Private Monaco

Chapter 11

Justine had found it increasingly difficult to breathe in the stuffy, cramped space, and was suppressing waves of panic at the idea that she might die next to these unknown, silent men. She tried to control her rising anxiety, telling herself the compartment had to be ventilated otherwise she’d be dead already. But panic couldn’t be reasoned away and it was made worse by the combined body heat of three people squeezed into a metal coffin.

Justine’s legs tingled with the desire to kick out, and her stomach churned with the nausea that resulted from feeling out of control. She tried to focus on the journey, but it was hard to tune out the physical manifestations of stress.

She’d been aware of the van continuing to climb, of more twists and turns, which exacerbated her queasy feeling, but kept being drawn back into the storm inside her mind until she lost track of how long they drove or their direction of travel.

When they finally stopped, Justine experienced a surge of relief. She heard the engine fall silent. Then came footsteps and the sound of the rear doors being opened. More footsteps on the flatbed above her, and then a catch being drawn back and the concealed panel opened to allow soft light to fill the compartment. Justine found it dazzling and squinted as her eyes took a moment to adjust. In that time, arms closed around her and she was lifted from the compartment and pushed out of the vehicle.

Forcing her eyes open, Justine saw a red sun, partially obscured by a nearby mountain. The terrain, rustic architecture and notices printed on sacks of grain leaning against an old barn, told her they were in the south of France. She could see a stone building further down the mountainside, and bare brown fields either waiting to be sown or recently seeded.

There were six men around her, all masked, wearing combat trousers and dark T-shirts, light jackets and protective vests. The two men who’d been in the compartment with her were walking off their stiffness. Justine tried to record any distinctive features. Four of the men were tattooed, but she couldn’t see the full patterns, just the beginnings and ends, rising from their collars or peeking from their cuffs. She focused on trying to remember their unique gaits, which was a reliable way of identifying people. There was a bulky man who lumbered, one who walked with a limp, another who moved fluidly, and one with a confident strut. The two who’d been in the van with her weren’t sufficiently limber yet for her to receive any impression of them.

She was pushed across a cobblestone yard, away from a large two-story sandstone farmhouse, and taken to a small outbuilding made of the same stone. It looked as though it might have once been a stable or livestock pen because there was an old stone trough by the steel door, which was secured with a padlock.

Justine didn’t resist but allowed herself to be steered across the shiny cobblestones. One of the men, the lumberer, fiddled with the padlock and opened the door, and Justine saw her cell. Twelve feet long, twenty wide, there was an army surplus cot, a simple table and a single chair. A partially screened toilet and a wash basin beneath a barred window completed her new accommodation. Justine could feel the remains of the baking heat that had filled the space during the day. It was unventilated and would be extremely uncomfortable when the sun was high, but she could already see the advantages to this place. She was alive, and the cell they had prepared was a sign her captors intended to keep her that way. At least for now.

“Inside,” Strutter said, giving her a shove.

She didn’t resist or complain and allowed the momentum to carry her in. The door shut and she heard the padlock being secured on the other side. As she stood in the center of her cell, surveying it in the fading light of the day, her mind turned to thoughts of escape.