74

The rain was deafening on the leaves, soaking us as we pushed our way single-file through the undergrowth. Me, Vaughn and Freddie, with Howe and the tall Blackshirt -leading the way.

Vaughn and the Blackshirt carried battery-powered torches, the Blackshirt shining his on the ground in front of Howe. Freddie and I had to fend for ourselves.

The Blackshirt seemed to know where he was going. He held a rifle slung over his shoulder, like he was on parade. Useful for showing your sergeant major your arms, and nice to look at when you had a hundred men in formation, but not particularly effective in terms of readiness. If I ran, he’d have to swing the barrel off his shoulder, reverse the gun, get his finger in the trigger guard, then aim. I’d be long gone, with fifty feet’s worth of ancient oak trees between me and him.

I should have run, but it would have meant abandoning Margaret, and the mission. I assumed one of the Blackshirts had seen me leave the message. They must have known about the drop site. Been watching, just in case.

After all the places I’d fought, all the life-or-death situations, I was walking to my execution in the Sussex countryside. They’d take me far enough from the house to be discreet, put me against a tree, and shoot me.

Perhaps they’d rough me up first. Try to get me to spill the beans on what I was up to. But they wouldn’t get -anything from me. Let them do their worst. I’d do my bit, even if doing my bit at this point was dying quietly.

We arrived at a clearing, and the Blackshirt pointed his torch to the far side. I assumed that was where he wanted me, up against an old oak. It took me a moment to realise what I was seeing, in the weak light of his torch, through the curtain of rain.

The butler, William Washington, was strung up against the tree, his arms behind him, wrapped backwards around the trunk. He was unconscious, and one of his shoulders was dislocated. His face was bloodied, both his eyes swollen. It looked like someone had used him for batting practice and hadn’t held back.

‘What’s this?’ Vaughn asked.

‘You’ve got a mole,’ Howe said.

‘Impossible,’ Vaughn said. ‘This man’s been with me for years.’

‘Saw him going for a walk,’ the shorter Blackshirt said, stepping out from behind a tree. He was cleaning a large hunting knife, the kind you’d use to gut a deer. Eight inches of steel.

‘Going for a walk’s not a crime,’ Vaughn said.

Howe took the cigar tube from his inside pocket and passed it to Vaughn. Vaughn tapped it on his palm and a roll of paper slid out. He unrolled the paper. I knew what it said.

Tonight.

‘What did he say?’ I said.

‘I didn’t ask him any questions,’ the shorter Blackshirt said. ‘You hurt a man that much, he’ll say anything to make you stop.’

Vaughn looked at Howe.

‘What are we doing here?’ he asked.

‘Killing two birds with one stone,’ Howe said. ‘In a -manner of speaking.’

Washington opened his eyes. He looked at me. I forced myself to meet his gaze. Turning away was a coward’s way out. One way or another, this was going to end badly for him. A train of events that had been put in motion the second I’d put the note in the cigar case and left it in the dead drop.

‘Cook,’ Howe said. ‘I’m sure you’ve been racking your brain trying to think of a way to prove your loyalty to Vaughn. Well, it’s your lucky day.’

‘Killing him doesn’t prove anything,’ I said. ‘I’ve killed scores of men for all kinds of reasons. It doesn’t give you any indication of my allegiance.’

The Blackshirt tossed me the knife. It spun in the air and I stepped away, letting it land in the leaf litter. I picked it up and cleaned the blade on my sleeve.

‘What if I won’t do it?’ I asked.

‘I’ll get Vaughn or Freddie to do it,’ Howe said. ‘You’ll be next.’

‘Generally, we don’t kill prisoners of war,’ Vaughn said. ‘It’s bad form.’

Williams groaned. He shook his head. Nobody wants to die.

I was thinking furiously, trying to run through the options. I could kill Howe and the Blackshirts, overpower Vaughn and Freddie, and free Williams. The right thing to do.

Bunny’s voice echoed in my head:

Whatever it takes.

Kill one man to save thousands, or save the man and worry about the thousands later.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

I walked to Williams, forcing myself to look him in the eye. I could see confusion on his face. He was trying to work out what the angle was. How I was going to square the circle and get him out of this situation. He thought I was the hero of the story. He thought there’d be a twist. A way for us both to end up running through the woods, the villains hot on our heels, escaping by the skin of our teeth.

He was wrong.

‘I’ve got a wife,’ he said, looking into my eyes and seeing what was going to happen.

I could have said I was sorry. I could have told him he was dying for his King, making the world a safer place. I could have told him I’d get a message to his wife. Tell her he’d died bravely. But none of those things would have kept him alive any longer.

‘All of you,’ Howe said. ‘Vaughn, Freddie, Cook. I want three hands on the knife.’

Vaughn and Freddie joined me. Vaughn looked like he was going to be sick. Freddie was vibrating with nervous energy. He smiled at me, his teeth chattering.

‘Hands on the knife,’ Howe ordered. The Blackshirt who’d led us into the woods took the rifle from his shoulder and cocked the hammer. A theatrical move, but it broke the deadlock.

Vaughn put his hand over mine, on the hilt of the knife.

Freddie didn’t need persuading. He put his hand over Vaughn’s.

The three of us held the knife, the blade vertical, like a candle, the tip half an inch below Washington’s throat.

With three hands on it, the knife had a life of its own. I held it down, but it wanted to rise. Freddie’s influence, I suspected.

‘Please,’ Washington whispered.

‘On the count of three,’ Howe said. ‘One.’

‘This isn’t right,’ I said, quietly. But Vaughn didn’t reply. He’d gone somewhere else.

‘We’ve met before,’ I said. ‘In France. You killed those farmers.’

That got him back. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

‘Margaret says you’re a good man,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen it myself. You’re not defined by the worst thing you did.’

‘Two.’

Freddie’s arm was quivering. I held the knife down. I could keep it there all night if it came to it.

‘Wait for my signal, Washington,’ I said. He looked at me, a wave of relief flooding across his face. He nodded.

‘Three.’