“When is he going to be released?”
Another grin. “Want him back? I’d say he’s not much use to anyone … I thought he was a real big shot, but now I doubt it. Whiners don’t become big shots, right? He’s okay. He’ll be turned loose when it’s all over.”
But on the other side of the river Hedge, in his own view, was very far from being okay. The tunnel, which it had turned out to be — so far as he could feel in the intense darkness — was long, narrow, and very frightening. For all he knew it might lead nowhere, but it was all he had. He shook like a leaf as he laboured on his way, pulling his body over obstructions, bumping his head cruelly, scraping his shins — his clothing was in tatters now — and still hearing water. Some way back, not far in from the cellar, his route had climbed a little and the run of water seemed now to be below him somewhere, which was fortunate. The fear of drowning had lessened, but the fear of entombment was even greater. An appalling death if it came that way. People who went potholing were mad, like mountaineers. Years ago the youthful Hedge had been taken by his father down the White Scar cave system in Yorkshire. The nightmare was with him still and was making his imagination a thing of utter horror. There had even been an underground waterfall. He might fall willy nilly down some long shaft and end up in the Paris sewers …
He struggled on, whimpering with fear.
*
The night before, using the Volvo after it had taken Stolnik and little fat Annie off the van from the toyshop yard, Mikhail had arrived at his ultimate destination. Old Nicholas had got there before him, with the blank-faced non-persons: the destination was in the commercial port. Under cover of a warehouse a packing-case was removed from the boot of the Volvo and stowed behind some piled empty crates.
“The barge?” Mikhail asked.
Nicholas said, “Down the river. Hidden until the morning.” Mikhail nodded; in the morning the barge would be set adrift — not too early; when, as would inevitably happen, it was picked up by the police, the police would find a quantity of high explosive … they would scent both a cache and a catch; it would help to confuse the issue, draw some of the pressure away from the river if luck was with Mikhail. No point in Security agitating themselves too much about the river once the barge had been taken into custody. Attention might be switched to the Ecole Militaire, the Pompidou Centre which was also on the itinerary, or anywhere, it wouldn’t matter.
Mikhail settled down for a series of cat-naps: he was too nervy at this stage for proper deep sleep. Stolnik slept well, the tired craftsman who had produced the goods and knew that, if all took an equal strain, it couldn’t go wrong. Couldn’t possibly. Little fat Annie curled into a ball and was soon asleep. Stolnik had said nothing about the girl having slid out to a disco without permission. The possibility of a leak would be worrying and since there was nothing to be done about that, there was no point in rocking the boat at this stage. Besides, Mikhail had a nasty temper; the only person who mattered to Mikhail was Mikhail — that, and his commitment to hitting back at the Soviets, a commitment shared wholeheartedly with Stolnik.
When morning came they breakfasted on rolls and butter and a thermos of coffee brought in the night before. There was little conversation; breakfast eaten, Mikhail walked up and down the warehouse, still nervy, a tic working in his long, dark face. Nicholas, watching from a dirty, cobwebbed window, looking out towards the river, reported groups of hippies along the quay. Mikhail joined him for a look. Tex? The American was a worry. There was no knowing … he might be in Paris, probably was. With the hippies. But the hippies could be coincidental. They were universal enough. With Nicholas and Stolnik he went over the schedule once again. The river boat was programmed to leave from the quay below the Eiffel Tower at 1430 hours; by approximately 1530 it should be coming down towards the Pont d’Austerlitz. The timing could not be exact; no-one could foretell the delays inseparable from such occasions. The Russians might be late in leaving the Ecole Militaire, so many things might crop up. But it could be relied upon that around 1530, possibly a little later, the boat would be somewhere off the Quai de la Rappée.
That would be enough.
The worry was Shard. Not, however, a very serious worry; Shard’s knowledge was out of date. His mind would be filled with barges, barges laden with high explosive. Tex was in fact a bigger anxiety. As the morning wore on, more and more of the hippies arrived, thronging the quay beyond the warehouse, playing musical instruments, swaying, singing, waving their banners. It was an unsettling sight, bringing Tex into ever sharper focus.
Coincidence, or not?
He called little fat Annie over.
“Yes, Mikhail?” Breasts bouncing, she came across, smiling.
“Those hippies. Look through the window.”
She did so, standing on a packing case to get a view.
“Do you recognise any of them? From the Ardèche commune?”
She looked for a long while. “No,” she said at last. “There were so many there. It wouldn’t be possible —”
“All right,” Mikhail said. Little fat Annie got down. “Do you think Tex is with them?”
“I didn’t see him. I do not know, Mikhail.”
“All right,” he said again, abruptly. Little fat Annie drifted away, humming a tune to herself, and sat on the floor. Mikhail paced, kept on checking his watch. A little after 1300 hours he began the assembly: the packing-case was brought out from its temporary storage behind the piled crates. Stolnik, carefully, almost lovingly doing the unpacking, watched Mikhail’s face for admiration of his craftsmanship. But Mikhail did no more than nod his approval. After the unpacking, two stubby phials were brought from a box and given a last-minute check; and after this a small oblong leather-covered object was brought out from the packing-case. This when opened revealed knobs and dials and telescopic aerials.
At 1025 hours that morning the Paris river police made their find: down river, the barge laden with explosive. It had been towed away in much excitement. The terrorists’ secret weapon? Nevertheless, with Shard’s report of the strange detonators in mind, Paris, on an Establishment level, had still to be considered a time bomb. By some miracle of tight security and a harsh clamp-down on editors the Press had failed to publish any word about the threat; the French authorities were to be congratulated on that. If this had been London, there would have been a newsprint bonanza. Roberts-White dreaded to think what a panic-stricken Paris crowd would have been like. But, perhaps because Mrs Heffer had a loud voice, the rumour had spread that the British Prime Minister intended joining the Russians on the Seine and could doubtless be seen that afternoon, waving and smiling to the crowds along the banks while she conversed with the Russian Foreign Minister. Or possibly argued with him, which would be more interesting if more dangerous for world accord.
In the Elysée Palace, President Ligot shook with anger, dismay and astonishment but declined flatly to interfere. Madame Heffer was well enough aware of his views and he wished for no more argument; it was too fatiguing, especially so when you knew you were not going to win or even be listened to. What must be, must be. Metaphorically, he had washed his hands. One thing, however, worried him: had it been the right thing to do, after all — keeping the Press in such total ignorance, or more precisely forcing them not to publish such as they had gleaned via the flapping ears of their political correspondents? Had it? Should not the citizens of Paris have been warned, say, to keep well clear of the river? Madame Heffer would surely not deny them that! But when he conferred again with the Prefect of Police, the head of the GIGN and the Minister of State for Home Affairs plus the Mayor of Paris they all advised the same as they had advised earlier — that a warning would lead only to the panic already envisaged as an awful probability by Roberts-White. The whole conference might be set at nought if there were riots; a good proportion of the Parisians would blame the Russians and there would be tremendous ill-feeling. The others would blame the British … no, it was better kept as secret as possible. Of cours
e, it was such a pity about Madame Heffer, but …
“But if these people act even without their barge and there is an explosion or a shooting?” President Ligot asked.
“Ah …” The dignitaries took refuge in philosophical shrugs. That must not happen. The terrorists must be outmanoeuvred; there was one thing about the river: any attack if it still came there must surely be seen and avoiding action could and would be taken in time. It would not be like, say, a device planted in the Tour Montparnasse, the Eiffel Tower, or the Pompidou Centre, surreptitiously. The Seine was not a surreptitious thing. There was a very good chance, a hope of success. President Ligot had an idea they were all still thinking in terms of barges.
Mrs Heffer spent the morning dictating memoranda.
*
A very excellent lunch had been provided at the Ecole Militaire and the tour of the magnificent buildings had been most interesting. The Russian Foreign Minister had enjoyed it all; a fine chance to see something of the decadence of the West, all this pre-occupation with things past, with a military glory that for the West had gone forever. What, he asked himself, did Napoleon Buonaparte matter today?
Not a fig.
He was courteous nevertheless. He asked the right questions, expressed appropriate appreciation of fine furnishings and splendid paintings of ancient French battles. Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow … a sore point still? Politely, the Minister offered no comment. Not even a solemn joke — the French were touchy, and Russians were not jokey people anyway. Kruschev, so many years ago, had often put his foot into Western susceptibilities because he thought he had a sense of humour … a crude, fat man.
Despite a brave face and a confident manner, the Minister needed some Dutch courage at luncheon and he got it in plenty. Very fine wines … they helped. In the pit of the Minister’s stomach anxiety rose like bile. But of course there were always threats. Men in high positions had to accept the price. And Mrs Heffer might very well be a protection. When these men saw her, they might retreat and await another opportunity. When he and his delegation were on their own … gulping down wine, the Minister’s hand shook slightly. Two more full days yet to go. By keeping close to Mrs Heffer … but Russian delegations in the West always kept themselves to themselves, making use of a portable Iron Curtain, and the comrades in the Kremlin might misunderstand any deviation.
A little late, but not much, the Russian party left the Ecole Militaire at 1436 hours and were driven in a glittering motorcade to the Eiffel Tower along a street lined with somewhat morose-looking Parisians, only a wave and cheer here and there, which was disappointing. Off-loaded by the Eiffel Tower, the Minister and his party, completely surrounded the moment they left the cars by a strong posse of men in dark suits and hats and with hands already reached towards armpit bulges, went down to the Quai Branly. The boat was waiting not far from the Pont d’Iéna, and the British Prime Minister, arrived from her Embassy, was already aboard.
There was a cordial exchange of greetings. Mrs Heffer appeared unworried. So confident, like the British always were. She said, “Such a lovely day,” in English. This was interpreted and the Minister agreed with a non-committal grunt. One had to be cautious. With British Prime Minister and Russian Foreign Minister sitting together on a bench beneath a scrubbed canvas awning, the pleasure craft came off the Quai Branly and heavily escorted in front, at the sides and in rear by police launches headed towards possible extinction.
17
There was a glimmer of light now.
At last!
Hope and relief rose in Hedge. Panting, very close to exhaustion, he squirmed forward. The constriction … he was moving on his stomach now, wormlike, pulling with extended arms, thrusting with his legs. His limbs felt as if they weighed a ton apiece. There was just about room. If he’d been a shade fatter … but that didn’t bear thinking about. He’d have been stuck for ever to become a skeleton. No-one would have thought of digging up Paris to find him.
On a little more. He seemed to be climbing a little and after a while the light vanished and panic came down again. Hedge gave a sound of desperation. Perhaps it had been no more than a cruel mirage, even something in his imagination, or some physical manifestation of his intense desire to find anything to give him hope.
Down slightly now. Ah! There it was again — the light. Very small, very distant.
Hedge wormed on. At least there was no pursuit. Either the cellar wall had indeed become blocked by that earth fall, or Tex had had no intention of ever freeing him. The man was a monster.
*
Now it was ten minutes past three.
On the river the Prime Minister waved to right and left. Most of the spectators appeared to be the hippies. Few other people were risking getting caught up in the evil-smelling, largely dangerous-looking mob. The cheering that came across was derisive in the main although in one place the pleasure
boat went past a small group waving a Union flag with apparent gusto. There seemed to be a strong British contingent, or contingents: British banners waved, were flaunted, from various points along both banks. The usual stuff: MAKE LOVE NOT WAR, SEND DOWN A DOVE, PEACE MAN PEACE and SO On. No less than four said HEFFER OUT. One, evidently composed by a wag, said HEFFER VESCENT OLD BAG. Since until this morning it had been only rumour that said the British Prime Minister would be aboard, it was reasonable to assume the anti-Heffer banners were fortuitous and had been meant for some other occasion. Likewise ARTHUR SCARGILL FOR PRESIDENT.
Mrs Heffer professed amusement. It was the best approach. Inside she was simply furious; a very bad impression would be given to the Soviet delegation. When, just beyond the Pont Neuf, that ponderous structure decorated with masks above its arches, another HEFFER OUT loomed up, the Prime Minister pointedly engaged the Russian Foreign Minister in animated conversation via the interpreter. Nothing political: was he impressed with Paris, did he like being on the river, did he not think the architecture of the Louvre to be superb? It was a stilted conversation. Mrs Heffer found the grim-faced Russian security men off-putting; and to a large extent they were obscuring the view — there were so many of them and they were hefty to a man. But never mind: what she could see past the torsos and between the legs was peaceful enough apart from the belligerent banners. Very peaceful, Paris in summer, and they were on the river. Lovely. Really, the threat seemed totally unreal, it could almost have been a hoax, a hippie hoax.
Also at 1510 hours Mikhail was standing ready in the warehouse behind the Quai de la Rappée. Stolnik’s craftmanship was ready too: packed with thirty kilogrammes of plastic explosives, all connections made. The radio control had been tested and all was well. There could be no mistakes. Absolutely nothing could go wrong now.
Just one thing to be done: the assistance, in the penultimate stage, of a child was needed. Boy or girl, it didn’t really matter. That was little fat Annie’s job. And she was made for it. She looked trustworthy, friendly, no vice. She had a happy face, the sort a child would co-operate with instantly when a game was mentioned.
“All right?” Mikhail asked, his voice taut.
“Yes, Mikhail. Is it now?”
“A few minutes yet. The boat’s late. But no matter.” He started pacing again, a caged lion.
*
“Here it comes,” Tex said. He got to his feet; Shard and Eve did likewise. Tex, in the midst of his hippies, was confident enough to produce his gun from the ankle holster, but discreetly. He laid hold of Eve Brett, like a lover, and kept the gun in her side. Shard, looking back towards the Pont de Sully, saw the pleasure boat coming along with its VIP load.
Tex used a pair of binoculars, small ones that he’d brought from a shoulder bag. He said, “For Christ’s sakes, it’s right what the rumours said. She’s there! Your Mrs Heffer.”
Shard hadn’t doubted the rumours that had run through the hippie mob. He thought of all the banners. Talk about sheer lunacy. He was helpless and knew it; and the actual sight of the Prime Minister was a much more present th
ing than rumour. But Tex seemed to have the answers and he had to be trusted now. Shard asked, “How are you going to stop this?”
“Just wait,” Tex said. “And move — but fast. With me. In your own interest and Ma Heffer’s, don’t be bloody stupid and try anything on your own, right?”
He pushed through, towards the Pont d’Austerlitz. His personal squad moved with him, faces saying no-one come too close. There were no police around — not uniformed ones. Shard saw nothing that looked like a plain clothes man either. All the protection seemed to be on the river itself, the diving teams by the bridge supports, police river launches cruising ahead and astern of the VIP boat, crammed with armed men. Troops along the bridges themselves, no public admitted there. As the personal squad moved along they dived into their clothing and brought out pieces of dismembered gun. Efficiently Tex set them up: by the time they had gone twenty yards he had a telescopic-sighted, long range rifle, silenced, in his hands. As they moved, the hippies parted to let them through. It was an incredible thing to watch, to be part of. Tex was back, it seemed, to godhead. The hippies sensed his coming even with their backs turned. There was a curious sound, a kind of keening, a sort of vocal longing, a reaching out as if to God. Tex was really something to these people … Tex stopped in the lee of a wall, beneath the cover of a big tree that had survived the batter of the commercial port. He said, “Right over there.” He pointed towards the Left Bank. “That’s where it’s going to happen. Any moment. Watch out.”
He lifted his rifle ready, squinting along the sights, and waiting. His point of aim appeared to be the side of a warehouse behind the Quai de la Rappée.
*
The child was English, an appurtenance of an unmarried hippie mother. A little boy, six years old perhaps, chubby and friendly. Little fat Annie smiled at him; his mother wasn’t taking much notice of him while she watched the approach of the VIPs. He wasn’t lost but he was bored. Yes, he would like to sail a boat, but where was it?
The Executioners Page 19