Rasmussen had a tight little smile on his face and was edging back out of the Une. Trond was grinning broadly.

Was he any good with his left hand? But it hardly mattered, not at less than ten yards. He had at least seven shots to scatter at me and no professional could miss as badly as I needed him to.

I fired both shots at him and stepped out of the front door. I didn't think I'd hit him, but I'd surprised the hell out of him. He shied instinctively, throwing up the gun hand across his face, and his one shot went somewhere up the stairwell.

The door slammed behind me, shaking the whole porch. I bounced off a rocking-chair, ran to the end, and vaulted down into the doctor's best daffodils. Then across the drive and into the bushes. And there I could stop and reload.

Behind me, the garden reached another twenty yards, all nice thick cover. But beyond that there was a dry-stone wall and then open pasture stretching down to the road one way and up the hillside the other. Using the wall, which stood about hip-high, I could reach the road in complete cover from fire-by breakfast time, maybe.

The lights on the porch and in the hall suddenly went out. I lifted the derringer – then changed my mind. They'd come out cautiously enough anyway; why tell them where I was? I backed off as quietly as I could, weaving among the bushes to the wall; climbed it without knocking anything down – and then went diagonally across the pasture like a frightened rocket. I was practically at the road when I heard the first car start behind me – but it didn't seem to be making much ground.

When I reached the quay, Kari was already down in the boat making urging noises at Nygaard; he was sitting on the edge looking cold, apprehensive, and rather permanent.

Willie was just standing by. 'What was the shooting?'

'An old friend cropped up unexpectedly. Nobody got hurt. Get himin.' I panted.

Kari said, 'I am trying…'

I said, 'Oh, hell,' and grabbed Nygaard by the shoulder of his greatcoat and heaved. He weighed the world, but he shifted. There was a startled squawk and he tumbled down almost on top of David. Willie jerked one rope loose, I took the other, and we swung aboard. Behind us, I heard a second car start – then it was wiped out by the clattering roar of our diesel.

Kari put the tiller hard over and pointed us at the starlit water beyond the dark rocks.

I said, 'Now try for those eight bloody knots.'

When we were clear of the harbour I told her to swing south and keep following the shoreline – trying to keep us out of sight of the house and the road between it and the main harbour. About then, I remembered to switch off the navigation lights, and that bothered her more than anything else that evening. A bit of kidnapping, a few gunshots, yes, but driving a boat without lights…!

The lights stayed off until we were a good mile from the island and ready to swing round on a new course. This ran about directly south-west into the mouth of the Hogsfjorden and then fifteen miles or more up it to where the car was parked at a small quay where they loaded gravel from a quarry. Nothing else happened there, so past midnight there wouldn't be anybody to ask what we were doing, humping Nygaard ashore.

And it looked as if we were going to be humping him. He'd spent the first busy five minutes lolling about on the deck beside the engine, more than half asleep again already. Then Willie and I had forced him into a pair of socks and put a sweater on under his overcoat – they'd got his trousers on over his pyjamas, back at the sanatorium – and suggested he try the bunk in the cabin. Me, I'd've rather lain down in a bucket of fish heads, which was what it smelt like, but he took it calmly enough. Just patted the diesel's wooden box, grunted, 'Not very good,' and crawled away out of sight.

About then, we turned south-east, lit our lights again, and slowed down. They caught us just before eleven.

We had a little time to prepare for it. Probably there wasn't anything else they could do but rush about the bay in a big motor-cruiser, coming to a grinding halt beside each small boat still around and shining a small searchlight on it, but it didn't exactly make them invisible.

Willie said, 'What do we do now, then?'

Kari said hopefully, 'Shall we put out the lights again?'

'Christ, no. They'll have seen us already; that'd be as good as a signpost.' They were investigating a lobster-boat about a quarter of a mile back. 'No, we just keep going. And let David steer; they've seen all the rest of us.'

'For God's sake, old boy-'

'That or surrender.'

David said, 'I could steer this boat, all right.'

'But you can't answer questions in Norwegian,' Willie pointed out.

I said, 'Let Kari prompt him. They won't expect us to have a boy his age along, anyway, and they won't hear much of his accent above the engines.'

Willie raked a hand anxiously through his hair. 'But I say-'

'We don't really have a choice. There're some rough boys out in that boat and they won't observe the Geneva Convention if wedo surrender. Now let's get organised.'

He went into the cabin first, me next because I had a gun. Kari stayed at the half-open door with a bit of engine tarpaulin draped artistically over her. David was sitting across the tiller in the proper negligently professional style and – a last bright idea of his own – chewing a sandwich from our provisions. He reckoned it would help his Harrow accent along a bit and he was probably right.

We waited in the darkness that was as thick as fish soup, with Nygaard snoring and bubbling louder than the diesel, and Willie said, 'I really don't see why that doctor's chasing us at all – if all you said about his breaking the rules was true.'

'Not his decision any more. He sold out long ago,'

'To Mrs Smith-Bang?'

'Must be – God knows why. Maybe she owns his mortgage, maybe she caught him pushing drugs on the side – or maybe he just likes the crooked life. He's leading it now, anyway.'

The cracks in the bulkhead suddenly glowed with light. David called, 'They're coming.'

There were a couple of thick, dirty port-holes but angled forwards, and I couldn't hear the cruiser's engines over the racket of our own. But over Kari's shoulder I could see the searchlight's glow getting brighter and brighter, silhouetting David's slim figure. He turned and waved his sandwich angrily – a nice touch.

Then the light sparkled direct into my eyes and I yanked my head back. Through a crack in the bulkhead I could just see the white shape slide up alongside on our right and match speeds a few feet away.

The light raked the open deck of our boat and settled back on David. A voice yelled,'Hvilket skip?'

Kari's voice was half-whisper, half-shout,'Stavanger Smaragd!'

'Stavanger Smaragd/' David's shout was nicely scrambled by sandwich.

'Hvorskal De?'

'Idsal,'Kari called.

'Basali'

So far – I guessed – we'd had the name of the boat and where we were supposed to be heading. But now they called something Kari didn't catch. She hesitated. I pulled the derringer back to full cock – and then David took over. He simply held his sandwich up in an ear-cupping gesture, leant his head towards them, and yelled a completely international 'Ay?'

'Hvor er faren den?' the voice bellowed. Trond, I think.

'Hansover,'Kari answered.

'Han sover!'

Then she added,'Dra til helvete.'

'Dra til helvete!'

After that, nothing. I rammed my ear against the bulkhead -and got it filled with diesel vibrations. Had we missed something?

Then the light died; the big white boat swung away. From the port-hole I could see the white wake suddenly thicken in the starlight as she piled on speed.