“Yes. Name of Thomard, Raymond. In the Congo once for a short period, more of a city type. Professional hit man. But not quality. Not the sort one of the big contractors would use. More likely to work for his own boss.”

“Who’s that?” asked Shannon.

“Roux,” said Langarotti. “Charles Roux.”

Shannon swore quietly and viciously. “That bastard, that stupid, ignorant, incompetent fool. He could have fouled up a whole operation just because he wasn’t invited to come in on it.”

He fell silent and thought for a while. Roux had to be discouraged, but in a way that would keep him out of the Zangaro affair once and for all.

“Hurry up,” said the Corsican, the engine still running. “I want to get this customer put to bed before anyone comes along.”

Shannon made up his mind and spoke urgently and rapidly for several seconds.

Langarotti nodded. “All right. Actually, I like it. It should fix that bugger for a long time. But it will cost extra. Five thousand francs.”

“Done,” said Shannon. “Get moving, and meet me outside the Porte de la Chapelle métro station in three hours.”

They met Marc Vlaminck for lunch in the small South Belgian town of Dinant by agreement. Shannon had called him the previous day and given him the instructions and the rendezvous. Tiny Marc had kissed Anna good-by that morning, and she had given him his lovingly packed suitcase of clothes and his snack box with half a loaf, some butter, and a hunk of cheese for midmorning break. As usual, she had told him to take care of himself.

He had driven the truck, carrying in the back five 200-liter drums of engine oil by Castrol, across Belgium without being stopped. There was no reason why he should be. His license was in order, as were the permit for the truck and the insurance.

As the three men sat over lunch at a Main Street café, Shannon asked the Belgian, “When do we go over?”

“Tomorrow morning, just before sunup. It’s the quietest time. Did you two sleep last night?”

“Nope.”

“You’d better get some rest,” said Marc. “I’ll watch over both trucks. You can have till midnight.”

Charles Roux was another one who was tired that day. All the previous evening, since he had received the telephone call from Henri Alain about Shannon walking to his restaurant meal, he had waited for news. There had been none by midnight, when there should have been a call from Thomard to say it was all over. There had been none by three in the morning and none by sunrise.

Roux was unshaven and puzzled. He knew Thomard was no match for Shannon on equal terms, but he was sure the Irishman would be taken in the back as he walked through one of the quieter streets on his way to the evening meal.

At midmorning, as Langarotti and Shannon in their empty truck were passing without trouble into Belgium north of Valenciennes, Roux finally slipped on a pair of trousers and a shirt and took the elevator five floors down to the lobby to check his mailbox.

There did not seem to be anything wrong with the lock of his mailbox, a container some twelve inches tall, nine wide, and nine deep, screwed to the wall of the lobby along with a score more for the other tenants. There was no indication that it had been opened, but of course a clever burglar would have picked the lock.

Roux used his personal key to unlock the door and swung it open.

He stood for about ten seconds without moving. Nothing changed about him except the normal ruddy color of his face, which slid into a chalky gray. Still staring, mesmerized, he began to mutter, “Mon Dieu, O mon Dieu…” over and over again like an incantation. His stomach turned over; he felt as he had at the moment in the Congo when he had heard the Congolese soldiers questioning his identity as he lay inside the bandages on a stretcher while John Peters smuggled him out from certain death. He felt he wanted to urinate, run, but could only sweat with fear. With an air of almost sleepy sadness, eyes half closed, lips gummed together, the head of Raymond Thomard gazed back at him from inside the mailbox.

&nb

sp; Roux was not squeamish, but he was no lionheart either. He closed the box, went back to his flat, and started on the brandy bottle, for medicinal purposes only. He needed a lot of medicine.

Alan Baker emerged from the office of the Yugoslav state arms company into the bright sunshine of Belgrade, feeling well pleased with the way things were going. On receiving Shannon’s down payment of $7200 and the End User Certificate, he had gone to a licensed arms dealer for whom he had occasionally done work in the past on a subcontractual level. As in the case of Schlinker, the man had felt the amount of weaponry and money involved in the proposed deal to be derisory, but he had yielded to Baker’s argument that if the buyers were satisfied with the first consignment they might well return for more, a lot more.

So he had given Baker his fiat to fly to Belgrade and make application for the purchase, using the certificate from Togo, duly filled out with the appropriate names, and with a letter of authority from the dealer appointing Baker his representative.

It meant Baker would lose a part of his cut, but it was the only way he could be received in Belgrade, and for such a small deal he had in any case allowed a markup of 100 percent on the buying price of the arms.

His five days of talks with Mr. Pavlovic had been fruitful and had included a visit to the state warehouse, in which he had selected the two mortar tubes and two bazookas. The ammunition for both was standard and supplied in crates of twenty bazooka rockets and ten mortar bombs.

The Yugoslavs had accepted the Togolese End User Certificate without demur, and although Baker, the licensed dealer, and probably Mr. Pavlovic, must be aware the certificate was just a piece of paper, the air was maintained that the government of Togo was eagerly awaiting the chance to buy Yugoslavia’s weaponry for testing. Mr. Pavlovic had also required full payment in advance, and Baker had had to pay over what remained of the $7200 Shannon had given him, after his travel costs, plus $1000 of his own. He was confident Shannon’s balance of another $7200 would reimburse him and, even after the licensed dealer had taken his cut, leave $4000 for Baker’s pocket.

His morning’s talks had confirmed that the goods would be granted an export license and sent by army lorries to a bonded warehouse at the port of Ploc?e in the northwest, close to the holiday resorts of Dubrovnik and Split.

It was here that the Toscana should dock to take the shipment aboard, anytime after June 10. With a light heart, Baker took the next flight for Munich and Hamburg.

Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net