"When I killed that old soldier I went too far." His father sounded spent. "Don't you think we've gone too far?"
"You went too far when you came here in the war to suck up to the Nazis." Jason shook his head. "Before Grandfather got his head blown off, that's when you should have got cold feet. Not now, with the French cops hot on our tails."
His father returned anxiously to the window.
"What the hell are you looking for, you stupid old man?" Jason shouted, snatching at the drapes. Then he forced himself to quieten down. "I'm the one they'll be looking for."
"They can't touch either of us. No one knows we've left America."
"I've rented a car."
"I thought you rented it in the backwoods."
"I did, with my driving license in the name of Heinman."
His father stayed silent as he thought about this one. "They'll have to ask a lot of questions before they find the garage."
"They always ask a lot of questions when there's been a murder."
"You could say someone stole your license."
Jason sighed. "I'm not the only one with a problem. I bet you left fingerprints at the English clinic when you killed the old soldier."
His father shook his head. "I disguised myself with a big moustache, and Alec Rider was still alive when the hospital sister saw me leave. Anyway, I took a simple precaution. Gloves."
"And I wore gloves when I shot the guard." Jason smiled smugly. "We'll high tail it back to America from Paris tonight."
His father closed the drapes. Carefully this time. "It's not that simple. It never is. They'll need our passports for the air tickets."
"I know how they'll get you." Jason felt triumphant. "American Express!"
"When?"
"When you booked my Eurostar trip to France. And I bet you paid the hotel in England with your card. They've got your name." He grinned in jubilation. "You're a devious old rat, but you've left leads for the cops to trace you. No one's going to believe you're still in America! You're not used to doing things for yourself. You always relied on your staff to do your dirty work and clean up afterwards."
His father closed his eyes and swayed unsteadily. "I wish to God I was home, Jason. All I ever wanted to do was save Domestic Chemicals." He spoke the words without emotion. "The company comes first for me. It always has." He flicked the catches on his briefcase and raised the lid. "Even if it means killing my son."
"Hell, no, you couldn't." Jason backed away as he tried to see what was inside.
From the black case his father produced a cigar. "Okay, let's see if Sophie will give us an alibi, then we can head for Switzerland and see Simon Urquet. He's the sharpest cookie we've got in DCI. Give me your cell phone. I'll phone him now at his hotel in Geneva."
"What the hell for?"
"Urquet can tell New York to fly our Gulfstream over to Geneva. He'll get us back to the States on it, and cover our tracks at the same time. If anyone asks, Urquet can sure as hell confirm we're on holiday in America."
Jason sat on the edge of the bed while his father puffed at his cigar. "You old bastard, I thought you had a gun in there. I thought you were going to kill me." He felt like laughing now the shock was over. "If Urquet can pull us out of this one, I'll sell my soul to Domestic."
"I sold mine in nineteen forty-four," his father said bitterly. "Are you prepared to kill Sophie?"
Jason stared in horror. "You do your own dirty work." His father had finally gone mad. "You really mean to kill her?"
"Sure. I've got a knife like the one I used on the old soldier in England."
"And then we head for Switzerland?"
His father pushed his briefcase shut and took one last look around the room. "We wait until it's light -- until the French cops aren't bothering with roadblocks. Urquet's a good legal man, a damn good one. Hell, Jason, we pay him enough. So where does Sophie live?"
He felt like lying, like saying her house was in another town, but perhaps his own security depended on there being no witnesses left. "Not far."
"Could we walk it?"
"Someone might see us."
"It's better than using that car you rented. That's what the cops will be looking for, not two tourists out for a late walk."
His father picked up the phone and dialed a Swiss number. Jason listened as his father exchanged heated words with the company lawyer. Urquet had obviously dared be asleep in the middle of the night. Since coming to Europe he was seeing his father in a new light. No longer the passive man who got others to do his bidding, he was an angry old fool who'd kill anyone who threatened DCI. An old man who could even threaten his son with death -- and mean it.
*
THE OLD woman's house was somewhere in the middle of a row of identical places, in a poorly lit street a short walk from the hotel. Jason tugged at his father's arm.
"Keep up with me if you don't want to get lost."
"It's further than I thought, Jason. You should have come alone."
"You're the one who wants to kill the old woman. Here, this is the place."
"Are you sure?"
Jason shrugged. "No, I'm not sure. It's too dark. The English PI might have been at the house next door."
"Then what...?"
"We ring this bell first and see who comes."
"I won't recognize her, Jason."
"You're pathetic. Of course you won't recognize her. I'm going to ask her who she is."
"Your French isn't too good."
"I can say Sophie."
The windows were in darkness and Jason's long ring on the bell went unanswered. His father reached forward impatiently and knocked the large knocker.
"Leave it." Jason pulled him away roughly, deliberately hurting his bad arm. "You'll wake the neighbors."
He already had. An old woman put her head out of an upstairs window of the house next door.
"Nous cherchons Sophie," Jason called. She should understand something as simple as that.
"Sophie," said the woman.
Frank Heinman put his gloves on and stood back. "You're Sophie?" he called up in English.
"Sophie," she repeated.
"See here," called Frank, as though everyone spoke English. "We need to talk."
"Comment?" she shouted.
Jason took over. "Descendez, s'il vous plaît." Amazingly no other residents had come to their windows. Maybe they all slept round the back.
Jason watched while his father used his gloves to wipe the blade and handle of fingerprints, and he felt nauseous. "Are you sure you need to do this?"
"Just get her down here, boy, and leave her to me."
They heard a rattle of a bolt and a security chain. Then the door opened, revealing a frail woman lit from behind by a bare bulb in the small hallway.
Jason jumped back in horror as his father lunged forward with the knife, lifting it upwards as it went in. No waiting. No questions. One sudden move and the old woman fell backwards, her small hands clutching her stomach, her eyes frozen in shock. The slight gasp was more of surprise than pain.
Frank threw the knife into the hall and left the old woman lying in the doorway, her body still quivering. As he stood on the garden path his voice shook. "Come on, Jason, let's get the hell back to the hotel before the cops come looking for us. I've had enough of this place."
*
THE LOCALS held Captain Lacoste in contempt, according to the man at Le Garage de Saint Somer, so Matt knew what to expect when the man turned up at one-thirty with a small forensic team and a photographer. Once the team had finished in the cabin an ambulance took the body of the guard away, but Matt and Zoé were told they had to remain.
"We are holding you in connection with the murder of Pierre Delois, monsieur," Captain Lacoste informed them. They were now back in the security cabin with their hands handcuffed behind their backs. "And you will be glad to know that I am sending a car to Madame Boissant's house. I would not like anyone else to die. There, what do you say to that?"
/> Henri had turned up safe and well, embarrassed at being caught out. Matt looked at his watch. While they'd been sitting around, waiting, anything could have happened to Sophie -- and the Heinmans were probably out of the country by now.
"I will tell you who is to blame for all this," said Matt angrily, managing to sound confident with his French. "Have you ever heard of Domestic Chemicals International? That small cylinder is from one of their wartime experiments."
Lacoste shrugged. "Now you want to tell me fairy tales, monsieur?"
"The gold is dangerous," said Matt.
"Ah, the gold, monsieur." The stark fluorescent light of the security cabin emphasized the lines on Captain Lacoste's sharp features. He poked at the gold cylinder cautiously.
"Dangerous," repeated Matt.
"And I believe you, monsieur." Lacoste nodded slowly. "If this is what the Dutchman found, you were right to warn my men not to open the cap. We do not always listen to murderers, but in this instance I think you are speaking sense."
The black plastic chair felt painfully hard. Matt shuffled himself to a more comfortable position. "So what are you going to do?" he asked. "Is someone coming from Calais to take charge?"
"Calais?" Lacoste responded contemptuously. "Calais does not control this area, monsieur. I have told the army to send an expert to search for explosives. Then we will take you down to the gendarmerie, and I can go home and get some sleep. But for now you will stay here because the army may have questions for you." Lacoste clearly wanted Matt and Zoé to feel totally to blame for his lost sleep.
Matt turned to Zoé and spoke quietly in English. "I need to phone Ken Habgood. He can fix up a lawyer for us."
"We are innocent," protested Zoé. "We do not need a lawyer."
"You don't understand how the police..." Matt broke off as Lacoste's radio burst into life. It sounded as though a whole bomb disposal squad was rushing to the site. Somewhere along the line the message must have got confused.
Lacoste wiped the inside of the cabin window with his sleeve and peered into the night sky. "Alphonse, Alphonse, be quick and move my car. Make sure there are no loose sheets of metal around. The army is sending a helicopter."
Tall Alphonse rushed to move the big Peugeot, but returned immediately. There were no keys in the car. A lengthy search of the security cabin revealed a bunch of keys under a notebook, within Matt's reach -- if he hadn't been in handcuffs. Captain Lacoste seemed to be remarkably careless over security.
But Alphonse need not have hurried. An hour later, Lacoste looked at his watch for the tenth time and cursed the army. Four o'clock in the morning? Did they think the gendarmes had nothing better to do than sit around?
Suddenly they all heard it: the heavy beat of rotors coming from the east, followed by a brilliant flash of blue as the helicopter's spotlight probed the ground ahead. The military machine hovered low over the pine trees at the edge of the site, before coming down to land in the floodlit compound amid a storm of paper.
Matt stood up, his hands handcuffed behind his back, and cleared the mist from the window with his shoulder. For a moment, he felt transported back to a time he had never known. A memory of an event he had never witnessed, but one he had heard about from his grandfather. This was the Nazi launch site, and tonight the German army was bringing in two American visitors by air. It was a stupid thought. In spite of his grandfather telling of a plane landing in the compound, dropping gently over the high wire, it was surely an impossible feat for a fixed wing aircraft.
The engine slowed until Matt could pick out the individual beats of the huge blades. As the high pitched whine from the turbine died, men in combat uniforms leapt out, accompanied by bellows of command from their sergeant.
Matt almost enjoyed the comedy of the proceedings. The man in charge was a supercilious army officer who introduced himself as Major Monet. He informed everyone that he had come to deal with the bombs. When Lacoste showed him the small gold cylinder, Matt guessed the man felt stupid, arriving in style for such a trivial find. He could sense anger below the surface.
Captain Lacoste shrugged in a convincing act of indifference. "C'est tout, Major Monet. That is all we have for you and your men. The Englishman here told us it is dangerous."
Matt realized that the blame was being shifted smartly. Now that there would be no praise for astute reporting of a highly dangerous substance, a deadly Nazi legacy, someone would be required to carry the can. And who better for the job than an Englishman being held for questioning on a charge of murder?
Major Monet held the gold cylinder casually.
"Matt, tell him it is not safe to touch," shouted Zoé.
The Major looked round in interest. "Mademoiselle?"
"Don't open it here." Matt felt tired. "There's something highly toxic inside. The Nazis left it here in the war."
Major Monet turned in disgust. "An Englishman tells the bomb disposal team how to do their work!" He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke at Lacoste. "Perhaps we should make a full search of the site. Somehow, I doubt that your lazy gendarmes have done a very thorough job."
Matt knew the Major was trying to justify the trip. He also noticed the provocation in the statement, but Lacoste sounded bored.
"Very well, Major, search anywhere you wish. Perhaps your team of highly trained warriors will find Hitler's art collection as well as his gold."
By six-thirty it was getting light, and Major Monet came into the cabin empty handed. He took the gold cylinder from the table and turned to Lacoste who was finishing yet another cigarette.
"As this is all that has been found, we will be on our way." He glanced at Matt and Zoé. "Captain Lacoste will be receiving a bill from the army. My colonel does not take kindly to time wasters." He nodded to Lacoste. "Especially if they are captains of a tin-pot gendarmerie."
Lacoste yawned. "Your men have enjoyed their little game of soldiers?"
"We are off to get some breakfast," Monet announced. "We will pay a surprise visit to the military base near here and wake up the cooks. That will also be added to the bill."
The military bomb squad climbed on board the helicopter with far less vigor than they had shown on arrival. The machine rose in a cloud of dust into the dawn light, its spotlight stabbing at the early morning mist clinging to the flat fields. Then it was gone, leaving behind a bitter taste of earth from the disturbed ground.
Before it was even out of hearing, Lacoste ran across to answer the phone in his car. He returned slowly. "I have ... There is bad news. The body of an elderly woman has been discovered in a house..."
"Madame Boissant?" Zoé let out a sharp cry.
Matt looked at the Captain standing in the doorway of the cabin. It was obvious: Zoé had got it in one. Whatever respect Matt had felt for Lacoste was now gone.
Lacoste leaned against the doorframe, looking at the ground. "We need to identify the body, of course." He looked up at Zoé and shrugged. "There was nothing we could have done to help, mademoiselle."
Matt stared at Lacoste. The excuse was pathetic. "We told you to get someone there a long time ago, and you did nothing about it."
Captain Lacoste put his hands out, palms up, in a gesture of helplessness. "Do not look to me for comfort, monsieur. I am holding you responsible for the murder of Pierre Delois. You may hold me responsible for the death of an old woman if you wish. There is, however, one striking difference between our two cases. I am the captain of the gendarmes who is standing here free, and you are a prisoner wearing handcuffs. I hope you can appreciate the distinction."
"You might as well have killed her yourself!" Matt knew he was doing himself no favors by this outburst. "You're guilty of murder!"
"No, I am not guilty of the murder of Madame Boissant, monsieur." Lacoste strutted to the door of the small security cabin. "But we will soon have you on a charge of murder. I am going home to get some sleep. At ten o'clock in the morning you will appear before the magistrate to be formally charged. Au revoir, monsi
eur."
Matt turned to Zoé. "The first chance we get to escape, we take it. Okay? Whatever happens, I'm going after Jason Heinman and his father."
Chapter 20
MAJOR MONET strapped himself securely into the seat when his team returned to their helicopter at eight-thirty, following an unexpectedly good breakfast. "God save me from hysterical gendarmes," he muttered. It was humiliating to return to camp with one small cylinder. His men had spent two hours searching the site for more of the damn things. He turned the gold cylinder in his hands. He could hear liquid moving inside.
He put it into the bag on his lap. Carefully. This had been a frustrating night. Charlotte had sounded disappointed on the phone when he'd rung her from the nearby camp. Charlotte always provided a warm welcome, and he'd done without sex last night -- all because of some stupid over-paid and under-worked police captain who listened to his suspects.
Monet shouted into the mouthpiece of his headset. "Get us back to base as soon as you can!" Girard, his pilot, wasn't one of the best. He'd had trouble finding the site in the Pas-de-Calais on the way out. The fool had better have more luck at finding his way home in daylight.
"It wasn't much for an outing, was it, Major?" Giles, the sergeant charged with the practical duties of defusing unexploded bombs, grabbed the gold cylinder from the bag on his lap.
"Leave it, Sergeant!" shouted Monet.
Giles recognized the tone in the Major's voice. Major Monet acted like a frustrated old bachelor on these occasions.
Anyway, he wasn't the only one to have missed the comforts of bed last night. Giles had only been married seven months. It seemed at times that the Major was more concerned about his sexual gifts than his work. How often was it, anyway, that the group had to perform hours-of-darkness operations?
Giles disobeyed his Major and kept hold of the gold cylinder. If it had stood up to Monet's shaking, it couldn't be all that unstable. The cap was designed to be unscrewed. The helicopter banked sharply to port, the second turn in the past five minutes. Girard was probably lost again.
As soon as they were level, Giles twisted the cap. It turned slowly. Whoever had made this cylinder was an expert machinist. The fit was superb, and the fine gold thread was absolutely unharmed by the ground.