AS the party of barbouzes rounded the shoulder of rock on their way down from the cleft a loud shout rose from the leading man. Soller hurried forward to where he was pointing. Where the two cars had stood, now there was only empty road.
With a muttered curse the Hawk ran down the scree slope, slipping and sliding, followed at the gallop by the rest of the party, with Leduc bringing up the rear. Stopping at the place where the cars had been they looked around. The cars had been turned in the narrow confines of the road's end, and the tracks led away downhill, swerving suddenly towards the edge of the drop.
In unison the eight intelligence men raced towards the edge, looking over. There, some thousands of feet below, were two crumpled heaps of black metal that had been sleek DS2ls at one time, and there, scrawled in the dust of the roadside were the two words ALGÉRIE FRANÇAISE!
Cursing fluently in Corse, Soller turned away. “The bastards, the dirty....” I will have to account to Peacock for those cars, he swore in his mind, and give remands for not placing an adequate guard upon them. “Right!” he snarled. “A gift—compliments of Michel Gadda, so never forget it! Start walking!”
Not in the best of humour, the party began the seven kilometre trek to the nearest village.