The Persian Price (32 page)

‘It's not Eileen,' Logan said. He brushed one hand across his forehead. James saw it trembling. ‘It's another woman, shot in the stomach.'

The
capitaine
had joined them.

‘M. Field,' he said, ‘we are certain that your wife has been held here. There is a dead Algerian in the house and a radio transmitter. Grenades were used in a battle in the garage. There are human remains. I think you had better go with your friends and wait in our headquarters.'

He hesitated. Logan's rejection of the woman's corpse had embarrassed him. From the way it was lying, it looked as if it had been arranged after death. The cruelty of death by having half the stomach blown out had been dignified into an execution. This theory was disposed of when Madeleine's Walther P.38 automatic was found in the oleander bushes. It did not occur to the
capitaine
or to Logan, or James, that Eileen was not among the victims whose mangled remains were in the human débris in the garage. Janet had not gone near it. She stayed apart, looking so pale that Logan heard James ask her if she were feeling faint. He didn't bother to turn round. She shouldn't have come on the trip and she certainly shouldn't have come out to the villa. If she called attention to herself by fainting, it would be the final error in a mounting total. He walked away to the car, leaving James to bring her along, and they drove to police headquarters in silence. They were shown into the
capitaine
's office and a policeman brought them a tray with brandy and Perrier and ice. Janet poured them each a drink. She handed one to Logan.

‘I think she's alive,' she said quietly.

Logan looked at her.

‘That's the most bloody stupid, insensitive thing …'

‘M. Field!'

He swung away from her to the police lieutenant who had accompanied him from the villa. He was in the doorway and he shouted in excitement.

‘M. Field! The Pasteur Hospital has just phoned a report that a woman with that name was brought to the hospital twenty minutes ago! We go to the hospital immediately!'

Logan was pushing past him through the door, followed by James. Janet didn't move. James turned and called to her.

‘Come on. Aren't you coming?'

She shook her head.

‘No. He'll be all right now. I'm going back to England. If Logan wants me, he knows where to call.'

She shrugged a little and managed to smile.

‘You go along, James. And good luck. Don't let Logan push you out.'

‘I won't,' James promised. ‘I'm going to be right there.'

The surgeon who operated on Eileen found a badly damaged rib cage and a hole in the abdominal wall, with extensive internal haemorrhaging. He removed the part of the wood splinter which had penetrated too far for Peters to see. It measured seven and a quarter inches. He came down after the operation and told Logan Field that he could see his wife for a few minutes later that evening. In his opinion she would recover but there was always the risk of post-operative shock.

The hospital was under siege from the press and television. Logan was offered a room and an appeal was put out over the television networks for the man who had brought Mrs Field to the hospital to come forward.

The gruesome scene at the villa was making world headlines. Logan saw the French papers. He and James were together in the little waiting room off the private ward where Eileen lay. He had taken James's presence for granted. He was his employee and liaison with the authorities. He spoke perfect French and he acted as a buffer between Logan and demands for an interview. He had gone outside the building and spoken briefly to the press on Logan's behalf. Until Mrs Field had recovered enough to tell them what had happened, Logan Field could not issue a statement. He admitted that Eileen had been the victim of a kidnapping by an international terrorist group but he refused to go into details at this stage. James was adroit with the press where Logan wouldn't have trusted himself to remain calm. He was the diplomat, expert at smoothing over difficulties.

A nurse brought them coffee and asked if they wanted to eat something. Both refused.

‘You haven't asked where Janet is,' James said.

Logan frowned.

‘I'd forgotten about her. She can get herself into a hotel.'

‘She's gone back to England,' James said. ‘I think you've been pretty rough on her, Logan. You ought to ring her up and let her know what's happened.'

‘I don't know myself, yet,' Logan said. ‘I'll wait till tomorrow. I think you'd better fly back to Tehran after I've seen Eileen. Work out a statement for me and it had better be very guarded. We don't want to start a political row and embarrass the Shah. I'll join you as soon as I know Eileen's out of danger.'

James took out a cigarette and lit it. He looked at Logan.

‘I'm not going back to Tehran,' he said. ‘I'm resigning. I'm staying here.'

‘Don't be a bloody fool,' Logan said. ‘You're throwing everything away. Imshan goes ahead now and you can reach the top in Imperial. All right, if you don't want to go to Tehran, stay on here for a few days. Think it over.'

‘I have thought it over,' James said. ‘Whether you kick Janet out or not, Eileen will never go back to you. You think you've won, Logan. You risked her life for your bloody oil-field and you come out with Imshan in the bag and think you can walk back to her as if nothing has happened. To hell with Janet by the way. But it isn't going to work out like that. You're not going to have your cake and eat it this time.'

There was a nurse sitting by Eileen's bed. The single light was shaded and when Logan first came in he didn't see that her eyes were open. He came to the bed and bent over her. The nurse got up.

‘Only a few minutes, Mr Field. She is still feeling the anaesthetic. I will wait outside.'

Eileen saw Logan through a fog of analgesic. His face seemed to loom independent of his body. For a moment she thought she was dreaming in the half-world of returning consciousness. Then he spoke and the fog cleared a little.

‘Darling,' she heard him say. ‘You're going to be all right.'

Her lips were dry and she felt thirsty. The nurse had allowed her a sip of water at a time when she first came round. She opened her eyes fully and focused on Logan. He bent down closer to her.

‘Where is he?'

‘Who? Who are you talking about?'

Logan thought for a moment that she was wandering, but the expression in her eyes was clear. She raised her head from the pillow.

‘Where is he? What happened to him?'

‘I don't know what you mean,' Logan said.

‘He brought me here,' Eileen mumbled, ‘in the car … I remember seeing him, just for a second.'

‘Somebody got you to the hospital,' Logan said, ‘but he disappeared afterwards. They're trying to find him now.'

There was a very slight smile on her lips. It made Logan uncomfortable. He had never seen her look secretive before.

‘He got away then. Thank God.' She turned her head and closed her eyes. ‘I'm going back to sleep,' she said.

He stood watching her. He heard the nurse come back into the room and touch him on the arm.

‘You can see her in the morning,' she whispered. ‘She'll be better then.'

‘Thank you,' Logan said.

He walked out of the room and asked to telephone the gendarmerie headquarters. He spoke to the
capitaine.

‘I've just seen my wife. You'd better get the man who brought her in. From what she said, I believe he was one of the kidnappers.'

Road blocks were set up, the strictest security was in operation at the airport and no sailings were permitted from the harbour. An extensive search was carried out through the town of Nice itself. An identikit picture of Peters was flashed on the television screens and put on the front page of the newspapers. There were stories in the world press that Eileen Field was winning her fight for life and pictures of Logan going in and out of the hospital.

Fifty miles outside Nice harbour, a motor yacht was on course for the Italian coast. The tiny yacht marina at Bocca di Magra had a berth reserved for it. Normally the boat remained at anchor there, going out for a day's excursion to Porto Venere or the Cinque Terra with tourists. Since Eileen Field arrived at the villa, the yacht had been waiting in Nice, its two man crew spending their time drinking in the bars and fishing.

It was a big, powerfully engined craft, capable of thirty knots, with a tiny cabin that slept three. Peters was lying on the bunk. The taxi driver who picked him up outside the hospital had thought that he was drunk. He seemed unsteady and when they arrived at the quay, the driver had to help him out. He brought him to the boat and hung around, beginning to fret about his fare, while one of the crew came and helped the American aboard. He was paid off, with a generous tip, and thought no more about it. He was used to Americans being drunk early in the morning on the coast.

The yacht's captain was an Italian; his home was on the Magra, the river that runs into the sea hard by Lerici on one of the most beautiful curves of the Italian coast. He lived by hiring his boat out during the summer season and he was an active member of the Marxist group who had settled in the little river port. He had been sent to Nice to take the commando group to safety if the operation failed. He knew nothing about their mission in France and he didn't ask questions when only Peters appeared. He brought him downstairs to the cabin, cast off and started out of the harbour. He would take a full day to reach the Magra as he had to go well out to sea to avoid searching aircraft. Once they were safe in the Magra, his own people would care for the terrorist. And it was obvious that he would need care, because he was confused and became unconscious while they steamed at a full thirty knots out into the Mediterranean. The second crew member, a young and dedicated activist, sat by his side and watched him. He didn't know how best to help his injured comrade. He could have coped very well with a physical wound. Brain damage frightened him. Twice during the day Peters woke up and asked for something to drink. The boy left him and reported to his captain that there was some improvement. They heard the news of the hunt for Peters on the short-wave radio. Neither commented. They had a very long start and in any case the papers they had given to the port authorities were forged and gave the yacht's place of origin and registration as Marseilles. They wouldn't be traced. The American had got safely away.

It was early afternoon. In the hot, cramped little cabin Peters lay propped up on the bunk, awake. The pain in his head was continuous and excruciating; the thud and rumble of the engines made his conscious periods unbearable. The heat and the smell of fuel was overpowering. He lay soaked in sweat, the lower half of his body covered by a sheet. A carafe of water was on the narrow ledge beside the bunk and he drank continuously. They had given him aspirins to ease the pain but the effect was negligible. It was a part of him, the pounding of a hammer, wielded with such force that it felt as if his head would split like an apple under the pressure. The movement of the boat was steady; the powerful engines were running at full throttle, her bows were out of the water and they were racing through a calm sea towards the haven of Italy. He didn't think about his own safety. He seemed to have no control over his thoughts. His last memory was of seeing Eileen brought into the hospital on a stretcher. He couldn't remember taking the taxi and getting to the arranged escape point in the harbour. He kept seeing Eileen's face, smiling at him. It was the only pleasant part of being awake and he couldn't hold onto it for long. He saw other faces, floating like balloons in a void. His mother, with her disappointed expression, and her voice in his head accusing him. ‘You talk about loving humanity – you're not capable of loving even one person …' It made him very angry. He called her a liar and her face drifted away, as if someone had loosed the string on the balloon. His father – a teacher from High School; he didn't call them but they came, without sequence or relevance to each other. Madeleine. Lying dead in the villa garden. He closed his eyes against her. He felt nothing. His mother said he had no feelings … Incapable of love … He tried to bring Eileen back,' fighting the whispers and the faces which were merging into a sad confusion.

The little door to the cabin folded back and the young Italian came in. He had heard Peters call out and hurried down.

‘Are you all right?' he asked in French. ‘Do you want anything?'

Peters tried to lift himself. The Italian was very dark, with a drooping moustache and serious eyes. Peters wanted to say something but suddenly the pain in his head became a crescendo; the embolism lodged in the frontal lobe of his brain finally burst; a massive haemorrhage spread in seconds and he fell back on the bunk. His eyes closed and he called out one word. The young man bent over him and then ran up on deck to call the captain. A few minutes later they stood beside the bunk. The yacht idled on the water, its engines shut off. The older of the two Italians shook his head.

‘If you don't rest with a severe concussion, this can happen,' he said.

‘Did he say anything?'

The boy looked distressed.

‘It sounded like a woman's name.'

‘He died for the cause,' the older man said. He raised his clenched fist in salute over Peters. ‘We can't take him into port. We'll bury him here.'

In the early afternoon of that day, Eileen woke from a deep sleep. The room was full of flowers; a large vase of roses sent by James were the first thing she saw. She felt no pain, only a feeling of profound disquiet as if something were terribly wrong. The blinds were half drawn, the room was cool and shady, scented with the flowers. The nurse sat knitting in a chair near the bed. She heard a sound and saw Eileen with tears pouring down her face. She hurried to her.