Yesterday's Spy

Chapter 20

The cars of Nice are mostly white, so Champion’s black Mercedes was easily spotted on the Place Massena. The driver was in the car, but Champion and his son were sitting outside a café-bar under the stone arcades. Champion was drinking an apéritif, and Billy was arranging sweet-wrappers on the circular metal table-top. Billy waved when he saw me. He’d saved me two cubes of chocolate, which by now were soft, misshapen and coated with pocket-fluff.

Champion got to his feet too. They’d clearly had long enough sitting there, and he didn’t offer me a drink. The chauffeur had the door open as we reached the car, and there was a discussion about whether Billy was permitted to sit in front. Billy lost and was seated between us in the back.

Champion opened the window. The sun had heated the interior enough to explain why most cars were white.

‘Now don’t get chocolate all over the upholstery,’ said Champion. He got a handkerchief from his top pocket.

‘I’ll be careful,’ I said.

‘Not you, stupid,’ said Champion. He grinned, and wiped Billy’s hands and mouth.

‘You can’t always be sure, these days,’ I said.

‘Don’t say that, Charlie.’ He seemed genuinely hurt. ‘Have I changed so much?’

‘You’re a tough cookie, Steve,’ I told him.

‘Welcome to the club,’ he said. He looked to Billy to see if he was listening to us.

Billy looked up at me. ‘I’m a tough cookie, too,’ he told me.

‘That’s what I said: Billy is a tough cookie, Steve!’

Billy looked to his father to check me out. Steve smiled. ‘We don’t want too many tough cookies in the family,’ he said, and straightened Billy’s tie.

By this time we’d reached the airport turn-off. The chauffeur was overtaking the Sunday drivers creeping along the promenade. An Air France Caravelle came down alongside us, to land on the runway that runs parallel to the road. There was a roar, and a scream of rubber as its jets reversed.

Billy watched the Caravelle until it disappeared from sight behind the airport buildings. ‘When will we go in an aeroplane again, Daddy?’

‘One of these days,’ said Champion.

‘Soon?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘For my birthday?’

‘We’ll see, Billy.’

‘Will Uncle Charles come too?’

‘I hope so, Billy. I’m counting on it.’

Billy smiled.

The car sped on over the Pont du Var and to the tollgate of the autoroute. Like any good chauffeur, our driver had the coins ready, and so we joined the fast-moving lane for the automatique. A few cars ahead of us, the driver of a VW camper tossed his three francs into the plastic funnel. The barrier tilted upwards to let the VW through. Before it dropped back into position again, a lightweight motor-cycle slipped through behind it. The long lines of cars at the other gates kept the gate-men too busy to notice the infringement.

‘Young bastards!’ said Champion. ‘Bikes are not even allowed on the autoroute.’

By that time we were through the barrier, too. The two youths on the motor-cycle had pulled into the slow lane and were weaving through the traffic. The pillion passenger had a golf-bag on the shoulder, and kept turning round to be sure there was no pursuit. They were a sinister pair, both in black one-piece suits, with shiny black bone-domes and dark visors.

‘That’s what I mean, Steve. There was a time when you would have laughed,’ I said.

He’d been watching the motor-cycle riders through the rear window, but now he turned away. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said tonelessly.

The traffic thinned. The driver pulled out to the fast lane and put his foot hard down. The car leaped forward, passing everything on the road. Champion liked speed. He smiled, and glanced triumphantly at the cars that were left behind. The motor-cyclists were the only ones who chased us. We went faster and faster still, and they kept on our tail.

I put my hand out to steady Billy as we accelerated. As I did so, Champion’s face tightened with rage. The light inside the car changed dramatically. The windows frosted, one by one, as if whitewash was being poured over us. Champion’s hand hit my shoulder and knocked me aside. I toppled, falling upon Billy, who let out a loud yell of protest.

Champion seemed to be hammering upon my back with all his strength, and under both of us, Billy was squashed breathless. The Mercedes rocked with a succession of spine-jarring jolts, as if we were driving over railway sleepers. I knew that the tyres had torn, we were riding on the wheel-rims. As the car struck the verge, it tilted. The driver was screaming as he fought the steering-wheel, and behind his shrill voice I heard the steady hammering noise that can never be mistaken.

‘Down, down, down,’ Champion was shouting. The car began to roll over. There was a sickening thump, and a squeal of tortured metal. The horizon twisted, and we fell upwards in a crazy inverted world. The car continued to roll, tossing us around like wet clothes in a tumble-dryer. With wheels in the air, the engine screamed, and the driver disappeared through the windscreen in a shower of splintered glass that caught the sunlight as it burst over him like confetti. For a moment the car was the right way up, but it started to roll for a second time, and now fir-tree branches, clods of earth and chopped vegetation were coming in through the smashed windows. When upside down, the car slowed, tried to get on to its side, but with a groan settled on to its roof, wheels in the air, like a dead black beetle.

If I expected hordes of rescuing Samaritans, I was to be sadly disappointed. No one came. The trees made it dark inside the narrow confines of the bent car. With great effort I extricated myself from under Champion’s bloody limbs. Billy began to cry. Still no one appeared. I heard the buzz of traffic speeding past on the autoroute, and realized that we were out of sight.

I struggled with the door catch, but the car had warped enough to jam the door. I rolled over on to my back and braced my hands behind my head. Then, both feet together, I kicked. There was a sound of breaking glass and the door loosened. I clambered out. Then I got Billy under the armpits and pulled him clear.

Any last doubt I’d had about the two motor-cyclists machinegunning us was dispelled by the bullet-riddled body of Champion’s driver. He was dead, shiny with bright-red blood, upon which thousands of particles of safety glass stuck, like sequins on a party dress.

‘Daddy’s dead,’ said Billy.

I fumbled around for my spectacles and then took Champion’s limp arm and dragged him from the car. It was now an almost unrecognizable shape. There was the stink of petrol, and the loud gurgle of it pouring from the inverted petrol tank.

‘Go over there and lie down, Billy.’

Champion wasn’t breathing. ‘Steve,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t kid around, Steve.’

The irrational thought that Champion might be shamming was all I had to comfort me. I pushed a finger into his mouth and found his dentures. They were half way down his throat. I tipped him face-down, and thumped him in the small of the back. Billy was staring at me wide-eyed. Champion gurgled. I hit him again, and shook him. He vomited. I dropped him flat on his face and began to pump the small of his back, using a system of artificial respiration long since discarded from the first-aid manuals. Soon I felt him shudder, and I changed the pressure to coincide with his painful inhalations.

‘Where’s Billy?’ His voice was cruelly distorted by the absence of his dentures.

‘Billy is absolutely all right, Steve.’

‘Get him away from the car.’

‘He’s fine, I tell you.’

Champion closed his eyes. I had to lean close to hear him. ‘Don’t send him to wave down a car,’ he mumbled. ‘These French drivers will run anyone down to avoid being late for lunch.’

‘He’s right here, Steve.’

His mouth moved again, and I bent close. ‘I said it would be like old times, didn’t I, Charlie?’