by James Munro
"You lied," said St. Briac. "You had two guns. I think you will find that it is better to tell us the truth." He opened the Woodsman, to examine the long barrel and tiny cartridges. "You are a good shot?" Craig nodded. "I expected you would be."
He snapped the gun together then, and turned to the man with the carbine.
"Take Grierson away," he said. "Lock him up. We can talk with him later."
Craig sighed, and willed himself not to watch as Grierson was led away. He was on his own now. Three men here, and at least two more guards. And those three dogs. And there was something wrong. Something he should have noticed, and hadn't. Craig began to sweat.
"Now we can talk," St. Briac said. "But before we start there is something I must tell you. I didn't talk to you on the phone today. Pucelli did. That is why he said nothing to you in the car on the way here. You realize what I'm telling you, don't you, Craig? I promised you nothing."
St. Briac picked up the Woodsman and pointed it at him. "You will tell me what I need to know, and then you will be executed."
CHAPTER 16
Grierson was taken to an outhouse built of stone, with barred windows. Ashford was there too, crouched in a corner. The man with the carbine was covering him once more, and again he was searched, this time by the jailer; a thorough, humiliating process. At last the man with the carbine left and the jailer produced a revolver, looked at its barrel, then struck at Grierson's neck. A great shock of pain ran through him.
"Discipline," said the jailer. "We must have discipline. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Grierson.
Again the barrel struck; again the sick wave of pain. "Yes, sir," said the jailer. "Yes* sir," said Grierson.
"Good," said the jailer. "You will now attend to this degenerate in the corner. There is water in that bucket, and a towel. Clean him up."
Grierson walked over to the bucket and picked it up. It was half full of water, and he winced as its weight tugged at the spot where the jailer had struck.
The jailer went out and the door slammed behind him. Grierson began to clean Ashford's face, until the cold water acted and he could sit up and look about him.
"It didn't work," he said bitterly. "After all they've done to me, it didn't work."
"There's still a chance," said Grierson.
"They'll kill us," Ashford said. "You know that, don't you? They'll kill us all. Why couldn't you just have shot him and gone away?"
"We could never have got near enough," said Grierson.
"You're near enough now."
"Craig is. The colonel's interrogating him."
"Oh my God." Ashford hid his face in his hands. "I didn't tell them you'd come to kill him. Not even when
Bobby-when he hurt me. That was dreadful, but I didn't tell them. I said…"
"I know," said Grierson. "La Valere told us himself. You did very well. Don't worry. We'll get out. How badly are you hurt? Can you walk?"
Ashford took his hands from his face. After Grierson had wiped away the blood and tears, he could see how bruised it was, how far from its former prettiness.
"This is what Bobby did to me," said Ashford. "I hate you."
"Can you walk?" Grierson asked again.
"Yes," said Ashford, "but I won't have the chance to." Grierson looked at his watch. They had had Craig for half an hour already. He yelled for the guard.
"What are you doing?" Ashford said. "We'll be beaten for that. Anyway he won't hear you. He'll have gone sneaking off for a drink."
"How long?" Grierson asked.
"Sometimes ten minutes, sometimes half an hour." "Oh my God," Grierson said, and yelled again.
Duclos searched Craig again, and this time he found the cyanide pill Loomis had given him. It had been sewn into the lapel of his coat, and it told them a great deal. This might not be a private affair after all. Craig could have been sent for a purpose, and given the means of suicide instead of capture. St. Briac had never doubted that Craig had come to France to kill him, but now he wanted to know if someone else was behind it, and who that someone was. Before the pain started, he talked to Craig of those to whom he had sold death, and how right it was, how just, that Craig's turn to suffer had come at last. Perhaps they were right, Craig thought, but when the pain began it ceased to matter. Nothing in the world mattered but the pain…
When the jailer returned, Grierson was still yelling. He went in and looked at Ashford, crouched once more in the corner, then at Grierson, who was staring in horror at the bucket.
"What's going on?" he yelled.
"The water, sir. Just look at it," said Grierson.
He held out the bucket and the jailer peered into it. As he did so, Grierson rammed it into his face, the narrow rim bit into his throat. He dropped it and struck twice, as Craig had taught him to do. The guard fell and didn't move, and Ashford stirred in his corner, looking at him in horror.
"You idiot," he said. "Now it'll be worse than ever." Grierson took the guard's gun and dragged him over to Ashford, stripped off his shirt, pulled it on top of his own.
"I'm going out," he said. "I'm going to try for the generator. Now listen to what I'm saying. I haven't time to tell you twice. If I can do it, the lights will go off- all the power will go. You'll know it's going to happen because the lights outside will nicker first. When they do, you get yourself ready. When they go off, get over the wall as quick as you can-into the villa next door. There's a window open on the ground floor. Wait there for me."
"You'll be killed," said Ashford.
"I won't be tortured," said Grierson, and left.
Craig was tortured, systematically, and by experts. His body was kicked, burned, twisted, and in the end, almost drowned. They held his head down in a basinful of water until it was impossible for him to hold his breath any longer, then, when he was about to open his mouth, let the water into his lungs, they wrenched his head up, let him breathe again for a few aching minutes, then plunged him down again into agony. He had tried to buy them off with the names of Algerian Arabs, but they wanted the man who had sent him. At last they let him rest for a while, until he could regain enough strength to suffer again. St. Briac put the Woodsman's barrel under his chin, tilted back his head
"La Valere is a fool," he said. "Very brave, very patriotic, very loyal-but very foolish. You wouldn't risk your neck by coming here just to expose me, would you, Craig?"
The gun barrel tapped him lightly on the cheek. "No," Craig croaked.
"You came here to kill me, didn't you?"
The gun barrel tapped again, over and over, always on the same spot, until each successive tap felt like a hammer blow.
"Yes," Craig whispered.
"Who sent you?"
Tap-tap-tap-tap went the gun barrel, on and on until Craig could take no more. His head sagged forward, and St. Briac let the gun rest by his side.
"It won't be long," he said, and Duclos laughed.
St. Briac snapped at once, "If you find this amusing in the least, you had better leave now. You have no business here."
His voice seemed to come from very far away, but even then Craig knew that he was serious. A gun-whipping wasn't an indulgence in sadism, it was a political necessity. The lights in the room flickered once, then continued to burn steadily. Craig sagged forward, and summoned the last dregs of his strength, willing himself to be ready to move. For a moment his tormentors hesitated -they were as wary as rats-but when the lights went on burning they relaxed.
"You can put him back in the water," St. Briac said.
As he spoke, all the lights went out, and somehow Craig's mind dictated to his body what it must do. He twisted from his chair in an agony of bruises, and his good hand found St. Briac's wrist, levered, and pulled, until he held the Woodsman in the hand they had stamped on, and that hand moved across St. Briac's neck to his shoulder, and his forearm pressed into St. Briac's throat. The other men in the room heard the colonel groan, and they stood very still. Pucelli had already struck a match and as
it flared they could see exactly what was happening.
"It's your move," said Craig, and hauled on St. Briac's wrist until he groaned again. There was no fight in him at all; the pressure on his throat was too intense.
"Duclos," Craig said, "do as I say and he might live. Is there a flashlight in here?" Duclos nodded. "Get it."
St. Briac shouted "No," but Craig increased the pressure and Duclos obeyed, fumbling his way to a desk, producing a light at last.
"Switch it on the others," said Craig, and again Duclos obeyed. "Now throw your guns on the floor." One by one the guns thudded down, and Craig struggled to resist the great waves of weakness that threatened to engulf him. Somewhere in the grounds was a man with a carbine and three killer dogs. That was up to Grierson. If he knew his stuff, they could still do the job they had come for. Meanwhile his business was to hold on to St. Briac.
The guard moved toward the villa, feeling his way through the unaccustomed blackness, his dogs ranging ahead of him. There was little chance that the generator had failed by accident. It was most probably the prelude to an attack. He had to go to the colonel for instructions. The dogs moved around the bole of a plane tree, a beautiful, flowing movement, and the guard swore at them, telling them to move on. Above him a branch rustled, a gun was stuck in his neck.
"They know their business," Grierson said. "No. Don't turn around. Stay still or I'll kill you."
The guard froze, and Grierson went on. "You can't reach me, so don't try it. Put down that carbine. I'll count three, and that's all. One-two-" The guard let it fall. "Tell the dogs to come closer." Again he was obeyed. The branch rustled once more, and Grierson was on the ground beside him.
"Now," he said, "we'll walk to the kennels."
The gun barrel pushed inexorably, and the guard walked, telling himself that he would turn and fight after five meters-ten-twenty. But he was too frightened to turn; his imagination snowed him too vividly how the heavy bullet would slam into him, smashing his spine before the noise of its firing could reach him. He walked to the kennels and told the dogs to go inside the wired enclosure, then the gun barrel left his neck, descending on his head as he tried at last to turn, and Grierson pushed him inside, sprawling among the bowls of dog food. Grierson locked the kennel, raced back to the plane tree, picked up the carbine, and moved toward the villa.
Craig still clung to St. Briac, while the other four men watched, waiting for him to fall.
Grierson called out softly, "This is Grierson, John."
"About time," said Craig. "Get rid of this lot, will you?"
Grierson gestured with the carbine, and they walked upstairs in front of him.
At the top of the stairs La Valere stopped, and the others stopped too.
"Ah right, La Valere," Grierson said, "If you want to be a hero, you can turn around. Just you." The others were still, and La Valere very slowly turned.
"Look at me," said Grierson. "If you try anything, anything at all, I'll kill the lot of you. With this thing," he hefted the carbine, "you couldn't even reach me. And I don't care whether you hve or die. Do you believe me?"
La Valere looked down into the black muzzle of the gun, knowing, hating the knowledge, that Grierson was beyond his reach. He was brave and he was stupid, but he did not want to die.
"Yes," he said, and the little procession moved on.
Grierson found a bathroom with one small, high window, locked them in, then wedged a chair under the door handle. When he went downstairs again, Craig still held St. Briac, in exactly the same position.
"All right," said Grierson. "I'll take him now."
"No," Craig whispered. "Just take the gun from my hand. He's mine."
They went out into the darkness of the gardens, up to the wall that separated the two villas. Grierson went first, and held the carbine on St. Briac until he climbed up too, then Grierson jumped down. It was Craig's turn. Slowly, nursing his damaged hand, he scrambled up the wall, when suddenly the lights came on again, a shattering gleam that made him sway as he knelt there. St. Briac kicked out at him, and even then Craig acted on reflex, grabbing the shoe, twisting, feeling the polished leather slide through his hand. St. Briac spun in the air and came down hard, his chest and arms slamming into the wire. His body arched and shook as the charge went through him, and Craig still knelt, swaying. Grierson yelled at him to come down, then clambered back onto the wall, lifted
Craig over the wire, and helped him down to safety. From the house a gun cracked, and a bullet spanged on the wall as Grierson jumped, hauled Craig to his feet, and pushed him toward the deserted villa. Somehow Craig worked up a shambling run until he reached the door of the villa and sprawled out, shivering. The door was locked.
Grierson yelled, "Ashford, are you there?"
Two men appeared on the wall, and he fired a burst from the carbine. They pitched back, not jumping; falling like men who have been badly hurt.
"Ashford," Grierson yelled.
The villa's door opened, and Ashford came out.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I had to be sure."
"All right," said Grierson. "Take this." He gave him the Woodsman. "Help Craig out of here."
Ashford grabbed the heavier man, and staggered off toward the far wall of the villa. Grierson followed, watching the rear. The lights in the villa went off again, and he heard the barking of dogs set free. The bathroom had not been strong enough to hold his captives; without tools, he had had time to do no more than switch off the generator. Somehow they got Craig to the box hedge, and Ashford followed. The first dog was almost on them, and again Grierson loosed off the carbine, and saw the dog fall. Then he reached the hedge and fumbled with the Alfa's door. Ashford heaved Craig into the back seat as the second dog leaped at Grierson. Ashford yelled and Grierson spun around, clubbing the dog with the gun butt. It snarled, and came at him again, and Grierson held the gun barrel in front of him. When the dog pawed at the barrel to bring it down, he kicked the animal under the jaw. Ashford wound down the window and fired as Duclos came running. Grierson jumped into the car and it started at once in a sweet surge of power, toward the Corniche road and Cap Ferrat.
"How is he?" Grierson asked.
"He's fainted," Ashford said. "It looks as if they've tortured him pretty badly."
"There's some brandy on the back window ledge," said Grierson. "Try him with that."
Craig coughed some down, and came back into consciousness, his whole body aware of pain as a spider's web of movement.
"We got away," said Craig. "Thanks."
"Thank yourself," said Grierson. "You grabbed St. Briac."
"That's right," said Craig. "I killed him, didn't I?" "He fell on the wire." "Where are we going now?"
"Cap Ferrat," answered Grierson. "We can't stay here any more."
"What about St. Briac? Weren't we supposed to find out what he was doing next?"
"I think we've done enough," said Grierson.
"He was going to Aden next week," Ashford said. "Bobby told me."
Grierson braked down sharply for a turn.
"That'll have to do," he said.
He slowed down through Villefranche, and became aware then of the black Citroen following them, which hung on as they turned on to the cape, past the superb white villas and the sheer cliffs with the sea boiling below. Grierson switched off his lights after they had passed through St. Jean, and pulled over beside a villa's gateway, a masterpiece of wrought iron, painted black and gold. They abandoned the car, and Grierson led the way to a tiny headland, then left them to make his way down the cliff and signal to a yacht in the bay.
Craig and Ashford lay face down in the dry, coarse grass by the roadside, and watched as the Citroen went past them. Ashford was shaking uncontrollably. The moon came out in a clear, cloudless sky, and Craig watched him shiver. He was unable to help in any way at all. Grierson came back to them, moving warily still.
"They've seen me," he said. "We'd better get down there quick. They're sending a boat."
>
"I can't," said Ashford. "I can't."
From farther down the road, the wheels of a car scraped as it turned.
"Come on," said Grierson.
Ashford said, "I can't. I get vertigo."
"We can't wait for you," said Grierson.
"You go then," said Ashford. "Just leave me the gun."
"No," said Craig. "We owe you a bit more than that."
Grierson ran down the cliff again to meet the boat that would come in from the yacht, making as much noise as he could, while Craig and Ashford raced to the car, scrambled on to its roof, and broke into their third villa of the night. This one was as trimmed and tidied as if it had just been delivered, cellophane-wrapped, the lawns shaved to a perfect symmetry, the roses scented by Chanel. In the shadow of a cypress tree, Craig examined the house. It seemed to be deserted. Together, he and Ashford worked their way toward it, seeking an open window. They found one at last and went into the lounge, stole a bottle of brandy and went upstairs, looking for a bathroom. From the yacht in the bay, an outboard motor spluttered, caught, then died.
They found a bathroom, and Ashford groaned aloud when he saw his face. Then it was Craig's turn to feel the gentle sting of soap, and Ashford's fingers peeling Band-Aid on to the open cuts on his cheek and back. He looked at his finger. That would have to be seen to soon, but Ashford was shaking too much to try it. Suddenly the bathroom door handle turned. Craig ran the tap harder, and listened for the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet, then slipped out of the bathroom. The corridor was lit now, and he turned off the switch. Light streamed from beneath a bedroom door. Craig took out the Woodsman and made no more noise than a shadow as he reached the door and turned the handle. It swung open without a sound. A girl was lying on the bed reading. She looked up to see him in the doorway, and was very still.
"Quiet now," said Craig. "Just stay quiet and you won't get hurt."
"Hey," said Maria. "You've got a gun."
"Hey," said Craig. "That's right, I have."