motto: I do my will. It summed up his own philosophy exactly, not that it had got him anywhere in particular. He tipped his chair back against the wall.
‘Where did it all go wrong, old son?’ he asked himself softly.
After all, he’d had every advantage. An ancient and honourable name, not the one he used now, of course, but then one had to preserve the decencies. Public school, Sandhurst, a fine regiment. Captain at twenty-four with a Military Cross for undercover work in Belfast and then that unfortunate Sunday night in South Armagh and four very dead members of the IRA whom Jago hadn’t seen any point in taking in alive, had taken every pleasure in finishing off himself. But then that snivelling rat of a sergeant had turned him in and the British Army, of course, did not operate a shoot-to-kill policy.
It wasn’t so much that he’d minded being quietly cashiered, although it had nearly killed his father. It was the fact that the bastards had taken the Military Cross back. Still, old history now. Long gone.
The Selous Scouts hadn’t been too particular in the closing year in Rhodesia before independence. Glad to get him, as were the South Africans for work with their commandos in Angola. Later, there was the war in Chad where he’d first met Valentin, although he’d been lucky to get out of that one alive.
And then Smith, the mysterious Mr Smith, and three very lucrative years, and the most extraordinary thing was that they had never met, or at least, not as far as Jago knew. He didn’t even know what had put Smith onto him in the first place. Not that it mattered. All that did matter was that now there was almost a million pounds in his Geneva account. He wondered what his father would say to that. He got up and returned to the chapel of rest.
Valentin had carefully restitched the body and was replacing the shroud. Jago said, ‘Five million pounds street value. He’s richer in death than he knows.’
Valentin screwed down the lid again. ‘Six, maybe seven if it was diluted.’
Jago smiled. ‘Now what kind of rat would pull a stroke like that? Come on, let’s get moving.’
They went past the office where the attendant still slept and stepped out into the alley. It was raining and Jago turned up his collar. ‘Okay, you and Agnès be at Vigny tomorrow, one o’clock sharp, for the departure. When the plane takes off, ring the usual number in Kent.’
‘Of course.’ They had reached the end of the alley. Valentin said awkwardly, ‘We were wondering. That is, Agnès was wondering.’
‘Yes?’ Jago said.
‘Things have been going well. We thought a little more money might be in order.’
‘We’ll see,’ Jago said. ‘I’ll mention it to Smith. You’ll hear from me.’
He walked away along the waterfront thinking about Valentin. A nasty bit of work. Rubbish, of course. No style. A true wharf rat, but a rat was still a rat and needed watching. He turned into the first all-night café he came to five minutes later, changing a hundred-franc note at the bar, going into a telephone booth in the corner where he dialled a London number.
He spoke quietly into the tape recorder at the other end. ‘Mr Smith. Jago here.’ He repeated the number of the telephone he was using twice, replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette.
They had always operated this way. Smith with his answerphone and presumably an automatic bleeper to alert him to messages so that he was always the one to phone you. Surprisingly simple and no way to trace him. Foolproof.
The phone rang and Jago picked it up. ‘Jago.’
‘Smith here.’ The voice, as usual, was muffled, disguised. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None. Everything as normal. The consignment leaves Vigny at one tomorrow.’
‘Excellent. Our friends will pick it up as usual. It should be making us money within a week.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Your account will be credited with the usual amount plus ten per cent on the last day of the month.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘The labourer is worthy of his hire …’
‘And all that good old British nonsense.’ Jago laughed.
‘Exactly. I’ll be in touch.’
Jago replaced the receiver and returned to the bar where he had a quick cognac. It was still raining when he went out into the street, but he didn’t mind that. It made him feel good and he was whistling again as he walked away along the uneven pavement.
But at Vigny the following afternoon the weather was not good, low cloud and rain and a ground mist that reduced visibility to four hundred yards. It was only a small airfield with a control tower and two hangars. Valentin and Agnès stayed in her Citroën on the edge of the runway and watched as the hearse arrived and the coffin was manoeuvred inside the small Cessna plane. The hearse departed. The pilot disappeared inside the control tower.
‘It doesn’t look good,’ Agnès said.
‘I know. We could be here all day,’ Valentin told her. ‘I’ll see what’s happening.’
He put a raincoat over his shoulders and strolled across to the main hangar where he found a lone mechanic in stained white overalls working on a Piper Comanche.
‘Cigarette?’ Valentin offered him a Gauloise. ‘My English cousin is expecting the body of his son this afternoon. He asked me to check things out. I saw the hearse arrive. I mean, is the flight on or not?’
‘A temporary hitch,’ the mechanic told him. ‘No trouble taking off here, but it’s not so good at the other end. The captain tells me he’s expecting clearance around four o’clock.’
‘Thanks.’ Valentin took a half-bottle of whisky from his pocket. ‘Help yourself. You don’t mind if I use your phone?’
The mechanic drank from the bottle with enthusiasm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t pay the bills; be my guest.’
Valentin took out a slip of paper and dialled the number on it. It was a Kent exchange which he knew was south of London, but other than that he knew nothing of the mysterious Hartley Brothers.
The voice at the other end simply said, ‘Yes?’
Valentin replied in his bad English. ‘Hartley Brothers? Vigny here.’
The voice sharpened. ‘Any problem?’
‘Yes, the weather, but they expect to be away at four.’
‘Good. Call me again to confirm.’
Valentin nodded to the mechanic. ‘Keep the Scotch. I’ll be back.’
He returned to Agnès in the Citroën. ‘That’s it. All off until four. Let’s try that café down the road.’
The man he had
