Touch the Devil (26 page)

"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."

He frowned impatiently. "I've warned you before about talking like that. One of these days you'll forget yourself and do it in the wrong company."

"I only do it out of concern for you."

"I know." He kissed her on the cheek with genuine affection. "No point in you hanging on here any longer, particularly as you have your own car with you. Go on back to the apartment."

"What about you?"

"I'll see Barry off, then I'll join you."

She squeezed his hand, picked up her fur coat, and went out. Belov lit a cigarette and watched Barry, who was now engaged in conversation with someone.

At Marsh End, Henry Salter was just about to go up to bed when the phone rang. He answered it without hesitation, for in the funeral business one got used to the fact that people died at any time of the day or night.

"Henry Salter."

"Is that you, me old son? Sinclair here."

Salter's stomach turned hollow, and he pulled a chair forward and sat down. "What can I do for you, Mr. Sinclair?" he asked, voice shaking.

"How are things with you since I left? Any problems?"

"A lot of police activity about twenty miles up the dale from here toward Wastwater."

"Oh, yes. What happened?"

"Nobody seems to know."

Barry laughed. "That's really very good. When we parted, I said I'd be back and I will. You know the old airfield at Tanningley?" "Yes."

"I'll be landing there in a light plane a bit after seven in the morning. Meet me in the Land Rover."

"But it hasn't been used for years, that airfield," Salter said.

"Five thousand pounds, in cash, for your very valuable assistance. I'll be away again within a couple of hours. How about it?"

Salter struggled against his natural greed and lost. "I'll be there, Mr. Sinclair."

"See that you are," Barry said and put down the phone.

Devlin and Brosnan reached Paris just after one and went straight to the address on the Boulevard St. Germain. Belov's apartment was on the top floor of a luxury building of some distinction.

"What do we do if he isn't in?" Brosnan asked.

"How would I know, boy? Wait for him. Try picking the lock. We'll see."

They walked along the carpeted corridor and paused at the door numbered thirteen. "Unlucky for some," said Devlin and punched the bell.

There was a pause and then the door was flung open, and Irana Vronsky said, "What kept you, darling, I. . . ."

The smile faded from her face. Brosnan moved fast, his hand on her jaw, holding the mouth closed so that she couldn't scream, ramming her back into the apartment. Behind him Devlin closed the door.

Brosnan threw her on the couch and produced the silenced Mauser. "This thing doesn't make a sound. Any trouble, I'll blow your head off. Now, where's Belov?

Irana took a deep breath to pull herself together. "Go to hell!"

She wore a superb black silk dressing gown that gaped as she tried to get up, revealing black silk stockings and a hint of garter belt. Brosnan shoved her down again.

Devlin said, "Dressed like that, I think we can safely assume the lady is expecting the colonel at any moment. All we have to do is wait." He sat down opposite her, helped himself to a Russian cigarette from a box on the table, and sniffed it. "Bolshevik firecrackers. I had a friend once who smoked these things. Picked up a taste for them in the Winter War, but that was before your time. Would you by any chance know who I am?"

"You take a very good photo," she said calmly.

"And my friend?"

"Mr. Brosnan looks extremely healthy for a dead man."

Which was a bad mistake, and Devlin seized on it at once. "So, you've either seen or been in touch with Frank Barry."

She sat there, glaring at him, furiously angry with herself for being so stupid. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"Well, a nice cup of tea would do for a start," Liam Devlin told her.

Anne-Marie opened her eyes, stretched, and lay there, staring up at the light bulb above her head. Her mind was blank, and she wondered where on earth she was--and then she remembered the men at the farm, Martin on his knees. She sat up and found Barry sitting on the end of the bed watching her. Amazing how calm she was, no headache, no after-sleep drowsiness.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"A little airport outside Paris." There was a pot of coffee and a couple of cups on a tray beside him. He filled one and passed it across. "Drink this." She hesitated, and he smiled and sipped some himself. "Satisfied?"

She took the cup, and the door opened and Belov entered. "Ready to go whenever you like, Frank. Deforges has got the engines turning over." He glanced at Anne-Marie. "Does she still go with you
?"

Barry looked at her inquiringly. "Well?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He laughed and turned to Belov. "She goes."

Belov shrugged and went out. Anne-Marie said, "Is it permitted to ask the destination?"

"The English Lake District. You'll enjoy that. Lovely at this time of the year. Afterward, if you're a good girl, Ireland. If you behave yourself, I'll let you go there."

"Unexpected generosity, surely. Why take me along in the first place?"

"Oh, I've a lovely nature when you get to know me, and in Ireland, you see, I'll be safe. Neither the British nor the French nor anyone else can extradite me. I'm a political offender, a most usefu
l p
rofession on occasion. The Irish government won't like it, but you can scream the rooftops down once we're there, and it still won't change the situation."

She lay there, propped up on one arm, staring at him. "Did you really kill Liam?'

"Yes," he said. "In the church at St. Martin."

"And Brosnan? There was a silence between them. "Why not me, too?

He said, "My friend who looked in a moment ago thinks I should."

"Why don't you?"

"We all have our blind spots, my love, even a bastard like me. I don't kill women." He hesitated, remembering Jenny Crowther. "Not by intention, anyway."

"Oh, I see," she said. "Not by intention? That really is a great comfort."

He stood up, took the Ceska out, cocked it, then put the safety catch on, and replaced it in his pocket. "The choice is yours."

Which was no choice at all, as they both knew. "Oh, I wouldn't miss it for anything." She got to her feet. "When do we leave?"

"Marvelous," Barry said. "I knew you'd see sense, and just think what a feature you could get out of it all. Now hold out your hands." He produced a pair of handcuffs and snapped them into place, clamping her wrists together in front of her. "The world's a deceitful old place, and I like to be as certain as possible about things."

"The only certainty at the moment is that you haven't killed me yet, Mr. Barry," Anne-Marie said.

"Oh ye of little faith."

He opened the door and ushered her through.

There was fog heavy on the damp air, and although Deforges ha
d s
witched on the landing lights it was not possible to see to the end o
f t
he runway. Belov watched the Cessna turn and pause. As Barr
y b
oosted power, it rolled forward, the roaring of the engines filling the night. It started to lift off and was swallowed up by the fog instantly.

Deforges came across from the hangar, head turned to catch the muffled beat of the engines as Barry started to climb. "Is he any good?"

"Oh, yes," Belov said. "He has the Devil on his side, that one. Good night, Deforges," and he walked away to his car.

Barry climbed to six thousand feet, took a course direction from the air traffic control at Orly that turned him toward the Channel coast. He switched to autopilot and turned, pushing his headphones down around his neck.

Anne-Marie sat amidships, strapped in, her wrists still handcuffed in front of her. "Four and a half to five hours. You can be sensible and comfortable or just plain uncomfortable. The choice is yours."

She held up her wrists without a word, and he produced the key and unlocked them. "Good girl," he said. "There's coffee and sandwiches and even a couple of half-bottles of booze in the case at your feet. Feel free."

He turned away, switched from autopilot, and took control again.

It was three in the morning when Belov reached the apartment on the Boulevard St. Germain. He was tired and cold, and the prospect of Irana waiting filled him with a conscious pleasure. He got out his key, opened the door, and Irana called in Russian, "Run, Nikolai!"

Belov found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. And then Brosnan had him by the collar, kicked the door shut, and pushed him into the living room.

Irana sat on the couch, Devlin standing behind her. Belov stared at him in astonishment, as Brosnan ran his hands over hi
m e
xpertly, finding the Walther PPK in Belov's pocket and removing it.

Devlin said, "You look surprised, Colonel Belov, as well you might be, knowing who we are."

Belov tried to bluff it out. "I don't know what you want, and I certainly don't know who you are. If it's money, there's about four thousand francs in my wallet."

"You can save it," Devlin said. "Your lady friend here has already spilled the beans. She was surprised to see us because she thought we were both dead. That can only mean one thing. You've either spoken to or heard from Frank Barry. Where is he?"

Belov took a Russian cigarette from the box on the coffee table. "You don't really expect me to answer that."

"When last seen, he had a friend of ours with him, a lady named Anne-Marie Audin. We're very concerned about her, Colonel," Devlin said. "I think I may go as far as to say that my friend here is feeling rather upset about the whole business, and when he gets angry, he becomes very unpredictable."

Belov glanced at Brosnan's hard, implacable face. "I can't help that."

Brosnan slid open the windows to the terrace. He moved close to Belov and hit him under the breastbone, knuckles extended. The Russian went down on his knees.

Brosnan said, "I don't give a damn who you are I don't even care which side you're on. I'm only interested in saving that girl. You've got a minute--one minute to start talking. If you don't, I'm going to throw you off the balcony."

Irana cried out and tried to get to her feet. Brosnan pushed her down and said to Devlin, "Keep her quiet."

He shoved his foot into Belov's rear, sending him sprawling toward the terrace Irana looked up at Devlin and said desperately, "Stop him! For God's sake, stop him! I'll tell you what you want to know."

Belov half-turned toward her on his hands and knees, shakin
g h
is head, and Brosnan kicked his legs from under him, reached for his collar, and started for the open windows.

"No, please don't let him!" She grabbed at Devlin's coat. "The whole truth," he said. "Everything."

"I promise."

He called to Brosnan. "Okay, Martin, take him into the bathroom and let the poor fellow clean himself up."

Belov stood at the washbasin examining his face in the mirror. His nose was bleeding, and he sponged it carefully with a washcloth. "You play rough, Mr. Brosnan."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Oh, yes," Belov said. "The old ploy. One guy's reasonable, the other is nasty. It never fails. I've used it myself many times." He sighed. "Only poor Irana didn't know that."

"All Irana knows, if you want my opinion, is that she loves you." "Yes," Belov said soberly. "So it would appear."

The door opened, and Devlin said, "You can come out now." Irana got to her feet and ran into Belov's arms. "I'm sorry, Nikolai, but I wasn't prepared to see you killed."

"That's all right." He smoothed her hair with one hand. "Actually, I'm rather flattered."

Devlin turned to Brosnan. "He left a small airport outside Paris at about two, taking Anne-Marie with him. He's flying himself in a Cessna 310."

"What's the destination?"

"The English Lake District. I'll explain it all later. Watch these two while I call Jean-Paul. Not Ferguson, right?"

Brosnan smiled. "Why bother the man? This isn't Ferguson's business any more."

In Marseilles, at the Maison d'Or, Jean-Paul Savary was countin
g t
he evening's take from the casino with the assistance of the clu
b m
anager, and it was he who picked up the phone when it rang. He listened, then held it out to Jean-Paul.