The Network Read Free

woods, and ahead of me a pheasant runs a few panicky yards and disappears into the undergrowth. I stop twice just to listen. There is nothing but the wind and the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves around me. No barking, which is a mercy. I put my lips to a tiny rivulet of flowing water at the road’s edge to soften a horrible thirst. I cannot allow my pace to slow.
    Downhill I make better speed, but my lungs are still protesting. I reach the bottom of the track, where it turns sharply to the left. Here the unexpected sight of a man less than ten yards ahead brings me to a lurching halt. I leap sideways in a reflex of shock and slip on the wet ground, realising in the half-second it takes for me to break my fall that the man isn’t after me. He’s standing perfectly still beside an open gate, wearing a tweed cap and jacket, farmer’s boots and carrying in the crook of his arm a twelve-bore shotgun with polished side-by-side barrels. A leash in his left hand restrains a muddy spaniel, which cowers in surprise as I lurch into view.
    ‘You’re out early. Gave me a hell of a fright,’ I say as nonchalantly as is possible under the circumstances. I attempt a reassuring wave and brush myself off as I recover, taking a few steps towards him. He is about fifty, stocky, with a thick black beard, and his eyes don’t move from me. I’ve probably given him just as much of a fright as he’s given me, and if I can win his confidence and get him to help me, this is good news. But it has to happen quickly.
    ‘I didn’t expect to see anyone—’ I begin, taking another step towards him, but his words bring me to a stop.
    ‘That’s close enough, I reckon.’ His voice is deep and steady, and his accent, whatever it is, is thick. Herefordshire? Shropshire? It isn’t Welsh. Six or seven paces will close the distance between us, so I take another.
    ‘Captain Taverner, SAS,’ I say, extending my arm. ‘Is this your land?’ He’s not reciprocating the gesture, so I point over my shoulder. ‘There’s some people on the other side of that hill trying to catch up with me. Trouble is I’m not supposed to let them. I don’t suppose you can help me by giving me a lift somewhere?’ I’m hoping that this unlikely suggestion will lighten his look of suspicion, but it doesn’t. The barrels snap shut with a jerk of his left hand and the butt moves under his armpit.
    ‘That’ll do,’ he says, more sternly now.
    ‘There’s no need for that,’ I say, putting my hands protectively in front of me. ‘I’m an army officer and I can prove it. Lower your weapon please.’
    The reply stuns me.
    ‘I know who you are, you murdering bastard.’ The evenness of his voice, and its conviction, stop me from going any closer. ‘Don’t waste your breath on me.’
    Anything, H has told me in our sessions together, can be used to counter an attacker: soil in a sock, swung fast enough, that can knock a man unconscious; a rolled-up newspaper jabbed into the throat; even the unfolded foil of a tube of toothpaste that can sever a jugular vein. But I have nothing. My close-quarter training with H is for disarming an Afghan carjacker with an AK-47, not an English farmer with a shotgun.
    ‘I haven’t murdered anyone,’ I tell him as calmly as I can muster. ‘I’m an army officer on an escape and evasion training exercise. I can prove it,’ I tell him again, realising as I utter the words that I can do no such thing. In my mind’s eye I see a pack of dogs swerving over my tracks as they climb the hillside.
    ‘Army officer don’t make you less of a murderer. Save it for the police.’ A jerk of the barrels indicates his intention. ‘Both hands on the gate.’
    I comply, moving to the edge of the track and wondering how they have managed to get to him. The top bar of the metal gate is cold.
    ‘You’re making a mistake,’ I say.
    ‘See about that,’ he growls.
    At a safe distance and to my side, and without taking his eyes off me, he