Caravan to Vaccares by Alistair MacLean Page A

back into the arms of his companions who had momentarily to support him to prevent his collapse. There was some moments’ hesitation, then they turned and ran from the terrace, Koscis and Hoval still having to support a very wobbly Ferenc.
    â€˜Charles.’ Lila had her hands clasped in what is alleged to be the classic feminine gesture of admiration. ‘How brave of you!’
    â€˜A bagatelle. Aristocracy versus ruffians – class always tells.’ He gestured towards his doorway. ‘Come, we have yet to finish both the chess and the canapés.’
    â€˜But – but how can you be so calm? I mean, aren’t you going to phone? The management? Or the police?’
    â€˜What point? They were masked and will be far away by this time. After you.’
    They went inside and closed their door. Bowman closed his.
    â€˜You heard?’ She nodded. ‘Good old duke. That’s taken the heat off for the moment.’ He reached for the door handle. ‘Well, thanks for the sanctuary.’
    â€˜Where are you going?’ She seemed troubled or disappointed or both.
    â€˜Over the hills and far away.’
    â€˜In your car?’
    â€˜I haven’t got one.’
    â€˜You can take mine. Ours, I mean.’
    â€˜You mean that?’
    â€˜Of course, silly.’
    â€˜You’re going to make me a very happy man one day. But for the car, some other time. Good night.’
    Bowman closed her door behind him and was almost at his own room when he stopped. Three figures had emerged from the shadows.
    â€˜First you, my friend.’ Ferenc’s voice was no more than a whisper, maybe the idea of disturbing the Duke again didn’t appeal to him. ‘Then we attend to the little lady.’
    Bowman was three paces from his own door and he had taken the first even before Ferenc had stopped talking – people generally assume that you will courteously hear them out – and had taken the third before they had moved, probably because the other two were waiting for the lead from Ferenc and Ferenc’s reactions were temporarily out of kilter since his brief encounter with Le Grand Duc. In any event, Bowman had the door shut behind him before Ferenc’s shoulder hit in and had the key turned before Ferenc could twist the door handle from his grip.
    He spent no time on brow-mopping and self congratulation but ran to the back of the apartment, opened the window and looked out. The branches of a sufficiently stout tree were less than six feet away. Bowman withdrew his head and listened. Someone was giving the door handle a good going over, then abruptly the sound ceased to be replaced by that of running footsteps. Bowman waited no longer: if there was one thing that had been learnt from dealing with those men it was that procrastination was uninsurable.
    As a piece of arboreal trapeze work there was little enough to it. He just stood on the sill, halfleaned and half-fell outwards, caught a thick branch, swung into the bole of the tree and slid to the ground. He scrambled up the steep bank leading to the road that encircled the hotel from the rear. At the top he heard a low and excited call behind him and twisted round. The moon was out again and he could clearly see the three of them starting to climb the bank: it was equally clear that the knives they held in their hands weren’t impeding their progress at all.
    Before Bowman lay the choice of running downhill or up. Downhill from the Baumanière lay open country, uphill lay Les Baux with its winding streets and back-alleys and labyrinth of shattered ruins. Bowman didn’t hesitate. As one famous heavyweight boxer said of his opponents – this was after he had lured the unfortunates into the ring – ‘they can run but they can’t hide.’ In Les Baux Bowman could both run and hide. He turned uphill.
    He ran up the winding road towards the old village as quickly as the steepness, his wind and the