by Jack Higgins
He went up the stairs two at a time, moved along the corridor and paused outside Rossiter’s room. The lock was child’s play, an old mortice that opened smoothly with the first skeleton key he tried, and he went inside.
The room was almost exactly the same as his own, small and bare, with a single bed and an old chest of drawers. It was a place of shadows with the gray light of late afternoon seeping in through the narrow window, but two tall candles burning steadily on either side of a statue of the Virgin gave all the additional illumination that he needed.
There was a suitcase under the bed that contained nothing but clothes. He replaced them neatly and pushed it out of sight again. He went through the drawers next and found the photographs Jones had mentioned, exactly as described. Chavasse examined them in the flickering light of the candles and Rossiter’s face jumped out to meet him, clear and quite unmistakable.
He replaced them carefully and searched the other drawers. There was nothing more of interest, which left only the books standing in a neat row on the window ledge: The Bible, Life of St. Francis Loyola, The City of God and various commentaries. There were also copies of the Quotations of Chairman Mao Tse-Tung and Das Kapital, which certainly made for a most Catholic collection in more senses than one.
He checked that everything was as he had left it, opened the door cautiously and stepped out. Jones moved from the shadows of an alcove almost immediately opposite and smiled.
“Was I right?” he demanded coolly.
Chavasse nodded. “On the nose.”
“The story of my life. I’m right so often, it’s sickening.”
There was the sound of a car pulling up outside. They moved to the window at the end of the passage and peered out. A Mercedes was parked at the entrance, and Rossiter and Jacaud stood beside it. Jacaud opened the rear door and a man wearing a heavy overcoat with an astrakhan collar and a black, old-fashioned trilby emeged. He was Chinese and built like a fort, with a round, smooth, enigmatic face that made his age difficult to judge.
“Man, this gets more like the United Nations every minute,” Jones whispered.
Chavasse nodded as the Mercedes drove away and Jacaud picked up the Chinese man’s bags. “The other passenger, presumably. We’d better get down and see what the form is.”
In the living room, Rossiter was already making introductions, and when Chavasse and Jones appeared, he turned with a pleasant smile. “Ah, now we are all here. Gentlemen, Mr. Cheung.”
The Chinese man came forward to shake hands. Close up, he was perhaps forty-five, with a smile of exceptional charm. “So, an Australian?” he said to Chavasse. “I have had many dealings with firms in your country. I am from Hong Kong.”
He shook hands with Jones rather formally and with considerably less enthusiasm, and then disappeared with Rossiter and Jacaud, who at close quarters looked white and ill, a great strip of surgical tape pasted across his brow.
“At least he shook hands,” Jones observed. “They don’t like my kind of people, man, or did you know that already?”
“To the Chinese, a person of any other race is naturally inferior,” Chavasse said. “So don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. I’m in there, too.”
He went out into the passage and helped himself to one of the old oilskins hanging from the wooden pegs. Jones leaned in the doorway and watched him. “Going somewhere?”
“I feel like some air.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Suit yourself.”
The Jamaican took down an oilskin and they went out into the rain. It fell straight from sky to earth, for there was no wind, and when they went out through the archway, St. Denise was almost hidden from view. Chavasse went down through the pine trees and moved along the beach into the sand dunes, thinking things over.
There was the organization, apparently simple enough in its aims, which were to get you across the Channel and into the U.K., no questions asked, for cash on the barrel. Except that they were also willing to put you over the side in chains in the right circumstances. Having met Jacaud and Rossiter, that fact was becoming easier to accept by the minute.
And what about Rossiter? The Jesuit who had lost his faith, presumably in Korea where a vicious and bloody confrontation with China had dragged on for years. Hamid, Famia and Mrs. Campbell were easy enough to accept, and Jones, of course, fitted neatly into place, but Mr. Cheung from Hong Kong? Now he really was an interesting piece of the jigsaw.
He paused on top of a sand dune and looked out over the gray sea. Jones nudged him in the ribs. “You see what I see? They’re showing the latest customer the boat.”
Chavasse squatted, pulling him down beside him. Rossiter and Cheung were walking along the wooden jetty toward the Leopard. As he watched, they scrambled onto the deck and disappeared down the companionway.
“I wonder what they’re up to?” Jones said.
“Only one way of finding out.”
Chavasse got to his feet and went down toward the water, keeping to the cover of the sand dunes, and Jones followed him. The small fishing fleet had long since returned from the day’s work, and the cobles were drawn up on the beach in a neat row that gave excellent cover.
Within a few moments, they had reached the shelter of the jetty. Chavasse paused and Jones said, “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“God knows—just my curiosity. I’d like to know what they’re doing.”
He worked his way along the heavy timbers, climbing to the next level at the point where gray-green water slopped in lazily. The heavy smell of the sea hung over everything: salt water, seaweed, dead fish, harsh and pungent, but not unpleasant. He crouched in a crosspiece, Jones right behind him, and there were footsteps on the deck above their heads.
Rossiter and Mr. Cheung were talking together in Cantonese. Chavasse strained every nerve to hear what was being said, but could only catch odd words and phrases. There was a sudden burst of laughter and then their footsteps drummed on the boards overhead as they walked away.
“What were they talking about?” Jones said.
Chavasse shook his head. “I couldn’t catch everything. Putting it together, it seems that Cheung has been sent from a place called Hellgate by a man named Montefiore. Does that make any kind of sense to you?”
Jones nodded. “Montefiore is something new, but Hellgate I’ve come across before. I overheard a conversation between Rossiter and Jacaud.”
Chavasse scrambled up the cross ties and looked down at the deck of the Leopard. It was a depressing sight, shabby and uncared for, festooned with nets and cluttered with lobster pots. The rubber dinghy had been inflated and a powerful outboard motor was attached to its stern.
“One thing’s certain,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, some of us will be swimming. That thing won’t hold more than four and make progress. Come on, we’d better get out of here.”
They scrambled back along the timbers and reached the beach again. As they moved up through the sand dunes, Jones chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Chavasse asked.
“You are.” Jones contrived to look innocent. “Man, you’re the only Australian I’ve ever met who could speak French and Chinese as well as English. Those Sydney schools must really be something.”
“You go to hell,” Chavasse said, and moved on through the pine trees toward the inn.
WHEN they entered, Rossiter was standing alone at the bar and Mercier was in the act of pouring himself a brandy. The Englishman turned and smiled. “Ah, there you are. We were looking for you.”
“We felt like a breath of air,” Chavasse said. “Anything important?”
“I think so. You’ll be pleased to know we’re leaving tonight at approximately nine o’clock.”
“How long will the crossing take?”
“About seven hours. If the weather holds, you’ll be landed on a beach near Weymouth.”
“Will we be met?”
“Naturally. My colleagues on the other side will ha
ve you in London by nine A.M. at the latest. After that you are on your own.”
“And what happens if something goes wrong?” Jones said.
Rossiter looked faintly surprised. “But it never does, I can assure you. I’ll see you later.”
He went out, closing the door, and a small, trapped wind scuffled in the corners and died.
Jones sighed. “Wish I had his confidence. You think this thing is going to work?”
“Do you?” Chavasse said.
They challenged each other, each man’s thoughts unspoken. Jones broke first, his face creasing into a smile. “I know one thing. It’s certainly going to be an interesting night.”
CHAPTER 7
The jetty at night was a lonely place, a lantern on a six-foot pole the sole illumination. In its harsh light, the Leopard looked like less of a bargain than ever, old and ugly like a whore who has seen better days, caught without her makeup on.
Mercier was there as was Jacaud, working on deck when the party from the Running Man arrived. Rossiter led the way, carrying Famia’s suitcase. Where the girl was concerned, he was all solicitude, helping her to the deck and handing her down the companionway. The others followed, Chavasse and Jones taking old Hamid and Mrs. Campbell between them in turn.
Rossiter held Chavasse back, a hand on his sleeve. “A word before you go below.”
“Something troubling you?” Chavasse inquired politely.
“Your gun.” Rossiter held out his hand. “No nonsense, now. There’s a good chap.”
Chavasse shrugged, produced the Smith & Wesson and handed it over. “You’re the boss.”
“For a few hours more. Now let’s join the others.” He nodded to Jacaud. “Any time you’re ready.”
Chavasse went down the companionway to the cabin and found the rest of them already seated on either side of a central table, looking absurdly formal, as if it were some kind of board meeting and they were waiting for the chairman. Jones pushed up to make room for him on the padded bench and smiled.
“What kept you?”
Before Chavasse could reply, Rossiter appeared. He leaned on the end of the table, his hands taking his weight. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to commence the final leg of your journey. If the weather holds, and I can assure you that the forecast is a favorable one, you will be landed approximately seven hours from now in a creek near a small village not far from Weymouth on the English coast. A member of our organization will be waiting there to take you on to London by road. For the rest of the voyage, I must ask you to stay in your cabin. Are there any questions?” No one spoke, and he smiled. “You’ll find sandwiches through there in the galley, if anyone feels hungry, and a small stove on which you can make coffee. I’ll see you later.”
He left, and almost immediately the engines coughed into life and the boat started to move. Chavasse peered out of the nearest porthole and saw Mercier standing under the lantern on the jetty as the Leopard moved out to sea. He walked away and Chavasse sat down again.
Jones offered him a cigarette. “Well, what do you think now?”
“They seem to know what they’re up to.” Chavasse leaned across to Famia. “Everything okay?”
She smiled brightly. “Fine, just fine. Mr. Rossiter has been so kind. He gives one such a feeling of confidence. I’m sure everything is going to be all right now.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Chavasse leaned back. The business with the Smith & Wesson had given him something to think about. There could well be some sinister motive behind it. On the other hand, it was perfectly possible that Rossiter was simply taking every precaution. Not that it mattered, for Chavasse, who had long ago learned by bitter experience never to leave anything to chance, still had the Walther PPK automatic, which before leaving, he had strapped to the inside of his left leg just above the ankle with a piece of surgical tape.
He sat back, eyes half-closed, and watched Cheung, who was reading a book at the far end of the table on the opposite side, next to Mrs. Campbell. Chavasse wondered what it was, and in the same moment remembered two things: Rossiter’s excellent Chinese and the copy of the Quotations of Chairman Mao Tse-Tung he had seen in his room. Yes, indeed, the more he thought about it, the more interesting Mr. Cheung became.
WITH a love of the sea not unnatural in a man whose Breton ancestors had been voyaging to the coast of Newfoundland to fish long before Columbus had discovered the New World, Chavasse had been running a thirty-foot motor yacht out of Alderney for eight years and knew the Gulf of St. Malo and the general area of the Channel Islands like the back of his hand.
Because of this, he was able to keep a reasonably accurate check on their progress, not only from an estimate of the boat’s speed, but by direct observation of various lights that were familiar to him.
Although the weather remained fair, the boat pitched considerably in the turbulence common to the area because of the great tidal surge that drives in through the Channel Islands, raising the level of the water in the Gulf by as much as thirty feet. Both Hamid and Mrs. Campbell were suffering from seasickness in spite of the pills that Rossiter had handed round at the inn before leaving, and the old man didn’t look at all well.
It wasn’t just the pitching of the Leopard that was causing the trouble. There was an all-pervading stench of fuel that seemed to have gotten steadily worse for the last hour. Chavasse looked out of the porthole as they rounded Hanois Lighthouse on the western tip of Guernsey.
He told Jones, “A clear run from here. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, if the weather holds.”
Jones made a wry face. “Much more of this and I’ll be sick myself. That fuel sure stinks.”
Chavasse said, in a low voice, “I’m not too happy about it. Think I’ll go on deck and have a word with our friend.”
The door at the top of the companionway was locked. He hammered on it with his clenched fist. After a while, it opened and Rossiter peered in.
“What do you want?”
“We’re getting one hell of a whiff of fuel down here,” Chavasse told him. “Old Hamid’s been sick several times now. He doesn’t look too good.”
Rossiter crouched down and sniffed. A frown appeared on his face. “I see what you mean. Better bring him up for a breath of air while I get Jacaud to check the engine.”
Jones and Chavasse took the old man up the companionway between them. There was a fair sea running, and a strength three wind, if Chavasse was any judge, but the old boat was coping nicely. The masthead light swung rhythmically from side to side. Jacaud crouched beside the bow hatch, which gave access to the engine. He disappeared from view, and Chavasse left Jones to look after Hamid and crossed to the open hatch.
There was only four feet of headroom inside, and Jacaud had to squat at the bottom of the short ladder while fumbling for the light switch in the dark. He found it, and in the sudden illumination, the trouble was plain enough to see, for an inch or so of fuel slopped around his feet.
He edged forward and disappeared from view, reappearing almost immediately. “How bad is it?” Chavasse asked, as he came up the ladder.
Jacaud ignored him, replaced the hatch and went aft to the wheelhouse. Chavasse returned to Jones, who stood at the rail with an arm around Hamid.
“What gives?” Jones demanded.
Chavasse shrugged. “Jacaud wasn’t exactly forthcoming. I’d say he has a leak in the fuel tank.”
“Quite correct.” Rossiter joined them, a match flaring in his cupped hands as he lit a cigarette. “As it happens, we have auxiliary tanks that carry enough fuel for the entire trip in themselves. Jacaud has switched over to them. I think you’ll find that things will improve very quickly now.”
“Do we have to return below?” Chavasse asked.
“One of you can stay up here with the old man for another ten minutes or so. He should be all right again by then.”
He went back into the wheelhouse and Chavasse turned to Jones. “You okay here?”
“Sure.”
“Good—then I’ll go below and see how the others are getting on.”
When he went down the companionway to the saloon, the smell of fuel still lingered, but it was nowhere near as strong as it had been earlier. Mrs. Campbell looked pale and wan, but Famia seemed fine, and Cheung leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest.
Chavasse glanced out of the porthole above his head. In the distance, the green-and-red navigation lights of a ship following the steamer lane that ran up-Channel from Ushant disappeared, as if a curtain had dropped into place. He peered out, frowning, and there was a step on the companionway.
Jones eased old Hamid into a seat and grinned. “Not too good out there now. Mist coming in off the water and it’s started to rain again.”
At that precise moment, the boat was rocked by a muffled explosion. Mrs. Campbell screamed as she was thrown half-across the table and Chavasse fetched up against the far wall. As he picked himself up, the Leopard came to a dead halt and started to drift.
CHAVASSE hammered on the door of the companionway. It opened almost at once and Rossiter peered in, a gun in his hand. His face had turned very pale, the eyes glittered, and yet the gun didn’t waver in the slightest.
“Back you go.”
“Don’t be a damn fool,” Chavasse said. “If there’s trouble, we’ve got a right to know about it.”
“When I’m good and ready.” Rossiter pushed him back and slammed the door.
“What’s wrong up there?” Jones demanded. “It certainly didn’t sound too healthy to me.”
In the stress of the moment, his accent had undergone a surprising transformation, replaced by the kind of faultless clipped English common to the products of the English public school system.
Mrs. Campbell was sobbing hysterically and Famia was trying to comfort her. Old Hamid seemed to have come to life in some strange way and was on his feet, an arm around both women. It was Cheung’s reaction that was the most interesting. No panic, no hysterics. He sat at the table, face expressionless, eyes watchful.