Touch the Devil (16 page)

"Ostrich feathers," Jean-Paul said. "Actually, it's illegal now, but when people are as conservative as they are around here it's difficult to break such ancient customs."

He pulled on a bell rope at the side entrance. It was opened immediately by a tall, thin old man in a rusty black suit. "This way, Monsieur Savary," he said.

They followed him along a dark passage. The smell of incense and wax candles filled the air, heavy and oppressive. There were chapels of rest on either side of the passage, most of them with a corpse lying in state in an open coffin so that the relatives and friends might visit.

Devlin said, "Thank you very much, but I'd rather go some other way."

"Does it really matter?" Anne-Marie asked. "When you're dead, you're dead." They paused in a doorway to look at an old man propped up in a coffin lined with black satin. He wore a blue suit, collar, and tie, his hair was neatly combed, and his face had been colored with stage make-up, the lips vermilion. "What can it possibly matter to him that they've made him into a waxworks freak."

"As long as it comforts his old mother, you mean?" Devlin shivered. "No thanks. As a bad Catholic I think I'll stipulate cremation."

The old man opened a door at the end of the passage and stood to one side. The room they entered was the preparation room, where bodies were washed, or embalmed if required, before actual burial. Dr. Cresson, the eternal cigarette in his mouth, was standing by a stone sink talking to a tiny, rat-faced man who wore a shiny blue suit and carried a black bag in one hand.

Cresson turned to greet them. "Ah, there you are."

There were two stone mortuary slabs in the center of the room, a body on each covered by a sheet.

"Everything going according to plan?" Jean-Paul asked.

"I think so. Both these individuals died in automobile crashes." "Can we have a look?"

"I wouldn't advise it. Not unless you actually enjoy that kind of thing. They don't look too good."

"Will they pass?" Devlin asked.

Cresson nodded. "I think so, after I've done a little more work on them." He beckoned the rat-faced man over. "Jean-Paul, this is the tattooist I mentioned, Mr. Black. English, but he's been in Marseilles some time now."

Jean-Paul took the little man's hand. "I am grateful for your help in this matter. The Union Corse does not forget its friends, believ
e m
e. "

"A pleasure, Monsieur. May I start now?' Black said.

"But of course." Jean-Paul turned to Cresson. "You have the numbers?"

"Yes."

"Then all that remains is to make sure the right one goes on the right corpse."

Anne-Marie and Devlin watched fascinated, as the little man opened his bag, produced a battery-operated tattooist's needle and a bottle of dye, and went to work.

"An extra, but essential touch," Jean-Paul said.

As they watched, the little man neatly tattooed Brosnan's number on the forearm of the taller corpse. He rubbed in the dye, then swabbed the flesh and held the forearm up.

"Satisfactory, Monsieur Savary?"

"Beautiful," Jean-Paul said. "You are a true artist, my friend. And now my father, 28917."

"Very well, Monsieur."

Jean-Paul turned to Anne-Marie and Devlin. "The rest, I think, is in the hands of fate."

From a vantage point among trees at the side of the road tw
o h
undred yards north of Brisingham airfield, Barry watche
d t
hrough binoculars as they unloaded the Luftwaffe transport plane. He could see only two vehicles, a large three-ton truck and a jeep. As he watched, the Bundeswehr soldiers loaded three crates into the back of the truck and then climbed in after them.

Their officer stood talking for a while to a young man in the uniform of a captain in the British army. After a while, they got into a jeep which moved off across the runway, followed by the truck. Barry waited until both vehicles were turning out of the gate into the road, just to make sure, then he jumped into the Land Rover and drove away.

The rain had increased into a solid, driving downpour since Barry had gone, and it was not too pleasant crouching out of sight behind a graystone wall in the trees at the side of the road. Varley had a half bottle of Scotch from which he took frequent swallows.

Preston said, "You really are a daft bastard, aren't you?'

"Mind your own sodding business," Varley snarled. "Nobody tells me what to do. Not you and certainly not Mr. God-Almighty Sinclair." He emptied the bottle and dropped it to the ground. "I'll fix him when I'm good and ready." He put a finger to his nose. "You see if I don't."

Preston shook his head in disgust. Varley was a liability, not only now but for the future, so much was obvious. On the other hand, who needed him? Preston caressed the barrel of the Sterling and stiffened, suddenly alert at the sound of an engine.

"Here, I think he's coming."

A moment later the Land Rover appeared. Barry turned it across the road, got out, and moved through the trees to join them. "Everything all right?' Preston asked.

"Fine," Barry told him. "Two vehicles. A jeep leading that's got three in it, followed by a three-ton truck. The driver and a sergeant in the cab, half a dozen Krauts in the back. That means three grenades. I'll slip the first one into the jeep when I go to talk to them. You and Varley take the truck, one in the cab, another in the back."

"Fine by me, General." Varley saluted drunkenly.

Barry bent down and picked up the empty whisky bottle and threw it from him with a curse. He grabbed the big man by the front of his battledress. "Spoil this for me, you drunken pig, and I'll blow your head off. That's a promise."

There was no time for more, for suddenly there was the deepening note of an engine as a vehicle started up the hill.

"All right," Barry said. "Get your masks on," and he turned and ran down to the road. He opened the door of the Land Rover, got his gas mask, and slung it around his neck and stood there waiting.

The German artillery major was in the rear seat of the jeep, while the young English captain sat up front beside the driver, half turned toward him while they spoke. He didn't see Barry until the driver drew his attention to him and slowed.

The captain said, "I wonder what this is all about?" He wound down the window. "What's going on?" he demanded as Barry approached.

"Change of plan, old boy, didn't they tell you?" Barry said. "Well, isn't that bloody typical?"

He pulled the pin and lobbed the gas grenade through the open window, turning away instantly to pull his mask up over his face.

Preston and Varley ran out from the trees, Preston cutting across the road to the rear of the truck, tossing his grenade over the tailgate.

It was Varley who fouled things up. He pulled the pin of his grenade as he ran forward, tripped and went sprawling, the grenade rolling away from him in a curl of white smoke.

The truck door swung open and a big sergeant of Artillery jumped to the ground. Barry, having no option, drew his Browning and shot him twice as the sergeant launched himself at Varley. In the same moment, Barry picked up the smoking grenade and threw it into the cab, where the driver still sat behind the wheel.

It was suddenly very quiet. Preston came around from the bac
k o
f the truck, and Barry pulled Varley to his feet and shook him in anger, his voice muffled inside the gas mask.

He turned and hurried around to the back of the truck, let down the tailgate and clambered over the inert bodies of the German artillery men and examined the three green containers he found there.

Preston and Varley joined him. It took them exactly four minutes to move the containers across to the Land Rover. Within five, they were driving away, leaving the two army vehicles silent in the rain at the side of the road.

Jenny Crowther walked along the path beside the estuary in the rain, a forlorn-looking figure in the head scarf and old raincoat. Her life until Barry had been nothing, one gray day after another. Now, he circled in her brain so constantly that she could think of nothing else.

She moved along the jetty and stood, hands in pockets, looking at the two boats. After a while, she stepped over the rail of the Kathleen and went into the wheelhouse. She sat on the bench, her back against the bulkhead, staring at the instrument panel. Finally, she reached underneath and dropped the inspection flap. The Sterling and the revolver hung there, neat and deadly in their brackets. She touched them gingerly, then pushed the flap back up into place and went out again.

She moved along to the Jason next and stood looking at it, wondering what it was all about, a slight, puzzled frown on her face. She stepped over the rail and went into the wheelhouse and stood there undecided, not certain what she was doing there at all. Suddenly, in the distance, she heard the sound of an engine.

By the time she got out on deck it was very close. She hesitated, then went down the companionway quickly and closed the door.

The Land Rover braked to a halt at the end of the jetty. Barry go
t o
ut and went around to the rear, where Preston and Varley sat with the three containers.

"All right, let's have these on board the Jason, quick as you like," he said. "Pass me the first one. I can manage it on my own."

"Anything to oblige," Preston said, then pushed it across.

It was comparatively light. Barry had no difficulty in negotiating the rail and the companionway. Jenny, hearing him coming, moved to the other end of the cabin and hid in the toilet.

Barry got the door of the cabin open and went in with the container. He put it down on the floor, and Preston and Varley appeared carrying the second, which was larger.

"Good," Barry said. "One more and we're done, and you two can be out of it."

Varley gave Preston a sly glance, but they went back up the companionway, Barry after them. When they reached the Land Rover, he stood watching them manhandle the third container out. As they started back along the jetty, he reached under the driving seat, found the briefcase, and followed them.

It would be interesting to see when they made their move. The only certainty was that Preston would make a drama out of it. He went and stood by the stern rail, put the briefcase on the ground at his feet and unclipped the holding strap of the webbing holster. He could hear the rumble of their voices in the cabin below, took out the Browning quickly, cocked it, and replaced it in the holster. He lit a cigarette and waited.

They came back on deck and Preston said, "You've got money there, I hope?"

"That's right."

"Yes, well we'd like to talk to you about that. About what's below in those containers and how much there really is in that briefcase."

"In other words, clever bastard," Varley cut in, "We want it all."

Barry turned, a slight smile on his face, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Preston had him covered with the Sterling, and Varley drew his Smith and Wesson.

"Do I walk away from this?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Sinclair." Preston shrugged. "You lose, all the way around."

"A crying shame." Barry tossed his cigarette over the side. "And to think you could have had your wages and been away."

His hand dropped to his side, reaching for the Browning, and Preston pulled the trigger of the Sterling. There was only the mechanical chatter of the bolt reciprocating. Preston stopped smiling, as in that final dreadful moment he saw it all.

And as Barry fired, Jenny erupted from the companionway. "No!" she cried, flinging herself at Preston and the bullet caught her full in the back, driving her against him.

Preston held her as a shield, trying to back away. Barry shot him through the head, fragmenting the top of his skull, punching him back against the wheelhouse, still clutching the girl.

Varley was firing his Smith and Wesson frantically, one metallic click after another. With a desperate cry, he flung the useless weapon at Barry and turned to run. Barry shot him twice in the back, shattering his spine, and Varley fell to his knees and hung across the rail.

Birds drifted up from the reeds, circling in panic, the air filled with their cries and the beating of their wings. Barry holstered the Browning, dropped on his knees and cradled Jenny Crowther in his arms. She was quite dead, her eyes wide, staring. He closed them gently.

"Poor, stupid little bitch," he said and kissed her on the forehead. "There was no need--no need at all. I had it all sewn up."

He picked her up in his arms, went down the companionway and laid her on one of the benches. Then he went back on deck and knelt beside Preston, opening his shirt and searching him quickly. As he had expected, Preston was carrying the five thousand pounds on him, as was Varley. He tumbled them down the companionway one after the other, then retrieved his briefcase, went over the rail, and hurried along to the Kathleen.

He went into the wheelhouse and looked about him. Simples
t p
laces were always the best, or so he'd found. There was a bench against the wall. The padded leather top lifted easily enough. There was an accumulation of rubbish inside, ropes, oilcans, plastic bags. He concealed the briefcase under the plastic bags and went outside. Next, he untied the Kathleen's tender and hauled it along the side of the jetty and attached it to the Jason's stern. Then he went back on board and cast off, hurried into the wheelhouse, and started the engine. Ten minutes later he was nosing through the great bank of reeds to enter the pool he had discovered earlier that day.