Touch the Devil (12 page)

The girl pulled herself free from Preston's encircling arm and ran. Varley shoved him to one side and went after her. She got the door open, was already on her way out when his hand fastened on her shoulder. And then he seemed to stumble, went down hard on the cobbles of the yard.

As he tried to get up, his feet were kicked from under him expertly. Flat on his back, a foot across his throat, he struggled, glaring up into Frank Barry's implacable face. Barry increased the pressure until Varley started to choke. Then the pressure was relieved. Barry took the Ceska from his pocket and touched the muzzle to Varley's forehead.

The girl cried out, a hand to her mouth, and Henry Salter said desperately, "For God's sake, Mr. Sinclair."

Barry said softly, "Touch her again, I'll put you on sticks."

And Varley knew fear then, the kind of fear that almost turned his bowels to water, as well as rage. Barry removed his foot and stepped back. As the big man got up, Preston, lounging in the doorway, laughed.

"A touching scene." He came forward as Barry picked up his briefcase. "I'm Hedley Preston, Mr. Sinclair. This throwback to
a m
ore primitive age is Sam Varley. You must forgive him, but he's only just learned how to walk erect."

"I'll close that mouth of yours for good one of these days," Varley said and went into the house.

Preston stood to one side with a slight, mocking grin, and Barry walked past, followed by the girl and Salter. When they went into the sitting room, Varley was in a chair by the fire, clutching a bottle.

Barry put the briefcase on the table and said to the girl, "You cut along to the kitchen and make us a nice cup of tea or something." She hesitated, and he nodded reassuringly. "Go on, it'll be all right."

She went out. Salter closed the door and leaned against it. Barry nodded to Varley and said to Preston, "He starts early."

"Just his little weakness. Like they say in show business, Mr. Sinclair, he'll be all right on the night."

"Is that a fact?" Barry put the Ceska on the table beside the briefcase and unbuttoned his coat.

"So what's the job?" Preston asked.

"Simple enough. We stop a truck on a country road twenty miles from here on Wednesday morning, off-load what it contains, and bring it back here."

"And what does it contain?" Preston asked.

"That's none of your business." Barry opened the case. "This is." He tossed several packets of twenty-pound notes across. "Five thousand quid each there. You get the other half on completion."

Varley got up and moved to the table, reaching. Preston slapped his hand away. "And that's all you're telling us?"

"It's a simple job," Barry said. "Very simple. You get told what to do on Wednesday morning. Three hours work at the most and you'll be on your way. Of course, if you're not interested. . . ."

Preston said, "Oh, but we are." He quickly pushed the packets together into a neat pile. "Anything you say, Mr. Sinclair. Like the guy out of the brass lamp said, to hear is to obey."

"See that you do." Barry snapped the briefcase shut and turne
d t
o Salter. "I'll go back with you now. I want that Land Rover of yours. Somewhere I have to go this afternoon."

Preston said, "You'll be back?"

"Oh, yes," Barry told him. "You can count on it."

He and Salter went out into the passageway as Jenny appeared from the kitchen with a tray. "You're going?" she said.

"I'll be back this evening." Barry smiled. "Don't worry. Just get on with the cleaning up. The apeman won't touch you again. The clever bugger will see to that."

He winked in a conspiratorial fashion, went out, got into Salter's limousine, and they drove away.

Watching through the sitting room window, Varley said viciously, "When I've finished with that little bastard. . . ."

"Don't be stupid, Samuel," Preston said. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, he could take you apart any time he wanted." He tapped the packets of money in front of him. "Ten grand here, Samuel, another ten to come, which means whatever is in that truck he mentioned must be very interesting indeed."

Varley smiled slowly. "Here, are you meaning what I think you are?"

"I used to study Latin at school, Samuel. Festine lente. Hasten slowly. That way you get it all in the end."

"Including him?"

"I don't see why not."

Varley laughed delightedly and reached for the bottle. "I'll drink to that."

Barry and Salter stood beside the Land Rover in the barn. Salter said, "I didn't try to dress them up. You must admit that. I was told hard men were required, men who would do anything, and they certainly fit the bill."

"What's Preston's background?"

"Middle-class respectable. His father was an accountant in Bradford, and Preston went to grammar school there, so he's decentl
y e
ducated. I understand he was training to be an accountant himself and went to prison for some fraud or other. Since then, he's never looked back. Was released from prison six months ago after serving three years of a five-year sentence for armed robbery of a supermarket. Varley, of course, is just an animal."

"A drunken animal," Barry corrected. "Still, never mind. At least I know what I'm dealing with. I'll see you later."

He drove the Land Rover out of the barn and across the yard. Salter turned to the hearse, which had a coffin inside now. He took out a handkerchief and very carefully inspected the whole vehicle, occasionally pausing to give the chrome a quick polish.

The Air France jet touched down exactly on time at Marignane Airport, fifteen miles outside Marseilles. As it was only a quarter full, the passengers passed through customs and, where necessary, immigration, with no delay. Within forty-five minutes of landing, Devlin and Anne-Marie were driving toward the coast road in a rented Peugeot.

Devlin said, "We'll find a hotel in St. Denis for tonight. That's where the prison supply boat leaves from." She nodded, not saying anything, concentrating on her driving and Devlin added, "You realize you can't come with me tomorrow? I mean, I'll have to see how the land lies."

"I know that, Liam." She glanced sideways and smiled. "Just as I know that he may still not wish to see me. I learned a long time ago to expect nothing from Martin."

"You really mean that?"

"Once, in Vietnam, when it looked as if we both would very probably die, we spoke of a rendezvous in Paris. A sidewalk cafe in the rain, the smell of damp chestnut trees."

"Absolutely essential," Devlin said.

She smiled without looking at him. "Dear Liam, why could it not have been you I loved? I was to wear a Paris gown, very chic." "Just like the plugs on television. Dreams for the masses."

"Only ours came true, Liam. He took a rest from Ulster, met me in Paris. We found our sidewalk cafe, the chestnut trees behaved perfectly. Two weeks and then he went back." She shrugged. "You see, he had a mistress waiting for him, darker than me and infinitely more demanding."

They drove on in silence, for there was really nothing left to say.

The bar at the village pub at Brisingham was a large, comfortable room with a low-beamed ceiling, several high-backed benches, and a couple of wooden tables. There was a fire on the open hearth.

Barry was the only customer, and he stood at the end of the bar devouring the last of the beef sandwiches the landlady, a large matronly blonde, had provided for him.

"Great," Barry said, "couldn't be better." He reached for his beer. "Where's all the customers then?"

"Don't get many tourists through in the winter. Mainly evening trade. Locals."

"But I thought there was an RAF airfield here. This is Brisingham, isn't it?"

"Closed down years ago. They have a dozen men up there at the most. Oh, planes still land, but not very often." She sighed. "I remember a time twelve years or so ago when you couldn't get near the bar on a night what with the boys in RAF blue."

"That's life," Barry said. "Everything changes. Thanks for the sandwiches."

Ten minutes later, he slowed the Land Rover as he came to the perimeter fence of the airfield. He coasted along past the main gate, which was padlocked, and then picked up speed and drove on. Five miles further on, a signpost indicated Wastwater to the right, a narrow country road climbing up into the mountains.

He found what he was looking for without too much trouble. A small wood, a plateau of grass beside the road. When he stopped the engine, there wasn't a sound except for a curlew calling. He could have been the only man left alive on the face of the earth.

He got out of the Land Rover and stood there looking aroun
d h
im, smiling. "Frank, me old son," he said softly. "I think this will do very nicely indeed."

The granite from Belle Isle was famous throughout France, was still so much in demand that the authorities had constructed a new deep-water jetty so that larger container ships could be used. The quarry itself was hewn out of the northern cliffs, and they were blasting as Lebel approached, the red flag fluttering in the wind.

The explosion, when it came, echoed from the cliffs like thunder as a great shoulder of rock cracked in a thousand pieces and cascaded down. A whistle blew, and convicts and their armed guards emerged from the shelter and went back to work.

Brosnan and Savary toiled together, Savary loading into a skip standing on the crude rail track beside them, Brosnan splitting larger pieces with a sledgehammer and wedge. He was stripped to the waist, his hair held back by a sweatband. The muscles in his back rippled as the hammer came down, and his prison number was clear to see, tattooed on his right forearm.

As Lebel approached, Savary paused, leaning on the skip, wiping his face with a rag. "Hey, Pierre, I'm getting old. What about a job in the kitchen or even the library. I'm not fussy."

"Nonsense," Lebel said. "Look what magnificent shape you're in for a man of your age, all thanks to regular exercise and hard work." He turned to Brosnan and took a paper and pen from his pocket. "You've got a visitor due on the morning boat, my friend. Are you willing to receive him?"

Brosnan paused, leaning on the sledgehammer. "Who is it?'

Lebel looked at the paper. "Monsieur Charles Gorman. Solicitor, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London." He looked puzzled. "Solicitor?"

"What the English call their lawyers, Pierre," Savary advised him.

"Reason for visit, legal business." Lebel repeated the question. "Will you receive him?'

"Why not?' Brosnan said.

Lebel held out the paper and pen. "Then sign in the appropriate section." Brosnan complied and handed them back. "Okay," Lebel said. "Back to work," and he folded the document and stuck it in his pocket. "I may have a treat for you tonight. Another body. They're expecting some old guy up in the infirmary to die any minute."

"So kind of you to think of us." Savary picked up another rock as Lebel walked away. "Interesting, Martin. You didn't tell me your lawyer was coming to see you."

"What's even more interesting is that he isn't my lawyer," Brosnan said. "I've never heard of Charles Gorman in my life."

He brought the hammer down with all his strength and split the rock that was his target in half.

It was dark when Barry turned the Land Rover into the farmyard and braked to a halt. As he switched off the engine, a woman screamed. Barry jumped to the ground. The front door was flung open, light flooding into the yard. Jenny Crowther almost made it, and then Varley had her.

Her dress was torn, one shoulder bare, and Varley laughed drunkenly and tried to kiss her. She tried to pull away, disgust and loathing on her face as her hands clawed at him. Barry moved in fast and punched Varley in the kidneys, then grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back.

Varley cried out in pain and went down on one knee. He stayed there for a moment, shaking his head, then looked up at Barry. He got up slowly, shook his head again as if to clear it, then charged, hands reaching out to destroy.

Barry moved to one side, grabbing for the right wrist, twisting it around and up in an armlock, and, using Varley's own momentum, ran him into the wall. Varley, on his knees for the second time that night, tried to stand, and Barry kicked him in the stomach.

Varley lay on his back, groaning, and Hedley Preston standing in the doorway laughed drunkenly. "I told you he could take yo
u a
part any time he wanted, Sam. You should have listened. I'm always right, never wrong." He raised his glass. "To you, Mr. Sinclair, and all who sail with you."

Barry said, "You could have stopped this, you bastard. I told you to keep him in line." His right hand swung up, the Ceska coughed once, and Preston dropped his glass and cried out, clutching his neck.

He leaned against the doorpost, blood oozing between his fingers. Barry tapped him gently between the eyes with the muzzle.

"Don't worry, Preston. Just a scratch, that's how good I am with one of these things. Next time, old son, you're dead."

He turned, took the girl by the arm, and pushed her toward the Land Rover. "I'll take you down to Salter's place. In fact, I'll stay there again tonight myself." She was trembling and clutched his arm, and once again, he was aware of that strange surging excitement. "It's all right," he said as they drove out of the farmyard, and he reached across and took her hand. "It's all right."