Killing Ground by James Rouch

shelter, watched them enter the ground floor.
    Checking his watch, Revell resisted the urge to hurry his guide. He was led through a series of spacious panelled rooms, through a magnificent oak-beamed banqueting hall and into what must once have been the kitchens.
    ‘Nearly all of the furniture has been removed, quite legitimately, but I understand a few choice pieces did disappear between here and the West. I find it amusing that perhaps there is somewhere a refugee hovel furnished with priceless antiques.’ Voke took a large key from an inside jacket pocket. ‘More likely, though, it has already passed through the hands of several dealers in London and New York.’
    The door he unlocked was set in an angle of the wall at the back of the kitchen. Despite its obvious age and heavy construction it swung open smoothly and almost silently on well-lubricated hinges.
    Reaching into a small recess just inside, the lieutenant flipped a switch, and from deep below them came the sputter of a generator coughing into life. A widely spaced row of lights glowed into life to illuminate a steep stone stairway.
    Taking another quick look at the time, Revell then had to give his undivided attention to the worn and slightly damp steps. ‘We’re running out of time, Lieutenant.’
    ‘I know that, Major. For me and my men it is running out very fast.’

    NINE

There were at least thirty cellar rooms and vaults, ranging from little more than a cupboard-sized space to the three or four that would have garaged comfortably a brace of Challenger main battle tanks.
    Most were lined with racks of small arms of every description, including mortars and anti-aircraft missile launchers. All were accompanied by stacks of the appropriate ammunition. The largest was filled with anti-tank weapons TOW’s, already uncrated and assembled.
    Several times Voke talked down the major’s comments or criticisms. ‘Wait until I have shown you everything, then tell me what you think. I am being as quick as I can,’ he added to forestall that objection.
    ‘There is ample fuel for the generator, and its standby. Water, rations, chemical toilets - even a well-equipped dispensary. See, you can enter the cellars from several places inside the castle, but this is the only entrance or exit outside the walls.’
    Drawing back three huge bolts on a studded door, Voke pulled it open with an effort and a gust of wind slapped rain into their faces.
    For the first time Revell didn’t mind; it was very cool and refreshing after the exhaust-filled fetid atmosphere of decay in those catacombs.
    As they stepped out, behind and above them soared the castle wall. To their left a narrow path hewn from the rock started down across the cliff face. It was slippery, and overgrown in places. Between them and a long drop to the trees far below was a ruined wall that bore faint signs of once having been crenulated, to offer its defenders firing positions. Now it was mostly gone. Unlike the main body of the castle this small outwork had been allowed to deteriorate. As they cautiously worked their way lower they passed several small towers built around natural fissures and caves in the face. Covered with creeping weeds, walls sagging, their interiors were dark, forbidding caverns they did not investigate.
    Once Revell fancied he heard something behind them, but though he paused to listen, the sound wasn’t heard again and they restarted.
    The path ended in a tower more substantial than the other, set with a gate made of timbers that could have been hewn only from whole trees. With some difficulty they scrambled up the inside of the tower until, by bracing their feet against the stubs of roof beams projecting from the stonework, they could look out over the parapet.
    ‘Just one minute more, please, Major. Then we shall start back.’ Voke pointed down toward the pine-woods. ‘Look there.’
    Barely visible between the close-spaced trunks, Revell could make out shapeless bundles of