Landon had made a couple of attempts at starting conversation as the Cessna climbed towards the Channel, but Julian’s perfunctory answers had quickly seen the pilot give up and merely fly the plane.
The landing at Fumel-Montayral had been equally straightforward. Landon had guided the Cessna expertly down on to a tarmac strip surrounded by woods and farmland, and brought the plane to a halt beside a row of buildings that looked fractionally sturdier than those at the airfield they had left behind in England. Parked beside the buildings was an ancient-looking red van with a man leaning on its bonnet; he raised a hand and waved as the plane rolled past. Landon acknowledged it, and turned the Cessna in a wide loop that brought it to a halt in front of the van.
“This is where we say goodbye,” he said.
Julian nodded. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” said Landon. “Look after yourself.”
“I’ll try,” said Julian, and gave the pilot a brief smile.
He opened the plane door, pulled his bags across the seats, and stepped down on to the grass as Landon immediately taxied the Cessna back towards the runway. He watched the plane climb back into the air, then turned to face the man who was clearly there to meet him. He was in his late thirties, with the kind of deep tan that only comes from spending most of your life outdoors, and a tiny hand-rolled cigarette burning between his fingers. He smiled at Julian and stuck out a hand.
“Bonjour,” said Julian, taking the hand and giving it a brisk shake. “Henry Frank.”
“Bonjour,” said the man, and nodded. “Laurent Lefèvre. Ça va?”
“Oui, ça va bien, merci,” said Julian, exhausting the last of his conversational French.
Lefèvre smiled. “You need a car?”
“Oui,” said Julian. “Thank you.”
“De rien,” said Lefèvre, and gestured towards the van. “Please.”
Julian climbed into the passenger seat, the green duffel bag at his feet, the black holdall on his lap. Lefèvre settled behind the wheel and guided the rattling, spluttering van out on to the roads of rural France. The two men sat in silence until Lefèvre pulled to a halt outside a Renault garage on the outskirts of Villeneuve-sur-Lot, almost half an hour later.
“We are here,” said Lefèvre.
Julian peered through the window. The garage was a square concrete building with two cars raised on platforms and men working beneath them. Tyres and mudguards and body panels were piled round puddles of water gleaming with spilled oil. Next to the garage, enclosed by a sagging chain-link fence, sat a small cluster of battered Renaults, with prices scrawled on their windscreens.
“Perfect,” he said. “Merci.”
He took a fifty-euro note from his wallet, held it out, then pulled it away as Lefèvre reached for it. “You have not seen me,” he said. “Yes?”
Lefèvre smiled. “Seen who?”
He nodded, and let the man take the money. Julian climbed out of the van as Lefèvre pocketed the note and drove away without a wave or a backward glance.
Twenty minutes later, he was driving south in a Peugeot 205 that was older than his son and registered in the name of a man who didn’t exist.
The French soldier tapped on the car window. Julian rolled it down and gave the man a thin smile.
“Bonjour,” said the soldier. “Habitez-vous Carcassonne?”
“My name is Henry Frank,” said Julian. “I lived in Carcassonne.”
“What was your address?” asked the soldier, slipping into perfect English.
“1376 Rue Baudelaire,” said Julian. “I was renting it from the owner.”
The soldier nodded. “Where have you been?”
“Avignon,” said Julian. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Is there someone here who can help me?”
“You need to talk to the Red Cross,” said the soldier. “You can park in Field 12.”
He stepped back and waved his hand. Julian breathed a long sigh of relief as he drove slowly past the guard post and into the main camp. Printed signs had been nailed to wooden posts, giving directions to the various fields, and he brought the car to a halt as he reached the first of them.
Someone’s been busy, he thought, as he looked at the sprawling camp. Very busy indeed.
A sign marked Fields 8–16 pointed to the north, where Julian could see the roofs of hundreds of cars and the silver tops of seemingly endless rows of tents. A second sign, announcing Fields 1–4 (RESTRICTED), pointed south, towards what he was looking for: a large complex of metal buildings and grey tents.
Command centre, he told himself. All right then. Here we go.
He got back in the car and followed the signs to the entrance of Field 12, where a pair of Red Cross volunteers got up from behind a folding table and told him to come and see them once he was settled. He told them he would, and drove on, searching for a remote space where what he was about to do would hopefully go unnoticed. At the northern corner of the field, at the junction of two thick hedges and beneath an overhanging tree, he parked, got out, and took a long, careful look around.
In the centre of the field, Julian could see men and women standing around the silver tents as children ran back and forth, laughing and chasing. Near the Red Cross table, two cars had blocked each other, and he could hear the distant sound of raised voices.
Nobody was anywhere near him.
Nobody was paying any attention to him at all.
Julian opened the Renault’s boot, lifted out the black holdall, and set it on the bonnet. The pungent scent of gun oil filled his nostrils as he opened it, but he pushed the Glock and the MP5 aside; what he needed now was folded neatly beneath them. He took a last glance around, positioned himself between the car and the hedge, and shook out the Blacklight uniform.
Working quickly, he stripped off his jeans and shirt and pulled the black material into place. He zipped it up and fastened it at his neck, as a feeling of nostalgia so strong he thought it might make him cry flooded through him; it was as though the last three years had been a bad dream, and he was now finally awake, and back where he belonged.
He tied the laces of his boots, then strapped on his belt and quickly began to fill it. The MP5 and Glock went into slots on the left, alongside the console that was his biggest concern; there was a good chance the regulation device had been upgraded in the years since he had stashed a spare underneath his shed, and he suspected it would be obvious to any eagle-eyed Operator that he was carrying obsolete equipment.
A pair of ultraviolet grenades slotted into pouches on the right, beside the thick loop that held his T-Bone, and a UV beam gun completed his arsenal of weapons and equipment. Julian stood up, enjoying the feel of the uniform against his skin, pulled a pair of gloves out of the holdall, and put them on. Finally, he lifted out the shiny black helmet and carefully placed it over his head. He connected its wires into a socket at the back of his neck, and felt a shiver of excitement as the systems booted up with a low rumble. He put the empty holdall back into the boot, locked the car, then swung the green duffel bag over his shoulder and set off towards the distant entrance to Field 12.
By the time he passed the Red Cross table, all the nervousness that had filled him as he entered the camp had disappeared; he was an Operator again, his mind clear and calm. The volunteers didn’t so much as glance at him as he walked past them, his gaze fixed on the command centre looming in the distance; he strode purposefully towards it, a man who, for the first time in years, was once again at peace with himself.
Jamie’s heart sank as he walked into Paul Turner’s quarters and saw Frankenstein staring squarely at him.