Touch the Devil (27 page)

"For you, boss. A Monsieur Devlin."

Jean-Paul took it instantly. "Savary here."

"How's your father?"

"Sunning himself in Algeria. And you and Martin?"

"Things could be marginally worse, but I doubt it. You said anything at any time."

"And meant it. What do you need?"

"We're in Paris. We need a light plane and the kind of pilot who doesn't ask questions to drop us at an unused airfield in the English Lake District."

"When do you want to go?"

"Right now."

"Give me your phone number. I'll call you back."

"You can fix it?"

"My friend, the Union Corse can fix anything, except perhaps the Presidency."

Jean-Paul put the phone down, took a small black book from a drawer in the desk, and checked through it. He picked up the phone again and dialed a Paris number.

Leaning against the window, smoking a cigarette, Devlin said, "I've been thinking about this whole business, Colonel, and it seems to me Barry's made a right old mug out of you."

"Yes," Belov said evenly, "I'm inclined to agree with you. So where is this conversation leading us?"

"I'd have thought it was obvious. You've promised him two million, and you'll take delivery of this rocket pod in Ireland. Now from something the lady here let drop when she was being so informative, I understand the Germans have been rather reluctant to let their American allies have a look at this wonderful new weapon. Understandable, as feelings have not been exactly cordial there for some time."

Belov said carefully, "So what are you suggesting?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil your evening, but if Frank Barry can get two million from you, I should have thought it likely that the CIA would give him five. Or do you think I'm being unreasonable?"

Belov sat there staring at him, and Irana hugged his arm. "I warned you," she said. "I told you what he was like."

"All supposition."

The phone rang, and Devlin picked it up. He listened for a few moments then said, "God bless you, Jean-Paul." He turned to Brosnan. "Small airport about half an hour's drive out of Paris, near a place called Brie-Comte-Robert."

"I know where that is," Brosnan said.

Belov said, "You intend to take up the chase by plane?" He shrugged. "Too late, my friend. Barry will have at least two hours' start on you."

"We'll see," Devlin told him.

Brosnan said, "What are we going to do about these two?"

"A point." Devlin stood looking down at them, hands in pockets. "I suppose you could try phoning this man Salter, tell him to warn Barry we're on our way in spite of what I said to you?" Belov didn't reply, but the look in his eyes said it all. "I thought so. Have a look in the kitchen, Martin. Find some rope." Brosnan went out and came back with a ball of twine and a clothesline. "Fine." Devlin turned to Irana, "What time does the maid get in? Seven? Eight?"

She answered instinctively, "Seven-thirty."

"Good, she'll find you soon enough, you in one bedroom and him in the other. Too late to do us any harm."

There was nothing Belov could do except submit, and within a few minutes he was tightly bound, hands behind his back, his ankles tied to his wrists. Brosnan gagged him and laid him on his side.

"Not too comfortable, I hope?"

Belov's eyes flickered, and Brosnan gave him an ironic salute
,
went out and closed and locked the door, just as Devlin emerged from the other room.

"All right," Devlin said. "Let's move it," and they went out quickly.

The fog was considerably worse, and it was raining heavily by the time they reached Brie-Comte-Robert. They found the airfield with no difficulty, two miles on the other side.

The gates in the surrounding fence stood open. The place was mainly in darkness, and in the light from the Citroen's headlamps Brosnan saw cracked concrete, grass growing high on either side of the runway. There were four hangars. They loomed out of the fog, and a couple of lamps high on the wall had been turned on. In their light, the rain fell relentlessly.

A small door opened in one of the hangars and a man was silhouetted there. "Mr. Devlin?" he called in English, as Brosnan switched off the engine.

Devlin got out first. "That's me."

"Come on in."

The hangar was dimly lit by only a couple of bulbs. There were three planes. An old Dakota, a Beaver, and a Navajo Chieftain.

"Barney Graham." He held out his hand, a small, wiry-looking man with faded blue eyes. He wore a World War Two flying jacket and sheepskin boots.

"You've heard from Savary?"

"Sure, you want to go to the Lake District. Come in the office." They followed him and saw that several charts and maps had been laid out across the desk. "A dirty night for dirty work."

"You mean you're not prepared to do it?" Brosnan said.

Graham laughed. "You don't say no to the Union Corse. They own this place. They're my bread and butter plus a considerable amount of jam. Now where exactly do you want to land?"

"An old RAF station from the war days, south of a place called Ravenglass. Tanningley Field."

"That's bad flying country," Graham said. "Friend of mind hit the top of a mountain near there back in '43 in a Lancaster bomber. Only the rear gunner survived, and he had both legs broken." He was going over the map as he spoke. "There it is. No longer in use."

"Apparently the runway is perfectly usable," Devlin said. "The man we're after is familiar with the place. He's flying up there now. Left around two."

"What in?"

"A Cessna 310."

"There's a head wind tonight," Graham said. "I've checked the weather. That cuts him down to about a hundred and forty in one of those things. I'd say he'll get there about seven or seven-thirty. Maybe five hours, which would be about right. Dawn coming up, you see, and on a field like that with no facilities he can only make a visual approach, so he needs light." He folded the maps. "Just lik
e u
s."

Devlin checked his watch and saw that it was four o'clock. "So, he's got a two-hour start on us."

Graham shook his head. "My Navajo can better his speed by a hundred miles an hour, and we won't be as bothered by that head wind. I reckon we can make it in three hours."

"Arriving at around dawn." Brosnan turned to Devlin. "Right up his backside, so let's get moving."

"Just let me explain one thing before we leave," Graham said. "I'll need a destination to keep the air traffic people happy. I've already told Orly I'm making an emergency flight to Glasgow to pick up a supply of blood needed for an operation in Paris this afternoon."

"Blood?" Brosnan said.

"Yes, a rare group. You know the sort of thing. A trick we use occasionally when we need to make a flight that's a little out of the ordinary. Jean-Paul's already arranged it by telephone with a contact in Glasgow since he spoke to you, so that gives me a legal reason for the flight."

"And where do we come in?"

"The Lake District is directly en route, and it isn't controlled air space. At the right moment, I go down fast, you jump out, and I take off again and keep my fingers crossed it isn't noticed on anyone's radar screen. A fair chance at that time in the morning."

"And if it is?'

"I'll think of something," Graham smiled. "I took my wings in the RAF in nineteen thirty-nine, Mr. Devlin. I've been at it a long time. Not much they can teach me. If I say I had instrument problems, they've got no proof otherwise. Anyway, let's get going."

They got the hangar doors open, and Devlin and Brosnan climbed into the Navajo. It was roomy enough inside, with seating for ten people. Graham climbed in after them and pulled up the door.

"I've only got my wing lights to go by," he said. "With this fog the take-offs going to seem worse than it is. If you don't like heights, just close your eyes."

The engines roared into life, and Devlin and Brosnan strapped themselves in as he taxied outside, moved to the end of the runway, and turned into the wind.

"You know what they say in the theater, Martin?' Devlin said. "It's bad luck to wish somebody good luck."

"Thanks very much," Brosnan said. "Just what I needed."

And then they were plowing into the fog, Graham easing back the stick at precisely the correct moment for lift-off, refusing to sacrifice power for height, pulling the stick back into his stomach when instinct told him it was right to do so.

At eight hundred feet they burst out of the fog; he gently applied foot pressure on the right rudder and started to turn to starboard.

Anne-Marie had slept for some time and awoke to find the first gray light of dawn seeping across the sky. In the far distance to port, the Isle of Man was a shadow on the horizon. She could see from the altimeter that they were flying at two thousand feet. When she looked down, the sea was a desolate waste below.

She was aware of Barry's voice over the roaring of the twin engines as he spoke into his mike. "Ronaldsway. This is Golphe Alpha Yankee Yankee Foxtrot. I am diverting to Blackpool."

He switched to autopilot and turned to her, the handcuffs in one hand. "Not that I think you'd be silly enough to start a fuss that would kill the both of us, but I'd feel happier if you put these back on.

She didn't struggle, there was little point. She simply held out her wrists to receive the handcuffs.

"Good girl." He grinned. "Now just sit tight and enjoy yourself. This is the exciting bit."

He took over the controls again and went down fast.

Chapter
Fourteen.

Henry Salter had the forethought to take a pair of twelve-inch wire cutters with him when he drove out to Tanningley Field. They sliced through the rusting chain that was padlocked to the main gate easily enough, and he got back in the Land Rover and drove inside.

There were signs of neglect everywhere. Grass was growing through cracks in the old runway, and the roofs of two of the hangars had fallen in.

The third looked in reasonable enough condition. It still bore the legend in faded white paint Tanningley Flying Club. With a bit of an effort, he managed to roll back the doors and venture inside. Rain dripped through the holes in the roof. It was cold an
d d
epressing, and he shivered, turning up the collar of his coat. And then, in the distance, he heard the plane and ran outside.

The Cessna came in from the sea very low, banked to starboard, and dropped straight in at the far end of the runway. Salter ran out waving his arms, and the Cessna turned toward him and taxied inside the hangar, the roaring of the twin engines filling the place with their clamor. Barry switched off, opened the door, and climbed out on the wing.

"Mr. Sinclair," Salter said weakly.

Barry reached inside the plane and pulled Anne-Marie out and helped her to the ground. Salter looked her over, noting the handcuffs with dismay.

"All right, let's get moving." Barry ran Anne-Marie to the Land Rover and pushed her into the rear, taking the driver's seat himself, starting up as Salter scrambled into the passenger seat.

"But where are we going?"

"The marsh. Your boat, the Kathleen, is still moored down there on the creek, I hope?"

"Of course she is." Salter was bewildered. "I don't understand." "You will," Barry said, and turned out of the main gates. "Hang on," Salter told him. "I'd better close them or someon
e m
ight notice and wonder what's been going on."

Barry halted, and Salter went back to the gates. He paused beside the Land Rover as he came back, head turned, listening. Barry said impatiently, "What is it?"

"I thought I heard another plane. I must have been mistaken."

"Get in, man, for God's sake. I haven't got all day," Barry said, exasperated, and he drove away quickly without giving Salter time to get the door closed.

The sound Salter had heard was the Navajo making its firs
t a
pproach, but the weather had already deteriorated so much tha
t t
he ceiling was down to eight hundred feet, and Barney Graham turned out to sea again.

"It's too bloody dicey to go in blind. We'll be into the side of that mountain before you know what's happened."

"You've got to get us down one way or another. It's absolutely essential," Brosnan said.

"Maybe you'd like to jump out?" Graham swore softly. "Okay, I'll try a sea approach."

He turned out to sea, banked, went down low and burst out of the fog at five hundred feet, the mountain rushing to meet them.

It was Devlin who saw the runway and hangars a few hundred yards to starboard through driving rain. Graham went in fast and so low that when he banked at the last moment, just before putting her down, the starboard wingtip was only six feet off the ground. They bounced heavily and ran toward the hangars.

"Out!" Graham shouted. "Now!"

He was out of the cockpit and dropping the Airstair in seconds. Brosnan descended, and Devlin went after him so fast that he stumbled and fell. The Airstair was hauled up behind them, and as they ran to get out of the way the Navajo taxied toward the far end of the runway, paused briefly, then roared forward and took off.