by Robert Rigby
The Andorrans were sitting huddled together, speaking quietly, a few metres from Paul and Jean-Pierre. Paul paid them little attention, relieved that at least they had stopped complaining.
They had been resting for about ten minutes when José got to his feet and freed the shotgun slung across his back. He placed it on the ground close to his friends and ambled over to Paul and Jean-Pierre.
He nodded at Jean-Pierre. “How are you feeling?”
“Looking forward to seeing Spain,” Jean-Pierre replied.
“I’ve been talking with my friends,” the Andorran said, in better French than he had previously used. “We know you can’t walk for much longer. But if you can keep going for another hour, no more than that, we’ll reach an old hut; a mountain refuge. We’ll stop there. You will rest. We’ll cook some food and you can sleep. A good night’s sleep and in the morning you’ll be much stronger.”
Jean-Pierre looked at Paul, a flicker of hope in his weary eyes. Paul too felt a sudden surge of optimism. The thought of hot food and somewhere to sleep, however uncomfortable, was almost too good to believe.
Jean-Pierre turned to the Andorran. “Just an hour more, you say?”
“An hour at the most, maybe less.”
The high rocks on all sides masked the view of the way ahead. José pointed at one of them. “You can see the hut if we walk past that fallen rock,” he said to Jean-Pierre. “Come, I’ll show you.”
“Let me go,” Paul said, starting to get up.
“No,” Jean-Pierre replied, rising unsteadily to his feet. “If I don’t get up now I might never manage it again. You pack the food and water while I take a look.”
Paul returned his smile. He was heavy with tiredness, but José’s words had given him a fresh dose of confidence.
He watched Jean-Pierre follow José until they had passed the fallen rock. Then he gathered their things, not noticing the two remaining Andorrans studying him intently.
Jean-Pierre stepped through a gap between two rocks and the view opened up instantly. To his immediate right, fallen boulders more than two metres high clustered together at the bottom of a steeply rising rock face, but to his left a new panoramic expanse stretched towards a distant horizon.
The way ahead was narrow, just wide enough for one person to walk in relative safety. But to the left the path was little more than a long ledge, with a plummeting, almost sheer drop of hundreds of metres.
José glanced back, unconcerned. “Stay away from the edge. Don’t look down; it can make you dizzy.”
Jean-Pierre nodded, staying as close as he could to the rocks as he followed the Andorran. José strode on for a further twenty metres and halted. Here, to Jean-Pierre’s relief, the track widened considerably into a small plateau.
José waited near the edge. “Come and look,” he said, smiling. “You can see the hut from here.”
Moving closer, Jean-Pierre was suddenly gripped by another coughing fit. He bent over, the coughs wracking his body.
The Andorran’s smile disappeared as his right hand began to reach into his sheepskin jerkin. But he instantly dropped his arm as Jean-Pierre stopped coughing and stood upright.
His smile returned. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine once we reach the refuge,” Jean-Pierre said, moving to stand next to José, just a couple of paces from the edge and the terrifying drop.
“There,” José said, pointing into the distance, “to your left. Look to the peak and then let your eyes come down. You’ll see the hut.”
Jean-Pierre stared, craning his neck forward, following the instructions, completely unaware than the Andorran’s hand was reaching into his jerkin.
“Stop! Don’t move!”
Jean-Pierre and José spun around.
Henri Mazet stepped out from a deep crevice in the rocks at the back of the plateau. He was staring down the barrels of a shotgun, which was pointed at the Andorran’s chest.
“Henri!” Jean-Pierre gasped. “What … what is…?”
“Get away from him, Jean-Pierre,” Henri ordered. “Quickly!”
Jean-Pierre tried to step away, but not quickly enough. With lightning speed, the Andorran whipped a long-bladed knife from his jerkin, grabbed Jean-Pierre around the neck and held him fast with the blade against his throat.
“Drop the gun,” he snarled at Henri. “Drop it, or I’ll slit his throat here and now.”
Henri hesitated, but his eyed blazed with determination. “And then what? No, you won’t do it. You harm him and I swear I’ll kill you. I swear it.”
The Andorran looked startled at the ferocity of his words. But he didn’t move.
“They’re murderers, Jean-Pierre,” Henri said. “Making their fortunes by killing and robbing escapees. But not this time.” He glared at the Andorran. “Yvette tipped you off, didn’t she?”
José said nothing. He grinned and pressed the knife against Jean-Pierre’s flesh, hard enough to pierce the skin so that a thin trickle of blood ran down his neck.
“You’ll get no more help from Yvette,” Henri went on quickly. “Who was she? Your sister? Cousin? An old girlfriend?”
Still the Andorran said nothing.
“It doesn’t matter,” Henri continued. “She’s dead now; you’ll never hear from her again.”
A look of hatred flashed across Jose’s eyes, but still he stayed silent.
“Drop the knife,” Henri ordered again. “Don’t you see, it’s all over.”
They stood glaring at each other, both unwilling to back down. But then shouts pierced the thin mountain air and they all looked back towards the standing rocks where the path turned away from the plateau.
José laughed. “It’s not over for me,” he said to Henri, “but it is for the boy. My friends are dealing with him now. Then they’ll come to finish you two. Put down the gun, old man.”
Jean-Pierre sagged, as though about to collapse, and José was forced to shift his feet slightly to keep his balance. It was the moment of opportunity Jean-Pierre was hoping for. In one sudden movement he raised both hands and clasped his captor’s sheepskin jerkin.
“Help Paul, Henri!” he yelled. “Help Paul!”
Before José could react, Jean-Pierre pushed backward, summoning every bit of his remaining strength. The two men tottered on the ledge, the Andorran’s eyes widening in terror as he tried frantically to stay upright.
They tipped back and then forward slightly, but Jean-Pierre somehow managed to push once more and Henri watched helplessly as the two men disappeared over the edge.
Henri heard the Andorran scream and a sickening thud as the falling bodies struck the first jagged outcrop of rocks. And then there was nothing. Only silence.
“Jean-Pierre,” Henri breathed, still staring down the barrels of the shotgun.
More shouts cut through the air and Henri found himself hurtling towards the turn in the track.
FORTY
Henri sprinted, faster than he realized he could, perilously close to the crumbling edge. He reached the two standing rocks and stopped, panting, listening for voices or the sounds of a struggle. But he heard nothing, and once more Henri was struck by the agonizing thought that he was too late.
He raised the shotgun, bringing the wooden stock hard against his shoulder and edged slowly through the gap, fearing what he would see on the far side. But stepping into the open he gasped in shock at the sight that met his eyes.
Paul was alive and safe, and the two Andorrans had their arms raised in surrender. Didier had them covered by a shotgun held at his waist. And at Didier’s side was Josette.
“Papa!” Josette yelled as she turned and saw Henri staring, relief and confusion in his eyes.
“But how … how did—?”
“I’ve been here before, Henri, remember?” Didier said, his eyes remaining on the two hostages. “I knew the way. We were following, but we lost sight of you.”
“I got ahead of them,” Henri said, still looking bewildered, “where t
he path splits two ways. They stopped for Jean-Pierre.”
“And Jean-Pierre,” Paul asked urgently. “Where is he?”
Henri sighed and slowly shook his head.
“Oh,” Josette breathed. “Oh, no.”
Didier still had the Andorrans covered with the shotgun but his eyes were drawn to Henri. One of the two men glimpsed his chance and slowly began to bend his upstretched right arm at the elbow. His hand dipped behind his head and then slipped into the back of his jacket.
The hand emerged from a hidden pocket. Gripped tightly in the palm was a snub-nosed, semi-automatic Eibar pistol, old but deadly, particularly at short distances.
Spotting the movement, Paul looked back and saw the gun in the man’s hand as he brought it over his head to aim and fire at Didier.
“Look out!” he shouted, flinging himself at the Andorran.
The pistol cracked and spat out a round. It ricocheted off the rock face, and Paul and the Andorran went crashing to the ground.
Paul’s hand was locked onto the Andorran’s arm. He clung on desperately, battling to get the fingers of his free hand onto the pistol as his opponent punched him, trying to force him to release his grip.
Didier could only look on, afraid to fire his gun for fear of hitting Paul, unable to join the fight because of his own injured shoulder. Henri and Josette stood frozen in terror.
Paul was on his own.
He clung to the man’s arm and they rolled over, their faces inches apart – so close that he could smell the garlic on his breath. But the Andorran was bigger and stronger, and gradually he turned the pistol to fire into Paul’s body.
With no other option Paul drew back his head and viciously butted his opponent. There was an agonized scream as the man’s nose shattered and blood spurted onto Paul’s face. Paul felt as though his own skull had been cracked open.
The Andorran dropped the pistol and groped with both hands at his busted nose. Paul saw the weapon fall. Releasing his own grip, he rolled away and snatched the gun from the ground.
Head spinning, he got unsteadily to his feet, blood in his eyes, and at the same time, the enraged Andorran staggered up and ran towards him.
Didier was quickest to react. There was no way he could lift the shotgun to his damaged shoulder so he fired both barrels from the waist and was knocked back by the weapon’s recoil.
The Andorran was hit in the chest. He spun away and slumped lifeless to the ground.
The thunderous roar of the shotgun echoed across the mountains and Didier’s head dropped to his chest at the realization of what he had been forced to do. Josette stared, horrified, then she ran to her father, averting her eyes from the bloody scene.
Paul wiped the blood away from his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. His sight restored, he saw the third Andorran crouch slightly, ready to leap at Didier.
“Stop!” Paul yelled.
The Andorran wheeled around and saw the pistol aimed at his heart. “No! No!” he shouted, raising his arms high and shaking his head to make it clear he had no intention of advancing.
Blood was streaming down Paul’s face; his own as well as the dead man’s. He blinked and dabbed at his face with his left hand.
Glimpsing a last chance, the Andorran decided to risk all.
He charged forward.
“Paul!” Josette screamed.
Through blurred vision Paul became aware of the shape hurtling towards him and heard a wild yell. He squeezed the trigger and felt the pistol’s recoil.
When his vision cleared he saw the Andorran dead at his feet.
FORTY-ONE
“Paul!” Josette cried as she ran to him.
Paul said nothing. His eyes were on the lifeless Andorrans.
Josette moved closer to examine his wound. “It could have been worse,” she said, examining the wound. “But you’ll have a headache tomorrow.” She handed him a clean handkerchief.
“I have one now,” Paul answered, wiping away some of the blood.
Henri looked shattered. He took one hand from the shotgun, gripped Paul’s arm and squeezed it tightly.
“Papa,” Josette said gently, “will you please put down the gun. It doesn’t suit you.”
“It was my father’s,” Henri replied, releasing Paul’s arm and breaking open the shotgun. “I must take it back.”
He peered into the open barrels and then raised his eyebrows, lifting the weapon so that Paul and Josette could see clearly. “It’s fortunate I didn’t have to fire the thing,” he said. “I forgot to load it.”
Paul smiled. “Henri,” he said, “how did you know what they planned to do?”
The mountain air was turning colder and Henri shivered. “I felt sure all along that something wasn’t right. And then when Didier reminded me that Yvette was Andorran—”
“Yvette? What’s she got to do with it?”
“Everything. She tipped off these men.” He gestured towards Paul’s suitcase. “There’s a lot of money in there, much more than the remainder of their fee. They wanted it all. I suppose the deal was that they would share it with Yvette and the others once you and Jean-Pierre had been killed.”
“The others?” Didier asked.
“I’ll come to that.” Henri turned back to Paul. “Yvette is dead. She paid the price for failing to kill Didier.”
Paul stared. “It was Yvette?”
Henri nodded again and looked at his daughter. “You remember, Josette, that you told me how other people had been phoning the hospital to ask about Didier?”
Josette nodded.
“One of those callers would have been Yvette,” Henri explained. “And when she learned that Didier would live she made the fatal mistake of telling the others that Didier saw her face when she pushed him into the machine.”
“They killed her?” Josette said. “For that?”
“They knew that once she was questioned again she would reveal the whole story,” Henri said. “Poor Yvette never could hold her tongue.”
“And the others?” Paul asked again. “Who are they?”
Henri’s eyes clouded, he seemed close to tears, stunned and saddened by the twists and turns and tragedies of the past few hours. “I can’t be certain, but Gaston for one, I believe. It seems I didn’t know my old friend as well as I thought.”
“So I was right all along,” Josette said. “He is a collaborator. And he did have Jean-Pierre arrested.”
“Probably,” Henri said, nodding. “When I told him we were going to free Jean-Pierre from Rivel he must have decided to dispose of both Paul and Jean-Pierre up here. Who knows, perhaps that end was already planned for Paul – but with two people escaping all the way to England, Gaston knew there would be even more cash in the suitcase. And they might have got away with it. Bodies can lay undiscovered in the mountains for years.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Of course, I can’t prove all this. We were told Gaston spent last night in Chalabre. Maybe he did, maybe it was a lie. Maybe he killed Yvette or maybe the killer was someone else.”
“We have to find whoever did it,” Paul said.
Henri raised his eyebrows again. “We?”
“Well, I can’t leave now,” Paul said, shrugging his shoulders, “it’s impossible. None of us can follow the Eagle Trail onwards from here.”
“Yes, he’ll have to stay,” Josette added quickly. “There’s no other choice.”
“And is that what you want?” Henri asked, looking at Paul closely.
Paul’s reply was instant. “I want to stay. There’s nothing for me to go back to in England. I can be of more use here; I want to help you find the traitors.”
“And you, Didier,” Henri said, “what do you think?”
Didier winced as a stab of pain reminded him of his injuries. “Well,” he said, “he saved my life just now so I suppose we ought to let him stay.”
“That’s decided then,” said Josette quickly. “And now, Papa, can we go home, please?”
“Yes,
” Henri said, “let’s go home.”
“But what about…?” Paul was looking at the two lifeless bodies on the ground. “We can’t just leave them.”
“You’re right, Paul,” Henri said. “But we can’t take them with us, and we certainly can’t bury them up here.” He sighed heavily. “They’ll have to join Jean-Pierre and their friend.”
It took a few minutes to complete the gruesome task of disposing of the bodies and then, close to exhaustion, they turned to retrace their steps down the mountain track.
They walked in virtual silence; even Josette had no more to say as they concentrated on keeping their footing, picking their way along the narrow path.
Paul was at the rear of the straggling line, clutching the battered suitcase he had carried with him since the first day of his flight from Antwerp. He walked in a daze, his thoughts jumbled and confused, when something, he didn’t know what, made him look up into the sky.
He saw it immediately, the golden eagle soaring majestically, high above them. Floating, drifting, riding the thermals like a galleon in full sail.
“Jean-Pierre,” Paul whispered, his mind suddenly clear, “I’m sorry we’ll never get to see the Tower of London together.”
And then, as he watched, the golden eagle turned towards the setting sun. Flying powerfully, flying fast, flying upward.
Upward.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to all those who helped, in many ways, during the research and writing of The Eagle Trail. Special thanks to Philippe Vidal, Louis Vives, Richard and Dorothy Vaughton, Jan and Nigel Watson, Peter Phelps, and to the late Paul René Simon.
I would also like to thank my editor, Mara Bergman, and everyone at Walker Books, and my agents, Vivien Green and Janet Fillingham. Finally, and most of all, I want to thank my wife, Carolyn. For everything.
Robert Rigby
Robert Rigby is the co-author, with Andy McNab, of the best-selling Boy Soldier series. His other fiction includes the novelizations of the Goal! movies and a stand-alone novel in the series, Goal: Glory Days. He is the author of the four official London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic novels for children. Robert also writes for theatre, television and radio, and is a prolific songwriter and composer. He lives in Oxford.