93 
Hostage

Amanda turned her gaze away from Hartwell Barclay and back toward Ramsay.

“At last I am awake, Ramsay Halifax,” she said. “It may have taken me longer than it should have, but I have finally come to my senses. I see what I should have seen in the beginning, what you and your mother and all of you truly are.”

As she spoke, Ramsay’s eyes glowed with a wrath as red as Hartwell Barclay’s neck.

Amanda turned to address the First Lord of the Admiralty, who had remained standing silently along with the rest of the men, not knowing what to do other than listen to the drama being played out before them.

“I am sorry, sir,” she said. “Technically what he says is correct. Mr. Halifax and I were married in Vienna last September in a hastily arranged civil ceremony. All I can say is that I was not myself. To say that I was brainwashed is the closest thing I can think to call it. But that really has nothing to do with everything else I have told you—about them and the Fountain of Light—which is entirely true. I don’t know how to respond to all he said about me. Yes, I was confused—but not in the way he represents. It was my confusion that made me trust them, when now I see that they are the most untrustworthy people I have ever known. These people are spies against England.”

Still temporarily baffled by the sudden turn of events, and not quite knowing where to place the fact that Sir Charles’ daughter was the wife of one of the apparent ringleaders of this network, Churchill continued silent a moment longer trying to sort through his options.

Sensing his opportunity, Ramsay suddenly lunged for Amanda, grabbed her about the shoulders, and pulled her quickly to him. The same instant his Luger was in his hand. She was tightly in his grip before anyone could react, gun pressed into her temple. She started to cry out, but a jab from Ramsay’s gun silenced her.

“You fool!” seethed Barclay to Ramsay. “What are you—”

“Shut up, Barclay,” spat Ramsay, then turned toward the others.

“It does not appear,” he said, “that you intend to believe me over this lying vixen. That being the case, I will just make my exit here . . . and I will take my wife with me.”

“You absolute imbecile!” said Barclay. “Couldn’t you see that—”

But by now Ramsay was backing away and toward the door. Scarlino, Wolfrik, and the other two were on their feet the same instant, those who had them with guns drawn, and easing toward the door. Realizing Ramsay’s foolhardy ploy had undone any chance of talking their way out of this, Barclay said nothing more. He now slowly moved to join the others.

A dozen rifles and pistols slowly followed their movements.

“Hold your fire!” shouted Churchill, still not sure what to make of it, but certainly not willing to risk Amanda’s life. “No one gets killed here. Otherwise we will never get to the bottom of this.”

The moment they were clear of the door, the five sprinted for the bluff up which the three recent arrivals had come less than thirty minutes earlier. With difficulty, for she was resisting his every step, Ramsay dragged Amanda after them.

In the house, Colonel Forsythe suddenly came to his senses.

“After them!” he cried.

“That fellow Barclay was with the Secret Service, I can vouch for that,” said Whyte as he and Churchill dashed for the door. “As for the rest, I don’t know what to make of it.”

“No gunfire until we sort this thing out,” Churchill ordered when they were outside and saw the getaway taking place in front of them. “Sir Charles’ daughter must not be harmed.”

The figures neared the bluff. A puffing Doyle McCrogher was just climbing to the top of the plateau after securing his dinghy when Barclay reached him.

“Back, McCrogher!” cried Barclay.

“What the—” began the bewildered Irishman.

“Get down there—we’re casting off immediately!”