The Killing Ground

He changed clothes in one of the cubicles, putting his smart suit, tie and shoes into the bag. When he emerged, he was wearing everything else he had bought and hung the binoculars around his neck.

“Nothing like looking the part,” he said softly, examining himself in the mirror. “But what do you really know about birds except the female variety?”

He returned to the Audi, drove around looking and found a book-shop. Within minutes, he was emerging with a suitable item covering the coastal areas of England. It was a magazine type of book with an illustrated cover. Good to carry under your arm to let the uninformed know what you were. Pleased with himself, he got back in the Audi and continued his drive toward the coast and Zion.

HE ARRIVED AT ZION in the middle of the afternoon, put the Audi’s top down and had a look round. What he saw was a typical English village: one pub called the Ploughman and another down the street named the Zion Arms, old cottages, a church. He parked the Audi and went into the Zion Arms. Everything you expected from an English country pub was there, from logs burning on the hearth of a stone fireplace, to the beamed ceiling, the mahogany bar, the mirrored shelves and the stout late-middle-aged lady behind it, with rosy cheeks and wearing a floral dress. It seemed too good to be true. There weren’t many people, a party of three, a young couple, talking in low voices, a very ancient-looking man on the wooden settle by the fire, alone, a half-empty pint of beer in front of him.

Selim Bolton he might be, but it was Sam Bolton who approached the bar. In previous adventures for the Brotherhood, he had seldom used an alias. He was himself a university graduate and a middle-ranking executive in a private bank in the City of London. Anyone who wished to query him, even the police, would discover that quickly enough and look elsewhere. He even had a company card with Sam Bolton engraved on it.

Outside the village, he had pulled into a lay-by and looked up Zion in the bird book. He had an extremely good memory, noted Zion Marsh, the fact that it was National Trust and a brief mention that the house was not open to the public.

“Ah, you’d be staying here for the bird-watching?” she said as he placed the book on the counter. “Plenty of people come here for that.”

He’d concocted his story in advance. “I work in London in finance. Sometimes you feel trapped, you just want to get away for a few days. I’ve got friends further along the coast, Aldwick Bay, the other side of Bognor Regis. Lovely shingle beaches up there. I’m making my way back to London, taking my time, and I noticed in the book that Zion marshes are a bit special.”

“People seem to think so. What will you have?”

“A pint, please.”

The old man by the fire emptied his glass and spoke up. “I was eighty-seven last month and I’ve lived here all my days, mainly working the land farming. When I was a lad, birds were just birds, part of life you took for granted. Now we have the bird-watchers like you, people who take it seriously. Last year we had people turn up in coaches to try and catch sight of some lapwing in the marsh. Supposed to be special. God knows why.”

“I see your point. I don’t take it seriously. I work hard in an office most of the time. I like to get out in the fresh air, but I like to have a reason, so I’ve started on birds. Could I buy you a drink? I see you’ve run dry.”

“A pint wouldn’t be a burden. That all right with you, A

“Shame on you, Seth Harker, you’re an old cadger.”

She pulled the pint and Bolton paid her and took the glasses over.“All right if I join you?”

“Why not?”

“Good health.” Bolton drank some of his beer. “Do they cause a problem, bird-watchers, on this Zion Marsh?”

“National Trust, that. No, they’re a harmless lot and it’s good for the economy. These days, any kind of tourist is welcome. Creates jobs for people, There’s the caravan site, bed-and-breakfasts.”

“All from birds.”

Harker chuckled. “That’s a fact, when you think about it.”

“I passed a stately home when I was approaching the village. I checked in my book and it said visitors weren’t allowed. Zion House it was?”

“Oh, you can’t go there. Owned by the government and has been as long as I can remember. I wasn’t allowed to go into the military in the Second World War, farming, you see, reserved occupation, so I was here right through.” He nodded his head. “All sorts of dodgy things went on at Zion House, planes in and out from the runway, a lot of it at night. All highly secret.”

“Is that so?”

Seth Harker nodded. “The thing is, the Ministry of Defence still runs it like that. High security, guards in blue uniforms.”

“Jobs for the villagers?”

“Oh, no, the guards are all outsiders. The housekeeper, Mrs. Tetley, lives in, and she’s got three young women on staff who help with the catering and other duties. Looking after guests really. Kitty, Ida and Vera. Nice girls, but not from around here. They keep themselves to themselves.”

“You said guests. That could mean some kind of hotel?”

“Where the guests never show themselves?” Harker cackled. “And don’t visit in the village.”

“Yes, but you must see them arrive? They must visit the pub?”

The bar had emptied and A

“Well, you know how it is. I’ve got the car, the driving to think of if I carry on back to London. You know what the police are like these days.”

“Pity to waste it.” Bolton pushed it across and the old man drank deeply. “My cottage is on a small rise overlooking things. Fern End it’s called. You get a good view of the runway from there. I’ve watched people come and go for years. I’ve got a pair of old binoculars. There was a plane in at round about half-eleven this morning. It dropped off two women and a girl and three men. They were picked up by Captain Bosey, head of security, and taken up to the house.” He patted the side of his nose with a finger. “Not much I don’t know, I think I could do with the necessary.”

He took Bolton’s arm to stand and was surprisingly steady as he crossed the bar and went into the lavatory. A

“Certainly not, he’s a real character. Is he fit to get home? He told me about his cottage.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. If he wants a snooze, he can use the room in the back. When he does that, some villager will give him a lift. Can I get you anything else?”

“I’ll be fine, actually. I’ll be off, I think.”

“Well, if you decide to stay, we do have four rooms for the night and there’s always the caravan site. I own that as well.”

She went into the back again and Seth Harker returned. “Ah, going, are you?” He eased himself down.

“I must.”

Harker really did have drink taken. “What we were talking about, security. All balls really. There’s always a way. Take Zion House, walls, electric wiring, cameras. All for nothing if you could go under.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“In 1943 during the war, there was only a grass runway and small planes used it on a nightly basis for flights to France. Bad weather of any kind, rain, flooding from the marsh, sometimes made it unusable. So they dug a tu

“What was the idea?”

“A network of clay piping under the grass from the runway that would drain into the tu