Caravan to Vaccares (27 page)

‘Down!' shouted Czerda. He was the first down himself. ‘Flat on the floor.'

Again there came the sound of smashing glass, again the simultaneous report from the pistol, but no one was hurt. Czerda rose to a crouch, eased the throttle, handed the wheel over to Masaine, and joined Le Grand Duc and Ferenc who had already edged out, on all fours, to the poop-deck. All three men peered cautiously over the gunwale, then stood upright, thoughtfully holding their guns behind their backs.

The Rolls had dropped thirty yards back. Bowman was being blocked by a farm tractor towing a large four-wheeled trailer, and balked from overtaking by several cars approaching from the south.

‘Faster,' Czerda said to Masaine. ‘Not too fast – keep just ahead of that tractor. That's it. That's it.' He watched the last of the north-bound cars go by on the other side of the road. ‘Here he comes now.'

The long green nose of the Rolls appeared in sight beyond the tractor. The three men in the cockpit levelled their guns and the tractor-driver, seeing them, braked and swerved so violently that he came to a rest with the right front wheel of his tractor overhanging the bank of the canal. Its abrupt braking and swerve brought the entire length of the car completely and suddenly in sight.

Bowman, gun cocked in hand and ready to use, saw what was about to happen, dropped the gun and threw himself below the level of the door sills. He winced as bullet after bullet thudded into the bodywork of the Rolls. The windscreen suddenly starred and became completely opaque. Bowman thrust his fist through the bottom of the glass, kicked the accelerator down beyond the detente and accelerated swiftly away. It was obvious that, with the element of surprise gone, he stood no chance whatsoever against the three armed men in the poop. He wondered vaguely how Le Grand Duc felt about the sudden drop in the resale market value of his Rolls.

He drove at high speed past the arena on his left into the town of Grau du Roi, skidding the car to a halt at the approaches to the swing bridge that crossed the canal and connected the two sides of the town. He opened Cecile's bag, peeled money from the roll of Swiss francs he had taken from Czerda's caravan, put the roll back in the bag, thrust the bag into a cubby-hole, hoped to heaven the citizens of Grau du Roi were honest, left the car and ran down the quayside.

He slowed down to a walk as he approached the craft moored along the left bank, just below the bridge. It was a wide-beamed, high-prowed fishing boat, of wooden and clearly very solid construction, that had seen its best days some years ago. Bowman approached a grey-jerseyed fisherman of middle age who was sitting on a bollard and lethargically mending a net.

‘That's a fine boat you've got there,' Bowman said in his best admiring tourist fashion. ‘Is it for rent?'

The fisherman was taken aback by the directness of the approach. Matters involving finance were customarily approached with a great deal more finesse.

‘Fourteen knots and built like a tank,' the owner said proudly. ‘The finest wooden-hulled fishing boat in the south of France. Twin Perkins diesels. Like lightning! And so strong. But only for charter, m'sieur. And even then only when the fishing is bad.'

‘Too bad, too bad.' Bowman took out some Swiss francs and fingered them. ‘Not even for an hour? I have urgent reasons, believe me.' He had, too. In the distance he could hear the rising note of Le Grand Duc's power-boat.

The fisherman screwed up his eyes as if in thought: it is not easy to ascertain the denomination of foreign banknotes at a distance of four feet. But sailors' eyes are traditionally keen. He stood and slapped his thigh.

‘I will make an exception,' he announced, then added cunningly: ‘But I will have to come with you, of course.'

‘Of course. I would have expected nothing else.' Bowman handed over two one-thousand Swiss franc notes. There was a legerdemain flick of the wrist and the notes disappeared from sight.

‘When does m'sieur wish to leave?'

‘Now.' He could have had the boat anyway, Bowman knew, but he preferred Czerda's banknotes to the waving of a gun as a means of persuasion: that he would eventually have to wave his gun around he did not doubt.

They cast off, went aboard and the fisherman started the engines while Bowman peered casually aft. The sound of the power-boat's engines was very close now. Bowman turned and watched the fisherman push the throttles forward as he gave the wheel a turn to starboard. The fishing boat began to move slowly away from the quayside.

‘It doesn't seem too difficult,' Bowman observed. ‘To handle it, I mean.'

‘To you, no. But it takes a lifetime of knowledge to handle such a vessel.'

‘Could I try now?'

‘No, no. Impossible. Perhaps when we get to the sea – '

‘I'm afraid it will have to be now. Please.'

‘In five minutes – '

‘I'm sorry. I really am.' Bowman produced his pistol, pointed with it to the starboard for'ard corner of the wheel-house. ‘Please sit down there.'

The fisherman stared at him, relinquished the wheel and moved across to the corner of the wheel-house. He said quietly, as Bowman took over the wheel: ‘I knew I was a fool. I like money too much, I think.'

‘Don't we all.' Bowman glanced over his shoulder. The power-boat was less than a hundred yards from the bridge. He opened the throttles wide and the fishing boat began to surge forward.

Bowman dug into his pocket, came up with the last three thousand francs of Czerda's money that he had on him and threw it across to the man. ‘This will make you even more foolish.'

The fisherman stared at the notes, made no attempt to pick them up. He whispered: ‘When I am dead, you will take it away. Pierre des Jardins is not a fool.'

‘When you are dead?'

‘When you kill me. With that pistol.' He smiled sadly. ‘It is a wonderful thing to have a pistol, no?'

‘Yes.' Bowman reversed hold on his pistol, caught it by the barrel and threw it gently across to the fisherman. ‘Do you feel wonderful too, now?'

The man stared at the pistol, picked it up, pointed it experimentally at Bowman, laid it down, picked up and pocketed the money, picked up the pistol a second time, rose, crossed to the wheel and replaced the pistol in Bowman's pocket. He said: ‘I'm afraid I am not very good at firing those things, m'sieur.'

‘Neither am I. Look behind you. Do you see a power-boat coming up?'

Pierre looked. The power-boat was no more than a hundred yards behind. He said: ‘I see it.

I know it. My friend Jean – '

‘Sorry. Later about your friend.' Bowman pointed ahead to where a freighter was riding out in the gulf. ‘That's the freighter
Canton.
A Communist vessel bound for China. Behind us, in the power-boat, are evil men who wish to put aboard that vessel people who do not wish to go there. It is my wish to stop them.'

‘Why?'

‘If you have to ask why I'll take this pistol from my pocket and make you sit down again.' Bowman looked quickly behind him: the powerboat was barely more than fifty yards behind.

‘You are British, of course?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are an agent of your government?'

‘Yes.'

‘What we call your Secret Service?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are known to our government?'

‘I am to your Deuxième Bureau. Their boss is my boss.'

‘Boss?'

‘Chief.
Chef.'

Pierre sighed. ‘It has to be true. And you wish to stop this boat coming up?' Bowman nodded. ‘Then please move over. This is a job for an expert.'

Bowman nodded again, took the gun from his pocket, moved to the starboard side of the wheelhouse and wound down the window. The powerboat was less than ten feet astern, not more than twenty feet away on a parallel course and coming up fast. Czerda was at the wheel now, with Le Grand Duc by his side. Bowman raised his pistol, then lowered it again as the fishing boat leaned over sharply and arrowed in on the power-boat. Three seconds later the heavy oaken bows of the fishing boat smashed heavily into the port quarter of the other vessel.

‘That was, perhaps, more or less what you had in mind, m'sieur?' Pierre asked.

‘More or less,' Bowman admitted. ‘Now please listen. There is something you should know.'

The two boats moved apart on parallel courses. The power-boat, being the faster, pulled ahead, inside its cabin there was considerable confusion.

‘Who was that madman?' Le Grand Duc demanded.

‘Bowman!' Czerda spoke with certainty.

‘Guns out!' Le Grand Duc shouted. ‘Guns out!

Get him!'

‘No.'

‘No? No? You dare countermand – '

‘I smell petrol. In the air. One shot – poof.

Ferenc, go and check the port tank.' Ferenc departed and returned within ten seconds.

‘Well?'

‘The tank is ruptured. At the bottom. The fuel is nearly gone.' Even as he spoke the port engine faltered, spluttered and stopped. Czerda and Le Grand Duc looked at each other: nothing was said.

Both boats had by now cleared the harbour and were out in the open sea of the Gulf of AiguesMortes. The power-boat, on one engine now, had dropped back until it was almost parallel with the fishing boat. Bowman nodded to Pierre, who nodded in turn. He spun the wheel rapidly, their vessel angled in sharply, they made violent contact again in exactly the same place as previously, then sheered off.

‘God damn it all!' Aboard the power-boat Le Grand Duc was almost livid with fury and making no attempt to conceal it. ‘He's holed us! He's holed us! Can't you avoid him?'

‘With one engine, it is very difficult to steer.' Under the circumstances, Czerda's restraint was commendable. He was in no way exaggerating. The combination of a dead port engine and a holed port quarter made the maintenance of a straight course virtually impossible: Czerda was no seaman and even with his best efforts the powerboat was now pursuing a very erratic course indeed.

‘Look!' Le Grand Duc said sharply. ‘What's that?'

About three miles away, not more than halfway towards Palavas, a large and very old fashioned freighter, almost stopped in the water, was sending a message by signalling lamp.

‘It's the
Canton
!' Searl said excitedly. He so far forgot himself as to stop rubbing the now padded flesh wound on top of his shoulder. ‘The
Canton
! We must send a recognition signal. Three long, three short.'

‘No!' Le Grand Duc was emphatic. ‘Are you mad? We musn't get them involved in this. The international repercussions – look out!'

The fishing boat was veering again. Le Grand Duc and Ferenc rushed to the cockpit and loosed off several shots. The windows in the wheelhouse of the fishing boat starred and broke, but Bowman and Pierre had already dropped to the deck which Le Grand Duc and Ferenc had to do at almost exactly the same moment as the heavy oaken stern of the fishing boat crashed into the port quarter at precisely the spot where they were standing.

Five times inside the next two minutes the manoeuvre was repeated, five times the powerboat shuddered under the crushing assaults. By now, at Le Grand Duc's orders, all firing had ceased: ammunition was almost exhausted.

‘We must keep the last bullets for when and where they will do the most good.' Le Grand Duc had become very calm. ‘Next time – '

‘The
Canton
is leaving!' Searl shouted. ‘Look, she has turned away.'

They looked. The
Canton
was indeed turning away, beginning to move with increasing speed through the water.

‘What else did you expect?' Le Grand Duc asked. ‘Never fear, we shall see her again.'

‘What do you mean?' Czerda demanded.

‘Later. As I was saying – '

‘We're sinking!' Searl's voice was almost a scream. ‘We're sinking!' He was in no way exaggerating: the power-boat was now deep in the water, the sea pouring in through gaps torn in the hull by the bows of the fishing boat.

‘I am aware of that,' Le Grand Duc said. He turned to Czerda. ‘They're coming again. Hard a starboard – to your right, quickly. Ferenc, Searl, El Brocador, come with me.'

‘My shoulder,' Searl wailed.

‘Never mind your shoulder. Come with me.'

The four men stood just inside the doorway of the cabin as the fishing boat came at them again.

But this time the power-boat, though sluggish and far from responsive because of its depth in the water, had succeeded in turning away enough to reduce the impact to the extent that the two boats merely grazed each other. As the wheel-house of the fishing boat passed by the cabin of the powerboat, Le Grand Duc and his three men rushed out into the cockpit. Le Grand Duc waited his moment then, with that speed and agility so surprising in a man of his bulk, stood on the gunwale and flung himself on to the poop of the fishing boat. Within two seconds the others had followed.