Saddam's Bomb.

Chapter Nineteen

     Gunning the car forward Blackshaw clenched the steering wheel with both hands as the vehicle bounced and slithered over the uneven snow-slush surface of the track that zigzagged through the dense forest of pine trees. Normally he never travelled at a speed in excess of fifteen kilometres an hour on this rough twisting lane, very often dropping his speed to half that rate as he negotiated the many sharp bends that lay between his present position and the chalet but at this moment he was anxious to reach one particular spot, far enough ahead of his pursuer to allow him a few moments to prepare an reception.

      The place he had in mind was a vicious hairpin bend cutting a wedge between steeply rising banks on either side with an angle so acute it could only be rounded at a walking pace. As he approached it he dropped his speed drastically by a savage jabbing at the foot brake, at the same time glancing in the rear view mirror. The car behind had dropped back a little way as the driver fought to manoeuvre the Peugeot along the unfamiliar path and Blackshaw quickly transferred his attention to the bend directly ahead. The car swerved into it with squealing tyres as he wrenched the wheel hard to the left, a slight misjudgement causing the rear end of the B.M.W. to slam into the right hand bank. Allowing it to surge forward the few yards necessary to clear the bend he then brought it to an abrupt halt. He jumped out of the car leaving the door swinging open, wrestling the automatic pistol out of the breast pocket of his overcoat as he leapt up the bank  at the rear of the car and pressed his body behind the trunk of a tree. The Peugeot, immediately after rounding the bend would be forced to brake to an unexpected halt and he would then pounce toward it without hesitation. A well-aimed bullet through the side window would bring an instant solution to his problem.

Before he had time to draw a dozen breaths from his small exertions the rising note of the Peugeot's engine assailed his ears as it roared into the bend. The speed was too high for the curving angle of the track and it hit the bank at roughly the same spot the B.M.W. had glanced upon but with far greater force. The brakes shrieked in protest at a sudden despairing application but the driver  had activated them far too late. The car hurtled off the bank and shot forward to slam violently into the rear of the B.M.W., blocking the path ahead. Blackshaw's face was a mask of consternation as the explosion of sound died away. He had not forseen an actual collision, expecting the other car  to have just sufficient time to halt before impacting with his own.

      Without an instant's pause he leapt down from his place of concealment and in a second was in line with the driver's door, wrenching it open and thrusting the gun forwards in one smooth motion. The woman's head rested on the steering wheel as her body slumped forward, held in partial check by a safety belt. She was unmoving and he saw immediately she was either unconscious or dead. With his free hand he grasped the hair at the back of her head and jerked it back, pulling the body into an upright posture against the seat. A soft moan escaped from her mouth. She was still alive.

      He gave an involuntary gasp, nearly dropping is pistol in surprise as he caught sight of the woman's countenance. It was Gaddah Ismail. Gaddah the healer. How the hell did she come to be here?. Were the Iraqi's so short of manpower they had left a woman, an untrained amateur to boot, to watch over the Swiss bank, the one place left where they could hope to find him. Surely not. Why would they maintain a watch on it anyway, he thought furiously. How could they not believe him to be dead? He had watched with his own eyes as the Iraqi hit squad had carried out the comprehensive operation at the Belvedere Lodge clinic. Had they bungled it somehow? He swore under his breath. This was unbelievable. He had been so sure that the assassination of the man with the name of Thomas Wyman, whom he had so cunningly contrived to convince them was himself, had been satisfactorily carried out. Apparently he had been wrong. A stab of dismay shot through him but he brushed it away quickly. This was not the time for emotion. He had to think clearly and logically. He took a deep breath as the thoughts rushed through his mind.