Borringer held a hand up. “Monsieur Hussein only, if you please.”
“Wait there,” Hussein said at the vault’s threshold.
Ryan obeyed.
The skin beneath Hussein’s chin glowed yellow with reflected light. He must like butter, Ryan thought, the foolish memory of a fairytale flitting through his mind before he chased it out. Hussein examined each of the open crates in turn while Ryan listened to the low insistent thrum of air vents. A draught cooled his neck.
“They’re good,” Hussein said. “You may seal them.”
Borringer nodded, and the guard lifted the hammer that sat next to the stacked wooden lids. He set about nailing them in place, three firm taps for each nail, six nails for every crate.
Ryan couldn’t help but feel he was witnessing a ceremony, some obscene communion in a church of concrete and steel, the blood of Christ turned gold.
HABIB AND MUNIR loaded the crates onto the van while Borringer stood with his hands folded at the small of his back. Ryan stood alongside him, stifling yawns.
Hussein conferred with the driver of the first escort car, tracing a route on the map with a pencil. Two cars, one ahead, one following, would accompany them to the French border. Once there, the armoured van and its load would travel on guarded mostly by Hussein’s men. Two more cars would occasionally pass them on the French roads, Hussein explained, just to ensure no one followed.
When the crates were aboard, Habib and Munir climbed in and closed the rear doors behind them.
Borringer shook Hussein’s hand before the Arab climbed into the driver’s seat. Ryan took the passenger seat with no farewell.
Stars glittered above the walls of the compound, and before Hussein fired the van’s engine, Ryan shivered at the silence that lay across the world. He checked his watch. Approaching two in the morning.
The convoy left the walls of the Heidegger bank behind in the darkness. Ryan watched the lead car’s lights wavering ahead as the Citroën’s engine droned. His eyelids dropped and his head nodded forward before jerking up.
Hussein blew cigarette smoke from his nostrils. “Get some sleep, Mr. Ryan. We have a long journey ahead.”
Ryan leaned back into the corner formed by the passenger seat and the door, allowed the engine’s drone to soothe his mind. He dreamed of gold stolen from skeletal corpses and pulled from dead men’s teeth, and how heavy it weighed in his hand.
THE SOUND OF the driver’s door slamming shut pulled him from his unsettled sleep. The sky had lightened from black to deep blue, but the sun remained hidden beyond the horizon.
The van stood at the side of a narrow road, one of the escort cars parked some yards ahead. Ryan could barely make out the driver leaning against its roof. He guessed the second car had parked behind the van. Trees surrounded them, stretching into the distance as far as Ryan could see.
Hussein’s guards joined him at the roadside, each of the three men carrying rolled rugs. Habib or Munir, Ryan couldn’t be sure which was which, set a plastic gallon drum on the verge. They kicked off their shoes and socks, rolled up their sleeves, put woollen caps on their heads. They doused their hands with water from the drum, rinsed their faces, their heads, their arms up to their elbows, and finally their feet.
Ryan watched as they unrolled their rugs on the ground, stood with their hands lifted to heaven, and chanted. He had seen the ritual in Egypt as a young soldier. There, he had observed some perform the ritual ablutions with sand when no water was available.
He listened to the drone of their prayers and watched the orange glow on the horizon burn away the darkness.
THE AIR HAD developed an icy chill by the time the lead car had pulled over and stopped. Its driver waved as the Citröen van passed. Hussein raised his hand in return before turning onto a path so slender and overgrown it could barely have been described as a track, let alone a road. Ryan braced his hands against the dashboard as the van juddered and lurched over the rough ground. By the time the wheels found good footing on a decent surface, they had crossed into France.
The mountains rose up beyond Ryan’s vision, mist veiling the slopes. He had not seen another car since the last village they had passed through, a loose gathering of chalets and farm buildings. Goats and horned cattle had watched them drive by. Now a vehicle appeared up ahead, travelling slow enough for Hussein to catch it up.
When the car was close enough, Hussein raised a forefinger from the steering wheel, a small gesture, but enough to tell the driver of the car to accelerate away.
Ryan felt pressure in his ears as they climbed. Hussein had not spoken since they left the bank’s compound, but now he took a breath.
“Soon, you will drive. We will stop and eat, then you will take us to Crozon.”
“All right,” Ryan said.
Eighteen years since he’d been in France, and like today, he’d mostly seen it from the inside of a vehicle. He thought of Celia, and the time she had spent in Paris, and the smoky look of her eyes when she talked about it.
Perhaps they would return here, when it was all over. Part of Ryan rejoiced at the idea, while another told him it was a foolish notion. He could not think beyond the rendezvous, handing over the crates to Weiss and the others.
In his mind, Ryan’s life ended at that point, though he did not imagine his own death. He simply could not conceive of an existence that stretched further, a time after the act.
Fear would be the proper emotion. But he did not feel fear, or excitement, only the cold that leaked through the seals of the Citroën’s doors.
He pulled his coat tight around himself, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE
THEY REACHED CAMARET-SUR-MER at dusk. That afternoon, they had pulled in at a village cafe and taken it in turns to leave the van to eat. Ryan had chosen a rabbit stew with chunks of coarse bread. The meat had been dry and bland, the stew watery, but hunger had made him devour it all the same. Now his stomach grumbled, eager for food once again.
Habib and Munir passed some form of flatbread back and forth, cutting chunks with a vicious-looking knife. They offered none to Ryan. Hussein seemed able to exist purely on tobacco and prayer.
Despite the evening chill, Ryan had rolled down the window to release the pent odours of men and cigarettes. As he pulled up to the small harbour, he smelled salt and heard the tide pushing against its walls, gulls calling as they scavenged the last of the day. Fishing vessels and pleasure boats swayed on the dark water.
“There,” Hussein said, pointing to the aged fishing boat moored closest to a set of steps that descended into the water. Weathered blue paint flaked on its wooden hull. A heavyset man with wiry grey hair and florid cheeks watched from its bow, one hand leaning on a rusted winch. He touched a finger to his brow in a casual salute.
“His name is Vandenberg,” Hussein said. “He is not a friendly man.”
Given how little the Arab had spoken on the journey, Ryan wondered what his idea of friendly was.
They climbed out of the van. Ryan stretched his back and arms.
“Who is the passenger?” Vandenberg asked, his sing-song accent sounding to Ryan like Dutch or Flemish, possibly Danish.
“This man,” Hussein said, indicating Ryan. “Come help us. The cargo is heavy.”
Vandenberg shook his head. “No. I am paid to sail the boat, not to lift things. You lift things.”
Hussein grumbled and spat. He tugged Ryan’s sleeve, guided him to the back of the vehicle. Soon, they had established a chain, Habib bringing each crate from the van to Ryan’s hands, Ryan passing it to Munir, who then descended the steps and handed it to Hussein, who stood on the boat, stacking each box as it arrived.
Ryan’s hands were raw and bloody by the time it was done, his back aching, sweat slicking the skin beneath his clothes. He considered crying off, telling them of the injuries he’d received only a few days ago, but his pride would not allow it.
As the sun kissed the hori
zon, Hussein pulled a fat envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Vandenberg. He opened the envelope and thumbed through its contents. Satisfied, he stashed it inside his coat and nodded to Hussein.
Without a word to Ryan as he passed, Hussein returned to the van’s driver’s seat while Habib and Munir climbed into the back. The Citroën’s engine barked as it caught, then pulled away from the harbour.
Ryan watched its taillights fade.
“Come,” Vandenberg called from the boat. “Is time for going.”
RYAN HUDDLED ON the cabin’s single bunk, wishing he had brought warmer clothes as Vandenberg navigated the channels and sandbanks from Camaret-sur-Mer, away from the Crozon peninsula, towards the open sea.
The crates had been covered in a canvas tarpaulin and lashed in place with ropes and hooks. The tarpaulin’s corners fluttered in the breeze.
Soon, the boat gathered speed as it moved into open water, rising and falling with the waves.
Ryan had never minded travelling by boat. Back in the war, he had found the movement soothing, even while many among his comrades hung retching over the sides. The boat creaked and groaned as its wooden hull cut through the waves.
Above, visible through the cabin’s grimy windows, the sky cleared, a sheet of deepest black, a hint of orange and blue on the far horizon. Stars emerged, hard bright points beyond number, made clear away from the haze and the lights of mankind. Ryan picked out constellations, searching his memory for their names.
A brilliant streak shot across the black, and he wished for the warmth of Celia’s body next to his.
HE AWOKE WITH the sensation of drifting. The boat rose and fell, but there was no sense of speed, no forward movement. Ryan opened his eyes, saw the deck outside the cabin doused in blue moonlight.
There, Vandenberg pulling back the tarpaulin to expose a crate. He tried its lid with his thick fingers, found it solid. He harrumphed and opened a long box on the deck. He rummaged through its contents until he found a short crowbar. Ryan watched as Vandenberg began prising the crate open.
“Leave it alone.”
Vandenberg spun to Ryan’s voice.
Ryan got to his feet, went to the cabin’s doorway, steadied himself against the boat’s sway.
“Is my boat,” Vandenberg said. “I will know what I carry.”
“The Arab paid you. That’s all you need to know.”
Vandenberg straightened, puffed out his chest, the crowbar held at his side. “He is no Arab. He is Algerian. I will know what I carry.”
“I don’t care what he is. Those crates are none of your concern. Your job is to sail this boat. I suggest you do it.”
“No,” Vandenberg said, turning back to the crates. “I am the captain. I will look inside.”
Ryan stepped towards him. “Leave them alone.”
Vandenberg raised the crowbar. “You go away from me.”
“Put it down,” Ryan said, taking another step.
Vandenberg swiped the air between them.
Ryan moved closer. He smelled whisky.
“Go away from me.” Vandenberg held the crowbar high, ready to bring it down on Ryan’s head.
“I’ll tell you once more,” Ryan said. “Put it down.”
Vandenberg swung the crowbar, and Ryan raised his left forearm to block it. Metal displaced air by Ryan’s ear as he seized Vandenberg’s wrist, took his balance. Ryan’s right fist connected with Vandenberg’s jaw, and the sailor sprawled on the deck.
Reaching down, Ryan grabbed the crowbar with his right hand. Vandenberg crawled past him, towards the cabin, panting and gasping. Ryan followed. Vandenberg clambered to his feet and stumbled through the doorway, grasping for something beneath the radio set.
Ryan brought the crowbar down hard on Vandenberg’s outstretched hand, felt bones give under the force of it, saw the small pistol fall to the floor.
Vandenberg screamed and dropped to his knees as Ryan kicked the gun away. The sailor cowered on the cabin floor and clutched his ruined hand to his chest.
Ryan held the blade of the crowbar to the other man’s jaw. Vandenberg blinked up at him, sucking air through his rotted teeth.
“Enough,” Ryan said. “Now do what you were paid to do.”
THE SKY LIGHTENED on the far horizon and the stars faded, lost behind thickening cloud. In the distance, Ryan imagined he saw a vague dark band of land, but he could not be sure.
Vandenberg slowed the engine to a halt, struggling with one hand held in an improvised sling at his chest. Ryan watched from the deck as he checked his maps and instruments for a time before emerging.
“Is here,” Vandenberg said. “What now?”
Ryan rested against the crates. “We wait.”
Weariness invaded Ryan’s limbs, and the world seemed quieter, even the sound of the water muted by the stillness and the grey. Vandenberg placed a kerosene lamp at one end of the boat, a battery powered light at the other. Ryan fought to keep his eyes open, his head nodding with the gentle rise and fall of the sea.
His mind had begun to drift, flitting through images of slender freckled wrists and glistening lips, when Vandenberg said, “They come.”
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX
RYAN’S HAND WENT to the pistol that nestled in his coat pocket.
He scanned the expanse of grey until he spotted the boat to the northwest, circling around towards them.
A white plume of foam arced in the cabin cruiser’s wake, matching the boat’s paintwork, the powerful engine’s thrum audible across the waves. As the cruiser drew closer, Ryan made out the shape of a man at the wheel. He studied the form until he was sure it was Carter.
Ryan checked his watch. Seven thirty five. He remembered his thoughts of the day before, that he could not imagine a time beyond this exchange. Unease gnawed at his gut. He put his hand back in his coat pocket, felt the hard lines of the pistol, the curve of the trigger.
The boat’s engine dropped in pitch as it slowed. In the cabin window, the silhouette of a man who could only be Goren Weiss.
Ryan turned his gaze to Vandenberg, who watched the cruiser with worry in his eyes. He rubbed his lips with his uninjured hand. He noticed Ryan’s attention on him.
“What is in these boxes?” Vandenberg asked. “Will men kill to have it?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
“You have my gun?”
“Yes.”
“Is must be careful.”
Ryan nodded.
Carter steered the boat away in a wide circle, then brought it around so its port side aligned with Vandenberg’s starboard. He slowed it further and manoeuvred alongside. Weiss climbed up and out of the cabin, fixed a rope to a cleat on the side of the boat, then threw the other end up and over to Ryan. Ryan pulled, brought the two vessels together, and tied the rope to his own side. The fishing boat sat higher in the water than the cabin cruiser.
Carter lifted an automatic rifle and trained it on Vandenberg. “Stay where I can see you.”
Vandenberg raised his one good hand. “Where do I go?”
Weiss asked, “Is everything in order?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
“What happened to his hand?”
Ryan sensed the truth would not do well for Vandenberg. “He fell.”
“Shit,” Weiss said. “Step away.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, Albert.”
Ryan took two steps away from Vandenberg. Weiss looked to Carter and nodded.
A burst of rifle fire, and Vandenberg fell.
Ryan closed his eyes, swallowed, opened them again. “You didn’t need to do that.”
Weiss hoisted himself up onto the fishing boat. “I wouldn’t have if he’d had two good hands to help us move these crates.”
“So when I’m no more use to you,” Ryan said, “you’ll shoot me too?”
Weiss laughed. “Really, Albert, is that what you think of me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m hurt, I truly am. Now let’s get to
work.”
Carter left the wheel and Weiss started handing crates over to him. Carter carried each one down into the cabin while Ryan scanned the horizon, from the strip of land in the northeast, to the west, to the south.
“It’s clear,” Weiss said. “We’ve been circling for an hour. There’s no one else out here. Help me with these, goddamn it.”
“It’s too easy,” Ryan said.
“Stop worrying, Albert. We’re almost home and dry. Now shut up and start moving these crates.”
The grey sheet of sky faded to dingy white above them as they stowed the cargo.
Carter passed a canister across to Weiss.
“I’d stand clear if I were you,” Weiss said. He splashed liquid onto the deck, over the walls of the cabin, across Vandenberg’s body.
Ryan smelled petrol. He climbed over to the other boat, hurrying to avoid Weiss’s aim. Weiss followed Ryan, taking the canister with him. He untied the rope from the cruiser’s port side, and tossed it towards Carter to hold Vandenberg’s fishing boat close by.
Weiss pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, tipped up the canister to wet the fabric, then stuffed the handkerchief into its neck. Next, he produced a Zippo lighter, touched its flame to the handkerchief, recoiled as it caught, then tossed the canister across to the other boat.
The petrol on the deck ignited with a soft whump!, and Weiss said to Carter, “You might want to let go now.”
Carter dropped the rope and gave Vandenberg’s boat a shove. The two vessels drifted apart, five feet, ten feet, before the petrol canister blew. Carter went to the wheel and restarted the engine. Ryan felt its grumble through the soles of his shoes, and the boat pulled away.
He watched the growing tower of smoke as they gathered speed, black climbing to the sky, chased by dirty orange flames. Finally, the dull thump as the boat’s fuel tank exploded. Ryan felt the rush of hot air, saw timbers and sparks scatter.
Weiss came to his side. “How does it feel to be a rich man, Albert?”
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