He lowered the binoculars, turned to Rambahadur beside him and said, “You’re sure he’s within four hundred yards, to the southeast?” “Yes,” the Gurkha answered. “Can you see him?” “Yes. But I know where to look.” It was late afternoon and the two men were sitting cross-legged on the roof of the house. Michael and Rambahadur had left an hour before dawn. Rambahadur had returned just after dawn and spent the entire day on the roof, watching. Creasy had been in Malta to see George Zammit and had only returned half an hour earlier. He lifted the binoculars again and studied the terrain in front of him. Dry stones, low rubbled walls and limestone rocks. After ten minutes he lowered the glasses. “You have done well, my friend,” he said. “When will he make the shot?” “Five seconds after I show him the target,” Rambahadur answered. He tapped the empty beer bottle on his lap. Creasy looked away to his right at two farmers about five hundred yards away, who were using a small rotavator to plough their field.
