The '44 Vintage

' He did, did he?'

'Yes, sir. And near choked the life out of Taffy to get an answer, too.'

' Hmm . . . very well then, Sergeant-major.' The major's voice was suddenly hard and flat. ' Kill him with the others.'

9. How Chandos Force crossed the river of no return

' Kill him with the others.'

It was bitterly cold—sharp enough to see his teeth chattering. This far south in August it shouldn't be freezing cold like this. But of course it wasn't cold at all. He was cold.

'Kill him with the others—yes.'

'Very good, sir. You think they were both briefed then?'

'No, Sergeant-major—frankly, I don't see how they could have been. For a start I don't see how Military Intelligence could have known where I was going for replacements before they even knew the replacements were necessary.'

'Aye, you're right there, sir. The colonel wasn't main pleased when we turned up with them last night Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

when it was too late to do anything about them.'

'In the circumstances that's hardly surprising, Sergeant-major. He didn't know about Scott and Wilson—

and we weren't meant to know that they were his men. But there was nothing he could do about Audley and Butler without admitting that he'd planted Scott and Wilson in our midst—the two youngsters are perfectly adequate interpreters, after all.'

'Just so, sir. And yet we've struck unluckily the second time too, so it seems . . .'

'Are you criticising me, Sergeant-major?'

'No, sir. I was just thinking to myself that we've been a bit unlucky, that's all, not getting a pair of villains.'

'My dear man—I could hardly go looking for villains publicly. The whole object of the operation was to leave the record nice and clean behind us: we lost a couple of interpreters and we replaced them. I deliberately went to a couple of entirely different units which happened to be commanded by old friends of mine, so there's no way these two can have been nobbled by Intelligence. It's bad luck that neither of them appears corruptible, because they would have been useful. That's all.'

'Then, begging your pardon, sir—why kill them?'

'Why? Because I prefer certainties to odds, that's why. Because Audley's too damn quick-witted and Butler doesn't know when to mind his own business—that's why. And because Colonel Clinton is a man who obviously likes to take double precautions, and once we get over the river we'll have enough on our plate without risking his getting at those two, that's why! Right?'

'Right, sir. Point taken. And the colonel's driver?'

'Ah—now he's the man who has to be kept intact at all costs, Sergeant-major. He's the key to the treasure house.'

'You don't mean he's Intelligence, like the colonel, sir?'

'On the contrary, Sergeant-major. He's pure bone-headed Royal Army Service Corps of the pre-war regular variety. But he's also the man who drove the loot out of Paris in '40, so he knows where it is even better than Clinton does.'

'Christ Almighty!'

'Ah, you can say that again, man. Driver Hewett is our ace in the hole—our walking map, Sergeant-Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

major. He doesn't know what it was he took out, apparendy, because they had some elaborate cover plan to put the French off the scent even back then. But he knows exactly where they planted it—'

Cold.

He sat hugging himself, trying to get the blood circulating again, staring at the thinning mist on the far side of the sandy channel.

He had started to feel cold while they were talking, and he had felt colder as they walked away. And now that he was alone he was freezing cold—

'Right you are, sir. All three of them.'

'And the sooner the better, I think. Just one ... comprehensive accident, eh?'

'Won't be an accident this time, sir.'

Freezing cold.

But there was something else now: the far distant drone of engines was louder—or was he imagining it?

He raised himself on one knee and cocked his head to catch the sound. Whatever happened he had to get back to Mr. Audley as quickly as possible—

The sound was louder. But there was also another sound: the sharp crack of a broken twig right behind him.

'Hullo, Jackie boyo,' said Corporal Jones.

Butler swivelled on his knee and started to rise.

'No—don't get up for me—I like you better kneeling, boyo.' Jones gestured meaningfully with the stubby Beretta which he held pistol-fashion in his left hand. 'That's right . . . now put your hands up—'