Bloody Passage (v5) Read online

  BLOODY PASSAGE

  Jack Higgins

  Open Road Integrated Media

  New York

  For Hannah in some kind of Celebration

  CONTENTS

  1. A Season for Killing

  2. The Hole

  3. The High Terrace

  4. Rain on the Dead

  5. A Special Kind of Woman

  6. The Rules of the Game

  7. Dead on Course

  8. Fire in the Night

  9. Cape of Fear

  10. Simone Alone

  11. To the Dark Tower

  12. Night Run

  13. Rebel Without A Cause

  14. Face to Face

  15. Endpiece

  A Biography of Jack Higgins

  1

  A Season for Killing

  The first shot ripped the epaulette from the right hand shoulder of my hunting jacket, the second lifted the thermos flask six feet into the air. The third kicked dirt at my right heel, but by then I was moving fast, diving headfirst into the safety of the reeds on the far side of the dike.

  I surfaced in about four feet of stinking water, my feet sinking into the black mud of the bottom. The smell was really quite something--as if the whole world had rotted. I tried hard not to breathe too heavily as I crouched to get my bearings.

  The marsh had come alive, mallard, wild duck and widgeon lifting out of the reeds in alarm, calling angrily to each other, and down by the shore beyond the sand dunes, several thousand flamingoes took off as one, filling the air with the pulsating of their wings. I waited, but there was no further word from my unknown admirer and after a while things quieted down.

  The punctured thermos flask lay about three feet in front of my nose on the edge of the dike, dribbling coffee, but apart from that everything looked beautifully normal. The open picnic basket, the neat white cloth spread on the ground, salad, sandwiches, a rather large cold chicken, the bottle of wine I'd been about to open and Simone's easel with the water color she'd been working on, half finished.

  Most interesting of all, and at that stage of things by far the most desirable item, the old Curtis Brown double-barreled sixteen-bore shotgun. It lay on the rug beside Simone's tin of water color paints, fifteen or twenty feet away, but as I'd only expected a crack at the odd duck or two it was hardly loaded for bear.

  I gazed at it morosely, debating the possibility of a quick dash to retrieve it, carrying straight on into the reeds on the other side of the dike, but he was one jump ahead of me even on that point, although I suppose it was the logical move. I pushed the reeds to one side cautiously and started to ease forward and a bullet drilled a neat hole through the stock of the shotgun.

  The .303 No. 4 Mark I Lee Enfield service rifle was the gun that got most British infantrymen through the Second World War. Recently resurrected by the British Army for use by its snipers in Ulster, it is a devastating weapon in the hands of a crack shot and accurate up to a thousand yards, which explains its popularity with the IRA also. Once heard in action, never forgotten and I'd heard a few in my time.

  Certainly the specimen which was inflicting all the damage at that precise moment was in the hands of an expert. I pulled back into the reeds and waited because quite obviously the next move was his.

  I found cigarettes and matches in the waterproofed breast pocket of my hunting jacket and lit up. It was perfectly still again. Even the flamingoes had returned to the shallows on the far side of the dunes. A flight of Brent geese drifted across the sky above me in a V formation, calling faintly, but the only other sound was the strange eerie whispering of the wind amongst the reeds.

  Somewhere thunder rumbled uneasily at the edge of things which didn't surprise me for, in spite of the heat, the sky was grey and overcast and rain had threatened for most of the day.

  About forty or fifty yards to my right on the same side of the dike there was a sudden crashing amongst the reeds and then a wild swan lifted into the air calling angrily. So, he was closer than I had imagined. A hell of a sight closer. I raised my head cautiously and became aware of the sound of an engine somewhere in the distance.

  When I turned I could see the Landrover crossing the flooded causeway two hundred yards away, Simone at the wheel. She came up out of the water and drove along the top of the dike.

  There wasn't much that I could do except put my head on the block like an officer and a gentleman, so I came up out of the reeds fast, grabbed for the shotgun and ran along the dike waving my arms at her, expecting a bullet between the shoulder blades at any moment.

  It was really very interesting. One bullet kicked dirt to the left of me, another to the right. I was aware of Simone's face, wild-eyed in astonishment, and then as she braked to a halt, a third round drilled a hole through the windscreen to one side of her.

  She stumbled out, white with fear. Another round thumped into the door panel behind her and I grabbed her hand and dragged her down over the edge of the dike into the cover of the reeds. She went in deep and surfaced, gasping for breath, her long dark hair plastered about her face. Another bullet slammed into the body of the Landrover.

  She grabbed at the front of my jacket in blind panic. "What is it? What's happening?"

  I took her hand, turned and pushed through the reeds until I was back in my original position. Another shot sliced through the reeds overhead and Simone ducked instinctively, going under again. She surfaced, her face streaked with filth and I took a couple of waterproof cartridges from one of my pockets and loaded the shotgun.

  "He's good, isn't he?"

  "For God's sake, Oliver," she said. "What is all this? Who's out there?"

  "Now there you have me," I said. "He's a professional, I know that, but for the rest, it's really rather peculiar. You see, I have the distinct impression that he could have killed me any one of a dozen times and didn't. I wonder why?"

  Her mouth opened in astonishment, the wide eyes above the high cheek-bones widened even more. She said in a hoarse voice. "You're actually enjoying this."

  "Well it's certainly enlivened a rather dull afternoon, you must admit that."

  Our friend fired again, shooting off the right hand leg of the easel so that it toppled over the dike into the water.

  "Damn his eyes," I said. "I liked that painting. It was coming along fine. The way you were soaking the blues into the background wash was particularly pleasing."

  She turned, her face contorted with fear, looking as if she might break into pieces at any moment. "Please, Oliver, do something! I can't take any more of this!"

  The wine bottle exploded like a small bomb, showering glass everywhere, staining the white cloth scarlet.

  "Now that really does annoy me," I said. "Lafite 1961. A really exceptional claret. I was going to surprise you. Here, hold this."

  I gave her the shotgun and took off my hunting jacket. "What are you going to do?" she demanded.

  I told her and when I'd finished, she seemed a little calmer, but was still obviously very frightened. I kissed her briefly on the cheek. "Can you handle it?"

  She nodded slowly. "I think so."

  I slipped the jacket over the muzzle of the shotgun and eased it up over the top of the reeds. There was an immediate shot and as the jacket was whipped away, I cried out in simulated agony.

  I turned to Simone who waited, white-faced, waist-deep in that foul water. "Now!" I whispered.

  She screamed out loud, scrambled up on to the dike, got to her feet and started the run toward the Landrover. He fired once, chipping a stone a couple of yards in front of her. It was all it took and she stopped dead, crying out in fear and stood there, waiting for the ax to fall. There was a movement in the reeds to my right and then boots crunched in the gravel of the dike t
op.

  "What happened?" a voice called in French.

  He moved past me toward her, a young, sallow-faced man with shoulder-length hair and a fringe beard. He wore a reefer jacket and rubber waders and carried the Lee Enfield at waist level.

  The oldest trick in the book and he'd fallen for it.

  I slipped up out of the reeds and moved in close. I don't know whether it was the expression on Simone's face or--more probably--the distinct double click as I cocked the shotgun, but in any event, he froze.

  I said in French, "Now put it down very carefully like a good boy and clasp your hands behind your neck."

  I knew he was going to shoot by the way his right shoulder started to lift, which was a pity because he didn't really leave me much choice.

  He turned, crouching, to fire from the hip and Simone screamed. Having little choice in the matter I gave him both barrels in the face, lifting him off his feet and back over the edge of the dike into the reeds.

  The marsh came alive again, birds rising out of the reeds in alarm, calling to each other, wheeling endlessly. Simone stood there transfixed, her face very white, staring down at the body. Most of him was submerged, only the legs from the knees to the feet encased in the rubber waders floated on the surface.

  The next bit wasn't going to be pleasant, but it had to be done. I said, "I'd go back to the Landrover if I were you; this won't be nice."

  Her voice was the merest whisper and she shook her head stubbornly. "I'd rather stay with you."

  "Suit yourself."

  I handed her the shotgun, got down on my hands and knees, secured a firm grip on each ankle and hauled him up on to the dike. Simone gave an involuntary gasp, and I didn't blame her when I saw his face, or what was left of it.

  I said, more to get her out of the way than anything else, "Bring me the rug, there's a good girl."

  She stumbled away and I opened the jacket and searched him, whistling softly between my teeth. It didn't take long, mainly because there was nothing to find. I squatted back on my heels and lit a cigarette and Simone returned. She still clutched the shotgun in one hand, the rug in the other which she handed me mutely.

  As I wrapped it around his head and shoulders, I said, "Curiouser and curiouser, just like Alice. Empty pockets, no identity marks in the clothing." I lifted his hand. "Indentation in the left finger where a signet ring has habitually been worn, but no ring."

  A professional all right. Stripped for action so that there would be no possibility of tracing him or his masters if anything went wrong. But I didn't say so to Simone because when I looked up, the dark eyes burned in the white face and her hands were shaking. She tightened her grip on the shotgun as if making an effort to hold herself together.

  "Who was he, Oliver?"

  "Now there you have me, angel."

  "What did he want?" The anger in her was barely contained. It was as if she might blow up at any moment.

  "I'm sorry," I said gently. "I can't help you. I'm as much in the dark as you."

  "I don't believe you." The anger overflowed now, all the tension, the fear of the past ten or fifteen minutes pouring out of her. "You weren't afraid when you were out there, not for a single moment. You knew exactly what you were doing. It was as if that kind of thing was your business and you were too good. Too good with this!" She brandished the shotgun fiercely.

  I said calmly, "It's a point of view, I'll give you that."

  I knelt down beside the dead man, heaved him over my shoulder and stood up. She said quickly, "What are you going to do? Get the police?"

  "The police?" I laughed out loud. "You've got to be joking."

  I bent down and picked up his Lee Enfield then walked along the dike toward the Landrover. There was a patch of bog amongst the reeds on my right; black viscous mud. The sort of place that might be five feet deep or bottomless. When I tossed him in he slid beneath the surface instantly. There was a bubble or two, the stink of marsh gas. I threw the Lee Enfield after him and turned.

  Simone was standing watching me, still clutching the shotgun, a kind of numbed horror on her face. Thunder rattled like distant drums again, overhead this time, and the rain which had threatened all day came with a rush, hissing into the reeds.

  It was somehow symbolic, I suppose, for with a sudden fierce gesture Simone tossed the shotgun over my head, out into the reeds. She started to cry bitterly, shoulders shaking and I put my arms about her.

  "It's all right," I said soothingly. "Everything's fine. I'll take you home now."

  I turned and led her along the dike toward the Landrover.

  I half-filled a tall glass with crushed ice, added a double measure of Irish gin and topped up with tonic water. Then I switched on the radio and turned the dial to Madrid. A little flamenco music would have been appropriate, but all I got was an old Glen Miller recording of Night and Day.

  I pushed open one of the glass doors and moved out onto the terrace. Rain dripped from the fringes of the sun awning and I could smell the mimosa, heavy and clinging on the damp air.

  The villa was built to a traditional Moorish pattern and stood in splendid isolation, which was the main reason I'd bought it, on a point of rock a hundred feet above a horseshoe cove thirty or forty miles southeast of Almeria toward Cape de Gata.

  I'd been here almost a year now and never tired of the view, even on an evening like this with rain falling. There were lights outside the cove, not too far away, where local fishermen were stringing their nets and a liner drifted through the darkness five or six miles out and beyond it, Africa.

  It all filled me with a vague, irrational excitement or perhaps it was just the events of the afternoon catching up. Heavy beads of rain rolled down the door and Simone became part of the room's reflection in the dark glass.

  The black hair hung to her shoulders, she wore a plain linen caftan so long that it brushed her bare feet. It was an original, soaked in vegetable dyes in a back room in some Delhi bazaar until it had reached that exact and unique shade of scarlet so that it seemed to catch fire there in the half-shadows of the room.

  I turned and toasted her. "You can cook, too. The meal was enormous."

  She said gravely, "I'll get you another drink," and went behind the bar in the corner.

  "That sounds like a good idea." I sat on one of the high cane stools and pushed my glass across.

  She took down the gin bottle. "I didn't even know there was such a thing as Irish gin until I met you."

  "As I remember, that was quite an evening."

  "The understatement of this or any other year," she said lightly as she spooned ice into my glass.

  Fair comment I'd met her at a party in Almeria thrown by some Italian producer who was making a Western or unreasonable facsimile, up in the Sierra Madre. I was strictly uninvited, pulled in by a scriptwriter I'd met in a waterfront bar, someone I knew barely well enough to exchange drinks with.

  The party was a creepy sort of affair. Most of the men were middle-aged and for some reason found it necessary to wear sunglasses even at that time of night. The girls were mainly dolly birds, eager to comply with any and every demand that might lead along the golden path to stardom.

  My scriptwriter friend left me alone and belligerent. I didn't like the atmosphere or the company and I was already half-cut, a dangerous combination. I pushed my way across to the bar which was being serviced by a young man with shoulder-length blond hair and a suit of purest white. His face looked vaguely familiar. The kind of cross between male and female that seems so popular these days. Anything from a manly aftershave advertisement to a second-rate movie and instantly forgettable.

  "Gin and tonic," I said. "Irish."

  "You've got to be joking, old stick," he said loudly in a phony English public school voice, and appealed to the half-dozen or so girls who were hanging on his every word at the end of the bar. "I mean, who ever heard of Irish gin?"

  "It may not be in your vocabulary, sweetness," I told him, "but it certainly figures in min
e."

  There was what might be termed a rather frigid silence and he stopped smiling. A finger prodded me painfully in the shoulder and a hoarse American voice said, "Listen, friend, if Mr. Langley says there's no such thing as Irish gin, then there's no such thing."

  I glanced over my shoulder. God knows where they'd found him. A latter-day Primo Carnera with a face that went with around fifty or so professional fights, too many of which had probably ended on the canvas.

  "I bet you went over big, back there in Madison Square Gardens," I said. "Selling programs."

  There was a second of shocked surprise, just long enough for the fact that I didn't give a damn to sink in, and then his fist came up.

  A rather pleasant French voice said, "Oh, there you are, cheri. I've been looking everywhere for you."

  A hand on my sleeve pulled me round. I was aware of the dark wide eyes above the cheekbones, the generous mouth. She smiled brightly and said to Langley, "I'm sorry, Justin. Can't let him out of my sight for a moment."

  "That's okay, honey," Langley told her, but he wasn't smiling and neither was his large friend as she pushed me away through the crowd.

  We fetched up in a quiet corner by the terrace. She reached for a glass from a tray carried by a passing waiter and put it into my hand.

  "What were you trying to do, commit suicide? That was Mike Gatano you were arguing with back there. He was once heavyweight boxing champion of Italy."

  "Christ, but they must have been having a bad year." I tried the drink she'd handed me. It burned all the way down. "What in the hell is this? Spanish whiskey? And who's the fruit, anyway?"

  "Justin Langley. He's a film actor."

  "Or something."

  She leaned against the wall, arms folded, a slight frown on her face, a pleasing enough picture in a black silk dress, dark stockings and gold high-heeled shoes.

  "You're just looking for it tonight, aren't you?"

  "Gatano?" I shrugged. "All he is is big. What are you trying to do anyway, save my immortal soul?"