by Jack Higgins
The van drew into the yard, and Leboeuf and Deville got out. “Shall I see if he’s carrying a gun, Monsieur?” Jacaud asked.
“Oh, I think we can take that for granted.” Jacaud found the Browning in Brosnan’s righthand pocket.
“Where’s Liam?” Brosnan demanded.
“In hell, I shouldn’t wonder. When last seen, he looked very dead indeed.”
Anne-Marie said, “No, not that.”
Brosnan took a step forward, hands coming up. “You bastard!” he said. Jacaud slashed him across the kidneys with the barrel of his gun, and Brosnan cried out and went down on one knee.
“The right place for you.” Barry said and nodded to Jacaud. “Frisk him again. He always was a tricky one. Favored the back of his belt as I remember.”
Jacaud found the Mauser and passed it across. “Nasty,” Barry said and gave it back to him. “A bit old-fashioned for me. Now let’s have the girl.”
She tried to run and Leboeuf and Deville grabbed her between them and rammed her against the car. Brosnan, fighting for breath, looked up. “What do you want with her?”
“You can think about that in hell, Martin.”
Jacaud said, “Do we kill her?”
For a second, Barry seemed to see Jenny Crowther stagger forward as his bullet struck her in the back. He said savagely, “No, you bloody well don’t. I’ll take care of her myself.” He took a black plastic case from his pocket, opened it and produced a disposable syringe, ready filled. “I don’t mind you keeping Devlin company, Martin, but your girlfriend here—now that seems an awful waste.”
Anne-Marie cried out as the needle went in. Within seconds, she was collapsing, and Barry pushed her into the rear seat of the Citroën and tucked a traveling rug across her.
“She’ll sleep like a baby, all the way to Paris.”
“Drugs,” Brosnan said through clenched teeth. “Just your style.”
Barry frowned. “Come off it, me old son. She’ll sleep like a baby for ten hours and then wake without even a headache.”
He got into the Citroën and started the engine. Jacaud said, “What do we do with him?”
“Officially he’s dead already,” Barry said. “So I suppose the answer is obvious.”
“Haven’t you got the stomach to do it yourself, Frank?” Brosnan said. “Look me in the eye while you pull the trigger, or maybe you’d prefer me to turn my back?”
Jacaud and Deville held him down as he struggled, and Barry laughed. “You used to despise me, Martin. I wasn’t good enough for you and your bloody cause. In the end, you’re the one on his knees in the muck, and that’s how I want to remember you. Not even worth the killing myself.”
He drove away, and Jacaud and Deville hauled Brosnan to his feet and took him between them into the barn followed by Leboeuf. They sent him staggering forward with a vicious push that put him on his knees again.
Leboeuf moved across the barn to examine an old cart. “What a dump,” he said.
Deville leaned against the wall by the door and Jacaud came forward, the Mauser in his hand. Brosnan got up, staggered to an old bench against the wall and slumped down.
“This is it, then?” he said.
Jacaud shrugged. “You should have stayed home, my friend.”
“So it would appear.”
Brosnan leaned over, groaning in pain and got his right hand to the butt of the Smith and Wesson he had taped so carefully to the inside of his left leg. He groaned again and sank to one knee. Jacaud moved in close, grabbed Brosnan by the hair, and yanked his head back just as Brosnan tore his Smith and Wesson free and in the same motion fired straight at Jacaud’s heart.
The force of the shot at such close range lifted Jacaud off his feet, slamming him into the ground. In the same instant, Brosnan shot Leboeuf in the back before he could turn, the bullet shattering his spine, driving him headfirst into the cart.
At the door, Deville screamed, trying to draw his gun, already too late as the Smith and Wesson arced toward him. Brosnan’s third bullet caught him in the center of the forehead, and Deville went backward into the yard.
There was silence and Brosnan stood there for a moment, quite still, legs apart, perfectly balanced, the Smith and Wesson ready. He was like a different man, another human being altogether.
After a moment, he slipped the Smith and Wesson into his pocket and retrieved the Mauser and the Browning from Jacaud. Then he crossed to the Montesa, shoved it off its stand, kick-started it savagely, and roared out across the yard and down the road toward St. Martin.
THIRTEEN
The old priest couldn’t tell at first whether the man lying there was drunk or very ill. “Monsieur,” he said in his querulous voice, shaking Devlin, “are you all right?”
Devlin opened his eyes slowly.
“Thank God,” the priest said.
Devlin saw the old priest bending over him. He felt as if he’d been kicked very hard several times in the body, and he ran a hand over the general area of his heart and through a rent in his shirt found one of the bullets Barry had fired at him embedded in the vest.
“Have you been drinking?” the priest demanded.
“Not at all, Father.” Devlin managed to smile. “You can smell my breath. A touch of malaria, that’s all.”
“Malaria?” the priest said, astonished as Devlin painfully got up and righted the chair.
“Picked it up in the tropics years ago. Still get a touch now and then in the most unexpected places.”
He walked to the door and found that it hurt him to breathe so that when he went outside, he leaned against the wall at the top of the steps for a moment. Brosnan arrived on the motorcycle at that precise moment and braked to a halt beside the Citroën, which was parked at the bottom of the steps, Devlin said, “How in the hell did that get there? I left it under the tree by the cafe.”
“Frank Barry took it to drive up to the farm. I thought it was you, Liam. He took us completely by surprise.”
“No more than he did me. Shot me smack in the center of my chest.” Devlin pulled the round out of the vest and held it up. “Jesus, Martin, but these things are a wonderful invention. All it did was knock me cold for a while. I’ll see that bastard in hell yet.”
“Not if I see him first,” Brosnan said. “He’s taken Anne-Marie.”
“He’s what?” Devlin was shocked. “Then how come he left you in one piece?”
Brosnan explained. When he’d finished, Devlin said. “So, he came down here, transferred her to his own car, and cleared off. Come to think of it, there was another car here when I walked across to the church.”
“Can you remember what it was?”
“A Peugeot, I think. A sedan.”
“Right, let’s get after him.”
Brosnan started down the steps, and Devlin lurched after him. “Just a minute, Martin, where to?”
“Paris. When he gave her that shot in the arm he said it would keep her quiet all the way to Paris.”
“All right, so which way has he gone? Five miles north of here, you have a choice of three separate routes through the Alps to Lyons. On the other hand, maybe he’s cut down toward the coast to take the route from Cannes to Avignon, or would you like me to make a few more suggestions?”
Brosnan kicked the side of the car in frustration. “Why in hell did he take her? What for?”
“The whim of the moment. Maybe he just wanted you to know that he had her when you died. Like pulling the wings off flies. There is only one real certainty in this whole business. He’s going to Paris, and Paris means Belov. Now, if we caught a plane from Nice, we’d be there before him. He has to drive all the way, can’t do any other with Anne-Marie in the car.”
“By God, you’re right,” Brosnan said. “Let’s get moving.”
“Not just yet.” Devlin tried to ease his sore ribs. “One puzzle remains. How in hell Frank Barry knew we were here. Just give me five minutes to phone Ferguson.”
It was Harry Fox who picked
up the telephone. He listened for a moment, then turned to Ferguson. “Devlin, sir.”
“Give it to me.” Ferguson snatched it from him. “For God’s sake, Devlin, where have you been?”
“Never mind that now. Can you explain to me how Frank Barry managed to trace Brosnan and me to the Audin girl’s farm at St. Martin?”
“Brosnan?” Ferguson said in astonishment. “But I thought he was dead.”
“Well you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. But what about Barry? The bastard just tried to shoot me dead. Now he’s gone haring off to Paris with Anne-Marie Audin.”
Ferguson said, “Look, Devlin, it’s a tricky one to explain. There was a leak here, I’m afraid. Someone passing on information to the KGB in London.”
“About our little affair?”
“I’m afraid so. I should imagine details were passed to Belov in Paris, and, naturally, he would have alerted Barry.”
“Well thanks very much,” Devlin said. “Nothing like efficiency. That’s what built the Empire. You’ll excuse me if I ring off now.”
“But Devlin,” Ferguson said hastily, “what are you going to do?”
“Well, we don’t exactly have a choice, do we? Go to Paris to see Colonel Nikolai Belov.”
He left the cafe and got into the passenger seat of the Citroën. “What did you find out?” Brosnan asked.
“Nice airport, quick as you like,” Devlin said. “Ill tell you on the way.”
* * *
Barry took the scenic route through the High Alps. At Grenoble, he took the road for Lyons and stopped a few miles further on at a small roadside garage to fill his tank. Anne-Marie slept peacefully in the rear seat.
The old man at the pumps said, “Madame looks as if she’s enjoying herself.”
The traveling rug had slipped, and Barry reached over and tucked it around her tenderly. “Yes, we’re on our way to Paris. The best way to pass the time on these long trips. Can I use your telephone?”
“But of course, Monsieur. In the office.”
“Thanks,” Barry said. “If you could check the oil, water, and tires, I’ll be obliged.”
When he dialed Belov’s special number at the embassy, it was Irana who answered. “Barry here. Is he there?”
“Just a moment.”
“How did things go?” Belov asked.
“Couldn’t be better. You may be surprised to know that both the gentlemen in question were still around.”
“Is that so? Presumably you took care of that?”
“Oh, yes. You might say I closed the books. Have you any news for me?”
“Yes, the business deal we discussed? I’m assured there will be no cash-flow problem. You may proceed with the arrangements as soon as you like.”
“Good, then I’d like the transportation you promised arranged for tonight. Any problems?”
“None that I can see.”
“I’ll see you at Croix, then, round about midnight.”
As the old man came into the office, Barry put the phone down. “What’s the damage?”
“Two-fifty, Monsieur.”
Barry paid him and slapped down an extra fifty-franc note. “That should cover the phone call.”
“Monsieur, please, it’s too much,” the old man said.
“Nonsense,” Barry said. “Things are going rather well for me at the moment. I’d like you to share my good fortune.”
He got behind the wheel and turned for a quick look at the girl. She still slept peacefully, all lines gone, no strain there at all. He smiled, patted her face and drove away.
Brosnan and Devlin arrived at the Nice airport to receive their first major setback. The departure schedule board indicated delays on all flights to Paris.
“I’ll see what the problem is,” Devlin said.
He left Brosnan by the newsstand, and approached the Air France ticket counter where a couple of charming and imperturbable young women were doing their best to placate a queue of very angry passengers.
When it was Devlin’s turn he said, “What’s the trouble at Paris?”
“The firemen are on strike at Charles de Gaulle. That means the guys at Orly and Le Bourget back them in the interests of union solidarity.”
Devlin said, “And how long will the comedy continue?”
“I honestly don’t know. Last time it was twenty-four hours, but they like to keep everyone guessing. You know how it is, Monsieur?”
“Indeed I do.” Devlin turned and hurried back to Brosnan.
“Could be tomorrow.”
“To hell with that,” Brosnan said. “Tomorrow could be too late. The train schedule from Nice is no damn good. We’ll just have to go by road and step on it, that’s all.”
He took Devlin’s arm and hurried him out of the entrance and across the concourse to the parking lot.
Croix was exactly what Barry had expected, a small airfield with a control tower, two hangars, and three Nissen huts, headquarters of a flying club according to the sign on the gate.
The doors to one of the hangars were open, and the Cessna 310 stood outside. There was a dark BMW sedan parked beside it, and when Barry braked and switched off his engine he heard voices. Belov and Irana Vronsky walked out, a small, dark man in white coveralls following them.
Barry got out and went to meet them. “Is this it?” he asked, nodding at the Cessna.
“That’s right. The best Deforges could do at such short notice. He’s my man here.”
“Perhaps we could go to my office and discuss the destination?” Deforges said.
“Fine.” Barry opened the rear door of the car, leaned inside, then stood up holding Anne-Marie in his arms. “Have you got a couch or something handy in there? My friend here is still sleeping it off.”
Deforges glanced at Belov as if for guidance, then shrugged. “I suppose so.”
He led the way into the hangar, and Barry followed, Belov and Irana walking beside him. “The Audin girl? This is crazy. What do you intend to do with her?”
“Take her with me.”
They had reached a glass-walled office, and Deforges opened another door and showed him into a tiny room with a washbasin and a small bed covered with army blankets.
“You can have this.”
He went out and Barry laid Anne-Marie on the bed. Irana leaned over her and put a hand on her forehead. “How long will she be out?”
“Another hour.”
“But what are you playing at, Frank?” Belov demanded.
“Well, it was either kill her or bring her along, and I’ve never been very good at knocking off women.”
“You’re mad.”
“So they tell me.”
“Haven’t you enough on your hands without this woman?”
“You let me worry about that.” Barry pushed him and Irana out and closed the door. “Now, what about this plane?”
“It’s outside on the runway,” Belov said.
“All right,” Barry said. “The English Lake District, that’s my target, particularly the coastal area.”
Deforges rummaged through his chart drawer and finally found what he was looking for. Barry ran his fingers down the Cumberland coast. “Ravenglass. There should be an old RAF station a few miles south. Yes, there it is. Tanningley Field.”
“It’s marked as no longer operational,” Deforges pointed out.
“That’s right, but the runway is perfectly usable. I’ve seen it. How long should it take me in the Cessna?”
“Well, its cruising speed is a hundred and sixty, but it all depends on the weather. I’ll call Orly and find out.”
He went into the other office and picked up the telephone. Barry lit a cigarette and said, “I’ve been thinking, Nikolai, it would be very unfortunate if I arrived to find anyone waiting for me. That young fellow who met me on Morecambe pier last time, remember?”
Irana flushed angrily, opened her mouth to speak, but Belov cut her off. “Frank, why must you talk like this? We have a de
al. I accept your terms. I want no further trouble or difficulty. All I want is that rocket pod.”
“Good,” Barry said, “so there’s nothing to worry about then.”
Deforges came back. “There’s a head wind and a low coming in from the Irish Sea that could bring heavy rain by morning. Even a chance of fog. In the circumstances, I’d allow four and a half hours flight time. Possibly five, and you’ll need light to land on such a field.”
“What time is dawn?”
“Just after seven.”
“All right, I’ll leave about two-thirty in the morning.”
“One problem,” Deforges said. “You’ll have to be officially routed both for leaving France and entering English air space.”
Barry nodded. “So where do you think I should be going?”
Deforges looked at the map for a few moments. “Ronaldsway Airport on the Isle of Man. Only fifty miles from your final destination on the English coast. At the last moment, tell the Ronaldsway air traffic control people that you are diverting to Blackpool. Then I suggest you make an approach across the sea to Tanningley at under six hundred feet. At that height, you won’t show up on any radar screens. Of course, someone may see you land, but at that time of the morning there shouldn’t be too many people around.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Barry said. “I’ll be out of it again before you know it. You get things moving then. I’ve got a telephone call to make.”
Deforges went out, and Barry went into the other office, closed the door, and picked up the phone. Irana and Belov watched him through the glass.
“I don’t trust him, Nikolai,” she said. “He’s made a fool of you once. He could do it again.”
“I don’t really have much choice, my love. I must get my hands on that rocket pod…”
“So they can pat you on the head, promote you to general, and transfer you to Moscow?” she said. “To be perfectly frank, Nikolai, I’d rather stay in Paris.”
