We headed north on the N92. We were in the same Citroen delivery van, with Ginette and I sharing the driving. And a stack of crated bottles across the back of the van to block anybody's view of the other three passengers if the rear doors were opened.
We'd practically had to pour Harvey aboard. He'd been in a deep, drugged sleep, and by now was probably in it again; we'd dumped a couple of old mattresses and a few blankets in there. But I'd guessed Maganhard wasn't asleep even before he stuck his little iron voice out of the window behind my neck.
'How are we entering Switzerland, Mr Cane?'
'We are going up to near a place called Gex, just a few miles northwest of Geneva. We'll drop off there and just walk across near the airport.'
He tasted this and – as I'd expected – didn't much like it. 'I understand we must arrive in a big town where we can hire a car, but why not go to Evian and cross the lake by boat to Lausanne?'
'Because that's exactly the sort of tricky thing they'd expect us to do. The Geneva frontier's what we want: it's almost impossible to guard. There's about twenty different roads going across, and most of the frontier's farmland. We'll just walk through.'
'It must have been guarded in the war,' he objected.
'Sure, but even then you'd be surprised at the number who got across. The Swiss kept a big internment camp up there, all ready for them.'
'Mr Cane,' he said coldly, 'if we arrive in a Swiss jail, it will not be any better than being in a French jail.'
'Probably a lot cleaner. But I'm hoping the Swiss police won't be looking for us: they can't do anything until the French ask for it – and the French may not want to admit they might have missed us. Not just yet.'
I had a private hope that we might break the Une of evidence here – out-run the ripples again. If we could cross the border unseen and leave the Gendarmerie believing we were still in France, we'd have done it. A lot depended on whether or not they'd identified the wrecked Citroën DS as Maganhard's. I was pretty sure they must have found it by now: the extra shooting and the wrecked Renault would have started them combing the area more thoroughly than I'd first expected.
In one way, I hoped theyhad identified it. It would switch suspicion away from the northern route from Paris, but it might also convince them that we were stuck somewhere, hiding out, without transport. I wasn't worried about them thinking of the old Rat-line or Clos Pinel: they wouldn't think of them unless they knew I was involved -and I still believed they didn't know about me.
Unless Harvey had loused up cleaning the car and they'd got a set of my fingerprints. But they wouldn't know theywere mine – I'd never been arrested in France. Or had the Deuxième Bureautaken the trouble of getting my prints when I was 'attached to the Embassy' in Paris? They'd known about me, of course. And if they knew about me now, they might think of the old Resistance routes across the Geneva frontier…
I shook my head. You can get too clever with any police force, as well as too stupid. You've got it all worked out that they must have heard of X so they'll have stopped watching Y. And you roll up at Y, straight into their loving arms – all because the report about X has been sitting on the Superintendent's desk for three hours and nobody's remembered to tell him about it.
It's the same as systems at roulette: the wheel ain't heard of them. I'd decided to cross at Geneva. That was still the number to put my money on.
The night droned past us. Beside me, Ginette swung the big flat wheel like aroutier, her face now and then lit by the reflection of the headlights. I lit a cigarette and watchedher, serene and controlled, as the van buzzed up the steepening road into the Savoie.
'If you get stopped,' I asked, 'what's your story?'
'I shall deliver some wine in Geneva, anyway: two restaurants there take Pinel. And there is a good one in Gex. I will try to sell some there first, after I have had breakfast.'
'Why did you have to arrive there so early?'
'Because, Monsieur le Gendarme, I have an appointment at Pinel soon after lunch.'
'And have you?'
'I told Maurice to fix one – a safe one.'
'And you still think you need a manager?'
She smiled faintly. 'I need somebody to look after the wine while I look after the old Resistance friends who come through.'
'Touché.'
Soon after that, I fell asleep. I woke up as we came into thezone francheand started skirting round, with the frontier a kilometre or two on our right, to approach Geneva from the north-west.
She should have woken me: I'd missed my turn at the wheel. But it would have been hypocritical to complain. Liechtenstein was still nearly four hundred kilometres away; it could be a long day yet.
Ginette said: 'I think we are close, Louis.'
She'd turned right a few kilometres before Gex and was heading down towards Ferney-Voltaire, just about on the frontier.
'Don't get too near,' I said. The cops were likely to be prowling well inside the frontier, not just on it. And I didn't want them to wonder about a van that they heard come close, stop, and go back.
She said: 'Here, then,' and drew up. She kept the engine running. I swung down, ran round and opened the doors at the back. Somebody started pulling the crates of wine aside. Maganhard stepped down, then the girl. Then Harvey.
He was like somebody who'd been dragged out of the rubble of a bombed building. Weaving and staggering and shaking his head and then obviously wishing he hadn't. As a gunman, he looked just about fit enough to tackle a rather tired kitten.
I shut the doors quietly and went back to the cab. 'Thanks, Ginette. On your way.'
She reached across to my window. 'Look after yourself, Louis – please.'
'I'll let you know. Probably tonight.'
'Please.'
We touched hands, and then the van was growling off into the night. I waved a hand at the roadside. 'Over there, into the field. Quick.'
'Quick' was a pretty optimistic word for this crew. It took us a full minute to get through the hedge and up to our shins in long, dew-soaked grass. The only thing you could count on in this job was getting your feet wet every twelve hours.
I'd insisted on leaving all the luggage except my briefcase back at Pinel – and I'd only hung on to that because of the Mauser and the maps. I took it in one hand, grabbed Harvey's arm with the other, and led off along the hedge.
The van's engine died in the distance. The night was cold and thick, without stars. The weather we'd left behind in Brittany had caught up with us again, but at least it seemed to have dropped all its rain already. Ahead, there was an intermittent glow, alternately white and green, reflecting on the low clouds. The Geneva-Cointrin airport beacon. I headed towards it.
It was a quarter to five; three-quarters of an hour to first light.
For a time nobody said anything. We weren't walking very quietly, but you can't teach people to make no noise just by telling them not to. It takes practice. But the heavy damp air meant that sounds wouldn't carry far.
The girl said softly: 'What's that?'
I snapped my head around, butthat was just a big dark house on the horizon a few hundred yards away, with a line of trees leading up to it.
'Voltaire's château.' I wished I'd remembered it myself: it was a useful landmark.
She lifted a foot from the grass, shook it, scattering drops of moisture. 'How about a pithy quotation from the master?' she said softly but sourly. 'Such as "All's for the best in this best of all possible worlds"?'
'Or Dieu est toujours pour les gros bataillons.'
'Somehow, I don't find that very encouraging.'
'Jesus,' Harvey said thickly, 'are we on a literary coach tour or crossing a frontier quietly?'
'You mean you'd notice the difference?' I said, and started moving again.
Right then, Harvey wasn't my best friend. Awake and without his hangover, he could have looked after Maganhard – telling him when to move, when to stay still – leaving me just to do the same for Miss Jarman. As it was, I had to worry about all three of them – and particularly about how Harvey would react to trouble. For all I knew, he might be dopey enough to pull a gun and start shooting down gendarmes.
What I'd thought had been a hedge ahead turned into an orchard of small neat apple trees, growing just over head-high. And a fence of plain wire strands. The leaves weren't out yet – we were back in the northern spring up here – but the branches had been pruned so that they grew in close tangles, and the trees themselves were crowded together to make the most of the ground. In the dark, they gave plenty of cover from view.
But that works both ways. If I'd been commanding a frontier guard, I'd have posted a squad in that orchard. Spread them out a bit, tell them to stay still and quiet, and we could walk over them before we knew they were there.
And if I was commanding a real frontier-running party, I wouldn't be leading them through any orchards. We'd go round, and we'd do it on our bellies. What Iwas commanding – if that was the word – was a middle-aged businessman, a girl in a sealskin coat, and a gunman with a five-star hangover. I was dreading the moment when I had to tell that sealskin coat to get down and crawl in the mud.
We were going through the orchard.
I turned to the girl and asked softly: 'Were you ever captain of the school?'
'No.' A surprised whisper. 'I wasn't good enough at hockey or anything.'
'Congratulations. Well, you're captain of those two now. Bring them about ten yards behind me – keep me in view down the une of trees. When I stop, you stop. If I turn off, you turn off immediately – don't come up to where I turned. You see what I mean?'
'Yees. But shouldn't it be Harvey-?'
'Itshould be,' I said grimly. 'But as things are, I'd rather it was you. All right?'
She nodded. I stood on one strand of wire, pulled up another, and they climbed through without much more noise trían a bad car crash. I moved out ahead and started through the precise files of trees.
I made twenty yards, then thirty, then forty. In among the trees, it was lighter than I'd expected. And when I looked back, the girl had used the light, and her head, and was keeping them farther behind than the ten yards I'd specified.
I made fifty yards, and guessed I must be in the middle of the orchard by now. I looked ahead for the skyline between the trees that would mark the next fence, but all I could see was the regular glow of the beacon.
I stopped. It took me a moment to think why, and in that moment the three behind me sounded a stampede of wild elephants. Then they stopped. And I knew why I had: a faint scent of tobacco smoke.
The sergeant would have told them not to smoke, of course – but that had probably been back around midnight, five-hours ago. Cold, wet, dull hours. So you lie down on your side and strike a match under your jacket, then keep the burning end hidden in the grass, leaning down to take a puff. But you can't hide the smell.
But where was it coming from? I licked a finger and held it up to test the wind, and, as usual, it felt cold all the way round. I breathed out, but it wasn't cold enough to condense my breath. All I knew was that there hadn't been much wind out in the field and there was even less among the trees.
Next move, please.
I tried to remember the voice of an ex-sergeant of the Foreign Legion who'd instructed on small arms to the Resistance in the Auvergne, and bellowed:'II y a un idiot qui fume! C'est comme un bistro, ici! Où êtes-vous?'
There was a startled rustling ahead on my right, then a hush that was almost as loud.
I tiptoed gently away to the left. When I looked back, Miss Jarman was moving them parallel to me.
I let out another shout of:'Où est l'idiot qui fume?'in the hope that if they realised I was moving away from them, the last thing they'd do would be answer or come and find me.
We moved sideways almost to the edge of the orchard, then I turned back towards the airport beacon. After another forty yards, I could see a hedge. I turned back to bring up the other three.
Miss Jarman whispered: 'I thoughtwe were making a noise – until I heard you.'
'We nearly walked into a squad of gendarmes. Sounding like the sergeant is a good password.' I nodded at the hedge. 'There's a road there, and a French customs post just down on the right. It's a straight road and we've got to cross without being spotted.' I turned to Harvey. 'How are you feeling?'
'I think I died. Does God know you're starting the Resurrection early?'
I grinned and began to feel a bit better myself. His voice was still thick, but it had lost the dull petulant tone. He was beginning to think again. I led the way to the hedge.
When we'd found a place we could crawl through, I stuck out my head. The customs post was there all right, hardly more than a hundred yards away. A small bungalow flooded with light, with a couple of parked cars, and several people just standing around.
At that distance they wouldn't hear us – but we'd be crossing straight into the glare of the airport beacon, throwing out its several-thousand-candlepower only a few hundred yards away by now. And some of the men at that bungalow would be there just to keep a watch up this road.
I pulled my head back. 'Sorry. We're going to have to move a bit back up the road before we cross.'
Behind us, somebody called softly:'Qui va là?'
Miss Jarman whispered: 'It looks as if your password's worn off.'
She was right. By now it must have struck them as odd that the sergeanthadn't found them. By now they were looking for him. Now, we had to cross where we were.
Up the road, in the opposite direction from the customs post, an engine hummed. Then something coming fast, its headlights blazing, rushed past us. The girl ducked: Harvey and I froze. Maganhard just went on being Maganhard.
When it had passed, I hissed at the girl: 'If there's a light on you, stand still; they notice movement more than anything.'
She straightened up slowly. 'And when it gets a bit quiet, give a shout. Yes, I'm learning the rules.'
Harvey said: 'D'you see what that was? Your girlfriend's van. The Clos Pinel truck.'
I rammed my head through the hedge again. The van was just pulling up at the customs house, people running out to yank open its doors.
The damn fool! Why was she taking this risk? But I knew why. I'd told her the route I planned, and she'd known this road would be the difficult place. So she'd waited somewhere until we'd had time to reaeh it – then come charging up.
They'd be pretty suspicious of her: a van that could easily hold four passengers, from a place not far from yesterday's shooting, coming on an odd route at an odd time. But she'd known that, of course – and was deliberately using it to distract them.
'Through the hedge,' I snapped. 'Quick! '
Harvey piled through, without asking questions. I shunted the girl after him, then Maganhard. Then myself. Long before Ginette was clear of the customs we were safe on the other side.
I wanted to stay and make sure she got through okay, but that might waste everything she'd gained for us. We had to move on. It was an old rule.
We went crouched, along a hedge towards the airport. Now the beacon was flashing straight in our faces. The high fence was only two hundred yards ahead.
Miss Jarman asked: 'We're going to come up against the airport, aren't we?'
'That's the idea. They had to borrow some French territory to lengthen their runway a few years ago; now the frontier runs along the fence, here. Once we're in the airport we're in Switzerland.'
Harvey said: 'Airports don't have the sort of fences you can just climb through.'
'I know. I borrowed some wire-cutters off Ginette.'
A couple of minutes later we reached the fence.
It was seven or eight feet of strong wire mesh strung between metal posts. I got the long-handled wire-cutters out of my briefcase and chewed away at a strand. It snapped with a loud click. I tried the next one more carefully, but still got a click. It was going to be a slow job: the mesh was only two inches wide and I had to cut a vertical slice about three feet high to give us a flap I could bend back.
Suddenly light poured over me. A searchlight, coming -impossibly – from the middle of the air. I froze. Then, behind the light, the soft whistle of throttled-back jets. An airliner on the approach had switched on its landing light.
I stayed still. The pilot would never see us, but the light could silhouette us for anybody in the fields behind us.
The airliner hit the runway with a squeak of rubber, then a sudden roar as the jets went to reverse thrust for braking. Under that noise, I snipped up the fence as fast and silently as scissors going through chiffon.
I turned to Maganhard. 'Welcome to Switzerland.'
From there it was fairly simple. Geneva-Cointrin is just one long runway with narrow grass areas on both sides. The airport buildings and workshops were all on the'far side; on ours, there were just heaps of building materials, banks of bulldozed earth that somebody hadn't got around to smoothing down, little brick huts that had something to do with power or radar or somesuch. Plenty of cover.
We walked half a mile along between the runway and the fence and then, when it was Switzerland on the other side as well, just cut ourselves out again. In both places I jammed the wire back into place and it might be a few days before anybody noticed the cuts. And even when they did, it wouldn't prove anything about a man called Maganhard.
We walked out into the suburb of Mategnin – tall new blocks of flats standing in the sea of mud that one day somebody was going to turn into a green lawn, unless he got another contract first, of course. It would have been dawn except for the clouds and the mountains, but the streets were still empty.
Maganhard asked: 'How do we reach the city now?'
'We walk round to the airport front entrance and pick up a bus or taxi.'
He digested this, and then said: 'We could have walked across the airport – it would have been less distance! '
'Of course – and pretended we were passengers? And shown our passports and explained how we got our feet wet on the plane?'
After that, he saved his breath for walking.