A Season in Hell Read online

  A Season in Hell

  Jack Higgins

  For Shirley Cooper

  ‘Revenge is a season in Hell’

  —Sicilian proverb

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  A BIOGRAPHY OF JACK HIGGINS

  1983

  ONE

  Just after four, as first light started to seep through the bamboo slats above his head, it rained again, slowly at first, developing into a solid drenching downpour from which there was no escape.

  Sean Egan crouched in a corner, arms folded, hands tucked into his armpits to conserve as much body heat as possible, not that there was much left after four days. The pit was four feet square so that it was impossible to lie down even if he’d wanted to. He remembered reading somewhere that gorillas were the only animals who lay in their own ordure and didn’t mind. He hadn’t reached that stage yet although he’d long since got used to the stench.

  His feet were bare, but they’d left him with his camouflage jump jacket and pants. A khaki-green sweatband was wound around his head like a turban, desert style. Beneath it the face was gaunt, skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones. The eyes were china blue and without expression as he waited, rain drifting down through the bamboo slats twelve feet above. The clay walls were wet with it and occasionally clods of earth broke free from the sides and fell into the bottom water, already three or four inches deep.

  He waited, indifferent to all this, and finally heard the sound of footsteps, someone whistling flatly through the rain. The man above wore a camouflage uniform similar to his own, but slightly different, the Afghanistan pattern developed by the Russian Army for use during the occupation of that country. A sergeant, according to the rank badges on his collar tabs. Above the peak of his cap was the red star of the Soviet Army and the insignia of the 81st Regiment of Assault Paratroops.

  Egan recognized all these things because it was his business. He looked up and waited in silence. The sergeant carried an AK assault rifle in one hand, an army-ration can in the other, a length of twine tied to the can.

  “Still with us?” he called cheerfully in English, resting the AK beside him. “It must be wet down there?” Egan said nothing. He simply sat, waiting. “And still not talking? Ah, well, you will, my friend. They always do in the end.” The sergeant lowered the ration can through the slats. “Breakfast. Only coffee this morning, but then we don’t want to build up your strength.”

  Egan took the can and opened it. It was coffee, steaming in the damp air, surprisingly hot. He fought the wave of nausea—even the smell of coffee made him feel sick. To drink it was an impossibility, as his captors well knew.

  The sergeant laughed. “But of course, you only drink tea. What a pity.” He unbuttoned his pants and urinated down through the slats. “What about a change?”

  There was no way to avoid it. Egan stayed there, squatting in the corner, staring up, still not speaking.

  The sergeant picked up the AK. “Five minutes and I’ll be back, and I’ll expect a nice clean can. Be a good boy and drink it up or I might have to punish you.”

  He walked away and still Egan waited, an intent expression on his face. When the sound of the sergeant’s footsteps had faded, he stood up. Five minutes. His only chance. He ripped the khaki sweatband from his head and it was immediately obvious that only the section visible to the eye was still whole; the rest had been torn into strips during the night, each one carefully plaited, the whole joined together in a crude rope.

  He quickly fastened it under his arms and passed a loop around his neck, placing the loose end in his teeth. He braced his back against one wall of the pit and his feet against the other, working his way up until he could reach out and touch the bamboo slats. He took the tail of the rope from between his teeth and passed it around two of the slats, tying it securely.

  Silence, only the rain falling. He was aware of the sergeant’s approach from a long way off. He waited, letting the seconds pass, then kicked his feet away from the wall and dropped, at the same time crying out.

  The bamboo dipped above his head, his body bounced and swung. He turned his head to one side so that the line of the rope was visible across his neck and half-closed his eyes, the rope cutting under his arms as it supported his weight.

  He knew the sergeant was above him now, heard the man’s cry of dismay as he knelt, pulling a combat knife from his boot, reaching through the slats to sever the rope. Egan let himself fall hard, bouncing against the wall and collapsing in a heap in the water and filth below. He lay there, waiting, aware of the slats being pulled back above, the bamboo ladder being lowered.

  The sergeant came down quickly and crouched. “You stupid bastard!” he said turning him over.

  Egan’s two hands came in from each side, perfectly pointed in a phoenix fist, center knuckles extended, targeting the neck below each ear. The sergeant never had time to cry out. A slight groan, his eyes rolled, and he was immediately unconscious.

  Egan had the man’s jump boots off in moments, pulled them on and fastened them quickly. Then he crammed the camouflage cap with the red star down low over his eyes and went up the ladder cautiously.

  The clearing was deserted. There was a drift of smoke above the trees which would be the house, he knew that from his first interrogation. Down through the woods was the river, perhaps a quarter of a mile. Once across and he was safe, clear through to the mountains beyond. He picked up the AK and looked out across the wood at their snow-capped peaks, then started down through the trees.

  There was a trip wire within fifty yards which he carefully negotiated, another a few feet farther on, so close that they’d calculated it would not be expected. Egan stepped over it and moved through the waist-high bracken soaked with rain.

  Getting out wasn’t enough. Staying out was the hard part—an old SAS maxim that rang in his head as the trees on his right exploded. Not a land mine. If it had been he’d be lying in pieces. More likely an alarm charge triggered by an electronic eye beam at ground level. All this was amply confirmed when a hooter echoed mournfully through the trees from the direction of the farmhouse.

  He tightened his grip on the AK, holding it across his chest, and raced through the bracken.

  He sensed movement on his left, and a figure in camouflage battle dress came out of the trees, head down, to meet him. As they converged, Egan swerved, dropping to one knee, the other leg stretched out. The man tripped and Egan came up, kicked him in the side of the head and ran.

  There was pain in his left knee, but, if anything, it sharpened him, and he kept on going, faster as the hillside steepened, the bracken almost jungle high here. He burst out into a small clearing as three more soldiers came out of the trees on the other side.

  He went in on the run, never hesitating, loosing off a burst from the AK; swinging the butt in one man’s face, shouldering another man aside, he carried on through the trees, very fast, too fast, losing his balance.

  He picked himself up and started forward. The sound of a helicopter was somewhere close at hand, but the weather was on his side and the bird wouldn’t dare to come too low. Through a break in the trees he could see the river, half-obscured by mist and rain.

  There was a tightness in his chest and the pain in his left knee was like fire, but he kept on going, sliding farther down the steep bank that brought him at last to the river. As he picked himself up, someone leaped from the bracken
and drove the butt of a rifle into his kidneys.

  Egan arched backward in pain, and the rifle came around in a second, braced against his throat. He dropped his AK and ran the heel of his right boot down the man’s shin. There was a cry, and as the pressure of the rifle was released, Egan jerked his head back, hard into the face behind, following this with a short, savage blow with his left elbow.

  As he turned, the knee let him down finally, the leg collapsing under him as the soldier, his face a mask of blood from the broken nose, raised his own knee into Egan’s face, throwing him on his back. He moved in, foot raised to stamp. Egan got his hands on it and twisted, hurling the man to one side. As he tried to rise, Egan, already up on his good knee, delivered a devastating blow under the ribs. The soldier groaned and fell back.

  The helicopter was not far away now; closer still was the sound of men’s voices and the barking of dogs. Egan picked up the AK and limped to the river’s edge. The mist was heavy here so that it was impossible to see the other side. Water rushed by, brown and flecked with foam, swollen by the rain. The current was fast, too fast for even the strongest swimmer, so cold that survival time would be minimal.

  He moved farther along the bank. Here the flood waters had risen several feet, and a tree floated, its branches caught in a bush. Recognizing his one chance for survival, he jumped into the water, the voices very close now, and flailed toward the tree. He pushed hard. For a moment, it refused to move, and then quite suddenly it was free, torn out by the current. The AK went as he grabbed for the security of the branches. Men on the bank now, dogs barking. A burst of firing, and then he was out in mid-channel, cloaked by a curtain of mist and rain.

  It was cold, colder than anything he had known in his life before, numbing the senses. The cold had even taken care of the pain in his knee. The current seemed slacker now, and he drifted more slowly, cocooned in the mist. The helicopter made a couple of passes overhead, but not low enough to cause him any trouble. After a while, it moved away.

  It was very quiet, only the ripple of the water, the hiss of the falling rain. His final chance, and not long to take it, with the cold eating into his bones like acid. He started to kick hard, still hanging on to the tree, pushing for the other side.

  It was exhausting work, but he kept at it, aware of his own heavy breathing and then something else. A dull, muted rumbling behind him. As he turned to glance over his shoulder, a motorboat nosed out of the mist and nudged into the branches of the tree.

  Half a dozen soldiers were aboard but only one stood out—the officer who leaned over the rail to look down at him. He was in his early thirties, young to be a lieutenant colonel, of medium height, with dark, watchful eyes and black hair that was far too long by any kind of army’s standards. At some time his nose had been broken. Just now he wore a camouflage jump jacket and a beige beret with the officer’s version of the SAS cap badge, silver wire wings with the regimental motto, “Who dares, wins,” all outlined in red on a blue background. He reached strong arms into the water to haul Egan out.

  “Colonel Villiers,” Egan said weakly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I’m your control officer on this one, Sean,” Villiers told him.

  “Seems like I’ve cocked it up,” Egan said.

  Villiers smiled with considerable charm. “Actually, I think you were bloody marvelous. Now, let’s get you out of here.”

  The 22nd Regiment Special Air Service is probably the most elite unit of any army in the world, its members all volunteers. Its selection procedure is so rigorous that it is not uncommon for only 10 percent of applicants to succeed. The ultimate test is the endurance march of forty-five miles in twenty hours, carrying eighty pounds of equipment over the Brecon Beacons in Wales, some of the roughest terrain in Britain—a course which has quite literally killed men attempting it.

  Standing at the window of the farmhouse looking out across the trees as rain swept in across the river Wye, Tony Villiers thought of the man who had just come within inches of destruction. “My God, it really is a bloody awful place in weather like this.”

  The young officer sitting at the desk behind him smiled. The name on his desk said Captain Daniel Warden and he was in charge of the proving-ground courses in the Brecons. He and Villiers shared another distinction besides being serving officers in the SAS. Both were also Grenadier Guardsmen.

  He opened the file in front of him. “I’ve got Egan’s record here from the computer, sir. Really is quite outstanding. Military Medal for gallantry in the field in Ireland, reasons unspecified.”

  “I know about that,” Villiers told him. “He was working with me at the time. Undercover. South Armagh.”

  “Distinguished Conduct Medal in the Falklands. Badly wounded. Eight months’ hospitalization. Left knee plastic and stainless steel or what have you. Speaks French, Italian and Irish. That’s a new one.”

  “His father was Irish,” Villiers said.

  “Another interesting point. He went to quite a reasonable public school,” Warden added. “Dulwich College.”

  Like Villiers, he was an Old Etonian, and the colonel said, “Don’t be a snob, Daniel. A very good school. Good enough for Raymond Chandler.”

  “Really, sir? I never knew that. Thought he was an American.”

  “He was, you idiot.” Villiers crossed to the desk, helped himself to tea from a china pot and sat in the window seat. “Let me give it to you, chapter and verse, on Sean Egan, all Group Four information, and most of it very definitely not on your computer. A lot of remarkable things about our Sean. To start with, he has a rather unusual uncle. Maybe you’ve heard of him? One Jack Shelley?”

  Warden frowned. “The gangster?”

  “A long time ago. In the good, bad old days he was as important as the Kray brothers and the Richardson gang. Very well liked in the East End of London. The people’s hero. Robin Hood in a Jaguar. Made his money from gambling and protection, night clubs and so on. Nothing nasty like drugs or prostitution. And he was clever. Too clever to end up serving life like the Krays. When he discovered he could make just as much money legitimately he moved into a different world. Television, computers, high tech. He must be worth twenty million at least.”

  “And Egan?”

  “Shelley’s sister married a London Irishman called Patrick Egan. He was an ex-boxer who ran a pub somewhere on the river. Shelley didn’t approve. He himself never married.” Villiers lit another cigarette. “And there’s one thing you should get straight about him. He may be a multimillionaire who owns half of Wapping, but he’s still Jack Shelley to every crook in London and a name to be reckoned with. He took a fancy to young Sean. He was the one who paid for him to go to Dulwich College, and Sean was good. Got a scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge. Intended to read Moral Philosophy. Can you beat that, Jack Shelley’s nephew reading Moral Philosophy?”

  Warden was well hooked by now. “What went wrong?”

  “In the spring of seventy-six, Pat Egan and his wife went across to Ulster to visit relatives in Portadown. Unfortunately they parked next to the wrong truck.”

  “A bomb?” Warden asked.

  “Big one. Took out half the street. They were only two of the people killed. Egan was seventeen and a half. Turned his back on Cambridge and joined the Paratroopers. His uncle was furious, but there wasn’t much he could do.”

  “Is Egan Shelley’s only relative?”

  “No, there’s some woman in her sixties, Sean’s cousin, I think. He told me once. She runs his father’s old pub.” Villiers frowned, thinking. “Ida, that was it. Aunt Ida. Girl called Sally, too, adopted by Pat Egan and his wife. I think her parents died when she was a baby. Shelley didn’t count her—not family. He’s like that. She went to live with his Aunt Ida when Sean joined up.

  “Sean, sir?” Warden said. “Isn’t that a little familiar between a half-colonel and a sergeant?”

  “Sean Egan and I have worked together a dozen times undercover in Ireland. That alters t
hings.” Villiers’s clipped public school tones changed to the accents of Belfast. “You can’t work on a building site on the Falls Road with a man, risk your life every waking minute, and expect him to call you sir.”

  Warden leaned back in his chair. “Am I right in thinking that Egan joined the army looking for some sort of revenge on the people who’d killed his parents?”

  “Of course he did. The Provisional IRA claimed responsibility for that bomb. It was the kind of reaction you’d expect from a boy of seventeen.”

  “But wouldn’t that make him suspect, sir? I mean, his psychological assessment would throw it all up. Must have.”

  “Or perfect for our requirements, Daniel, it depends on your point of view. When he was a year old his parents moved to South Armagh from London, then to Belfast. When he was twelve they came back to London because they’d had enough of the situation over there. So, a boy with an Ulster background, a Catholic, for what it’s worth, who even spoke reasonable Irish because his father had taught him. The kind of brain which earned a scholarship to Cambridge. Come on, Daniel, he was pulled out of the crowd within six months of joining the army. And then, he does possess one other very special attribute.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  Villiers walked to the window and peered out into the rain. “He’s a killer by instinct, Daniel. No hesitation. I’ve never seen anyone quite like him. As an undercover agent in Ireland he’s assassinated eighteen terrorists to my certain knowledge. IRA, INLA …”

  “His own people, sir?”

  “Just because he’s a Catholic?” Villiers demanded. “Come off it, Daniel. Nairac was a Catholic. He was also an officer in the Grenadier Guards and that’s all that concerned the IRA when they killed him. Anyway, Sean Egan has never played favorites. He’s also taken care of several leading gunmen on the Protestant side. UVF and Red Hand of Ulster.”

  Warden looked down at the file. “Quite a man. And now you’ve got to tell him he’s finished at twenty-five years of age.”