The Hit List by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

nodded.
    'A fight ensued..."
    Slater nodded.
    'You see, the impression I really want most strongly to dispel is that you effectively mounted an ambush on these men.'
    'Absolutely,' said Slater.
    For two unbroken hours they went through every move, every gesture, trimming the action so that no legal blame could adhere to Slater. A phone call by Lark from the front desk established that Ripley was in intensive care in Reading, but expected to make a full recovery.
    Lark excused himself at 11.30, leaving Slater with the Daily Telegraph. Slater read the newspaper from cover to cover, unsuccessfully attempted the crossword, and eventually tried to sleep. And then, at 2.00, the door of the cell was unlocked, and his effects were handed back to him. 'Whole thing's been taken out of our hands,' the desk-sergeant told him resignedly. 'Security implications, apparently, whatever that means. I'm to tell you' - he glanced at a Post-It note attached to the counter - 'that you'll be contacted in due course by Mr Lark, vis-a-vis a witness statement and possible Court of Inquiry.'
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    Slater nodded gratefully. This was exactly what had appened on previous occasions. Lark had spent a few ays hammering out a suitable statement, he'd been called i to sign it, given a copy to memorise - to 'internalise' as rk put it - and the whole dossier had then been con icd to some dusty drawer at the MOD. Classified for jns of national security. As a system it wasn't water it -- there were increasing demands in the left-wing press for the 'accountability' of the security services - but : had seen Slater right so far.
    A police driver returned him to the school in an inmarked car. The system, it seemed, had once again Come to Neil Slater's rescue.
    At Bolingbroke's, far from the confusion that Slater ad expected, all was ordered. A tape barrier had been reeled around the security lodge and there was a black Lange Rover parked on the drive beneath the sick ay, but that was all.
    As Slater approached the main entrance the 1st XV agby squad clattered down the steps past him - minus apley and al-Jubrin.
    'Thought I'd take them for some circuit training,' jne of the assistant games masters called out. 'Hope at's OK.'
    'Fine!' Slater managed. 'Great!' 'No problem. Hope you feel better soon.' Slater watched the squad jog down towards the Ithletics track. What the hell have they been told? he wondered.
    Before he had time to surmise further, the
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    headmaster, Pembridge, materialised in the entrance. His gesture indicated welcome, but there was considerable strain apparent.
    'Mr Slater. Good. My study, if you would be so kind.'
    They proceeded up the wide stone passage in silence. Pausing in the anteroom to his study, Pembridge informed his secretary that he did not wish to be disturbed.
    'Mr Slater,' he began when the doors had closed behind them. 'I - we, Bolingbroke's - owe you a debt of thanks. Your very resourceful actions last night quite possibly saved the life of one of our boys. Thank you.'
    He extended his hand, which Slater shook.
    'I also understand that you made a report concerning your suspicions of a certain vehicle to the afternoon detail of MailedFist Security, and that no action was taken in this regard.'
    'Yes, sir.'
    Pembridge walked to the study window. 'Mr Slater, I will speak frankly. Had MailedFist acted on your report and telephoned the police as you suggested, we would not be having this conversation. I recall very well your reservations concerning the company, and I recall my . . . possibly rather high-handed reaction to these reservations. In apology, and in thanks for your bravery, I would like to make you a small presentation.'
    He returned to his desk and handed Slater a small box. Inside was a pair of gold cufflinks, engraved with the crest of Bolingbroke's School.
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    t Apart from fonnal mess-dress, Slater had never led a shirt requiring cuff-links, but he smiled jreciatively. 'Thank you.