'Staying under cover in a dump on the north side,' Philip told her. 'Visited by nice Mr Radek.'
'Radek?'
'The chief of the Slovak mob, remember? I gave you a photo of him. A very nice chap, to watch while he drowns. Noel is driving back to Paris in a hired Citroen, some distance behind the second coach. With Radek for company. The villain had a Slovak mother, a French father. And a Czech uncle who taught him languages, so Radek is fluent in quite a few tongues. We'll soon be at the bridge.'
Tweed observed Harry place a large leather container in his lap. From inside he carefully extracted a large landmine and a trowel. Paula, peering out of her window, didn't see this. It was still dark and Philip's headlights were on full beam as the carrier moved round a series of curves. As the road climbed steeply, Philip slowed, then dropped down the other side. He switched off the headlights, joined Harry and they both left the carrier, walked the short distance back to the bridge.
Not wishing to miss anything, Paula left her seat, moved forward and sat in the driving seat. Through the windscreen she had a good view of what was happening, her eyes now accustomed to the dark which was showing traces of dawn.
Philip reappeared, handed a pair of night-glasses up to Tweed. 'If you'd watch out for their first coach. Warn me when you see its lights.'
Harry was digging a large wide hole in the soft earth at the top of the bridge. He worked quickly, then with care slipped in the landmine. Equally quickly, he scooped loose soil over it to conceal it. As he stood up Tweed called out from the exit.
'Lights in the distance. Looks like a coach. About a mile back, roughly. Difficult to be sure in this light.'
Philip with Harry rushed aboard, closing the door behind them. Harry went back to his seat, as did Paula. Philip told Tweed he could keep the night-glasses.
'Then you can see the fun,' he said.
Jumping behind the wheel he started the engine, turned on the headlights to low beam, drove on a short distance. He swung right off the road up the same small cul-de-sac where he had parked on their way in to distribute weapons.
At the top he moved round the small concrete circle so he was facing the exit. He suggested to everyone that they got out with him. Paula was surprised when he pointed how clearly they could see the bridge now silver bands of dawn were shafting across the eastern sky. Philip borrowed the night-glasses from Tweed, stared east, handed them back.
'Coach is coming too fast. Slovak at the wheel, they're mad drivers…'
It was chilly. Paula, now wearing her denims and windcheater, buttoned it up to the neck. The coach was racing along, its headlights on full beam. She half-expected it to drive into the wall and off the bridge. At the last moment the man behind the wheel slowed, crawled up on to the top of the bridge.
The explosion was devastating. A blinding flash coinciding with a deafening roar. The vehicle soared into the sky, broke in half. Body parts were hurled in all directions. She thought she saw a leg as she gazed through the night-glasses Tweed had loaned her. Then a headless trunk caught in the blazing inferno illuminating the wreckage of the bridge. The dawn light was red with fire. One half of the vehicle dropped into the river. Paula heard a brief hiss as water absorbed the red-hot metal. Then a sudden silence.
'That worked rather well,' Philip commented.
'I think a long way off I can see headlights. The second coach?' suggested Paula, her mouth dry.
'Probably,' Philip agreed. 'They have night-glasses so they'll see what's happened. They'll have to make a long diversion to reach the autoroute. That means we arrive in Paris before them. Ready to sort out that lot.'
Sort out? Paula, her mind still full of the massacre on the bridge, wondered how Philip would manage this. He always seemed so calm, so matter-of-fact in the face of the most murderous danger.
Well along the autoroute, Philip pulled in to a remote lay-by. He stood up, turned to address them.
'I want you to hand in all your weapons now. We could be stopped by a patrol car.'
He even collected the three remaining slim landmines from Harry. Everything was secreted inside a special compartment in the side of the carrier. Harry was indignant.
'I thought I'd be using those to polish off the thugs inside the second coach.'
'No, you won't,' Philip said firmly. 'Change of plan. I've been thinking. I can do that job by myself. There'll be a large barge-like vessel with a sail drifting off the lie St-Louis on the Seine in the middle of Paris. They plan to use small boats with engines to ferry the Slovaks aboard the Yvette, the barge. Then their idea is to sail it up the river to the port at its mouth. There they'll transfer their inhuman cargo to a larger shipping vessel, take them to an isolated part of the British coast. I'll see they never leave Paris alive.'
He sat behind the wheel, waited until the autoroute was quiet, drove back on to it and headed at speed for Paris.
They had entered the Paris suburbs when Tweed made a suggestion. 'Philip, I could phone Loriot, Chief of the DST. He's an old friend. Tell him what is happening, where to go.'
'No!' Philip spoke over his shoulder. 'By now he'll have heard about the explosion at that bridge near Aix. And all the mangled bodies in the fields and floating down that river. He'll check all the hotels for names.'
'We had false passports,' Tweed objected. 'I told you that earlier.'
'Makes no difference.' Philip was authoritative. 'He'll be concentrating on short-stay visitors. He'll ask for their descriptions. Some of those concierges are observant. Now you'll have an hour to amuse yourselves – I'll drop you near the Place Vendome and the Ritz. Then take a cab to the Gare du Nord. You'll arrive in time to catch the Eurostar. I don't think Noel will use it. He'll fly back – as he came in…'
Near the Place Vendome Philip practically pushed out Tweed, who wanted to thank him for all he'd done. Standing on the pavement Tweed called up to Philip behind the wheel, who still had the engine running.
'Take good care of yourself. Call me – more frequently.'
'When I've something to report. Look after yourself, Paula.'
The automatic door closed and they were left standing as the carrier drove east. Towards the lie St-Louis.
They walked along the Rue St-Honore, the main street with its fabulously expensive shops. It was early afternoon and the sky was full of menacing clouds drifting very low.
Tweed and Paula walked ahead with Newman and Harry bringing up the rear. They were still performing their role as guards. Tweed took them into a cafe where they consumed coffee and delicious cakes. Paula was ravenous.
'I'll leave you for a couple of minutes,' Newman said, standing up. 'We passed a shop selling the most glamorous scarves. I'll get one for Roma.'
'Getting serious, are we?' Paula teased him.
'She's nice and very intelligent. Be back in minutes.'
They were leaving the cafe to wait for Newman. Paula went out first, paused to glance in both directions. She backed into the cafe, bumping into Tweed, pushing him back. Grabbing his arm she returned them to their table, which was at the side of the cafe with a view of the door.
'What was that about?' Tweed demanded.
'Radek. He's coming this way down the street.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes, I bloody well am. I studied his photo. See him in a minute. Let's pray he doesn't come in here. We've given up our weapons…'
Harry sprang up from the table, concealing a leather-covered sap. He walked swiftly across to a table on the far side, ordered coffee, insisted on paying for it. They were the only occupants of the cafe. The waitress placed coffee in front of Harry, smiled at the tip, went out of sight through a door at the back.
Radek, wearing a dark coat, a black hat, wandered in. As he walked straight to their table the sneer on his Slavic features was prominent beneath his curved moustache. One hand reached inside his coat and he took off his hat with the other. He bowed briefly to Paula.