been part of a conspiracy to mine harbors and extort money and influence all over the world. Potter had covered his tracks very well.”

  From his seat behind Merlin Powell’s desk, Fleming heard this out with as much satisfaction as he could summon in the midst of his fatigue and sorrow. “Good work.”

  “It would never have happened without your inquiry,” said Hotchkiss, the connection hissing.

  “That’s the irony of it, isn’t it,” said Fleming. “Sir William intended to send me on a wild goose chase so he could make it appear that I was an assassin working to eliminate the men who could have revealed his role in the scheme.” He looked up as Powell came through the door with two glasses in his hands. “Have you heard anything more from MI5?”

  “Nothing I can tell you on an unsecure line,” said Hotchkiss apologetically.

  “And somehow I doubt Lord Broxton will be much inclined to let me use his facilities at Government House,” said Fleming, almost smiling.

  “He’s going back to England, I hear,” said Hotchkiss, a note of speculation in his words.

  “So I understand,” said Fleming. “The family have a place in Darbyshire where Lord Broxton can live out his days without embarrassment to the Broxtons.”

  “It sounds as if this is going to get swept under the rug,” said Hotchkiss.

  “I suspect it will,” said Fleming.

  “Too bad. You deserve a lot of credit for what you’ve done.” Hotchkiss cleared his throat. “How are they going to account for Sir William?”

  “No doubt they’ll think of something,” said Fleming, preparing to ring off. “I should think that you, too, won’t be given the recognition you deserve for all the help you’ve provided.”

  “Maybe not,” Hotchkiss conceded. “But I’ve been told that things may perk up here in Roswell. It is an air force base, and security is important.”

  There was a silence between them, and then Fleming said, “Keep in touch, won’t you, Hotchkiss?”

  “If they let me,” said Hotchkiss with so flat a tone that Fleming knew he had to be in deadly earnest. “You’ve made enemies, Fleming. You watch your back, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Fleming, and hung up as Powell went to his liquor cabinet and took out three bottles.

  “What’s your pleasure? Gin? Scotch? Brandy?” He put his hands on the desk. “You deserve a drink.”

  “Gin, a bit of tonic, if you don’t mind,” said Fleming, beginning to rise from Powell’s chair.

  Powell waved him back into it while he bustled to prepare drinks for the two of them. “Your stories are improving circulation, and you managed to stop an international cadre of criminals from dominating world shipping, saving industry and who knows how many lives in the process.” He splashed tonic into the glass that was two-thirds of Gin, then did the same to his glass of Scotch. “And you won’t be able to have the praise you so richly deserve.”

  “I wonder if Cesar would see it that way,” said Fleming as he picked up the glass.

  “Considering what the stakes were, how could he not?” Powell exclaimed. “I have no doubt he’d approve of all you’ve done.” He sat down in the visitor’s chair on the far side of the desk. “I wish we could tell the whole story, but—” He shrugged.