Present Danger

56

They would be here soon – very soon. He didn’t stop to wonder who ‘they’ were – French or British or even the FBI. Any one of them would be intent on arresting him.

That wasn’t going to happen. As soon as Piggott reached the woods he stopped and unzipped his holdall. The .38 lay on top of a folded towel and he took it out and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers. Then he threw the holdall into the bushes that lined the sides of the path.

It wasn’t going to help him escape – for that he needed only his wits about him. And the gun.

He moved quickly, ignoring the brambles that scraped his arms and face as he tried to stick to the path. He hadn’t dared bring a torch, since that would draw the people closing in on him.

He should never have trusted Milraud and never have let him bring him here. Not to an island, so easy to seal off. The only way out was by boat, and that was why he had insisted on checking that the dinghy was still there so many times each day. Once he got to it now, he’d be free and clear.

Next stop Algeria, he thought. Ahmed there had replied to his email at once, saying Piggott could pick up a consignment of hashish. He could also pick up a larger boat, and he figured a good five days hard sailing would see him back in County Down, no one the wiser about where he’d been or what had happened.

He supposed it would have been best to silence Milraud before he’d left, or at the very least leave orders with Gonzales to kill both him and the prisoner. Still, Milraud was the one left holding the can, not Piggott. As he began to descend the trail to the beach, he was cheered by thoughts of returning to Northern Ireland and finishing his business there.

He’d need some help of course, and he wasn’t going to use Ryan again, that was for sure. He needed someone more experienced. Malone had killed before, if the gossip of the IRA veterans was to be believed, so Piggott was certain he’d be willing to kill again. If other volunteers proved scarce, he could always call on old associates in Boston to come over and join in the campaign. Soon MI5 would rue the day they’d taken over intelligence duties in the province.

Suddenly Piggott heard footsteps along the trail, coming up from below. He moved quickly, silently on the balls of his feet, into the thick brush where he crouched down. He waited tensely, hand on his pistol, and listened as several people – at least four, maybe five – climbed up the path. Then they were above him, and he silently rejoined the path and continued his descent.

Take it slowly, he told himself, as he drew to within a stone’s throw of the cove. To his right the dinghy lay covered in brush, but he knew better than to go straight to it. These people after him were doubtless fools, but even fools took precautions, and Piggott expected a sentry to stand guard over the boat. Hah, he thought with a scornful laugh to himself – as if some soldier was going to keep him from getting away.

He left the path again, a good twenty feet above the beach, and edged inch by inch, circling the dinghy. He stared hard at the shadows on the beach cast by the overhanging trees and pulled the gun out from his waistband.