by Len Deighton
He opened his case and brought out the five-page report that the London office had sent. It was an analysis of Champion's movements, and the spending and activities of his companies, during the previous six months. Or as much as London knew of them. 'Not to be taken away,' said Schlegel, as I opened it hurriedly. He went to the counter and bought two espresso coffees. By the time he'd returned, I'd scanned it 'Nothing there, is there?' He tapped the coffee with his spoon. 'You'd better drink that. Two brandies under is no way to face that boy, even if he's half of what you say he is.'
I drank the hot coffee, folded up his sheets of typing, and handed them back to him.
'And the trucks in Marseille?'
'They are being loaded. The manifest says engine parts, chemicals and heavy duty plastics and fabrics. It's a diplomatic load, just as we were warned it would be.'
'Did you find out anything about the Topaz girl?
Schlegel studied me carefully before replying. 'She's twenty-five. British subject, born in London. Only child. Doting parents to whom she writes each week. Her father is a retired research chemist, living on a small pension in Portsmouth, England. She hasn't lived at home since she first went to college in London. She graduated with honours in thermo-chemistry but she's never had a proper job. She's worked as a waitress and gas-pump attendant... you know the kind of thing. Seems like she's hooked on kids. Her last three jobs have been as a children's nurse. She's not a qualified nurse, of course.'
'No/ I said. 'She's a qualified thermo-chemist.'
'Oh, Jesus!' said Schlegel. 'I knew this was going to start you shovelling that Serge Frankel shit all over me. Thermo-chemists don't manufacture nukes.'
'No,' I said patiently. 'Thermo-chemists don't manufacture nukes. But thermo-chemistry does relate to the explosion of nukes.' I opened the manila envelope he'd given me, and I found the photo postcard of the Hindenburg disaster. 'And the conversion of hydrogen into helium also relates to the explosion of nukes.' I stabbed my finger at the great boiling mass of flame erupting out of the airship.
Schlegel took it from me and bent close to look at the photo, as if he might discover more there. He was still looking at it when I left.
Chapter Twenty
THE CARS of Nice are mostly white, so Champion's black Mercedes was easily spotted on the Place Massena. The driver was in the car, but Champion and his son were sirring outside a cafe-bar under the stone arcades. Champion was drinking an aperitif, and Billy was arranging sweet-wrappers on the circular metal table-top. Billy waved when he saw me. He'd saved me two cubes of chocolate, which by now were soft, misshapen and coated with pocket-fluff.
Champion got to his feet too. They'd clearly had long enough sitting there, and he didn't offer me a drink. The chauffeur had the door open as we reached the car, and there was a discussion about whether Billy was permitted to sit in front. Billy lost and was seated between us in the back.
Champion opened the window. The sun had heated the interior enough to explain why most cars were white.
'Now don't get chocolate all over the upholstery,' said Champion. He got a handkerchief from his top pocket.
'I'll be careful,' I said.
'Not you, stupid,' said Champion. He grinned, and wiped Billy's hands and mouth.
'You can't always be sure, these days,' I said.
'Don't say that, Charlie,' He seemed genuinely hurt. 'Have I changed so much?'
'You're a tough cookie, Steve,' I told him.
'Welcome to the club/ he said. He looked to Billy to see if he was listening to us.
Billy looked up at me. 'I'm a tough cookie, too,' he told me.
"That's what I said: Billy is a tough cookie, Steve!'
Billy looked to his father to check me out. Steve smiled. 'We don't want too many tough cookies in the family," he said, and straightened Billy's tie.
By this time we'd reached the airport turn-off. The chauffeur was overtaking the Sunday drivers creeping along the promenade. An Air France Caravelle came down alongside us, to land on the runway that runs parallel to the road. There was a roar, and a scream of rubber as its jets reversed.
Billy watched the Caravelle until it disappeared from sight behind the airport buildings. 'When will we go in an aeroplane again, Daddy?'
'One of these days,' said Champion.
'Soon?'
'Perhaps.'
'For my birthday?'
'We'll see, Billy.'
'Will Uncle Charles come too?'
'I hope so, Billy. I'm counting on it,'
Billy smiled.
The car sped on over the Pont du Var and to the toll-gate of the autoroute. Like any good chauffeur, our driver had the coins ready, and so we joined the fast-moving lane for the automatique. A few cars ahead of us, the driver of a VW camper tossed his three francs into the plastic funnel. The barrier tilted upwards to let the VW through. Before it dropped back into position again, a lightweight motor-cycle slipped through behind it The long lines of cars at the other gates kept the gate-men too busy to notice the infringement.
'Young bastards!' said Champion. 'Bikes are not even allowed on the autoroute.'
By that time we were through the barrier, too. The two youths on the motor-cycle had pulled into the slow lane and were weaving through the traffic. The pillion passenger had a golf-bag on the shoulder, and kept turning round to be sure there was no pursuit.
They were a sinister pair, both in black one-piece suits, with shiny black bone-domes and dark visors.
'That's what I mean, Steve. There was a time when you would have laughed,' I said.
He'd been watching the motor-cycle riders through the rear window, but now he turned away. 'Perhaps you're right,' he said tonelessly.
The traffic thinned. The driver pulled out to the fast lane and put his foot hard down. The car leaped forward, passing everything on the road. Champion liked speed. He smiled, and glanced triumphantly at the cars that were left behind. The motor-cyclists were the only ones who chased us. We went faster and faster still, and they kept on our tail.
I put my hand out to steady Billy as we accelerated. As I did so, Champion's face tightened with rage. The light inside the car changed dramatically. The windows frosted, one by one, as if whitewash was being poured over us. Champion's hand hit my shoulder and knocked me aside. I toppled, falling upon Billy, who let out a loud yell of protest.
Champion seemed to be hammering upon my back with all his strength, and under both of us, Billy was squashed breathless. The Mercedes rocked with a succession of spine-jarring jolts, as if we were driving over railway sleepers. I knew that the tyres had torn, we were riding on the wheel-rims. As the car struck the verge, it tilted. The driver was screaming as he fought the steering-wheel, and behind his shrill voice I heard the steady hammering noise that can never be mistaken.
'Down, down, down,' Champion was shouting. The car began to roll over. There was a sickening thump, and a squeal of tortured metal. The horizon twisted, and we fell upwards in a crazy inverted world. The car continued to roll, tossing us around like wet clothes in a tumble-drier. With wheels in the air, the engine screamed, and the driver disappeared through the windscreen in a shower of splintered glass that caught the sunlight as it burst over him like confetti. For a moment the car was the right way up, but it started to roll for a second time, and now fir-tree branches, clods of earth and chopped vegetation were coming in through the smashed windows. When upside down, the car slowed, tried to get on to its side, but with a groan settled on to its roof, wheels in the air, like a dead black beetle.
If I expected hordes of rescuing Samaritans, I was to be sadly disappointed. No one came. The trees made it dark inside the narrow confines of the bent car. With great effort I extricated myself from under Champion's bloody limbs. Billy began to cry. Still no one appeared. I heard the buzz of traffic speeding past on the autoroute, and realized that we were out of sight I struggled with the door catch, but the car had warped enough to jam the door. I rolled over on to my back and
braced my hands behind my head. Then, both feet together, I kicked. There was a sound of breaking glass and the door loosened. I clambered out Then I got Billy under the armpits and pulled him dear.
Any last doubt I'd had about the two motor-cyclists machine-gunning us was dispelled by the bullet-riddled body of Champion's driver. He was dead, shiny with bright-red blood, upon which thousands of particles of safety glass stuck, like sequins on a party dress.
'Daddy's dead,' said Billy.
I fumbled around for my spectacles and then took Champion's limp arm and dragged him from the car. It was now an almost unrecognizable shape. There was the stink of petrol, and the loud gurgle of it pouring from the inverted petrol tank.
'Go over there and lie down, Billy.'
Champion wasn't breathing. 'Steve,' I whispered. Don't kid around, Steve.'
The irrational thought that Champion might be shamming was all I had to comfort me. I pushed a finger into his mouth and found his dentures. They were halfway down his throat I tipped him face-down, and thumped him in the small of the back. Billy was staring at me wide-eyed. Champion gurgled. I hit him again, and shook him. He vomited. I dropped him flat on his face and began to pump the small of his back, using a system of artificial respiration long since discarded from the first-aid manuals. Soon I felt him shudder, and I changed the pressure to coincide with his painful inhalations.
'Where's Billy?' His voice was cruelly distorted by the absence of his dentures.
'Billy is absolutely all right, Steve.'
'Get him away from the car.'
'He's fine, I tell you.'
Champion closed his eyes. I had to lean close to hear him. 'Don't send him to wave down a car,' he mumbled. 'These French drivers will run anyone down to avoid being late for lunch.' '
'He's right here, Steve.'
His mouth moved again, and I bent close, 'I said it would be like old times, didn't I, Charlie?'
Chapter Twenty-one
'DON'T ASK me for a medical reason,' said the doctor.
He finished dressing a cut on my arm. 'Let's just say that it wasn't Monsieur Champion's time to go.'
'But how sick is he now?'
'Most people would need a couple of months' convalescence. But then most people would probably have died in the smash. Most people would need an intensive-care unit, instead of sitting up in bed asking for whisky. But the police can't talk to him until next week. I told them that.
'I'm sure he stopped breathing,' I said. 'I thought he was dead.'
'Will-power,' said the doctor. 'You see a lot of it in my job. Had he been in a depressed state, he might have died. As it is, he's probably got all manner of plans that he simply won't give up.'
'You're probably right,' I said.
'You saved his life,' said the doctor. 'I told him that. It was lucky that you were only slightly hurt. You saved him. Those damned dentures would have choked him: he wouldn't have been the first, either. Airlines tell people to remove them if there's the danger of a forced landing.'
We've known each other a long time,' I said.
'Don't talk to him tonight,' said the doctor. 'Well, let's hope he's around to do the same thing for you some time.'
He already has,' I said.
The doctor nodded. There are tablets for the pain. He'll go to sleep now, 'I've given him a powerful dose of sedative-big frame and very restless-I'll keep him well sedated for the next few days. I don't think we'll have to move him into the clinic.'
'And the boy?'
'He needs a good night's sleep, that's all. Children have an extraordinary recuperative facility. I don't want to give him my knock-out drops. I suggest that you give him some wanned wine with plenty of sugar in it. Nature's remedy, the grape. Better than all the chemicals.'
'Thank you, doctor.'
'Don't thank me. I am pleased to be of service. I Eke them, you see. The child has inherited his father's charm, hasn't he?'
'Yes he has.'
'He made me promise you'd say goodnight to him. I told him his father's asleep. I don't think he's anxious, but...'
'I'll go and see him now.'
I need not have tiptoed in.
'Did you see Henry? He was covered in blood.'
'You must go to sleep, Billy,'
'Where's Daddy?'
'He's got to have a good night's sleep, the doctor said so.'
'Is Henry dead?'
It was a trap to test my story about his father. 'Yes, Billy. Poor Henry is dead, but your father is just shaken up, and you and me are just fine. So we must count our blessings.'
Billy corrected me. 'We must thank God,' he said.
'That's what I meant,' I said.
'Can I see Daddy?'
'If you want to, you can. But I thought you'd take my word for it.'
'Yes, I do,' said Billy. 'I do take your word for it.' He wriggled down into his bed and put his face into his pillow. I waited for him to peep out at me. When he did, I pulled a face at him. Usually he laughed, but this time he was very serious. 'Is Aunty Nini in prison?'
Pina had always been called Nini, ever since Billy had found her real name too difficult to pronounce. 'Why, Billy?'
'For shooting Henry.'
'Who says she shot Henry?'
'I saw her,' said Billy. 'She was driving the motor-cycle. I saw her and she saw me.'
'It looked like her, Billy. But Aunty Mini would not shoot us; we're friends, aren't we?'
Billy nodded, and swallowed. 'It looked like her, though,' be said.
'I'll bring you a glass of wine,' I said. 'Then we'll put out the light, so that you can sleep. In the morning we'll try talking to the fishes again.'
Chapter Twenty-two
'DON'T SWITCH on the light, lover man.' Topaz was waiting in my bedroom. She'd pulled the curtains open and stood near the balcony, so that the moonlight made her hair shine like polished silver.
I moved towards her. She threw herself into my arms. 'It gives me the creeps, this house.'
'Is everything all right?'
'All right? How could it be, in this dump? Those Arabs eating couscous and watching me all the time. And Mr Champion in some sort of coma.'
'He's only under sedation,' I said. 'And I like couscous.'
'Gives me the creeps,' she said. 'This whole house gives me the creeps. If it wasn't for poor little Billy, I would have packed my bags weeks ago.' As she put her arms round me, I could feet the thinness of the white cotton dress, and I could feel that she wore nothing under it. She kissed me.
'Don't undo my shirt,' I said.
'What are you, a poof or something?'
'Some other time, Topaz,' I said. 'Right now, I've got things to do.'
She hugged me tighter, confident that she could make me see reason.
'You know enough of those English words for "go away"' without forcing me to use them,' I whispered.
'I am English,' she said.
'And that's another reason,' I said.
'What have I done?' she said. 'Am I using the wrong sort of toothpaste, or something?'
'You're a doll,' I told her, 'but for the next hour I'm going to be busy.'
'Oh, an hour.' She gave me her sexiest smile, and a sigh to match. 'I might be able to last out an hour.'
'Well, don't blow a gasket,' I said, 'the steam fogs up my glasses.'
There was enough light coming from the night sky for me to see her as she smiled, and kicked off her shoes. She plumped up the pillows and sat on the bed. She kept her handbag close to her and began to rummage through its contents.
Footsteps came hurrying along the corridor outside my room. An Arab voice called softly for Billy, but there was no answer. The footsteps moved away downstairs, and I heard the call repeated somewhere down in the hall.
'They are all leaving,' said Topaz.
'Sounds like it,' I said. Now they were calling for Billy from outside in the grounds.
'I'm not involved in any of this,' she said.
'I'll
see you in an hour,' I said.
'No,' said Topaz.
