56
They would be here soon – very soon. He didn’t stop to wonder who ‘they’ were – French or British or even the FBI. Any one of them would be intent on arresting him.
That wasn’t going to happen. As soon as Piggott reached the woods he stopped and unzipped his holdall. The .38 lay on top of a folded towel and he took it out and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers. Then he threw the holdall into the bushes that lined the sides of the path.
It wasn’t going to help him escape – for that he needed only his wits about him. And the gun.
He moved quickly, ignoring the brambles that scraped his arms and face as he tried to stick to the path. He hadn’t dared bring a torch, since that would draw the people closing in on him.
He should never have trusted Milraud and never have let him bring him here. Not to an island, so easy to seal off. The only way out was by boat, and that was why he had insisted on checking that the dinghy was still there so many times each day. Once he got to it now, he’d be free and clear.
Next stop Algeria, he thought. Ahmed there had replied to his email at once, saying Piggott could pick up a consignment of hashish. He could also pick up a larger boat, and he figured a good five days hard sailing would see him back in County Down, no one the wiser about where he’d been or what had happened.
He supposed it would have been best to silence Milraud before he’d left, or at the very least leave orders with Gonzales to kill both him and the prisoner. Still, Milraud was the one left holding the can, not Piggott. As he began to descend the trail to the beach, he was cheered by thoughts of returning to Northern Ireland and finishing his business there.
He’d need some help of course, and he wasn’t going to use Ryan again, that was for sure. He needed someone more experienced. Malone had killed before, if the gossip of the IRA veterans was to be believed, so Piggott was certain he’d be willing to kill again. If other volunteers proved scarce, he could always call on old associates in Boston to come over and join in the campaign. Soon MI5 would rue the day they’d taken over intelligence duties in the province.
Suddenly Piggott heard footsteps along the trail, coming up from below. He moved quickly, silently on the balls of his feet, into the thick brush where he crouched down. He waited tensely, hand on his pistol, and listened as several people – at least four, maybe five – climbed up the path. Then they were above him, and he silently rejoined the path and continued his descent.
Take it slowly, he told himself, as he drew to within a stone’s throw of the cove. To his right the dinghy lay covered in brush, but he knew better than to go straight to it. These people after him were doubtless fools, but even fools took precautions, and Piggott expected a sentry to stand guard over the boat. Hah, he thought with a scornful laugh to himself – as if some soldier was going to keep him from getting away.
He left the path again, a good twenty feet above the beach, and edged inch by inch, circling the dinghy. He stared hard at the shadows on the beach cast by the overhanging trees and pulled the gun out from his waistband.
57
The footsteps were getting closer. Liz crouched behind the trunk of a eucalyptus tree, waiting for the commandos’ challenge.
‘Halte!’ Laval shouted. ‘Qui va la?’
There was silence for a moment, then from the trail a voice called out, ‘Antoine Milraud.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘I am not armed.’
‘Are you alone?’ Laval called out.
‘Oui.’
Seurat interjected, ‘You had better be telling the truth, mon ami, because it will cost you your life if you’re not. Where are the others?’
‘In the house. Except for James – the American. Piggott as he calls himself. I was following him when you stopped me just now. He has gone to check the boat.’
‘The boat hidden by the beach?’
‘Yes. That’s the one. And he’s armed.’
Laval spoke urgently into his radio, warning the young commando in the cove. He turned to the commandos around him. ‘Fabrice. Jean. Go back and help him.’ Two men slipped away through the trees.
Then Laval, Seurat and the two remaining commandos emerged onto the path, while Liz stayed behind in the shadow of the woods. She could see Milraud’s face now, illuminated by the commandos’ lights, as they surrounded him.
‘Where is the hostage?’ demanded Laval.
‘He’s locked in the cellar. I will show you. But be carefuclass="underline" the man guarding him is not likely to hand him over without a fight.’
‘Is that the Spaniard, Gonzales?’ asked Liz, emerging from behind her tree to stand beside Seurat.
‘So. The English are here too,’ said Milraud, looking at the slender black-clad figure in surprise. ‘You are well informed, mademoiselle.’
‘Is anyone else here?’ asked Laval.
‘No one,’ said Milraud, shaking his head. ‘Just three of us and Willis. That’s all.’ He looked at Seurat. ‘That’s the truth. You know I wouldn’t lie to you about that.’
‘I don’t know what you’d do any more, Antoine.’
‘It’s been a long time, but some things don’t change. I would never have harmed this man. And I offered you my help in my email. Don’t forget that.’
Seurat said dryly, ‘Well, we managed to get here without your help.’
Suddenly there was the sound of a gunshot, a solitary crack breaking the pre-dawn silence. It came from the beach.
Seconds later Laval’s radio crackled. ‘Pierre here – I’ve been hit,’ the voice said in a high-pitched tone of pain. ‘I didn’t hear the bastard coming. He’s winged me in my shooting arm and he’s got the dinghy. I can see him.’
The radio crackled again. ‘Fabrice here. We were just seconds too late. We’re with Pierre now. The target is in the boat, twenty metres from the shore. We’re leaving him to Team Bravo.’
‘We have him in our sights,’ came back immediately from the team waiting offshore.
Led by Laval, the group on the path moved quickly through the trees, taking only a minute or two to cover the short distance to the cliff edge. A hundred feet or so below, the sea shone grey as the early-morning light just began to touch the water. As they looked down, they could see a small dinghy moving out into the cove, the puttering of its outboard motor just audible from where they stood.
‘That’s him,’ said Milraud, and Laval radioed confirmation to Team Bravo. He issued an order: ‘Attempt to detain. Otherwise destroy.’
They watched as Piggott picked up speed, heading straight towards the south. Next stop Algeria, thought Liz.
But then she saw the commando craft appear at the mouth of the cove. Even loaded down with its team of commandos, it was going much faster than Piggott. As it drew closer, on a line to cut off his escape, Piggott changed course sharply to the east.
Suddenly a long arc of red dots jumped out of the commando boat, syncopated tiny flares, fluorescent against the dark-grey sea. They disappeared just ahead of the bow of Piggott’s little dinghy. Tracer bullets, thought Liz. Watching in silence, she heard the sharp crack of a weapon. Piggott was returning fire. He must be crazy.
The commandos fired another line of red bullets, this time even closer to the target. And again Piggott fired back, accurately enough to cause the commando dinghy to veer. There was a momentary lull, then the commando boat fired again, and these were not warning shots.