working as Rossiter slowly advanced, grabbed the Breton by the hair and pulled back his head. There was a sharp click, and steel flashed. Very deliberately, Rossiter drew the point of the razor-sharp blade across Jacaud’s forehead. The flesh opened and blood oozed in a crimson curtain.
Jacaud rolled over without a sound and Rossiter wiped the knife mechanically. Famia stood looking at him, a dazed expression on her face. He went to the girl, put an arm around her shoulders and led her past Chavasse and Jones without a glance.
Chavasse turned Jacaud over and dropped to one knee. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood away from the great ugly face.
“How is he?” Jones asked.
“Fainted dead away-fright, I expect. Rossiter knew what he was doing. He’s marked him badly-no more than that. Bandages should be enough.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Rossiter’s?” Chavasse nodded. “Reminded me of something Faustus says in Marlowe’s play.”
“Something like ‘this is hell and I am in it’?” Jones said. “More than apt.”
Chavasse grinned. “One thing about the Jamaican educational system-they certainly must have encouraged you to read.”
“And write, man. And write. Hell, it’s the coming thing.”
The Jamaican got a shoulder under Jacaud’s arm and raised him. Together they took him inside.
Later in the afternoon, the rain came again with a sudden rush, shrouding everything in a gray curtain. The old woman who did the cooking came in from the kitchen and lit an oil lamp, retiring immediately without a word. Mrs. Campbell and Hamid sat as close to the fire as possible and talked quietly with Famia. Jones was reading a book, and Chavasse sat with a week-old copy of
He dropped it to the floor and went to the door that led to the bar. Rossiter and Jacaud sat at a table, talking in low tones, a bottle of cognac close to Jacaud’s hand. Otherwise the place was empty, except for Mercier, who stood behind the bar counter, polishing glasses. It seemed as good an opportunity as he was ever likely to get, and Chavasse turned, strolled across the room and went into the passage.
He went up the stairs two at a time, moved along the corridor and paused outside Rossiter’s room. The lock was child’s play, an old mortice that opened smoothly with the first skeleton key he tried, and he went inside.
The room was almost exactly the same as his own, small and bare, with a single bed and an old chest of drawers. It was a place of shadows with the gray light of late afternoon seeping in through the narrow window, but two tall candles burning steadily on either side of a statue of the Virgin gave all the additional illumination that he needed.
There was a suitcase under the bed that contained nothing but clothes. He replaced them neatly and pushed it out of sight again. He went through the drawers next and found the photographs Jones had mentioned, exactly as described. Chavasse examined them in the flickering light of the candles and Rossiter’s face jumped out to meet him, clear and quite unmistakable.
He replaced them carefully and searched the other drawers. There was nothing more of interest, which left only the books standing in a neat row on the window ledge: The Bible,
He checked that everything was as he had left it, opened the door cautiously and stepped out. Jones moved from the shadows of an alcove almost immediately opposite and smiled.
“Was I right?” he demanded coolly.
Chavasse nodded. “On the nose.”
“The story of my life. I’m right so often, it’s sickening.”
There was the sound of a car pulling up outside. They moved to the window at the end of the passage and peered out. A Mercedes was parked at the entrance, and Rossiter and Jacaud stood beside it. Jacaud opened the rear door and a man wearing a heavy overcoat with an astrakhan collar and a black, old-fashioned trilby emeged. He was Chinese and built like a fort, with a round, smooth, enigmatic face that made his age difficult to judge.
“Man, this gets more like the United Nations every minute,” Jones whispered.
Chavasse nodded as the Mercedes drove away and Jacaud picked up the Chinese man’s bags. “The other passenger, presumably. We’d better get down and see what the form is.”
In the living room, Rossiter was already making introductions, and when Chavasse and Jones appeared, he turned with a pleasant smile. “Ah, now we are all here. Gentlemen, Mr. Cheung.”
The Chinese man came forward to shake hands. Close up, he was perhaps forty-five, with a smile of exceptional charm. “So, an Australian?” he said to Chavasse. “I have had many dealings with firms in your country. I am from Hong Kong.”
He shook hands with Jones rather formally and with considerably less enthusiasm, and then disappeared with Rossiter and Jacaud, who at close quarters looked white and ill, a great strip of surgical tape pasted across his brow.
“At least he shook hands,” Jones observed. “They don’t like my kind of people, man, or did you know that already?”
“To the Chinese, a person of any other race is naturally inferior,” Chavasse said. “So don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. I’m in there, too.”
He went out into the passage and helped himself to one of the old oilskins hanging from the wooden pegs. Jones leaned in the doorway and watched him. “Going somewhere?”
“I feel like some air.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Suit yourself.”
The Jamaican took down an oilskin and they went out into the rain. It fell straight from sky to earth, for there was no wind, and when they went out through the archway, St. Denise was almost hidden from view. Chavasse went down through the pine trees and moved along the beach into the sand dunes, thinking things over.
There was the organization, apparently simple enough in its aims, which were to get you across the Channel and into the U.K., no questions asked, for cash on the barrel. Except that they were also willing to put you over the side in chains in the right circumstances. Having met Jacaud and Rossiter, that fact was becoming easier to accept by the minute.
And what about Rossiter? The Jesuit who had lost his faith, presumably in Korea where a vicious and bloody confrontation with China had dragged on for years. Hamid, Famia and Mrs. Campbell were easy enough to accept, and Jones, of course, fitted neatly into place, but Mr. Cheung from Hong Kong? Now he really was an interesting piece of the jigsaw.
He paused on top of a sand dune and looked out over the gray sea. Jones nudged him in the ribs. “You see what I see? They’re showing the latest customer the boat.”
Chavasse squatted, pulling him down beside him. Rossiter and Cheung were walking along the wooden jetty toward the
“I wonder what they’re up to?” Jones said.
“Only one way of finding out.”
Chavasse got to his feet and went down toward the water, keeping to the cover of the sand dunes, and Jones followed him. The small fishing fleet had long since returned from the day’s work, and the cobles were drawn up on the beach in a neat row that gave excellent cover.
Within a few moments, they had reached the shelter of the jetty. Chavasse paused and Jones said, “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“God knows-just my curiosity. I’d like to know what they’re doing.”
He worked his way along the heavy timbers, climbing to the next level at the point where gray-green water slopped in lazily. The heavy smell of the sea hung over everything: salt water, seaweed, dead fish, harsh and pungent, but not unpleasant. He crouched in a crosspiece, Jones right behind him, and there were footsteps on the deck above their heads.
