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"I'll bear it in mind. What's the second problem?"
"The Brewster kid. He flew the coop."
"Good God! How? .. . Why?"
"Over the wall when it was dark. His sister says he's going after Gerald Henshaw, the once and former stepfather who killed their mother."
"What does that cheeky whippersnapper think he can do that all of us haven't done? Henshaw's disappeared from the face of the earth. He's either somewhere in an African or Asian city, living well but isolated, or more likely, as I understand the Matarese, at the bottom of the Channel in a weighted body bag."
"I agree with you, but we're not him."
"Where would he go? Where would he start? An angry teenager asking foolish questions in the shabbier parts of the city is a target with or without the Matarese."
"He's angry, sure, but he's not stupid, Geof. He's smart enough to know he needs help. He won't go to you because he figures you'd pull him in and lock him up someplace-" "It's what we should have done with all three of them," interrupted Waters.
"It's what you thought you did do, only none of us factored in the rage of a youngster who lost a father he worshiped and saw the murder of a mother he deeply loved."
"So?" asked the MI-5 chief defensively.
"I think he'll go straight to a man he trusts, a sergeant major who was so devoted to his brigadier that he'd follow him to hell and back, as you people say."
"Coleman," exclaimed Waters.
"Sergeant Major Coleman! .. .
Only I believe the expression originated in the States, not the U.K. It's not our style, old chap."
"Whatever. If I were you, I'd check him out. By the way, the kid has money on him. A thousand pounds."
"It's certainly enough to get him here anonymously, if he's as smart as you believe."
"He is."
"I'm on my way to see our sergeant major. I won't bother to call."
Roger Brewster boarded the train at Valence. He had planned everything out, down to the last detail except one. He had pored over maps, centering on locations within hours north of where he assumed they were, and as he spoke French fluently, he had narrowed down the area reasonably well from the Deuxieme guards. He had gone over the wall much in the way his new friend, Jamie Montrose, had described his own escape from Bahrain. Searchlights were in constant use; one had to wait for the absence of the light. One also had to elude the guards, who were positioned to protect their "guests" from external assault. It was a simple matter to convince a Deuxieme patrol that his sister, in the room next to his, complained incessantly when he had a cigarette.
She had the nostrils of a wolf.
The patrol was a smoker; he laughingly understood. Once over the wall in relative darkness, Roger ran through the fields to what appeared to be a main road. He waited on the side, using the normally accepted raised hand and thumb, as cars and trucks went by. Finally, a produce truck stopped; he explained in French that he was a student who had to return to his pensionnat before daylight or he might be expelled. He had spent the night with his girlfriend.
Toujours I'amour. The driver understood, displaying a degree of envy, and drove the student to the train station.
Roger had learned from his maps and various other pamphlets that there was a flying school in Villeurbanne. As Jamie Montrose had done, he had to find a pilot, but unlike Jamie, his could not be an accident in the street. Since there was such a school, there were pilots, and if there were pilots, one could be bought, and if he could find that one, he had a thousand pounds. England. London and Belgravia. And the one detail he left to last. Old Coley. He would call him from the airfield.
Former Sergeant Major Oliver Coleman disabled the alarm and opened the heavy door of the Brewster house in Belgravia.
"Good morning, Sir Geoffrey," he said, admitting the MI-5 officer.
"You knew it was I?"
"I've installed micro cameras in the two pillars, sir. It seemed to be the proper thing to do for the children when they return. You see, there's the camera mounted on the wall above the door."
"Rather costly, I'd say," mumbled Waters.
"Not at all, sir. I made clear to the security firm that my concern over their gross negligence in permitting their own personnel to install bugs in the house could well lead to the courts-and a great deal of publicity. They were happy to oblige me at no cost."
"May we talk, Mr. Coleman?"
"Of course, Sir Geoffrey. I was just having some midmorning tea.
Would you care to join me?"
"No, thank you. I have to get back to the office, and we can speak right here."
"Very well. What should we speak about?"
"Roger Brewster broke out of the hideaway where we placed him, his sister, and the Montrose boy-" "Bloody-good show," interrupted Coleman, "he's a fine lad and you can't confine him."
"For God's sake, Sergeant Major! We're protecting him, can't you understand that?"
"Surely, I do, sir. But the boy has other things on his mind. As I do.
Where is that fiend, Gerald Henshaw? We've heard nothing from you people."
"Hasn't it occurred to you that he was undoubtedly killed?"
"If so, we'd like proof of that."
"There are so many ways, Coleman. We may not learn for months, even years."
"But you don't know now, do you? Roger's as obsessed as I am with finding that bastard. If I get to him first, I'll end his miserable life in ways no barbarian ever thought of."
"Listen to me, Coleman. Alone, searching blind, the boy's a goner. If he contacts you, for heaven's sake, call me!"
"He's not a goner if I'm around," said the former sergeant major.
"His father risked his life for me, and I'd willingly give my life for his son."
"Goddamn it, you can't do what we can do! If he reaches you, call me. If you don't, his death could be on your head."
Roger Brewster got off the train at Villeurbanne. The early-morning light began to emerge, too early to head for the airfield. He walked from the station into the streets; he realized he was terribly tired and the wrestler in him told him that his body needed fuel. Food. He found a bakery, walked inside, and spoke with the sleepy owner in French.
"Bonjour. I'm supposed to meet my father at your airport, but the only train from Valence was at this hour. Your bread smells great."
"It should. It's the best in the province. What would you like?"
"Whatever you suggest that comes out of your oven. And milk, if you have some, and a mug of coffee perhaps."
"I can do all that. Can you pay?"
"Certainly. I would not ask if I couldn't." Refueled and enlivened by the strong coffee, Roger paid, including an impressive tip, and asked, "Where exactly is the airfield?"
"A mile or so north, but there are no taxis available at this hour."
"That's all right. North, you say? Any particular road?"
"Four streets down," replied the baker, pointing to his right, "turn left into the highway. It leads directly to the airfield and that terrible flying academy."
"You don't like it, the flying school?"
"You wouldn't either if you lived here. Crazy students buzzing all over the place. You watch, one day there'll be a horrible crash, followed by more crashes and citizens killed! Then poof, the stupid academy will be gone. Good riddance!"
"I hope that doesn't happen, the crashes, I mean. Well, I'll be off.
Thank you, sir."
"You're a nice young fellow. Good luck .. . and your French is very understandable, if perhaps too Parisian." Both laughed, and Roger headed for the door.
The trek to the airport was relieved by the sounds of engines, then the sight of small planes pitching up into the early-morning sky. These reminded the Brewster son that when he was a tyke he would frequently accompany his father, who was determined to earn his pilot's license, to the practice field in Cheltenham. Daniel Brewster claimed there was nothing so exhilarating as flying with the first light of day.
