Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [109]
Faber replied with a series of body jabs; David continued to bruise his face. They were too close together to do real damage to each other in a short time, but David’s greater strength began to tell.
Almost in admiration, Faber realized that David had shrewdly picked the time and the place for the fight: he had had the advantages of surprise, the gun, and the confined space in which his muscle counted for much and Faber’s better balance and greater maneuverability counted for little. He had only erred, really, in his bravado—understandable perhaps—about finding the film can, giving Faber a moment of warning.
Faber shifted his weight slightly and his hip came into contact with the gearshift, throwing the transmission into forward. The engine was still running and the car jerked, throwing him off balance. David used the opportunity to release a long straight left that—more by luck than by judgment—caught Faber flush on the chin and threw him clear across the cab of the jeep. His head cracked against the A-post, he slumped with his shoulder on the door handle, the door opened and he fell out of the car in a backward somersault to land on his face in the mud.
For a moment he was too dazed to move. When he opened his eyes he could see nothing but flashes of blue lightning against a misty red background. He heard the engine of the jeep racing. He shook his head trying to clear the fireworks from his vision, and struggled onto his hands and knees. The sound of the jeep receded and then came closer again. He turned his head toward the noise, and as the colors in front of his eyes dissolved and disappeared he saw the vehicle bearing down on him.
David was going to run him over.
With the front bumper less than a yard from his face he threw himself sideways. He felt a blast of wind. A fender struck his outflung foot as the jeep roared past, its heavy-gauge tires tearing up the spongy turf and spitting mud. He rolled over twice in the wet grass, then got to one knee. His foot hurt. He watched the jeep turn in a tight circle and come for him again.
He could see David’s face through the windshield. The young man was leaning forward, hunched over the steering wheel, his lips actually drawn back over his teeth in a savage almost crazy grin…apparently the frustrated warrior imagining himself in the cockpit of a Spitfire, coming down out of the sun at an enemy plane with all eight Browning machine guns blazing 1,260 rounds per minute.
Faber moved toward the cliff edge. The jeep gathered speed. Faber knew that, for a moment at least, he was incapable of running. He looked over the cliff—a rocky, almost vertical slope to the angry sea a hundred feet below. The jeep was coming straight down the cliff edge toward him. Faber looked up and down for a ledge, or even a foothold. There was none.
The jeep was four or five yards away, traveling at something like forty miles per hour. Its wheels were less than two feet from the cliff edge. Faber dropped flat and swung his legs out into space, supporting his weight on his forearms as he hung on the brink.
The wheels passed him within inches. A few yards farther on one tire actually slipped over the edge. For a moment Faber thought the whole vehicle would slide over and fall into the sea below, but the other three wheels dragged the jeep to safety.
The ground under Faber’s arms shifted. The vibration of the jeep’s passing had loosened the earth. He felt himself slip a fraction. One hundred feet below, the sea boiled among the rocks. Faber stretched one arm to its farthest extent and dug his fingers deep into the soft ground. He felt a nail tear, and ignored it. He repeated the process with his other arm. With two hands anchored in the earth he pulled himself upward. It was agonizingly