and the rush of the river covered all sound. Peter waited.
The other man will always move if you wait long enough, and he waited with the patience of the stalking leopard, although the cold struck through to his bones and the rain slid down his cheeks and neck.
The man moved at last. The squelch of mud and the unmistakeable brush of undergrowth against cloth, then silence. He was very close, within ten feet, but there was no glimmer of light, and Peter shifted his weight carefully to face the direction of the sound. The old trick was to fire one shot at the sound and use the muzzle flash to light the target for a second shot which followed it in almost the same instant of time but there were three of them and at ten feet that machine pistol could cut a man in half. Peter waited.
Then from upstream there was the sound of a car engine again, still faint but fast approaching. Immediately somebody whistled faintly, a rising double note in the night up towards the bridge, clearly some prearranged signal. A car door banged shut, much closer than the sound of the approaching engine and a starter whirred, another harsher engine roared into life, headlights flared through the rain, and Peter blinked as the whole scene ahead of him lit up.
A hundred yards ahead the bridge crossed the stream, the surface of the water was shiny and black as new-mined coal as it flowed about the supporting piles.
The blue van had parked on the threshold of the bridge, obviously to wait for Peter, but now it was pulling out, probably alarmed by -the approach of the other more powerful engine from the direction of La Pierre Benite. The driver was heading back towards the main road, the phoney gendarme scrambling alongside with his cape flapping as he tried to scramble through the open offside door and out of the darkness, close to Peter, a voice cried out with alarm.
“Attender!” The third man had no desire to be left by his companions, and he ran forward, abandoning all attempt at concealment. He had his back to Peter now, waving the machine pistol frantically, clearly outlined by the headlights of the van, and the range was under ten feet. It was a dead shot, and Peter went for it instinctively and only at the very instant of trigger pressure that would have sent a 95 gram bullet between his shoulder blades was Peter able to check himself.
The man’s back was turned and the range would make it murder; Peter’s training should have cured him of such nice gentlemanly distinctions. However, what really held his trigger finger was the need to know. Peter had to know who these people were and who had sent them, and what they had been sent to do, who they were after.
Now that the man was being deserted, he had abandoned all stealth and was running as though he were chasing a bus, and Peter saw the chance to take him. Roles had been exchanged completely, and Peter darted forward, transferring the Cobra to his injured left hand.
He caught the man in four paces, keeping low to avoid his peripheral vision, and he whipped his good right arm around the throat, going for the half nelson and the spin that would disorientate the man before he slammed the barrel of the Cobra against the temple.
The man was quick as a cat, something warned him perhaps the squelch of Peter’s sodden shoes, and he ducked his chin onto his chest rolling his shoulders and beginning to turn back into the line of Peter’s attack.
Peter missed the throat and caught him high, the crook of his elbow locking about the man’s mouth, and the unexpected turn had thrown him slightly off balance. If he had had full use of his left arm, he could still have spun his victim, but in an intuitive flash he realized that he had lost the advantage, already the man was twisting his head out of the arm lock bulking his shoulders, and by the feel of him, Peter knew instantly that he was steel-hard with muscle.
The barrel of the machine pistol was short enough to enable him to press the muzzle into Peter’s body just as soon as he completed his turn; it would tear Peter to pieces like a chain saw.
Peter changed his grip slightly, no longer opposing the man’s turn, but throwing all his weight and the strength of his right arm into the same direction; they spun together like a pair of waltzing dancers, but Peter knew that the moment they broke apart the man would have the killing advantage again.
The river was his one chance, he realized that instinctively, and before the advantage passed back from him to his adversary, he hurled himself backwards, keeping his grip on the man’s head.
They went out into black space, falling together in a short gut-swooping drop with Peter underneath. If there was rock below the steep bank of the river, he realized he would be crushed by the other’s weight.
They struck the surface of the fast water, and freezing cold struck like a club so that Peter almost released the air from his lungs as a reflex.
The shock of cold water seemed to have stunned the man in his grip momentarily, and Peter felt the whoosh of air from his lungs as he let go. Peter changed his grip, wedging his elbow under the chin, but not quite able to get at the throat immediately the man began the wild panic stricken struggles of somebody held under icy water with empty lungs.
He had lost the machine pistol, for he was tearing at Peter’s arms and face with both hands as the water swirled them both end over end down towards the bridge.
Peter had to keep him from getting air, and as he held his own precious single breath, he tried to get on top and stay there.
Fingers hooked at his closed eyes, and then into his mouth as the man reached back desperately over his own shoulders. Peter opened his mouth slightly and the other man thrust his fingers deeply in, trying to tear at his tongue.
Immediately Peter locked his teeth into the fingers with a force that made his jaw ache at the hinges, and his mouth filled with the sickening warm spurt of the other man’s blood.
Fighting his own revulsion, he hung on desperately with teeth and arms. He had lost his own weapon, dropping it into the black flood from numbed and crippled fingers, and the man was fighting now with the animal strength of his starved lungs and mutilated fingers; every time he tried to yank his hand out of Peter’s mouth the flesh tore audibly in Peter’s ears and fresh blood made him gag and choke.
They came out on the surface and through streaming eyes Peter had one glimpse of the bridge looming above him. The blue van had disappeared, but Magda Altmann’s Mercedes limousine was parked in the centre of the bridge, and in the wash of its headlights he recognized her two bodyguards. They were leaning far out over the guardrail, and Peter had a moment’s dread that one of them might try a shot then they were flung into the concrete piles of the bridge with such force that they lost the death lock they had upon each other.
The back eddy beyond the bridge swung them in towards the bank. Gasping and swallowing with cold and exhaustion and pain, Peter fought for footing on gravel and rock. The machine-gunner had found bottom also and was stumbling desperately towards the bank. In the headlights of the limousine Peter saw Magda’s two bodyguards racing back across the bridge to head him off.
Peter realized that he would not be able to catch the man before he reached the bank.
“Carl!” he screamed at the bodyguard who was leading.
“Stop him. Don’t let him get away.”
The bodyguard vaulted over the guardrail, landing cat like in complete balance, with the pistol double-handed at the level of his navel.
Below him the machine-gunner dragged himself waist deep towards the bank. It was only then that Peter realized what was going to happen.
“No!” He choked on blood and water. “Take him alive.
Don’t kill him, Carl!” The bodyguard had not heard, or had not understood.
The muzzle blast seemed to join him and the wallowing figure in the river below him, a blood-orange rope of flame and thunderous explosion. The bullets smacked into the machine-gunner’s chest and belly like an axe man cutting down a tree.
“No!” Peter yelled helplessly. “Oh Jesus, no! No!” Peter lunged forward and caught the corpse before it slid below the black water, and he dragged it by one arm to the bank. The bodyguards took it from him and hauled it up, the head lolling like an idiot’s, and the blood diluted to pale pink in the reflected headlights.
Peter made three attempts to climb the bank, each time slithering back tiredly into the water, then Carl reached down and gripped his wrist.
Peter knelt on the muddy bank, still choking with the water and blood he had swallowed, and he retched weakly.
“Peter!” Magda’s voice rang with concern, and he looked up and wiped his mouth on the back of his forearm.
