Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (54 page)
He stuffed the knife, overalls, boots, and electronics into his bag and walked on to a newspaper store, where he purchased a detailed street map of Saint-Nazaire. Then he found a coffee shop, and settled at a corner table to study the lay of the land. He lingered for only ten minutes, purchased a
jambon et fromage
baguette with a bottle of Perrier water, and then went outside. He flagged down the first taxi he saw and asked for the bus station at Saint-Brevin-des-Pins on the south bank of the river, a distance of almost four miles.
jambon et fromage
baguette with a bottle of Perrier water, and then went outside. He flagged down the first taxi he saw and asked for the bus station at Saint-Brevin-des-Pins on the south bank of the river, a distance of almost four miles.
It was only when they set off on the two-mile-long span of the Saint-Nazaire Bridge, to cross the Loire, the greatest river in France, that Mack fully appreciated just how wide the estuary was. Looking back both left and right he could see the enormous sprawl of the shipyards on the north bank. He thought of the sunlit tidal waters below and the task that almost certainly would face him tomorrow night. When they reached the bus station he paid the driver and climbed out, holding the toolbox and the bag.
Immediately, he walked over to the departure schedules that were displayed in huge glass cases on one wall. There were two or three people making similar checks on the frequency of the service, and Mack had to wait to get a clear run at the listings for the evening buses to nearby Nantes. The times were not important. The regularity of the service was.
When he had finished this minor detail, he went in search of a public telephone and checked the directory for the number of the railroad station in the city of Bordeaux. Using his euro coins, he made the call, a simple inquiry to find out what time the last train from Nantes arrived in Bordeaux.
À douze heures et demie, monsieur. Gare St. Jean, à Cours de la Marne.
“Et départe Nantes?” struggled Mack.
Huit heures et demie.
“Merci beaucoup, madame,” replied Mack, and then to himself,
Eight thirty Nantes. Jesus, I’d better not miss that bus.
Eight thirty Nantes. Jesus, I’d better not miss that bus.
He walked out of the bus station secretly pleased he had assessed the transportation problems between here and Nantes, bus and train, without making a telltale phone call or speaking to anyone in Nantes about his requirements. There would be nothing anyone could ever remember, even under searching police questioning, about a foreigner trying to leave the city.
And then he set off along the road that ultimately ended up in Nantes, forty-two miles away. But Mack was going only two miles. He kept walking until he broke free of the houses and came to a long wooded area on the right-hand side of the road, with the river to his left. He reached a bus stop and waited. Not for a bus, but for the road to be clear of traffic and pedestrians. There was very little of either, and after five minutes he suddenly turned right and went straight into the woods.
There he established a small private camp, well out of sight of the road, and, so far as he could tell, everyone else. He explored the trees around him on a hundred-yard radius and decided he was safe. He selected a bush with wide fronds and eased his way underneath. There he ate the baguette, drank some water, and checked the time. It was almost five o’clock.
Using his new knife, he began to dig out a shallow hole sufficiently large to contain his leather bag. When he’d completed this, he pulled out his black wet suit and stripped down to his undershorts. Carefully, he pulled on the trousers and then the close-fitting top, keeping the hood rolled down. Then he took out his two oversized SEAL flippers and clipped one on each thigh.
He unpacked his new overalls and pulled them on, over the wet suit, fastening the buttons and stuffing a pile of euros into his pockets. He put on the work boots, fastened the laces, and slipped his new combat knife, sheathed, into one slim side pocket of the overall trousers. Into the other he placed his flashlight and the calculator.
Then he hollowed out more dry dirt from the hole and made sure everything was packed into his leather bag—street clothes, passports, licenses, cash, and Perrier water—and pushed it down, before covering it with earth. He then cut two bushy branches and arranged them to obscure the disturbed surface completely, with the two cut stems rammed into the ground.
He checked his watch and waited for the 6:15 bus to arrive at “his” stop. He heard the doors open and then heard it pull away along the road to Nantes. Three minutes later, he grabbed the toolbox, wriggled free of the bushes, and headed back to the riverside road.
Hot in the wet suit-overalls combination, his heart unaccountably pounding, Mack Bedford was nonetheless ready to go.
Henri Foche’s Mercedes, now being driven by one of the missile men from Montpellier Munitions, collected “Colonel” Raul Declerc from Rennes Airport at six o’clock and drove him directly to the home of the Gaullist leader.
It was a day when things had moved extremely rapidly, and Raul was obviously shocked at the pure brutality of the two murders. He had never served with Britain’s Special Forces, and although he had heard many a tale of their ruthless execution of duty, and anyone who got in the way, he had not experienced anything this close to home, as it were.
The first thing that crossed his mind, unsurprisingly, was cash, and he wondered, very sincerely, if he had charged Foche sufficiently. A million euros was one thing, but grappling with this apparent monster from the black lagoon was entirely another.
But Raul had a sense of duty, and he understood he had pursued, and then struck a deal with, the man who would become the next president of France. Foche was a man who had a slightly shady background, and in the opinion of the former Colonel Fortescue, he was not a man to be fooled with. In Raul’s view, an angry Foche might prove pretty damn similar to an angry Gunther Marc Roche.
Christ, even their names are similar,
thought Raul, who was unaware of the pantomime on Basle Street that day, which almost certainly rendered the Swiss killer nonexistent.
Christ, even their names are similar,
thought Raul, who was unaware of the pantomime on Basle Street that day, which almost certainly rendered the Swiss killer nonexistent.
At least that was the current opinion of the French police. Pierre Savary had called his friend Henri to express it a couple of hours ago. He did not think it meant the black-bearded hijacker/assassin was nonexistent. There was too much hard, widespread evidence for that, from Brixham to Val André. But the name was false, the address was false, and that Swiss driver’s license, recorded by Monsieur Laporte much earlier that morning, was also false.
“The man is obviously real,” said Foche, “but we have no idea who he is. The police think it unlikely he is Swiss.”
“As you know, sir, my own opinion is that the threat comes from England, and there is a fair chance the killer is English,” offered Raul.
“But there are several people in England who swear to God he spoke in a very foreign accent.”
“Sir, I could speak in a very foreign accent if I so wished.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But let us look to the future. How do you and your team intend to protect me from this assassin?”
“Right now I am assembling them in Marseille. My two SAS men are flying in from central Africa. Both of them served with the British in Sierra Leone. Two of the best Israeli commanders I ever met are leaving Tel Aviv tomorrow morning. I have five ex-French Foreign Legion commanders. All of them have seen active service in North Africa. I intend to place a steel cordon around you, sir. A cordon of armed men ready to shoot on sight any assailant who sticks his head above the parapet.”
Henri Foche liked the sound of that. “And what do you intend to do about tomorrow afternoon’s speech in Saint-Nazaire? Can you be assembled by then?”
“Sir, you have explained to me how this Gunther character has so far given everyone the slip. And right now with every police officer in the city searching for him, he still hasn’t shown up in Saint-Nazaire. Since he has only been in France for less than a day, we might be overreacting about tomorrow. I’d be surprised if he could get himself organized in under forty-eight hours for a serious attempt on your life. Those ex- Special Forces men are notoriously long-winded about detail. We in the regular old British regiments always think them a little slow.”
“Oh, really,” replied Foche. “Well, that’s encouraging, but I will not cancel Saint-Nazaire. It’s too important, both for me and for the people of southern Brittany.”
“I will of course have a substantial part of our plan in operation, if you are concerned.”
“Which part?”
“The Foreign Legionnaires and the SAS men can fly directly from Marseille to Saint-Nazaire. I do not think the Israelis can get here in time, even if I divert them via Paris. Besides, they’ll need a briefing, and there won’t be time, if you want us to go operational as early as possible tomorrow.”
“That means you will have eight men, including yourself?”
“That will constitute your personal bodyguard, sir. Men whose only task is to watch for danger. Men who are trained to do it.”
“I will naturally have state-provided security all over the shipyard,” said Foche. “Probably a busload of them. But they are not specialists. They are merely numbers to provide an intimidating presence.”
“Sir, I need to ask you about the chain of command.”
“As my new chief of security you will exercise total control over all personnel except for the French police. They will be under the command of my close friend Pierre Savary, the chief of police in Brittany. But tonight the three of us will dine together, and I am certain you and he will work as a team.”
“No problem, sir. Who will travel with you from Rennes to Saint-Nazaire tomorrow afternoon?”
“I would prefer you and your men to be in the shipyard as early as possible. Therefore, I will arrive later under police escort. Probably two cruisers, front and rear of my own car, plus two motorcycle outriders in the lead, and two others behind the last police car.”
“That sounds fine. Because I need time in that shipyard, combing every inch of it. Even though I consider it so unlikely that this Gunther is going to be in there. I think it’s far more likely he will attempt to strike two or three days later, when he’s organized.”
“Well, it’s in the papers every day,” replied Foche. “I’m speaking in Brest at two different locations on Wednesday, and in Cherbourg in three different locations on Thursday. On Friday I have business to attend to in Orléans, but on Saturday I have a major Gaullist rally to address in Rouen.”
“He’s got a lot of choices,” said Raul. “If he’s serious. But I’d be looking hard at Cherbourg. It’s a Channel port, with easy local access to the ferry back to England.”
“I just have a feeling, Raul, that our lives would be so much simpler if the police could locate his car.”
“I agree. It would at least mark his trail for us. Right now the bastard could have gone in any direction. Saint-Nazaire, Brest, Cherbourg, anywhere. Even Rouen.”
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