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fucking go, he told himself. Push it harder. Lengthen your stride. Forget the potholes and the rabbit-holes and the broken ankles. Push it. Push it!
    And then a faint cry reached him on the wind. He froze, and heard it again. 'Itrukni li-hali! Itrukni li-hali!'
    Slater was no linguist but he had picked up enough on missions in Saudi Arabia and Oman to understand Masoud's words. 'Leave me alone!' he was shouting. 'Let me go!'
    Masoud was behind Slater. He'd overtaken them. Fight, he willed Masoud. Slow them down. He pounded through the darkness, brambles nailing at his hands and ankles. The voices on the other'side of the wall were still a hundred metres away or more. If ' he crossed the wall now, fifty yards or so beyond the Cherokee he reckoned, they might not see him. Over we go. Lobbing the chair-leg over the seven35
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    foot wall, he ran at it -- gave it his best shot. His hands found slick ice. His fingers scrabbled desperately, found no purchase, and he fell back to the bracken.
    Squinting, he searched the darkness for an alternative run-up. Was there a bush or something against the wall - something he could climb?
    Nothing.
    The cries again. Nearer now.
    Desperately he repeated his first attempt. Again the frosted bricks resisted his hands and again he fell defeated to the brambles. It was just too high.
    Breathe. Use the desperation.
    Focus.
    Doit.
    In his mind's eye he was back on selection at Hereford. His twelve-strong cadre had been beasted senseless for forty-eight hours - the previous night's exercise had included a frozen river-crossing in full kit -- and they were almost hallucinating with fatigue. Promised a brew and a ration-break, they'd suddenly been ordered off on another thirty-click tab over the hills -- any waverers to be immediately RTUed.
    'You'll do it,' came the staff sergeant's voice, 'or ye'11 fuck off back to whatever crap-hat outfit was misguided enough to waste this regiment's time with ye!'
    And Slater had done it. He'd got round. Somewhere, he'd found the reserve.
    Ah, came a tiny voice, but you were twenty-three then. You're thirty-six now, and . . .
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    Banishing the voice, Slater emptied his mind.
    There was only the wall.
    The wind roared at his ears as he ran, felt the ijrickwork kick at his chest, the icy nailing of his hands, Ithe desperate swing of his legs.
    And was over.
    He'd judged it spot-on. The Cherokee was icdiately in front of him. Picking up the chair-leg
    am the grass verge, he ducked behind the vehicle's adiator.
    He could see as well as hear the kidnappers now: ley were fifty yards up the road towards the school, lirty yards short of the Cherokee, and Masoud was ticking and struggling violently. 'Ib'id yadak!' he creamed to the night air. 'Let me go!'
    Pulling the Mauser knife from his pocket, Slater kabbed the inside wall of each front tyre. Gently, the aur-wheel drive sank forwards. Could he get to the j>ack tyres?
    Without warning, a car came hurtling from behind i, lights at full beam. The driver must have thought lasoud was a drunk being assisted by friends; the horn railed conspiratorially and the darkness returned.
    Clearly alarmed by the closeness of the encounter -- police car would certainly have stopped - the man ith the Smith and Wesson hit Masoud hard on the ead with the heavy butt. The boy's knees gave way,
    was silent, and the black-clad kidnappers ran him to le rear of the vehicle.
    From his position by the radiator, Slater watched
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    their legs moving between the back wheels as they got the rear doors open. His breathing was even, now, and his hands steady -- fatigue had been replaced by a terrible clarity. Releasing the Mauser knife from its lanyard, he transfered it to his left hand. The blade was short, but it should serve its purpose.
    Quietly, he crept along the verge by the vehicle. Having achieved their objective, the terrorists were making no attempt at silence, and were conversing in breathless Arabic as