wish the coffee and the cognac, Monsieur?’
‘The cognac only, I think.’
Corder shivered for no accountable reason and took the cognac down in one quick swallow. ‘It’s cold even for November.’
The barman shrugged. ‘On a night like this, even the poules stay home.’
‘Sensible girls.’
Corder pushed a note across the table and went out. The wind dashed rain in his face and he turned up the collar of his jacket, ran to the old Renault taxi waiting on the corner, wrenched open the rear door and got in. It moved away instantly and he sank back against the seat. They turned across the bridge and the lights in their heavy glass globes made him think of Oxford with a strange sense of déjà vu.
Twelve years of my life, he thought. What would I have been now? Fellow of Balliol? Possibly even a professor at some rather less interesting university? Instead … But that kind of thinking did no good – no good at all.
The driver was an old man, badly in need of a shave, and Corder was aware of the eyes watching him in the driving mirror. Not a word was said as they drove through darkness and rain, moving through a maze of back streets, finally turning into a wharf in the dock area and braking to a halt outside a warehouse. A small light illuminated a sign which read Renoir & Sons – Importers. The taxi driver sat there without a word. Corder got out, closing the door behind him, and the Renault drove away.
It was very quiet, only the lapping of the water in the basin where dozens of barges were moored. Rain hammered down, silver in the light of the sign. There was a small judas gate in the main entrance. When Corder tried the handle it opened instantly and he stepped inside.
The warehouse was crammed with bales and packing cases of every description. It was dark, but there was a light at the far end and he moved towards it. A man sat at a trestle table beneath a naked bulb. There was a map spread across the table in front of him, a briefcase beside it, and he was making notes in a small, leather-bound diary.
‘Hello, Frank,’ Corder said.
Frank Barry looked up. ‘Ah, there you are, Jack. Sorry to mess you about.’
The voice was good public school English with just a hint of an Ulster inflection here and there. He leaned back in the chair. His blond hair curled crisply, making him look considerably younger than his forty-eight years, and the black Burberry trenchcoat gave him a curiously elegant appearance. A handsome, lean-faced man with one side of his mouth hooked into a slight perpetual half-smile, as if permanently amused by the world and its inhabitants.
‘Something big?’ Corder asked.
‘You could say that. Did you know the British Foreign Secretary was visiting the President at the moment?’
‘Lord Carrington?’ Corder frowned. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘Neither does anyone else. All very hush-hush. The new Tory government trying to cement the entente cordiale which has been more than bruised of late years. Not that it will do any good. Giscard d’Estaing will always put France top of his list, no matter what the situation. Their final meeting in the morning is taking place at a villa at Rigny.’ He stabbed at the map on the table with his finger. ‘Here, about forty miles from Paris.’
‘So?’ Corder said.
‘He leaves at noon by car for Vezelay. There’s an airforce emergency field there from where the RAF will be waiting to whisk him back to good old England, to all intents and purposes as if he’s never been away.’
‘So where’s all this leading?’
‘Here.’ Barry tapped the map again. ‘St Etienne, fifteen miles from Rigny, which consists of a petrol station and a roadside cafe at present closed. A perfect spot.’
‘For what?’
‘To hit the bugger as he passes through. One car, four CRS escorts on motorbikes. No problem that I can see.’
Corder was conscious of the cold now eating deep into his bones. ‘You’re joking. We’d never get away with it. I mean, a thing like this needs preparation, split second timing.’
‘All taken care of,’ Barry said cheerfully. ‘You should know me by now, Jack. I always prefer people who are working for wages. Thorough-going fanatics like yourself – honest Marxists who believe in the cause – you take it all too seriously and that tends to cloud your thinking. You can’t beat the professional touch.’
The Ulster accent was more in evidence now, all part of a deliberate exercise in charm.
‘Who have you got?’ Corder asked.
‘Three hoods from Marseilles on the run from the Union Corse after the wrong kind of underworld killing. One of them has his girl with him. They’ll do anything in return for the right price, four false passports and tickets to the Argentine.’
Corder stared down at the map. ‘So how does it happen?’
‘Simple. As I said, the cafe is closed. That only leaves the proprietor and his wife in the garage. They’ll be taken care of and my men will be in position, dressed as mechanics, from twelve-fifteen, working on a car on the forecourt.’
Corder shook his head. ‘From what I can see, the convoy will be passing at a fairly high speed at that point. Remember what happened at Petit-Clamart when Bastien Thiry and his boys tried to ambush General de Gaulle? Even with machine guns at point-blank range they didn’t do any good because the old man’s car just kept on going. A second is all you get and away.’
‘So what we have to do is stop the car,’ Barry said.
‘Impossible. These days those VIP drivers are trained for just this kind of situation. From what I can see on the map, it’s a straight road giving a good view long before he gets there. Block it with a vehicle or anything else and they’ll simply turn round and get the hell out of there.’ He shook his head. ‘He won’t stop, Frank, that driver, and there’s no way you can make him.’
‘Oh, yes, there is,’ Barry said. ‘Which is where the girl I mentioned comes into the picture. At the appropriate moment, she tries to cross the road from the garage pushing a pram. She stumbles, the pram runs away from her into the road.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Corder said.
‘Am I? It worked for the Red Army Faction a couple of years back when they snatched Schleyer, the head of the German Industries Federation in Cologne.’ Barry smiled. ‘You see, Jack, human nature being what it is, I think that I can positively guarantee that when that driver sees a runaway pram in his path he’ll do only one thing. Swerve to avoid it and come to a dead halt.’
Which was true. Had to be. Corder nodded. ‘Put that way, I suppose you’re right.’
‘I always am, old son.’ He opened the briefcase and took out a hand transceiver. ‘This is for you. There’s a side road on a hill covered by an apple orchard which overlooks the chateau at Rigny nicely. I want you there by eleven o’clock in the morning. You’ll find a Peugeot estate car in the yard outside, keys in the lock. Use that.’
‘Then what?’
‘The moment you see Carrington making preparations to leave, you call in on the transceiver, Channel 42. You say: This is Red calling. The package is about to be delivered. I’ll say: Green here. The package will be collected. Then you get to hell out of there. I want you at St Etienne before Carrington arrives.’
‘Will you be there?’
Barry looked surprised. ‘And where else would I be?’ He smiled. ‘I was a National Service second lieutenant with the Ulster Rifles in Korea in 1950, Jack. You didn’t know that, did you? But I’ll tell you one thing. When my lads went over the top, I was always in front.’
‘With a swagger stick in one hand?’
‘And