Touch the Devil. Jack Higgins
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you’d best be off. A decent night’s sleep and no booze. You’ll need a clear head for what you must do tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch and laughed. ‘Correction – today.’
Corder weighed the transceiver in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket. ‘I’ll say good-night then.’
His footsteps echoed in the lofty warehouse as he walked to the entrance, opened the judas and stepped out. It was still raining as he moved into the yard at the side of the building. The Peugeot was parked by the main entrance, the key in the lock as Barry had indicated. Corder drove away, his palms sweating, slipping on the wheel, stomach churning.
Kill Carrington, one of the most decent and humane of politicians. My God, what would the bastard come up with next? But no, that question didn’t need an answer, because now Barry was very definitely finished. This was it. What Corder had been waiting for for more than a year.
He found what he was looking for a moment later, a small all-night cafe on the corner of one of the main boulevards into the city. There was a public telephone in a glass booth inside. He ordered coffee, then bought the necessary tokens from the barman and went into the booth, closing the door. His fingers were shaking as he carefully dialled the London code number and then the number following.
The Security Service in Great Britain, more correctly known as Directorate General of the Security Service, DI5, does not officially exist as far as the law is concerned although it does, in fact occupy a large white and red brick building near the Hilton Hotel. It was that establishment which Jack Corder was calling now; more specifically, an office known as Group Four which was manned twenty-four hours a day.
The ’phone was lifted and an anonymous voice said, ‘Say who you are.’
‘Lysander. I must speak with Brigadier Ferguson at once. Priority One. No denial possible.’
‘Your present number?’ He dictated it carefully. The voice said, ‘If security clearance confirmed, you will be called.’
The ’phone went dead. Corder pushed open the booth door and went to the bar. There was a man in a blue suit asleep on a chair in the corner, mouth gaping. Otherwise the place was empty.
The barman pushed the coffee across. ‘You want something to eat? A ham sandwich perhaps?’
‘Why not?’ Corder said. ‘I’m waiting for a call.’
The barman turned to the stove and Corder spooned sugar into his coffee. All calls to DI5 were automatically recorded. At this moment the computer would be matching his voice print on file against the tape of his call. Ferguson would probably be at home in bed. They would ring him, give him the number. Ten minutes in all.
But he was wrong, for it needed no more than five and as he took his first bite into the sandwich, the ’phone rang. He squeezed into the booth, closed the door and picked up the receiver.
‘Lysander here.’
‘Ferguson.’ The voice was plummy, a little over-done, rather like the ageing actor in a second-rate touring company who wants to make sure they can hear him at the back of the theatre. ‘It’s been a long time, Jack. Priority One, I understand.’
‘Frank Barry, sir, out in the open at last.’
Ferguson’s voice sharpened. ‘Now that is interesting.’
‘Lord Carrington, sir. He’s visiting President Giscard d’Estaing at the moment?’
There was a slight pause. Ferguson said, ‘No one’s supposed to know that officially.’
‘Frank Barry does.’
‘Not good, Jack, not good at all. I think you’d better explain.’
Which Corder did, speaking in low urgent tones. Five minutes later, he emerged from the booth and went to the counter.
‘Your sandwich, Monsieur – it has gone cold. You want another?’
‘What an excellent idea,’ Corder said. ‘And I’ll have a cognac while I’m waiting.’
He lit a cigarette and sat back on the bar stool, smiling for the first time that night.
In his flat in Cavendish Square, Brigadier Charles Ferguson stood beside the bed, pulling on his dressing gown as he listened to the tape recording he had just taken of his conversation with Corder. He was a large, kindly-looking man and distinctly overweight with rumpled grey hair and a double chin. There was nothing military about him at all and the half-moon spectacles he put on to consult a small pocket book gave him the air of a minor professor. He was, in fact, as ruthless as Cesare Borgia and totally without scruples when it came to his country’s interest.
There was a tap at the door and his manservant, an ex-Ghurkha naik, peered in, tying the belt of a dressing gown about his waist.
‘Sorry, Kim, work to be done.’ Ferguson said. ‘Lots of tea, bacon and eggs to follow. I won’t be going back to bed.’
The little Ghurkha withdrew and Ferguson went into the sitting room, stirred the fire in the Adam fireplace, poured himself a large brandy, sat down by the telephone and dialled a number in Paris.
The French Security Service, the Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre Espionnage, the SDECE, is divided into five sections and many departments. The most interesting is certainly Section Five, most commonly known as the Action Service, the department which more than any other had been responsible for the smashing of the OAS. It was the number of Service Five which Ferguson dialled now.
He said, ‘Ferguson here, DI5. Colonel Guyon, if you please.’ He frowned impatiently. ‘Well, of course he’s at home in bed. So was I. I’ve only rung you to establish credentials. Tell him to call me back on this number.’ He dictated it quickly. ‘Most urgent. Priority One.’
He put down the ’phone and Kim entered with bacon and eggs, bread, butter and marmalade on a silver tray. ‘Delicious,’ Ferguson said, as the little Ghurkha placed a small table before him. ‘Breakfast at two-thirty in the morning. What a capital idea. We should do this more often.’
As he tucked a napkin around his neck the ’phone rang. He picked it up instantly. ‘Ah, Pierre,’ he said in rapid and excellent French. ‘I’ve got something for you. Very nasty indeed. You won’t be pleased, so listen carefully.’
In the warehouse, it was quiet after Jack Corder had left. Barry walked to the entrance and locked the judas gate. He paused to light a cigarette and as he turned, a man emerged from the shadows and perched himself on the edge of the table.
Nikolai Romanov was fifty years of age and for ten of them had been a cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Paris. His dark suit was Savile Row, as was the blue overcoat which fitted him to perfection. He was handsome enough in a slightly decadent way, with a face like Oscar Wilde or Nero himself and a mane of silver hair which made him look more like a distinguished actor than what he was, which was a Colonel in the KGB.
‘I’m not too sure about that one, Frank,’ he said in excellent English.
‘I’m not too sure about anyone,’ Barry said, ‘including you, old son, but for what it’s worth, Jack Corder’s a dedicated Marxist.’
‘Oh dear,’ Romanov said. ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
‘He tried to join the British Communist Party when he was an undergraduate at Oxford years ago. It was suggested that someone like him could do more good by keeping his mouth shut and joining the Labour Party, which he did. Trade Union Organiser for six years, then he blotted his copybook by losing his cool during a miners’ strike three or four years ago and assaulting a policeman in the picket line with a pickaxe handle. Put him in hospital for six weeks.’
‘And Corder?’
‘Two years in gaol. The Union wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole after that. Deep down inside, those lads are as conservative as Margaret Thatcher when