Touch the Devil (24 page)

"Satisfied, Monsieur?" Chabert asked.

"Perfectly."

"Good, then perhaps you would be kind enough to settle now. Cash in advance is the one policy I always strictly adhere to. Life, after all, is an uncertain matter, and we are all vulnerable--even you, my friend, particularly when involved in an affair like this."

Barry, who had come prepared, courtesy of Belov, laughed and took a thick wad of notes from his inside pocket.

"You know, I like you, old son, I really do," he said, and started to count out the agreed fee in thousand-franc notes.

Devlin usually woke at dawn, the habit of years, but that followin
g m
orning he overslept and discovered, when he opened his eyes, tha
t i
t was eight-thirty. He got up quickly, had a shower, and then dressed.

He hesitated, looking at the bulletproof vest, then decided to try it and put it on under his shirt. As it weighed sixteen pounds he knew he was wearing it, but it fitted snugly enough and was not particularly uncomfortable.

When he went into the kitchen, Brosnan was sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs. Anne-Marie turned from the stove. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, as if she had slept badly.

"There you are. What would you like, eggs?"

Devlin shook his head. "I haven't eaten breakfast in years. A cup of tea would be fine." He sat down opposite Brosnan. "And how are you this beautiful morning?"

"Couldn't be better," Brosnan said. "The first time I've done this in years." He reached across and opened Devlin's shirt, disclosing the vest. "You've got a button undone. What are you wearing that for?"

"Oh, I thought I'd give it a try," Devlin told him. "You should try yours. It's fun." He swallowed the tea Anne-Marie gave him and stood up. "When are we leaving?"

"Whenever you like. How are we going, by road or air?"

"By road will take forever. On the other hand, it might be safer. There's that face of yours to consider."

"I'm dead, Liam," Brosnan said. "Nobody will look at me twice, and that picture in the paper was five or six years old. Another thing, I had short hair then. A pair of sunglasses, and I'm laughing."

"All right," Devlin said. "Air it is. You get ready. I'm just dropping down to the village to make a telephone call." "Ferguson?"

"He might just have something to say that's worth hearing." "If it's about Barry, I'll buy that."

Devlin turned to Anne-Marie. "I'll take the Citroen if I may." She handed him the keys. "One thing, Liam, when you go it's without me."

"I see." He glanced at Brosnan who continued to eat stolidly. "Whatever you think best, girl dear." He held her hand for a brief moment, turned, and went out.

Barry had driven up from Nice in the Peugeot, followed by the three hoods in a small van with the name of a well-known Nice electrical contractor on the side panel. They drew into a rest stop just outside St. Martin, and Jacaud got out of the van and pretended to be tinkering with the engine. Barry drove into the village. He was not sure of his next move. It certainly wouldn't do to just drive up to the farm. On that narrow road, they would be seen coming all the way up from the village.

In any case, the situation was taken out of his hands for as he pulled in beside the church, he saw Devlin at the wheel of the Citroen getting gasoline at the filling station further along the street.

Barry got out of the Peugeot and dodged into the church, leaving the door slightly open, and watched.

Devlin pulled out of the filling station, turned across the street, and parked under a tree. He got out and walked over to the cafe. A young woman was washing the half-dozen tables and chairs that stood outside.

"Morning, Monsieur," she said. "You would like coffee?"

"Never touch the filthy stuff," Devlin told her, "but if you've got a cup of tea, that would be fine after I've used the telephone."

"My father's using it at the moment, Monsieur, phoning our weekly order to the wholesaler in Nice. He shouldn't be long. I could get you the tea while you wait."

"And why not?" Devlin lit a cigarette, sat down, and turned his face to the morning sun.

It was very quiet in the church, winking candles and incense heav
y o
n the cold air, and down by the altar the Virgin seemed to float ou
t o
f darkness, a slight, fixed smile on her face. No one waited by th
e c
onfessional boxes. The place seemed quite empty, and then Barry saw that there was a young boy at the altar, kneeling in prayer. He stood up, crossed himself, and walked to the door.

"Are you looking for the cure, Monsieur? He's not here. He's gone to Vence."

He was only nine or ten, and Barry ruffled his hair and smiled. "No, I'm watching a friend of mine. See, the man over there at the cafe?"

"I see, Monsieur."

"I tell you what," Barry said. "Let's play a trick on him." "A trick, Monsieur?"

"That's right. You go over and tell him the priest wants to see him. Then when he walks in, he'll get a big shock when he sees me." He took out his wallet and produced a ten-franc note.

The boy's eyes went round. "For me, Monsieur?"

Barry slipped it into his pocket. "Off you go now, and mind you don't give the game away."

Devlin's eyes closed as he turned his face to the sun, and he was not aware of the boy's approach until he tugged at his sleeve. "Monsieur?" the boy said timidly.

"What is it, son?"

"The priest, Monsieur, in the church." He waved vaguely. "Ile asked me to get you."

"The priest?" Devlin smiled good-humoredly. "But I don't know him. There must be some mistake."

"Oh, no, Monsieur, he pointed you out to me. He said the gentleman at the table, and you are the only one."

Devlin looked around him. "So I am, that's a fact. All right, let's see what he wants."

He tried to take the boy's hand, but he turned and ran away. Devlin shrugged and walked across the street, passing the Peugeot, and went up the steps. He paused, the innate caution that was the product of years of living dangerously sending his hand into his pocket to feel for the butt of the Browning.

It was dark in the church after the bright morning sunshine. He stood just inside the door, waiting, and someone said in French in a hoarse whisper, "Over here, Monsieur Devlin."

He was aware of the cassock, the figure insubstantial in th
e g
loom. "What is it?" he demanded and stepped forward.

"A message from Jacques Savary, Monsieur. Please--in here." The priest moved into the confessional box, drawing the curtain
,
and Devlin went into the other side and sat down. The whole thin
g m
ade perfect sense now, of course. Savary and his son, after all
,
were the only people who knew where they were.

There was a movement on the other side of the grill, and the voice said, "Have you anything to confess, my son?"

"Well, I've sinned most grievously, Father, and that's a fact, but what about Savary?"

"He can roast in hell as far as I'm concerned, Liam, me old son, along with you!"

The Ceska in Barry's right hand coughed twice, ripping through the grill, slamming into Devlin, hurling him back against the side of the confession box. There was a fractional moment when he fought for air and then total darkness.

Barry opened the curtain and looked down at him sprawled in the corner. "All debts paid, Liam," he said softly.

He pulled the cassock he had borrowed from the vestry over his head, flung it into a pew, closed the curtain on Devlin again and went out.

Unlike Devlin, Brosnan put the nylon and titanium vest on over his shirt. It didn't look too bad after all. In fact it went quite well with his jeans. He pulled on the reefer and slipped one of the Brownings into his righthand pocket. The Mauser went into his belt at the rear, snug against his back.

He smiled, remembering that it was Devlin who'd taught him that. He took the Smith and Wesson with the short barrel, hefted it in his hand, and went into the bathroom. He found a roll of surgical tape in the cabinet over the washbasin, tore a couple of lengths of
f a
nd taped the Smith and Wesson to the inside of his left leg, just above the ankle, covering it with his sock.

When he went into the kitchen the radio was playing, but there was no sign of Anne-Marie. He found her sitting on a bench outside in the morning sun, eyes closed. He strolled across and paused, uncertain what to say. Below him he could see the Citroen coming up the winding road.

"Liam's coming," he said.

"Is he?"

He leaned on the wall. "Do you still paint?"

"Yes," she said, "only in watercolor now. I've given up oils." "Devlin once told me that any fool could paint in oils, but that it took a real painter to master watercolors."

Behind him Devlin's Citroen moved into the courtyard and still she kept her eyes closed. "Go away, Martin, just go away."

"All right, if that's the way you want it," Brosnan said and turned toward the Citroen. It took a moment for him to see that the man leaning out of the window of the car, Jacaud, was holding a revolver and that it was pointing straight at him. Suddenly Frank Barry, who had been hidden from view, sat up in the rear seat and kicked the door open. When he got out, the Ceska in his hand was pointing at Brosnan, too.

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 Citroen 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 Citroen 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 enoug
h f
or 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.