by Jack Higgins
“That’s a date then,” he said softly and came up on one knee, crouching, firing into the reeds.
There was a cry of anguish, then a long burst in reply, and something punched Brosnan high in the left side of the chest, and he went over backward across the girl.
She stirred feebly, and he came up, firing one-handed at the man who charged through the reeds, that smile on his face again, and as the M16 emptied he hurled it into the face of the last man, drawing his combat knife, probing for the heart up under the ribs as they went down together.
He lay in the mud for quite some time, holding the Vietcong against him, waiting for him to die, and suddenly two Skyraiders swooped overhead and half a dozen gunships moved in out of the rain, line astern.
Brosnan got up painfully and with his good arm pulled Anne-Marie to her feet. They started to wade through the reeds toward the open paddy field.
“I told you the cavalry would arrive.”
“In the nick of time? And then what?”
He grinned. “One thing’s for sure. After this, it can only get better.”
Paris
1979
ONE
A cold wind lifted across the Seine and dashed rain against the windows of the all-night cafe by the bridge. It was a small, sad place, half a dozen tables and chairs, no more, usually much frequented by prostitutes. But not on a night like this.
The barman leaned on the zinc-topped counter reading a newspaper. Jack Corder sat at a table by the window, the only customer, a tall dark-haired man in his early thirties. His jeans, worn leather jacket, and cloth cap gave him the look of a night porter at the fishmarket up the street, which he very definitely was not.
Barry had said eleven-thirty, so Corder had arrived at eleven, just to be on the safe side. Now, it was half-past midnight. Not that he was worried. Where Frank Barry was concerned, you never knew where you were, but then, that was all part of the technique.
Corder lit a cigarette and called, “Black coffee and another cognac.”
The barman nodded, pushed the newspaper to one side. At that moment, the telephone behind the bar started to ring. He answered it at once, then turned inquiringly.
“Your name is Corder?”
“That’s right.”
“It would seem there is a taxi waiting for you on the corner.” He replaced the receiver. “You still wish the coffee and the cognac, monsieur?”
“The cognac only, I think.”
Corder shivered for no accountable reason and took the cognac down in one quick swallow. “It’s cold even for November.”
The barman shrugged. “On a night like this, even the poules stay home.”
“Sensible girls.”
Corder pushed some francs across the table and went out. The wind dashed rain in his face, and he turned up the collar of his jacket, ran to the old Renault taxi waiting on the corner, wrenched open the rear door, and got in. It moved away instantly, and he sank back against the seat. They turned across the bridge, and the lights in their heavy glass globes made him think of Oxford with a strange sense of déjà vu.
Twelve years of my life, he thought. What would I have been now? Fellow of All Souls? Possibly even a professor at some rather less interesting university. Instead… But that kind of thinking did no good—no good at all.
The driver was an old man, badly in need of a shave, and Corder was aware of the eyes watching him in the rearview mirror. Not a word was said as they drove through darkness and rain, moving through a maze of back streets, finally turning into a wharf in the dock area and braking to a halt outside a warehouse. A small light illuminated a sign that read Renoir & Sons—Importers. The taxi driver sat there without a word. Corder got out, closing the door behind him, and the Renault drove away.
It was very quiet. There was only the lapping of the water in the basin where dozens of barges were moored. Rain hammered down, silver in the light of the sign. There was a small judas gate in the main entrance. When Corder tried the handle, it opened instantly, and he stepped inside.
The warehouse was crammed with bales and packing cases of every description. It was very dark, but there was a light at the far end and he moved toward it. A man sat at a trestle table beneath a naked bulb. There was a map spread across the table in front of him, a briefcase beside it, and he was making notes in a small, leather-bound diary.
“Hello, Frank,” Corder said.
Frank Barry looked up. “Ah, there you are, Jack. Sorry to truck you about.”
The voice was good public-school English, with just a hint of an Ulster inflection here and there. He leaned back in the chair. His blond hair curled crisply, making him look considerably younger than his forty-eight years, and the black Burberry trenchcoat gave him a curiously elegant appearance. A handsome, lean-faced man with one side of his mouth hooked into a slight perpetual half-smile, as if permanently amused by the world and its inhabitants.
“Something big?” Corder asked.
“You could say that. Did you know the British Foreign Secretary was visiting the President at the moment?”
“Lord Carrington?” Corder frowned. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Neither does anyone else. All very hush-hush. The new Tory government’s trying to cement the entente cordiale, which has been more than bruised of late years. Not that it will do any good. Giscard d’Estaing will always put France at the top of his list, no matter what the situation. Their final meeting in the morning is taking place at a villa at Rigny.” He stabbed at the map on the table with his finger. “Here, about forty miles from Paris.”
“So?” Corder said.
“He leaves at noon by car for Vezelay. There’s an airforce emergency field there from where the RAF will be waiting to whisk him back to England, to all intents and purposes as if he’s never been away.”
“So where’s all this leading?”
“Here.” Barry tapped the map again. “St. Etienne, fifteen miles from Rigny, consists of a gas station and a roadside cafe, at present closed. A perfect spot.”
“For what?”
“To hit the bugger as he passes through. One car, four CRS escorts on motorbikes. No problem that I can see.”
Corder was conscious of the cold now eating deep into his bones. “You’re joking. We’d never get away with it. I mean, a thing like this needs preparation, split-second timing.”
“All taken care of,” Barry said cheerfully. “You should know me by now, Jack. I always prefer people who are working for wages. Thoroughgoing fanatics like yourself, honest Marxists who believe in the cause—you take it all too seriously and that tends to cloud your thinking. You can’t beat the professional touch.”
The Ulster accent was more in evidence now, all part of the deliberate exercise in charm.
“Who have you got?” Corder asked.
“Three hoods from Marseilles on the run from the Union Corse after the wrong kind of underworld killing. One of them has his girl with him. They’ll do anything in return for the right price, four false passports, and tickets to the Argentine.”
Corder stared down at the map. “So how does it happen?”
“Simple. As I said, the cafe is closed. That only leaves the proprietor and his wife in the garage. They’ll be taken care of and my men in position, dressed as mechanics, from twelve-fifteen on, working on a car on the forecourt.”
Corder shook his head. “From what I can see, the convoy will be passing at a fairly high speed at that point. Remember what happened at Petit-Clamart when Bastien-Thiry and his boys tried to ambush General de Gaulle? Even with machine guns at point-blank range they didn’t do any good because the old man’s car just kept on going. A second is all you get and away.”
“So what we have to do is stop the car,” Barry said.
“Impossible. These days those VIP drivers are trained for just this kind of situation. From what I can see on the map, it’s a straight road giving a good view long before he gets there. Block it with a vehicle or anyt
hing else, and they’ll simply turn around and get the hell out of there.” He shook his head. “He won’t stop, Frank, that driver, and there’s no way you can make him.”
“Oh, yes there is,” Barry said, “which is where the girl I mentioned comes into the picture. At the appropriate moment, she tries to cross the road from the garage pushing a pram. She stumbles, the pram runs away from her into the road.”
“You’re crazy,” Corder said.
“Am I? It worked for the Red Army Faction a couple of years back when they snatched Schleyer, the head of the German Industries Federation, in Cologne.” Barry smiled. “You see, Jack, human nature being what it is, I think that I can positively guarantee that when that driver sees a runaway pram in his path he’ll do only one thing. Swerve to avoid it and come to a dead halt.”
Which was true. Had to he. Corder nodded. “Put that way, I suppose you’re right.”
“I always am, old son.” He opened the briefcase and took out a hand transceiver. “This is for you. There’s a side road on a hill covered by an apple orchard that overlooks the chateau at Rigny nicely. I want you there by eleven o’clock in the morning. You’ll find a Peugeot in the yard outside, keys in the lock. Use that.”
“Then what?”
“The moment you see Carrington making preparations to leave, you call in on the transceiver, channel 42. You say: ‘This is Red calling. The package is about to be delivered.’ I’ll say: ‘Green here. The package will be collected.’ Then you get the hell out of there. I want you at St. Etienne before Carrington arrives.”
“Will you be there?”
Barry looked surprised. “And where else would I be?” He smiled. “I was a National Service second lieutenant with the Ulster Rifles in Korea in 1950, Jack. You didn’t know that, did you? But I’ll tell you one thing. When my lads went over the top, I was always in front.”
“With a swagger stick in one hand?”
“And now you’re thinking of the Somme.” Barry laughed gently. “I killed an awful lot of Maoists out there, Jack, which is ironic, considering my present circumstances.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Anyway, you’d best be off. A decent night’s sleep and no booze. You’ll need a clear head for what you must do tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch and laughed. “Correction—today.”
Corder weighed the transceiver in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll say goodnight, then.”
His footsteps echoed in the lofty warehouse as he walked to the entrance, opened the judas, and stepped out. It was still raining as he moved into the yard at the side of the building.. The Peugeot was parked by the main entrance, the key in the lock as Barry had indicated. Corder drove away, his palms sweating, slipping on the wheel, stomach churning.
Kill Carrington, one of the great men of his time. My God, what would the bastard come up with next? But no, that didn’t apply, because now he was very definitely finished. This was it. What Corder had been waiting for for more than a year.
He found what he was looking for a moment later, a small all-night cafe on the corner of one of the main boulevards into the city. There was a public telephone in a small glass booth inside. He ordered coffee, then obtained the necessary coins from the barman and went into the booth, closing the door. His fingers were shaking as he carefully dialed the London code number and then the number following.
The security service in Great Britain, more correctly known as Directorate General of the Security Service, D15, does not officially exist as far as the law is concerned, although it does, in fact, occupy a large white-and-red brick building near the Hilton Hotel. It was that establishment that Jack Corder was calling now—and more specifically, an office known as Group Four which was manned twenty-four hours a day.
The phone was picked up and an anonymous voice said, “Say who you are.”
“Lysander. I must speak with Brigadier Ferguson at once. Priority One. No denial possible.”
“Your present number?” he dictated it carefully. The voice said, “If security clearance confirmed, you will be called.”
The phone went dead. Corder pushed open the booth door and went to the bar. There was a man in a blue suit asleep on a chair in the corner, mouth gaping. Otherwise the place was empty.
The barman pushed the coffee across. “You want something to eat? An omelet perhaps?”
“Why not?” Corder said. “I’m waiting for a call.”
The barman turned to the stove and Corder spooned sugar into his coffee. All calls to D15 were automatically recorded. At this present moment, the computer would be matching his voice print on file against the tape of his call. Ferguson would probably be at home in bed.
They would ring him, give him the number. Ten minutes in all.
But he was wrong, for it took no more than five, and as he took his first forkful of omelet the phone rang. He squeezed into the booth, closed the door, and picked up the receiver.
“Lysander here.”
“Ferguson.” The voice was plummy, a little overdone, rather like the aging actor in a second-rate touring company who wants to make sure they can hear him at the back of the theater. “It’s been a long time, Jack. Priority One, I understand.”
“Frank Barry, sir, out in the open at last.”
Ferguson’s voice sharpened. “Now that is interesting.”
“Lord Carrington, sir. He’s visiting President Giscard d’Estaing at the moment?”
There was a slight pause. Ferguson said, “No one’s supposed to know that officially.”
“Frank Barry does.”
“Not good, Jack, not good at all. I think you’d better explain.”
Which Corder did, speaking in low, urgent tones. Five minutes later, he emerged from the booth and went to the counter.
“Your omelet, Monsieur—it has gone cold. You want another?”
“What an excellent idea,” Corder said. “And I’ll have a cognac while I’m waiting.”
He lit a cigarette and sat back on the bar stool, smiling for the first time that night.
* * *
In his flat in Cavendish Square, Brigadier Charles Ferguson stood beside the bed, pulling on his dressing gown as he listened to the tape recording he had just made of his conversation with Corder. He was a large, kindly looking man, distinctly overweight with rumpled gray hair and a double chin. There was nothing military about him at all, and the half-moon spectacles he put on to consult a small address book gave him the air of a minor professor. He was, in fact, as ruthless as Cesare Borgia in action and totally without scruples when it came to his country’s interest.
There was a tap at the door, and his man-servant, an ex-Gurkha naik peered in, tying the belt of a bathrobe about his waist.
“Sorry, Kim, work to be done,” Ferguson said. “Lots of tea, bacon and eggs to follow. I won’t be going back to bed.”
The little Gurkha withdrew, and Ferguson went into the sitting room, stirred the fire in the Adam fireplace, poured himself a large brandy, sat down by the telephone, and dialed a number in Paris.
The French security service, the Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre Espionage, the SDECE, is divided into five sections and many departments. The most interesting one is certainly Section Five, most commonly known as the Action Service, the department that more than any other had been responsible for the smashing of the OAS. It was the number of Service Five that Ferguson dialed now.
He said, “Ferguson here, D15. Colonel Guyon, if you please.” He frowned impatiently. “Well, of course he’s at home in bed. So was I. I’ve only rung you to establish credentials. Tell him to call me back on this number.” He dictated it quickly. “Most urgent. Priority One.” He put down the phone, and Kim entered with bacon and eggs, bread, butter, and marmalade on a silver tray. “Delicious,” Ferguson said as the Gurkha placed a small table before him. “Breakfast at two-thirty in the morning. What a capital idea. We should do this more often.”
As he tucked a napkin around his neck the phon
e rang. He picked it up instantly. “Ah, Pierre,” he said in rapid and excellent French, “I’ve got something for you. Very nasty indeed. You won’t be pleased, so listen carefully.”
* * *
It was quiet in the warehouse after Jack Corder left. Barry walked to the entrance and locked the judas gate. He paused to light a cigarette and as he turned, a man emerged from the shadows and perched himself on the edge of the table.
Nikolai Belov was fifty years of age and for ten of them had been a cultural attaché at the Soviet embassy in Paris. His dark suit was Saville Row as was the blue overcoat, which fitted him to perfection. He was handsome enough in a slightly decadent way, with a face like Oscar Wilde or Nero himself and a mane of silver hair that made him look more like a rather distinguished actor than what he was, a colonel in the KGB.
“I’m not too sure about that one, Frank,” he said in excellent English.
“I’m not too sure about anyone,” Barry said, “including you, old son, but for what it’s worth, Jack Corder’s a dedicated Marxist.”
“Oh dear,” Belov said. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“He tried to join the British Communist party when he was an undergraduate at Oxford years ago. It was suggested that someone like him could do more good by keeping his mouth shut and joining the Labour party, which he did. Trade union organizer for six years, then he blotted his copybook by losing his cool during a miners’ strike three or four years ago and assaulting a policeman while on the picket line with a pickax handle. Put him in hospital for six weeks.”
“And Corder?”
“Two years in jail. The union wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole after that. Deep down inside, those lads are as conservative as Margaret Thatcher when it comes to being British. Jack came over here last year and involved himself with an anarchist group well to the left of the French Communist party, which is where I picked him up. Anyway, why should you worry, or has the disinformation department of the KGB changed its aims?”
