The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 Read Online Free Page B

them. There would be a panic if they were to lose him, and that was something he could not afford. He needed them there to see the show that they were going to put on for them. If they lost him and flooded the area with agents until they found him again, the plan would not work.
    He maintained a careful balance of speed: fast enough to stay ahead of them, yet not so fast that they might panic. He wanted them to think he was a tourist taking in the sights.
    He glanced at his watch: seven thirty.
    He concentrated on maintaining his sense of calm, but it became harder and harder to do that. He was alone in a hostile country, travelling under a flimsy pretence. He was fooling himself if he thought this was easy, as simple as his last job in Manila or the one before that in South Africa. The wind had dropped a little, and he could hear the men on his tail now, footsteps striking the pavement, unhurried and assured. How far were they behind him? He dared not look. He was frightened. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and rubbed a coin between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over so that he could feel the striated edge.
    A road crossed the park, and as Milton traversed it, he saw the Mercedes again. It slowed to a halt, drawing in at the kerb, the tinted windscreen revealing nothing. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. He heard footsteps quickening a little behind him. Two pairs. Were they going to take him now?
    Finally, he reached the Arch. It was tall, sixty metres at its apex, a larger facsimile of the Arch in Paris. The white granite blocks looked ghostly in the moonlight. A second road, reserved for park officials, was nearby, and parked along it was a Volvo 144. Four vaulted gateways were decorated with azaleas carved into their girth, and it was from the western-facing one that Milton saw the two figures emerge.
    A man and a woman.
    They moved towards him.
    The woman moved ahead and spoke in quiet, accented English. “Mr McEwan?”
    “Yes.”
    “How many followed you?”
    “Two on foot. Another couple, at least, by car.”
    “Where is the car?”
    “It was parked by the road. The men on foot—what are they doing?”
    “Waiting,” the woman replied.
    The second man spoke in urgent Korean.
    “There’s another,” the woman said. “Three now. They’re coming. We must be quick. Are you ready, sir?”
    Milton nodded.
    The man made to strike him on the head with a billy club. The blow missed, although it would not have been obvious from a distance and in the deepening gloom. Milton made a show of falling forwards, the man grabbing him beneath the arms and dragging him towards the Volvo. The rear door opened, and he flung him inside.

Chapter Seven
    MILTON ALLOWED himself to be half-pushed, half-pulled inside the car and pressed himself down against the seat. The English-speaking woman got in beside him, her companion going around to the passenger seat.
    The tyres squealed as the Volvo pulled away.
    “Stay down, please,” she said.
    Milton did as he was told.
    “Your papers.”
    Milton reached into his pocket and handed over his passport and his visa.
    The car accelerated, speeding away from a sudden shrill blast of whistles as the three MPSS officers sounded the alert. The blacked-out Mercedes quickly reversed, bumping across the rough ground as it sought the service road. The Volvo had a head start, and the driver quickly took advantage, swinging off the road and barrelling at high speed along the broad path that cut between two neighbouring stands of trees. Joggers stood and gaped as they roared by, the Mercedes giving pursuit but already five hundred yards behind them.
    The driver spun the wheel to bring them back onto a main road and took a hard left until they reached a built-up area of the capital again. He slowed, slotting them behind a truck carrying a consignment of watermelons beneath an unsecured tarpaulin that flapped in the wind.
    The woman paused to look out of the rear window.