Touch The Devil

by Jack Higgins

  He pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth. Her lips were soft and dry, and he was trembling slightly, his stomach hollow with excitement. For a moment she responded, and then she took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed him away.

  “No, Martin, I’m not starting that again. You see, in spite of what you’ve said, I don’t think you’ve changed. I think you’ll always be the movement’s official undertaker. Now let’s go.”

  She turned and walked back to the motorcycle.

  * * **

  Frank Barry alighted from the Paris plane at Nice airport at four-thirty. He picked up a Peugeot from one of the rental firms, checked on the location of St. Martin, and drove straight there. It only took him an hour. A drink at one of the village’s two cafes and a talkative waiter gave him the location of Anne-Marie Audin’s farm. By six o’clock he was crouched behind a wall in an olive grove on the other side of the valley, examining the farm through binoculars.

  The only sign of life was the smoke from one of the chimneys rising in a straight line in the still air. He lit a cigarette and waited. About fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Liam Devlin strolled into the yard.

  “Well now,” Barry said softly. “Would you look at that?”

  He became aware of a humming sound somewhere in the distance, realized that it was an engine moving closer, swept the hillside above the farmhouse with his binoculars, and found the motorcycle.

  It looked like two men at first glance, Anne-Marie had the peak of her cap low over her eyes. He couldn’t make out the face of the man behind. The motorcycle entered the yard and came to a halt. As Devlin moved toward them, Anne-Marie took off her cap, shaking her hair down, and Brosnan paused to light a cigarette, giving Barry a clear look at his face.

  Barry laughed, a feeling of intense pleasure coursing through him that he couldn’t explain, even to himself. “God save us, Martin,” he said softly, “but you’ve done it again, you bastard.”

  The three of them went into the house. Barry waited for a while, then walked back down the track to where he had left the Peugeot.

  “What’s our next move?” Brosnan asked Devlin.

  It was after dinner, and they sat in the lamplight by the fire smoking. Through the half-open door Anne-Marie could be heard working in the kitchen.

  “There is only one possible move,” Devlin said. “Barry’s KGB contact in Paris, this fella Belov.”

  “We can’t exactly go knocking at the door of the Soviet embassy.”

  “No need. Ferguson supplied me with his address. He has an apartment on the Boulevard St. Germain.”

  “That’s it, then,” Brosnan said. “We start for Paris tomorrow.”

  Anne-Marie walked in with tea and coffee on a tray in time to hear his words, and Devlin’s reply, “Jesus, Martin, would you give us time to catch our breath?”

  “I don’t see any point in hanging about,” Brosnan told him.

  “He can’t wait to get to the funeral, you see,” Anne-Marie said and went back into the kitchen.

  Devlin said, “Since there’s no help for it, I’d better get you tooled up.”

  He went out. Brosnan poured the tea and drank it with conscious pleasure. A luxury denied him on Belle Isle. He was pouring a second cup when Devlin returned with a small suitcase which he placed on the table and opened.

  “A parting gift from Jean-Paul Savary. I didn’t bring any hardware through from London with me. Couldn’t take a chance on the customs.”

  There were two Brownings, a short-barreled Smith and Wesson revolver, and a sinister-looking Mauser with the bulbous silencer.

  “Very interesting,” Brosnan said and picked up the Mauser.

  “That takes me back,” Devlin told him. “Model 1932. Specially developed for German counterintelligence operatives. Ten-round magazine.”

  Brosnan reached in the case and took out a sleeveless vest whose nylon surface gleamed in the lamp light. “Flak jacket?”

  “What we call the up-market model for the man who has everything,” Devlin told him. “Manufactured by the Wilkinson Sword Company. Nylon and titanium. Jean-Paul tells me they can stop a .44-magnum bullet at point-blank range.”

  “Very impressive,” Anne-Marie said from the doorway. “You’re going to war again then?”

  Brosnan said evenly, “I think I’ll get some sleep now. Let’s get an early start in the morning.”

  “All right,” Devlin said.

  Brosnan brushed past Anne-Marie without speaking to her. After he had gone, she came to the table, shut the lid of the case angrily, and sat down.

  “I told you not to try and make him into something he isn’t,” Devlin said.

  She shook her head. “He’s changed, Liam. Different from what I expected.”

  “Girl, dear, he was never what you thought he was in the first place. The dark hero who came headfirst out of the reeds in Vietnam to save you was a man, just as ill-formed and fallible as the rest of us. Those photos you took over the years showed only the surface of things. The danger in your profession.”

  “I never truly understood him,” she said. “I see that now.”

  “A good feature for the center page,” Devlin said. “And the camera likes him. You always made him look good.”

  “Him and his damn roses,” she said bitterly. “Something else I never understood. Getting into the GOC’s office at Army headquarters in Lisburn that time and leaving a rose instead of a bomb, as if to say Brosnan was here. Games for children.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Devlin said. “That’s partly the poet in him, I suppose. The lover of what you French call the beau geste. But there’s more to it than that. The Plains Indians in America, the Sioux and the Cheyenne, had an interesting variation on the war theme. The bravest thing a warrior could do was get close enough in battle to touch the enemy with a stick. That was the real measure of a man’s bravery, not whether he’d killed his enemy or not.”

  “And you think that’s what he was doing with his roses? Saying look how brave I am?”

  “No,” Devlin said gravely. “I think what he was really saying was, I could have killed you but I didn’t, so perhaps we should think again. Find another way.”

  “I don’t know, Liam.” She stood up wearily. “Too complex for me, and so is he. I’m going to bed.”

  She kissed him on the forehead and went out.

  Behind the golden façade of the Côte d’Azur, the underworld of Nice was as tough and as ruthless as that of Paris or Marseilles, Barry knew that. The address Belov had given him turned out to be a small back street nightclub not far from the harbor, run by a man named Charles Chabert.

  He was a small man, a surprisingly civilized-looking individual with a mustache and gold-rimmed glasses. His dark suit was of excellent cut and as sober as his general image. His cognac was excellent, too, and Barry sipped a little and smiled his appreciation.

  “Muscle,” he said. “That’s all I need. My contact in Paris assured me you were just the man to provide it.”

  Chabert nodded. “I have a certain reputation, Monsieur, that is true. How many men would you need?”

  “Three.”

  “To go up against?”

  “Two.”

  Chabert looked surprised. “With you, that makes four. Is that necessary?”

  “To take care of the two I have in mind it is.”

  “I see. Formidable?”

  “You could say that. I need them first thing tomorrow. A morning’s work only. I’ll pay you twenty thousand francs.”

  “Would there be the possibility of a little shooting?”

  “Definitely.”

  Chabert nodded. “I see. Then in that case, the price will be thirty thousand. Forty,” he added, “to include my fee.”

  “Done.” Barry smiled cheerfully and held out his hand. “One thing, I’m in sole charge. You make that clear. No cowboys.”

  “But naturally, Monsieur. These are my own people. They do as I say.” He picked up the i
nternal telephone and said, “Send Jacaud, Leboeuf, and Deville to my office.”

  “They sound like a cabaret act,” Barry said.

  “In a way, that’s what they are. Excellent professional performers. Let me give you another cognac.”

  A moment later, there was a knock at the door. It opened and three men filed in. They stood against the wall, waiting. In spite of the good suits, Barry had only to look at the faces to know they were exactly what he was looking for.

  “Satisfied, Monsieur?” Chabert asked.

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good, then perhaps you would be kind enough to settle now. Cash in advance is the one policy I always strictly adhere to. Life, after all, is an uncertain matter, and we are all vulnerable—even you, my friend, particularly when involved in an affair like this.”

  Barry, who had come prepared, courtesy of Belov, laughed and took a thick wad of notes from his inside pocket.

  “You know, I like you, old son, I really do,” he said, and started to count out the agreed fee in thousand-franc notes.

  Devlin usually woke at dawn, the habit of years, but that following morning he overslept and discovered, when he opened his eyes, that it was eight-thirty. He got up quickly, had a shower, and then dressed.

  He hesitated, looking at the bulletproof vest, then decided to try it and put it on under his shirt. As it weighed sixteen pounds he knew he was wearing it, but it fitted snugly enough and was not particularly uncomfortable.

  When he went into the kitchen, Brosnan was sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs. Anne-Marie turned from the stove. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, as if she had slept badly.

  “There you are. What would you like, eggs?”

  Devlin shook his head. “I haven’t eaten breakfast in years. A cup of tea would be fine.” He sat down opposite Brosnan. “And how are you this beautiful morning?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” Brosnan said. “The first time I’ve done this in years.” He reached across and opened Devlin’s shirt, disclosing the vest. “You’ve got a button undone. What are you wearing that for?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d give it a try,” Devlin told him. “You should try yours. It’s fun.” He swallowed the tea Anne-Marie gave him and stood up. “When are we leaving?”

  “Whenever you like. How are we going, by road or air?”

  “By road will take forever. On the other hand, it might be safer. There’s that face of yours to consider.”

  “I’m dead, Liam,” Brosnan said. “Nobody will look at me twice, and that picture in the paper was five or six years old. Another thing, I had short hair then. A pair of sunglasses, and I’m laughing.”

  “All right,” Devlin said. “Air it is. You get ready. I’m just dropping down to the village to make a telephone call.”

  “Ferguson?”

  “He might just have something to say that’s worth hearing.”

  “If it’s about Barry, I’ll buy that.”

  Devlin turned to Anne-Marie. “I’ll take the Citroën if I may.”

  She handed him the keys. “One thing, Liam, when you go it’s without me.”

  “I see.” He glanced at Brosnan who continued to eat stolidly. “Whatever you think best, girl dear.” He held her hand for a brief moment, turned, and went out.

  Barry had driven up from Nice in the Peugeot, followed by the three hoods in a small van with the name of a well-known Nice electrical contractor on the side panel. They drew into a rest stop just outside St. Martin, and Jacaud got out of the van and pretended to be tinkering with the engine. Barry drove into the village. He was not sure of his next move. It certainly wouldn’t do to just drive up to the farm. On that narrow road, they would be seen coming all the way up from the village.

  In any case, the situation was taken out of his hands for as he pulled in beside the church, he saw Devlin at the wheel of the Citroën getting gasoline at the filling station further along the street.

  Barry got out the Peugeot and dodged into the church, leaving the door slightly open, and watched.

  * * *

  Devlin pulled out of the filling station, turned across the street, and parked under a tree. He got out and walked over to the cafe. A young woman was washing the half-dozen tables and chairs that stood outside.

  “Morning, Monsieur,” she said. “You would like coffee?”

  “Never touch the filthy stuff,” Devlin told her, “but if you’ve got a cup of tea, that would be fine after I’ve used the telephone.”

  “My father’s using it at the moment, Monsieur, phoning our weekly order to the wholesaler in Nice. He shouldn’t be long. I could get you the tea while you wait.”

  “And why not?” Devlin lit a cigarette, sat down, and turned his face to the morning sun.

  It was very quiet in the church, winking candles and incense heavy on the cold air, and down by the altar the Virgin seemed to float out of darkness, a slight, fixed smile on her face. No one waited by the confessional boxes. The place seemed quite empty, and then Barry saw that there was a young boy at the altar, kneeling in prayer. He stood up, crossed himself, and walked to the door.

  “Are you looking for the curé, Monsieur? He’s not here. He’s gone to Nice.”

  He was only nine or ten, and Barry ruffled his hair and smiled. “No, I’m watching a friend of mine. See, the man over there at the cafe?”

  “I see, Monsieur.”

  “I tell you what,” Barry said. ‘’Let’s play a trick on him.”

  “A trick, Monsieur?”

  “That’s right. You go over and tell him the priest wants to see him. Then when he walks in, he’ll get a big shock when he sees me.” He took out his wallet and produced a ten-franc note.

  The boy’s eyes went round. “For me, Monsieur?”

  Barry slipped it into his pocket. “Off you go now, and mind you don’t give the game away.”

  Devlin’s eyes closed as he turned his face to the sun, and he was not aware of the boy’s approach until he tugged at his sleeve.

  “Monsieur?” the boy said timidly.

  “What is it, son?”

  “The priest, Monsieur, in the church.” He waved vaguely. “He asked me to get you.”

  “The priest?” Devlin smiled good-humoredly. “But I don’t know him. There must be some mistake.”

  “Oh, no, Monsieur, he pointed you out to me. He said the gentleman at the table, and you are the only one.”

  Devlin looked around him. “So I am, that’s a fact. All right, let’s see what he wants.”

  He tried to take the boy’s hand, but he turned and ran away. Devlin shrugged and walked across the street, passing the Peugeot, and went up the steps. He paused, the innate caution that was the product of years of living dangerously sending his hand into his pocket to feel for the butt of the Browning.

  It was dark in the church after the bright morning sunshine. He stood just inside the door, waiting, and someone said in French in a hoarse whisper, “Over here, Monsieur Devlin.”

  He was aware of the cassock, the figure insubstantial in the gloom. “What is it?” he demanded and stepped forward.

  “A message from Jacques Savary, Monsieur. Please—in here.”

  The priest moved into the confessional box, drawing the curtain, and Devlin went into the other side and sat down. The whole thing made perfect sense now, of course. Savary and his son, after all, were the only people who knew where they were.

  There was a movement on the other side of the grill, and the voice said, “Have you anything to confess, my son?”

  “Well, I’ve sinned most grievously, Father, and that’s a fact, but what about Savary?”

  “He can roast in hell as far as I’m concerned, Liam, me old son, along with you!”

  The Ceska in Barry’s right hand coughed twice, ripping through the grill, slamming into Devlin, hurling him back against the side of the confession box. There was a fractional moment when he fought for air and then total darkness.

 
Barry opened the curtain and looked down at him sprawled in the corner. “All debts paid, Liam,” he said softly.

  He pulled the cassock he had borrowed from the vestry over his head, flung it into a pew, closed the curtain on Devlin again and went out.

  Unlike Devlin, Brosnan put the nylon and titanium vest on over his shirt. It didn’t look too bad after all. In fact it went quite well with his jeans. He pulled on the reefer and slipped one of the Brownings into his righthand pocket. The Mauser went into his belt at the rear, snug against his back.

  He smiled, remembering that it was Devlin who’d taught him that. He took the Smith and Wesson with the short barrel, hefted it in his hand, and went into the bathroom. He found a roll of surgical tape in the cabinet over the washbasin, tore a couple of lengths off and taped the Smith and Wesson to the inside of his left leg, just above the ankle, covering it with his sock.

  When he went into the kitchen the radio was playing, but there was no sign of Anne-Marie. He found her sitting on a bench outside in the morning sun, eyes closed. He strolled across and paused, uncertain what to say. Below him he could see the Citroën coming up the winding road.

  “Liam’s coming,” he said.

  “Is he?”

  He leaned on the wall. “Do you still paint?”

  “Yes,” she said, “only in watercolor now. I’ve given up oils.”

  “Devlin once told me that any fool could paint in oils, but that it took a real painter to master watercolors.”

  Behind him Devlin’s Citroën moved into the courtyard and still she kept her eyes closed. “Go away, Martin, just go away.”

  “All right, if that’s the way you want it,” Brosnan said and turned toward the Citroën. It took a moment for him to see that the man leaning out of the window of the car, Jacaud, was holding a revolver and that it was pointing straight at him. Suddenly Frank Barry, who had been hidden from view, sat up in the rear seat and kicked the door open. When he got out, the Ceska in his hand was pointing at Brosnan, too.