He gave no more explanation, but silently beckoned me to follow him inside. I did so, feeling confused. What was that supposed to mean? That had sounded almost as if he wanted to keep me at his side because he cared more about my safety than about securing his precious secret file, the key to all his greatest dreams of wealth and power. But that couldn’t be the case, surely.
Compared to the distant, echoing hum of voices and clatter of cargo out in the cave, it was almost eerily quiet inside the hut. It was only a small, one-room building, made of wood, but still I felt as though I had entered a church, or a throne-room, or another place of majesty. And at the other end of the little room, only a few yards away from Mr Ambrose and me, stood the throne, the Holy Grail of this palace: a small, black safe, with a lock on its door that looked considerably more complicated than the one on the door outside.
Mr Ambrose took two quick steps towards the safe and bent forward to examine the lock. His eyes narrowed the faction of an inch.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes?’
‘We might have a slight problem.’
‘Indeed, Sir?’
‘Yes. I calculate I will need about twenty minutes to open this lock.’
‘And how many minutes do we still have left until the guards appear, Sir?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Oh. That might be a problem Sir.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
Without another word, he shoved his lock picks into the lock and started fiddling. The sound of metal clinking and scraping was nerve-wracking, and after only a short time, I was hardly able to stay still. I started to walk up and down the hut, trying not to think of what would happen if the real guards walked in on us now. They probably wouldn’t look kindly on two of their supposed colleagues trying to crack Lord Dalgliesh’s safe.
‘Mr Linton?’ came a terse voice from floor level, in the direction of the safe.
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Stop walking about. You are distracting me.’
I forced myself to stop, and instead leaned against the wall and started to nervously flex my fingers. I wouldn’t have thought anything could distract Mr Ambrose. But then, the prospect of being shot would probably even faze a stone statue such as he.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Stop flexing your fingers. I can hear your knuckles cracking from over here.’
‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’
I clenched my hands into fists and folded my arms in front of my chest, just in case. I even tried to breathe more evenly so as not to disturb him. Please let him be quick, I prayed. Please!
Click.
‘Done!’ he exclaimed. Was that a tiny hint of excitement I heard in his voice? Whatever it was, it was gone immediately. He gripped the handle of the safe, and I launched myself forward, eagerly gazing over his shoulder. After weeks of searching, weeks of wondering what the bloody hell we were after, I was finally going to see the mysterious file. What would it look like? I imagined a black steel case, with the letters ‘top secret’ printed in dark red on the top, and a padlock on the side. Or maybe…
The door of the safe swung open. Inside lay a thin, beige envelope, about the size of a standard letter.
‘Yes!’ Mr Ambrose reached inside, grasped the envelope and flipped it open. Quickly, he skimmed through the contents. I saw dozens of sheets, covered with column upon column of numbers, and a few pieces of paper covered in a squiggly, foreign script I could not decipher.
‘That’s it?’ I demanded.
‘Yes. Everything is here!’ He didn’t notice the dire disappointment in my voice. Or if he did, he chose to completely ignore it. His dark eyes were glittering with an inner frost, as if he had just been given an award by the International Miser Society.
With silent reverence, he held up the envelope for a moment, as if it indeed were the Holy Grail to him. Maybe it was. Then he slipped it into his pocket, and from his other one withdrew a similar-looking envelope, which he placed inside the safe before closing and locking it.
What was that about? Why not just take the envelope? Why leave one behind? Was it an apology letter? Sir, I am deeply regretful to have had to disturb your criminal operation, but it was necessary to retrieve an item which you stole from me. My sincerest apologies, Rikkard Ambrose.
I glanced at Mr Ambrose’s chiselled face and shook my head. No. He wouldn’t write anything remotely like an apology, or write or say anything at all for that matter. He would just stay silent, in the knowledge that he had given his opponent a solid figurative kick in the bollocks. So what was the envelope for?
I burned to ask, but this was neither the time nor place. We had to-
‘We have to get out of here,’ Mr Ambrose cut short the very same words in my mind. He sprang to his feet and strode over to the door. Carefully, he peeked outside. ‘The guards are still nowhere in sight. If we hurry, we can reach the tunnel before they arrive and the alarm is raised.’
He was already about to open the door when, suddenly, an idea struck me and I grabbed his arm.
‘But why leave at all?’ I demanded.
Turning, he threw me a look that could have frozen lava. ‘Would you prefer to stay and ask for hospitality? I imagine Lord Dalgliesh would be delighted to receive you for tea and biscuits. Especially when you will have such interesting topics of conversation as where the most precious document on this entire island has disappeared to.’
‘I meant,’ I said, trying to be patient, ‘why should we run now, before the guards arrive? We could shut the door of the hut and stand outside like real guards until the next shift arrives. They will think we are the real guards, the ones they’re supposed to be relieving, and we'll saunter off without anybody ever being the wiser.’
It may have been only a trick of the torchlight, but I thought I saw Mr Ambrose’s mouth drop open slightly. He was quiet for one or two moments. Then he said:
‘This… actually sounds as if it were a reasonably feasible plan.’
‘Blimey! Don’t be all over with me with your compliments!’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t.’
‘So we’re going to do it?’
He hesitated. I could see the struggle in his eyes - the same struggle as on the day I had asked for a dress and a bag of onions. He hated to adopt any plan of mine, probably because it meant admitting I actually was of some use. But he was nothing if not practical, and - I could see the thought enter his mind as clearly as if it were painted on his forehead - at least this plan wouldn’t be expensive.
‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘We will.’ And he stepped outside to take up his position beside the door.
~~*~~*
To my own great surprise, my plan actually worked perfectly. The two guards showed up only two minutes after we had left the hut, greeted us in a quite friendly manner and sent us off downstairs. I followed Mr Ambrose down at a steady pace, although what I actually wanted to do was run.
Stay calm, I told myself. There is no need to run. Nobody knows the file is missing. You can walk out of here slowly and nobody will ever know. Everything is going great.
Yes, everything was going great - until, as we passed under a shadowy arch of stone, I saw, a few dozen yards away, the two guards we had relieved of their duty half an hour ago. They were engaged in an energetic discussion with Colonel Townsend.
‘I? Send them up there?’ the colonel was saying. ‘No, why in God’s name should I do something like that. I thought they were the regular shift that…’
Mr Ambrose had seen them, too. He stiffened.
‘Seems like not attracting attention is no longer an option,’ he stated icily. ‘Move. Now!’
Grasping my hand, he tugged me away from the colonel, towards the entrance of the tunnel he had pointed out earlier. He didn’t have to tug hard. I hurried after him, trying my best to keep up with his long strides. He was right. We had to get out of here right now, or we were as good as dead. Quickly, we neared the entrance to the tunnel. There was a soldier standing beside it. A guard?
‘Do you think he’ll try and stop us from entering the tunnel?’ I asked out of the corner of my mouth, nodding towards the soldier.
‘It is interesting how you always seem to assume that I know everything about this place, when, in fact, I haven’t been aware of its existence any longer than you have, Mr Linton. I have no idea.’
‘Well, what if he does?’
No answer.