A slight change of plan, old son. Frank Barry grinned. I lead, you follow.
Youve called it off? Corder demanded in astonishment.
Barry looked mildly surprised. Jesus, no, why should I do a thing like that?
He got back on the BMW and drove away. Corder followed him, totally lost now, not knowing what to do for the best. For a moment Corder fingered the butt of the Walther PPK he carried, not that there was much joy there. Hed never shot anyone in his life. It was unlikely that he could start now.
About a mile outside St Etienne, Barry turned into a narrow country lane and Corder followed, climbing up between high hedgerows past a small farm. There was a grove of trees on the brow of a green hill and Barry waved him down and turned into them. He pushed the BMW up on its stand and Corder joined him.
Look, whats going on, Frank?
Did I ever tell you about my grandmother on my mothers side, Jack? Whenever she got a terrible headache thered be a thunder-storm within the hour. Now with me, its different. I only get a headache when I smell stinking fish and Ive got a real blinder at the moment.
Corder went cold. I dont understand.
Nice view from up here. Barry walked through the trees and indicated St Etienne spread neatly below like a childs model. The garage and forecourt were on one side of the road, the cafe and carpark on the other.
He took some binoculars from the pocket of his raincoat and passed them across. Have a look. I have a feeling it may be a bit more interesting to sit this one out.
Corder focused the binoculars on the fore-court of the garage. Two of the men, wearing yellow overalls, worked on the engine of a car. The third waiting in the glass office beside the petrol pumps talking to the girl who stood at the door with the pram, wearing a scarlet headscarf, woollen jumper and neat skirt.
Any sign of the car? Barry demanded.
Corder swung the binoculars to examine the road. No, but theres a truck coming.
Is there, now? Thats interesting.
The truck was of the trailer type, an eight-wheeler with high green canvas sides. As it entered the village, it slowed and turned into the carpark. The driver, a tall man in khaki overalls jumped down from the cab and strolled to the cafe door.
Barry took the binoculars from Corder and focused them on the truck. Bouvier Brothers, Long Distant Transport, Paris and Marseilles.
Hell move on when he finds the cafes closed, Corder said.
Pigs might fly, old son, Frank Barry told him, But I doubt it.
There was a sudden firestorm from inside the truck at that moment, machine gun fire raking the entire forecourt area, shattering the glass of the office, driving the girl back over the pram, cutting down the two gunmen working on the car, riddling its fuel tank, petrol spilling on to the concrete. It was the work of an instant, no more, there was a flicker of flame as petrol ignited and then the tank exploded in a ball of fire, pieces of wreckage flying high in the air. The holocaust was complete and at least twenty CRS riot police in uniform leapt from the rear of the truck and ran across the road.
Efficient, Barry said calmly. Youve got to give the buggers that.
Corder licked dry lips nervously and his left hand went into the pocket of his leather jacket, groping for the butt of the Walther.
What could have gone wrong?
One of those bastards from Marseilles must have had a big mouth, Barry said. And if word got back to the Union Corse He shrugged, Thievings one thing, politics is another. Theyd inform without a seconds hesitation. He clapped Corder on the shoulder. But wed better get out of this. Just follow my tail, like you did before. Nobody is likely to stop us when they see me escorting you.
He pushed the BMW off its stand and rode away. Corder followed. The whole thing was like a bad dream and he could still see, vivid as any image on the cinema screen, the body of the girl, bouncing back across the pram in a hail of machine gun fire. And Barry had expected it. Expected it, and yet he had still let those poor sods go through with it.
He followed the BMW closely, through narrow country lanes, twisting and turning. They met no one and then, a good ten miles on the other side of St Etienne, came to a small garage and cafe at the side of the road. Barry turned in beside the cafe and braked to a halt. As Corder joined him, he was taking a canvas grip from one of the side panniers.
I know this place, he said. Theres a wash room at the back. Im going to change. Well leave the BMW here and carry on in the Peugeot.
He went round to the rear before Corder could reply and the young woman in the glass office beside the petrol pumps emerged and approached him. She was perhaps twenty-five with a flat, pleasant face, and wore a mans tweed jacket that was too large for her.
Petrol, monsieur?
Is there a telephone? Corder asked.
In the cafe, monsieur, but its not open for business. Im the only one here today.
I must use it. Its very urgent. He pushed a hundred franc note at her. Just give me some tokens. You keep the rest.
She shrugged, went into her office and opened the till. She came back with the tokens. Ill show you, she said.
The cafe wasnt much: a few tables and chairs, a counter with bottles of beer and mineral water and rows of glasses ranged behind, a door which obviously led to the kitchen. The telephone was on the wall, a directory hanging beside it.
The girl said, Look, seeing Im here Ill make some coffee. Okay?
Fine, Corder told her.
She disappeared into the kitchen and he quickly checked in the directory to find the district number to link him with the international line. His fingers were shaking as he dialled the area code for London followed by the DI5 number.
He didnt even have time to pray. The receiver was lifted at the other end and a womans voice this time, the day operator, said, Say who you are.
Lysander, Corder said urgently. Clear line please. I must speak to Brigadier Ferguson at once. Total Priority.
Fergusons voice cut in instantly, almost as if hed been listening in. Jack, what is it?
Total cock-up, sir. Barry smelt a rat, so he and I stayed out of things. The rest of the team were knocked out by CRS police.
Youve got clean away, presumably.
Yes.
And does he suspect you?
No he thinks its down to one of those Marseilles hoods speaking out of turn.
In the kitchen Frank Barry, listening on the extension, smiled, anonymous in the dark goggles. The girl lay on the floor at his feet, blood oozing from an ugly cut in her temple where he had clubbed her with his pistol. He left the receiver hanging on its cord, took a Carswell Silencer from his pocket, and screwed it on to the barrel of his pistol as he walked into the cafe.
Corder was still talking in a low urgent voice. No, I dont know how much more I can take, thats the trouble.
Barry said softly, Jack!
Corder swung round and Barry shot him twice through the heart, slamming him back. He bounced off the wall and fell to the floor on his face.
The receiver dangled on the end of its cord. Barry picked it up and said, That you, Ferguson, old son? Frank Barry here. If you want Corder back, youd better send a box for him to Cafe Rosco, St Julien.
The receiver dangled on the end of its cord. Barry picked it up and said, That you, Ferguson, old son? Frank Barry here. If you want Corder back, youd better send a box for him to Cafe Rosco, St Julien.
You bastard, Charles Ferguson said.
Its been said before.
Barry replaced the receiver and went out, whistling softly as he unscrewed the silencer. He slipped the pistol back into its holster, pushed the BMW off its stand and rode away.
2
It was raining on the following morning when Fergusons car dropped him outside Number Ten Downing Street, ten minutes early for his eleven oclock appointment with the Prime Minister. His driver moved away instantly and Ferguson crossed the pavement to the entrance. In spite of the rain, there was the usual small crowd of sightseers on the other side of the road, mainly tourists, kept in place by a couple of police constables. Another stood in his usual place by the door, not much protection for the best-known address in England, the seat of political power as well as the Prime Ministers private residence, but that didnt mean a thing, as Ferguson well knew. There were others, more inconspicuously attired, situated at certain strategic points in the area, ready to swarm in at the first hint of trouble.
The policeman saluted and the door was opened, even before Ferguson reached it. He passed inside.
The young man who greeted him said, Brigadier Ferguson? This way, sir.
There was the hum of activity from the Press Room on the right as he crossed the entrance hall and entered the corridor leading to the rear of the house and the Cabinet Room.
The main staircase to the first floor was lined with portraits of previous Prime Ministers: Peel, Wellington, Disraeli, Gladstone. Ferguson always felt an acute sense of history as he mounted those stairs, although this was the first time he had done so to meet the present Prime Minister. The first time he had had to explain himself to a woman, and a damn clever woman, if it came to that. Definitely a new experience. But did anything change? How many attempts to assassinate Queen Victoria? And Disraeli and Gladstone had both had their hands full of Fenians, dynamiters and anarchists with their bombs, at one time or another.
On the top corridor the young man knocked on a door, opened it and ushered Ferguson inside. Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister, he said and left, closing the door behind him.
The study was more elegant now than Ferguson remembered it, with pale green walls, gold curtains and comfortable furniture in perfect taste. But nothing was more elegant in the entire room than the woman behind the desk. The blue suit with the froth of white lace at the throat perfectly offset the blonde hair. An elegant, handsome woman of the world, and yet the eyes, when she glanced up at Ferguson from the paper she was reading, were hard and intelligent.
Ive had a personal assurance from the French President this morning that this whole wretched business will be hushed up. It never happened. You understand me?
Perfectly, maam.
She looked at the paper before her. This agent of yours, Corder. If it hadnt been for him She gestured to a chair. Sit down, Brigadier. Tell me about him.
We recruited Jack Corder some twelve years ago when he was still an undergraduate at Balliol. The route he chose was to immerse himself totally in left wing politics. We often hear of moles within our intelligence service working for the Russians, maam. Jack was the other side of the coin. He endured prison sentences twice for his apparent militancy. Afterwards, I transferred him to the European terrorist scene. Frank Barry was his most important assignment.
She nodded. Ive already spoken to the Director General of DI5. He tells me that as long ago as nineteen seventy-two, one of my predecessors authorised the setting up within DI5 of a section known as Group Four which has powers, held directly from the Prime Minister, to co-ordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism, subversion and the like.
That is correct, Prime Minister.
With you in charge, Brigadier?
Yes, maam.
There was a longish pause while she stared down at the paper thoughtfully. Ferguson cleared his throat. Naturally, if you would prefer to initiate some change, I will offer my resignation without hesitation.
If I want it, Ill ask for it. Brigadier, she said sharply. But you cant expect me to have much faith in the activities of your section when one of the chief ministers of the Crown comes within an inch of assassination. Now tell me about this man, Barry? Why is he so important, and more to the point, how does he remain so elusive?
A brilliant madman, maam. A genius in his own way. As important to the international terrorist scene as Carlos, but not so familiar to the public.
And why is that?
A question of his personal psychology. Many terrorists, take some of those involved with the Baader-Meinhoff gang, for example, have a craving for public display. They want people to know not only who they are, but that they can make fools of the police and intelligence departments they confront, any time they wish. Barry doesnt seem to have a need for that kind of publicity, and as it suits our purposes best to give him none, he has remained an unknown quantity as far as the public is concerned.
What about his personal background?
Im afraid it couldnt be worse from the point of view of media sensationalism. He is an Ulsterman by birth. Held a commission as a National Service second-lieutenant with the Ulster Rifles. Served in Korea. Excellent record in the field, I might add. Hes a Protestant. His uncle is an Irish Peer, Lord Stramore. Much involved in Orange politics for most of his life, but now in ailing health. Barry is his heir.
Good God, the Prime Minister said.
During the early years of the Irish Troubles, Barry professed to be a Republican. As usual, he did his own thing. Organised a group called the Sons of Erin, which gave us tremendous problems in the Province. Repudiated totally by the Provisional IRA. In nineteen seventy-two, when Group Four was first set up, I managed to penetrate Barrys organisation with an agent of mine, a Major Vaughan. The upshot of that little affair was that Barry was badly wounded. That he lived at all was only due to the skill of the surgeons of the Military Wing of the Musgrave Park Hospital in Belfast.
What happened then?
He escaped, maam. Not even capable of walking, according to his doctors, but walk he did, right out of the hospital, dressed as a porter. Turned up in Dublin within twenty-four hours. We couldnt touch him there, of course. He was in and out of hospital there and in Switzerland for more than a year.
And afterwards?
Since then, maam, he has in some cases to our certain knowledge, and in others to the best of our belief, been responsible for at least fifteen assassinations and a number of bombing incidents. His touch is distinctive and unmistakable, and political commitment seems to be the least of his considerations. A résumé of his activities during the past few years will explain what I mean. In nineteen seventy-three he assassinated the General in command of Spanish Military Intelligence in the Basque country. Responsibility was claimed by the Basque Nationalist Movement, ETA.
Go on.