“Shah here. I have a disposal for you.”
“Ready now?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Thank you.”
Shah replaced the receiver and went back to his office, humming to himself.
It was almost eleven when Travers returned to Lord North Street and found Dillon sitting in the study reading a book. “Jennifer gone to bed?” Travers asked.
“More than an hour ago. She was very tired.”
“Not surprising, been through a hell of a lot that girl. Fancy a nightcap, Dillon? Can’t offer you Irish, but a good single malt perhaps?”
“Fine by me.”
Travers poured it into two glasses, gave him one and sat opposite. “Cheers. What are you reading?”
“Epictetus.” Dillon held the book up. “He was a Greek philosopher of the Stoic School.”
“I know who he was, Dillon,” Travers said patiently. “I’m just surprised that you do.”
“He says here that a life not put to the test is not worth living. Would you agree to that, Admiral?”
“As long as it doesn’t mean bombing the innocent in the name of some sacred cause or shooting people in the back, then I suppose I do.”
“God forgive you, Admiral, but I never planted a bomb in the way you mean or shot anyone in the back in me life.”
“God forgive me, indeed, Dillon, because for some obscure reason I’m inclined to believe you.” Travers swallowed his whisky and got up. “Good night to you,” he said and went out.
Things had gone better than Smith had expected and he soon had the hang of handling the wheel one-handed, just the fingers of his right hand touching the bottom of the wheel. The rain wasn’t helping, of course, and beyond Watford he missed a turning for the motorway and found himself on a long dark road, no other vehicles in sight, and then headlights were switched on behind and a vehicle came up far too fast.
It started to overtake him, a large black truck, and Smith cursed, frightened to death, knowing what this was, and he frantically worked at the wheel. The truck swerved in, knocking him sideways, and with nowhere to go, the van spun off the road, smashed through a fence and turned over twice on its way down a seventy-foot bank. It came to a crumpled halt and Smith, still conscious as he lay on his side in the cab, could smell petrol as the fractured tank spilled its contents.
There was the noise of someone scrambling down the bank and footsteps approached. “Help me,” Smith moaned, “I’m in here.”
Someone struck a match. It was the last thing he remembered. One final moment of horror as it was flicked toward him through the darkness and the petrol fireballed.
7
In Paris at Charles de Gaulle Airport it was almost midnight by the time Jenny Grant had retrieved her suitcase and she walked out into the concourse quickly and found an Avis car rental desk.
“You’re still open, thank goodness,” she said as she got her passport and driving license out.
“But of course,” the young woman on duty replied in English. “We always wait until the final arrival of the day, even when there is a delay. How long will you require the car for, mademoiselle?”
“Perhaps a week. I’m not certain, but I’ll be returning here.”
“That’s fine.” The girl busied herself with the paperwork and took a print from her charge card. “Follow me and I’ll take you to the car.”
Ten minutes later Jenny was driving out of the airport sitting behind the wheel of a Citroen saloon and headed west, Normandy the destination. The traveling urn was on the passenger seat beside her. She touched it briefly, then settled back to concentrate on her driving. She had a long way to go, would probably have to drive through the night, but that didn’t matter because London and the terrible events of the last few days were behind her and she was free.
Dillon rose early, was in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs at seven-thirty when Travers entered in his dressing gown.
“Smells good,” the Admiral said. “Jenny about yet?”
“Well, to be honest with you, Admiral, she’s not been about for some time.” Dillon poured boiling water into a china teapot. “There you go, a nice cup of tea.”
“Never mind that. What are you talking about?”
“Well, drink your tea like a good lad and I’ll tell you. It began with her getting upset and going for a walk.”
Dillon worked his way through his bacon and eggs while he related the events of the previous night. When he was finished the Admiral just sat there frowning. “You took too much on yourself, Dillon.”
“She’d had enough, Admiral,” Dillon told him. “It’s as simple as that and I didn’t see any reason to stop her.”
“And she wouldn’t tell you where she was going?”
“First stop Paris, that’s all I know. After that, to some unknown destination to see Baker’s sister. She’s taking the ashes to her, that’s obvious.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Travers sighed wearily. “I’ll have to tell Ferguson. He won’t like it, won’t like it one little bit.”
“Well it’s time he discovered what an unfair world it is,” Dillon told him and opened the morning paper.
Travers sighed heavily again, gave up, went to his study and sat at the desk. Only then did he reluctantly reach for the phone.
It was just after nine when Jenny Grant braked to a halt outside the Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity in the village of Briac five miles outside Bayeux. She had driven through the night, was totally drained. Iron gates stood open, she drove inside and stopped in a graveled circular drive in front of the steps leading up to the door of the beautiful old building. A young novice, a white working smock over her robes, was raking the gravel.
Jenny got out holding the traveling urn. “I’d like to see the Mother Superior. It’s most urgent. I’ve come a long way.”
The young woman said in good English, “I believe she’s in chapel, we’ll see, shall we?”
She led the way through pleasant gardens to a small chapel, which stood separate from the main building. The door creaked when she opened it. It was a place of shadows, an image of the Virgin Mary floating in candlelight, and the smell of incense was overpowering. The young novice went and whispered to the nun who knelt in prayer at the altar rail, then returned.
“She’ll be with you in a moment.”
She went out and Jenny waited. After a while the Mother Superior crossed herself and stood up. She turned and came toward her, a tall woman in her fifties with a sweet, serene face. “I am the Mother Superior. How may I help you?”
“Sister Maria Baker?”
“That’s right.” She looked puzzled. “Do I know you, my dear?”
“I’m Jenny – Jenny Grant. Henry told me he’d spoken to you about me.”
Sister Maria Baker smiled. “But of course, so you’re Jenny.” And then she looked concerned. “There’s something wrong, I can tell. What is it?”
“Henry was killed in an accident in London the other day.” Jenny held out the traveling urn. “I’ve brought you his ashes.”
“Oh, my dear.” There was pain on Sister Maria Baker’s face and she crossed herself, then took the urn. “May he
