“Et départe Nantes?” struggled Mack.
Huit heures et demie.
“Merci beaucoup, madame,” replied Mack, and then to himself, Eight thirty Nantes. Jesus, I’d better not miss that bus.
He walked out of the bus station secretly pleased he had assessed the transportation problems between here and Nantes, bus and train, without making a telltale phone call or speaking to anyone in Nantes about his requirements. There would be nothing anyone could ever remember, even under searching police questioning, about a foreigner trying to leave the city.
And then he set off along the road that ultimately ended up in Nantes, forty-two miles away. But Mack was going only two miles. He kept walking until he broke free of the houses and came to a long wooded area on the right-hand side of the road, with the river to his left. He reached a bus stop and waited. Not for a bus, but for the road to be clear of traffic and pedestrians. There was very little of either, and after five minutes he suddenly turned right and went straight into the woods.
There he established a small private camp, well out of sight of the road, and, so far as he could tell, everyone else. He explored the trees around him on a hundred-yard radius and decided he was safe. He selected a bush with wide fronds and eased his way underneath. There he ate the baguette, drank some water, and checked the time. It was almost five o’clock.
Using his new knife, he began to dig out a shallow hole sufficiently large to contain his leather bag. When he’d completed this, he pulled out his black wet suit and stripped down to his undershorts. Carefully, he pulled on the trousers and then the close-fitting top, keeping the hood rolled down. Then he took out his two oversized SEAL flippers and clipped one on each thigh.
He unpacked his new overalls and pulled them on, over the wet suit, fastening the buttons and stuffing a pile of euros into his pockets. He put on the work boots, fastened the laces, and slipped his new combat knife, sheathed, into one slim side pocket of the overall trousers. Into the other he placed his flashlight and the calculator.
Then he hollowed out more dry dirt from the hole and made sure everything was packed into his leather bag—street clothes, passports, licenses, cash, and Perrier water—and pushed it down, before covering it with earth. He then cut two bushy branches and arranged them to obscure the disturbed surface completely, with the two cut stems rammed into the ground.
He checked his watch and waited for the 6:15 bus to arrive at “his” stop. He heard the doors open and then heard it pull away along the road to Nantes. Three minutes later, he grabbed the toolbox, wriggled free of the bushes, and headed back to the riverside road.
Hot in the wet suit-overalls combination, his heart unaccountably pounding, Mack Bedford was nonetheless ready to go.
Henri Foche’s Mercedes, now being driven by one of the missile men from Montpellier Munitions, collected “Colonel” Raul Declerc from Rennes Airport at six o’clock and drove him directly to the home of the Gaullist leader.
It was a day when things had moved extremely rapidly, and Raul was obviously shocked at the pure brutality of the two murders. He had never served with Britain’s Special Forces, and although he had heard many a tale of their ruthless execution of duty, and anyone who got in the way, he had not experienced anything this close to home, as it were.
The first thing that crossed his mind, unsurprisingly, was cash, and he wondered, very sincerely, if he had charged Foche sufficiently. A million euros was one thing, but grappling with this apparent monster from the black lagoon was entirely another.
But Raul had a sense of duty, and he understood he had pursued, and then struck a deal with, the man who would become the next president of France. Foche was a man who had a slightly shady background, and in the opinion of the former Colonel Fortescue, he was not a man to be fooled with. In Raul’s view, an angry Foche might prove pretty damn similar to an angry Gunther Marc Roche. Christ, even their names are similar, thought Raul, who was unaware of the pantomime on Basle Street that day, which almost certainly rendered the Swiss killer nonexistent.
At least that was the current opinion of the French police. Pierre Savary had called his friend Henri to express it a couple of hours ago. He did not think it meant the black-bearded hijacker/assassin was nonexistent. There was too much hard, widespread evidence for that, from Brixham to Val André. But the name was false, the address was false, and that Swiss driver’s license, recorded by Monsieur Laporte much earlier that morning, was also false.
“The man is obviously real,” said Foche, “but we have no idea who he is. The police think it unlikely he is Swiss.”
“As you know, sir, my own opinion is that the threat comes from England, and there is a fair chance the killer is English,” offered Raul.
“But there are several people in England who swear to God he spoke in a very foreign accent.”
“Sir, I could speak in a very foreign accent if I so wished.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But let us look to the future. How do you and your team intend to protect me from this assassin?”
“Right now I am assembling them in Marseille. My two SAS men are flying in from central Africa. Both of them served with the British in Sierra Leone. Two of the best Israeli commanders I ever met are leaving Tel Aviv tomorrow morning. I have five ex-French Foreign Legion commanders. All of them have seen active service in North Africa. I intend to place a steel cordon around you, sir. A cordon of armed men ready to shoot on sight any assailant who sticks his head above the parapet.”
Henri Foche liked the sound of that. “And what do you intend to do about tomorrow afternoon’s speech in Saint-Nazaire? Can you be assembled by then?”
“Sir, you have explained to me how this Gunther character has so far given everyone the slip. And right now with every police officer in the city searching for him, he still hasn’t shown up in Saint-Nazaire. Since he has only been in France for less than a day, we might be overreacting about tomorrow. I’d be surprised if he could get himself organized in under forty-eight hours for a serious attempt on your life. Those ex- Special Forces men are notoriously long-winded about detail. We in the regular old British regiments always think them a little slow.”
“Oh, really,” replied Foche. “Well, that’s encouraging, but I will not cancel Saint-Nazaire. It’s too important, both for me and for the people of southern Brittany.”
“I will of course have a substantial part of our plan in operation, if you are concerned.”
“Which part?”
“The Foreign Legionnaires and the SAS men can fly directly from Marseille to Saint-Nazaire. I do not think the Israelis can get here in time, even if I divert them via Paris. Besides, they’ll need a briefing, and there won’t be time, if you want us to go operational as early as possible tomorrow.”
“That means you will have eight men, including yourself?”
“That will constitute your personal bodyguard, sir. Men whose only task is to watch for danger. Men who are trained to do it.”
“I will naturally have state-provided security all over the shipyard,” said Foche. “Probably a busload of them. But they are not specialists. They are merely numbers to provide an intimidating presence.”
“Sir, I need to ask you about the chain of command.”
“As my new chief of security you will exercise total control over all personnel except for the French police. They will be under the command of my close friend Pierre Savary, the chief of police in Brittany. But tonight the three of us will dine together, and I am certain you and he will work as a team.”
“No problem, sir. Who will travel with you from Rennes to Saint-Nazaire tomorrow afternoon?”
“I would prefer you and your men to be in the shipyard as early as possible. Therefore, I will arrive later under police escort. Probably two cruisers, front and rear of my own car, plus two motorcycle outriders in the lead, and two others behind the last police car.”
“That sounds fine. Because I need time in that shipyard, combing every inch
of it. Even though I consider it so unlikely that this Gunther is going to be in there. I think it’s far more likely he will attempt to strike two or three days later, when he’s organized.”
“Well, it’s in the papers every day,” replied Foche. “I’m speaking in Brest at two different locations on Wednesday, and in Cherbourg in three different locations on Thursday. On Friday I have business to attend to in Orléans, but on Saturday I have a major Gaullist rally to address in Rouen.”
“He’s got a lot of choices,” said Raul. “If he’s serious. But I’d be looking hard at Cherbourg. It’s a Channel port, with easy local access to the ferry back to England.”
“I just have a feeling, Raul, that our lives would be so much simpler if the police could locate his car.”
“I agree. It would at least mark his trail for us. Right now the bastard could have gone in any direction. Saint-Nazaire, Brest, Cherbourg, anywhere. Even Rouen.”
It was seven o’clock, just as Mack Bedford turned onto the north-bound walkway over the gigantic Saint-Nazaire toll bridge, when the French police got their first break. The incoming night attendant at the parking garage noticed the Peugeot. On a normal evening, between five o’clock and six, there was a mass departure of cars owned by shoppers and businesspeople. This usually left the lower level almost bereft of vehicles. And the new man always walked down to see what was still parked. If there was nothing, he cordoned it off with heavy wooden barricades, thus restricting his duties to one single level. Tonight there was just the Peugeot, and he strolled down the line to check it out.
The first thing he noticed, of course, was that it had no plates. So he walked back up to his kiosk and phoned the security line direct to the head office of Français Nationale Parking in Paris. It took him just a few moments to report: suspicious car, dark blue Peugeot, no registration plates, parked on its own, deep in the underground section, Place des Martyrs de la Resistance, Saint-Nazaire, Brittany.
The duty officer thanked him and punched the information into the computer link, sending the warning instantly to the antiterrorist desk at the Prefecture de Police on the Quai Marche Neuf on the banks of the Seine River. Automatically, the e-mail ripped through cyberspace into the police headquarters at Rennes, with a copy arriving simultaneously in the Saint-Nazaire Commissariat de Police.
The antiterrorist men in Paris immediately requested Saint-Nazaire to investigate, while the duty officer in Rennes almost had a heart attack since he’d heard nothing but the words “dark blue Peugeot” for as long as he could remember.
Every available city police patrol was ordered to the garage on Place des Martyrs. Four of them arrived within five minutes, and a bomb disposal squad from Nantes had already been dispatched.
Because of the shipyard’s close proximity to the town, the Saint-Nazaire police had a number of resident experts in the field of high explosives. Every last one of them was ordered to Place des Martyrs. They swarmed all over the garage, surrounding the Peugeot. But it took an hour to establish that the vehicle was clean, and not in any way likely to blast the city to smithereens.
The police then drove a tow truck into the garage, and hauled the Peugeot out onto the street and on to the station, where they were tasked with finding out whether it was indeed the one sold to Mr. Gunther Marc Roche in faraway Val André that eventful morning.
They opened the door with a master key and permitted the forensic department to search every inch for fingerprints. There were none. But under the hood they located the chassis number, and checked in with Monsieur Laporte that it matched the official registration certificate he still had in his possession. This was the car. This was the vehicle purchased by the bearded hijacker, who was wanted for two murders in Val André, and was suspected of intent to murder Monsieur Henri Foche.
The head office of Brittany Police telephoned the home of Monsieur Foche to impart the gravest possible news to his dinner guest, Pierre Savary. . . . Sir, the Peugeot has been found. It’s in Saint-Nazaire.
“Jesus Christ!” As far as Pierre was concerned, the roof just fell in. He walked back into the dining room, where Raul and his host were sipping superb burgundy, Corton-Bressandes Grand Cru from the Domaine Chandon de Briailles. He apologized for the interruption but felt that everyone needed to know the dark blue Peugeot had been located in a public parking garage in Saint-Nazaire, the license plates removed.
“That, Henri, heightens the danger tomorrow, probably by about 1,000 percent,” said Pierre. “Because that Peugeot means that Gunther, or whoever the hell he is, is headed for the fucking shipyard, which is only about eighteen miles long with about thirty-seven thousand places to hide.”
Pierre paused, and then said gravely, “I am asking you to call the Saint-Nazaire speech off.”
Henri Foche stared at him, betraying just a little of the character that may one day make him an extremely effective president of France. His expression was serious, but his eyes were blazing. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing in this world, would persuade me to call off that speech. This is my homeland, I am from Brittany, these are my people. And a very great deal is expected of me. There are hundreds of jobs in that shipyard, hundreds of men dependent on those jobs. I am going to Saint-Nazaire to assure them personally that when I reach the Elysée Palace, those jobs are safe. That there will be work, ships to build, French ships for French workers, for French families. Nothing, and I repeat nothing, will be made for my government, either civilian or military, beyond the international borders of France. That’s my slogan, that’s my belief, those are the words written on my heart. Those are the words that will carry me to victory.”
“Vive la France,” grunted Pierre. “Hopefully not in a hearse.”
“Ignore him, Raul,” said Foche. “What’s your view?”
“I’m afraid I’m instinctively with Pierre,” said the former British colonel. “That you should not go. But I understand that is not an option. So we’d better fight the war we’re in rather than the one we’d like to be in. And the first thing we ought to ensure is you have the absolute maximum security in terms of numbers. By that I mean government troops, and every police officer they can draft in . . . ”
Pierre pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’m calling Homeland Security right now. If I have to, I’ll speak to the president. But we’re not going to come up shorthanded in Saint-Nazaire.”
He left the room again, and Henri Foche continued to question his new chief of security. “No more clues about this Morrison, I suppose.”
“Not really. I have had another word with our Central Africa chief, a former British army major, very reliable, and he had a slim lead via Alabama in the American South. But it was only a vague contact, no number, and he was not dealing with a principal. It turned out to be just a blind alley.”
“We’ve had quite a few of those today,” said Foche. “Do we have an overall strategy?”
“It’s a very simple and safe one. I will have seven of my men, plus myself, watching every relevant inch of that shipyard, every window and doorway, every potential hiding place, every rooftop, every gantry, every half-finished hull. If he’s there, we’ll stop him. Each one of my guys will be assigned a specific area to check, recheck, and check again. And remember, sir, every last one of them is as ruthless a killer as he is.”
Henri Foche nodded. He missed Marcel, but this man from Marseille was making an excellent attempt to replace him.
“One more question, sir. Should one of my men locate him, his orders will be shoot to kill. If we do take someone out, do you anticipate any trouble with the French police? Because there may be no time to do anything else.”
“No trouble whatsoever. You will earn their undying gratitude.”
“And—I have to ask this—what if there should be a mistake? An innocent person is injured in the general melee? Does that represent trouble with the police?”
“Only if they would all like a massive pay cut when I become president,” replied Foche with a wry g
rin.
Even the slightly fraught Raul had to smile at this naked use of overwhelming power.
“And finally, sir, I must ask about money. I am already incurring heavy expenses, flying the guys in. When do I see the first million?”
“How about Wednesday morning? Right here in Rennes. Before we leave for the shipyards in Brest.”
Raul tried not even to think about the possibility of death tomorrow afternoon. He replied, “Perfect, sir. That will suit me very well.”
At this point Pierre Savary returned to finish his dinner and his wine. “It’s settled, Henri,” he said. “The president has ordered a thousand security forces into the Saint-Nazaire region tomorrow morning. I have told them there will be a briefing from myself and Raul at 2:00 P.M. I’m assuming you will arrive at 4:45.”
“Correct,” replied the politician.
By 8:30 P.M. Mack had been walking the streets for ninety minutes. He had located the big main gates and the tall steel framework that proclaimed right across the top in letters of cast iron: SAINT-NAZAIRE MARITIME. There was a poster outside announcing the speech of Monsieur Henri Foche late the following afternoon. But it warned: Restricted Entry—Shipyard Staff Only.
Diamondhead Page 38