Nemesis Read Free Page B

to you some time.”
    “That would be lovely, dear. Do keep drinking.”
    A minute later, the doorbell rang again. Herb Sacheverell stood between the two men. He was tight-lipped, and his face was white and strained. “I’ll be gone a few days. Urgent business.”
    She glanced in alarm at the men on either side of her son.
    “There’s something going on here. Who are these people?”
    “Mom, it’s okay. But one thing. It’s important that you tell nobody about this. If anyone asks, friends have turned up and I’m taking a few days’ holiday.”
    Hilary Sacheverell’s suspicion was overlaid by her sense of the practical. “Let me pack a suitcase for you.”
    “There’s no time. They’ll look after me. Now I have to go.”
    Hilary Sacheverell watched the dark Buick snake through the driveway and then, on the road, accelerate swiftly away. She wended a path back to the living room, a smile firmly fixed on her face.
    North Atlantic, 0650 GMT
    “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m not a medical doctor.”
    “This isn’t a rescue mission. If you’re Webb, you’re wanted on board.”
    “Who are you people?”
    “We don’t have a lot of time, sir!” the airman shouted.
    “The hell with you!” Webb shouted back.
    “Sir, I am authorized to use force.”
    “Don’t try it. On whose authority?”
    “We don’t have a lot of time, sir.” The airman took a step forward. Webb instinctively turned to run but, looking into the whirling blizzard and the blackness beyond, immediately saw that such an action would be a lethal folly. He raised his hands in an angry gesture of surrender and furrowed his way through the snow back to his tent. The down-draught from the big rotor was threatening to flatten it and the guy ropes were straining at the pegs. Inside, the noise of the flapping canvas was deafening and the paraffin lamp was swaying dangerously. Papers were fluttering around the tent. He gathered them up, grabbed a laptop computer, turned off the lamp and ploughed back towards the lieutenant, tightly gripping papers and computer. The airman pointed towardsthe white blizzard and the man ran forwards into it; under the big rotor, the downdraught was fierce, and he felt as if he was being freeze-dried. The airman shouted “Hold on!” and slipped a harness around him. Then Webb’s feet were off the ground and he was gripping the papers fiercely as the winch swung and spun them upwards through the gusting wind.
    A Christmas tree, tied tightly, and with baubles attached, lay along the length of the machine. Half a dozen sacks with “Santa” in red letters lay on the floor. Two civilians, men in their fifties, were at the back of the helicopter. They were identically dressed in headphones, grey parkas and bright yellow lifejackets. Webb recognized one of them but couldn’t believe his eyes.
    The airman pointed and he tottered to the front, flopping down on the chair behind the pilot. The wet sweater felt horrible against his skin.
    The pilot turned. He had a red, farm-boy face and seemed even younger than his navigator. His helmet identified him as W.J. Tolman, and “Bill T.” was printed on the back of his flying suit.
    Manley said, “It’s force eight out there, mister; we’re not supposed to fly in this. Put on the lifejacket!”
    Webb looked out. Daylight was trying to penetrate the gloom. Across the glen, he could just make out sheets of snow marching horizontally against the backdrop of granite mountains. The top of the ridge opposite was hidden in dark, sweeping cloud. He began to feel faint.
    The pilot pulled on the collective and the big machine rose sharply upwards. Webb’s stomach churned. Tolman looked over his shoulder. “What gives with this trip? Are you some sort of James Bond?”
    The helicopter began to buck violently. Webb looked down and glimpsed his hurricane tent, a tiny black dot against the massive, white top of the Big Herdsman. Then the machine was roaring over the Lost Valley and