None of it made sense. But now, as he thought about it, he realised how very little he actually knew about Piggott and Milraud. Not much more than Brown Fox had told him. If this was some renegade Republican conspiracy aimed at British intelligence, surely they’d have kept him in Northern Ireland. That way, he could have been ransomed or simply killed and his body dumped in a country lay-by as a clear indication that the struggle continued.
Why bring him on this long journey? It can’t be Republicans, he thought. Why was a Spaniard involved? He remembered Jimmy Fergus had said something about Piggott bringing in a hit man from the Costa del Sol. Was he in the hands of ETA? Did they take hostages? Why were they operating in Northern Ireland? Did Milraud work for ETA? And if so, what did he want with Dave?
He had no answers. But he kept asking himself the same questions to avoid sinking into despair. He felt ill. His wrists ached from being tied up so long; his back had been banged against something when he’d been deposited like a sack of potatoes into the little outboard-driven boat that brought him to the island. His knees were bruised from falling up the path to this place and his head ached with a dull, throbbing pain that made him feel dizzy.
There was the sound of a key in the lock; the bolts were drawn back and the door swung open. The Spaniard stood in the doorway holding his 9 mm. ‘Up,’ he ordered. What now? Dave wondered as he walked slowly up the cellar stairs, his jailer behind him.
At the top a stone-flagged kitchen led into a yard. At a signal from the Spaniard, Dave pushed open a screen door and walked outside, squinting in the bright sunlight. The Spaniard followed. He waved his pistol at the dusty yard. ‘Walk,’ he said, and Dave began to walk stiffly round the yard, his feet crunching on the dead pine needles that lay thickly on the ground.
As he walked he looked furtively around him, trying to get a better sense of where he was. His cellar was part of a farmhouse, a long stone building, badly run down, with a crumbling roof of red pantiles and a wooden porch with missing rails and steps that looked rotten. Around the yard were outbuildings, one an open barn with an ancient 2CV inside. Its rusty number plate was French. So I’m in France, thought Dave, triumphant at making a discovery. As he turned for yet another circuit of the yard, he looked again at the house and saw, through a window, Milraud, gesticulating and talking to someone else whom Dave could not see. Then he disappeared from view and a second figure came up to the window, talking on a mobile phone. It was Piggott.
Dave felt cold fear. What had Brown Fox said about Piggott? He wanted to kill a policeman and a British intelligence officer. Well, perhaps it was he who’d had a go at Jimmy Fergus, and now he’d got Dave.
‘Bastante,’ the Spaniard shouted, and reluctantly, Dave trudged over to the kitchen door and paused, warming himself in the sun. The Spaniard grew impatient. ‘Inside,’ he said irritably, gesturing with his pistol.
Dave opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. To his left a baize-covered door was slightly ajar. He could hear Piggott’s voice; the door must lead to the room where he’d seen him.
The Spaniard was having trouble closing the screen. Dave quickly edged left and glancing behind him and seeing his jailer still occupied, he pushed the baize-covered door with a flat hand and it swung open.
‘What the hell—’ said Piggott.
‘Gonzales!’ Milraud shouted.
Suddenly a rough hand grabbed Dave’s shoulder and spun him around. Gonzales stuck the barrel of his 9 mm right under Dave’s nose, pushing it against his upper lip. He was furious and for a moment Dave thought he would pull the trigger. Then Gonzales seemed to regain his self-control. He stepped back through the doorway into the corridor and motioned Dave to come out.
Behind him Dave heard a voice say coldly, ‘Get him back down there.’
A second later he felt the world had collapsed on the back of his head.
When he woke up it was dusk.
He winced as he touched a bump the size of an egg on the back of his head. His fingers came away sticky, and he looked at them a moment before realising the dark gummy stuff was blood. He was desperately thirsty but when he tried to stand up one side of his lower chest erupted in pain. He collapsed back onto the floor until the agony subsided. With his hand he gently touched the affected side, and through an excruciating prodding process of trial and error concluded that he had at least two broken ribs. How had that happened? All he could remember was Piggott shouting, then the world had gone black. He must have been hit hard on the back of his head and pushed down the stairs onto the hard floor.
Dave managed to get up on his knees and crawl over to the tap in the corner. When he turned it on, water splashed on the floor around him, quickly soaking his trousers. He cupped his hands and let the running tap fill them again and again while he drank. He tried to recall what had happened before he’d been hit. He could remember walking outside round and round the yard, and seeing Seamus Piggott, the man who wanted to kill an intelligence officer.
This would be a good place to do it, thought Dave gloomily, as he surveyed his prison. They could put a bullet in his head without fear of being heard, then bury his body deep in the woods – or weigh it down and throw it in the sea. But they hadn’t done it yet, so there must be another plan. But what? Did they plan to ransom him? He almost grinned at the thought of Michael Binding negotiating for his release – he’d probably try to knock the price down – but then suddenly depression settled on him like fog and he crawled back to the mattress and lay down.
Then he heard something outside, quite far away. Thumpa thumpa thumpa. He strained to hear it, and this time the noise was louder. Thumpa thumpa thumpa.
It was a helicopter, probably military, by the sound of its bass rumble. He opened his eyes and waited. Again, Thumpa thumpa thumpa. Was it coming closer? ‘I’m here boys,’ he found himself saying aloud, half prayer, half appeal.
He listened for the deep throb, but this time it seemed no closer. He held his breath and waited again, but now the noise was definitely receding. A moment later and he couldn’t be sure if it was the helicopter he heard, or the beating of his heart.
Then silence. Pit pat, pit pat, pit pat.
49
She loved window shopping, so Mireille Vitrin was perfectly happy strolling along the rue d’Alger, looking in the shop windows, admiring the clothes and scrutinising the antiques. And because she was enjoying herself, she looked quite unremarkable. But Mireille wasn’t going to buy anything; her window shopping was cover. She was waiting for the little device in her hand to vibrate, signalling that the target was on the move ten miles away.
‘She’s coming out.’ The gardener, cutting the grass verge at the top of the hill in Bandol, spoke into a tiny microphone fastened to his collar. He wasn’t the usual gardener and anyone who’d watched him closely might have wondered how he got the job. But he wasn’t staying. As soon as the white Lexus convertible passed him, he put his mower on the back of his truck and drove away. In Toulon, Mireille’s hand vibrated.
Down the hill in Bandol two women sat in a dusty-looking Renault consulting a map. As the Lexus passed, they seemed to make up their minds on the route and drove on, slotting in behind it. The woman at the wheel of the Lexus, wearing a bright Hermès silk scarf wrapped round her head, was Annette Milraud.