Touch The Devil

by Jack Higgins

  “An old RAF station from the war days, south of a place called Ravenglass. Tanningley Field.”

  “That’s bad flying country,” Graham said. “Friend of mind hit the top of a mountain near there back in ‘43 in a Lancaster bomber. Only the rear gunner survived, and he had both legs broken.” He was going over the map as he spoke. “There it is. No longer in use.”

  “Apparently the runway is perfectly usable,” Devlin said. “The man we’re after is familiar with the place. He’s flying up there now. Left around two.”

  “What in?”

  “A Cessna 310.”

  “There’s a head wind tonight,” Graham said.

  “I’ve checked the weather. That cuts him down to about a hundred and forty in one of those things. I’d say he’ll get there about seven or seven-thirty. Maybe five hours, which would be about right. Dawn coming up, you see, and on a field like that with no facilities he can only make a visual approach, so he needs light,” He folded the maps. “Just like us.”

  Devlin checked his watch and saw that it was four o’clock. “So, he’s got a two-hour head start on us.”

  Graham shook his head. “My Navajo can better his speed by a hundred miles an hour, and we won’t be as bothered by that head wind. I reckon we can make it in three hours.”

  “Arriving at around dawn.” Brosnan turned to Devlin. “Right up his backside, so let’s get moving.”

  “Just let me explain one thing before we leave,” Graham said. “I’ll need a destination to keep the air traffic people happy. I’ve already told Orly I’m making an emergency flight to Glasgow to pick up a supply of blood needed for an operation in Paris this afternoon.”

  “Blood?” Brosnan said.

  “Yes, a rare group. You know the sort of thing. A trick we use occasionally when we need to make a flight that’s a little out of the ordinary. Jean-Paul’s already arranged it by telephone with a contact in Glasgow since he spoke to you, so that gives me a legal reason for the flight.”

  “And where do we come in?”

  “The Lake District is directly en route, and it isn’t controlled air space. At the right moment, I go down fast, you jump out, and I take off again and keep my fingers crossed it isn’t noticed on anyone’s radar screen. A fair chance at that time in the morning.”

  “And if it is?”

  “I’ll think of something.” Graham smiled. “I took my wings in the RAF in nineteen thirty-nine, Mr. Devlin. I’ve been at it a long time. Not much they can teach me. If I say I had instrument problems, they’ve got no proof otherwise. Anyway, let’s get going.”

  They got the hangar doors open, and Devlin and Brosnan climbed into the Navajo. It was roomy enough inside, with seating for ten people. Graham climbed in after them and pulled up the door.

  “I’ve only got my wing lights to go by,” he said. “With this fog the take-off’s going to seem worse than it is. If you don’t like heights, just close your eyes.”

  The engines roared into life, and Devlin and Brosnan strapped themselves in as he taxied outside, moved to the end of the runway, and turned into the wind.

  “You know what they say in the theater, Martin?” Devlin said. “It’s bad luck to wish somebody good luck.”

  “Thanks very much,” Brosnan said. “Just what I needed.”

  And then they were plowing into the fog, Graham easing back the stick at precisely the correct moment for lift-off, refusing to sacrifice power for height, pulling the stick back into his stomach when instinct told him it was right to do so.

  At eight hundred feet they burst out of the fog; he gently applied foot pressure on the right rudder and started to turn to starboard.

  Anne-Marie had slept for some time and awoke to find the first gray light of dawn seeping across the sky. In the far distance to port, the Isle of Man was a shadow on the horizon. She could see from the altimeter that they were flying at two thousand feet. When she looked down, the sea was a desolate waste below.

  She was aware of Barry’s voice over the roaring of the twin engines as he spoke into his mike. “Ronaldsway. This is Golphe Alpha Yankee Yankee Foxtrot. I am diverting to Blackpool.”

  He switched to autopilot and turned to her, the handcuffs in one hand. “Not that I think you’d be silly enough to start a fuss that would kill the both of us, but I’d feel happier if you put these back on.”

  She didn’t struggle, there was little point. She simply held out her wrists to receive the handcuffs.

  “Good girl.” He grinned. “Now just sit tight and enjoy yourself. This is the exciting bit.”

  He took over the controls again and went down fast.

  FOURTEEN

  Henry Salter had the forethought to take a pair of twelve-inch wire cutters with him when he drove out to Tanningley Field. They sliced through the rusting chain that was padlocked to the main gate easily enough, and he got back in the Land Rover and drove inside.

  There were signs of neglect everywhere. Grass was growing through cracks in the old runway, and the roofs of two of the hangars had fallen in.

  The third looked in reasonable enough condition. It still bore the legend in faded white paint Tanningley Flying Club. With a bit of an effort, he managed to roll back the doors and venture inside. Rain dripped through the holes in the roof. It was cold and depressing, and he shivered, turning up the collar of his coat. And then, in the distance, he heard the plane and ran outside.

  The Cessna came in from the sea very low, banked to starboard, and dropped straight in at the far end of the runway. Salter ran out waving his arms, and the Cessna turned toward him and taxied inside the hangar, the roaring of the twin engines filling the place with their clamor. Barry switched off, opened the door, and climbed out on the wing. “Mr. Sinclair,” Salter said weakly. Barry reached inside the plane and pulled Anne-Marie out and helped her to the ground. Salter looked her over, noting the handcuffs with dismay.

  “All right, let’s get moving.” Barry ran Anne-Marie to the Land Rover and pushed her into the rear, taking the driver’s seat himself, starting up as Salter scrambled into the passenger seat.

  “But where are we going?”

  “The marsh. Your boat, the Kathleen, is still moored down there on the creek, I hope?”

  “Of course she is.” Salter was bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” Barry said, and turned out of the main gates.

  “Hang on,” Salter told him. “I’d better close them or someone might notice and wonder what’s been going on.”

  Barry halted, and Salter went back to the gates. He paused beside the Land Rover as he came back, head turned, listening. Barry said impatiently, “What is it?”

  “I thought I heard another plane. I must have been mistaken.”

  “Get in, man, for God’s sake. I haven’t got all day,” Barry said, exasperated, and he drove away quickly without giving Salter time to get the door closed.

  The sound Salter had heard was the Navajo making its first approach, but the weather had already deteriorated so much that the ceiling was down to eight hundred feet, and Barney Graham turned out to sea again.

  “It’s too bloody dicey to go in blind. We’ll be into the side of that mountain before you know what’s happened.”

  “You’ve got to get us down one way or another. It’s absolutely essential,” Brosnan said.

  “Maybe you’d like to jump out?” Graham swore softly. “Okay, I’ll try a sea approach.”

  He turned out to sea, banked, went down low and burst out of the fog at five hundred feet, the mountain rushing to meet them.

  It was Devlin who saw the runway and hangars a few hundred yards to starboard through driving rain. Graham went in fast and so low that when he banked at the last moment, just before putting her down, the starboard wingtip was only six feet off the ground. They bounced heavily and ran toward the hangars.

  “Out!” Graham shouted. “Now!”

  He was out of the cockpit and dropping the Airstair in se
conds. Brosnan descended, and Devlin went after him so fast that he stumbled and fell. The Airstair was hauled up behind them, and as they ran to get out of the way the Navajo taxied toward the far end of the runway, paused briefly, then roared forward and took off.

  Within a matter of moments it had climbed into the mist and was only a fast disappearing sound in the distance.

  Devlin said, “Let’s hope this is it. No mistakes.”

  But Brosnan was already at the partly open hangar door, pulling it back on its rollers, disclosing the Cessna. “This is it, all right. So where’s Barry?”

  “I should think this fellow Salter will be able to tell us that, but just in case Barry intends to use this thing again let’s make sure he can’t.”

  Devlin produced a Browning from his pocket, took deliberate aim and fired at each wheel in turn. The Cessna lurched slightly as the tires deflated.

  “That’s it,” Brosnan said. “Now let’s move, Liam. According to that map, it’s about five miles to Marsh End.”

  But luck was with them, for as they were walking along the main road five minutes later a farm truck with milk cans in the back passed them and stopped up ahead.

  The man who leaned out of the window looked cheerful enough, in spite of the early hour. He badly needed a shave, and his pajama jacket showed under his old raincoat.

  “In trouble?”

  “We were last night,” Devlin said smoothly. “Coming over the pass from the next valley when the car broke down.”

  “Wastwater?”

  “That’s right. We must have walked five or six miles.”

  “More like eight. Where are you making for?”

  “You know Mr. Salter’s place?”

  “Pass it every day. If that’s where you’re going, hop on the back, and I’ll drop you off.”

  “Thanks,” Devlin said. “We can phone the local garage from there.”

  They climbed on board and squatted among the milk cans. Brosnan said, “You’re never at a loss, are you?”

  Devlin grinned. “All you have to do is live right.”

  Barry drove along the track beside the creek and braked to a halt at the end of the jetty. The Kathleen waited, silent in the rain, and fog draped the marsh in a gray blanket. He helped Anne-Marie out and walked her along the jetty, a hand on her elbow.

  Salter hurried along behind. “But what are you going to do, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Barry helped Anne-Marie over the rail. “I’m going to retrieve something that belongs to me, Mr. Salter, and for that, I need your boat. Afterward, you collect your five thousand, take us back to Tanningley Field, and I fly away into the gray morning like a departing spirit. I’m sure you’ll be most relieved.”

  Salter stayed on the jetty, staring at him stupidly. “But we can’t.”

  “Why not?” Barry frowned. “You told me when I was last here that you always keep the Kathleen ready for sea.”

  “The ignition key,” Salter said. “I can’t start the engines without that, and it’s up at the house.”

  Barry swore. “Then go and get it, you bloody idiot, and be quick about it.”

  Salter turned, hurried along the jetty, and got into the Land Rover while Barry pushed Anne-Marie across the deck and into the wheel-house.

  “How are you liking it so far?” His smile was fixed, his eyes were alive with excitement, and when he lit a cigarette his hands trembled, “Careful,” Anne-Marie said. “You’re coming apart.”

  “Who, me?” he laughed excitedly. “Not till hell freezes over.”

  He pulled down the inspection flap beneath the instrument panel. The Sterling and the Smith and Wesson were still in place. As he pushed it up again, she said, “So much for poor Mr. Salter.”

  “I know,” he said. “But then I hate leaving loose ends. He shouldn’t have joined, should he?”

  He pulled her out of the way, lifted the lid of the bench seat, and rummaged around until he found the briefcase. He opened it, checked that the money was still there, and closed it again.

  “The war chest?” she said.

  “Something like that.” He moved to the wheelhouse entrance and. stood listening. “Come on,” he said softly.

  “Maybe he isn’t coming back.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He looked frightened to death to me.”

  He turned and glanced at her, the smile wiped from his face, then grabbed her arm, pulled her out of the wheelhouse, and ran her along the deck and down the companionway to the cabin. He pushed her inside, locking the door on her, went back on deck, jumped over the rail, and ran along the jetty.

  The milk truck drove away into the fog, and Devlin and Brosnan turned to the gold-painted sign beside the gate.

  “Henry Salter, Undertaker. House of Rest and Crematorium,” Devlin said. “Very tasteful. Let’s see if he’s at home.”

  The house was still, as if waiting for them, quiet in the morning rain as they moved toward the rear, keeping to the shelter of the rhododendron bushes. They paused, the courtyard before them, the barn door open. There was the sound of a vehicle approaching. The Land Rover turned into the yard and rolled to a halt. Salter got out and went in the back door.

  Devlin whispered, “He has a look of a corpse about him, wouldn’t you agree? I’d say that’s our man.”

  Salter wasn’t happy—wasn’t happy at all. The whole thing had a bad smell to it, and Sinclair frightened him. On the other hand, he didn’t really have much choice. He reached for the ignition key hanging on the key board above the refrigerator just as the door burst open behind him. Before he knew what was happening, he was lying on his back across the table, Brosnan’s hand on his throat, the muzzle of the Mauser rammed against his temple.

  Salter had never been so terrified. “Please, no!” he gabbled.

  Devlin said, “You are Henry Salter, I presume?”

  “That’s right,” Salter said, as Brosnan relaxed his grip.

  “Where’s Frank Barry?”

  Salter said, “Frank Barry? But I don’t know anyone of that name.”

  Brosnan’s grip tightened. “You picked him up at Tanningley field no more than half an hour ago.”

  “That was a man named Sinclair, Maurice Sinclair.”

  “I see,” Devlin said. “And he had the young woman with him?”

  “That’s right. When he took her off the plane she was in handcuffs.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Down in the marsh on my boat, the Kathleen. He sent me up for the ignition key—look.”

  He held up the key in his right hand, and Brosnan said, “I’ll take that.”

  Devlin said, “He was here before?”

  “That’s right. A few days ago.”

  “To get that rocket pod?”

  Salter looked bewildered. “I don’t know what he was here for. I was paid to hire men for him. They were here for two days. They left. That’s all I know.”

  He was obviously telling the truth. “How do we get to this boat of yours?” Devlin asked.

  “Turn left on to the main road. There’s a signpost to the right saying Marsh End Creek. The Kathleen’s tied up at the jetty there. You can’t miss her. She’s the only boat there.”

  Devlin reached up and ripped down the clothesline that stretched across the sink. He threw it to Brosnan. “All right, Martin, tie him up.”

  He went outside, got into the Land Rover’s passenger seat and took out his Browning. He removed the clip, pushed the bullets out one by one with his thumbnail and reloaded very carefully. As he finished, Brosnan came out of the kitchen door and got behind the wheel.

  He turned to Devlin, his face very pale. “He’s mine, Liam, remember that.”

  Devlin said, “The Japanese believe revenge is a purification, but personally I doubt it.”

  He leaned back, eyes closed, holding the Browning in his lap as Brosnan drove away.

  Frank Barry, taking the short-cut through the garden, saw the Land R
over through the trees, still in the courtyard and paused. What the hell was Salter playing at? Perhaps the girl had been right after all. He started forward and stopped, blinking, for coming out of the house and crossing the yard was his dead enemy, Liam Devlin.

  Barry’s instinct was to yell at the ghost, to frighten it away, but in fact it was he who was suddenly and strangely frightened. He cursed at himself. He wasn’t a superstitious idiot. And then he saw Martin Brosnan come out of the kitchen door and go round to the other side of the Land Rover, then disappear from view. A second ghost? Feeling himself trembling, he tried to take courage from the weight of the Ceska in his pocket. How many times do you have to kill a man?

  By the time Barry reached the jetty, panting from his exertion, he was in control again. That Devlin and Brosnan were still alive was a fact. Any explanation of the situation was of secondary importance at the moment.

  He ran along the jetty and paused, listening. Already the Land Rover was close behind in the fog, and without that damned ignition key he couldn’t move the boat, not under power anyway.

  He cast off the lines at prow and stern, pushed as hard as he could against the rail and scrambled over, as the gap suddenly widened between the Kathleen and the jetty. In a moment the gap was ten or twelve feet, and then, suddenly the boat started to drift broadside on back toward the jetty. When he looked over the rail, the reason was plain, for the tide was moving in through the marsh strongly.

  Anne-Marie heard him thunder down the companionway. The door to the cabin was flung open, he grabbed her and pulled her out and back up the companionway. She went cold, certain that he was about to kill her. Instead, he pushed her along the deck into the wheelhouse.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  “The second coming,” he said savagely.