Free EBook Samples: Free ebook sample of "Maxim Gunn and the Sun Fortress" by Nicholas Boving

The Princess Alicia Flavia, Grand Duchess of Strelsau in Ruritania looked understandable confused and frightened. Her green eyes widened and her tongue quickly moistened her curved red lips. For a split second it seemed she would either break for it, or refuse, and then, centuries of breeding took over and she stepped forward, head high, shrugging off the restraining arm of her panicking equerry.

Princess Alicia stopped a few feet from her would-be abductor, and asked in a voice that attained an arctic temperature.

“Where are you taking me?”

The man shrugged slightly. “That remains to be seen.” He swung back to the assembled company. “Let me assure you that the security guards can do nothing. They are in fact incapacitated. There are no conventional telephone lines, cell phones have been jammed, and my men have you all under close scrutiny.” He indicated a half dozen black clad figures who had emerged from the surrounding darkness. “Do not try to communicate with the outside world for one half hour: that is thirty minutes precisely. If you do, you will die.”

With those words, he gave a signal, and a minute later the thudding blast of a helicopters rotors could be clearly heard and, a hundred yards away on the grass tennis courts, the dark ungainly dragonfly shape of a Bell LongRanger settled out of the tropical night. The man pointed with his free arm, and the Princess, head still high and mouth firm, strode towards it.

Five minutes later it was all over. And five seconds after that the stunned silence was broken by one of the matrons starting to scream again. The beached walrus gave her a disgusted look. “Oh for God’s sake Agnes,” he exploded. “Do shut up.”

“Mr Gunn. An urgent message came through for you about an hour ago.” He slid a white envelope across the counter.

Gunn took it with a word of thanks and was sat in the bar with a Glenmorangie whisky before he bothered to open it. As he read the message, his eyebrows raised and he glanced at the wall clock over the fireplace. Sir Richard would still be in his office.

In the privacy of his own room Gunn dialled the number on the note, and was immediately connected to an unlisted number in Britain’s Foreign Office in London. A weary-sounding, but cultured voice answered.

“Gunn here, Sir Richard. Your note sounded a trifle urgent.”

“Thank God you got it. Are you secure?”

“In a hotel? Not even close.”

He heard a sigh. “Oh well, can’t be helped.” There was a pause as if the man was gathering his thoughts. “We have a situation, Maxim. Highly delicate and must not be allowed to get out.” Another pause. “You are aware that a certain young lady recently went on a good will mission to the Caribbean?”

Gunn=s mind flicked through its file index. A card popped up. “Ah. Tall, very beautiful with red hair and impossible green eyes.”

“Exactly. Well, she is no longer in the Caribbean. There were uninvited guests at a function. She left with them. Do you get my drift?”

“With startling clarity.” Gunn’s voice was grim. “Any clues?”

“Not as to why or whom. But we know where she is.”

“Then...” Sir Richard interrupted quickly.

“How soon can you be here? I should add that there are charter planes in Innsbruck and one belonging to a certain Johan Jaeger is standing by.”

Despite himself, Gunn laughed. “Then I suppose as long as it takes to pack a bag and get there. Have someone pick me up at the airport. And by the way, is Vileman involved in this?”

“Only marginally. He’ll supply backup. Very well, till later then.”

A short while after Gunn had talked with Sir Richard Aspin an unmarked black helicopter reared over a cliff top with appalling suddenness. The downdraught of its rotors flattening the grass beneath it and making the trees and bushes thrash as if a sudden storm had hit. Its landing lights flicked on, blazing white, illuminating the landing ground. For a moment it hovered and then lowered slowly. It landed, the wheels and struts took up the weight, and then the rotors slowed as the motor wound down. But before it had stopped the door was opened and a masked man jumped out. He turned back to the open door and held out his arms. The Princess Alicia Flavia of Strelsau appeared at the entrance, her flaming hair whipped to a rippling mane by the downdraught, looked down at the man, and then, pointedly ignoring him jumped lightly to the ground.

The masked man gestured with a wicked-looking sub-machine gun towards an entrance carved in the rock and flanked by weathered stone jaguars. The Princess lifted her head, glanced around at the jungle at her back and the distant sea, shot with flashes of silver as the moonlight played on its heaving surface, then walked purposefully towards the entrance. She disappeared down a flight of stone steps. The masked man followed her.

The Princess counted twenty-five steps: something she felt instinctively might be of importance though she couldn’t see why, but the adage that knowledge was power flashed through her mind. At the end of the stairs she emerged into a large rock cut chamber, sparsely furnished with folding chairs and trestle tables. She walked to the centre of the chamber and stopped. The masked man stood beside her, the sub-machine gun hanging loosely at his side.

“Welcome to the Fortress of the Sun, Your Highness. This will be your home, for a while.”

The Princess turned to him with a look that spoke volumes. She considered him lower than any slimy creature found under a wet rock and made the fact clear.

“Prison don’t you mean? And will you for God’s sake take off that stupid mask. I’m accustomed to seeing the face of those I speak to.”

The man shook his head in what appeared to be silent admiration, and then pulled the black balaclava off his head. The face was handsome in a coarse way. Sandy hair fell in a cowlick down his forehead, and startling blue eyes betrayed his Viking fore fathers.

“Is that better, Your Highness?”

The Princess examined him coldly. “On the whole I think I prefer the mask. One assumes you have a name?”

The man inclined his head. “I am Devlin. It’s a name the world will soon become familiar with.”

“I imagine it will,” the Princess replied, “when it reads of your death in the morning papers. But if you are to be so famous Mr Devlin, perhaps you should improve your English grammar.”

Devlin laughed. “By God I like that. You’ve got brass, I’ll give you that. Must be something to do with the red hair.” He gestured to another flight of stairs in one corner of the chamber. “That way leads down to your new quarters, and there being no time like the present...”

Princess Alicia Flavia walked calmly towards the stairs, and her prison.

The streetlights cast bright pools on the icy ground and snow crunched under Gunn’s feet as he went out to the taxi. He threw his bag on the back seat and got in and as the Mercedes powered through the darkness down the Inn Valley, Gunn allowed his mind to drift.

By tomorrow he might be in...God knows where, but it would probably be warm, and his time with Lady Cynthia would have to be delayed. She would understand. The lights of a village rushed past, the welcoming sign of a gasthaus, and then night enveloped the car again. Gunn thought his life had taken on total new meaning since leaving The Organization a few years before. Bureaucracy, rules, pettiness, politics, all left behind with no regrets. He was free to pursue life with a capital ‘L’. And then he laughed out loud and the driver turned. “Bitte?”

Gunn shook his head. “Nichts mein freund.”

No, he thought, you never left it all behind. The call from Sir Richard. A friend in need, but still the consummate diplomat. And what had happened to Princess Alicia, and why had she been kidnapped? He shrugged. Speculation in the absence of information was a useless exercise. He might no longer be officially attached to the government, but they, the faceless ones, still asked his help, and the manner of asking brooked no refusal.

Innsbruck. Ancient, impressively surrounded by mountains, founded by Celts and Romans, and now the stamping ground of tourists. The taxi turned off the main road, followed the river for a couple of miles and then pulling into a small airport sought and found the offices of Jaeger Charters. Fifteen minutes later the twin-engined Piper Cheyenne lifted from the runway, climbed steeply and banked to the west.

Gunn closed his eyes, and did not open them again until he heard the whine of hydraulics as the flaps lowered, and the thud of the undercarriage locking. He glanced out of the window at the lights of London. A few minutes later the plane touched down and Gunn was whisked through formalities as if on a magic carpet and found himself engulfed in the arms of a sweet-smelling young lady. He dropped his bag and returned the hug.

“By all that’s wonderful, Polly. And why aren’t you in bed asleep?”

Polly Anders, Vileman’s executive assistant gave the impression of being the classical dumb blond. From the top of her exquisite head to the tips of her elegant feet, she shouted all the necessary attributes. Ash blond hair cut in smooth bangs framed an oval face of great beauty, and cornflower blue eyes gazed upon the world with almost childish innocence. Those who treated her according to her appearance made a primal mistake, and many had paid for it, dearly.

“I’ve brought your car,” she breathed after he’d disentangled her arms from around his neck. I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t resist the chance of driving it. Oh boy, what a heap.”

Gunn looked down into those startling blue eyes and said with utmost seriousness.

“The Lagonda, my dear girl, is not a heap. It is a superlative example of British engineering and mechanical expertise at its very best.”

“Yea, that too. But boy, what a heap.”

Gunn gave up. “I take it,” he said, “that you mean it’s a good car. Both Lagonda and I agree with you. And yeah, it’s quite a heap. Let’s go, and you can fill me in on the flap on the way in.”

As they walked out into the car park Gunn wondered for the millionth time at this remarkable young woman. Polly Anders might be prone to chattering when it didn’t matter much, and on occasion she affected a slightly breathy, wide-eyed demeanour, but under that exterior he knew there lurked a mind like a computer, that she spoke a bewildering assortment of languages almost equalling his own, and was one of the finest exponents of unarmed combat he had ever encountered. After ten minutes with her behind the wheel of the big Lagonda, he also realized she was a superb driver.

“Well,” he said at length after she had just slotted them through a gap too small for a sub compact. “What is so important that I have to cut short my holiday?”

Polly concentrated on cutting off a bus as she entered a roundabout, causing the Jamaican driver to think longingly of home.

“You know about the gorgeous Alicia, of course.”

“Minimally,” Gunn admitted. “I spoke to Sir Richard. I take it she’s been lifted.”

Polly nodded. “Gone in a puff of smoke, just like that. Apparently a gang of highly organized roughs descended, literally, on some soirée she was attending at a Mustique hideaway. Gunfire, threats, the usual, and then a chopper appeared and whisked her away.”

“Unwillingly, I assume.”

“Very. Witnesses said she looked definitely ticked off, and very regally cold. Like Victoria, she was not amused.”

“Any idea who?”

“Me? No.” The illuminated clock face of Big Ben towered about them as she slid the Lagonda into Downing Street. “However, Sir Richard will no doubt fill you in.” The car stopped. “Shall I wait?”

Gunn got out. “Yes, inside, with me.”

“I’m just the driver. Not invited to this bun fight.”

Gunn crooked a finger. “I am inviting you.” He looked at her closely. “Anyway, you’re quite presentable, and your face isn’t too dirty.”

Polly stuck out her tongue elegantly and quickly surveyed herself in the mirror. “Always wanted to see inside this place anyway.”

Sir Richard Aspin, Permanent Under Secretary of State and Head of the Diplomatic Service, to give him his full title, met Gunn in the entrance hall of the unassuming building just as Big Ben struck midnight. He had the appearance of a worried man who had just had a load lifted from his shoulders. He held out his hand.

“Dammit, but I’m glad to see you, Gunn,” he said, and raised an inquiring eyebrow on seeing Polly. Gunn took her elbow and propelled her forward.

“Miss Polly Anders,” he said. “A colleague and very remarkable lady. Anything you have to say to me...she works for Casimir Vileman.”

Sir Richard shook her hand. “Ah. In that case. Please follow me.”

In the Secretary’s office they were offered drinks, but both declined and sat down. Gunn was anxious to keep going and find out what had happened. What was wanted of him was obvious.

“You say you know where the Princess is. I’m puzzled. That being so can you not simply send in the requisite force and remove her. There are many competent anti-terrorist squads.”

“Not the Republic of Guantanara.”

Gunn made a face. “That little hell hole. Not exactly the most salubrious spot on earth. How d’you know she’s there?”

The Secretary smiled thinly. “She carries a tracer-beeper. Look, I think I’d better run through the whole episode as far as we know it.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly and steepled his fingers under his long, thin nose.

“The Princess Alicia Flavia, Grand Duchess of Strelsau of the minuscule but vitally important Kingdom of Ruritania, was spending a few days vacation after a rather arduous Caribbean and Latin American goodwill tour, with friends on the island of Mustique.”

The Secretary went on. “It was all very low key and with a lamentable lack of security in my opinion, but you know how she likes to be accessible to anyone. However, it seems there was one rather special function, black tie and tiaras and so on which she was attending as guest of honour, when wham bang, out of a bright starlit night, two helicopters appear, one full of nasties with guns, and the other standing by as a taxi. It was over in a couple of minutes.” He rubbed his hands together. “Nobody was ready for anything more dangerous than a few uninvited paparazzi. Thank God no one was hurt more than a couple of sore heads occasioned by zealous guards. A black-clad man with what sounds like an Uzi, simply invited her to follow him or the other guests would suffer. The Princess, being who she is, accepted his invitation. The second helicopter landed on the tennis court and away they went, leaving a lot of stunned and frightened guests who will no doubt dine out on the story for months.”

“Any idea who this black-clad figure is,” Gunn asked.

“Not a clue.”

“No ransom demands, no one accepting responsibility?”

“No demands of any kind. Silence, bar one short sharp call to her father, the Crown Prince, in Strelsau to say that any attempt at rescue would result in her death, even earlier than planned.” The Secretary added softly. “Which sounds very cryptic.”

“Indeed,” Gunn replied. “What d’you think, Polly?”

Polly Anders blushed slightly at being singled out in such company. “I think the sound of a planned death is very worrying. It’s a statement of intent. That they’re going to kill her anyway. We just don’t know when.”

The Secretary got up and went to a well-stocked sideboard. “You may not want a drink, but by God I do, especially after that, Miss Anders. You’ve just voiced the one thing I was desperately trying to ignore.” He waved a whisky decanter. “Sure you won’t join me?”

Gunn shook his head. “You say the Princess has a beeper-tracer, and you have her location.”

“To within a few miles. It’s not that accurate. The little gem was on a necklace. It’s a sort of clip-on thing apparently. She wears it all the time, when in public anyway.”

Gunn stood up. “I’ve changed my mind, Sir. I rather think I will have that whisky. How about you, Polly?” He poured the drinks, gave Polly hers and went to stand by the window looking out onto the garden. “Presumably the reason I’m here is that you need a little help to get Her Highness out of wherever she is.”

The Secretary nodded. “I couldn=t have put it better myself.”

Polly put her glass down rather smartly on a valuable Hepplewhite table, spilling a couple of drops. “You know, Sir,” she said, a slight shake in her voice and a red spot on each cheek betraying her anger. “It seems to me this country asks way too much of Maxim Gunn.” She held up her hand as Gunn made to protest. “No, hear me out. It was all very well when he was a paid civil servant, doing his duty for Queen and country. But he’s retired, resigned from that damned cesspit where I still work, for my sins. And yet you still won’t leave him alone. What is it? Don’t you have any other agents capable of doing your work? Look at Turkey, look at that man - er - Proteus, or whatever he was called.” She spluttered to a stop as Gunn smiled and shook his head fondly.

“Nice try Polly, but you see there’s a personal aspect. Besides, my great grandfather, Rudolph Rassendyll, knew the Princess’s great grandmother rather well.”

Polly opened her mouth top ask the obvious question but closed it quickly when she saw Gunn’s look. It was not the right time.

He finished his drink and asked the Secretary. “Where do we go from here, Sir?”

“Your old offices, Mr Gunn. Casimir Vileman is waiting.”

“Very well, Sir. Then Miss Anders and I had better be on our way.”

When Gunn left the offices of the Organization in the early hours of the morning, Sergeant O’Rourke was on duty. He abandoned his warm cubicle and let the grim faced pair out. Gunn, Polly and O’Rourke stood for a moment and surveyed the dark, windswept street. Rain spattered in sudden gusts and blurred the wet reflections thrown by the occasional streetlights.

“Problems, Sir?” asked O=Rourke, offhandedly.

Gunn squinted up at the sky. “You could say that. Definite problems.”

“Not that woman again, Sir.”

Polly laughed. “If it was he’d be singing, Sergeant, not frowning.”

O’Rourke knew better than to pursue the matter. Instead he said. “Well, whoever they are, Sir, I can’t help feeling sorry for them. With you on their trail they’re as good as finished.”

Gunn laughed mirthlessly. “Sergeant, how you exaggerate. Now Polly, into the car my girl and I=ll run you home.”

Bursts of rain spattered the windscreen of the Lagonda as he drove through deserted streets after dropping Polly off. The faint smell of her perfume lingered. He thought what a perfect night it was for the ungodly to be abroad, and pitied the police who had to patrol in dirty weather.

Gunn parked the Lagonda in Clarges Street outside his home, locked it and strode up the short flight of steps and, inevitably, the door swung open to reveal the imperturbable Sweetstory, his faithful manservant and very good friend.

Gunn handed him his wet coat, remarking. “One of these days, James, I shall sneak into the country like a thief in the night and surprise you. I’ll get my key in the lock before you know it.”

James Sweetstory gave a ghost of a smile. “Most unlikely, Sir.”

“Yes,” Gunn agreed. “Most unlikely. And you’re to be complimented. Your intelligence service is obviously better than anything the government runs.”

“Thank you, Sir. And welcome back. There is a bath ready should you wish it, and breakfast will be served at seven o’clock as you will no doubt wish to make an early start.”

Gunn paused with his foot on the first step of the stairs to the second floor. “Thank you, and tell me, James, just how did you know I’d returned?”

“Sergeant O’Rourke has been an acquaintance of mine for some time, Sir. He telephoned to advise me of your departure from the - er - Cesspool.”

Gunn raised an eyebrow. “My God, James, I believe you’re developing a sense of humour. We shall have to watch that. And don’t ever change sides, will you. You’d be worth a fortune to the others.”

“Good night, Sir.”

“And a very good night to you, James.”

“Come in, come in, old chap,” he boomed in answer to Gunn’s knock on the door. “Spy business still managing to keep you in as much trouble as always?” Gunn was about to reply, but Trelawney went on. “Good, that=s good. Nothing like the odd brawl to stir the liver. Sit you down dear boy and tell me what the problem is.”

Gunn smiled. “Why do you think there=s a problem?”

Trelawney guffawed. “Good God, dear boy, you’ve never paid me a social visit yet. It’s my brains you want, ain’t it. One of these days I’ll send Her Majesty a bill.”

Gunn brushed a mess of books and papers of an armchair and sank into it. “First off, Hawk,” he said, “I’m no longer an employee of Her Majesty. I’ve quit the Cesspool. You see before you a new and improved Maxim Gunn.”

Trelawney raised a bushy eyebrow. “So what are you doing: Growing roses, breeding bloody Pekinese dogs?”

Gunn laughed. “Hardly. No, just bits of this, bits of that. You might call me a consultant.”

“Ha. Same horse, different colour.” He stood up and gestured towards a barrel in the corner. “Beer?”

“A bit early.”

“Bull. Never too early for beer.” Trelawney’s massive hand retrieved two pint tankards from a shelf. “So what’s it this time, Maxim?”

Gunn looked at the grizzled face of the man in bent over the barrel. He looked very much as though at some stage he’d had an argument with a bulldozer, and lost. A badly broken nose and one cauliflower ear were set off by a black patch over his left eye. Trelawney looked exactly like the pirate and adventurer he’d been all his working life.

“Guantanara,” Gunn said. “You’ve spent a fair while knocking around there, haven=t you?”

Trelawney handed Gunn a tankard. “Laddie, I’ve spent more time in that little dung heap than I care to remember. Some of them in jail, too.” He grinned. “And a Guantanaran jail doesn’t exactly qualify as a holiday resort. Room service is dreadful, and the wildlife many and various.” He sat down and took a long pull at his beer. “What d’you want know?”

Gunn unrolled the map he’d borrowed under protest from the Curator. He pointed to three places.

“Someone very important has been kidnapped. We know they’re in this general area. I guess one of those spots, unless you can think of anywhere else.”

“Am I allowed to know who this person is?” Trelawney asked.

Gunn shrugged. “Don’t see why not. She’s the Princess Alicia Flavia of Hentzau.”

Trelawney spluttered. “Dear God.” He looked seriously at Gunn. “Met her once, you know.” He frowned. “Or was it her mother? No matter. Incredible eyes.” He paused for a moment lost in memories. “And your job is to get her back?”

“Precisely.”

“Pardon me for asking, but how d’you know she’s there?”

“She carries a beeper-tracer, but the accuracy is slightly suspect. All it’s done is narrow the circle. Which is why I’m here.”

Trelawney leant forward and examined the map. He tapped the spots Gunn had indicated. “You can wash the first two out for a start. Too may people around in the first place, and the third is right on a patch one of the big oil companies has been drilling for years. Any idea how they got her in there by the way? It could make a difference.”

“Long range helicopter.”

“Then that makes somewhere else a very real possibility.” He took another pull at his beer. “You know about my interest in archaeology, don’t you.”

“So long as there’s a legend of gold or a lost mine, yes,” Gunn replied, caustically.

Trelawney brushed the slur aside. “You’ve been listening to nasty rumours, dear boy. My interest in gold is purely artistic.”

Gunn laughed. “I agree that doubloons have a certain artistic value.”

“Well, anyway.” He jabbed a finger on the map. “Just there, where the contour lines show a cliff near that river mouth, is a deserted cliff fortress. Nothing known about it. No one knows who or when it was constructed.” He looked up at Gunn “Actually it was excavated. Bloody place was carved right out of the cliff. Place was found about seventy years ago by a wandering Jesuit trying to convert the local heathen tribes. And, for reasons known only unto themselves the Guantanaran government put an embargo on it: closed it tight as a drum. Thou shalt not enter, and all that.”

“So naturally you’ve been there. I=m guessing that’s why you wound up in jail.”

Trelawney sniffed. “Well, yes. But the point I’m making, dear boy, is that it would be perfect for what you have in mind. Place strictly off limits. Ruddy near inaccessible, by land anyway, and almost so from the sea. You can get in by sea, of course: I did, but you need to be next of kin to a mountain goat. However, with a chopper it would be a piece of cake.”

“A real possibility then,” Gunn agreed.

Trelawney frowned horribly. “Yes, for a bunch of very well armed thugs. Maxim, it’s pretty terrible place. Personally, I was never so glad to get out of anywhere in my life. I mean, God help me, the Indian tribes are still Stone age, and about as bloodthirsty as they come. Real lost tribe types, if you catch my drift. I mean, I’m not exactly what you call squeamish, but those characters were still making human sacrifices.”

Gunn finished his beer. “Sounds perfect, doesn’t it.”

Trelawney nodded. “Indeed, and that=s the point I’m making. It really would be perfect for what you’re talking about. The locals in the surrounding areas won’t touch it with a barge pole. The government has placed it off-limits, and it’s damned near inaccessible.” He spread his hands. “What more could a well-organized kidnapper want?”

Gunn spent the next hour extracting every atom of information Trelawney could remember about the cliff fortress. He then had a late lunch at a pub by the river, returned the map to the Curator and paid a visit to his old office near the British Museum.

The Organization was as he remembered it: some things never changed. Dull and dreary on the outside and a hive of efficiency once the protective barrier of Sergeant Magoon and the unprepossessing entrance had been breached. Dark Ministry of Works paint gave way to pastel shades and hushed halls, and the sparkling smile of Polly Anders.

Gunn leant against the doorjamb of her office.

“The dragon in his lair?” he asked casually.

Polly nodded. “And expecting you, I rather think. He said you were to go right in.”

Gunn grinned. “Now I wonder how he knew I was coming.”

Casimir Vileman, Director of the covert government security service known simply as the Organization, was seated behind his desk, a morocco leather covered piece of furniture only slightly smaller than the flight deck of a carrier. He was on the phone, but looked up as Gunn entered and gestured towards a vacant chair. Indigo Boone, his Chief of Staff stood by the window overlooking the street, a blue-grey cloud of smoke issuing from a briar pipe clamped between his teeth.

Vileman gave a monosyllabic grunt and cradled the hand piece like a delicate piece of china. “That was the Foreign office,” he said, quietly. >They seem to require two things of me. One is to give you whatever assistance you need, and the other is to tell you that your presence is requested at the Ruritanian Embassy as four o’clock this afternoon.” He took of his glasses, rubbed his eyes and said. “And what help do you need this time? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the impression your stock has gone up since leaving us. You must let me know how you do it.” He sighed. “When Gunn says jump, I reply how high. Do you get the same impression, Chief of Staff?”

Indigo Boone blew out a cloud of smoke. “Happen you=re right. But then, when was it any different?”

The niceties over, Gunn replied courteously. “I really do appreciate your seeing me, but we have what might be called a crisis. You know about it, of course.”

Vileman replaced his glasses. “Indeed I do. You’ll be wanting backup I suppose.”

Gunn nodded. “I’ll certainly want someone who knows Guantanara.”

“Then you’re in luck. Tell him, Chief.”

Boone left the window, knocked out his pipe in the big glass ashtray on Vileman’s desk and sat down next to Gunn. “Sebastian Civantos. Son of Don Raphael Civantos, mega landowner, family slightly older than the flood and more money than Croesus. Sebastian has been one of us for quite a while now, in a sleeping capacity. His father will do anything to help on principal. He’s a gentleman, in the fullest meaning of the word.”

Gunn’s eyebrow raised. “Just like that? No argument from you, no twisting the knife, no wriggling to get off the hook?”

Vileman shook his head. “Not this time, Mister Gunn. And frankly I’m damned glad they’ve given the job to you and not me. Heads will roll if the Princess isn’t brought back to the bosom of her family, and I’d rather that one of the heads was yours.”

“There speaks a truly caring ex boss. How d’you put up with him, Boone?”

“Easy,” replied the Chief, “I just pretend it’s all a bad dream.”

Vileman grunted testily and slid an envelope across the desk. “It’s all there: location, phone number and the rest. Polly’s got your ticket, and Civantos is expecting you.”

Suddenly and uncharacteristically Vileman stood up and held out his hand. “Good luck, Maxim. I have a feeling you’re going to need it on this one.”

Gunn shook his hand. “Well, thank you. You know, we may have had our differences, but no one could ever say we didn’t work well together.” He also shook Boone’s hand, and then without a word left the room.

Polly Anders held out an envelope as he went back to her office. “It’s all there. Your passport - Sweetstory gave it us in case you wondered, plus visa. Ticket, British Airways to Mexico City, a few pesos, and I’ve thrown in a couple of emergency phone numbers in case you need them.” She came from behind her desk, looked at him carefully and then kissed him on the cheek. “This is rather an important one, isn’t it?”

Gunn nodded. “Yes, Pol. Maiden in distress, and all that.”

“Bring her back safely, Maxim, and yourself.”

Gunn smiled at her fondly. “Got to come back and see you, haven’t I.” And without another word, he left.

At five minutes to four, Maxim Gunn swung the long green Lagonda between high wrought iron gates and into the drive of a large Queen Anne mansion near Kensington Gardens. A footman stepped smartly down the steps and opened the car door. Gunn was then escorted into the entry hall and politely asked to wait a moment.

He was examining the portraits of a series of handsome red bearded men, and beautiful red headed women when a voice called to him.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Gunn; a last minute matter.” The man held out his hand in greeting, and Gunn was immediately struck by his remarkable similarity to the portraits.

Gunn smiled. “I have only just this moment arrived, Your Highness.” He gestured to the wall. “The family genes must be very strong, Sir.”

Prince Rudolph smiled. “Indeed, and my daughter carries her great grandmother’s looks, not to mention her name.” He pointed. “That is she, Mr Gunn. You will agree she was quite beautiful.”

The Prince smiled. “But then you already knew that. I believe our families have, shall I say a connection.”

Gunn inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed Sir. My maternal great-grandfather’s name was Rudolph Rassendyll.”

The Prince nodded. “It would seem history is repeating itself.”

The moment of lightness passed as if a cloud had crossed the face of the sun. The Prince took Gunn’s elbow. “Please, come with me. There is a private study through the drawing room.”

Prince Rudolph of Ruritania, opened a silver box of cigars on the wide desk. He slid them to Gunn, who shook his head. The Prince nodded and leant back, his face grim.

“The Permanent Under Secretary of State, Sir Richard Aspin, will have told you as much as he knows, Mr Gunn, and I cannot begin to say how deeply grateful my wife and I are that you have agreed to help.”

“By that, Sir, I take it that Sir Richard doesn’t know the whole story.”

“No. I had a telephone call. You are aware of that?” Gunn nodded minutely. The Prince continued. “I did not relay the entire conversation I had with the - kidnapper. My wife and I decided to give that information solely to you, should you agree to help.”

“My understanding was that it ran something like - any attempt at rescue would result in her death, even earlier than planned - which struck us as very worrying: almost as if Her Highness’s death is inevitable, as far as her captors are concerned.” Gunn smiled coldly. “I intend to have a thing or two to say about that, Sir.”

The Prince’s face hardened further. “The conversation I had with the man I assumed to be their leader - incidentally he had an Irish accent - was quite specific and very detailed. It was also quite horrific, and has indeed shocked my wife to such an extent that she has asked to be excused this afternoon.” The Prince paused and spoke into an intercom. “Tea, Mr Gunn. Civilized manners and habits must not be neglected, even under the most trying circumstances.” The Prince’s attitude, his almost unnatural calm might have misled many others into thinking he was a cold, uncaring man: but Gunn knew better. He saw a man holding himself together by the only means he knew how: centuries of breeding and training which allowed him to show his grief and fear only very special circumstances. Afternoon tea with an ex agent, however incredible his reputation, was not one of those circumstances.

When the butler had left, Gunn took a sip from his cup of Earl Grey, placed the cup back on the desk and said. “Sir. I must know everything. Every last word this man said to you, every last intonation, every implication even that crossed your mind. Try to leave nothing out, no detail, no matter how small. I assume we are not lucky enough to have had this conversation recorded.”

The Prince shook his head. “No, I took it in one of the vacant offices in the palace in Strelsau. The call was from Central America, and I merely assumed it would Alicia, that there would be nothing covert, no matters of state: merely the words of a loving daughter to her father.” He stood up quickly and went to the window to look out onto the darkening garden. “I was terribly wrong, Mr Gunn, wasn’t I?”

“Sir, you were not to know. And now we have work to do.”

The Prince turned, the ghost of a smile on his face. “You know, Mr Gunn, I feel much better now that you are here. I wish my wife...” He spread his hands, returned to the desk and opened a manila file. “I had already anticipated some of your requirements. These notes are the gist of the conversation as I remember it.” He looked up from the file. “What I am about to tell you will seem incredible, yet I believe it.”

For a couple of seconds disjointed scenes flashed through Gunn’s mind, scenes which a few years earlier he would have considered incredible. A smile started within him but did not reach the surface. No, there are more things in Heaven and Earth...He had seen things that were not meant to be, that could not be. Anything the Prince told him would be within his newfound realm of possibilities.

“The man,” Mr Gunn, “gave me no name, no organization claiming responsibility, as they call it these days, so in that regard I have failed you. However, his descriptions, reasons and threats were graphic.” He looked up. “What do you know about Guantanara?”

Gunn shifted in his chair. “As much as The Royal Geographical Society and an old mining engineer could tell me earlier today, and incidentally, Your Highness, the rescue operation is in hand, and thanks to the Princess’s tracer, I have a very good idea where she is.”

The Prince’s forehead creased worriedly. “Absolute secrecy, Mr Gunn. This man demanded as much, and his threats were terrible.”

“I shall be in Guantanara by this time tomorrow.”

The Prince sighed and offered Gunn more tea. “I do not presume to tell you your business, Mr Gunn, but I beg of you to do this without so much as a hint escaping. You understand?”

“Fully, Your Highness. Now, if you would continue with the telephone conversation.”

“And let the expert do his job? I stand corrected.” The prince shuffled the notes. “Guantanara, something of an insalubrious spot I believe, with a government to match, but it has an archaeological legacy which is unmatched in Central America. Among the ruins is a fortress, the Fortress of the Sun, which I am told is strictly off-limits.” He looked up at Gunn. “Yes?”

“I have reason to believe, Sir, that this Sun Fortress, or whatever it’s called, is where your daughter is being held.”

A flash of hope crossed the Prince’s face. “No. I am foolish. For a brief moment it seemed so easy, and then I remember the conversation.”

“Nothing will be easy, Sir, but it will be accomplished. The Princess will be rescued. You have my word on it.”

Crown Prince Rudolph of Ruritania, a man used to the ways of men, of power and intrigue at high levels, looked at the man across the desk, a man whose reputation in those circles was legendary, and it seemed a weight lifted from his chest.

“I know she will, Mr Gunn. Now I know. But I must continue.” He tapped the notes. “This kidnapping has nothing to do with ransom. Oh, don’t mistake me, there is a great deal of money involved, but it is my daughter who is the merchandise, and the buyer is not me but a certain High Priest.”

Gunn’s left eyebrow raised millimetrically. There was a time when he would have stifled a laughed, but no longer. Instead he asked.

“A New Age cult, or something more - original?”

The Prince rubbed a hand across his face, the gesture of a tired, worried man. “Very original, as you put it. There is a sun god whom I gather is demanding a sacrifice. There is some predestined propitiation. An event foretold centuries ago.” He floundered for words, stammering slightly. “I do not pretend to understand, Mr Gunn, but it seems they, whoever they are, have been searching for the right lamb for this horrific slaughter for years.” His eyes widened at the dreadfulness of it. “It would seem they have found the lamb. Good God, Mr Gunn, surely it is some terrible mistake and they can be made to see that.”

Gunn said nothing. They both knew the Prince’s words were simply the cry of an anguished father. The Prince gathered himself and went on.

“What I cannot quite understand, however, is why this man should have called me. He says he wants nothing of me, that he already has a bargain, a contract.”

Gunn gave a short mirthless laugh. “Classic tactics, Sir. There is no honour among thieves. He is attempting to up the ante. You got no suggestion as to what his price might be, and did he hint that he would call back?”

The Prince was appalled. “You mean my daughter is merely a bargaining chip?”

“From this man’s point of view, yes. I doubt the High Priest sees it that way. Anyway, Sir, you must be ready if and when he calls again, and I believe he will. In the meantime, however we must assume he means exactly what he says.” Gunn poured more tea for both of them. “The rest of the conversation, Sir.”

Gunn listened for nearly an hour, interrupting occasionally to clarify a point. He heard what would normally be taken as the ravings of a madman, but experience of the past few years since leaving the Organization has taught him to know better. The leader of the kidnappers had been strangely communicative, but it boiled down to a few salient points, the main one being that the Princess had become the unhappy pawn in was a trade-off. The kidnappers could deliver what the High Priest wanted, and in exchange they got an enormous amount in hidden gold. A pure business arrangement for the one side, and a great convenience allowing the fulfilment of a prophecy for the other.

It was also a bloody tale that chilled even Gunn=s toughened senses.

The people of the Sun Fortress were a Stone age remnant, kept from the modern world by the impenetrable barriers of hostile jungle on the one side, almost unscalable cliffs on the other, and with the added bonus of a country whose dictatorial government had a near pathological dislike of outside interference or undue interest in any form, and various other paranoid delusions.

The result being that the old ways, and old gods, had survived intact for thousands of years, and had even managed to fend off not only the depredations of the Conquistadores in the sixteenth century, but also avoid encroachment from the modern world. It was indeed a land where time had stood still.

The Sun people, an unhappy mix of the bloodthirsty Aztecs and Toltecs were a theocracy, a people ruled by their priestly class, whose lives revolved around blood sacrifice, the propitiation of their gods and attempts to ward of ancient prophecies of doom.

What had happened became fairly clear to Gunn as the Prince went on. The High Priest was the keeper of the codices, the Sun People’s ancient writings, and in one of those it was foretold that the sun god would cause the sun to cease to shine forever on a certain day unless the sacrifice of the Fire Maiden on the necessary date. Her birth date and place of birth were also foretold in the codex, and backward Stone age savages or not, it hadn’t taken the High Priest and his minions all that long to figure it out. It also hadn’t taken them long to figure out that for them to leave their sanctuary and try to claim the victim themselves was asking for trouble, and failure, and from their point of view, the end of the World.

Enter the kidnappers, though the Prince had not been told how they had been contacted. And as far as Gunn was concerned the details were not important. The facts were quite simple. The Princess had been identified and located. She had obviously been followed. A plan had been made, and skilfully executed.

The other facts were equally simple. Gunn knew where she was being held. He also knew that a full scale attack was out of the question as it would simply result in the Princess being spirited away at the first hint of trouble, and his knowledge of the wilder areas of the world made it certain she would then never be found. And finally, Her Royal Highness the Princess Alicia Flavia of Strelsau had to be rescued before it was too late.

Which left just one vital question unanswered. When was too late?

Prince Rudolph closed the folder as if it was a rare manuscript, and pushed it towards Gunn. “You will want these notes, I assume.”

Gunn nodded absently. “May I use your telephone, Sir?”

The Prince indicated the instrument on the desk and rose to leave. Gunn shook his head. “Nothing is private, Sir. Not from you.” He dialled a number and waited. A voice answered.

“Emil?” Gunn said quietly.

Emil Thanisch, curator of one of the more obscure departments of the British Museum merely grunted. “And what do you want?”

Gunn allowed a modicum of hurt to enter his voice. “How about the pleasure of your company.”

“How about the pleasure of my brain, you mean. Maxim, I have yet to speak to you when you didn’t want something. What was it last time, something to do with Prester John’s necklace if I remember? No doubt you want something equally obscure again.” Gunn waited as the game was played out. Thanisch went on. “This is going to cost you.”

“Never let it be said that I don’t pay my debts. How about dinner at...” and he mentioned the name of an outrageously expensive but equally good restaurant. “Shall we say eight o’clock?=

Thanisch laughed. “You’ll never get in there.”

“Eight o’clock, Emil,” Gunn replied, and replaced the hand piece. He looked at the Prince. “Emil Thanisch. He works at the British Museum, and is a mine of more information on any and everything than anyone has a right to be.” He got up and tucked the manila file under his arm. “I don’t think there’s much more I can achieve in London, Sir. All I ask is that you and your wife try to remain calm while I do what I know best. Frankly, I think you have the harder job.”

Prince Rudolph escorted the ex agent to the Embassy entrance. He held out his hand, then as an afterthought took a ring from his finger: it was gold with a double-headed eagle in black enamel. “Show my daughter this, Mr Gunn: she will know you have come with my blessing.” Gunn took the ring and slipped it into an inside pocket. The Prince went on. “If you hear anything, call me, please. Our daughter is very dear to us, Mr Gunn.”

“She is very dear to a great many people, Sir, including myself,” Gunn replied. “I will bring her back.”

“Or die in the attempt, I suppose.”

The Prince turned to be met by his Ambassador. “They broke the mould after they made that man, your Highness,” the Ambassador said.

Gunn smiled encouragingly. “Good, good. This is exactly what I want. You sure one filet will be enough?” He nodded at the sommelier who had come for approval on the champagne. Gunn had little time for what he considered the ritualistic nonsense that accompanied wine. Either you wanted it, or you didn’t. Either you liked it, or you didn’t, and no amount wordy posing was going to change the taste.

“Rituals and mythology, Emil. That’s what I need most. There’s some big event coming up very soon, something foretold long ago. Do we have any clues?”

Thanisch squeezed lemon juice over the oysters which had arrived as Gunn spoke. He swallowed the first one and allowed a look of ecstasy to cross his long, lean, lugubrious face before answering.

“As you know, Maxim, the Conquistadores have a devil of a lot to answer for when it comes to records, in particular the churchmen who accompanied them for the glory of God. Wholesale destruction in an effort to wipe out a religion so they could replace it with their own, and a priest by the name of Diego de Landa supervised a lot of it.” He allowed the second oyster to slide down. “Damn, these are good. Didn’t work, of course, the religious bit, I mean, but we lost an irreplaceable history. However,” he mumbled as the third oyster followed its fellows, “the Sun people were so damned ornery, not to mention rather off the beaten track, that much of their stuff survived.”

There follows a longish silence while Thanisch ate. Finally he rummaged through the empty shells on his dish and came to the regretful conclusion that he had missed none.

“Something coming up soon, eh. Am I allowed to know why?” He saw the look on Gunn=s face. “Okay. Need to know, and all that.”

“Actually, it’s for your own safety, Emil.”

“At least give me something to work with, Maxim. What kind of event?”

Gunn paused as the waiter cleared the debris. He leant forward conspiratorially.