‘Efficient,’ Barry said calmly. ‘You’ve got to give the buggers that.’
Corder licked dry lips nervously and his left hand went into the pocket of his leather jacket, groping for the butt of the Walther.
‘What could have gone wrong?’
‘One of those bastards from Marseilles must have had a big mouth,’ Barry said. ‘And if word got back to the Union Corse …’ He shrugged, ‘Thieving’s one thing, politics is another. They’d inform without a second’s hesitation.’ He clapped Corder on the shoulder. ‘But we’d better get out of this. Just follow my tail, like you did before. Nobody is likely to stop us when they see me escorting you.’
He pushed the BMW off its stand and rode away. Corder followed. The whole thing was like a bad dream and he could still see, vivid as any image on the cinema screen, the body of the girl, bouncing back across the pram in a hail of machine gun fire. And Barry had expected it. Expected it, and yet he had still let those poor sods go through with it.
He followed the BMW closely, through narrow country lanes, twisting and turning. They met no one and then, a good ten miles on the other side of St Etienne, came to a small garage and cafe at the side of the road. Barry turned in beside the cafe and braked to a halt. As Corder joined him, he was taking a canvas grip from one of the side panniers.
‘I know this place,’ he said. ‘There’s a wash room at the back. I’m going to change. We’ll leave the BMW here and carry on in the Peugeot.’
He went round to the rear before Corder could reply and the young woman in the glass office beside the petrol pumps emerged and approached him. She was perhaps twenty-five with a flat, pleasant face, and wore a man’s tweed jacket that was too large for her.
‘Petrol, monsieur?’
‘Is there a telephone?’ Corder asked.
‘In the cafe, monsieur, but it’s not open for business. I’m the only one here today.’
‘I must use it. It’s very urgent.’ He pushed a hundred franc note at her. ‘Just give me some tokens. You keep the rest.’
She shrugged, went into her office and opened the till. She came back with the tokens. ‘I’ll show you,’ she said.
The cafe wasn’t much: a few tables and chairs, a counter with bottles of beer and mineral water and rows of glasses ranged behind, a door which obviously led to the kitchen. The telephone was on the wall, a directory hanging beside it.
The girl said, ‘Look, seeing I’m here I’ll make some coffee. Okay?’
‘Fine,’ Corder told her.
She disappeared into the kitchen and he quickly checked in the directory to find the district number to link him with the international line. His fingers were shaking as he dialled the area code for London followed by the DI5 number.
He didn’t even have time to pray. The receiver was lifted at the other end and a woman’s voice this time, the day operator, said, ‘Say who you are.’
‘Lysander,’ Corder said urgently. ‘Clear line please. I must speak to Brigadier Ferguson at once. Total Priority.’
Ferguson’s voice cut in instantly, almost as if he’d been listening in. ‘Jack, what is it?’
‘Total cock-up, sir. Barry smelt a rat, so he and I stayed out of things. The rest of the team were knocked out by CRS police.’
‘You’ve got clean away, presumably.’
‘Yes.’
‘And does he suspect you?’
‘No – he thinks it’s down to one of those Marseilles hoods speaking out of turn.’
In the kitchen Frank Barry, listening on the extension, smiled, anonymous in the dark goggles. The girl lay on the floor at his feet, blood oozing from an ugly cut in her temple where he had clubbed her with his pistol. He left the receiver hanging on its cord, took a Carswell Silencer from his pocket, and screwed it on to the barrel of his pistol as he walked into the cafe.
Corder was still talking in a low urgent voice. ‘No, I don’t know how much more I can take, that’s the trouble.’
Barry said softly, ‘Jack!’
Corder swung round and Barry shot him twice through the heart, slamming him back. He bounced off the wall and fell to the floor on his face.
The receiver dangled on the end of its cord. Barry picked it up and said, ‘That you, Ferguson, old son? Frank Barry here. If you want Corder back, you’d better send a box for him to Cafe Rosco, St Julien.’
‘You bastard,’ Charles Ferguson said.
‘It’s been said before.’
Barry replaced the receiver and went out, whistling softly as he unscrewed the silencer. He slipped the pistol back into its holster, pushed the BMW off its stand and rode away.
It was raining on the following morning when Ferguson’s car dropped him outside Number Ten Downing Street, ten minutes early for his eleven o’clock appointment with the Prime Minister. His driver moved away instantly and Ferguson crossed the pavement to the entrance. In spite of the rain, there was the usual small crowd of sightseers on the other side of the road, mainly tourists, kept in place by a couple of police constables. Another stood in his usual place by the door, not much protection for the best-known address in England, the seat of political power as well as the Prime Minister’s private residence, but that didn’t mean a thing, as Ferguson well knew. There were others, more inconspicuously attired, situated at certain strategic points in the area, ready to swarm in at the first hint of trouble.
The policeman saluted and the door was opened, even before Ferguson reached it. He passed inside.
The young man who greeted him said, ‘Brigadier Ferguson? This way, sir.’
There was the hum of activity from the Press Room on the right as he crossed the entrance hall and entered the corridor leading to the rear of the house and the Cabinet Room.
The main staircase to the first floor was lined with portraits of previous Prime Ministers: Peel, Wellington, Disraeli, Gladstone. Ferguson always felt an acute sense of history as he mounted those stairs, although this was the first time he had done so to meet the present Prime Minister. The first time he had had to explain himself to a woman, and a damn clever woman, if it came to that. Definitely a new experience. But did anything change? How many attempts to assassinate Queen Victoria? And Disraeli and Gladstone had both had their hands full of Fenians, dynamiters and anarchists with their bombs, at one time or another.
On the top corridor the young man knocked on a door, opened it and ushered Ferguson inside. ‘Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister,’ he said and left, closing the door behind him.
The study was more elegant now than Ferguson remembered it, with pale green walls, gold curtains and comfortable furniture in perfect taste. But nothing was more elegant in the entire room than the woman behind the desk. The blue suit with the froth of white lace at the throat perfectly offset the blonde hair. An elegant, handsome woman of the world, and yet the eyes, when she glanced up at Ferguson from the paper she was reading, were hard and intelligent.
‘I’ve had a personal assurance from the French President this morning