Hands of the Traitor

by Christopher Wright

  "Mon dieu, it smells like some randy old cat on the doorstep!" Giles waved the small cylinder under Monet's nose.

  Monet unclipped his lap belt and rose angrily from his seat, aware that his men were watching. The helicopter banked again. He put his left hand out to steady himself, and accidentally knocked the cylinder from Giles' hand.

  Girard turned away from the controls. "Will you pillocks all sit down, you're upsetting the balance!" he shouted, as the helicopter banked sharply to the right.

  Monet couldn't understand his extreme reaction to this insolence, the violent rage he had no wish to contain. He'd never behaved like this in front of his men before. The pilot had exceeded his authority, and the imbécile would have to be taught a lesson. A lesson he would remember for the rest of his short life. He leaned forward and grabbed the controls.

  *

  FRANK HEINMAN felt secure at last. Waiting until after breakfast before leaving town had been a great idea. And now, with Jason driving the white rental car, and a tank full of gas, they could be with Simon Urquet in the Geneva office by mid afternoon.

  An old truck, hand-painted in bands of gaudy green and orange, crawled up the hill in front, belching a trail of black smoke into the morning air. Jason blasted the horn and flashed his headlights but the truck refused to leave the white line.

  Frank shook his head. There was plenty of time. They'd got out of Calais easily, mixing with the traffic just after eight. There was no sign of police roadblocks, but tearing past a hippie wagon on the wrong side of the highway with the horn blaring would draw attention to their Citroen.

  "Take it easy, Jason." Frank twisted the DCI ring round on his middle finger. There was no glamour attached to wearing it. When his father had worn both signet rings, and he'd impatiently awaited his twenty-first birthday in 1944, it had been a magnificent object. An obsession. It was the promise of this ring a month before his birthday that had lured him to wartime France.

  He stared at his hands, noticing the ugly lines and folds in the skin. The green stone in the signet ring glinted up at him. He turned it so he could no longer see the eye. The English soldier had destroyed his life in '44.

  "Are you sure you want to go on the pike? We have to pay tolls." Jason overtook the hippie wagon on a downhill section, but had to slow as they approached a large rotary traffic island.

  "They call their pikes autoroutes, and they're fast. Paris, then Geneva."

  "The French cops could be looking for us. They wait at the toll booths."

  Frank continued to look at his hands, saying nothing.

  "Make up your mind, you old fool," snapped Jason. "I have to turn off. There's the sign."

  "Go round once more. I'll take another look at the route map."

  The brakes came on hard.

  "What the hell are you playing at, boy?" Frank was flung forward against the seat belt. "You nearly put me through the windshield, you son of a bitch!"

  Jason was already out of the car. "Did you see that? A chopper, twisting round in the air. It came down over there!"

  A ball of flame rose from beyond the fields, forming a bright orange cloud against the morning sky.

  Frank clambered from the car to join his son. "We can't afford to be witnesses. Let's get out of here." He heard tires sliding on the highway, followed by the deafening sound of crushing metal and breaking glass. He turned to see the old hippie truck embedded in the back of their Citroen. "We sure as dammit aren't going to get to Geneva in that," he muttered.

  A family of dirt-ingrained travelers tumbled from the cab. A man with long greasy hair, and tattoos on his bare arms and chest, started to jabber something in French. Frank found it impossible to make out whether the man was angry or apologetic, but his conversation involved plenty of arm waving. A pregnant woman, in a red dress stained with food, joined the man while the three children waited by the side of the rotary, wailing.

  A silver Audi sedan came down the hill and stopped behind the truck. The occupants seemed more interested in the large plume of smoke than the wrecked Citroen, and they ran across the field towards the smoke, followed by the hippy.

  "Now what?" Frank needed his son's help at times like this.

  "We get another car. The Audi's unlocked. We'll be gone before they get back."

  As Jason jerked the driver's door open, a shout came from the field. The driver of the Audi had seen them and was now running back.

  "We'll take the truck." Jason slammed the door of the Audi.

  The three children stood in the way, clinging tearfully to their mother. Frank pushed them aside. The front of the truck was crumpled, with jagged edges of bare metal around the radiator grill. He could see a pool of black liquid forming under the front wheels, but the engine was still running.

  "Jason! Where the hell are you now, boy?"

  Jason emerged from the wrecked Citroen with their bags. "I'm not leaving these as evidence. And I had to get the..." He hesitated.

  Frank grabbed the bags as his son threw them up into the cab. "Had to get the what?"

  "It's okay, I'm coming."

  However, Frank could see it was not okay. The woman let out a wild yell and began to tear at Jason's pants, pulling him from the open door as he climbed into the high cab. She was frantic, terrifyingly frantic. Jason kicked her sharply in the face and she fell backwards onto the highway.

  The three kids clung to each other and made stupid whimpering noises. The man from the silver Audi was clearly alarmed by the angry confrontation. He shouted something abusive in German and drove off.

  The black smoke rose more densely from the far end of the field, darkening the sky. Frank sat anxiously as Jason wrenched the truck into reverse. It juddered as it started to move, accompanied by a loud tearing noise as it ripped itself free from the wreck of the Citroen.

  The long-haired traveler raced back across the field. By the time Jason managed to select forward gear, the man was ahead of the vehicle. He turned, his eyes wild as Jason swung the wheel right, onto the first exit from the rotary. The man leapt in front of the truck to block the way.

  Frank reached over and grabbed at the wheel. "Look out, Jason, he's crazy."

  Jason kept his foot hard on the gas pedal. The truck was slow but it managed to gather some speed.

  The man, his face twisted in fury, leapt up and clung onto the tangled metal on the front grill. As he did so, a jagged bar of chrome stuck into his chest. His hands clawed for grip as he looked into the cab, shrieking something unheard above the thunder of the engine.

  Frank watched as the man's fingers failed to find a firm hold and he slid relentlessly downwards, the sharp metal ripping a path up his bare skin until it reached his throat. As the metal dug deeper into his flesh the man flung his hands upwards and the chrome strip took his whole weight.

  Then he was gone.

  A knocking noise from the small window behind the cab made Frank Heinman turn in panic. Fists pounded on the glass. He'd not considered the possibility of other travelers being on board.

  Chapter 21

  HE HAD BEEN known as Sadique for at least fifteen of his twenty-nine years. The sadistic one. Even at primary school he'd earned the nickname La Bête, The Beast. Sometimes it was La Bête Sauvage, but the word Sadique said it all. He wore chains. He'd worn heavy steel chains for as long as he could remember. The drugs prevented his memory going back too far.

  Convinced by a fellow esoteric traveler that he was a reincarnation of Attila the Hun, chains had quickly become an essential part of his image. Chains put fear into the public, and provided a ready weapon for defense and attack. Mostly attack. Sadique took pride in being the reincarnation of several barbaric historical figures. His mystical companion had been very persuasive. Friends told him his shaved head allowed him to take on the mantra of anyone he chose.

  Sadique had three followers, three fellow mercenaries fighting for the devastation of European culture and the devastation of Western materialistic society. They enjoyed the des
truction. Frustrated. Caged in the truck like tigers in a traveling circus. Performing tigers. Wild beasts.

  The travelers were good to them. Jean Paul the driver was like a brother. Drugs; drink; food. Never enough, but sufficient to get through each day. And the family always there for support and comfort. Sadique loved the children. The family was like his own. Marie and Jean Paul gave him shelter and safety. They were good people. Good friends.

  The sudden jolt had thrown him across the truck where he landed heavily on his three companions; and his companions were furious. They tried to hurt him. Sadique found it hard to hurt his friends. Sometimes the thought gave him pleasure, but it was a wrong thing to do. He often wondered about things being right and wrong. Marie and Jean Paul were right. Of all people, Marie and Jean Paul were the most right. And so were the three children.

  Two strangers climbed into the cab. He pressed his face close to the thick glass. The men were going to steal his friend's wagon.

  Mirage or reality? Was it important anyway? He stared as Jean Paul climbed on the front of the moving truck. It was difficult to sort out reality from the pleasure of fantasy.

  The metal spike burst out through the top of his friend's head. Sensational. Unreal. Fantastic. Tonight he and Jean Paul would sit in the camp and talk about it. Share the experience. Share the drugs and the drink. Life was rich with rewarding events like this.

  Jean Paul fell out of sight leaving a splash of blood across the windshield. Jean Paul's blood. The blood of a good friend. The blood of death. He shouted angrily and pointed through the window into the cab. Still dazed from their excess of dreams, his friends were unable to grasp the significance of the men in the cab. Then, prompted by his violent reaction, they joined in by hitting the glass.

  Sadique unwound a length of chain from his black leather jacket. One blow and the glass would shatter, then he could reach in and wrap the chain round the neck of the man at the wheel. The tall man with the pony tail and the beard.

  The chain would go all the way round the man's neck. Then he would pull it tight.

  *

  JASON TURNED in panic as the glass broke, and his action made the truck swerve. If his father hadn't grabbed the wheel they would have been in the ditch.

  "Keep your eyes on the highway, boy."

  Two hands came through the jagged glass, a length of chain held firmly between them. He watched his father reach down and pick up a jack handle from the filthy floor, then swing it up and over his shoulder, smashing the end into the tattooed knuckles. Blood oozed from the broken skin.

  One more blow and the hands disappeared leaving the chain draped across Jason's shoulders. His father grabbed the chain, pulling it away from other hands that now reached through the glass -- bloodstained hands stretching out in an attempt to make contact.

  "We need a hand-grenade to toss in there, Jason. Do you still have that Glock?"

  "It's in the ditch at the missile site. Hell, Father, the French cops were coming."

  The hands pushed a new length of polished chain through the broken rear window. His father struck at them again with the jack handle, leaving streaks of black grease and blood on the fingers.

  "I told you not to go back to the site. This is your fault, boy."

  Jason made the truck swerve sharply across the highway in an attempt to throw the occupants in the back off balance. The hands disappeared. "I can do better than a grenade," he muttered. "There's some Berlitzan oil in my jacket. Quick!"

  The hands came through again, blood pouring from where the sharp splinters of glass had gashed the skin.

  "Berlitzan oil? You've got Berlitzan oil?" His father hit at the hands savagely.

  "Take the top off and throw it into the back." The chain flicked over his head, and strong hands started pulling it back until the links dug deeply into his windpipe. "Help me, damn you!"

  He could say no more. Jason stamped hard on the brake pedal and the hands came forward, releasing the pressure of the chain on his throat. But the brakes were uneven, and the truck lurched to the left and crossed the highway, smashing into a tree. The small gold cylinder fell from his father's lap onto the floor.

  Jason pushed the chain up over his head. "Hold your breath!" He snatched the cylinder from the floor and unscrewed the lid. For a moment he choked on the smell before tossing it backwards through the broken window into the rear of the truck. Then he joined his father out on the grass. He kicked the side of the old wagon. The paint scheme was ridiculous. Orange and green? What sort of fool painted a vehicle in such lurid colors?

  From the inside came sounds of aggression, sounds like wild beasts tearing each other apart. Grunting, yelling, howling. Savage shrieks of terror. In blind fury Jason ripped at the side panels, filled with frustration at being deprived of the pleasure of fighting his enemy.

  He turned as his father pulled at his shoulder. The stupid old man had asked for trouble all through his life. He bent down to pick up the jack handle that had fallen from the cab, ready to smash his father's skull.

  A sudden pain exploded across the back of his head and he fell forward onto the long grass.

  *

  CAPTAIN LACOSTE flung open the door of the detention room and shouted at Matt to wake up.

  Matt turned over on the narrow bed and looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. He'd managed two hours' sleep since being locked up separately from Zoé. He guessed that Lacoste hadn't even managed an hour. From the senior gendarme's mood, it was clear that an hour was considerably less sleep than he needed. Zoé stood with Lacoste, no longer wearing handcuffs. She looked relieved to see Matt and ran forward to hug him.

  "Last night, I did not know if you were guilty of murder," said Lacoste. "But now the charges are extremely serious. Stand up!"

  "You won't let me phone for un avocat," complained Matt, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed hardly awake. "So I am not saying anything." He stood up slowly and held Zoé tightly.

  "You will need a good man to save you now, monsieur. The bomb you placed on board the helicopter did its work."

  Matt woke up. "Did you say bomb?"

  "Ah, so the Englishman's French is suddenly not so good." Captain Lacoste seemed to be rejoicing in the news he brought.

  "I understand you, monsieur," Matt protested in French. "But I do not understand what you mean about a bomb."

  "It was a clever trick, monsieur." Lacoste nodded to himself. "I have to admit it was extremely clever. The little stick of explosive looked so innocent. Was it intended for the gendarmes?"

  "It was innocent!" protested Matt.

  Captain Lacoste shook his head. "Then why did you tell us it was dangerous?"

  Matt had seen all this before -- from the other side. This man was trying to lure him into saying something incriminating, and he was pretty well incriminated to start with. If only he could contact Ken.

  The door to the corridor was partly open but Captain Lacoste blocked any chance of escape. Matt considered putting Lacoste's reactions to the test, but even if he got away, Zoé would be left behind. These gendarmes were vindictive. Last night, Lacoste said he and Zoé were guilty of murdering the guard. Now, it seemed, the accusation had been a bluff, an excuse to hold them for questioning in daylight. The accusation of a bomb might be another bluff, but clearly Lacoste wasn't about to release them.

  Matt thought about Major Monet flying off with the small gold cylinder in his hands. Something must have happened to the helicopter. It couldn't have been the gold cylinder. The small cylinders didn't contain explosives -- not if his grandfather had been right. The mad Dutchman and the crowd were affected by breathing the contents. There'd been no report in the papers of an explosion.

  Matt kept his arm round Zoé's shoulders. "When are we going to be allowed a phone call?" he demanded.

  "Monsieur, you will be facing charges in front of the magistrate at ten o'clock. I am not sure yet what they will be exactly."

  Lacoste handcuffed them both to the steel legs
of the table and slammed the door shut.

  "It's not the Bastille," Matt whispered. "As soon as I can phone Ken Habgood, he'll fix us up with legal help. It's all so stupid. But be careful what you say. This room will be bugged and they're sure to be listening."

  The door opened. A young gendarme entered with an even younger man in clerical black wearing the collar of a priest. Matt stared at them and shook his head in disbelief. "What's this then? A fancy dress parade?" They must take him for a fool.

  "Monsieur?" asked the gendarme.

  Man nodded towards the boy in the black suit and clerical collar. "What is he wearing? Something left over from the Christmas party?"

  The gendarme tutted. "This is Father Alban. He has..."

  "...Come to read me my last rites," interrupted Matt. "Thank you, but I'm in no mood for games."

  The gendarme turned abruptly and left the room.

  "Do you have something you wish to say?" asked the schoolboy in the black suit.

  "Plenty," responded Matt angrily. "But I'd rather say it to your captain."

  "My captain, monsieur? You mean my bishop?"

  Matt sighed. The world was going crazy. "Let me put it simply. This place is wired for sound. You get me to confess, then you pull out your warrant card and book me."

  "Confession is good, monsieur."

  "Not if you haven't done it."

  "You do not believe I am a real priest." A look of realization spread across the youthful face. "You think I am one of Lacoste's men in disguise."

  "Of course."

  "Oh, monsieur, you are too suspicious. I know all about you. One of my parishioners talked to me after early mass this morning. Madame Sophie Boissant. She is staying with her sister Martha. She has told me about the two Americans, and how you think they killed your grandfather in England. You are innocent of the crime, I think." He raised his eyebrows as though waiting for confirmation.

  "Too right we're innocent. And you're lying. Madame Boissant is dead -- thanks to Lacoste's incompetence."

  "You are wrong, monsieur. Sophie Boissant has recently found peace with God, but she is not with him yet. I can assure you she is very much alive."

  The name of Father Alban seemed familiar. But even if this turned out to be one of Lacoste's men pretending to be the local priest, it wouldn't hurt to have their account recorded on the tape that was sure to be running. Matt took hold of Zoé's hand and outlined their story.