have exactly twenty-six minutes and thirty-one seconds until the next shift of guards arrives - less even, if those two who just left should happen to meet Colonel Townsend and discuss with him our appearance here. I will need approximately another three minutes to open this lock, and there might be other, more complicated locks between us and the file inside the hut, so we will have to move fast. As soon as the file is in our possession, we will move to the tunnel at the end of the cave…’
‘What tunnel, Sir?’
‘Didn’t you see the tunnel at the other side of the cave as we came in?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Well, I did. As I passed it, I felt a breeze come up the tunnel. It smelled of sea air. There’s a direct connection to the coast through that tunnel. Judging from the general direction of the passage, it should come out somewhere near the harbour you told me about. If we go by that route, we might be able to make our escape before the soldiers realize they’ve been hoodwinked.’
‘And we might end up at a dead end and be trapped.’
‘We might. But better a risk in life than certain death, Mr Linton.’
I couldn’t argue with that.
‘What should I do?’ I ask him. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Be quiet.’
I bit back a sharp reply. This time, his terseness might actually be more than simply annoyance at my presence and general feminine existence. I had no idea if one needed quiet to pick a lock; it might very well be.
‘And you can keep an eye on the stairs,’ he added in a voice that wasn’t quite as granite-hard as usual - rather more akin to slate, or sandstone. ‘Tell me immediately when somebody approaches, understood?’
For some reason, a smile appeared on my face. ‘Yes, Sir.’
I had been staring at the empty stairs for a few minutes when from behind me, I heard a click.
‘Done! Let’s go, Mr Linton.’
When I turned my head, I saw that the door was indeed standing open a crack.
‘What now?’ I whispered. ‘Should I stand guard outside while you go in and get the file?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don't want you to stay out here alone.’
He gave no more explanation, but silently beckoned me to follow him inside. I did so, feeling confused. What was that supposed to mean? That had sounded almost as if he wanted to keep me at his side because he cared more about my safety than about securing his precious secret file, the key to all his greatest dreams of wealth and power. But that couldn’t be the case, surely.
Compared to the distant, echoing hum of voices and clatter of cargo out in the cave, it was almost eerily quiet inside the hut. It was only a small, one-room building, made of wood, but still I felt as though I had entered a church, or a throne-room, or another place of majesty. And at the other end of the little room, only a few yards away from Mr Ambrose and me, stood the throne, the Holy Grail of this palace: a small, black safe, with a lock on its door that looked considerably more complicated than the one on the door outside.
Mr Ambrose took two quick steps towards the safe and bent forward to examine the lock. His eyes narrowed the faction of an inch.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes?’
‘We might have a slight problem.’
‘Indeed, Sir?’
‘Yes. I calculate I will need about twenty minutes to open this lock.’
‘And how many minutes do we still have left until the guards appear, Sir?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Oh. That might be a problem Sir.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
Without another word, he shoved his lock picks into the lock and started fiddling. The sound of metal clinking and scraping was nerve-wracking, and after only a short time, I was hardly able to stay still. I started to walk up and down the hut, trying not to think of what would happen if the real guards walked in on us now. They probably wouldn’t look kindly on two of their supposed colleagues trying to crack Lord Dalgliesh’s safe.
‘Mr Linton?’ came a terse voice from floor level, in the direction of the safe.
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Stop walking about. You are distracting me.’
I forced myself to stop, and instead leaned against the wall and started to nervously flex my fingers. I wouldn’t have thought anything could distract Mr Ambrose. But then, the prospect of being shot would probably even faze a stone statue such as he.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Stop flexing your fingers. I can hear your