A Fine Night for Dying
Praise for the thrillers of
JACK HIGGINS
WITHOUT MERCY
“The master of suspense is back with another fierce thriller combining terrorism, murder, and revenge.”
—The Welland Tribune (Ontario)
DARK JUSTICE
“A mesmerizing tale…Higgins cements readers to the pages.”
—Times Colonist (Victoria, B.C.)
“High-speed narration.”
—Publishers Weekly
BAD COMPANY
“Higgins writes with spare velocity, racing through a complex plot…[and] has no equal in the realm of ex-Nazis wreaking havoc…. Higgins maintains the suspense and even manages a series of nasty surprises along the way.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Fans will find enough gnarly action and sentiment here to make them anticipate [Higgins’s] next.”
—Publishers Weekly
MIDNIGHT RUNNER
“The fun comes from the wisecracking band of dangerous but bighearted secret soldiers Higgins wheels out to save the world—and his galloping Hollywood-ready pace.”
—People
“Swift and coursing with dark passion…as credible and steel-hearted as Higgins’s best.”
—Publishers Weekly
EDGE OF DANGER
“This is Higgins near the top of his game…another winner.”
—Publishers Weekly
“His 32nd triumphant exercise in keeping readers hugely entertained.”
—Los Angeles Times
“The action is nonstop.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
DAY OF RECKONING
“The action is sleek and intensely absorbing, but the supreme pleasure is in those Higgins celebrates—tarnished warriors who value honor over life and who get the job done no matter what the cost.”
—Publishers Weekly
THE WHITE HOUSE CONNECTION
“The White House Connection has one heckuva heroine…[who] begins a one-woman assassination spree that will keep you turning the pages.”
—Larry King, USA Today
“Masterful…a satisfying, suspense-filled book.”
—Roanoke Times & World News
“[A] page-turning thriller.”
—The Indianapolis Star
THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER
“A tight story with plenty of action.”
—Chattanooga Free Press
NIGHT JUDGEMENT AT SINOS
“This is one you won’t put down.”
—The New York Times
DRINK WITH THE DEVIL
“A most intoxicating thriller.”
—The Associated Press
“It is Dillon’s likability and the author’s adroitness in giving his character the room he needs that make Higgins’s novels so readable.”
—The Washington Times
YEAR OF THE TIGER
“Higgins spins as mean a tale as Ludlum, Forsythe, or any of them.”
—Philadelphia Daily News
ANGEL OF DEATH
“Pulsing excitement…Higgins makes the pages fly.”
—New York Daily News
“The action never stops.”
—The San Francisco Examiner
“A terrific read.”
—The Associated Press
EYE OF THE STORM
Also published as Midnight Man
“Heart-stopping…spectacular and surprising.”
—Abilene Reporter-News
“Razor-edged…will give you an adrenaline high. It’s a winner.”
—Tulsa World
ON DANGEROUS GROUND
“A whirlwind of action, with a hero who can out-Bond old James. It’s told in the author’s best style, with never a pause for breath.”
—The New York Times Book Review
SHEBA
“When it comes to thriller writers, one name stands well above the crowd—Jack Higgins.”
—The Associated Press
THUNDER POINT
“Dramatic…authentic…one of the author’s best.”
—The New York Times
“A rollicking adventure that twists and turns.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
Titles by Jack Higgins
A FINE NIGHT FOR DYING
THE BORMANN TESTAMENT
WITHOUT MERCY
DARK JUSTICE
HELL IS ALWAYS TODAY
BAD COMPANY
MIDNIGHT RUNNER
THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT
EDGE OF DANGER
DAY OF RECKONING
THE KEYS OF HELL
THE WHITE HOUSE CONNECTION
IN THE HOUR BEFORE MIDNIGHT
EAST OF DESOLATION
THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER
PAY THE DEVIL
FLIGHT OF EAGLES
YEAR OF THE TIGER
DRINK WITH THE DEVIL
NIGHT JUDGEMENT AT SINOS
ANGEL OF DEATH
SHEBA
ON DANGEROUS GROUND
THUNDER POINT
EYE OF THE STORM (also published as MIDNIGHT MAN)
THE EAGLE HAS FLOWN
COLD HARBOUR
MEMORIES OF A DANCE-HALL ROMEO
A SEASON IN HELL
NIGHT OF THE FOX
CONFESSIONAL
EXOCET
TOUCH THE DEVIL
LUCIANO’S LUCK
SOLO
DAY OF JUDGMENT
STORM WARNING
THE LAST PLACE GOD MADE
A PRAYER FOR THE DYING
THE EAGLE HAS LANDED
THE RUN TO MORNING
DILLINGER
TO CATCH A KING
THE VALHALLA EXCHANGE
THE KHUFRA RUN
A GAME FOR HEROES
THE WRATH OF GOD
A FINE NIGHT FOR DYING
Jack Higgins
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Originally published in Great Britain under the name Martin Fallon.
A FINE NIGHT FOR DYING
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 1969 by Martin Fallon.
Cover illustration by Ben Perini.
Cover design by Steven Ferlauto.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not parti
cipate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0579-2
BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Contents
ENGLISH CHANNEL 1969
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
NAPLES
CHAPTER 3
FRANCE
CHAPTER 4
BRITTANY
CHAPTER 5
ENGLISH CHANNEL
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
LONDON
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
BRITTANY
CHAPTER 11
FRANCE THE CAMARGUE
CHAPTER 12
HELLGATE
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
A FINE NIGHT FOR DYING
ENGLISH CHANNEL
1969
CHAPTER 1
There were times when Jean Mercier wondered what life was all about and this was very definitely one of them. Somewhere beyond the boat in the darkness was a shoreline that he could not see, hazards at which he could only guess, and the lack of navigation lights wasn’t helping.
A wind that came all the way from the Urals spilled out across the Gulf of St. Malo, driving the waves into whitecaps, scattering spray against the windscreen of the launch. Mercier throttled back the engine and adjusted his steering slightly, straining his eyes into the darkness, waiting for a light like some sign from heaven.
He rolled a cigarette awkwardly with one hand, aware of a trembling in the fingers that would not be stilled. He was cold and tired and very scared, but the money was good, cash on the barrel and tax-free—more than he could earn from three months of fishing. With an ailing wife on his hands, a man had to take what came and be thankful.
A light flashed three times, and then was gone so quickly that for a moment he wondered whether he had imagined it. He ran a hand wearily across his eyes and it flickered again. He watched through a third repetition, mesmerized, then pulled himself together and stamped on the floor of the wheelhouse. There were steps on the companionway, and Jacaud appeared.
He had been drinking again, and the smell, sourly sharp on the clean salt air, made Mercier slightly sick. Jacaud shoved him to one side and took the wheel.
“Where is it?” he growled.
The light answered him, ahead and slightly to port. He nodded, pushed up speed and turned the wheel. As the launch rushed into the darkness, he took a half-bottle of rum from his pocket, swallowed what was left and tossed the empty bottle through the open door. In the light from the binnacle, he seemed disembodied, a head that floated in the darkness, a macabre joke. It was the face of an animal, a brute that walked on two legs with small pig eyes, flattened nose and features coarsened by years of drink and disease.
Mercier shuddered involuntarily, as he had done many times before, and Jacaud grinned. “Frightened, aren’t you, little man?” Mercier didn’t reply, and Jacaud grabbed him by the hair, one hand still on the wheel and pulled him close. Mercier cried out in pain and Jacaud laughed again. “Stay frightened. That’s how I like it. Now go and get the dinghy ready.”
With a heave, he sent him out through the open door and Mercier grabbed at the rail to save himself. There were tears of rage and frustration in his eyes as he felt his way along the deck in the darkness and dropped to one knee beside the rubber dinghy. He took a spring knife from one pocket, feeling for the line that lashed the dinghy into place. He sawed it through, then touched the razor edge of the blade to his thumb, thinking of Jacaud. One good thrust was all it would take, but even at the thought his bowels contracted in a spasm of fear, and he hastily closed the knife, got to his feet and waited at the rail.
The launch rushed into the darkness and the light flashed again. As Jacaud cut the engine, they slowed and started to drift broadside onto the beach marked by the phosphorescence of the surf a hundred yards away. Mercier got the anchor over as Jacaud joined him. The big man heaved the dinghy into the water on his own and pulled it in by handline.
“Off with you,” he said impatiently. “I want to get out of here.”
Water slopped in the bottom of the dinghy, cold and uncomfortable, as Mercier mounted the two wooden oars and pulled away. He was afraid again, as he always was these days, for the beach was unknown territory in spite of the fact that he had visited it in identical circumstances at least half a dozen times before. But there was always the feeling that, this time, things might be different—that the police could be waiting. That he might be drifting into a five-year jail sentence.
The dinghy was suddenly lifted on a wave, poised for a moment, then dropped in across a line of creamy surf, sliding to a halt as she touched shingle. Mercier shipped his oars, slipped out and pulled her round, prow facing out to sea. As he straightened, a light pierced the darkness dazzling him momentarily.
He raised a hand defensively, the light was extinguished, and a calm voice said, in French, “You’re late. Let’s get moving.”
It was the Englishman, Rossiter, again. Mercier could tell by the accent, although his French was almost perfect. The only man he had ever known Jacaud to touch his cap to. In the darkness he was only a shadow, and so was the man with him. They spoke together briefly in English, a language Mercier did not understand, then the other man got into the dinghy and crouched in the prow. Mercier followed him, unshipping the oars, and Rossiter pushed the dinghy out over the first wave and scrambled across the bow.
Jacaud was waiting at the stern rail when they reached the launch, his cigar glowing faintly in the darkness. The passenger went up first and Rossiter followed with his suitcase. By the time Mercier had reached the deck, the Englishman and the passenger had gone below. Jacaud helped him to get the dinghy over the side, left him to lash it to the deck and went into the wheelhouse. A moment later, the engines rumbled softly and they moved out to sea.
Mercier finished his task and went forward to make sure that all was secure. Rossiter had joined Jacaud in the wheelhouse and they stood together at the wheel, the Englishman’s thin, aesthetic face contrasting strongly with Jacaud’s—opposite sides of the coin. One an animal, the other a gentleman, and yet they seemed to get on with each other so well, something Mercier could never understand.
As he moved past the wheelhouse, Jacaud spoke in a low voice and they both burst into laughter. Even in that, they were different, the Englishman’s gay chuckle mingling strangely with Jacaud’s throaty growl, and yet somehow they complemented each other.
Mercier shuddered and went below to the galley.
FOR most of the way, the passage was surprisingly smooth considering what the Channel could be like at times, but toward dawn it started to rain. Mercier was at the wheel, and as they started the run in to the English coast, fog rolled to meet them in a solid wall. He stamped on the deck, and after a while Jacaud appeared. He looked terrible, eyes swollen and bloodshot from lack of sleep, face gray and spongy.
“Now what?”
Mercier nodded toward the fog. “It doesn’t look too good.”
“How far out are we?”
“Six or seven miles.”
Jacaud nodded and pulled him out of the way. “Okay—leave it to me.”
Rossiter appeared in the doorway. “Trouble?”
Jacaud shook his head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Rossiter went to the rail. He stood there, face ex
pressionless, and yet a small muscle twitched in his right cheek, a sure sign of stress. He turned and, brushing past Mercier, went below.
Mercier pulled up the collar of his reefer jacket, thrust his hands into his pockets and stood in the prow. In the gray light of early dawn, the launch looked even more decrepit than usual and exactly what it was supposed to be—a poor man’s fishing boat, lobster pots piled untidily in the stern beside the rubber dinghy, nets draped across the engine-room housing. Moisture beaded everything in the light rain and then they were enveloped by the fog, gray tendrils brushing against Mercier’s face, cold and clammy, unclean, like the touch of the dead.
And the fear was there again, so much so that his limbs trembled and his stomach contracted painfully. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and started to roll a cigarette, fighting to keep his fingers still.
The launch slipped through a gray curtain into clear water, and the cigarette paper fluttered to the deck as Mercier leaned forward, clutching at the rail. Two hundred yards away, through the cold morning, a sleek gray shape moved to cut across their course.
Jacaud was already reducing speed as Rossiter appeared on deck. He ran to the rail and stood there, one hand shielding his eyes from the rain. A signal flashed through the gray morning and he turned, face grim.
“They’re saying: ‘Heave to, I wish to board you.’ It’s a Royal Navy MTB. Let’s get out of here.”
Mercier clutched at his sleeve, panic rising to choke him. “Those things can do thirty-five knots, monsieur. We don’t stand a chance.”
Rossiter grabbed him by the throat. “Seven years, that’s what you’ll get if they catch us with him onboard. Now get out of my way.”
He nodded to Jacaud, ran along the deck and disappeared below. The engines roared as Jacaud gave them full throttle, spinning the wheel at the same time, and the launch heeled over onto one side, almost coming to a dead stop, then surged forward into the fog.