by Des Sheridan
Tara looked irritated. He expected a comment on the lines how was it that men knew about this sort of thing and how to go about it? But she said nothing. He was irascible for a different reason, and carried on dogmatically.
‘And as for the police, talk to them and they will arrest us. We are implicated already in two deaths.’
He realised belatedly that he sounded obdurate. The tension of the last few weeks and his anxiety about what would happen the following day were fuelling his frustration. Normally in a situation like this he would internalise his stress or work it off in physical exercise. But Tara was a rogue card. He realised that he couldn’t handle her as part of the equation. He felt as if he was taking a lamb to slaughter. His voice was raised now and he could see that Tara didn’t like it but he ploughed on.
‘I’ll tell you what is insane - to approach these people without protection. They will kill you, Tara, as soon as spit. And torture you beforehand to boot. That is what they are like. Think of Shay, think of Andre. If we go in there we have to be prepared to hurt them, and hurt them bloody first. I won’t let you go in unless you carry a gun and know how to use it.’
‘Oh, and you think you can stop me, do you? I am a free agent. There is no way a man will decide what I can and can’t do, Robert Grainger,’ Tara shouted at him. The Celtic temper was up and her eyes blazed. But this was not an issue Robert was going to back off from.
‘Don’t give me pseudo-feminist clap trap,’ he roared back at her. ‘Don’t you dare patronise me! I am a professional ex-soldier. I know about these situations. You don’t and you should listen to me. If a female Israeli soldier were here she would say exactly the same thing. This is about staying alive, that’s all! There is a difference between courage and stupidity and it is called taking proper precautions. If you insist on going tomorrow – against my advice – then for God’s sake use some common sense!’
Angry and exasperated, he backed up against a tree trunk and slid to the ground, looking out on the lake. The silence between them was deafening and absolute. The trees were whispering more loudly now, like a Greek chorus commenting on their row. Robert had closed his eyes and for a sickening moment he thought she would just stalk off. Then he would have to go after her and eat humble pie to get her back. They would run late and Nico would be furious. Robert couldn’t recall the last time he had lost it so badly and spoken to anyone like that. He felt an idiot but his anger was not yet extinguished and it kept him silent.
Then there was a shuffling noise and he realised she was sitting alongside him.
‘For God’s sake, Robert, keep your bloody hat on. This is a fucking ridiculous situation and I don’t like it one bit but maybe you are right. It seems I have no choice. I am just afraid, Robert. I am just very afraid’.
Her left hand took hold tightly of his right one, as though there would be no tomorrow, the fingers closing around his. Turning to each other, their heads leaned forward almost touching in the dusk which was fast falling.
‘I know, Tara. I’m sorry. I lost my temper. I am just very concerned for your safety. But if we work as a team, we will be fine. Trust me’.
He wished he could really believe that. He wished also he could just take her in his arms and kiss her. The touch of her hand was working on his system like an electric shock and he felt an erection strain against his pants. But there was work to be done and this was not the time.
Chapter 77
Back in the chalet, a short time later when everyone was sitting down, Nico resumed where he had left off.
‘So we are agreed that we all go in tomorrow. Remember we are a team and together we can succeed. By ourselves we fuck up, OK? So we use each other, we work together, yes?’
He looked around checking that heads were nodding. Tara looked uneasily at the floor.
‘Next, we will carry weapons and know how to use them. In the unlikely event you need them, they keep you alive.’
Tara realised that Nico was trying to reassure her but for the first time his voice failed to carry conviction. Robert must have picked this up and interposed.
‘Remember, Tara, if violence is being used you have only one priority – staying alive. You have to meet force with force.’
Nico opened up a green Lacoste sports bag that was sitting on the table and pulled out some bubble-wrapped items.
‘The choice today in Rennes was good so I am happy with our purchases. Luckily for us there is good flow of weapons from Eastern Europe. For you, Roberto, an old friend. A Browning Hi-Power, a single action 9mm semi-automatic. OK? Couldn’t get you a SIG-Sauer I’m afraid, a bit upmarket for downtown Rennes.’
Robert nodded happily and took the weapon, immediately checking the catches and stripping it down, getting used to it.
‘And for you, Tara, something special. A Glock M-26.’
As he spoke Nico turned towards her. Her heart had dropped into her stomach at the sight of the Browning and Robert’s evident ease at handling it. The only weapons she knew at close hand were her father’s shotguns but there was never a suggestion that they posed a threat towards anyone but rabbits. Now she was surrounded by people who were used to handling weapons designed to kill other people and were prepared to use them. She was struggling to adapt her frame of reference rapidly enough. She might have been a selfish bitch in Boston, but her politics had always been unfailingly Democratic, an East Coast liberal through and through and no supporter of the gun lobby. But that was then. Now was different. She didn’t want to die, so she kept her mouth shut on the issue for once.
Nico held the Glock out towards her. She was relieved to see that it was a much smaller, pocket-sized pistol compared to the Browning. He moved up beside her and sat down, tossing it between his two hands to demonstrate how light it was and how to clasp the grip with two fingers. Next minute he lobbed it to her, and she caught it, before he pointed out how to load the weapon and operate the three safety catches. Feeling it in her hands, becoming more familiar with how it handled, Tara knew she had crossed a Rubicon that she had never expected to arrive at.
‘It is designed for women to use and the 10-round magazine capacity means you have enough firepower to protect yourself no matter what – for sure. And it is semi-automatic so there is no nasty recoil, not like a revolver.’
Nico’s mellow tone was at its most reassuring. He got her to unload the weapon and pull the trigger until she seemed reasonably familiar with it. She started to accept that the pistol could help her survive. As long as she didn’t shoot some poor bystander who made the mistake of tapping her on the shoulder at the wrong time, she thought.
‘OK, Tara, that is good. We practise a little in the morning, you and me, before we go?’
He was close up beside her and again she was acutely aware of his lithe physicality. Something made her look across at Robert, who was engrossed in conversation with one of the team, and a warm feeling came over her. Something about the shape and tilt of his head. She knew then with certainty that she wanted him. She couldn’t say she had her man, but at least she knew who he was.
Nico stood and clapped his hands.
‘OK, that’s it. I want everyone to chill out now. We need to relax because tomorrow will be all action.’
A surge of wind lashed at the nearest window, drawing Tara’s attention. It was still early evening but outside the whispering of the birch trees had reached a steady roar as an energetic squall, fresh in from the Atlantic, swept its course across Brittany.
Chapter 78
Normandy, France, 19 October 2014
Fifty miles east of Fougères, Pascal sat alongside Jean in the rear of the chauffeur-driven black Mercedes. The interior window between them and the driver was closed, affording them privacy. They had passed Amiens and were on the E44 heading for Le Havre. Jean had flown into Brussels that morning from Madrid, having relayed the day before the news that Theo had been found dead.
‘I couldn’t give details on a non-secure line, Pascal, but the fact
is no one knows how it happened. All we know is that he visited a festival at La Noia on the night he died. Presumably he was following the contact you mentioned but we don’t know who that was, or why they went there. The cause of death was drowning with no suspicious circumstances. The Policia Nacional is dealing with the case, I think because he was a foreign national. They believe Theo drank too much, fell asleep on the beach and got carried out to sea by the incoming tide. It has happened before at the festival. Being an MEP helped me with them. They accepted at face value that I was his cousin but I couldn’t probe too deeply for fear of rousing suspicion. Grainger and the woman stayed in Santiago, in the hotel, that evening, and ate dinner there. My contact at the Parador is certain of that so they were not directly involved. They checked out and disappeared early the day before I arrived, so I was too late.’
Jean paused waiting to see how Pascal would respond.
‘No way was it an accident!’ Pascal sneered angrily. ‘Don’t be such a fool, Jean, this stinks! I know Theo could be stupid, but not that stupid! And, what is more, Ruane must have the Triskell –otherwise, why leave Santiago? I am more than ever convinced that they will come to Mont Saint-Michel. At least I can be sure that they can’t evade the watchers Erik has put in place. There have been no sightings but they have to come. Where else would they go? They might head for England but if they turn up at Arundel Dries will let us know and we can get a ferry over. My money says that they will arrive tomorrow. Whatever happens I want her taken alive! That way I can get the Triskell and find out what happened in Santiago. But Grainger, him I want him dead. He is mucking things up too much, the interfering Brit. He is getting on my nerves now.’
Pascal was twitching about in the seat, a physical agitation that mirrored his mental state. Jean had rarely seen him this hyper. He wondered if his boss was on drugs. Jean knew that Pascal sometimes took them.
A sign by the roadside told them they had crossed into Normandy. Rain lashed the windscreen. Miserable weather, thought Jean, taking it personally.
VI: Mont Saint-Michel
Chapter 79
Mont Saint-Michel, France, 20 October 2014
Tara glimpsed the first watcher, one of the men, when she glanced back into first courtyard, the Cour de l’Avancée. They had entered the great fortress of Mont Saint-Michel through the commercial entrance, a small passage in the Tour du Roy, used only by residents and delivery men. Had they entered like most tourists, along a narrow wooden boardwalk over the sea and though the Porte de l’Avancée into the courtyard, they would have been spotted immediately.
As it was she couldn’t be sure that they had evaded observation, but she reckoned that their disguises should have done the trick. They were dressed as ordinary working-class French people and Nico had arranged led a further surprise, a radical hair makeover for both of them. Robert’s hair was now dark, almost black, and her long tresses were history. Instead she had a short urchin cut, hair dyed a shade of mauve and lipstick to match; very chic, very French. It also helped that they were partly obscured under the large triple-stack trays of fresh breads that they were carrying. Turning left, they delivered their wares to a restaurant, La Mere Poulard, on the Boulevard du Barbacane, a small stretch of street between the second and third gates. They then parted company with the boulangier who had smuggled them in and squeezed their way again into the throng milling through the third gate.
Finding themselves on the lowest stretch of the Grande Rue, they crossed the crowded narrow street and climbed a flight of stone steps that took them up on to the walls. Then they cut back onto a bridge over the street and slipped up a narrow stepped alley. The street sign read “Escaliers des Monteux”, just as Nico had said it would.
Tara’s heart was beating fast. She hadn’t thought the Grande Rue would be so narrow, little more than a lane and heaving with visitors. Although they had been on it no more than a few minutes, it had felt unbearably claustrophobic and she expected any one of the people about her to turn any second into a murderous assassin. She was relieved to get away from the mayhem.
Here she caught her first glimpse of the Mont. Above her towered the medieval Benedictine edifice, soaring several hundred feet into the sky. Nothing prepared her for the astonishing scale of the structure. Looking up at it from within the alley induced a sense of vertigo as she took in the vast, containing walls, rising like cliffs skywards. At the pinnacle she could see the statue of St Michael gleaming golden in the morning sun. Tara identified with the sense of awe the medieval pilgrim must have felt. She was experiencing it herself right now.
Following the tiny passage they soon accessed a series of terraced gardens behind the Grand Rue, where visitors were much fewer in number and you could see them approaching, affording an opportunity to assess them before they got too close. They made their way up a maze of paths and steps, climbing through the gardens, until they found themselves on the Chemin de Ronde Abbatial, the laneway that skirted the foot of the fortress.
‘See along there,’ Robert pointed ahead to where a great throng of tourists was queuing to get into the Abbey. ‘Beyond that is the Grand Degré Extérieur, a long flight of steps that descends from the Abbey to join the Grand Rue. By coming this way we have avoided it.’
He indicated a long set of steps on their left. ‘And down there, that’s our exit. It is about a five-minute walk to the Tour Gabriel. Nico will have a boat at the jetty there for us. It is best not to retrace our steps.’
‘OK, so where to now?’ asked Tara, relieved that they wouldn’t have to navigate the Grande Rue. She didn’t want to be a sitting duck there again.
‘According to the map there should be a private entrance to the Abbot’s residence just along here a bit. Look for a gated door in the wall.’
He nodded in the direction of the Abbey entrance. After a few yards they found what they were looking for, a wooden door under a rounded arch in the wall that flanked the Abbey. Robert pressed a small doorbell, just to the right of a notice saying “Privée”, and they waited. They stood there for what seemed a nerve-wracking eternity, turning their back on the trickle of tourists who ventured this far past the main entrance. Finally, inside the building, they heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock.
Chapter 80
A thin, slightly stooped, older woman stood in the doorway. She had a long face matched by a long nose and high cheek bones. It was a face that you might find in a fresco from Pompeii, Robert thought. Her black hair, streaked with grey, was held back and up in a bun by a hairnet.
‘Le bon matin. Peut-je vous aidez?’ The face was polite but distant as though they might be nuisance callers.
In faltering French, Robert gave his name and explained that they had an appointment with the Abbé Lavale. This elicited a brief but genuine smile that animated her face, and she motioned them inwards. They entered a small strip of garden that led after a short distance to another door, embedded into the curtain wall of the Abbey complex. It was open and they followed the woman into the Logis Abbatiaux, along an ancient corridor, with steps at intervals and walls made entirely of large fitted stones. The doorways they passed were arched in the Gothic style and, underneath their feet, blue polished marble paved the floor and was the only outward sign of extravagance. Robert was struck at how bare the building felt. There were no pictures or wall hangings, just yard after yard of bare rectangular blocks of stone. The occasional crucifix and statue of a saint in a niche were the only ornamentation.
After a time the steps ended and the corridor widened out. The housekeeper sat them on a spartan wooden bench and departed in search of the Abbé. The clicking of her heels on the floor announced her return five minutes later, and they set off again, following her until she stopped outside a pair of tall doors, constructed in pale ash wood, that must have been ten foot tall. Robert noticed that the elegant handles were cast iron and in a modern styling and realised they must be part of a recent restoration. The room they were ushered into was as bare as
the corridors but featured a magnificent large plain-glass mullioned window that looked out over the bay and through which sunlight was streaming in. Dazzled by this at first, Robert didn’t notice the Abbé who rose from behind a desk on the left, which was covered in papers and old books. He was a small man with an owlish face, three double chins and a sizeable girth, who spoke excellent English and did his best to help them. The conversation, however, threw up little that was new although he did confirm, by checking in an old ledger, that a man called Arven Bihan had been a monk at the monastery in the sixteen-fifties. Unfortunately there was no record of any Guion Bihan at that time.
‘The Bihans were a good Catholic family’ the Abbé observed. ‘We always had a Bihan on the books until the Revolution. You know in those days the third or fourth son often became a cleric. It was expected, you understand, to make amends for the sins of the rest of the family,’ He chuckled at his little witticism. But he knew nothing more and suggested their best bet was to go to Records Office in Avranches to do a genealogical tracing of the family. After the Revolution of 1789 most of the Abbey’s records had ended up there. Tara and the Abbé talked on but Robert’s attention wandered. His glance fell back on the door they had entered by, which he noticed move a fraction. It happened again about thirty seconds later and the tip of a shoe was visible momentarily. The housekeeper was eavesdropping on the conversation of her master! He smiled, thinking it must liven up her dull existence and provide a bit of gossip for later, no doubt. By this point even Tara was visibly flagging. There was only so many questions one could politely ask when your host clearly doesn’t have any answers, Robert thought. Time to let her off the hook he decided and rose to signal their exit. Tara took the hint and stood up, profusely thanking the Abbé for his assistance. He struggled to walk to the door. Sciatica, he explained, tapping his lower back, so Tara told him to stay put. They would let themselves out. Gratitude was written across his face as she closed the door after them.