And poor old Lieutenant Cartier was searching the surface for a ship that was not on it. Mack Bedford carried on fishing until the coast guard had gone past. He gave them a quick wave as they went by, and then he tied the heavy binoculars to the fishing line and dropped the rod over the side. He changed his disguise, reinstating himself as Gunther Marc Roche of 18 rue de Basle, Geneva. He turned the Zodiac around and ran lightly through the calming sea, making around six knots on his two-mile, twenty-minute journey to the beach at Val André.
Still patrol boat
P720
did not report in to Saint-Malo. Pierre Savary heard nothing. And the two hit men leaning on the seawall were completely in the dark. Both of them could see the return of the fisherman, but took little notice. Their eyes were trained on the horizon, compulsively looking for the dark-red shape of
Eagle
trying to make landfall.
But there was only the fisherman, chugging ever nearer in his little Zodiac, a matter of such underwhelming indifference that Marcel and Raymond scarcely noticed as the inflatable came running easily into the shallows, 150 yards away.
Just then, Marcel’s phone rang. And the message complicated what was already complicated. “There appears to be some doubt as to the landing place of
Eagle,
” said Pierre. “The coast guard has asked everyone to stand by until they issue a definite location.”
“Well, what do we do?” asked Marcel.
“Better stay right there until further orders,” said the police chief.
“Does this mean they’ve lost the fucking trawler?” asked Marcel.
“I don’t know that. But it’s beginning to look that way. Stupid bastards.”
“Well, how the hell can anyone lose a sixty-five-foot trawler? It’s bigger than the fucking police station,” snapped Marcel.
“Who knows?” grunted Pierre. “Better hold it right there till we finally get organized.”
He rang off and left Marcel wondering what was happening and staring down the beach as the fisherman came onto land. The sun was up now, but still low in the sky, and it had the effect of silhouetting Mack as he raised the little outboard engine and beached the Zodiac, casting no light on his face whatsoever. He hopped adroitly over the bow and hauled on the painter, catching the next incoming wave, which helped shove the boat up the beach. Mack pulled some more, then walked around and gave an almighty heave on the side handles, which hauled the boat around to face the water, its bow rising slightly with the incoming tide.
He leaned over and pulled out his leather bag and the metal toolbox, and placed them on the sand. Then he took out his sharp screwdriver and punctured and ripped the inflatable hull of the boat in about ten places close to the waterline. Marcel and Raymond, watching from afar, thought he must be some kind of a nutcase.
But Mack was not done. He rolled up his pants and took off his trainers and socks. He waded out and started the engine, which roared and sloshed water everywhere as he eased the boat through the shallows. Then, with one movement, he smacked the engine into gear, and opened the throttle wide. In the shallow water the motor almost died, spluttering, gasping for depth and space for the prop to spin. Mack gave it one last almighty heave, and the Zodiac took off, growling its way straight out to sea. It couldn’t be stopped. Better yet, it couldn’t float. At least, not for long.
Mack pulled his socks on, over his wet feet, put on his shoes, and adjusted his damp driver’s gloves. Then he set off up the beach, holding the box in his right hand and the bag in his left.
At which point, Marcel almost had a heart attack. “Jesus Christ, Raymond!” he gasped. “Look at this guy. He’s not only a nutcase, but he’s big with long dark hair and a black beard. I think it’s him.”
“Are you kidding me?” exclaimed Raymond. “What do we do?”
“Let him get close and then call out his name—Gunther. What else can we do?”
“It’s gotta be him,” said Raymond, sliding his Sig Sauer service revolver out of its holster. “Let’s take him right now, soon as he gets close enough.”
“No. No. I want to check. We can’t just gun down the local grocer or someone. I wanna know it’s really him.”
By now Mack was within thirty yards, and Marcel shouted, “Gunther! Right here!”
“You talking to me, pal?” said Mack, still striding toward them.
“Gunther Rock, we are from the French police because you answer the description of someone who has committed piracy on the high seas, and attempted to murder the crew. Put down both those bags and raise your hands.”
Raymond, meanwhile, standing just ten feet away, drew his revolver, and aimed it straight at Mack Bedford’s heart.
CHAPTER
10
Mack made his very best effort to look resigned to his fate, and adopted a
downcast look, nodding his head to confirm he would do precisely as he was told. Wearily, he leaned forward and placed the toolbox and the bag on the ground, as if they were precious. As he straightened up, he raised his arms into the surrender position, staring all the while into the eyes of Raymond the gunman.
And then Mack Bedford struck with dazzling speed, snapping both hands around Raymond’s right arm, swaying sideways, and smashing the arm on the sharp edge of the wall, breaking it in half at the elbow like a rotten stick.
Raymond screamed with pain, and the gun flew over the wall and onto the beach, at which point Mack delivered a stupendous kick to his groin that knocked him flat on his back, writhing in agony.
Marcel had no time even to draw his revolver, and he leaped at Mack from behind, ramming his forearm around the former SEAL’s throat. But Marcel was simply not strong enough. Mack twisted and brought his right arm around in what looked like a haymaker delivered by a boxer.
But this was no punch. This was unarmed military combat, a lifetime of training. And Mack’s right hand was traveling at the speed of light as he rammed two fingers into Marcel’s eyes so hard he would have been blinded for life. But that was not relevant. Marcel tried to veer away from the monster who now faced him, but he never had a chance. Mack grabbed him by the ears and sharply twisted his head right around, first left, then right, snapping the neck almost in half.
Marcel was dead before he hit the ground. And before he did hit the ground Mack had hauled Raymond by the ears into a sitting position and done precisely the same thing to him. It had taken him 9.7 seconds to kill them both. And now he heaved them both over the wall.
Mack could hear Marcel’s phone ringing as the body thudded onto the beach, but this time Pierre Savary would receive no reply. He did not, of course, know there were two vacancies this morning on Henri Foche’s security staff. Which was just as well, since he was already fuming, fit to explode at the pathetic failure of Marcel to answer his goddamned phone.
Mack picked up his bag and toolbox and muttered, “Fucking amateurs,” as he considered the sheer futility of the two killers who had been sent to murder him. The image of his beloved Tommy stood before him, and he added quietly, “Guess that one was for you, kid.”
The street that led up to the village of Val André was deserted. Mack’s watch showed a few minutes past six, but France was an hour in front of England, and he knew it was just after seven. Thus far, he had been operating purely on matters of darkness and lightness, sunrise and sunset. But now he moved officially onto French time, six hours in front of Maine, but the same as Switzerland.
Mack knew perfectly well he had to stop torturing himself over Anne and Tommy, because there was nothing he could do, and while he did not give a rat’s ass for the late Marcel and his dimwitted cohort, he could very easily have sat down and wept helpless tears for his wife and their little boy. Deep down he was sure the great Carl Spitzbergen was going to save Tommy, and they would go fishing again together, and they’d throw the baseball and watch the Red Sox. He wasn’t going to die. Mack was struggling for control, just to stop his tears, which were rolling into his beard as he strode toward the village. It’s often that way with the bravest of men.
The street narrowed as he walked, and high above, slung right across the road between the shops, were two huge banners proclaiming,
HENRI FOCHE—POUR LA BRETAGNE, POUR LA FRANCE.
There were already one or two early customers buying warm baguettes from the
boulangerie,
but no one paid much attention to the big bearded man carrying his toolbox up the main street.
Mack was resolved to walk through the town until he came to a garage, and it turned out to be a fair distance, just less than a mile. But there it was, with a Foche banner strung across the forecourt—Laporte Auto. It was really a gas station with a half-dozen cars lined up for sale outside.
There was a dark blue Peugeot for fourteen thousand euros and a red Citroën for nineteen. In any event, the garage was closed, and a notice said it would not open before eight. Mack put down his bag and box and leaned on the doorbell, and he heard it ring loudly inside the building.
No response. So he hit it again. And again. Two minutes later, a sleepy, unshaven, and very angry Frenchman opened an upstairs window and shouted, “Are you crazy! It’s seven fifteen in the morning, and we don’t open until eight o’clock. Go away! We’re closed.”
Mack stared up at him, and in the most desperate German accent, which sounded like a Punjabi peasant, he shouted back, “You see this Peugeot right here? I’ll give you twenty thousand euros for it, in cash. So long as you’re down here in sixty seconds.”
“Go away. I’m in bed with my wife. You must be a pervert! I call the police.”
He slammed down the window. And Mack waited, still looking up at the building. The window flew open again.
“How much?” yelled Monsieur Laporte.
“Twenty thousand.”
“I’ll be right down.”
One minute later the garage owner unlocked the front door. “You want the car now?” he asked.
“Right now,” said Mack, delving into his bag and removing seven bundles of euros. “How many miles has it done?”
“Eleven thousand. It’s a good car. Belonged to a local man. I serviced it myself.”
“I’m paying you this much money to get the documents signed and to get me out of here inside of ten minutes, so get buzzing.”
M. Laporte got buzzing. He produced registration documents and said he needed, legally, to see Mack’s passport—“Photo identification,
n’est ce pas
?”
Mack pulled out his scarlet Gunther Marc Roche Swiss passport and handed it over, complete with the photograph taken in Portland of the bearded Swiss national. This was laminated onto the page, with a small white computerized cross set onto the right side of his face, the way all Swiss passports are designed.
The Frenchman wrote down the details carefully—“Passport number 947274902 . . . 18 rue de Basle, Geneva—and I need to see your driver’s license, if you want to drive away from here on French roads.”
Mack gave him the Gunther Marc Roche license, and watched M. Laporte add it to the document, complete with date of issue—July 2008. He handed over the money and signed the registration documents for the French government—
Gunther M. Roche.
Monsieur Laporte dated it, and stamped it with the authentic seal of Laporte Motors.
“No bullshit,” said Mack.
“Pardon, monsieur?”
“Do I get a guarantee?”
“For a cash deal like this you get my personal guarantee that I will repair this car free no matter what, for a period of six months.”
“One year, you stingy little prick,” said Mack, confident that a man who was unable to translate the word “bullshit” would have real trouble with “stingy little prick.” Anyway, he felt better for saying it.
“Okay, one year,” said Laporte, and Mack refrained from calling him a stingy little prick again. Instead, he patted him on the back and told him to send the official documents to his address in Geneva when they arrived from the government. They went outside, and Monsieur Laporte washed the price off the windshield of the car. He gave Mack the key and asked if he would like the tank filled.
“Good idea,” said Mack, and sat in the driver’s seat while twelve gallons were pumped in.