Mack read it on the run, not wishing either to stop or to be noticed in any way by the gate men. He had established his bearings, and was about to establish his base. But first he went into a delicatessen and purchased a baguette, a salami, sliced cheese, and a pack of butter, plus two bottles of Perrier in the lighter plastic containers.
About three hundred yards along the street from the main shipyard entrance there was a bright, inexpensive restaurant, and at nine o’clock Mack set himself up at a window table, placed the toolbox under the chair, and ordered his dinner.
It was impossible to look more unobtrusive. He was plain in his shipyard overalls and boots, like everyone else. He gave the appearance of a mild-mannered, quietly spoken, fair-haired man, wearing rimless spectacles to read the afternoon newspaper. He could easily have been an electrical engineer, or even a sonar or radar specialist. But not a laborer. Definitely not a laborer.
There was, so far as he could see, no mention of the two men murdered in Val André. But there was a story speculating on the level of security being put into place for the visit of Henri Foche to Saint-Nazaire the following day. Readers were warned to expect roadblocks and delays throughout the afternoon.
Accepting the proprietor’s advice, Mack ordered a fillet of sole, off the bone, with french fries and spinach. He ate slowly, impressed with that special touch the French manage to give their cooking, from the highest level down to . . . well . . . this, a workmen’s café, outside a shipyard. It was delicious, as was almost every other morsel he had tasted since he’d arrived with such a thunderous, if accidental, impact fourteen hours ago. The bastards were going to kill me, he pondered. And Tommy wouldn’t have liked that.
Up ’til now, there’d been no time to work out how the French were on to him with such alacrity. He understood the coast guard was only reacting to an SOS from their British counterparts, that someone had made off with the Eagle.
Those two characters carrying loaded revolvers in Val André were not in the police or the coast guard, but they were expecting me, they knew my name, and their task was to get rid of me. Well, who the hell were they? Either the French police or the coast guard had tipped someone off, because I should have faced just instant arrest, not a couple of dodgy hit men ready to gun me down.
Mack pondered the problem. And he came up with only one answer. Someone must have tipped off Henri Foche that a highly dangerous character was coming in from England, with orders to assassinate him. There was no other explanation.
The two guys I took out must have been paid by Foche. And the only man in all the world who could possibly have alerted him to the danger was that scheming little prick Raul. It must have been him. No one else knew, except Harry. Raul tells Foche there’s a threat; the coast guard tells Foche, here he comes. Simple, right?
Mack was secretly rather pleased with his powers of deduction. He sat in the window of the dockside café, wondering what the hell he would face, if he made it into the shipyard tonight.
Outside there were intermittent groups of workers leaving the yard and walking along the street, almost all of them dressed like him. Some even carried toolboxes like his, but few, he guessed, had the interior lined with black velvet.
Mack believed this yard was probably as big as Bath Iron Works, and he felt certain there would be a major shift change taking place at ten or ten thirty. He ordered coffee, a double espresso with sugar, and sat quietly sipping.
At ten minutes before ten he pulled out his toolbox and attempted to fit his assorted food from the deli into the lower section with the Draeger. But it was hopeless. The butter could just about sit on top of the bullets, but the baguette was longer than the rifle barrel and the salami was too thick to slip alongside the stock.
He settled for the big brown bag he had been given at the deli, but put one of the bottles of Perrier in a pocket of his overalls, thus reducing the size of his package. But now he could see workers heading toward the shipyard rather than away from it, and noted several of them carried both toolbox and food for the night shift. There would be nothing unusual about him. He stood up from the table, paid his bill, and stepped outside, ready to join the next large group heading in for the long night ahead.
The street was quite busy now, ten times busier than it had been all evening. This was a shift change, no doubt. Workmen were leaving the yard as others came streaming in, and initially Mack joined those who were leaving, watching for a sizable group coming the other way. The men he walked with were cheerful and speaking to each other, and Mack knew it was only a matter of time before someone spoke to him. He kept his head down, lingered at the back of the group, then dropped his package. He bent down to retrieve it, but when he straightened up he was facing the other way. Quickly, he drifted into a pack of maybe a dozen workers, all walking resolutely toward the big shipyard gates. This crowd was more silent, and they were not together, just guys going to work, to the same place, tonight, like every night.
He noticed that of the twelve, five were carrying metal toolboxes, two of them like his. Seven had plastic lunch boxes, four of them paper bags from a deli or supermarket. He placed himself in the rear center of the group, with seven men in front of him, the others surrounding him. One of the leading group was talking, but no one else.
As they approached the gate, Mack suddenly noticed a police cruiser, blue lights flashing, parked just inside. Two policemen were talking to a uniformed security man.
They reached the gates and veered left toward the small guardhouse. Two more armed security men were on duty. One of Mack’s group called, “Ça va, Louis!”—and the guard responded, “Bonsoir, Gérard.” They were not checking the men on the night shift, the regular, familiar workforce, but Mack guessed they would have instantly apprehended a stranger wearing “civilian” clothes, and demanded to know his business.
The group kept walking, straight into the yard, tightening up to avoid others whose shift was finished and were now headed home. Ahead of them was a vast concourse, surrounded by tall buildings, and the men began to separate, heading in different directions, the electricians, the shipwrights, the marine engineers, the laborers.
It was dark but well lit, and Mack could make out the electronics area, the machine shops, and the obvious administration block. Looking right ahead down to the water he could see three enormous drydocks, sprawling along the edge of the deep tidal basin where ships were launched. The outline of an oceangoing freighter was plain on the jetty. Brand new, Mack guessed, about ten thousand tons.
The drydocks were as big as aircraft hangars, like gigantic shoe boxes, with the end closest to the water open to the elements. The trouble with ships is they have to float, and the only way to get them in and out of such docks is to flood them down, bring the ship in, and then pump out the water. The floors of the docks were thus twenty feet lower than sea level.
High up on each structure was a line of windows fifteen feet in depth. Mack could see two of the three were brightly lit, signifying work in progress. The third was dark, one of only two structures in this central part of the complex that showed no lights.
About twenty yards beyond the main gate, Mack could see the stage, the same one he had seen in the newspaper picture. It was like an open-air theater, the main speaker’s platform about four feet off the ground. Above the lectern he could now see the same banner they had slung across the street in Val André. HENRI FOCHE—POUR LA BRETAGNE, POUR LA FRANCE.
Directly ahead, in front of the stage, was the other unlit building, a tall structure that looked like either a warehouse or workshops. Mack counted ten stories. There were double doors on the front, and high above some kind of gantry that housed an obvious lifting device. Directly below it, on two of the highest floors, there were wide doors with a platform, designed for dispatching and receiving heavy loads. In Mack’s view this almost certainly made it a warehouse.
The concourse was still very busy, but it was approaching ten thirty, and Mack guessed he had about five more minute
s to recce the place. After that everyone would have left for the workshops, drydocks, and ships’ interiors.
Still in the general melee of the shift change, he walked to the front of the podium, and then, trying to look casual, he paced out the distance to the front wall of the warehouse. He made it 121 yards. And now he turned, walked along the front of the wall, and turned right into a dark throughway to the rear of the building. The blacktop ended at a low two-foot wall, beyond which was an eight-foot drop to the water. On two sides of this man-made square harbor, ships were moored, but at this, the far end, there was nothing, just the back wall of the warehouse. He estimated it was around 300 yards across the harbor waters to the end of the seawall, on which was a flashing red light, marking the entrance to incoming vessels. Mack muttered the old seaman’s mantra—Red, Right, Return—meaning, keep the red buoys on your starboard side incoming. The route out of the harbor was thus to the right-hand side of the red light, not the left.
There was no one around in this part of the yard, at least no one Mack could see. Way out beyond the red light, he could see a ship steaming up the estuary, but it was too dark to see whether it was a freighter, tanker, ferry, or yacht.
Mack slipped along the side wall of the warehouse until he reached a single door that looked like some kind of a fire escape. Gingerly, he twisted the handle and slightly to his surprise it opened. The reason for this apparent lack of security was simple: (a) the warehouse was in full view of the guardhouse, 140 yards away; (b) various foremen may have wanted something from it urgently during the long night shift; and (c) the heavy-duty, cumbersome stuff in here was not the kind of gear anyone in their right mind would want to steal and then attempt to walk past the gate men. As a matter of fact, the big double front doors of the warehouse were not locked either.
Mack softly shut the door behind him, pulled out his flashlight, and inspected the area. He found himself in some kind of a stairwell, with stone steps leading upward. In front of him was a steel door, with a large handle that looked like a spare part from a submarine. Mack quietly opened it, and cast a beam of light around the huge room in which he now stood. All around were shelves containing marked boxes, stacked high, ships’ components. Mack slipped back into the stairwell and clicked the door shut behind him.
Still holding the toolbox and food parcel, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, where there was another steel door, same type of ship’s handle. Painted on the steel were the words, SAM FITTINGS AND COMPONENTS: 0800-1600.
Mack had no desire to linger in the surface-to-air missile department, so he kept going up, climbing the stone stairs, checking the notices painted on each door: electronics, sonars, radar, Exocet launchers. Finally, on the sixth floor, he found something more promising. The notice was stuck over the previous lettering. It read: Freight Assigned. No Cargo. At which point Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford pushed open the door and, using his flashlight, surveyed a totally empty room, surrounded by high shelves containing absolutely nothing. He closed the door behind him and rammed the handle into the locked position. Out through the front window he had a clear view of the podium. It was three minutes before eleven.
Back in Brittany’s capital city of Rennes there was a frenzy of journalistic activity. News of the two men murdered on the seafront at Val André was out, despite the efforts of the police to keep the lid on it for the moment. The story broke early in the evening, as it was bound to, with the entire population of Val André speaking of practically nothing else: the legions of police, the cruisers, the flashing blue lights, the ambulances, the helicopter on the beach, the gunshots, the broken windows. Zut alors! C’est formidable!
The local stringer for Le Monde in Rennes was Étienne Brix, and he’d made his routine afternoon call to the police department at around five thirty. He’d been doing this for more than three years, and he had a few friends among the officers. One of them, a young sergeant of around the same age, late twenties, tipped him off. No details, no clues, just, “Why don’t you check what was going on up at Val André today? Can’t tell you anything else.”
Étienne checked. What was going on? Everything in the goddamned world was going on. He called the local pharmacy, announced himself as the representative of Le Monde, and for his trouble received a chapter-and-verse, blow-by-blow account of what appeared to be a double murder. The pharmacist had been right there on the beach when the bodies were removed, and he was proud to recount his firsthand experiences. He knew about the kids and the gunshots, and he knew about the sheer volume of the police presence. He also knew that Monsieur Laporte of the local garage was involved. He’d seen police cars there twice that afternoon.
Étienne, like any good reporter, went straight for the ambulance staff, requesting that the Saint-Malo Station inform him of any deaths that had occurred that day. Such information, all over the Western world, is public. You can’t hide death, not when paid public servants, like ambulance paramedics, are involved.
Ten minutes later, Étienne had the names and addresses of the deceased Marcel and Raymond tucked into his notebook. Both were residents of Rennes. He also wanted to know the causes of death, but the ambulance staff did not know, and would only confirm there was damage to Marcel’s eyes and that Raymond appeared to have a broken arm.
Étienne jumped into his car and just before six thirty came flying into the Rennes Police Department with a heavy set of demands. No, he did not wish to speak to the station sergeant. He was the official representative of the biggest newspaper in France, and he wanted to speak to a senior detective inspector. Pronto.
The station sergeant was worried, but he asked Étienne the nature of his inquiry before he would consent to call the senior man in the entire building.
Étienne replied, “I am inquiring about the murders of two men in Val André this morning. I have their names and addresses, and they are both from Rennes. But I sense a deliberate attempt at a cover-up by this police department, and, as you know, murder in this country is a public matter. Unless you want Le Monde on your case, in a very big way, you’d better get someone out here fast.”
The station sergeant did not like being spoken to in that manner, but he knew trouble when he heard it. Without a word he went to the office of Detective Inspector Varonne and explained the drama currently being acted out in the front office.
Varonne was not pleased. “I was taken off this case before it started,” he said. “I understand Detective Inspector Paul Ravel in Saint-Malo is in charge. Let him deal with it.”
“Sir,” said the station sergeant, “I cannot advise that. We have been told to keep the lid on this for as long as possible. But now it’s off, and we should do no more in the way of concealing anything. It’s up to you, sir, but I strongly advise you do see Étienne. He’s a decent chap, but right now he thinks he’s been given the runaround.”
“Which of course he has,” said Varonne. “Show him in.”
One minute later the reporter and the detective faced each other across the desk. “Monsieur Varonne,” said Étienne, “this morning two murders were committed in Brittany, and I believe the police are deliberately withholding this information. I am here to ask you why.”
“Look, Étienne, we’ve known each other a while now, and as far as I know, neither of us has done the other one bit of harm.”
“I agree.”
“So, before we continue, I would like to get the ground rules straight. This is not my case, but I will tell you what I know, if the entire conversation is to be on the record. If, however, you want my help, my advice, and my guidance, there are certain matters that cannot be attributed. And certain matters that you must keep to yourself, for the moment. You may find the first course of action the easiest.”
“No, Monsieur Varonne. I would appreciate your guidance, and I will accept some of what you say is off the record.”
“D’accord. I will not allow a tape recorder, but you may take accurate notes. However, when I say put down that pen, you will put it down
, and then just listen.”
“I agree. Before we start I already have the names and addresses of the two deceased, Marcel and Raymond. I would like to ask if the police have any idea who perpetrated the crime.”
“Yes, we do. Late last night the coast guard received a signal from the British that a fishing boat out of Brixham was on the run in the Channel driven by a large black-bearded foreigner who had apparently thrown the crew overboard.”
“All of them!”
“There were only two. Anyway, the coast guard chased this fishing boat, a sixty-five-foot dragger named Eagle, inshore, and put out an alert that it was plainly going to land in Val André. However, in the morning mist they lost the Eagle, but the man did come ashore sometime after 6:00 A.M. At 9:00 A.M. the bodies of the two men were found on the beach. And at 11:00 A.M. the proprietor of the local garage confirmed he had sold a vehicle for cash to a big man with long black hair and a black beard, the precise description of the hijacker we got from the Brits.”
Diamondhead Page 39
