Free Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 by Jeffrey Archer Page B

up the bar until closing time, with only two short breaks to relieve himself. A packet of
Smith’s crisps with salt in a little blue sachet was his lunch. He had munched his way through three packets by the early evening, which only made him want to drink more. Locals came and
went, and Karl noticed that one or two of them didn’t stop for a drink, which made him feel a little more hopeful. They looked without looking. But as the hours slipped by, still no one spoke
to him or even glanced in his direction.
    Fifteen minutes after calling last orders, the barman shouted, ‘Time, gentlemen please,’ and Karl felt he’d spent another wasted day. As he headed towards the door, he even
thought about plan B, which would involve changing sides and making contact with the Protestants.
    The moment he stepped out on to the pavement, a black Hillman drew up beside him. The back door swung open and, before he could react, two men grabbed him, hurled him on to the back seat and
slammed the door shut. The car sped off.
    Karl looked up to see a young man who certainly wasn’t old enough to vote, holding a gun to his forehead. The only thing that worried him was that the youth was clearly more frightened
than he was, and was shaking so much that the gun was more likely to go off by accident than by design. He could have disarmed the boy in a moment, but as that wouldn’t have served his
purpose, he didn’t resist when the older man seated on his other side tied his hands behind his back, then placed a scarf over his eyes. The same man checked to see if he was carrying a gun,
and deftly removed his wallet. Karl heard him whistle as he counted the five-pound notes.
    ‘There’s a lot more where that came from,’ said Karl.
    A heated argument followed, in a language Karl assumed must be their native tongue. He got the sense that one of them wanted to kill him, but he hoped the older man would be tempted by the
possibility of more money. Money must have won, because he could no longer feel the gun touching his forehead.
    The car swerved to the right, and moments later to the left. Who were they trying to fool? Karl knew they were simply going back over the same route, because they wouldn’t risk leaving
their Catholic stronghold.
    Suddenly, the car came to a halt, a door opened and Karl was thrown out on to the street. If he was still alive in five minutes’ time, he thought, he might live to collect his old-age
pension. Someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet. A shove in the middle of his back propelled him through an open door. A smell of burnt meat wafted from a back room, but he
suspected that feeding him wasn’t on their agenda.
    He was dragged up a flight of stairs into a room that had a bedroom smell, and pushed down on to a hard wooden chair. The door slammed, and he was left alone. Or was he? He assumed he must be in
a safe house, and that someone senior, possibly even an area commander, would now be deciding what should be done with him.
    He couldn’t be sure how long they kept him waiting. It felt like hours, each minute longer than the last. Then suddenly the door was thrown open, and he heard at least three men enter the
room. One of them began to circle the chair.
    ‘What do you want, Englishman?’ said the gruff circling voice.
    ‘I’m not English,’ said Karl. ‘I’m German.’
    A long silence followed. ‘So what do you want, Kraut?’
    ‘I have a proposition to put to you.’
    ‘Do you support the IRA?’ another voice, younger, passionate, but with no authority.
    ‘I don’t give a fuck about the IRA.’
    ‘Then why risk your life trying to find us?’
    ‘Because, as I said, I have a proposition you might find worthwhile. So why don’t you bugger off and get someone in here who can make decisions. Because I suspect, young man, that
your mother is still teaching you your potty drill.’
    A fist smashed into his mouth, followed by a loud angry exchange of opinions,