Liz Carlyle - 05 - Present Danger (33 page)

‘Thank God for that,’ she said as she pulled on the suit.

The frigate was a long, lean, evil-looking vessel with a stern that was open like a car ferry. Liz and Martin were welcomed on board by one of the crew and taken up to the bridge to meet the captain. As she looked out through the narrow window in front of her, Liz could see that the sweep of the bow was broken by a large gun.

‘This ship looks capable of blowing the island out of the water,’ she remarked to Martin.

‘It is. And behind us there are surface-to-air missiles. So if Piggott launches an air attack,’ he said with a grin, ‘we can deal with that too.’

On the dot of four o’clock the frigate slipped out, sailing quietly past Toulon harbour, where a slumbering flotilla of sailing boats and motor cruisers filled the lines of jetties. As they moved out into the open sea, picking up speed, the wind began buffeting the ship and spray splashed against the window in front of them. Two lights on the bow cast dual beams across the waves as the frigate swung in a long arc eastwards towards the Ile de Porquerolles. Liz thought for a moment that she saw the first hints of dawn breaking in light-grey streaks against the horizon, but her eyes were deceiving her – it was still deep night and the sky was black as coal.

As they approached the island, Martin put his hand on Liz’s shoulder. ‘Laval asked me to make sure you understood the rules for this operation. When we land on the island, he’s in charge. You and I are merely here as advisors. I have communications but you haven’t, so you must stick very closely to me to avoid getting out of touch. If there’s trouble we’ll follow Laval’s orders.’

Liz nodded. This was not the first military operation she’d been on. ‘
Compris
,’ she said.

The frigate slowed to a stop and with a gentle splash the first inflatable, with six commandos on board, emerged from the stern and, riding the waves lightly, its outboard motor muted, headed off towards the ferry terminal on the island’s north side.

‘Time to go,’ said Martin and they climbed down companion ladders to the ship’s belly. The twelve remaining commandos were a frightening sight, dressed as they were entirely in black, their faces streaked with black pitch, balaclavas on, night vision goggles on top of their heads, with their guns and equipment hanging at their sides.

Ten minutes later the frigate stopped again, this time on the Mediterranean side of the island, half a mile out and half a mile down the coast from the farmhouse. The second team climbed into their boat and peeled off rapidly to take their position well back from the cove, covering that exit route.

‘Here we go,’ said Martin, smiling at Liz, and her stomach gave such a lurch that she thought for a moment she would be sick. Laval shook hands and they wished each other
bonne chance
. A few seconds later it was Liz’s turn to climb out of the open stern into the rocking rubber boat.

‘Let me help,’ said Seurat.

‘I’m fine,’ but she was grateful nonetheless when he kept a steady hand on her arm as she lowered herself into the boat, where a commando was waiting to help her sit down on the side of the middle pontoon.

‘Hang on tight,’ said Seurat, joining her on the pontoon, and a moment later Laval sat down in the stern, the outboard whirred and they were off.

Liz’s eyes took a while to adjust to the dark – at first she could see nothing but the white spray of the waves as the boat bumped over them. Then she made out the looming overhanging cliffs of the shoreline to her right, and began to get her bearings – they were working their way west to the cove. She was amazed how little noise they made – some device was muffling the sound of the outboard motor, though it wasn’t restricting its power, for they were moving fast.

Suddenly Laval closed down the throttle, the throaty noise of the engine became a purr, and the boat slowed abruptly. The commando in the bow stood up and as the engine cut out he jumped over the side, holding a rope attached to a hook on the prow. Seconds later, the bottom of the dinghy jarred against the beach, and the boat stopped.

Following Seurat, Liz jumped out into the shallows and waded up onto the little beach. It was pitch dark. Taking her cue from the others, she pulled on her night vision goggles, and a strange eerie monochrome world appeared.

Three commandos stood guard on the beach, facing the path they’d seen on the map of the island, while two others went rapidly off to one side of the beach. A minute later this pair returned; they’d found the boat Seurat’s surveillance officers had discovered.

Laval said, ‘Pierre, you stay here and guard the boat.’

The commando named Pierre disconsolately kicked the sand, then headed off to his post. Laval said something, and the other commandos laughed.

‘He seems very disappointed,’ Liz said to Seurat.

He chuckled. ‘Yes, this is his first mission so he wants to make his mark. Laval said once he had more operations under his belt he’d be less keen. That’s why they were laughing.’

Now Laval turned to the other commandos, and pointing to the path just visible on the edge of the beach, announced, ‘
Allons-y
.’

The path climbed sharply and was wet. Liz was not used to the night vision goggles and found it difficult to gauge her footsteps. She slipped twice; each time Seurat was there to help her up. At last they reached the clifftop, where she was able to catch her breath as Laval conferred with the other commandos. Then, from further along the cliff, a noise. The commandos moved swiftly and silently into the cover of the wood and Liz, led by Seurat, joined them in the trees.

They crouched in silence, the commandos with their weapons at the ready. Suddenly a shriek broke the silence – then again, even higher-pitched, squeal-like.

Laval whispered somewhere to their left, and Seurat said in Liz’s ear, ‘A fox. And now it’s got a rabbit.’

They regrouped on the path, which ran through the wood in the direction of the farmhouse. Laval was about to speak when there was another noise, just yards up the path. This is no fox, thought Liz, as they all moved back into the trees. Footsteps. Someone was approaching.

55

‘I am sure we’ll hear from FARC tomorrow,’ Milraud had said before he went up to his bedroom, but from Piggott’s absent nod he could see the man wasn’t listening. It was then he’d realised that Piggott didn’t care about selling Willis any more. He’d decided to do something else.

Milraud lay now on his bed in the dark with his clothes on, listening carefully. He was filtering out the noises of the wind and the wildlife outside – the owl hooting and the bats squeaking – from the sound he was expecting to hear at any moment. It was four-thirty. He was tired, very tired, but he’d managed to grab a cat nap in the early evening precisely so he wouldn’t fall asleep now, when he most needed to be alert.

He had received an email from Seurat. It said that he needed more time to consult the British before replying to Milraud’s offer. Perhaps that was true; equally, though, it might be an effort to buy time while he and his men hunted them down. He had replied tersely,
Time is running out
, and hoped Seurat would understand the urgency.

For Piggott’s behaviour had if anything become more unbalanced – he had begun talking to himself, and pacing continuously. He had started complaining of being ‘cooped up’, and he’d even threatened to take the ferry for a visit to the mainland.

This had forced Milraud’s hand – he’d had to tell Piggott then about Seurat’s visit to Annette, and explain that there was surveillance on the mainland. Piggott had taken this news badly, and had started making even more forays out to ‘check the boat’, which still lay hidden down by the beach. On one of these jaunts, Milraud had taken the opportunity to search through the American’s belongings, and he was glad that he had. In the small hold-all beside Piggott’s bed he’d found a Smith & Wesson .38.

He felt it first, rather than heard it – a faint reverberation, a slight shuddering of the floor. If it was an earthquake, it was very mild. But then he heard the soft burring noise. What was it? A helicopter some distance away, or something else?

As he listened, he heard a creak from the landing. A door was being quietly opened. Silently, he swung his legs off the bed and sat up, straining to hear. Another creak, then the distinct sound of a padded footfall.

Getting up, he went to the door, which he had left open a crack. Peering out, he could just distinguish a figure moving slowly, cautiously. Slim, tall – it was Piggott. He’s leaving, he thought.

‘James,’ he said calmly, opening his door.

Piggott didn’t seem startled. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked. ‘It sounded like a chopper.’ He was moving towards the porch. Was he carrying something? In the half-light, Milraud couldn’t tell.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Milraud.

‘To check the dinghy,’ said Piggott over his shoulder. He opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. ‘That’s our only ticket out of here, and I’m not letting anybody take it.’ And the screen door banged shut behind him.

Milraud waited, counting to ten, then went back into his room and picked up a heavy torch. He walked across the landing into Piggott’s room. In the torch beam he saw the bed, unslept in, and looked around for the hold-all that held the .38. It wasn’t there – Piggott must have taken it with him.

That confirmed what he suspected – Piggott wasn’t checking the boat; Piggott was going to
take
the boat, to get away. Which would be disastrous – left with a homicidal Spaniard and a hostage, Milraud calculated that he’d either be shot by the Spaniard when he discovered Piggott had fled, or shot by Seurat’s men when they arrived to rescue Willis. If he somehow managed to survive, he’d be in prison for ever after kidnapping a British intelligence officer. None of these options appealed. Should he get out himself – hide and catch the first ferry to the mainland in the morning? No good. He’d be picked up before he’d gone far, and the Spaniard would kill Willis if he found he’d been left on his own. Then the charge Milraud would face would be accessory to murder, as well as kidnapping.

The only thing to do was to follow Piggott and persuade him not to leave. That would buy enough time to alert Seurat that he must move in fast.

But how was he going to do that? Milraud had no idea. Strangely for an arms dealer, he never carried a gun. He had a deep-seated personal aversion to them, and he’d never owned one. Even in his former incarnation as an intelligence officer, he had always refused to carry a weapon. He was quite ready to be guarded by armed men (like his chauffeur), and very happy to sell anybody the means to kill. But when it came to using one himself, he wouldn’t. But now for the first time in his life, he wished he had a gun. With Piggott, bullets spoke louder than words.

But there was nothing for it. He had to go after Piggott and stop him leaving. Opening the screen door, cautiously switching on his torch and shading the beam with his hand, he moved gingerly outside, towards the path that led down to the beach.

56

They would be here soon – very soon. He didn’t stop to wonder who ‘they’ were – French or British or even the FBI. Any one of them would be intent on arresting him.

That wasn’t going to happen. As soon as Piggott reached the woods he stopped and unzipped his holdall. The .38 lay on top of a folded towel and he took it out and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers. Then he threw the holdall into the bushes that lined the sides of the path.

It wasn’t going to help him escape – for that he needed only his wits about him. And the gun.

He moved quickly, ignoring the brambles that scraped his arms and face as he tried to stick to the path. He hadn’t dared bring a torch, since that would draw the people closing in on him.

He should never have trusted Milraud and never have let him bring him here. Not to an island, so easy to seal off. The only way out was by boat, and that was why he had insisted on checking that the dinghy was still there so many times each day. Once he got to it now, he’d be free and clear.

Next stop Algeria, he thought. Ahmed there had replied to his email at once, saying Piggott could pick up a consignment of hashish. He could also pick up a larger boat, and he figured a good five days hard sailing would see him back in County Down, no one the wiser about where he’d been or what had happened.

He supposed it would have been best to silence Milraud before he’d left, or at the very least leave orders with Gonzales to kill both him and the prisoner. Still, Milraud was the one left holding the can, not Piggott. As he began to descend the trail to the beach, he was cheered by thoughts of returning to Northern Ireland and finishing his business there.

He’d need some help of course, and he wasn’t going to use Ryan again, that was for sure. He needed someone more experienced. Malone had killed before, if the gossip of the IRA veterans was to be believed, so Piggott was certain he’d be willing to kill again. If other volunteers proved scarce, he could always call on old associates in Boston to come over and join in the campaign. Soon MI5 would rue the day they’d taken over intelligence duties in the province.

Suddenly Piggott heard footsteps along the trail, coming up from below. He moved quickly, silently on the balls of his feet, into the thick brush where he crouched down. He waited tensely, hand on his pistol, and listened as several people – at least four, maybe five – climbed up the path. Then they were above him, and he silently rejoined the path and continued his descent.

Take it slowly, he told himself, as he drew to within a stone’s throw of the cove. To his right the dinghy lay covered in brush, but he knew better than to go straight to it. These people after him were doubtless fools, but even fools took precautions, and Piggott expected a sentry to stand guard over the boat.
Hah
, he thought with a scornful laugh to himself – as if some soldier was going to keep him from getting away.

He left the path again, a good twenty feet above the beach, and edged inch by inch, circling the dinghy. He stared hard at the shadows on the beach cast by the overhanging trees and pulled the gun out from his waistband.