Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  COLIN FORBES

  CROSS OF FIRE

  Author's Note

  All the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's imagination and bear no relationship to any living person. Also, the mansion Grenville Grange is non-existent, and the corporation The international Continental Union Bank, US, has no equivalent in real life anywhere in the world.

  Cross of Fire first published 1992 by Pan Books. First published in paperback by Pan Books 1993.

  For Jane

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One Nightmare for Paula

  Part Two Trigger of Death

  Part Three Cross of Fire

  Prologue

  November. Paula Grey was fleeing for her life...

  Under a stormy sky, in Suffolk, England, she ran across the spongy marsh towards a dense copse of evergreen trees. Above the whine of the wind coming off the sea she heard again the baying of the hounds, the shouts of the men pursuing them.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Her friend, Karin Rosewater, was some distance behind her, having trouble negotiating the treacherous ground. Paula thought of going back, urging her to hurry - but the sinister men chasing them were closing in.

  'Head for the trees, Karin,' she shouted.

  But her voice was carried away on the rising wind. She ran on, ran all-out, gasping for breath, with fear. Then she was inside the shelter of the black firs. Clad in denims and a windcheater, she ran deeper inside the small wood. The barking of the savage dogs was closer. There was no escape.

  There had to be. Hidden inside the firs she looked up at a giant spreading its branches like hands reaching out to grasp her. Her denims were tucked inside leather boots with indented rubber soles. She grabbed at a low branch, hauled herself up the huge trunk, forcing herself to move fast. Her boots were wet from splashing through a creek a short distance back. She continued her climb like an agile monkey, thanking God she was slim and fit.

  Near the top of the fir, which rose above the surrounding trees, she perched herself, legs straddled over a branch, back leant against the trunk as she waited to get her breath. Looking down, she saw she was concealed from the ground except for one small gap. She stared out across the marsh towards the river Aide as dusk descended. To her horror, she saw Karin running in the open, heading for a small boat moored in a creek snaking in from the yacht basin. Close behind her followed the hunters. Paula heard a sound below, glanced down, stiffened with fright.

  A large Alsatian, released by its handler, was sniffing round the base of the fir. She waited for its head to lift, to stare up at her refuge. Two of the pursuers appeared. Tall men wearing Balaclava helmets with slits for vision, camouflage jackets tucked into military-style boots. Both men held rifles.

  Paula reached quietly into her shoulder bag, took out her .32 Browning automatic. Then she heard the sound of more men treading through the undergrowth. She was outnumbered. The Alsatian was moving in circles as though baffled. It ran away out of sight. Paula remembered the creek she had splashed through by chance. The beast had lost her scent. The two hunters moved away. She let out a sigh of relief.

  Still seated, she stretched up to her full height, gazing in the direction of Aldeburgh, the strange town by the sea. Its huddle of rooftops had disappeared in the dark. She had a brief glimpse of a belt of sea with whitecaps and then that, too, disappeared in the moonless night.

  Where is Karin? she asked herself.

  As though in reply to her anxious question she heard a penetrating scream piercing the silence of the marshes. It came from the direction where Karin had run for the boat. The agonized scream was choked off. The return of silence sounded dreadful. God! Had they reached Karin? What had they done to her?

  Shivering with cold, she buttoned the windcheater up to her neck, checked the time by the illuminated hands of her watch. 5.30 p.m. Experience warned her she must wait inside her refuge. The hunters knew there had been two women. And she still caught the distant sound of a dog barking.

  Her legs were beginning to ache - reaction from the desperate run across the marshes, from the strain of keeping still, straddled over the branch. The wind stirred the smaller branches, brushed her face with prickly twigs. She waited until 6.30 p.m. before hauling out the mobile phone from her pocket. There had been no sign or sound of the hunters for three-quarters of an hour. She was frozen stiff as she dialled the number of SIS headquarters at Park Crescent.

  Robert Newman, world-famous foreign correspondent, drove his Mercedes 280E at speed through the night along the A1094, hardly slowed as he turned into Aldeburgh High Street, which was eerily deserted. By chance he had called in at Park Crescent when the phone message for help had come through from Paula.

  Beside him sat Marler, slim, compact, small, and the most deadly marksman in Western Europe. His Armalite rifle rested on his lap. In the rear sat Harry Butler, in his thirties, clean-shaven, well built, and a man of few words. Beside him sat his younger partner, Pete Nield, slimmer, a snappy dresser with a neat black moustache.

  In a shoulder holster Newman, of medium height and in his early forties, his favourite Smith, & Wesson Special. Butler was armed with a 7.65mm Walther, and Nield also had a Walther.

  Newman was the only member of the team not permanently employed by the Secret Service, but was fully vetted and had helped with a number of dangerous missions. He was also fond of Paula, another member of the SIS.

  'You'll wake the dead,' Marler drawled in his upper crust voice.

  'At eight in the evening the place is dead.' Newman snapped.

  'You seem to know your way,' Marler observed.

  'I should. I've spent time here recuperating. Most of it walking. I reckon I can take us straight to that copse of trees Paula described over the phone ...'

  'If she's still there. It's a God-awful night. Wind howling like a banshee. Wonder what it's all about.'

  'We'll know when we find her,' Newman said grimly and hoped Marler would shut up.

  Newman was driving with his headlights undimmed. In the beams Marler saw the High Street as a collection of shops and houses, old and with the roofs going up and down. A weird atmosphere.

  'Dotty sort of place,' he commented.

  'Quaint is the word,' Newman growled. 'We're nearly at the end of the line for driving. We hoof it from the end of the town, which is here ...'

  The road surface beyond where the town stopped abruptly had deteriorated. In the headlight beams it was a wide track of gravel. As they alighted they heard above the wind the boom of surf waves hitting the unseen beach. It was a wild night. Newman checked his watch. 8 p.m. It had been about 6.30 p.m. when Paula had phoned.

  'Where does that track lead to?' Marler enquired. 'And what is that huge bank with cranes atop it?'

  'Reinforcing the sea defences. If it breaks through it will flood the marshes we have to cross.' He switched off the headlights, locked the car, stood for a moment to get back his night vision. 'The track leads to the Slaughden Yacht Club. Slaughden village slid into the sea years ago. Like Dunwich further up the coast. I can see the copse of firs. Let's pray to God Paula is still there. Alive...'

  He led the way off the road down on to the marsh. The other three men automatically spread out to make a difficult target. In her brief message Paula had warned of men with guns. Using a powerful flashlight, Newman picked his way across the ooze, stepping from grassy stump to grassy stump. One wrong step and he'd sink into the slime of mud.

  The night air was bitterly cold but Newman had called at his flat to put on ankle-length boots. Like the others he wore a padded windcheater. Torch in left hand, revolver in the other, he was the first to reach and enter the fir copse. He began to call out softly. 'Paula ... It's Bob ... Paula ...'

 
; His boots pressed down the mush of dead bracken. He swivelled his torch upwards at the foot of a giant fir. The beam shone on his face. He stiffened as a fragment of the fir fell to the ground.

  'Bob! I'm up here! I'm coming down. God! It's freezing...'

  He was carrying an overcoat he'd grabbed during the brief visit to his South Ken. flat en route to Suffolk. He wrapped it round her as she jumped to the ground. She threw her arms around him and he hugged her tight.

  'It's all right now, Paula.'

  'There were men with rifles ...'

  'And we have men with guns. Myself, Marler, Butler, and Nield.'

  'We must look for Karin at once.'

  'It's dark. Pitch black...'

  'We must look.' she insisted, freeing herself from his grip. 'I saw the direction where she went. I know the area. Give me the torch. Please, Bob ....'

  They emerged from the copse and Newman's three companions were waiting for him. Shining the flashlight downwards Paula moved stiffly but at surprising speed across the marsh towards the yacht basin where a number of craft were moored to buoys, their hulls covered with sheeting for winter.

  Aching in every limb, Paula gradually loosened up as she pressed on over the grassy tufts, avoiding pools of oily water. The others followed, using their own flashlights. Within five minutes Paula had scrambled up the embankment hemming in the anchorage. Switching off the flashlight, she stood on the narrow footpath following the ridge of the embankment. Her eyes swiftly became accustomed to the dark, and her sense of direction had been good. She was close to the craft she had seen Karin running towards before that hellish scream.

  Switching on the flash again, she hurried along the footpath. Every step was an effort after her long vigil up in the fir but her determination carried her forward with Newman close behind. The elevated footpath was even more exposed to the wind blowing in from the sea. Out in the anchorage the masts of the moored craft swayed back and forth. She stopped, directed the beam down towards the small craft moored in a creek some distance from the main river.

  'What is it?' Newman asked, raising his voice.

  'Look. That craft is empty. That was the one she was running towards.'

  'You heard a scream.' he reminded her quietly. 'I don't want to assume the worst, but it will be easier to search the area in daylight.'

  'I'm going down there.' she replied stubbornly.

  Before he could grab her arm she had scrambled down the wet grassy bank to the edge of the creek. He looked back quickly. Marler was crouched further back on the footpath, Armalite held at the ready, scanning the whole marshland. Butler and Nield were similarly crouched, spaced well out. Their rear was safe. He scrambled down after her.

  'I can't understand it,' Paula said, half to herself.

  She was gazing at the empty hull, moving the beam back and forth. Newman stood beside her, began playing the beam of his own flash over a wider area. The beam passed over another nearby creek, then swivelled slowly back.

  'Go and join Harry and Pete,' he advised in a sombre tone. 'Tell Marler to come and join me now.'

  'Whatever it is I must see it. I'm a big girl now. So, what is it?'

  Newman switched off his flash. Tucking it inside the pocket of windcheater, he cupped his hands to call out to Marler.

  'Leave Harry and Pete where they are. Come down here quickly...

  'What is it, for God's sake?'

  Paula tugged at his sleeve in frustration. He ignored her until Marler had joined them. As always, Marler was calm and controlled.

  'Something up? If so, what? If I may be so bold as to enquire.'

  'Come with me. Stay back, Paula ...'

  Switching on his flash, he trod carefully at the edge of the marsh towards the next isolated creek. Marler kept close to his heels and Paula followed him. Newman stopped, looked back at Paula, shook his head in resignation, aimed his flash.

  At the edge of the creek of stagnant water covered with green slime were the relics of a rowing boat. Most of its structure had rotted away and it was half buried in mud. The basic structure stood out like the ribs of a prehistoric beast. Reeds had recently been torn up and thrown over the ruin. Newman steadied his torch. Paula gasped, then got a grip on herself. At the prow nearest to them a pair of training shoes projected, toes pointed at the sky. Newman knew the trainers had to be occupied by a pair of feet.

  Marler moved forward after handing his Armalite to Newman. He used his bare hands to remove the mess of reeds carefully from the stern. By the light of Newman's steady beam they saw dark hair exposed, a white blotchy face staring upwards, the tongue protruding horribly from the half-open mouth. Marler continued removing more reeds, exposing the torso clad in a dark blue windcheater. Then the boat lost balance, toppled the corpse out sideways.

  A macabre movement, the body rolled as though alive, ended up on its back, lying on damp reeds. Paula sucked in her breath. By the light of Newman's flash Marler bent over the pathetic figure clad in denims below the windcheater.

  'Ifs Karin,' Paula whispered. 'She's dead, isn't she?'

  'Fear so.' Marler answered quietly. 'Dead as a doornail.' he added under his breath.

  'How did she ...' Paula began.

  'Strangled.' Marler replied.

  The flashlight focused on the girl's bruised, swollen throat. The protruding tongue flopped over the lower lip. Newman put his arm round Paula, forced her back up to the footpath on the embankment.

  'We'd better get back to the car. I need my mobile phone to call the police.'

  'You've forgotten - I've got one.'

  Paula pulled her own instrument from underneath her windcheater. She handed it to Newman as she stood very still, staring down where Marler, realizing he could do no more, had stood up, was brushing stray reeds off his raincoat.

  'Then I can call from here.' Newman said, taking hold of the phone.

  'You won't know the number.'

  'On the way I stopped briefly at a call box, checked the number of Ipswich police headquarters. Your message to Park Crescent mentioned a scream which was choked off. I suspected we might face something like this.'

  He pressed buttons after extending the aerial. He had to wait a minute before the desk sergeant answered. 'I want to report a murder. Location ...'

  Part One Nightmare for Paula

  Chapter One

  'I sense a crisis situation in Germany.' Tweed said, to take his mind off his anxiety about Paula. He paced the floor of his first-floor office at the Park Crescent HQ.

  The Deputy Director of the SIS was of medium height, well built, ageless. He wore horn-rims and could pass people in the street without being noticed - a trait which had so often helped him in his job.

  The only other occupant was his faithful assistant, Monica. A middle-aged woman with her grey hair tied in a bun, she sat behind her desk as her chief continued. He checked his watch. 10 p.m.

  'Thank God Paula is safe. That call from Newman was brief. If she's injured he'd keep it from me until they get back here. I wonder what happened up in Suffolk.'

  'You'll hear when she gets back and tells you. What made you use the word crisis about Germany?'

  'The urgent call from Chief Inspector Kuhlmann of the German Kriminalpolizei. His request for me to meet him in the utmost secrecy in three days' time in Luxembourg City. Why there? I could have flown to his HQ in Wiesbaden.'

  'Again, you'll only know when you meet him.'

  'What could have gone wrong in Suffolk?' Tweed repeated. 'Paula only dashed off up there because she knows I am investigating the disturbing rumours from France. Karin Rosewater told her she was on the track of a connection with the rising chaos in the French Republic. What connection could there be between Suffolk and France?'

  'Maybe all three situations are linked.' Monica suggested. 'Suffolk, France, and this trip to see Kuhlmann.'

  'That I find in the realms of fantasy.'

  It was a remark he was to regret later. The phone rang, Monica took the call, look
ed pleased, said come up now.

  'Paula, Newman, and Marler have arrived...'

  'Bob must have driven his Merc to the limit...'

  As the trio came into the room Tweed noticed Paula's grim expression. Nodding to him she said nothing as she sagged at her desk. Marler perched on the edge of her desk, giving her moral support. Newman threw his windcheater over the back of a chair, sat down, began to talk while Monica hurried out to make coffee. Tweed leaned back in his swivel chair, listened without interruption, glancing occasionally at Paula.

  '... so, after we found the body I called Ipswich police.' Newman continued. 'We left Butler and Nield to show the police the location when they arrived. We took Paula to the local hotel, the Brudenell, booked a room so she could have a hot bath, then drove straight back here. That's it.'

  'Not quite all, I suspect.' Tweed looked at Paula. 'I must first say how very sorry I am about the fate of your friend, Karin Rosewater.'

  'It was cold-blooded murder. I'm all right now. The hot bath revived me. Like you, I'm an owl, so we can get on with it now. You'll have questions.'

  'Why did Karin come over to see you?'