Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

The instructions had been clear as day. No messing. No hesitation. Do it.

So intense was he on the target, so high with excitement, that Fletcher failed to notice the billowing rage of smoke trailing behind him; failed to see the flames started by the cigarette landing in the old dried grass beginning to consume the rear of the truck… and creeping towards the drum of petrol lashed in the back.

‘Broadside on, Jack, as hard as you can. Push the bastard twicers right over the edge.’

He was going to be a legend.

Adrian Magson

Death on the Pont Noir

Rocco and Claude had a clear view of what happened next. A stubby Renault truck emerged from the inferno of the shed like a horse out of a starting gate. But this horse was hell-bent on death and left destruction in its wake. Without bothering to open the doors, the driver had simply burst through the rotten wood as if they didn’t exist. The impact against the padlocked hasp had been enough to send a shock wave rippling throughout the flimsy structure, tearing away the walls and supports and lifting the corrugated roof. Then everything had crashed downwards. But not before the truck was tearing itself clear of the debris and accelerating along the track, its engine screaming in protest and the rear end trailing a gushing swirl of smoke and flames.

‘It’s the same as before,’ said Rocco. The same model truck, the same railway sleeper strapped across the front, the same target.

Only this time the target was real.

They jumped in the car and took off, accelerating hard. It was a fruitless task and Rocco knew they would never make it. What could they hope to do — stop the official car carrying the president and his bodyguards? The DS would leave them standing. He debated shooting at the truck in an attempt to put Fletcher off his aim, but he knew that was futile, too. The distance was too great and the Englishman would be too focused on his target to even notice. What was more likely was that the bodyguards in the DS would see Rocco and Claude as the attackers and turn their automatic weapons on them instead.

He flashed his lights, hoping the guards would notice and at least look at the area around them. The angle of the Renault’s approach was such that it was in a blind spot, and might not be seen until it was too late.

The DS continued its run, cruising smoothly along the tarmac. Rocco even fancied he saw the oval of a face looking through the rear-side window. De Gaulle, perhaps, getting his first view of a site of past death and destruction, unaware that if the truck now bearing down on him did its job, he would be joining all the departed souls in the ground below.

At the last moment, as the DS began to draw level with the mouth of the track, something must have caught the attention of the guards. The noise of the shed being destroyed carrying above the car engine, maybe the swirl of smoke trailing after the burning truck catching the eye or simply a bodyguard’s instinct kicking in and warning of an impending attack. There was movement inside as the occupants turned to stare at the side where the attacker was coming from.

‘Get out of there!’ Claude shouted. ‘Move it, you idiot!’

As if responding to his call, the DS seemed to sink on its suspension as the driver put on a surge of power, and began to pull away at speed. But they were already a fraction of a second too late. The truck blasted out of the track and across the road, mud churning up from its heavy tyres, the driver’s face close to the windscreen, his mouth open in a snarl. Was he even aware of the flames creeping across the back of his vehicle? Did he care?

The railway sleeper seemed almost about to miss its target… to have all been for nothing. Then it brushed against the rear of the car. It was a near miss, but enough, flicking the heavily armoured DS sideways with near disdain.

The car driver corrected and accelerated again, fighting the wheel. For just a second one of his rear tyres slid out over the bank, spinning in thin air, and Rocco and Claude swore in unison, expecting the worst. But the car’s extra weight was its saving grace. With a waggle of its tail, it settled and took off across the bridge trailing a damaged rear wing and bumper.

The truck, still under full power and carried by its own mass, was unable to stop in time. It soared out over the edge, dragging earth, grass, white marker posts and fiery smoke with it, the engine howling as if in a frustrated rage all of its own.

Then it dropped out of sight.

The DS flew towards Rocco’s car without stopping, the driver and guard in the front staring hard and clearly expecting another attack. Rocco stamped on the brakes and pulled over to let them pass, holding up his empty hands and bracing himself for a hail of defensive gunfire. But the guards knew their job and held off shooting.

As the car disappeared, Rocco drove across the bridge and stopped. Then he and Claude jumped out and looked over the edge of the drop, standing by the ripped scar where the DS driver had nearly come to grief and where the Renault driver had plunged to his death.

Far below, the truck was just visible, its nose buried in the ice-covered pond and surrounded by a vast cloud of steam and smoke. It held for a moment, and Rocco thought it had gone in as far as it could. Then with a groan, it began to sink further. As it did so, the water around it rippled violently, lighting up with a vivid flash, and a wave of heat came up the bank towards them. Then the remains of the truck sank from sight.

There was no sign of the driver.

‘Not far off now,’ said Calloway, who had been watching signposts. He had a flair for navigating which Tasker lacked, and had only needed to glance at the map once more to know where he was on the twisting and narrow country roads leading towards the village of Poissonsles-Marais.

Little had been said since they had changed course, although Biggs had kept up a regular muttering about going the wrong way and wasting valuable time. Tasker had said nothing in reply, too absorbed in staring out of the window at the unfolding panorama of brown fields rolling by.

They had met virtually no traffic save for the occasional van or tractor and one or two cyclists, the latter hunched over their handlebars, faces pinched and grey against the cold air. The route Calloway had chosen had kept them clear of villages, passing only one or two ramshackle farms, and a cafe with a giant Pernod advert painted on the side wall.

‘How far?’ The words seemed to stir Tasker from his thoughts. He lifted the sawn-off and took out the two spent cartridges, replacing them with the fresh ones. He snapped it shut.

From behind him came a click of metal as Biggs also checked his gun.

‘About two miles.’

‘This is a waste of time,’ the former soldier muttered, slapping a hand on the back of the seat for emphasis. ‘What the hell are we doing out here? We’d be in Calais by now if we’d kept going north.’

‘We’re here because I said so,’ Tasker growled. ‘It’s part of the job, that’s all.’

‘Yeah — and a proper bleedin’ lash-up that was. My mate’s dead, thanks for asking, and we’re stuck in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere. My mother could’ve organised things better than this. Friggin’ amateurs.’ He clicked the cylinder back into place and turned to watch the road behind them.

There was silence for a while as they rumbled gently along a stretch of uneven tarmac. Then a vehicle appeared coming the other way.

A police car.

Tasker said calmly, ‘Keep going. Don’t even eyeball them, you hear?’

The two cars passed each other, and the three Englishmen caught a glimpse of two men in uniform, eyeing the DS with interest.