Berihun inclined his head. “Why is not safe?” he said in a musical voice. “They not finding us. This is grave, faranji not like go in.”
“You don’t know these people. They are not normal faranji. They will come.”
A discussion arose in the subterranean chamber, the replies of the monks bouncing from the walls of the cavern.
“They say cave goes far,” said Berihun translated. “There is way out of mountain. But hard to find exit. And bad men still out there. Is better stay, I think.”
Jake felt his gut swirling. The restlessness accumulated in his knees and calves until he wanted to kick out at the air. He switched on his phone and stumbled to his feet. “Which direction is it?”
Berihun pointed into the gloom.
“Will you come?”
“I am staying. You want, you go. No problem.”
“Thank you, my friend. Goodbye.”
Jake stumbled through the intestines of the mountain, brushing the ceiling with his fingertips. He forced himself through defiles, blundered into rock, dodged a cavity that yawned up beneath his feet. Just when the claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm him he saw a glow. As Jake got closer it brightened, morphing into a bar of yellow that burned the eyes. And then he was out, laughing with relief as tears streamed down his face. He fumbled his way to a boulder, wedging himself behind it until his eyes accustomed themselves to light. Degree by degree he prised open his eyelids; finally he could see.
When Jake stepped out from the rock a man was standing there.
He looked tough. His features were chiselled and he stood at ease, one hand on his waist, the other behind his back. There was a white patch in his hair. Jake felt the world rushing around him. This man has just killed six people.
“Find anything up there, did you, fella?” The stranger spoke with a slight London accent. “Well? Chop-chop. I haven’t got all day.”
Frank Davis produced a pistol from behind his back and pointed it at Jake’s face. His eyes were a flat grey, the colour of the Irish Sea, and with a lurch Jake realized these might be the final moments of his life.
“Yes, yes we did actually,” said Jake. “A new inscription. Florence will have destroyed it – but I took photographs.”
Davis’s eyes widened. “Show me.”
Florence’s gun was still tucked into his belt.
Jake had never fired a gun – and this guy was MI6. What chance did he have? But what other choice was there? As Jake braced himself for the denouement a nasty thought occurred to him. Didn’t guns have a safety catch? What if it was on? His fingers quivered, like those of a Wild West gunslinger.
Davis read it in a heartbeat.
“Put your hands up,” he shouted.
Blown it.
Jake could feel Florence’s pistol in the small of his back, hopelessly out of reach. He raised his hands and looked into the stranger’s eyes, trying to connect with him.
It was like trying to connect with a drill-bit.
Suddenly Jake couldn’t be bothered anymore. He looked at the rock behind his killer. How red was the stone, how beautiful. It was a pity he wouldn’t experience more of this world – he rather loved it. But the thought was abstract. There was no more terror left in him.
“Enough of this,” the stranger was saying.
Jake thought he heard a car coming around the mountain.
Davis took aim. “Night night.”
A Toyota burst from the plateau. Jake saw a shock of blonde in the driving seat.
The assassin turned to face the approaching hazard. “What the fuck?”
Davis unloaded the entire magazine into the vehicle, the windscreen shattering in a mist of glass. But Jenny ducked below the steering wheel, protected by the bulk of the engine. The car hit Davis square on, chipping him over the bonnet and sending him cart-wheeling through the air. He crashed to earth twenty feet away, heaved himself up, abandoned the struggle, shuddered and was still.
Deliverance, again.
The Toyota skidded to a halt and the passenger door flew open.
“Mr Wolsey, I presume?”
Jake registered three things. First: the Stanley-Livingstone reference in an African wilderness. Second: that the woman looked vaguely familiar (it was as if he’d been to school with her or something).
Third: she was beautiful.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Just get in, will you?”
Jake clambered into the car.
“Jenny Frobisher.” She offered him her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Instinctively Jake brushed his mane into a semblance of order. He was sweating and his breathing was shallow.
“That was a bloody close shave,” he said. “I really thought I was a goner.”
“You can thank me later. We’ve got plenty to talk about.”
Jenny was aware of the irony. She’d spent a career running agents, turning sources, twisting their minds. Now she had been turned by Jake – and he hadn’t even been aware of doing it. She hit the accelerator and the two renegades streaked away under a sky that was big and blue and full of hope.