He lowered his legs and began treading water. His every sense was piqued, waiting for another brush, a bump, anything. Nothing came. After another five minutes he started out again.
Four miles from shore he spotted a piece of driftwood and swam to it. It was roughly twice the length of his body and shaped like an outrigger for a canoe. Using it as a kickboard, he continued on.
Two miles from shore, exhaustion overtook him. Each stroke became a monumental effort, as though his arms were encased in lead and he was paddling through oil. His head began to ache, dully at first and then more sharply, spreading outward from the point where the rifle butt had struck him. Worried he’d suffered a concussion and might slip into unconsciousness, he took a few minutes to use his belt to lash his shoulders to the driftwood before swimming on.
After a time he heard the distant rush of waves. He lifted his head. Ahead he could see a faint line of churned water. Breakers … the beach. He dragged himself belly-first across the driftwood until he was astride it and began paddling.
After another ten minutes, a wave rose beneath him, lifted him onto its crest, and broke. He tumbled end over end into the shallows. Dragging the driftwood behind him, he crawled forward until his hands touched dry sand.
Mindful of Dawn’s approach, Tanner allowed himself five minutes to catch his breath, then unhooked himself from the driftwood, struggled to his feet, and headed inland.
At the top of the beach stood a chest-high stone wall and a set of stone steps. To his left was a sign. It took several seconds for his brain to register the words: “Accueillir à Corniche, Population 1,936.” He blinked, read the sign again.
“Accueillir à …?” Briggs murmured. The words were French. Welcome to … Oh no.
Whether from exhaustion, the concussion, unseen currents, or simply bad navigation, he’d missed Saint Sebastian altogether. He’d come ashore in Corniche. He was still in France.
27
He had two choices, neither of them pleasant, but one less so than the other.
He’d mistaken the lights of Hendaye Plage — which lay five miles to the south, around the Viscaya peninsula — for those of Saint Sebastian. By water he was twelve miles from the Spanish border. Assuming he had the strength for another five-hour swim — which he doubted — the sun would be up by the time he reached Saint Sebastian.
Having assumed the Spanish coast would be heavily patrolled at night by anti-ETA units, Tanner had intended to pick his way ashore under cover of darkness. Strolling out of the waves in broad daylight was certain to land him in the hands of military interrogators, who wouldn’t likely be burdened with the finer points of civil rights and due process.
Even so, his chances were worse here. That left one option: Go inland and try to slip across the border while it was still dark.
The street of Corniche were quiet. The homes were cottage style, with dormer windows, slate roofs, and rough-hewn bricks. Most of the shops — which ranged from bakeries and candle makers to a Nokia cell phone distributor — were fronted by canvas awnings in shades of blues and reds. Corniche was, Tanner decided, the essence of quaint; he found himself wishing he had time to linger.
Trying to maintain a generally eastern course, he headed up the main boulevard, then turned up the next side street. He saw a few lighted windows above the streets, but nothing was moving. He kept an unhurried pace — a local out for a stroll — but he was under no illusion: If he were seen up close, his appearance alone would raise suspicion: He was shoeless, soaking wet, and his hair had dried into a wild, salt-encrusted mop. Moreover, he had no identification and his French wasn’t good enough to pass muster under prolonged questioning. The sooner he could get out of Corniche and into the foothills of the Pyrenees, the sooner he could find a way across the border.
What had Susanna said? Trieste, five days. What was in Trieste? he wondered. Was the Italian-resort city just another waypoint for Litzman, or was it his ultimate destination?
He turned the comer and saw a figure standing at a telephone booth on the far sidewalk. It wasn’t a telephone booth, he realized, but a callbox — a police callbox. New millennium or not, many smaller towns in France still used such boxes for patrol cops. Parked beside the curb was a compact black-and-white Simca.
Wonderful, Tanner thought. Of all the people he could run into, it had to be a cop. Keep walking … act like you belong. Maybe Corniche had a healthy population of vagabond beach bums with Tina Turner hair; perhaps the cop—
“Bonjour, le monsieur!” the cop called. “Arrêtez-vous, s’il vous plaît.” Stop, please.
The tone was polite but firm. Tanner kept walking.
“Vous devez vous arrêter!”
Insistent now, Tanner thought. Decide, Briggs. Run or bluff it out?
He stopped and turned. “Pardon?”
The cop strolled over, hand resting on the haft of his truncheon. “May I ask where you are going?” he said in French.
“Eh?” Tanner replied.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m trying to find a friend. I think I’m lost.”
“What is his address?”
Tanner named one of the streets he’d just passed.
“You’re going in the wrong direction,” the cop replied, his eyes traveling up and down Tanner’s body. “Are you well, monsieur? Have you been injured?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“May I see your identification?”
“Of course,” Tanner replied. He rummaged in his back pocket and pretended to pull something out. He swiveled to his right, as though looking for better light. “I can’t see. Do you have a flashlight?”
On instinct, the cop reached toward the flashlight on his belt with his free hand.
Tanner’s hand shot up, thumb extended, and jabbed the man in the hollow of his throat. The cop let out a gasp and clutched at his throat while struggling to free his truncheon. Tanner stepped close, palm-butted him in the chin, hooked his heel behind the man’s foot, and swept his leg. The man collapsed onto his butt, then rolled onto his side, unconscious.
Tanner crouched beside him, looked around. Nothing was moving; no lights, no sounds. He checked the man’s pulse and found it strong and steady; he’d have a headache and a bruised trachea, but he’d survive.
Briggs hefted the man onto his shoulder and waddled across to the Simca. He opened the rear door, dumped the man inside, cuffed his hands behind his back, then shut the door. He collected the man’s cap from the sidewalk, tossed it through the window, then turned away.
He stopped. The kernel of an idea formed in his mind. He glanced back at the Simca, mulled over the plan for a few moments, then decided. Better to ride than walk. He trotted to the callbox and checked to make sure the cop had removed his key — he had — then climbed into the Simca’s front seat, settled the cop’s hat on his head, turned on the engine, and pulled away.
He drove west until he found the outskirts of Corniche, then pulled over. In the glovebox he found a road atlas, which he studied until certain of his course; then he drove on. Five minutes and two miles later he pulled onto the D658 and headed southeast until he reached the N10, which he followed to Bariatou, the last French town along the border.