thick thumb on the knob that said ZUNDEN: ignite.
He heard the footsteps first then, ‘Stop!’
Luc was ten metres away, creeping forward on the gravel. He saw Bonnet hunched over something, doing something.
Luc lifted the shotgun to his shoulder.
Bonnet looked up and grunted a simple, ‘Go to hell!’
Luc could hear the sound of ratcheting.
The ratcheting stopped and Bonnet moved his hand.
At that moment, Luc’s head completely filled Pelay’s sniper scope, perfectly contrasted against the grey horizon.
Pelay was in low brush, on one knee. His hands were steady for a man of his age. Luc’s head was in sharp focus.
Luc screamed at Bonnet, ‘Not my cave!’
Pelay heard the shout and through the scope saw Luc’s lips moving. The cross-hairs were planted on his temple.
The trigger was digging into his forefinger. He began to squeeze it.
Luc reeled when he heard the shot from behind.
He expected to feel some kind of searing pain but there was nothing.
He turned back to Bonnet. The old man was only five metres away now.
Bonnet looked into Luc’s shotgun. He shouted, ‘Pelay! Hurry!’ His thumb was on a knob.
Luc shouted. But it wasn’t a word. It was a primitive roar, a primeval death cry that came from somewhere inside of him.
The shell from his shotgun exploded and flashed the darkness.
There was a thwacking. Wood, stone, flesh. It was bird shot.
Luc slowly moved forward, straining to see what he had wrought.
Bonnet was lying on his side, bleeding from his face, his eyes still searching. His right thumb was on the ignition button. His left hand was moving. It was grasping the copper wire that had been sheared off the detonator by shotgun pellets.
Bonnet was going to touch the wire to the terminal.
It was a centimetre away.
Luc didn’t have time to reload. He didn’t have time to smash Bonnet’s head or arm with the butt of the gun.
He was out of time.
Then, another shot rang out.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Luc was disorientated.
His shirt felt wet. He instinctively touched the fabric. Blood and bits of gelatinous material.
There were men surrounding him, pointing automatic weapons and roughly shouting at him to drop his gun.
Bonnet’s head was half gone. The detonator wire remained a centimetre from the terminal.
Luc let his hands go limp. The shotgun fell at his feet.
From the circle of men, one came forward. He was tall and erect, unarmed, dressed in dark civilian clothes, a black commando-style jumper with epaulets.
‘Professor Simard,’ he said, in an upper-crust type of accent. ‘I’ve been wondering when we’d meet.’
Luc gave him a once-over. He certainly wasn’t from the village. ‘Who are you?’
‘General Andre Gatinois.’
Luc looked quizzical. ‘Military?’
‘Of sorts,’ was the enigmatic reply. Gatinois came closer and inspected the mayor’s corpse. ‘Bonnet had a long run at the tables. It had to end sometime. Even for him.’
‘You killed him,’ Luc said.
‘Only after you failed.’ Gatinois observed the peppering Bonnet’s body had received. ‘Bird shot is not an efficient way to kill a man.’
‘It was all I had. He was going to blow up my cave.’
There was a commotion as two men in black dragged a moaning body inside the circle of protection their comrades had created.
It was Pelay, bleeding from a chest wound, gasping for breath. One of Pelay’s handlers gave his M1 carbine to a shorter man who had appeared at the General’s side. It was his aide, Marolles.
‘He had you in his sights,’ Gatinois said, adding matter-of-factly, ‘I saved your life.’
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ Luc demanded.
Gatinois paused to think. ‘Yes, I don’t see why not. Do you, Marolles?’
‘It’s entirely up to you, General.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. Where’s the American?’
Marolles spoke into a walkie-talkie pinned to his vest and a static reply followed. ‘We’re bringing her in,’ he told Gatinois.
Pelay let out a pitiful, gurgling cry.
‘Are you going to get him a doctor?’ Luc asked.
‘The only doctor he’s going to see is himself,’ Gatinois replied dismissively. ‘He was valuable, but I never liked him. Did you, Marolles?’
‘Never.’
‘His last useful act for us was letting us know you were coming to Ruac tonight.’
The baker’s Peugeot pulled onto the gravel, driven by another of Gatinois’s men who helped Sara out of the car draped in her bloody sheet. She looked confused and wobbly but when she spotted Luc in the centre of the circle, she had the strength to slip the light grip of her guard and run to him.
‘Luc, what happened?’ she asked weakly. ‘Are you all right?’
He put his arm around her. ‘I’m okay. These men, I don’t know who they are. They’re not from the village.’
She saw Pelay who was curled into a fetal position on the ground, making low, horrible sounds. ‘Jesus,’ she said.
‘No, we’re not from Ruac,’ Gatinois said. ‘But Ruac has consumed us for many years. We are devoted to Ruac. We owe our existence to Ruac.’
‘What are you?’ Luc asked. ‘What do you do?’
‘We’re called Unit 70,’ Gatinois said.
Marolles looked down and shook his head. It was a gesture that caught Luc’s attention and alarmed him. This man, Gatinois, had apparently crossed some line. Some dangerous line.
‘You know, during the war, the Resistance leadership, as loose as it was, gave the Ruac maquis a code for the purpose of their communications. They called them Squad 70. They were a particularly ruthless and effective group. The Germans feared them. The other maquisard distrusted them. When our unit was set up in 1946, our founder, General Henri Giraud, one of de Gaulle’s inner circle, chose the name. Not very creative, but it stuck.’
‘I know about Ruac’s role in the Resistance,’ Luc said. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you know quite a lot. We’re going to find out how much.’ He pointed to Pelay. ‘How much do you know about this man?’
‘Nothing,’ Luc said.
‘He’s an old bugger, this Pelay. Maybe two hundred and thirty, two hundred and forty years old. Even he isn’t sure exactly. He became a doctor in the 1930s. They sent him to Lyon for training. They needed one of their kind. They’d never allow an outsider to treat them, of course. But Pelay’s always been a drinker and a talker. During the
