Touch the Devil (17 page)

He switched off the engines. The Jason glided to a halt. He went down the companionway, ignoring the bodies and worked his way from the prow to the stern, opening the sea cocks. The Jason was already beginning to settle as he went out on deck. He hauled in the tender, dropped into it, and pulled away to the side of the pool.

The Jason was sinking fast now, the water almost at deck level. He lit a cigarette and waited, and then, with a final sudden rush, she dipped beneath the surface and settled on the bottom. Only then did he start the outboard and push his way back through the reeds to the estuary.

Henry Salter was sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. His nerves were bad, and his hand shook a little as he added a tot of brandy. Wind rattled the window, and rain slapped against the pane. He hated the winter. It worried him, filled him with unease, but not as much as Barry did. He could hear him moving about upstairs now and, a moment later, descending the stairs.

When Barry came into the room, he was wearing the dark raincoat he had arrived in and carried one of the brown leather cases. He sat in the chair opposite and put the case on the table.

"Well, that's that. I've cleared up at the farm. You wouldn't know anyone's been there."

"And Preston and Varley?"

"Couldn't wait to get their hands on the cash and away. And speaking of cash," he opened the case, took out Preston's five thousand pounds and pushed it across. "As promised."

Salter was sweating a little, as he reached out to touch. "I've been listening on the radio, Mr. Sinclair. There hasn't been any mention of any untoward incident on the local news."

"And why should that sort of thing concern a respectable man like you, Mr. Salter?"

"Of course," Salter said. "Why indeed? You're leaving in the Jason now?"

"The Jason has already left, old son." Barry smiled. "All taken care of. I'm very organized, you see." He reached in the case and produced Varley's money and tossed it across the table, packet by packet. Salter watched, fascinated. "A bonus, Mr. Salter. You've been more than helpful, you see, and I always say the laborer is worthy of his hire. I expect to be back this way again very soon. Nothing too demanding this time, but it would be nice to think that you were here, ready and waiting to take care of my requirements."

"Of course, Mr. Sinclair. Anything you say," Salter muttered.

"Good, I'll be off then."

Barry picked up his case and moved to the door. Salter said, "One more thing, Mr. Sinclair. What about Jenny?"

Barry turned slowly. "You've no need to worry about Jenny any longer, Mr. Salter. She's my concern from now on."

"I see." Salter nodded knowingly. "I'm hardly surprised. Very fond of you, that girl. A love match, eh?"

Barry managed a smile. "Well, as they say, that's what makes the world go round."

He went out. Salter sat there listening. Only when he heard the rented car drive away did he start to count the money with trembling fingers.

Chapter
Nine.

By the time Barry reached Manchester airport, his hair was again soaked in brilliantine and neatly parted, and he was wearing the thick horn-rimmed spectacles. He made the Jersey plane with only twenty minutes to spare and sank into his seat with a certain amount of relief, for there wasn't another until the following day.

He ordered a large Scotch from the pretty British Airways stewardess in her blue uniform, lit a cigarette, and sat looking out of the window, going over it all in his mind, giving particular attention to Belov.

"Poor Nikolai," he said softly. "You certainly are in for one hell of a shock, old son."

His Scotch came, and he sipped it slowly with conscious pleasure. Things were going well, very well indeed.

One hour later he was walking out of the main entrance to Jerse
y a
irport to hail a taxi to take him down to the harbor, and it was here that he ran into his first snag. According to a notice chalked up on a blackboard, there was no further sailing to St. Malo that day.

Barry went into the shipping office and spoke to the clerk who exhibited the usual competent indifference that such people do. "Technical trouble, I'm afraid, sir. No problem with the morning sailing. They'll have another craft over." .

And Barry, bowing to the inevitable, walked back along the quay into town and booked himself a room for the night at the Royal Yacht Hotel.

Sitting on the balcony of the hotel room at St. Denis, Anne-Marie searched the horizon for Belle Isle. It was a calm day, with excellent visibility. She found it at last, a shadow, no more than that, even when she focused the binoculars.

Devlin came out of his room in a bathrobe, toweling his hair dry from the shower. "If you're interested, the trawler docked an hour ago at the fish pier."

"Is Jean-Paul on board?"

"No, he comes tomorrow afternoon with Cresson. He'll phone me here after I've visited the island again, just to make sure everything's all right."

"You'll be going with them tomorrow night?"

"Yes."

"Can I come?"

She wasn't pleading, she wasn't that sort. Devlin said, "What a scoop this all would have been for you! What pictures! Another prize!"

"Bastard," she said amiably.

He said seriously, "You've considered the worst implications. The fact that we may miss them altogether. . . ."

"Or that they may be dead when we haul them aboard?" She nodded gravely. "Whichever way it goes, I'd like to be there, Liam." "And why not?"

"Thank you."

"Thanks is it?" he said. "God save us, and what for? Anyway, I must away out of this and take care of a phone call I've been avoiding making for twenty-four hours at least."

"Important?"

"Ferguson," he said.

Ferguson had been called away at a moment's notice by the Director General. When the phone rang at the Cavendish Square flat, Harry Fox was sitting at the desk in the study working on some papers.

"Brigadier Ferguson, please?"

"Not here, I'm afraid. Can I help?"

"Harry, me boy. It's your long lost Uncle Liam."

Fox was immediately alert. "For God's sake, professor, where have you been? Ferguson's been kicking the furniture to pieces. You were supposed to keep in touch."

"Jesus, Harry, do you think you could stop calling me professor?

Makes me sound like some old character actor playing Einstein in
a b
ad television play. Tell Ferguson I've been working like a dog." "So what's happened? You saw Brosnan?"

"I did indeed and didn't get very far until I mentioned Norah. That set him alight with a vengeance."

"So he's willing to play along?"

"In a manner of speaking. Look, Harry, Ferguson isn't going to like this, but the truth is Martin doesn't rate his chances of getting him out very highly, so he's taking care of it himself."

"He's what?" Fox was shocked, and it was clear in his voice. "That's madness. It can't be done."

"He thinks differently. You're getting all this down on your little recorder, I trust."

Fox laughed in spite of himself. "Of course. Is Miss Audin with you?"

"She is indeed. I'll be off now."

"Just a minute." Fox cried. "Where can we get in touch with you?"

Devlin chuckled. "Don't call us, we'll call you," he said and replaced his phone.

It was half an hour later that Ferguson appeared. He looked tire
d a
nd went to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. "What a day."

"Did the Director General want you for anything special, sir?"

"Had us all in, Harry, all department and section heads. Nasty little fracas up in the Lake District earlier today. A West German artillery team were on their way to the Wastwater proving ground by road to demonstrate this new antitank rocket of theirs. Somebody walked all over them on one of those country back roads. Very professional. Gas grenades in the back of the vehicles, ours, apparently. Type the SAS use on those smash-your-way-in jobs."

"Any shooting, sir
?"

"One death--artillery sergeant. Apparently the characters involved were in combat uniform, gas masks, the lot. Took the rocket pod, of course, and away."

"Anything in it for us, sir?"

"I'm not sure. Strictly speaking it's a job for the local police. Special Branch is assisting, naturally, and I've sent Carter up there with them, just in case. In view of the delicacy of the situation, the Director General has managed to get a security clampdown placed in force. Not a word to the media. The West Germans aren't going to like this one little bit."

Fox said, "Devlin telephoned in, sir."

Ferguson's eyes gleamed. "Did he, by God! What's he been up to?"

"I think you'd better hear for yourself, sir." Fox turned on the recorder.

Ferguson sat listening, his face darkening. When the tape was finished, he jumped up and paced angrily across the room. "Damn you, Devlin!"

"Frankly, sir, I don't really see how Devlin's had much to do with it. It's Brosnan's choice, after all."

"Madness," Ferguson said. "If by some miracle he does escape i
t w
ould cause an absolute sensation in France. The man would become a folk hero. The authorities would be bound to turn the country upside down to find him as an act of self-preservation."

He stood at the window fuming. Fox said carefully, "You could stop it, sir, very simply."

"By alerting the governor of Belle Isle? Could you do that, Harry?"

"No, sir, not really."

"Neither can I, and Devlin knows that damn well, otherwise he wouldn't have told us." He shook his head. "I don't know. Is the Audin woman still with him?"

"Apparently so, sir. What would you like me to do?"

"Nothing much you can do, Harry." Ferguson frowned suddenly. "No, there is. I want you to put together a brief account of this affair so far. The salient facts, who's involved, what we've done. Everything except the business about Norah Cassidy."

Fox was surprised. "May I ask why, sir?"

"I'll explain later, Harry. One copy for my personal file and one for the eyes of the Prime Minister only."

"Shall I send it around to Number Ten, sir?"

"Not yet. I'd like to be prepared. That's all. She might send for me at any time. You never can tell. A mind like a Swiss watch, that lady. Security One, needless to say. Tell Meg Johnson she does this one herself. No one else touches it."

Meg Johnson was a formidable, gray-haired lady in her late fifties, widowed since 1951, when her husband had been killed in Korea. She had been Senior Secretary of Administration in Ferguson's department since its inception.

The report on the Brosnan affair that Harry Fox had dictated to her fitted neatly onto a single sheet. It was typed exquisitely, the margin size exact. If it was for the Prime Minister's eyes, then it had to be perfection. Nothing less would do.

She took it in to Fox who read it quickly and nodded his approval. "Excellent, Mrs. Johnson. You've excelled yourself. On
e c
opy, please, for the Prime Minister, which for the moment will be held with the original in Brigadier Ferguson's Red file."

She went back along the corridor to her office, reading the report again, strictly in the interests of accuracy. Its contents did not concern her. She never allowed the details of any report to sink in. That, she had found over the years, was the best way.

Satisfied, she opened the door of her office, which communicated with the copying room. The woman on duty was Mary Baxter, senior secretarial assistant. They were old friends and had worked together for years.

Mrs. Johnson said, "Hello, Mary, what are you doing here?"

"Young Jean was taken ill at lunchtime. I'm just filling in."

Meg Johnson passed her the report. "One copy, please."

As Mary Baxter started to feed the page into the machine, she saw For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. She took in only that much before the phone started to ring in Meg Johnson's office. Meg hurried in to answer it.

It was a routine matter taking only three or four minutes to handle. As she was writing a memo, there was a nervous cough, and she looked up to find Mary Baxter standing there holding the report.

"One copy, you said?"

"Thanks, Mary. Just put them on the desk," Meg Johnson replied, still concentrating on her memo.

The other woman did as she was told and went out. Back in the copying room, she closed the door carefully, then took out the two extra copies of the Brosnan report she had made. She folded them neatly and slipped them into the pocket of her tweed skirt. She checked her watch. Almost time to go home. She switched off the light and went out.

Mary Baxter was of impeccable background. Her father had spent his entire career as an army doctor, and, as her mother had died when she was five, she had spent all her impressionable years at a succession of boarding schools.

A plain, rather ugly girl, she had few friends. She had entered the civil service as a ministry secretary to start with. Her total reliability had led to promotion, then, after a while, a transfer to D15, once her security clearance had gone through.