by Colin Forbes
'She knew I was employed by what she thought was a highly organized security service. She didn't know I was SIS, of course. She said she had been asked by what she called the authorities to investigate the deteriorating situation in France. She asked me to go with her to Dunwich in Suffolk. A tiny scrap of a village down the coast below Southwold.'
'I know Dunwich. Why there?'
'Then you probably know most of Dunwich is buried under the sea - erosion over the years. At her suggestion we hired wetsuits and drove up there. Some organization is exploring underwater, trying to locate and map this sunken village. I thought she was crazy, asked her why. She said she couldn't say but would I help? She said there was a connection with what is happening in France.'
'Did she elaborate on that odd remark?'
'No. I was going to pump her later during dinner but as it turned out...' She paused, swallowed. 'Karin phoned ahead before we left London to someone she knew in Southwold. When we arrived at Aldeburgh a seaman was waiting for us with a rubber dinghy with a powerful outboard engine. Karin took us up the coast over a calm sea until we were opposite Dunwich, then cut the engine and we went over there in our wetsuits.'
'How far offshore?' asked Newman.
Paula drank half the large mug of coffee Monica had served. 'About half a mile, maybe less.'
'Go on.' urged Tweed. 'Anyone else about when you arrived?'
'Absolutely no one. There was a long rope curled up in the dinghy with an iron hook at one end, the other attached to the dinghy. Karin threw it overboard, then said we could find our way back up to the dinghy fast if we had to. And by God, later we had to.'
'What happened underwater?' Tweed prodded.
'To start with it was fascinating. Horribly cold but there are surprisingly well-preserved relics of the sunken village. Even an old church tower, which was upright, which I thought strange. We swam among the relics and the rocks and then I thought I saw a great white whale. I nearly jumped out of my wetsuit but it remained quite motionless, as though it was anchored. That was when the floating cavalry appeared - men in wetsuits, one with a knife between his teeth.'
'You mean they were hostile?' Marler drawled.
'I mean they were trying to kill us, for God's Sake. We managed to evade them by swimming fast among the relics. Karin led me to where the iron hook rested - she'd attached it to a window in the church. We shinned up the rope, climbed back into the dinghy and had the shock of our lives.'
'Have more coffee,' Tweed advised.
He was watching closely for signs of reaction. She'd had a punishing experience and he was ready to send her home. But she seemed determined to tell her story.
Even under stress, she was attractive. In her early thirties, she had raven-black hair, good bone structure, was slim with an excellent figure and of medium height. She put down her mug.
'The sea was no longer deserted. Not far from our dinghy a large vessel was floating. Weird. I've never seen anything like it. Beautiful lines but something sinister about it. Not like an ordinary ship.'
'Hovercraft?' Newman suggested.
'Absolutely not. High out of the water. Something odd about the hull.'
'Hydrofoil?' Marler queried.
'No!' She waved an impatient hand. 'I know what both look like. The hull seemed to be split in two.'
'Why not tell us what happened next?' Tweed coaxed.
Three of the men in wetsuits came up to the surface close to the dinghy- Karin slashed the anchor rope, I started up the outboard, and we beat the hell south for Aldeburgh.'
'Why go all that way?' Tweed asked.
'Because I'd left the car in a public car park just outside Aldeburgh near the marshes. I thought we could just make it before night came. Luckily we had a good start on the hunters. When we reached the beach at Aldeburgh we had another shock.'
'More coffee.' Monica had refilled her mug. Paula had another drink of the hot, soothing liquid. Eyes half closed, Tweed waited and watched her as she continued.
That peculiar ship had caught up with us. Again it was lying about half a mile out as we hit the beach. We saw them lowering dinghies with outboard motors as dusk came. No one was about. We stripped off our wetsuits, dropped them on the beach and pulled on our everyday clothes we'd left there. The dinghies were closing in when we started running for the car park. I glanced back and saw them scrambling ashore - this time men wearing Balaclavas and carrying rifles. No time to get the car open and started. I ran faster than Karin, heading across the marshes for the copse of firs...'
Sipping more coffee, her voice lowered as she described the last horrific scenes - Karin making the mistake of fleeing for a boat, the dreadful scream...
'Shouldn't we stop now till the morning?'
Tweed made the suggestion as Paula paused for a couple of minutes, staring into space.
'No. Ask me questions. Please. I don't went to be alone yet. It helps me to talk.'
'As you wish. Tell me something about Karin Rosewater. Why the mix of nationalities in her name?'
'She's married to an Englishman, Victor. He's a captain with the British Army in Germany. Military Intelligence. He's liaison officer at a Nato air base near Freiburg in southern Germany. Has an apartment in Freiburg.'
'And Karin was German?'
'Her mother was French, her father German. She's from Colmar in Alsace.'
'Everything close to the Swiss border.' Tweed mused.
'What's the significance of that?' Paula asked.
'Probably nothing. Just a geographical comment. Were you close friends?'
'Yes and no. I met her during that holiday I took in Germany. We got on well. Seemed to be on the same waveband. We agreed to keep in touch.'
'Exactly how and where did you meet?'
Tweed was becoming intrigued. He felt something important was eluding him.
'At a party at the air base. Lots of people there. Oh, I've just remembered. Otto Kuhlmann was there. We had a long chat. He explained he was there on duty, but didn't say why.'
'What about her husband, Victor? You met him?'
'Yes.' Paula pulled a face. 'I didn't like him too much. I'm not sure why.' She stifled a yawn, just not my type, I suppose.'
'And while you were with Karin over here did she tell you what "authorities" - that was the word you used - had asked her to investigate the deteriorating situation in France?'
'No. She didn't refer to it again. And afterwards we were preoccupied with what happened.'
'When you first met her did you get any inkling whether she had some sort of job?'
'No, I didn't. I thought she was a housewife. I feel I'm being interrogated. Not that I mind. But that's how it feels.' She managed a wan smile.
'You are being interrogated. You may know more than you think you do. Now, it's late. I really think you ought to go home. Marler, would you escort her?'
'My pleasure. You've really put her through the mill.'
'That's all right.' Paula assured him as she stood up and slipped on her windcheater which had been drying on the radiator where Monica had placed it. 'There's something funny going on, isn't there? I don't just mean the brutal murder of Karin - that is bad enough. But why was she interested in the underwater exploration of a sunken village?'
'You need sleep. Don't worry about it. You've done wonderfully well in a desperate situation.'
It was unusual for Tweed to pay her such a compliment. She smiled gratefully, said goodnight, and left the room with Marler.
'There is something funny about this whole business,' Newman said grimly, repeating Paula's thought.
He was alone with Monica and Tweed, who had resumed pacing slowly round the large room. He was frowning and Monica kept quiet, knowing he was thinking hard.
'You're right, Bob,' Tweed said eventually. 'One key question I'd like to know the answer to - were those killers trying to liquidate only Karin, or Paula as well? The answer to that would tell me not only what happened. But why.'
'
From what she told me in the car they were after both of them,' Newman responded.
'And the other mystery is what is the link between Suffolk and France? Karin told Paula she was hired by authorities to report on the French situation. Also, who owns that strange ship - and what kind of a vessel could it be?'
'Lots of questions.' Monica commented, 'and absolutely no answers.'
Tweed paused, looked down at Newman. 'You left Butler and Nield to cope with the police. What story will they tell them?'
'I covered that carefully, not knowing what we'd got ourselves into. I had to warn them to tell the truth - up to a point. That Paula and Karin were interested in underwater exploration, that they travelled to Dunwich in the outboard, went under the sea, were chased by men with knives, fled back to Aldeburgh where they'd left their car, hadn't time to use the car so they fled over the marshes.'
'So far, so good. It covers all the evidence the police will unearth. The two wetsuits left on the beach, the abandoned outboard. Even the car parked near the marshes.'
'I had to think fast and that's the way I thought. But I left out this business of Karin investigating the situation building up in France, that she was working for someone unknown. You'd better warn Paula in the morning - she's bound to be interviewed by the police soon.'
'I'll call her tonight by the time she's just reached her flat in Putney. Just in case they discover her address and tackle her there.'
Tweed resumed his slow pacing, hands clasped behind his back. Monica realized he was staring into space.
'What's on your mind?' she enquired after a moment.
'Those men in Balaclava helmets - with guns and savage dogs. That suggests a high degree of organization. I just wonder who is behind all this, who is their employer. Bob, while I'm in Luxembourg City, would you please drive back to Aldeburgh, make a few discreet enquiries. Don't forget Dunwich. The trouble started there. Why?'
'I might take Paula with me. She needs some action to get her mind off her awful experience.'
'I may need to leave her here.' Tweed paused. 'There is something you don't know. I've sent the new man, Francis Carey, into France to nose around.'
'After only six months with the SIS?' Newman sounded doubtful. 'Has he enough experience in case he walks into a dangerous situation? What qualifications has he for such a mission?'
'His father was English but his mother French. He spent part of his childhood in Bordeaux. He can pass easily for a Frenchman. He's cautious by nature, but persistent. He's attractive to women - Paula would confirm that. So he'll probably pick up a girlfriend. A couple is less conspicuous than a single man.'
Theoretically, it sounds a perfect choice.' Newman shook his head. 'But I've met him, talked to him. In an emergency I think he could panic.'
'I wish you hadn't said that...'
'Which means you don't disagree.'
'Well, he's there now with a transmitter. He's sent several coded reports from the Bordeaux region. There are serious and growing riots - over the issue of deporting foreign immigrants. Someone is stirring up hatred of the Algerians, for a start. There is a lot of talk in the bars that men high up are plotting a coup. I might just know when I get back from Luxembourg City. In the meantime we'd better get some rest. Tomorrow may hold some unpleasant news. I just have that feeling...'
Chapter Two
The following evening it was bitterly cold in the old city of Bordeaux, a port situated inland on the wide Garonne river. In the Bar Miami Francis Carey looked at his watch. 10.30 p.m. Soon he'd be able to go off duty and hurry back to his cheap apartment.
He had got himself a job as barman at the Miami, which was always crowded, after making casual enquiries about the place in his fluent French. It was one of several bars he'd checked out before taking the job. He had heard this bar was popular with low-ranking officers of the French Army who regularly patronized the Miami.
At that hour - and because of the weather - the long room parallel to the bar was packed. Every chair and stool was occupied, many stood with their drinks. The noise was deafening as Frenchmen talked and joked. Carey, a thin man in his late twenties, with dark hair and a long lean face, polished glasses rapidly for new customers as he mentally wrestled with two problems.
He had found himself a French girlfriend, Isabelle Thomas. She had a job in an advertising agency, long titian hair, a pallid complexion, a good figure she liked to display to advantage. She appeared to have fallen for him heavily, which had not been his hope when he picked her up as good cover. And any moment now she would walk in so he could take her out for a quick meal. He dreaded her arrival. And he wanted to postpone their date.
Returning to his modest apartment in a large old block on the rue Georges Bonnac after a shopping trip that morning, he'd detected traces of the place being searched. The compact transmitter he used to send coded signals to Park Crescent had been concealed inside a battered old suitcase hidden on the top of the huge museum piece of a wardrobe. Before leaving for the supermarket in the Meriadeck Centre Commercial, a vast newish concrete complex, he'd attached a hair to the suitcase. When he returned he'd had trouble opening the door. His first suspicion that something was wrong.
A closer check on the apartment inside confirmed his suspicions. The hair half-inserted inside the suitcase had vanished. At first he'd assumed Madame Argoud, the mean old biddy who ran the pension, had been nosy. But Argoud was short and fat. Carey was tall and still had had to stand on a chair to reach the suitcase pushed out of sight on top of the wardrobe.
Now he was wondering whether he should have packed up, left the pension that morning and moved to another part of the sprawling city. All his training with SIS had emphasized this point. You never take one single unnecessary risk in hostile territory. You act to remove the risk instantly...
Had he left it too late? Continuing to polish glasses at speed, he checked over the crowded room again. No one who seemed out of place. And had he been wise to trust Isabelle to send the message if anything happened to him? 'If I disappear and don't phone you,' as he had put it.
Two Army lieutenants came in, walked straight to the bar, ordered drinks. He served them as they talked, paid, and drank.
'Soon we'll be drinking in Paris, Anton. They say the women there are quite something.'
'Paris? You mean on leave? We haven't any due.'
'So they haven't told you? Well, I am in a specialist unit. Forget what I said.'
The officer turned to stare at Carey. The barman was using a cloth to wipe the counter.
'Haven't seen you here before.' the lieutenant said.
'It's a new job,' Carey answered easily. 'My girlfriend moved, so I moved to be closer to her.'
'And I'll bet you're very close to her at night!'
The officer grinned lewdly, finished his drink, the two men left. An odd remark that - about Paris - Carey thought. I'll quote it in my next signal. He froze as he saw Isabelle pushing her way through the crowd towards him, a wide smile on her full red lips. A fat man leaning on the bar belched and Carey forced himself not to show repugnance. A mixed stench of garlic and anisette turned his stomach. He'd gone off French smells after his years in England. Isabelle perched on a stool and he poured her a Pernod.
'Will you be free soon?' she asked eagerly. 'I know a small restaurant where we can get a super meal.'
'Pay for your drink. The boss is looking. I'll give it to you later.'
'No need. You can buy the dinner. Here it is.'
Further along the counter the chief barman, a short fat man with greasy hair, a long moustache and a stomach which bulged against his apron noted the transaction with satisfaction. No free drinks in his bar - not even for Henri's bedmate.
'Just a few more minutes and we can go,' Carey said, automatically polishing the counter.
He glanced at the door, wondering why a hush had descended on the room. Everyone was looking at two men who had just entered. Both wore belted grey trench coats with wide lapels, trilby hats
pulled down over their foreheads, and dark glasses. Why in winter and at night would they sport tinted glasses? Carey was suddenly afraid as they pushed their way steadily towards him.
'Get well away from me, Isabelle.' he ordered. 'No questions. Just move - and take your glass with you.'
Unlike some women she did exactly what he told her to without asking any questions. She had melted into the crowd by the time the two men reached the bar opposite Carey. The crowd, still silent, continued to watch their backs.
'DST.' The taller of the two heavily built men flashed a folder. 'You are Henri Bayle?'
DST. Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire - French counter-espionage. And they had the name he had assumed, the name on his papers skilfully forged in the Engine Room in the basement at Park Crescent. He nearly produced his papers to confirm his identity and then decided that would be a mistake at this stage. He continued polishing the counter as he replied.
'That's me. What can I do for you?'
'You are coming with us. For interrogation. Where is your jacket and coat?'
'I only have a jacket. It's out at the back. I'll go and fetch it.'
'Stay where you are,' the taller man snapped. He looked at the chief barman who had edged close. 'Go and bring this man's jacket. He's leaving with us...'