NINETEEN
Bloch was disappointed to discover that there were several entrances to Somerset House. Throughout the morning he watched vehicles arrive and depart, but always from the far side of the building. The main doorway, with its ornate archway, topped by a rampant stone lion, was at the outer limit of his preferred range for a guaranteed kill. Anything else, such as the rear of the house, would be a wasted shot and risked giving his position away to boot. And the single sentry on the door, picking his nose when he thought nobody was looking, he was not worth a bullet of any description.
Despite its nickname, Somerset House was no English building, but a collision of Flemish and French influences. Extravagantly gabled, it also featured two needle-sharp turrets, one of which had been neatly sliced off at the top, like a boiled egg at breakfast. The external rococo plasterwork was pitted and, in places, had been dislodged altogether. Many of the heavily mullioned windows still had their glass intact and most were hung with either blast or gas curtains on the inside, which made the chances of an interior shot impossible in most cases. Even where he could see silhouettes, he was unable to ascertain identity or rank.
So, Bloch lay there, waiting for his luck to change. One shot he would have and then . . . ? His choices were stark. He could slither down the ropes and, in the Tommy greatcoat, make a run for his own lines. The image of his body spread-eagled on the wire flashed into his mind. He had seen too many out there, crow fodder for days on end, to want to finish up like that.
Or he could lie low, hope they would not compute the angle of the shot, that they would not even countenance that their lines had been breached and assume it was either one of their own bullets or some terrible accident. Then, after dark, he could try to retrace his steps.
Would Lux have considered this dilemma? Of the problems of reversing his penetration? No, he decided. To exchange one sniper, no matter how good, for a high-ranking, even iconic, British commander was a worthwhile trade to him. Bloch was surprised to find he felt no bitterness; he might have made the same calculation in Lux’s position. But he did feel a welling determination: to surprise Lux by returning alive from this foray. The look on the man’s face would be as gratifying as any Iron Cross.
There was more movement and he turned his attention back to the scope. In the lane on the far side of the house he could see a vehicle arriving, a staff car, and this one followed the wide gravel drive around to the front of the building. He squinted through the scope. A girl with a green headscarf. He remembered that from the early days. Next to her a . . . what? An officer. But one who sat in the front?
He ran through the possibilities. If she had a green headscarf, she was in all likelihood a nurse of some description. It had been the Red Cross who had negotiated their immunity back in late 1914. And, yes, there was its familiar symbol on the door. Which meant the man in the passenger seat was probably a doctor. Bloch focused on the face. Not a young one, either. A senior medical man. Worth, what?
If he killed this doctor, who would miss him?
There he was, breaking a golden rule. Thinking of him as a man. Think of him in terms of damage done by killing him. A senior doctor was a man who saved British lives. Who made broken Tommies fit for duty once more.
Put a bullet through him now and how many soldiers who would otherwise have returned to the trenches would die? It could be that he had arrived with news of a great new medical breakthrough. That could perish with him. Taking him out of the picture might mean dozens, scores, even hundreds of collateral deaths. A triumphant blow for Germany. The thought had tensed his right index finger.
On the other hand, he might be here to treat some general with the pox, patch up a wounded colonel or visit a friend.
Bloch relaxed the pressure on the trigger.
He watched nurse and doctor exchange a few terse words and the doctor went inside, carrying a bag of some description. The woman stood by the car and lit a cigarette, smoking with an intensity that bordered on fury. There was something fascinating, even slightly erotic about the action, and he let the cross hairs linger on her features, a mere voyeur for a few seconds, rather than a killer.
Bloch heard the half-hour chime from a distant clock. He had been in place for almost six hours; still, he had stalked for longer, both with his father and in no man’s land. He let his mind empty. This was the luxury of his chosen profession. The average soldier would be wondering why he was fighting and perhaps dying, what his role was in the schemes that the generals back in Berlin were hatching. For a sniper, the war was reduced to simple, straightforward basics. Bloch had no need to dwell on the unknowable strategies, tactics and campaigns devised by his betters. His task was simple. Kill and move on. Then do it again.
Another thirty minutes passed before the double doors swung back and the doctor stepped out. But he was not alone. The companion stayed in the shadow for a moment, but as the two shook hands the man moved into the light. Bloch’s heart flung itself against his ribcage like an animal trapped behind bars of bone, and he made an effort to slow it, and control his breathing.
He recognized the face from the clipping Lux had given him. The men were stationary now. He could take both if he wanted. Why not? With minimal movement he chambered a round and moved the sights so they rested in the centre of the target’s chest. He counted to five, making sure that everything was calm and stabilized, and squeezed the trigger.