Touch the Devil (19 page)

"Holy Mother of God," Devlin said. "The worst thing you could do! You'd blow yourself to hell. Now listen to me."

He went over everything thoroughly. When he was finished, Brosnan nodded. "You've certainly got it all wrapped up, but then you always were the organizing type. I like the touch with the two corpses. That should amuse Jacques. Obviously his son takes after, his father."

"What time will you be leaving?"

"We're locked up for the night by eight-thirty. It's dark by then, at the moment anyway, so we might as well make our move straight away. There isn't another check until midnight."

"So they'll discover you've gone then?"

"Not the way Lebel checks the cells. With luck, the first they'll know is at seven o'clock in the morning."

Devlin nodded. "How long in the sewers?"

"There's some climbing to do first. I'd give it an hour. With luck, we'll be at the funeral rock by nine-thirty. The current should have us outside the four-mile limit by ten-fifteen."

Devlin sat there frowning. "This is a desperate ploy, you know that?"

Brosnan said, "Of course I do."

Devlin got up and rolled a small plastic ball across the table. "When you peel the skin off, it's luminous inside. A signaling device we used in the war. My own life was saved by one once. I know there are lights on the lifejackets, but. . . ."

He shrugged and went to the window and peered through the bars. The Mill Race was clear to see, flecked with whitecaps in spite of the calm weather.

Brosnan clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Liam
,
Jacques Savary and I know what we're doing. We all come to a bo
x i
n the end, anyway. The important thing is to go kicking like hell."

The hydrofoil from Jersey to St. Malo took around an hour to complete the journey. Frank Barry spent the time working his way through all the English national newspapers that he'd purchased before leaving St. Helier.

There wasn't a mention, not even a hint, of the Wastwater affair in any of them, which was interesting. On the other hand, it made a great deal of sense. Not exactly the sort of thing that even the West Germans would want to advertise.

He passed through customs using the French passport, experiencing no difficulty at all, and immediately went to a telephone to call Belov at his Paris apartment.

The phone was answered by the Russian's personal secretary from the embassy, Irana Vronsky. She told him that she'd just been speaking to Belov in East Berlin and that he wouldn't be back until the flight arrived at midnight.

Barry said, "If he speaks to you again, tell him that I'll be back in touch in the morning."

He picked up his suitcase and left the booth. The train for Paris departed in twenty minutes. On the other hand, there was no reason to hurry. He had most of the day still before him, and a fine soft day it was and to be enjoyed. He walked across the parking lot to the rental car company on the other side, and fifteen minutes later drove out into the main road in a Peugeot coupe with the top down.

It was dark, and the trawler was slipping out through the harbor entrance at St. Denis when Devlin followed Jean-Paul Savary down the ladder into the fish hold. The door to the cold storage locker was open, and Dr. Cresson and Big Claude from the club stood inside at the slab on which fish were usually gutted, cutting away the plastic bags that contained the two corpses.

From what Devlin could see in the shadowy light, the faces were disfigured beyond recognition.

"Jesus," he said.

"The force of the Mill Race pounding in on the granite rocks along the shore outside St. Denis," Jean-Paul said. "It is not unreasonable to expect such a result."

Devlin touched the leg of one of the corpses. It was like marble. "If there ever was an autopsy, it would indicate entirely the wrong time of death, wouldn't it?"

"Keeping the bodies frozen as we have done takes care of that to a certain degree," Cresson said. "It considerably arrests the process of decay. But frankly, my friend, if this is to succeed at all, it will be because the authorities accept these two gentlemen at face value."

"Or without it," Devlin said.

He followed Jean-Paul back up on deck, and they went into the wheelhouse. The captain was older than Devlin had expected, with a weatherbeaten face beneath the peaked cap. He wore a black oilskin. The cheroot he was smoking smelled foul, and Devlin stayed in the doorway.

"Now then, Marcel," Jean-Paul said. "What's the score
?"

"Not good, boss," the old man said. "A bad blow forecast, winds seven to eight. Not enough to blow anyone's roof off, but for men out there in the waters of the Race. . . ." He shrugged.

Jean-Paul turned to Devlin, his face pale in the dim light. "Don't worry, this old sea rat is the finest skipper on the coast. If anyone can bring this off it's him--with the help of this gadget, of course." He tapped the gleaming blue box on the chart table. "The very latest thing. I had it installed yesterday. Microchip and digital read-out, so it really thinks for itself. Once locked onto the wavelength of that homing device, it will give us a course straight to it, whatever the weather."

"Fine," Devlin said, "but if you've got any candles handy, I'd like to light a couple, just in case."

Jean-Paul returned to the charts, and Devlin went out on to th
e b
ridge where Anne-Marie stood at the rail, muffled in her sheepskin jacket. Whitecaps stretched into the darkness, and spray scattered across the deck as the trawler dipped its prow into the waves.

"It's not good, is it?" she said.

"Not from the sound of it." He grabbed the rail tightly. "You might as well know it all. The captain thinks it will get worse before it gets better."

"Enough to put them off?" she said. "Martin and Savary, I mean?"

"I can only speak for Martin, but in my opinion nothing could stop him entering the water if he makes it outside those walls, no matter how bad the storm. He's prepared to die if necessary, you see. That's the important thing."

"My God," she whispered and then suddenly clutched his arm as the wind carried a strange roaring sound from the far distance. "Did you hear that, Liam? What is it?"

"Why, from the sound of it, I'd say that must be the Mill Race." She didn't say a word. He slipped an arm about her shoulders, and together they stood there at the rail listening.

Pierre Lebel pulled back the flap on the spyhole of the cell on the upper tier. Brosnan and Savary sat opposite each other with a wooden box between them. Savary had a pack of tarot cards in one hand and was laying out the wheel of fortune.

"This gives an answer to a specific question," he said, "and the outcome of events in the immediate future."

"Really?" Brosnan said. "You amaze me. Do I cross your palm with silver?"

"I've told you before, I've got gypsy blood."

Lebel called. "You should be in bed you two. Lights out."

The cell was plunged into darkness. Savary called, "God bles
s y
ou, too, Pierre, and thanks for everything. You've been swell." "Idiot!" Brosnan whispered.

Lebel checked the next cell; they listened as his footsteps worke
d t
heir way along the landing. The barred gate at the end clanged, he descended the iron stairs, and the footsteps faded.

"Switch on the flashlight," Savary said. "I just want to see what I've laid out." Brosnan produced the small pocket flashlight Devlin had given him. It had a surprisingly powerful beam. Savary turned over the first card. It showed death, a skeleton on horseback riding across a field of corpses. Savary gathered up the cards and put them on the shelf. "Now that I can very definitely do without. I'm not looking anymore. Let's get moving."

Brosnan turned over his mattress, slid his hand through the seam at one side, and pulled out a coil of nylon rope and a sling with snap links at the end, items he had frequently used at the quarry when placing dynamite charges in the cliff face. He also produced a narrow-handled screwdriver and a pair of twelve-inch heavy-gauge wire cutters, which Savary had obtained from a convict who worked in the machine shop. They each arranged their beds with extra clothes, a few books, a pillow to give the appearance of a human form.

"Do you think it will pass?" Savary asked.

"With Lebel? Most nights, he doesn't even look in, and I reckon that will be good enough if he does. Now let's get moving. We've got a tight schedule."

They pulled on their heavy reefer coats, prison issue for those working outside in bad weather, and leather and canvas gloves. Brosnan picked up the rope, and Savary knelt at the door with a spoon. There was a slight click, and he stood up. "That's it, Martin, let's go."

They moved outside, and he closed the door carefully behind them. They stood in the shadows of the wall for a moment, then moved quietly to the end of the landing.

The central hall was illuminated by a single light, and music drifted up from the radio in the duty officer's room. The roof and the dome were shrouded in darkness. Brosnan climbed on to the rail and scrambled up the steel mesh curtain to the roof of the cel
l b
lock. He hooked the snap links of his sling into the wire to hold himself secure and took out the wire cutters.

It took him no more than five minutes to make a hole about three feet across, through which he pulled himself. Once on the other side, he stepped onto one of the steel support girders. He looked down at Savary, his face pale in the darkness, and beckoned. The Frenchman followed him.

They balanced together on one girder and held onto another. Brosnan hooked a line to the sling around Savary's waist and touched him briefly on the shoulder. There was no need to say anything, for they had discussed in detail the route and what to expect.

The difficult part came now, for the grill he needed to reach was thirty feet up in the darkness and the girder curved out, following the line of the wall. Brosnan slipped his sling around it, fastened the links at his waist, and started to climb, bracing himself against the girder, using a well-proven climbing technique.

It was now that his strength and excellent physical condition stood him in good stead. He heaved himself up inch by inch, until he reached his objective, a large ventilation grill.

It was held in place by four screws, and he took out his screwdriver, braced himself against the girder, and set to work. The screws were brass and came out easily enough, but he left the one on the bottom left-hand corner partly in position so the grill swung down, no longer obscuring the entrance, but still held securely.

So far so good. He looked down at Savary, waved and tugged on the line, and the Frenchman secured himself to the girder with his sling and started to climb.

Brosnan kept the tension on the line, giving Savary all the help that he could. It went well enough for a while, and then a door clanged far below. Savary, shocked by the unexpected noise lost his hold and slipped.

Brosnan clenched his teeth and leaned back against the girder, a foot on the wall, and held on, the line cutting into his back an
d s
houlder. Savary hung there, while below, a prison officer crossed the hall and went into the office. There was a rumble of voices, laughter.

Savary swung back against the girder and started to climb again and finally reached Brosnan.

They poised there for a few moments, and Brosnan whispered, "Okay, Jacques, you first."

Savary unhooked himself from the beam, leaned forward and went head first into the shaft. Brosnan coiled the line neatly about his waist and went after him.

Clouds of dry dust filled his nostrils, and he took out the flashlight and switched it on, the spot traveling ahead of Savary, picking out the dirt-encrusted metal sides of the shaft. The Frenchman started to pull himself along, no room to crawl, and Brosnan followed. Then there was a distinct current of air, a low, humming sound far below, and the shaft emerged into a sort of central chamber, the dark mouths of other shafts at intervals around it.

The noise came from a hole about three feet in diameter in the center of the chamber, and Brosnan crouched beside Savary and shone his torch down.

"This is it," he said. "I saw the plans for the ventilation system of this place two years ago when I was working with the heating engineer's detail at the hospital. From what I remember, this shaft goes down sixty or seventy feet to the boiler room. How are you doing?"

"Fine," Savary said. "Don't worry about me. I haven't felt so good in years."

Brosnan examined the interior of the shaft with his torch. The circular metal sheets were held in place by steel stays.

"Good footholds," he said. "If you get tired, just wedge yourself against the sides for a few moments. I'll go first, then if you fall you can drop on me."

Savary's teeth gleamed in the darkness. "Good luck, Martin." Brosnan started down, holding the flashlight in one hand. It wa
s e
asy enough, far easier than the earlier climb up the girder in the central hall. The hum of the generators increased as he got closer to the bottom of the shaft. There was light down there, shining up through a grill. He braced himself against the sides of the shaft and tried to peer through. All he could see was the boiler room floor. Usually, there was no one on duty at this time of night and if there was, it was likely to be a trusty anyway. Not that he had much choice.