Nemesis Read Online Free

they were rising bumpilytowards the Three Sisters. As it reached the summit it was hit by the unshielded force of the blizzard. It lurched and tilted on its side, throwing Webb against the fuselage. “Jesus Holy Mary Mother of Christ!” the pilot yelled. Then the helicopter had righted and was thrusting roughly into the wind, its wipers clicking in vain against a wall of white, while another wall, made of granite, skimmed past.
    Webb stared out. His faintness had given way to terror. Below, white Highland peaks came and went through dark scudding clouds; and then they were passing along Loch Linnhe and the Sound of Mull; and then they were heading out over an ocean made of white churning milk; and the waves on the milk moved in slow stately progression; and they were bigger than houses.
    The pilot turned again. “I was supposed to meet a nurse tonight,” he said accusingly. “Knockers like melons and game for anything. James bloody Bond on a secret mission I do not need. By the way, your pals from SMERSH are waiting.”
    The young man made his way unsteadily to the back of the machine. “You don’t mind if I smoke, Webb?” asked the Astronomer Royal, lighting up a Sherlock Holmes pipe. He was buckled into a seat at a small circular table screwed into the metal floor. There was no telling what lay behind his blue eyes and Webb judged that the man on the chair next to him wasn’t an artless rustic either. He collapsed into a seat opposite, buckled in and put on the headphones in front of him.
    “This is the fellow,” said the AR.
    “Walkinshaw,” the stranger said. He looked like a headmaster, half-moon spectacles mounted on a grey skull-like head. It was a civil servant’s handshake: prudent, cautious, economical. The helicopter was into its stride, moving briskly if roughly about five hundred feet above the big waves. The civil servant glanced forward at the airmen; they too were wearing earphones.
    “I expect you’re wondering what’s going on, Webb,” said the Astronomer Royal, unscrewing the lid of a flask.
    “The question did flicker across my mind, Sir Bertrand,” said Webb angrily. “I have, after all, just been kidnapped.”
    “Don’t exaggerate. The Sea King is transporting us to Skye.”
    “Skye?”
    “Skye. Where Walkinshaw and I will be dropped off. You, however, will continue on to Iceland.”
    “Iceland?”
    “Webb, try not to sound like a parrot. I am informed that we have only twenty minutes to brief you. Six of these have already gone.” A match flared and Webb waited while the King’s Astronomer got up more smoke. “Father smoked an ounce a day, lived to be ninety. Walkinshaw here is from some God Knows What department of the Foreign Office. Webb, we have a problem.”
    “Just a moment, Sir Bertrand. Sorry to interrupt your Christmas vacation, Doctor Webb.” Walkinshaw nodded at the sheets of A4 paper, covered with handwritten mathematical equations, which the man was still unconsciously clutching. “Although you seem to be on a working holiday.”
    “Will someone tell me what is going on here?” Webb said. He was trembling, through a compound of shock, fear, anger and cold. He folded the papers up and slipped them into his back pocket.
    “First there are a couple of formalities. Number One.” Walkinshaw leaned forward and passed over a little plastic card. Webb held it towards the nearest window. There was a Polaroid photograph of the civil servant, looking like a funeral undertaker, over an illegible signature. Next to the photo was a statement that
    W.M. Walkinshaw, Grade Six, whose photograph and signature are adjacent hereto, is employed by His Britannic Majesty’s Government in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, Department of Information Research.
    Webb nodded warily and returned the card.
    “And Number Two.” The civil servant reached into his briefcase again and handed over a sheet of paper. “An E.24, quite routine. If you would just sign there.”
    The