The Fifth Horseman by Larry Collins, Dominique Lapierre Page B
Authors: Larry Collins, Dominique Lapierre
Tags: thriller
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Jean Dupont. Once he’s in the bar he’ll get another call with the instructions as to where to leave the money. It will be very nearby, but out of sight of the bar. The trashcan in front of 17 Rue Belles pcuelles. Or they’ll say, `Hang it on the handlebars of the blue bicycle leaning against the door of 10 Rue des Trois-Lucs. Do it immediately and come back to the bar.’ When they’ve picked up the payoff, he’ll get a last call telling him where the papers are.”
The Minister placed his hands before him as though in prayer, lightly tapping his fingertips together, contemplating the scenario his police chief had outlined. He turned to the head of the SDECE. Eyes half closed like a monk in meditation, a Gauloise cigarette that never seemed to move dangling from his mouth, General Henri Bertrand sat motionless on his spindly chair. The perfect stillness of the man was attested to by the inch-and-a-half-long ash dangling at the end of his cigarette. He spoke and it spilled over the lapels of his gray suit.
“Since when have your Corsican friends been so interested in science?” he asked Fraguier.
“When the Russians wanted to get hold of our designs for the Concorde, what did they do?” Fraguier replied. “They went down to Marseilles and knocked on the right Corsican’s door, did they not? Perhaps that experience taught our Corsican friends the value of industrial secrets.”
Bertrand brushed the ashes from his suit. “Their asking price seems low,” he suggested in his quiet voice.
“Yes,” Fraguier agreed. “But remember, for them it’s a lot of money. They may not realize just how valuable those papers are.”
“What guarantee do we have,” asked the Minister, “that they haven’t photostated those documents and won’t try to hold us up again?”
“None whatsoever,” Fraguier answered. He paused. “But they won’t. Corsicans are honorable people. They only cheat you once.”
For a moment, the only sound in the office was the creaking of the Minister’s chair as he slowly rocked back and forth. In a sense, they had been fortunate. If they made the payoff, it would all be over. The incident would never get to the public and the secret of the scientific advance would be kept safe.
“All right, do it,” he ordered his police chief. “I’ll arrange with the Treasury for the million francs.”
* * *
A gray stain seeped along the edges of night. Dawn was about to break over the barren immensity of the desert. That period immediately preceding the emergence of the solar disc on the horizon was known to the followers of the Prophet as EI Fedji, the first dawn. It lasted only minutes, just the tune required by the Faithful to recite the first of their five sourates, the daily prayers prescribed by the Koran., Dressed in a crude shepherd’s cloak of brown and white stripes, a flowing white kafliyeh held in place by one cord on his head, a man in his late thirties emerged from his goatskin tent and spread a prayer rug on the sand. Turning east, he began to invoke the name of Allah, Master of the World, the All-Merc: ifUl and: \ll-Compassionate, the Supreme Sovereign of the Last Judgment.
He prostrated himself three times, touching his forehead to the earth each time, glorifying as he did the name of God and His Prophet. llis prayer finished, Muammar al-Qaddafi, the undisputed ruler of the Libyan nation, sat back on his rug and watch, — :d the rising sun flame the desert sky. He was a son of the desert. He had entered the world in a goatskin tent similar to the one in which he had just passed the night. His birth had been heralded by the rumble of the artillery duel fought that evening between the gunners of Rommel’s Afrika Korps and Montgomery’s Eighth Army. He had spent his boyhood wandering the desert with his tribe, maturing to the searing gusts of the siroccos, the blessings of the winter rains, the quick flowering of the pastures. From the sand seas below Cyrenaica southwest to
The Minister placed his hands before him as though in prayer, lightly tapping his fingertips together, contemplating the scenario his police chief had outlined. He turned to the head of the SDECE. Eyes half closed like a monk in meditation, a Gauloise cigarette that never seemed to move dangling from his mouth, General Henri Bertrand sat motionless on his spindly chair. The perfect stillness of the man was attested to by the inch-and-a-half-long ash dangling at the end of his cigarette. He spoke and it spilled over the lapels of his gray suit.
“Since when have your Corsican friends been so interested in science?” he asked Fraguier.
“When the Russians wanted to get hold of our designs for the Concorde, what did they do?” Fraguier replied. “They went down to Marseilles and knocked on the right Corsican’s door, did they not? Perhaps that experience taught our Corsican friends the value of industrial secrets.”
Bertrand brushed the ashes from his suit. “Their asking price seems low,” he suggested in his quiet voice.
“Yes,” Fraguier agreed. “But remember, for them it’s a lot of money. They may not realize just how valuable those papers are.”
“What guarantee do we have,” asked the Minister, “that they haven’t photostated those documents and won’t try to hold us up again?”
“None whatsoever,” Fraguier answered. He paused. “But they won’t. Corsicans are honorable people. They only cheat you once.”
For a moment, the only sound in the office was the creaking of the Minister’s chair as he slowly rocked back and forth. In a sense, they had been fortunate. If they made the payoff, it would all be over. The incident would never get to the public and the secret of the scientific advance would be kept safe.
“All right, do it,” he ordered his police chief. “I’ll arrange with the Treasury for the million francs.”
* * *
A gray stain seeped along the edges of night. Dawn was about to break over the barren immensity of the desert. That period immediately preceding the emergence of the solar disc on the horizon was known to the followers of the Prophet as EI Fedji, the first dawn. It lasted only minutes, just the tune required by the Faithful to recite the first of their five sourates, the daily prayers prescribed by the Koran., Dressed in a crude shepherd’s cloak of brown and white stripes, a flowing white kafliyeh held in place by one cord on his head, a man in his late thirties emerged from his goatskin tent and spread a prayer rug on the sand. Turning east, he began to invoke the name of Allah, Master of the World, the All-Merc: ifUl and: \ll-Compassionate, the Supreme Sovereign of the Last Judgment.
He prostrated himself three times, touching his forehead to the earth each time, glorifying as he did the name of God and His Prophet. llis prayer finished, Muammar al-Qaddafi, the undisputed ruler of the Libyan nation, sat back on his rug and watch, — :d the rising sun flame the desert sky. He was a son of the desert. He had entered the world in a goatskin tent similar to the one in which he had just passed the night. His birth had been heralded by the rumble of the artillery duel fought that evening between the gunners of Rommel’s Afrika Korps and Montgomery’s Eighth Army. He had spent his boyhood wandering the desert with his tribe, maturing to the searing gusts of the siroccos, the blessings of the winter rains, the quick flowering of the pastures. From the sand seas below Cyrenaica southwest to
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