boxed in in some miserable farmyard. I want all the options, and good notice before the turnings.'
The front passenger had the maps on the floor again, and was struggling with the lighter. i can't do it, not with the wind, and not with the banging. I can't see a thing, the scale is too small.'
'You can have the window up, but I can't slow it, not now. What's at the back?' He yelled the last question over his shoulder.
'He's there still. The lights were gone for a moment just as he was coming out of the village, but they're back again.
You can see them yourself, now we're on the ridge and in the open. Staying with us. As we've speeded so have they.
Who do you think they could be? What bastards are they?'
Questioning, lack of decision.
That angered the driver. 'Don't waste yourself worrying over that sort of nonsense. Makes no difference who the bastards are. What matters now is that we know what road we are on and where it goes to. Shut up about everything else.'
Tortuously the man with the maps traced out a path.
He had folded the sheets so that only that part of the region they traversed was visible. It made a small square.
His eyes were very close to the paper, but it was some time before the flame of the lighter, stronger now the windows had been wound up, permitted him to find the route they were taking. Every movement of the car jolted his finger from the lines he was tracing out for them. He was aware of the frustration building up inside the car as his colleagues waited for his information, but it was a network of country lanes and minor roads that they were asking him to ferret through. He took his time. Perhaps no opportunity to rectify a mistake: one alone would be disastrous. Let them wait till he was ready, and certain.
When at last he was satisfied he drew an envelope from an inner pocket of his anorak and began to write. He had trouble with the spelling of the villages, the printing was so miniature, and several times he was obliged to look again and work slowly through the longer words. He flicked the lighter closed.
'It will be the last time we can manage it for such a long time. The flame has little more power. We are well, I think.
We are on the road to Fauquembergues. First we must pass through Estrees, but it looks to be the same road. At Fauquembergues there are three roads that divide just above the village. We take the most northerly, the one to the right. After that, on to Liane and so to Samer. Boulogne must be signed there.'
'How far to Estrees?' said the driver.
'Two, three kilometres, perhaps. We go straight through. Then Fauquem… ' His voice tailed away as once again he sought to read his scribblings in the half light of the dashboard illumination.
'You're sure, now? No doubts about the route?'
'None at all,' the passenger snapped back.
He felt irritated. We hardly know each other, he thought, we've been together for days now but have no personal contact. Had never met before the planning of this mission. Had only talked in the most general and superficial way; that was as it was intended. Each one dependent on the other, needing to trust totally in the skill and resolution of his colleagues, but without the deep-rooted certainty that comes from long-standing knowledge and companionship.
The driver swerved on a bend, nearly taking them off the made-up surface and on to the raised and heavily- grassed verge. Preoccupation and anxiety bent him away from his principal role of driving the motor. Friction would follow, increased by the man who sat beside the driver, quiet and resentful at the lack of faith shown in him. In the back the third man gazed out through the window at the lights, held as if by elastic at the same unincreasing, undiminishing distance.
It was standard in these operations, the three men knew, that the attack team would come together only at the final stage, that they would have been drawn from different camps and different backgrounds. They were briefed to keep clear of questioning their comrades on personal histories. From involvement follow breakdown and collapse under interrogation. Know the code-name only, what more do you need to know? they had said. But without an understanding of each other the strains in adversity were that much greater, fuelling the apprehension inside the car.
The driver stamped his foot on the brake. On the speedometer the needle sagged back from beyond a hundred kilometres to below forty. Both his passengers hung on to their seats.
Straddled across the road was the solid, unyielding mass of a Friesian herd. Perhaps on their way to milking, perhaps being transferred from one field to another further away, perhaps being collected for market, perhaps…
'Murdering hell, what in the whore's mother's name do we do with this?'
'Blast the horn. Get the old fool in the front to shift them.'
'The car behind, it's closing quickly.'
'Use the grass at the side of the road.'
'The bloody peasant with them, at the front…'
'Get on the grass, that's the only way round.'
'The car behind us, it's less than one hundred and fifty metres. It's slowing but still closing on us.'
Inside the car there was a babble of shouting. To the front the herd seemed unmoved. Sad and heavy eyes looked at the car, then back to the black and white dog that snapped and yelped at the cows' hooves.
'Shut up! Shut up! Stop goddam-well talking,' yelled the driver.
He wrenched the car across on to the grass. Momen-tarily the wheels began to spin, then bit into the soft ground.
'Take it easily, slowly, or we'll be stuck.' More instructions for the driver. But he alone of the three was remaining cool, closing his mind to the shouting.
The car moved on, bumping over the loose earth that had been excavated from the ditch that ran beyond the grass and short of the field's hedge. The bumper nudged aside a cow, sending it butting its way amongst the safety of its fellow creatures. Huge, dark figures, snorting and scraping their bodies against the paintwork of the vehicle.
Their smell crept into the sealed saloon, drawing twisted grimaces from the men inside.
'He's right on us. Not sixty metres away… ' The shout from the back was cut off as the glare of the pursuing headlights illuminated the interior of the car. The passengers ducked down, only the driver remaining upright.
'All right. All right. We're nearly out now. He has to come through this crowd too.' Before he was clear of the herd he was changing up, running through the gears, weaving to avoid the leading animals before bursting back on to the open road. He caught only the briefest sight of the farmer, walking proud and straight at the head of his herd.
The car rushed forward. Ahead the road stretched into the emptiness beyond the reach of their lights. It was then the three men heard, all together, the first blast on the siren as the vehicle behind them attempted to untangle itself from the shuffling barricade. The piercing, sing-song wail of the amplified call drove through the windows and doors and roof of the car, filling it with noise, and they could see flashing among the confusion of the cows' backs and heads was the blue, rotating police lamp.
The man in the back pulled the grip towards him, slid back the fastener and plunged his hand in amongst the shirts and socks and underpants and books, before he fastened on the hardness of the Luger pistol. Some of the grip's contents spilled out on to the leather seat-work, snagging on the raised foresight of the gun as he pulled it from the case. The magazine was in position.
'There's your answer,' he said quietly. 'Now we know who we have running with us.'
There was no reply from the front. He cocked the gun.
From his office in police headquarters in St Omer, twenty-five kilometres to the north, the man who had been issuing orders for the last hour could plot exactly the position of the fleeing car. His size, not grotesque but huge, belied the efficiency of his work. The big wall map where an aide continually moved coloured pins demonstrated this. The position of the car, kept up-to-date by the constant radio calls from the pursuing police vehicle, was shown by a yellow marker; his own men, barely separated, by a red one. Stretched out ahead of the path of the three Arabs was a near-continuous line of blue pins, straddling the minor and principal roads that led to the coast and to
