Touch the Devil

‘Oh, but I do, Martin Brosnan.’ Her voice was very sleepy now. ‘It would give me infinite pleasure to show you.’

‘That’s a date then,’ he said softly and came up on one knee crouching, firing into the reeds.

There was a cry of anguish and then a long burst in reply and something punched Brosnan high in the left side of the chest and he went over backwards across the girl.

She stirred feebly and he came up, firing one-handed at the man who charged through the reeds, that smile on his face again, and as the M16 emptied, he hurled it into the face of the last man, drawing his combat knife, probing for the heart up under the ribs as they went down together.

He lay in the mud for quite some time, holding the Vietcong against him, waiting for him to die and suddenly, two Skyraiders swooped overhead and half a dozen gunships moved in out of the rain, line astern.

Brosnan got up awkwardly and lifted Anne-Marie in his arms, grimacing against the pain. He started to wade through the reeds towards the open paddy field.

‘I told you the cavalry would arrive.’

She opened her eyes. ‘In the nick of time? And then what?’

He grinned. ‘One thing’s for sure. After this, it can only get better.’

Paris 1979

1 (#u34de0702-34ff-53ad-8c88-fc6d8e712fe1)

A cold wind lifted across the Seine and dashed rain against the windows of the all-night cafe by the bridge. It was a small, sad place, half a dozen tables and chairs, no more, usually much frequented by prostitutes. But not on a night like this.

The barman leaned on the zinc-topped counter reading a newspaper. Jack Corder sat at a table by the window, the only customer, a tall, dark-haired man in his early thirties. His jeans, worn leather jacket and cloth cap gave him the look of a night porter at the fish market up the street, which he very definitely was not.

Barry had said eleven-thirty so Corder had arrived at eleven, just to be on the safe side. Now, it was half-past midnight. Not that he was worried. Where Frank Barry was concerned, you never knew where you were, but then, that was all part of the technique.

Corder lit a cigarette and called, ‘Black coffee and another cognac.’

The barman nodded, pushed the newspaper to one side and at that moment the telephone behind the bar started to ring. He answered it at once, then turned enquiringly.

‘Your name is Corder?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It would seem there is a taxi waiting for you on the corner.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘You still wish the coffee and the cognac, Monsieur?’

‘The cognac only, I think.’

Corder shivered for no accountable reason and took the cognac down in one quick swallow. ‘It’s cold even for November.’

The barman shrugged. ‘On a night like this, even the poules stay home.’

‘Sensible girls.’

Corder pushed a note across the table and went out. The wind dashed rain in his face and he turned up the collar of his jacket, ran to the old Renault taxi waiting on the corner, wrenched open the rear door and got in. It moved away instantly and he sank back against the seat. They turned across the bridge and the lights in their heavy glass globes made him think of Oxford with a strange sense of déjà vu.

Twelve years of my life, he thought. What would I have been now? Fellow of Balliol? Possibly even a professor at some rather less interesting university? Instead … But that kind of thinking did no good – no good at all.

The driver was an old man, badly in need of a shave, and Corder was aware of the eyes watching him in the driving mirror. Not a word was said as they drove through darkness and rain, moving through a maze of back streets, finally turning into a wharf in the dock area and braking to a halt outside a warehouse. A small light illuminated a sign which read Renoir & Sons – Importers. The taxi driver sat there without a word. Corder got out, closing the door behind him, and the Renault drove away.

It was very quiet, only the lapping of the water in the basin where dozens of barges were moored. Rain hammered down, silver in the light of the sign. There was a small judas gate in the main entrance. When Corder tried the handle it opened instantly and he stepped inside.

The warehouse was crammed with bales and packing cases of every description. It was dark, but there was a light at the far end and he moved towards it. A man sat at a trestle table beneath a naked bulb. There was a map spread across the table in front of him, a briefcase beside it, and he was making notes in a small, leather-bound diary.

‘Hello, Frank,’ Corder said.

Frank Barry looked up. ‘Ah, there you are, Jack. Sorry to mess you about.’

The voice was good public school English with just a hint of an Ulster inflection here and there. He leaned back in the chair. His blond hair curled crisply, making him look considerably younger than his forty-eight years, and the black Burberry trenchcoat gave him a curiously elegant appearance. A handsome, lean-faced man with one side of his mouth hooked into a slight perpetual half-smile, as if permanently amused by the world and its inhabitants.

‘Something big?’ Corder asked.

‘You could say that. Did you know the British Foreign Secretary was visiting the President at the moment?’

‘Lord Carrington?’ Corder frowned. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘Neither does anyone else. All very hush-hush. The new Tory government trying to cement the entente cordiale which has been more than bruised of late years. Not that it will do any good. Giscard d’Estaing will always put France top of his list, no matter what the situation. Their final meeting in the morning is taking place at a villa at Rigny.’ He stabbed at the map on the table with his finger. ‘Here, about forty miles from Paris.’

‘So?’ Corder said.

‘He leaves at noon by car for Vezelay. There’s an airforce emergency field there from where the RAF will be waiting to whisk him back to good old England, to all intents and purposes as if he’s never been away.’

‘So where’s all this leading?’

‘Here.’ Barry tapped the map again. ‘St Etienne, fifteen miles from Rigny, which consists of a petrol station and a roadside cafe at present closed. A perfect spot.’

‘For what?’

‘To hit the bugger as he passes through. One car, four CRS escorts on motorbikes. No problem that I can see.’

Corder was conscious of the cold now eating deep into his bones. ‘You’re joking. We’d never get away with it. I mean, a thing like this needs preparation, split second timing.’

‘All taken care of,’ Barry said cheerfully. ‘You should know me by now, Jack. I always prefer people who are working for wages. Thorough-going fanatics like yourself – honest Marxists who believe in the cause – you take it all too seriously and that tends to cloud your thinking. You can’t beat the professional touch.’

The Ulster accent was more in evidence now, all part of a deliberate exercise in charm.

‘Who have you got?’ Corder asked.

‘Three hoods from Marseilles on the run from the Union Corse after the wrong kind of underworld killing. One of them has his girl with him. They’ll do anything in return for the right price, four false passports and tickets to the Argentine.’

Corder stared down at the map. ‘So how does it happen?’

‘Simple. As I said, the cafe is closed. That only leaves the proprietor and his wife in the garage. They’ll be taken care of and my men will be in position, dressed as mechanics, from twelve-fifteen, working on a car on the forecourt.’

Corder shook his head. ‘From what I can see, the convoy will be passing at a fairly high speed at that point. Remember what happened at Petit-Clamart when Bastien Thiry and his boys tried to ambush General de Gaulle? Even with machine guns at point-blank range they didn’t do any good because the old man’s car just kept on going. A second is all you get and away.’

‘So what we have to do is stop the car,’ Barry said.