"Going too fast is something they'll never stop this car for," said Matt with a long sigh, trying to make light of the realization that he had misread Zoé's interest in him. "We have to get to Geneva today or we'll be too late."
"Then we must go on the autoroute," said Zoé. "But that, I think, is where the gendarmes will be looking for us."
Mat sat with the blanket round his shoulders, ready to dive for cover if necessary. "They'll not stop every car, it would cause too big a hold-up. I can lie under the blanket every time we come to a toll. I've got some cash, so we won't need to use my card." Perhaps Zoé hadn't said much to Sophie because she wanted to keep their friendship secret. Perhaps she ... Perhaps she really did want Florian.
Sophie chatted away in the front like a thing wound up as they set off. Matt wished she'd drop off to sleep. Most old people dropped off to sleep in the car. Sophie didn't seem old though. She was as sharp as they came.
The next few hours were critical. Unless they could get to DCI in Geneva before the Heinmans flew back to America, escaping from the gendarmes was a pointless move. There was no way they could go into hiding for the rest of their lives. Even a long prison sentence was preferable to a life on the run. The guillotine probably hadn't been used for ages.
"Here is the autoroute." Zoé changed down a gear for the roundabout and made a complete mess of it. The clutch was weak and the gearbox grated in protest at the sudden movement. "Oops, the brother of Philippe will not like it if I wreck his lovely car."
The sign ahead pointed to the A26, the autoroute that would lead them eventually to the A1 -- the main route to Paris and the south. Matt studied a torn map of autoroute service areas he'd found on the back seat of the Renault. Beyond Paris the A26 was called the Autoroute de Soleil, the gateway to the south. The gendarmes could be waiting at the top of the slip road if they joined it here.
"Did you say wreck his car?" queried Matt. "The gearbox is about the only thing that's not already wrecked. Go round again then off onto the N43. We'll stay on minor roads until we're closer to Paris."
"Good thinking," Zoé said anxiously. "I can see a police car at the top. Get back under your blanket."
Chapter 24
JASON HAD been driving for half an hour, still trying to come to adjust to a British Volvo with the wheel on the wrong side.
"I'm stopping," he announced suddenly. "I want to check if the tailgate is properly shut. We can ditch this junk at the same time." He turned to glance at the food boxes and camping gear covered unevenly with red and green tartan rugs.
His father sounded as though he was still in a panic. "Get back on the highway, boy, we're not ditching anything. Those French cops will never know what happened back there if we take the evidence with us."
Jason wasn't going to admit it aloud, but his father was thinking well for an old man. Soon they'd be on wider highways and able to blend in with other vehicles. He checked the mirror and glanced at the instrument panel for the first time.
"The tight-fisted sod has let the tank nearly run dry," he protested. "I expect gas is cheaper back in England. We'll have to stop at the first gas station we see."
His father unfolded the French route map the woman had been using and held it on his lap. "There's more than one way to Geneva. I can see a freeway round Paris, but we have to go on pikes to get there. We won't risk it. They'll have French cops at the toll booths."
Jason laughed. "They'll not be looking for a Volvo."
"They'll be looking for someone with a damn fool beard and a gray pony tail."
Jason felt riled and he pulled his baseball cap lower over his eyes. "This is a proper Heinman beard." He needn't say any more. Those few words made the point.
"Gas station coming up. You'd better stop." His father's response sounded equally curt.
"Use cash; don't use your card," warned Jason. "I'm going to phone Urquet and let him know we've been delayed."
While his father filled the tank, Jason went to the payphone and rang Hammid Aziz. He had two gold cylinders for the arms trader, which left six to take back to the States for analysis. Aziz sounded pleased and agreed to meet at Geneva airport in the evening. Things were going well at last.
He then rang Simon Urquet at the Geneva office and explained that they were running late but still wanted to leave for America as soon as possible. Urquet said the Gulfstream would be in Switzerland by six.
With the tank full, his father studied the map again. "There's a good route that misses Paris. We go on minor highways to a place called Reims, then get on the A26. There won't be police checks that far out. We'll not be in Geneva till late, that's for sure. It's about as far as driving from New York to Detroit."
"Just don't go making any mis..." Jason stopped in mid word as his father fell forward, his face crashing into the route map spread open on his lap.
In the back of the car the lunatic with the chains grinned, the rugs draped over his shoulders. In his hands he held a length of chain. The dark links glistened with blood.
"Mes amis," the drug crazed barbarian yelled through stained, yellow teeth. "Vous etes mes amis!" And he shrieked with laughter.
*
SADIQUE WAS enjoying himself. There had been just one good fix left in Jean Paul's truck and it made him drowsy. The big car made a good hiding place. The light had hurt his eyes, but the rugs helped make the place dark. The ride was soothing, the hum of the engine comforting. He pulled the rugs back and looked at the trees silhouetted against the blue of the sky.
People who could give him this much pleasure must be good friends. As he sat up he saw the back of the old man's head. The chain was a good friend, too. The two good friends must meet.
He was surprised to see the blood. It had only been a playful blow, so why did his new friend fall forward? He shouted in excitement. "My friends. You are my friends!" Then he laughed in delight. These two men were nice. He would tie them up and they could all have fun. He would enjoy it when they started to scream.
"Stop the car," he ordered.
Why did these friends have trouble in understanding what he said?
"Stop!"
The tall man with the ponytail, the man driving the car, still didn't understand. He hit the back of his head with the loose end of the links. The man understood now. He was stupid, driving all over the place. Sadique grinned. There, the man was stopping. These two men were fine companions. It was a shame there were no fixes left to share with them.
Just one more touch with the chain and the man driving the car would be easy to put into bonds. He laughed to himself as he flicked the end of the chain forward. Both men slumped in their seats. He would start on the younger one -- the one with the pointed beard.
*
FRANK HEINMAN quickly realized that the injuries to his head were more superficial than terminal. The back of his scalp was cut but he'd not lost consciousness, in spite of receiving one hell of a crack from the wild foreigner. The man with the shaved head was a real kook. It wasn't just the Berlitzan oil that had made him behave like this. It had to be insanity as well.
He fought ineffectively as the psycho tied him to the front passenger seat with a length of cord and pushed a gag into his mouth. The couple in the Volvo must have been camping. There was plenty of the damn cord around. He was like the proverbial dumb animal being taken to the slaughter.
As he watched his son being dragged into the back, he felt his emotions erupt. Although he'd never got on with Jason, he wasn't going to let this stranger mess his son about. He managed to spit the gag from his mouth but the cords bit in tightly as he struggled. The maniac must have learnt a thing or two about knots in his more rational moments.
"What the hell!" Jason recovered consciousness in an explosive instant.
"Don't annoy him." It was a timely warning. "Find out what he wants."
"Vous etes mes amis." The big man smiled a yellow-toothed smile as he spoke.
Frank struggled again to loosen the cords. "What the hell
is he saying, Jason? You speak the language."
"Amis is friends. He wants to be friends."
"Tell him he has one hell of a way of showing it."
"Amis," repeated Jason to the big man with the chain. "Nous sommes vos amis."
"Now what's going on?" Frank demanded.
"I'm telling him we're his friends."
"You'd be better off telling him to untie us." Frank wrenched at the cord around his waist and it cut into his flesh. "I'll give him amis when we're out of here!"
The maniac got into the driver's seat, grinning. "Sadique!" He pointed to himself proudly. "Je m'appelle Sadique!"
"He's telling us he's called Sadique," said Jason.
"Hell, boy, I don't care if he's called Daffy Duck." Frank could feel a crushing pressure in his chest as he struggled for breath.
"Just shut it," muttered Jason from the rear seat. "I'm trying to get out of these ropes."
The maniac let out a cry of triumph as he pulled a gold cylinder from Jason's bag. Perhaps he recognized it as the type of cylinder that had affected his friends. Frank turned away. Telling him not to open it would be an invitation to do so -- if they could speak the same language.
The lunatic needed no such bidding. He was already unscrewing the cap as a bright red Japanese sports car, top open, shot by. The young driver had swerved towards the Volvo and blasted out a bar of Colonel Bogey as he was alongside. The passenger added to the provocation by waving derisively.
The red automobile was the trigger. A smell of tom-cats filled the Volvo. The young men in the open car had pushed the junkie into taking retaliatory action, and the maniac pressed his foot hard to the floor of the Volvo. The smoking rear tires screeched in protest as he swung the station wagon in a full one-eighty. The madman kept his foot down and accelerated towards the disappearing rear of the Mazda on the highway back to Calais.
Frank fought to stay calm as the bonds cut into his arms and chest, but his fear was changing to fury. This creature was about to kill them, and he could do nothing about it. It was more than frustration; it was a rage that he had no wish to control.
As they plunged down the hill, Frank realized that the young Mazda driver was out to play games. He'd obviously seen the big Volvo turn in the highway and now let it catch up. Then, as the madman calling himself Sadique pulled out to overtake, he accelerated away, before slowing again in a taunting maneuver as they climbed the steep, winding hill.
The driver of the red Mazda was living dangerously. There was a bend coming up, a sharp left-hander at the top of the narrow gorge. Frank recognized it as the place where Jason had nearly put a wheel wrong coming the other way; a bend with a breathtaking drop to the river, with only a low wall for protection. He'd been angry with Jason at the time for driving carelessly.
The maniac with the chains gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, screaming abuse at the car only a few yards ahead. The Mazda driver slowed at the top of the hill, but only enough to be sure of taking the corner safely. The Volvo lurched violently and stayed close.
The driver in the Mazda turned in time to see the station wagon bearing down on him before it smashed heavily into the back of his car. The massive bumper of the Volvo lifted the red sports car's rear wheels high in the air, forcing it forward, its steering on full left lock in a futile attempt to avoid the drop. But the Mazda was being pushed straight ahead.
The sports car smashed through the low wall as the occupants struggled to their feet in a desperate bid for safety, until they were standing almost to attention in their seats. Then they were gone.
The Volvo was going with them. Frank Heinman let out a scream. But the engine pan caught on the remains of the stonework -- and the blue station wagon stayed put.
Chapter 25
HE WAS going to die.
The maniac was going to kill him, was going to kill Jason as well. Like his own father, he was meeting a violent death in a foreign land.
The Berlitzan oil still smelt strongly in the Volvo. The smell alone would provoke anger, without the virulent effect it was having on his nervous system. The corrosive oil had already eaten through the floor and left a smoking hole in the steel.
Frank realized just how much he'd admired his father -- once. Now he felt a terrible resentment. Albert B. Heinman -- an uncaring man who got what he deserved on that Nazi missile site. It was Jason's fault they were here now. He'd kill Jason -- as soon as he could get free from these damn ropes!
The crazed devil leapt from the Volvo. For a moment it seemed that the station wagon would tip forward with the shift in weight. The vehicle rocked, then settled, with a sheer drop to the rocks far beneath the front wheels. The lunatic stood on the edge of the gorge and screamed unknown words into the depths.
Then he jumped.
Demented by a mixture of drugs and Berlitzan oil, the maniac with the chains hurled himself forward. With his arms and legs waving crazily, he disappeared from sight, in all probability drawn by the sight of the red Mazda lying on the rocks far below.
Jason started to moan in the back of the Volvo and Frank turned to look at his son with loathing. Things said in the past, silly things, took on monstrous importance. The insults and stupid actions, the lack of company loyalty. The infection went too deep to be cured. Jason had been like a disease since the day he was born. Those illegal arms deals with Hammid Aziz had put DCI's reputation at risk. He'd kill him now -- if he could only get free. He struggled again, but the cords would never loosen.
"For God's sake, stop it, Father!"
Frank continued to struggle in the front passenger seat.
"Keep still," yelled his son. "We're going over."
"I never wanted you. I hope you die," retorted Frank. He wondered why he'd tolerated his son for so long.
"Berlitzan oil!" Jason breathed deeply. "We can beat it."
"I'm going to kill you, boy." He would, as soon as he was free.
"We don't have to let the stuff get to us." His son sounded calmer now. "Direct your hatred outside of this car. Think of other people you want to kill."
"I hate you!" Frank clenched his teeth and let out a stream of obscenities.
"Think of someone else." Jason leaned close to the open window in the back of the Volvo. "Think of that English soldier in the war. Think of someone outside the family you really hate."
"Who do you hate, Jason?"
His son suddenly screamed with rage. "DCI! I'd destroy the whole damn organization if I could. But I don't blame you."
Either the smell was clearing or Jason had hit on the Achilles heel of Berlitzan oil. If he couldn't control his hatred, he could at least direct it against an enemy who wasn't here. Jason was a good son, but the English soldier had deserved all he got with that knife. How he'd hated that man. He could rip him apart again.
"You okay, Father?"
"I don't hate you anymore," he said quietly.
"See, it's working." Jason sounded jubilant as he breathed more fresh air from the open window. "We've cracked it. Just keep thinking love."
Frank didn't bother to reply. He was back in the hospital cutting the hands off Alec Rider. Ripping at the man's mouth so that the jaw snapped wide open to reveal the toothless gums. And the eyes. He could see the old soldier's eyes filled with terror, just like his father's eyes in 1944 when he leaned forward to pull the pin from the grenade.
*
SOPHIE SOUNDED by far the brightest of the three as the ageing Renault made its smoky way down the A1 towards Paris. Although not as direct as the A26 through Reims and Troyes, this was a busy autoroute where the police would find it hard to observe the occupants of every car.
Matt leaned forward in the back seat. "Tell me, Sophie, why do you remember my grandfather so well?"
"Ah, my Tommy from the war. Your grandfather was a lovely man, Matthieu."
"Lovely," agreed Matt. "I don't want to upset you too much, but can you tell us exactly what happened at the Nazi launch site?"
"I have
always felt a share of the guilt, so perhaps it is time I faced up to what took place. The two Americans came in a small German plane. Colonel Röhm was in charge. He said the Americans had brought a secret weapon. I think he was joking."
"It was no joke," said Matt.
The old woman ignored the interruption, apparently absorbed in the events. "The plane returned that night to take the Americans away. There were reports of Allied landings along the Pas-de-Calais. It was a false alarm."
Matt struggled to follow the conversation. His French was good, but Sophie spoke too quickly for him at times. "And then the site blew up?"
Sophie nodded slowly. "Tommy fired his machine gun, and the German plane ran out of control. It hit the store where they kept the flying bombs. The two Americans ran with me to the wire where your grandfather was hiding. Tommy had already opened the top of one of those gold cylinders, and when the four of us huddled together for safety we all became angry."
"It was a poison gas."
"I do not know, Matthieu. Perhaps. But the two Americans got mad with each other and with Tommy. I think we were all out of control."
"And they hit my grandfather on the head?"
"The three of them behaved like savages. Tommy cut the old man's hands off with his chef's knife -- while the old man was still alive. Tommy kept shouting that he must have the gold rings. The older American was making so much noise that Tommy forced a grenade into his mouth to shut him up. His son, Frank, reached across and did something to it. The noise as it exploded was terrible. Frank Heinman was hit in the mouth and arm by some of the fragments. I got the blood and the brains of the old man all over me. That made me scream even more. I did not realize at first that Tommy had also been injured by the grenade."
"I knew nothing about this," said Matt softly. Perhaps it was as well his grandfather had never remembered. "But only one of the Americans died; the young one escaped. Am I right?"
Sophie nodded. "I dragged Tommy into the reeds. The Germans found the body of the old man and took him away with the dead soldiers, and the young American was driven off in a staff car with Colonel Röhm."
"What happened to my grandfather?"
"All that night I nursed your grandfather. I no longer felt angry. He was bleeding badly. When we hid in the reeds I washed him. We kissed and I got covered in the blood of Tommy, but I did not mind his blood on me. Of course we did not make love together, but he was like a lover to me, Matthieu. I cannot explain how I felt. One day, I wanted to say sorry to Tommy," said Sophie, in tears at the memories that had been revived. "That is why I was so pleased when Mayor Oudet gave me your first letter."