If only he could contact one of them. But probably no-one would believe him.
Time passed. Little fat Annie slept again, slumped against Shard. She breathed heavily without actually snoring. It was like a steam-whistle. Her breasts heaved against him with each intake. At last old Nicholas had gone to sleep and guard duties had been taken over by Mikhail himself.
There had been no more questioning. Shard wondered why. It was possible Mikhail had informers within Paris, men planted, men with big ears. Possible but not likely: Mikhail was a recent import from the Soviet Union, a man without local contacts. Nicholas, on the other hand, had spent his life in France. Any contacts could be his. But if there was an availability of information what did they want with him, Shard?
Mystery abounded. They drew closer to Paris. Or so Shard presumed.
*
The jet from Heathrow came in on schedule, all glitter and airline colours, freshly painted. BRITISH it flaunted. The welcoming committee, the brass both political and military, was nervy. The French Premier hadn’t come; Mrs Heffer thought that rude. He was represented by the Foreign Minister, a bouncy, brisk little man with a paunch and an oversmart lounge suit in beige. There was a general and an admiral and the Prefect of Police of Paris, a number of hangers-on, aides and so forth, and there was a guard and band in full dress uniforms. Bayonets glittered in a strong but declining sun and there was the inevitable dog who ran hither and thither and barked loudly when Mrs Heffer appeared at the head of the gangway and waved a hand. The dog was fielded by a military policeman and Mrs Heffer, very British, came down the steps, smiling, a smile straight from a bandbox, blue-rinsed hair, neat coat and skirt in powder blue to match, white silk scarf at the throat, red wash-leather gloves.
She was greeted by the Foreign Minister, who bowed. “So nice to be in France,” she said. She shook his hand warmly. He hovered, uncertain whether or not to kiss: the smile was still there but had suddenly turned icy as her eye caught that of a minister from the Embassy.
“No ambassador,” she said. “May one ask why that is, Sir Sidney?”
The Minister coughed, dithered. He said, “His Excellency sends his profound apologies, Prime Minister. The telephone call, you remember —”
“Oh, yes. I stated my point of view. I trust it has been conveyed to President Ligot.”
“I believe it has, Prime Minister.” Sir Sidney seemed nervous.
Mrs Heffer assumed the Ambassador’s absence meant he was dealing with the matter. She turned her attention to the waiting French officials. She inspected the guard, rather perfunctorily. Not quite like Her Majesty’s Brigade of Guards. Then, accompanied by the Foreign Minister of France, she got into the leading car of a long motorcade drawn up by the airport buildings. She was whisked away fast. No chances. Those left behind breathed a sigh of relief. There was always a likelihood of other brands of terrorism lurking, it wasn’t just the Russians who had to be protected, but at least if Mrs Heffer was shot from now on it wouldn’t be an airport responsibility.
And now it had all begun, the terrible three days during which Paris would be the focus of the world’s attention. Soon all the others would come in. The Russians, the Germans, many others too. Also the everlasting holidaymakers who would get in the way of airport security and if anything happened might go and get caught in the crossfire. More trouble for harassed authorities, but then there was always something even if only a hijack.
In the meantime, unknown to all but a few in Paris, the barge from near Rouen was slowly closing on the capital. And elsewhere Hedge, who had still not eaten despite further offers of inedible foodstuffs, was receiving an important visitor.
12
There had also been a visitor to the barge, a man wearing bright blue crimplene trousers and a yellow T-shirt with stripes, pedalling a bicycle fast from the direction of Paris. The road where he met the barge ran close to the river bank.
He hailed the crew member standing at the helm, a long iron bar projecting from the rudder-head. He wished, he said, to come aboard. He gave what acted as a password and the helmsman brought the barge towards the bank. Nimbly, the cyclist jumped across, landing on the canvas-covered cargo hatch. Going aft, he ducked into the cabin. He was met by Mikhail. They spoke in French.
“What is it, Jacques?”
“A change in the programme. No longer the river.”
There was an oath from Mikhail. Shard saw the anger in the face. “Who has told you this?”
“Henri,” the cyclist answered. “Henri is very certain. The man Hedge, he has been seized … the security is much alarmed by his disappearance and because of this there will be more tightness, according to Henri. So there will be no river voyages.”
“And who has seized this Hedge?”
The cyclist shrugged; this, Henri had not known. To Mikhail it was obvious: CAT. He said something brief in Russian. His expression was grim; Shard fancied he was about to strike the cyclist; no bringer of bad tidings was ever welcome. But Mikhail restrained himself as old Nicholas got to his feet and moved across. The old man laid a hand on Mikhail’s arm.
“It is done, Mikhail,” he said peaceably. “You and I, we cannot alter that. We must use the alternative now. It was always a possibility that the alternative would —”
“Yes.” Mikhail flung the old Russian’s arm aside. “Yes, very well, we must do this, I agree. It’ll be more dangerous —”
“But we shall still succeed, Mikhail.”
This conversation had been in Russian; Shard had not been able to follow much of it. He had been rattled by the news of Hedge. Hedge in captivity could be lethal. Shard believed Hedge hadn’t a very high resistance threshold and if he knew anything worth knowing in the current situation he would probably not hold back for long. And what did CAT want him for? Just to garner information, most likely. Shard’s mind disconnected from Hedge’s plight when Mikhail, after a further discussion with the old man, spoke again to the messenger from Paris. The man was told to return to Paris pronto. He was to give the word to someone called Stolnik: Shard registered the name. Stolnik was to be told that the alternative plan was to be put into operation. Mikhail would be at the rendezvous soon after dark, and Stolnik was to be there with transport for the explosives.
The messenger left the cabin, followed as far as the door by Mikhail. Through the port Shard saw him pedal away fast. The engine started up again and the barge moved off the bank. Mikhail turned back into the cabin; there was a nasty look in his eyes, a vicious look. He didn’t like alterations of plan. This was to be the very devil. But he, too, like the French President earlier, had failed to take Mrs Heffer into account.
*
Hedge’s visitor had been the American, Tex. Coming down the steps into the cellar accompanied by the man with the candle-lantern, he stared contemptuously at cringe.
He said, “Well now, Big Shot.”
“Who are you?” Hedge asked, though in the circumstances the American accent had been the give-away and he knew he was in the hands of CAT.
“Never mind that. I know who you are. That’s all that matters, right? And you’re in the know.”
“What about?”
“What about? Don’t act dumb. Hedge. It doesn’t pay, you know that?”
Hedge swallowed, sweated — it ran like rivers down his neck, soaking collar and shirt. His teeth chattered; he couldn’t keep them still. He said, “Of course I know about the conference, that’s obvious.”
“Sure. It’s why you’re in Paris. Why you’re here, too. I want to know something different, right?” Tex approached closer, squatted on his haunches, staring into Hedge’s face. “Lard,” he said. “Dough. Too much fat. Reckon you may lose some of that, Big Shot. You know something?”
“No …”
Tex grinned at him. “This here’s an old part of Paris. There’s a lot of cellars like this one. Next door, there’s an old-time contraption. Brought from the Bastille or some place. An old Frog prison, anyway. They call i
t a treadmill. Jeez, you’ll sweat, Big Shot.”
Hedge’s mouth opened and shut again. Fear struck; this man was a demon. He thought about his heart. He’d often been bothered about it. His doctor had said it was as sound as a bell but Hedge didn’t believe him, and treadmills hadn’t been mentioned during the consultation. Now, the heart was beating fast.
Tex, still squatting, said, “What I want to know is about these Avengers of St Petersburg, right? Want to know all about them … what you know, that is. And don’t tell me your British Embassy doesn’t know about them. Right?”
“We know about them,” Hedge said, his voice squeaking. It could scarcely be denied; he wasn’t giving away secrets.
“And what they mean to do. Here in Paris.”
“Yes. That, too. Nothing else, though.”
“Nothing else? You sure, Hedge, dead sure?”
That heart. “Yes!”
“Like what their work-out’s going to be?”
“Of course we don’t know that! If we did, well, the whole thing would be simple. Surely you see that?”
“I see that, sure. But it doesn’t tell me you don’t know and that it will all be simple like you say. I just want to know, that’s all, right?”
“I — I don’t know anything.”
“Not even when you know about the treadmill, Hedge?” “No. You can’t do that to me! I have a dickey heart.” He explained the Anglicism. “A weak heart.”
“Sure you have. For now, just for now, we’ll forget the work-out. There’s something else, and this you sure do know. Tell me what the counter-measures are, right? All the details. What’s being guarded, what isn’t. Strength of police and that — you know what I want.”
Hedge did; he also knew why. Shard had established that CAT was out to kill Mikhail Asipov. Tex wanted to know the security set-up, the places and times considered most at risk, just so he could get a line on Mikhail. Simple. Hedge blossomed. He could be quite a help. The very thought of the treadmill was too appalling. The grinding effort … he had short legs and would be forced to move very fast. It would undoubtedly kill him. But there was no need for all that. He had already thought for himself — or someone, Shard perhaps, had said it — that if the CAT faction happened to kill Mikhail before he went into action, a world wide sigh of relief would go up. And he himself would be an integral part of that relief. He would be feted, rewarded — the Prime Minister would be so grateful. It might be as well, afterwards, if the existence of the treadmill could be concealed; it might give people ideas.
He said, “I think I can help.”
“Great,” Tex said. “So let’s start.”
*
There was that failure to appreciate the iron determination and sheer basic courage and right thinking of the British Prime Minister. This was manifested that evening in the Elysée Palace, but not until after a splendid state banquet attended by all the delegation leaders, Russian, German, Belgian, Italian, Danish, Irish, Netherlands in full evening dress with decorations. After dinner, Mrs Heffer had cleverly manoeuvred President Ligot into a tête-à-tête in order to discuss the forthcoming programme and the alterations initiated by the French.
The President had stated his position quite clearly.
“Mais non, M’sieur le President,” the Prime Minister said in an atrocious accent. She had another god besides Margaret Thatcher and this was Sir Winston Churchill, who had prided himself on his abominable French. To speak the language horribly had been one way of putting down de Gaulle in those wartime years of long ago. Having started her sentence in French as a courtesy, Mrs Heffer switched to English; President Ligot spoke the language well enough. “We must not appear to be cowards —”
“But Madame, the expediency —”
“I don’t much care for expediency,” the Prime Minister interrupted. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress. “And it’s not just a dislike of namby-pambyism either. There’s the question of Mr Hedge of my Foreign Office — as you know, he’s been kidnapped on French soil, and —”
“Yes, yes, I am sorry.”
Graciously Mrs Heffer inclined her head. “Thank you. Now, the deed’s done. I’m told that Mr Hedge will undergo hardship, even death let’s face it, if the original programme is not kept to. Well, we can't have that, can we?”
President Ligot closed his eyes and gave a barely-suppressed sigh. Damn the woman. He felt disinclined to mention expediency a second time. He said, “Much is at stake, Madame.”
“Yes. Very likely world peace. Well, we can face up to that if we have to. I’m under no illusions. But whatever might, and I stress might, happen I simply cannot and will not sacrifice a British subject. And I don’t suppose you’d really expect me to. Suppose it was a Frenchman. I ask you, what would your reaction be then?”
The President shifted restlessly and muttered something indistinct about la France and patriotism. The woman was as impossible as he’d known she would be — this was not their first meeting. And all this talk about facing up to the shattering of world peace, with its implication that Britain at any rate could take it … mon dieu, how long was it since the Falklands? That epic lingered still and its undoubtedly glorious mantle had descended upon Mrs Heffer as though inherited from Margaret Thatcher with the Premiership. At any moment the harridan might bring up the touchy subject of French supply of Exocet missiles to the Argentinians — she had a long memory. She also had him by the short hairs and he knew it. He knew it because his intelligence services had made a certain report to him: inside what the British thought of as the security of their Embassy Mrs Heffer had stridently announced to the Ambassador that if the French refused to consider the safety of a British subject, then she would at once withdraw the British delegation back to London. She would not be tactless enough to say this to the President after an excellent dinner, but it was known she had said it and it was in her face and President Ligot knew that Mrs Heffer never, never backtracked. Once a thing was said, that was it. Besides, he’d always known that she meant to sabotage the conference anyway, if she could get away with it. She had never intended to allow the French notions of detente to prevail. Of course, she wouldn’t get away with it once the conference started, but if she withdrew then the conference would never take place at all and la France needed the support of the other assembled delegates … no conference, no decisions. Back, as the British would put it, to square one.
Mrs Heffer was starting up again, her arguments neatly gathered in, like a harvest. Her voice shrilled, began to sound like a machine-gun; she fought her battles by a process of attrition. President Ligot’s head spun; he was tired, strained — so much worry, so much to do, so much to think about always, even though he was not personally attending the actual conference … and there was some opposition from within his own camp: his own Premier had been inclined to disagree about altering the schedule once set. His Premier was an angry man, fanatically anti-terrorist, and had had much to say about crimes de sang and the over-riding need never to be seen to give in, to be deflected by the men of blood. As the woman’s voice went on, making his head ache, President Ligot knew he had to bring it to an end. He thumped the table. His hand shook. “Yes, yes yes, Madame! I agree. A British subject … the programme will stand as first announced. I shall give my orders.”
What a fool the woman was, what a risk! It would be her fault entirely.
Mrs Heffer smiled. “Thank you,” she said. The voice was warm now. “Including the trips on the river?”
“Yes.”
First thing next morning, the orders went out from the Elysée Palace. Everything was put hastily into reverse and, by personal order of the President himself, the veil of secrecy was drawn tighter. Much tighter. Not so tight that the reversal failed to reach the outstretched ears of the man called Henri, who had alerted the cyclist from Paris. Henri hastened to pass the word on to Mikhail that the original plan could now be restored. But the word did not reach its destination. Henri, at a pedestrian crossing whilst en r
oute for a safe telephone, was cut down by a taxi. His head was crushed by a bus, speeding up on the taxi’s left-hand side.
*
The previous night, while Prime Minister and President were at dinner, the barge had reached the rendezvous where Mikhail was to meet the man he’d referred to as Stolnik. The barge went as it were to ground a few miles out of Paris, into the cover of a large boathouse in a disused boatyard. More precisely, a disused bargeyard … with the non-persons and their rifles, Shard was ordered out on arrival. The Kalashnikov was still in evidence, still held by Nicholas. By now Shard had been told his role: using the transceiver supplied by the Paris police, he was to pass false information, yet to be announced, at a time also yet to be announced. Failure to put on a satisfactory act, a convincing act, would result in his death. Simple enough. In the meantime the group sat on a concrete landing-stage inside the boathouse alongside the silent barge, presumably waiting for Stolnik. It was a very dark night; and there was no light in the boathouse. This was by Mikhail’s order. Concealment, naturally, was all, and they were close now, or comparatively so, to Paris. Police could lurk. Mikhail was tense, his voice low but brittle as it came through the darkness. This, he seemed to be saying, was where the danger started. From now on, he said, there would be total silence.
There was; it was broken only by the sound of breathing. Once again little fat Annie was alongside Shard — by design, he rather suspected. The girl was a nympho and he possibly had some sort of attraction, however square he might be behind the hippie disguise which he still wore. A man was a man and the non-persons didn’t look likely to have much sex appeal; they were too desiccated, skin and bone, walking skeletons who needed a decent meal, only just out of Russia and probably only by the skin of their teeth at that.
The Executioners Page 14