Perhaps they would return here, when it was all over. Part of Ryan rejoiced at the idea, while another told him it was a foolish notion. He could not think beyond the rendezvous, handing over the crates to Weiss and the others.
In his mind, Ryan’s life ended at that point, though he did not imagine his own death. He simply could not conceive of an existence that stretched further, a time after the act.
Fear would be the proper emotion. But he did not feel fear, or excitement, only the cold that leaked through the seals of the Citroën’s doors.
He pulled his coat tight around himself, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE
They reached Camaret-Sur-Mer at dusk. That afternoon, they had pulled in at a village cafe and taken it in turns to leave the van to eat. Ryan had chosen a rabbit stew with chunks of coarse bread. The meat had been dry and bland, the stew watery, but hunger had made him devour it all the same. Now his stomach grumbled, eager for food once again.
Habib and Munir passed some form of flatbread back and forth, cutting chunks with a vicious-looking knife. They offered none to Ryan. Hussein seemed able to exist purely on tobacco and prayer.
Despite the evening chill, Ryan had rolled down the window to release the pent odours of men and cigarettes. As he pulled up to the small harbour, he smelled salt and heard the tide pushing against its walls, gulls calling as they scavenged the last of the day. Fishing vessels and pleasure boats swayed on the dark water.
“There,” Hussein said, pointing to the aged fishing boat moored closest to a set of steps that descended into the water. Weathered blue paint flaked on its wooden hull. A heavyset man with wiry grey hair and florid cheeks watched from its bow, one hand leaning on a rusted winch. He touched a finger to his brow in a casual salute.
“His name is Vandenberg,” Hussein said. “He is not a friendly man.”
Given how little the Arab had spoken on the journey, Ryan wondered what his idea of friendly was.
They climbed out of the van. Ryan stretched his back and arms.
“Who is the passenger?” Vandenberg asked, his sing-song accent sounding to Ryan like Dutch or Flemish, possibly Danish.
“This man,” Hussein said, indicating Ryan. “Come help us. The cargo is heavy.”
Vandenberg shook his head. “No. I am paid to sail the boat, not to lift things. You lift things.”
Hussein grumbled and spat. He tugged Ryan’s sleeve, guided him to the back of the vehicle. Soon, they had established a chain, Habib bringing each crate from the van to Ryan’s hands, Ryan passing it to Munir, who then descended the steps and handed it to Hussein, who stood on the boat, stacking each box as it arrived.
Ryan’s hands were raw and bloody by the time it was done, his back aching, sweat slicking the skin beneath his clothes. He considered crying off, telling them of the injuries he’d received only a few days ago, but his pride would not allow it.
As the sun kissed the horizon, Hussein pulled a fat envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Vandenberg. He opened the envelope and thumbed through its contents. Satisfied, he stashed it inside his coat and nodded to Hussein.
Without a word to Ryan as he passed, Hussein returned to the van’s driver’s seat while Habib and Munir climbed into the back. The Citroën’s engine barked as it caught, then pulled away from the harbour.
Ryan watched its taillights fade.
“Come,” Vandenberg called from the boat. “Is time for going.”
Ryan huddled on the cabin’s single bunk, wishing he had brought warmer clothes as Vandenberg navigated the channels and sandbanks from Camaret-sur-Mer, away from the Crozon peninsula, towards the open sea.
The crates had been covered in a canvas tarpaulin and lashed in place with ropes and hooks. The tarpaulin’s corners fluttered in the breeze.
Soon, the boat gathered speed as it moved into open water, rising and falling with the waves.
Ryan had never minded travelling by boat. Back in the war, he had found the movement soothing, even while many among his comrades hung retching over the sides. The boat creaked and groaned as its wooden hull cut through the waves.
Above, visible through the cabin’s grimy windows, the sky cleared, a sheet of deepest black, a hint of orange and blue on the far horizon. Stars emerged, hard bright points beyond number, made clear away from the haze and the lights of mankind. Ryan picked out constellations, searching his memory for their names.
A brilliant streak shot across the black, and he wished for the warmth of Celia’s body next to his.
He awoke with the sensation of drifting. The boat rose and fell, but there was no sense of speed, no forward movement. Ryan opened his eyes, saw the deck outside the cabin doused in blue moonlight.
There, Vandenberg pulling back the tarpaulin to expose a crate. He tried its lid with his thick fingers, found it solid. He harrumphed and opened a long box on the deck. He rummaged through its contents until he found a short crowbar. Ryan watched as Vandenberg began prising the crate open.
“Leave it alone.”
Vandenberg spun to Ryan’s voice.
Ryan got to his feet, went to the cabin’s doorway, steadied himself against the boat’s sway.
“Is my boat,” Vandenberg said. “I will know what I carry.”
“The Arab paid you. That’s all you need to know.”
Vandenberg straightened, puffed out his chest, the crowbar held at his side. “He is no Arab. He is Algerian. I will know what I carry.”
“I don’t care what he is. Those crates are none of your concern. Your job is to sail this boat. I suggest you do it.”
“No,” Vandenberg said, turning back to the crates. “I am the captain. I will look inside.”
Ryan stepped towards him. “Leave them alone.”
Vandenberg raised the crowbar. “You go away from me.”
“Put it down,” Ryan said, taking another step.
Vandenberg swiped the air between them.
Ryan moved closer. He smelled whisky.
“Go away from me.” Vandenberg held the crowbar high, ready to bring it down on Ryan’s head.
“I’ll tell you once more,” Ryan said. “Put it down.”
Vandenberg swung the crowbar, and Ryan raised his left forearm to block it. Metal displaced air by Ryan’s ear as he seized Vandenberg’s wrist, took his balance. Ryan’s right fist connected with Vandenberg’s jaw, and the sailor sprawled on the deck.
Reaching down, Ryan grabbed the crowbar with his right hand. Vandenberg crawled past him, towards the cabin, panting and gasping. Ryan followed. Vandenberg clambered to his feet and stumbled through the doorway, grasping for something beneath the radio set.
Ryan brought the crowbar down hard on Vandenberg’s outstretched hand, felt bones give under the force of it, saw the small pistol fall to the floor.
Vandenberg screamed and dropped to his knees as Ryan kicked the gun away. The sailor cowered on the cabin floor and clutched his ruined hand to his chest.
Ryan held the blade of the crowbar to the other man’s jaw. Vandenberg blinked up at him, sucking air through his rotted teeth.
“Enough,” Ryan said. “Now do what you were paid to do.”
The sky lightened on the far horizon and the stars faded, lost behind thickening cloud. In the distance, Ryan imagined he saw a vague dark band of land, but he could not be sure.
Vandenberg slowed the engine to a halt, struggling with one hand held in an improvised sling at his chest. Ryan watched from the deck as he checked his maps and instruments for a time before emerging.