The Alamut Ambush

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JENKINS WALKED SLOWLY round the Princess, fumbling with the buttons of his overalls.

It was late – he had heard the chimes of midnight on his way in from Blackheath – and he was dog-tired. And it was also an imposition to be called out during what were at least technically dummy2

the last hours of his leave, which he had purposed to spend getting some order into his new flat.

Yet he knew that it was neither the hour nor the imposition which were sapping his concentration, but the suppressed excitement of the day's events. For a year now he'd felt ambition stirring, and for the last three months he'd sensed the faint scent of promotion trailing him like after-shave. Tonight it was strong in his nostrils: he had the feeling that life hadn't let him down after all.

The trick was to do things right, and there he had Hugh Roskill to help him. Hugh could be trusted to advise him without trying to steal any of the credit – although it wasn't like the old days, Hugh was still almost family.

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