Well, he wasn’t going to wait around to see that happen, and if only to keep his spirits high he decided to act. Which meant finding some sort of weapon – any sort, however primitive – which would increase his chances if the shooting started. The problem was, the cellar had been stripped clean: there was his mattress, a bucket that functioned as a disgusting toilet, two large empty wine barrels, propped on their sides on stands, and a wall of empty wine racks. That was it – except for another rack, really just a long slab of pine on the wall, with hooks that must once have been used for hanging tools. But the tools were long gone, and when Dave tried to extricate one of the hooks – a feeble weapon, but better than nothing – he found they were all immovably lodged deep in the plank.
Don’t give up, he told himself. Moving slowly, and wincing each time he took more than a tiny shallow breath, Dave systematically explored the rest of the cellar. The thin shaft of light from the slit window didn’t reach into the corners, so he had to stick his hand in and feel around, sending spiders scuttling.
After ten minutes he was exhausted and ready to give up; he’d found nothing at all. He leaned against one of the two empty barrels for support, and suddenly whatever was propping it up gave way. The barrel rolled off its stand, crashing onto the floor, and Dave fell down, landing on his damaged ribs.
The pain was colossal, and he lay on the floor winded and in agony. After a time, the agony retreated into pain and he dragged himself up onto his knees and looked at the damaged barrel. It had split apart, its ribs fanning out like an opening flower. Could he use one of the wooden ribs as a weapon? No, they were too big to conceal. What about the circular metal bands? Again they were far too big, and anyway, he had nothing to cut them with.
But as he looked at the pile of wood lying on the cellar floor, Dave saw something small and metallic glinting among the wooden staves. Ignoring the pain, he crawled over and reached out to where he’d seen the glint, only to be rewarded with a sharp prick on his finger. He’d cut himself, but he didn’t care. He gingerly felt around again for whatever it was. Got it! He looked at the object in his hand. It was some kind of blade.
Lifting it up to the light, he saw that he was holding a small knife, no more than four inches long, with a worm-eaten wooden handle and a thin rusty blade with a wickedly sharp point – blood was dripping from his finger now. The blade was sliverthin and wobbled precariously in the ancient handle. But if it had been made of the finest steel, Dave could not have admired it more. It felt wonderful in his hand and he held it lovingly. It was a weapon. He could only use it once and he’d choose his moment carefully.
54
Liz was wide awake when the alarm on her phone went off. It was three a.m. She’d dozed rather than slept for three hours, troubled by muddled dreams of Dave, Piggott, Milraud’s shop, and boats rocking in the wind.
She’d only just got into bed after helping Martin compose a stalling reply to Milraud, when the communications officer had rung her room. There was a message for her from Belfast. So she’d had to get dressed again. The message was from Peggy – Liz could picture her in the office, refusing to go home while there was anything to be done to help Dave.
Peggy reported that Malone, the local thug who’d worked for Piggott in Belfast, had cracked during questioning. He’d told the police everything he knew about Piggott’s activities, including the murders of Dermot O’Reilly and Sean McCarthy, and about the plan to kill Jimmy Fergus. Peggy wanted Liz to know that warrants had been issued for the arrest of both Piggott and Gonzales on murder charges; extradition requests would be filed the minute they were captured. Let’s hope they’re needed, Liz had thought, since she was sceptical those two would ever be taken alive.
She dressed in warm clothes and went downstairs to the rendezvous point in the lounge. Martin was there looking threatening in a black battledress and trousers, with light black waterproof boots. In his hand he held a black balaclava and helmet.
‘Put these on over your clothes,’ he said, pointing to another set of black garments laid out on a chair. ‘They’re the smallest size there is, so I hope they won’t be too big.’
‘Where are the commandos?’
‘They’re down at the harbour, loading the inflatables onto the frigate. The wind’s died down a bit but it’s still blowing, so they’ve decided not to go out in them.’
‘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.