1 pm
Village outside Stoke-on-Trent
"I see him," Annie says. "I see Jenkins."
She's at the top of the bell tower of the parish church with her binoculars trained on the house.
"Good," Mark responds over the walkie-talkie.
"He's definitely staying at his aunt's house," Anne confirms. "He's just gone into the village shop."
A few minutes later Jenkins exits the shop, glancing around to make sure he isn't being followed, unaware that he's being watched from up high. Earlier he'd thought that he'd spotted a suspicious looking car parked a few houses down the street, but he'd been mistaken. He hasn't seen the car since.
"He's walking back to the house," Annie says. "Wait. His Aunt's coming down the road to meet him." She studies him carefully and then continues, "It looks like he's received news. I think he's on the move. Stand by Beta One."
"Beta One ready," Mark responds.
"Yes," Annie replies. "He's moving faster now. He's reached the cottage and is handing the food to his aunt. He's heading for his car. It's the Ford."
"Good," Mark replies. "Tell me which direction he's moving in and get out of there."
"He's heading west," Annie responds, putting away her binoculars and rapidly descending the tower.
3 pm
Somewhere in Staffordshire
"We've got them all," Mark says into the receiver with a triumph grin. "This must be their new meeting place."
"Good work, Adams," Coolidge smiles. "Any sign of Harry?"
It's unusual for Coolidge to use anyone's first name.
"No," Mark responds with a heavy heart.
"Right. Set up surveillance then. Is there a chance of getting an audio feed in there?"
"No, Sir," Mark replies. "The house is isolated and they have people watching all the time. They've learnt their lesson. My guess is they've picked this location deliberately. Any new people will stand out like a sore thumb. We're going to have to be very careful not to spook them."
"Right. I'll talk to Casters about commandeering some agents from G Section, give us a broader base to work from."
"I can put trackers on the other vehicles once it's dark," Mark suggests, "and I'm sure Malcolm can sort something out and get us some remote surveillance set up. I've sent Arnold to do his trick with the milkman. He's not a local chap, so it should be a cinch to get him a new assistant."
"Good. Do that, sit tight, and whatever you do, don't lose them again."
4 pm
Small Village in Shropshire
George? No. He doesn't look like a George. Tom perhaps. No... Maybe Henry. He could be a Henry. Or an Arthur. Or Richard... Royal names. Interesting.
She started this game a few hours ago, trying to guess his name to pass the time, in between cooking some chicken soup for them, studying the constellations and myths, and reading any one of a number of books she's in the middle of. What she really wants to do is go for a walk, but she's a little worried about leaving him alone here, whether because of concern for his safety or her own, she's not entirely sure. Now that he's out of danger, she's beginning to question the wisdom of allowing him into her personal space – he could be absolutely anybody. At least, with the hole in his leg, he doesn't really pose an immediate threat to her, which is a relief. She just needs to be on her guard and get him out of here and her life as soon as possible.
His fever had finally broken practically the moment she'd picked up the phone, ready to dial 999. The longer she'd left it to ring, the harder it had seemed. How was she supposed to explain his condition and her failure to call for help earlier? The fact that he had told her not to had seemed like such a flimsy excuse to her, especially if he failed to survive and there was no one to corroborate her story. "I'll give it ten more minutes," she'd kept telling herself, only to extend the deadline by another ten whenever it arrived, until the realisation that she was fucked either way if he died in the end, whether here or on the way to the hospital, had prompted her to stop procrastinating and bite the bullet. Miraculously, however, he had recovered just in the nick of time and she'd been spared the necessity of explaining her actions, for which she's supremely grateful.
He's sleeping peacefully now, has been asleep for most of the day, in fact, giving her ample time to think through her actions and analyse the events of the last twenty-four hours. The half hour or so before his fever had broken had been particularly hard on both of them. It had been steadily climbing, reaching an alarming 42.1oC at its height and causing him to become delirious, thrashing about in bed and uttering such anguished cries that had made shivers run down her spine and the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, but despite her discomfort, she'd stayed with him throughout, speaking words of comfort in a low, soothing voice, continuing to bathe his brow and rub his arm gently, desperate to calm him, praying he pulls through as the fear that he will die on her intensified, terrified that the blame would fall squarely on her shoulders. She'd actually been reaching for the telephone when he'd suddenly moaned, arching his back, and his entire body had broken out in a sweat that had soaked the sheets in seconds, his temperature dropping rapidly. She'd actually sent up a prayer of thanks and breathed a sigh of relief, drying him with a towel as best she could and rearranging the covers for him, though she hadn't been able to move him enough to change the sheets. As she watches him sleep peacefully now, she wonders what kind of a life he's lead to suffer such nightmares.