Читать книгу High Citadel / Landslide - Desmond Bagley, Desmond Bagley - Страница 27

O’Hara looked across the gorge.

Tendrils of smoke still curled from the burnt-out vehicles and he caught the stench of burning rubber. He looked speculatively at the intact jeep at the bridgehead and debated whether to do something about it, but discarded the idea almost as soon as it came to him. It would be useless to destroy a single vehicle – the enemy had plenty more – and he must husband his resources for more vital targets. It was not his intention to wage a war of attrition; the enemy could beat him hands down at that game.

He had been along the edge of the gorge downstream to where the road turned away, half a mile from the bridge, and had picked out spots from which crossbowmen could keep up a harassing fire. Glumly, he thought that Armstrong was right – the enemy would not be content to be docile targets; they would certainly take steps to protect themselves against further attack. The only reason for the present success was the unexpectedness of it all, as though a rabbit had taken a weasel by the throat.

The enemy was still vigilant by the bridge. Once, when O’Hara had incautiously exposed himself, he drew a concentrated fire that was unpleasantly accurate and it was only his quick reflexes and the fact that he was in sight for so short a time that saved him from a bullet in the head. We can take no chances, he thought; no chances at all.

Now he looked at the bridge with the twelve-foot gap yawning in the middle and thought of ways of getting at it. Fire still seemed the best bet and Willis had said that there were two drums of paraffin up at the camp. He measured with his eye the hundred-yard approach to the bridge; there was a slight incline and he thought that, given a good push, a drum would roll as far as the bridge. It was worth trying.

Presently Armstrong came down to relieve him. ‘Grub’s up,’ he said.

O’Hara regarded Armstrong’s smooth cheeks. ‘I didn’t bring my shaving-kit,’ he said. ‘Apparently you did.’

‘I’ve got one of those Swiss wind-up dry shavers,’ said Armstrong. ‘You can borrow it if you like. It’s up at the shelter in my coat pocket.’

O’Hara thanked him and pointed out the enemy observation posts he had spotted. ‘I don’t think they’ll make an attempt on the bridge today,’ he said, ‘so I’m going up to the camp this afternoon. I want those drums of paraffin. But if anything happens while I’m gone and the bastards get across, then you scatter. Aguillar, Benedetta and Jenny rendezvous at the mine – not the camp – and they go up the mountain the hard way, steering clear of the road. You get up to the camp by the road as fast as you can – you’d better move fast because they’ll be right on your tail.’

Armstrong nodded. ‘I have the idea. We stall them off at the camp, giving the others time to get to the mine.’

‘That’s right,’ said O’Hara. ‘But you’re the boss in my absence and you’ll have to use your own judgment.’

He left Armstrong and went back to the shelter, where he found the professor’s coat and rummaged in the pockets. Benedetta smiled at him and said, ‘Lunch is ready.’

‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ he said, and went down the hill towards the pond, carrying the dry shaver.

Aguillar pulled his overcoat tighter about him and looked at O’Hara’s retreating figure with curious eyes. ‘That one is strange,’ he said. ‘He is a fighter but he is too cold – too objective. There is no hot blood in him, and that is not good for a young man.’

Benedetta bent her head and concentrated on the stew. ‘Perhaps he has suffered,’ she said.

Aguillar smiled slightly as he regarded Benedetta’s averted face. ‘You say he was a prisoner in Korea?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Then he must have suffered,’ agreed Aguillar. ‘Perhaps not in the body, but certainly in the spirit. Have you asked him about it?’

‘He will not talk about it.’

Aguillar wagged his head. That is also very bad. It is not good for a man to be so self-contained – to have his violence pent-up. It is like screwing down the safety-valve on a boiler – one can expect an explosion.’ He grimaced. ‘I hope I am not near when that young man explodes.’

Benedetta’s head jerked up. ‘You talk nonsense, Uncle. His anger is directed against those others across the river. He would do us no harm.’

Aguillar looked at her sadly. ‘You think so, child? His anger is directed against himself as the power of a bomb is directed against its casing – but when the casing shatters everyone around is hurt. O’Hara is a dangerous man.’

Benedetta’s lips tightened and she was going to reply when Miss Ponsky approached, lugging a crossbow. She seemed unaccountably flurried and the red stain of a blush was ebbing from her cheeks. Her protection was volubility. ‘I’ve got both bows sighted in,’ she said rapidly. ‘They’re both shooting the same now, and very accurately. They’re very strong too – I was hitting a target at one hundred and twenty yards. I left the other with Doctor Armstrong; I thought he might need it.’

‘Have you seen Señor O’Hara?’ asked Benedetta.

Miss Ponsky turned pink again. ‘I saw him at the pond,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘What are we having for lunch?’ she continued brightly.

Benedetta laughed. ‘As always – stew.’

Miss Ponsky shuddered delicately. Benedetta said, ‘It is all that Señor Willis brought from the camp – cans of stew. Perhaps it is his favourite food.’

‘He ought to have thought of the rest of us,’ complained Miss Ponsky.

Aguillar stirred. ‘What do you think of Señor Forester, madam?’

‘I think he is a very brave man,’ she said simply. ‘He and Señor Rohde.’

‘I think so too,’ said Aguillar. ‘But also I think there is something strange about him. He is too much the man of action to be a simple businessman.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Miss Ponsky demurred. ‘A good businessman must be a man of action, at least in the States.’

‘Somehow I don’t think Forester’s idea is the pursuit of the dollar,’ Aguillar said reflectively. ‘He is not like Peabody.’

Miss Ponsky flared. ‘I could spit when I think of that man. He makes me ashamed to be an American.’

‘Do not be ashamed,’ Aguillar said gently. ‘He is not a coward because he is an American; there are cowards among all people.’

O’Hara came back. He looked better now that he had shaved the stubble from his cheeks. It had not been easy; the clockwork rotary shaver had protested when asked to attack the thicket of his beard, but he had persisted and was now smooth-cheeked and clean. The water in the pond had been too cold for bathing, but he had stripped and taken a sponge-bath and felt the better for it. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Miss Ponsky toiling up the hill towards the shelter and hoped she had not seen him – he did not want to offend the susceptibilities of maiden ladies.

‘What have we got?’ he asked.

‘More stew,’ said Aguillar wryly.

O’Hara groaned and Benedetta laughed. He accepted the aluminium plate and said, ‘Maybe I can bring something else when I go up to the camp this afternoon. But I won’t have room for much – I’m more interested in the paraffin.’

Miss Ponsky asked, ‘What is it like by the river?’

‘Quiet,’ said O’Hara. ‘They can’t do much today so they’re contenting themselves with keeping the bridge covered. I think it’s safe enough for me to go up to the camp.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Benedetta quickly.

O’Hara paused, his fork in mid-air. ‘I don’t know if …’

‘We need food,’ she said. ‘And if you cannot carry it, somebody must.’

O’Hara glanced at Aguillar, who nodded tranquilly. ‘I will be all right,’ he said.

O’Hara shrugged. ‘It will be a help,’ he admitted.

Benedetta sketched a curtsy at him, but there was a flash of something in her eyes that warned O’Hara he must tread gently. ‘Thank you,’ she said, a shade too sweetly. ‘I’ll try not to get in the way.’

He grinned at her. ‘I’ll tell you when you are.’