work, pushing uphill. Finally, they came out onto a small plateau on the edge of the cliffs.
There was no moon, and the rock dropped sheer, a good forty feet into the water. There was an impression of waves out there, broken water, white foam, and Brosnan could feel salt on his lips like the taste of freedom.
Behind them, Lebel switched on a light above a wooden door and unlocked it. "All right, let's get the weights on him."
The small room had a wooden bench in the center on which Brosnan and Savary placed the body. One of the walls was hung with a selection of oilskins and orange life jackets. The most interesting feature was the piles of heavy steel chain coiled neatly on the floor, each one in a different weight category, according to a painted sign on the wall behind it.
"Right." Lebel consulted his document. "He weighed a hundred and five pounds at death. Christ, we can't have that. He'll float like a cork on that current." He consulted a chart on the wall. "Ninety pounds of chain according to this. Get it on him."
Brosnan took a chain from the correct pile, and they proceeded to pass it through the loops specially provided for that purpose on the body bag.
"Why all this fuss over the weights, Pierre?" Savary asked. "The way you change it, according to the body weight?"
Lebel produced a pack of Gauloises and offered them each one. "Simple. The Mill Race isn't one current, as most people imagine. It's two. Stay on the surface, you'd end on the rocks at St. Denis ten miles up the coast, and bodies drifting in as regularly as that would scare old ladies walking their dogs. But drop the body down t o t hirty fathoms, the current takes it out to sea. So, the weight factor is critical. Anyway, let's get this over with."
Brosnan and Savary carried the body between them to the edge of the cliff. They stood there for a moment, and Savary said, "I still say he should have a priest. This isn't right."
Lebel, his essential decency coming to the surface, removed his cap and said, "All right. Lord, into thy hands we commend the spirit of 67824-Jean Bouvier. He didn't get much out of this life. Maybe you can do more for him in the next." He replaced his cap. "Okay, over with him."
Brosnan and Savary swung a couple of times then let go. The body turned over once, plunged into white foam below, and disappeared. They stood staring down at the water.
Savary whispered, "The only way I'm ever going to get off this rock. I'm going to die here, Martin."
There was total desolation in his voice, total despair, and Brosnan put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe--on the other hand, maybe not."
Savary stared at him, frowning, while Lebel closed and locked the door and switched off the light. "Okay, let's go."
They followed him back down the track, heads bowed against the rain.
At six A . M . Ferguson and Harry Fox were having breakfast in a truck drivers cafe on the A40 just outside Cheltenham. The bacon and eggs were the best Fox could remember enjoying since the officers' mess at Combermere barracks in Windsor. Ferguson was obviously just as impressed.
"What about Devlin, sir?"
"Remarkable man. He must be well into his sixties by now. An Ulsterman, County Down, I believe. His father was executed during the Anglo-Irish war in nineteen twenty-one for serving in a flying column. He was educated by Jesuits and took a first class honors degree in English Literature at Trinity College. He is a scholar, writer, poet, and was a highly dangerous gunman for the IRA during the thirties. He went to Spain in nineteen thirty-six and fought against Franco. He was captured by Italian troops and imprisoned in Spain until nineteen forty when the Abwehr had him freed and brought to Berlin to see if he could be of any use to German intelligence."
"And was he, sir?"
"The trouble was, from their point of view, he was a bad risk. Very antifascist, you see. The Abwehr's Irish section did use him once. They'd sent an agent to Ireland, a Captain Goertz.
There was no moon, and the rock dropped sheer, a good forty feet into the water. There was an impression of waves out there, broken water, white foam, and Brosnan could feel salt on his lips like the taste of freedom.
Behind them, Lebel switched on a light above a wooden door and unlocked it. "All right, let's get the weights on him."
The small room had a wooden bench in the center on which Brosnan and Savary placed the body. One of the walls was hung with a selection of oilskins and orange life jackets. The most interesting feature was the piles of heavy steel chain coiled neatly on the floor, each one in a different weight category, according to a painted sign on the wall behind it.
"Right." Lebel consulted his document. "He weighed a hundred and five pounds at death. Christ, we can't have that. He'll float like a cork on that current." He consulted a chart on the wall. "Ninety pounds of chain according to this. Get it on him."
Brosnan took a chain from the correct pile, and they proceeded to pass it through the loops specially provided for that purpose on the body bag.
"Why all this fuss over the weights, Pierre?" Savary asked. "The way you change it, according to the body weight?"
Lebel produced a pack of Gauloises and offered them each one. "Simple. The Mill Race isn't one current, as most people imagine. It's two. Stay on the surface, you'd end on the rocks at St. Denis ten miles up the coast, and bodies drifting in as regularly as that would scare old ladies walking their dogs. But drop the body down t o t hirty fathoms, the current takes it out to sea. So, the weight factor is critical. Anyway, let's get this over with."
Brosnan and Savary carried the body between them to the edge of the cliff. They stood there for a moment, and Savary said, "I still say he should have a priest. This isn't right."
Lebel, his essential decency coming to the surface, removed his cap and said, "All right. Lord, into thy hands we commend the spirit of 67824-Jean Bouvier. He didn't get much out of this life. Maybe you can do more for him in the next." He replaced his cap. "Okay, over with him."
Brosnan and Savary swung a couple of times then let go. The body turned over once, plunged into white foam below, and disappeared. They stood staring down at the water.
Savary whispered, "The only way I'm ever going to get off this rock. I'm going to die here, Martin."
There was total desolation in his voice, total despair, and Brosnan put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe--on the other hand, maybe not."
Savary stared at him, frowning, while Lebel closed and locked the door and switched off the light. "Okay, let's go."
They followed him back down the track, heads bowed against the rain.
At six A . M . Ferguson and Harry Fox were having breakfast in a truck drivers cafe on the A40 just outside Cheltenham. The bacon and eggs were the best Fox could remember enjoying since the officers' mess at Combermere barracks in Windsor. Ferguson was obviously just as impressed.
"What about Devlin, sir?"
"Remarkable man. He must be well into his sixties by now. An Ulsterman, County Down, I believe. His father was executed during the Anglo-Irish war in nineteen twenty-one for serving in a flying column. He was educated by Jesuits and took a first class honors degree in English Literature at Trinity College. He is a scholar, writer, poet, and was a highly dangerous gunman for the IRA during the thirties. He went to Spain in nineteen thirty-six and fought against Franco. He was captured by Italian troops and imprisoned in Spain until nineteen forty when the Abwehr had him freed and brought to Berlin to see if he could be of any use to German intelligence."
"And was he, sir?"
"The trouble was, from their point of view, he was a bad risk. Very antifascist, you see. The Abwehr's Irish section did use him once. They'd sent an agent to Ireland, a Captain Goertz.
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