“He’s being put into a vehicle now. We’re six miles from the nearest casualty ward. He’ll be there in ten minutes, and they’ve been advised of his arrival.”

“Do you need any help from me?”

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t want to deliver you into the wrong hands. You stay put. Are you armed?”

“I have a hunting rifle and a shotgun.”

“I’d keep the shotgun handy. Would you like me to furnish you with a handgun?”

“Maybe later, and only if it can be done legally.”

“I’ll have that worked on. Ring you back when we’re clear.”

Stone hung up, put on a robe, and padded down to the study, where there was a gun rack hidden behind a panel. He loaded the shotgun, put a handful of shells in the pocket of his robe, and went back upstairs, the shotgun broken across his arm. He didn’t want any accidents.

He sat in the shadows, in a chair by a window overlooking the front lawn. There was half a moon out, and he had a good view. He had been there perhaps fifteen minutes when the phone rang once: all clear. He went back into the bathroom, closed the door, and rang Poulter.

“Poulter.”

“How’s your man?”

“Conscious and talking. He came to in the van on the way to the casualty ward. Mild concussion, he’ll be fine after some sleep.”

“How good is the opposition?”

“Anybody who could get over on my man would have to be either very good or very lucky. I’ll assume very good.”

“Did your search turn up anybody?”

“Not yet. I’m of the opinion that, having discovered a guard on the premises, the opposition thought better of an intrusion. They’d have no way of knowing how many of us there are.”

“Do you have enough men?”

“I’ve doubled the guard. In a couple of hours more men will be arriving. I think we’ll make ourselves more conspicuous, send a message to the opposition.”

“Good. Do you need anything from me?”

“No, sir, we’re very much self-contained. We may fetch some coffee from your kitchen so that any remaining watchers can see us doing it.”

“Good night, then.” Stone hung up, dropped his robe onto a chair, first having removed the shotgun shells from the pocket and setting them on his bedside table. He laid the shotgun on the floor within reach and got back into bed. It was some time before he could doze off.

—

He was wakened by Gala shaking him. Sunlight was streaming through the windows. Stone had not adopted the English custom of drawing the drapes, shutting out the night.

“What?” he managed to say.

“What is that?” Gala asked, pointing down. She was quite naked.

Stone looked over the edge of the bed. “That’s a shotgun. Didn’t you recognize it?”