Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [108]
He put his cigar down, and his voice became quite soft. “It has taken the total military and industrial might of the whole English-speaking world—the greatest civilization since the Roman Empire—four years to win this fifty-fifty chance. If this spy gets out, we lose even that. Which is to say, we lose everything.”
He stared at Godliman for a moment, then picked up his pen with a frail white hand. “Don’t bring me probabilities, professor. Bring me Die Nadel.”
He looked down and began to write. After a moment Godliman got up and quietly left the room.
27
CIGARETTE TOBACCO BURNS AT 800 DEGREES CENTIGRADE. However, the coal at the end of the cigarette is normally surrounded by a thin layer of ash. To cause a burn, the cigarette has to be pressed against the skin for the better part of a second—a glancing touch will hardly be felt. This applies even to the eyes; blinking is the fastest involuntary reaction of the human body. Only amateurs throw cigarettes, and David Rose was an amateur—a thoroughly frustrated and action-starved amateur. Professionals ignore them.
Faber ignored the lighted cigarette that David Rose threw at him. He was right, because the cigarette glanced off his forehead and fell to the metal floor of the jeep. He made a grab for David’s gun, which was an error. He should, he instantly realized, have drawn out his stiletto and stabbed David: David might have shot him first but David had never before pointed a gun at a human being, let alone killed somebody, so he would almost certainly have hesitated and in that moment Faber could have killed him. Faber decided he could blame his recent lapse into humanity for such intolerable miscalculation. It would be his last.
David had both hands on the midsection of the gun—left hand on the barrel, right hand around the breech—and had pulled the weapon about six inches from its rack when Faber got a one-handed grip on the muzzle. David tugged the gun toward himself, but for a moment Faber’s grasp held the gun pointed at the windshield.
Faber was a strong man, but David was exceptionally strong. His shoulders, arms and wrists had moved his body and his wheelchair for four years, and the muscles had become abnormally developed. Furthermore he had both hands on the gun in front of him, and Faber was holding on with one hand at an awkward angle. David tugged again, more determinedly this time, and the muzzle slipped from Faber’s grasp.
At that instant, with the shotgun pointed at his belly and David’s finger curling around the trigger, Faber felt very close to death.
He jerked upward, catapulting himself out of his seat. His head hit the canvas roof of the jeep as the gun exploded with a crash that numbed the ears and produced a physical pain behind the eyes. The window by the passenger seat shattered into small pieces and the rain blew in through the empty frame. Faber twisted his body and fell back, not onto his own seat but across David. He got both hands to David’s throat and squeezed his thumbs.
David tried to bring the gun around between their bodies to fire the other barrel, but the weapon was too big. Faber looked into his eyes, and saw…what? Exhilaration. Of course—the man finally had a chance to fight for his country. Then his expression changed as his body felt the lack of oxygen and he began to fight for breath.
David released his grip on the gun and brought both elbows back as far as he could, then punched Faber’s lower ribs with a powerful double jab.
Faber screwed up his face in pain, but he held his grip on David’s throat, knowing he could withstand David’s punches longer than David could hold his breath.
David must have had the same thought. He crossed his forearms between their bodies and