Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'Don't drop a large stone.' de Forge warned and smiled his cold smile. 'You might hit the prisoner.'

  'Prisoner?'

  'This is the punishment well. If a soldier fails to carry out an order - or doesn't perform up to scratch on the obstacle course - he spends some time down the punishment well. A defaulter is now suspended just above the stagnant water.'

  'Why two ropes?'

  'One is attached round his neck like a noose. It has a special adjustable slip knot which can be tightened or loosened from here. He is in no danger. Just a touch of terror.'

  'And the second rope?' Newman asked in a tight voice.

  'Attached to a harness round his chest. The main support between the defaulter and eternity. Later he will be hauled up by the harness rope.'

  'And that gauge?' Newman persisted.

  'That tells us how close to the water the prisoner has been lowered.'

  Newman peered over the rim into the black hole. It was so dark he could see no sign of the poor devil hanging in space. He heard an engine sound. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Major Lamy arrive in another jeep-like vehicle, the sardonic officer crouched over the wheel like a bird of prey.

  De Forge strode over to him. There was a brief conversation. Lamy picked up a microphone. An aerial extended upwards automatically. Lamy was speaking into the mike, then replaced it and drove away. De Forge strode back.

  'You see now how we have built the most powerful army in Europe.'

  'I think it's barbaric ...'

  Nothing further was said between the two men while de Forge drove Newman back to GHQ. The sinister outriders, wearing tinted goggles, accompanied them. Racing up to the entrance, de Forge stopped with a jerk which would have hurled Newman to the ground had he not been prepared for just such a manoeuvre. De Forge stared straight ahead as he spoke.

  'You leave here.'

  Newman jumped out, de Forge raced into GHQ through the gates which had been opened at his approach. Walking towards his parked Citroen, Newman had to pass between the circle of outriders who had remained. Behind tinted glasses unseen eyes stared at him. Careful not to touch a motorcycle, he slipped through a gap, took out his key and inserted it into the lock of the Citroen.

  The key did not slip in easily as it had done earlier. Newman grunted, punctuating his thought. He opened the door, slipped behind the wheel, closed the door, started the engine. The accelerator seemed slower to respond. He drove off, waited until he had rounded two distant bends, well clear of GHQ, parked on the grass verge.

  Getting out, he extracted his pencil flash, crawled under the chassis, examined it carefully. No sign of a bomb. It would have been a bomb activated by remote radio control - he had realized earlier there would be no danger of an explosion with the motoryclists so dose. I'm getting paranoid, he thought. De Forge is just an egomaniac who likes to show off.

  He drove on towards Bordeaux. Five minutes later, moving along the deserted road, he saw a black Berliet van, a large wide vehicle, appear in his rear-view mirror. The type of vehicle used by the CRS, the French paramilitary police brought in to quell mob violence. Surely de Forge hadn't managed to persuade them to become his allies? Then he recalled the phoney DST men who had taken Francis Carey from the Bar Miami. Had the vehicle been hijacked?

  It was closing up on him rapidly, huge in his mirror. In the cab sat the driver and two men wearing Balaclavas which concealed their faces. One held what looked like a long truncheon. Standard CRS equipment for beating back a seething mob.

  Newman had an excellent memory for routes. He had only to drive along a new complex route once to be able to remember every detail on the return trip. He rammed his foot down and again there wasn't the normal reaction he'd experienced when driving out to the GHQ, the same burst of speed.

  Newman knew exactly what had happened. He recalled the change in de Forge's manner when he had refused to accept the 'off the record' condition imposed so belatedly. The arrival of the cynical Lamy, de Forge's conversation with him, Lamy's use of the radio to send back a message. They had used skeleton keys to open his car, had tampered with the accelerator. He glanced in the mirror again. The black Berliet van was moving like a shell from a gun, was almost in his boot.

  He pressed his foot all the way down, coaxed more speed out of the damaged mechanism. Newman swung round a bend, sped on, recognizing exactly where he was. Could he reach the bridge in time? It would be a matter of seconds. No bookmaker would give odds on him for this race for survival.

  The two Balaclava-masked passengers in the cab leaned forward. Newman could sense their savage eagerness to get at him. The gap between the two vehicles had temporarily widened with his recent pressure on the accelerator. Two more bends.

  The Berliet was closing the gap again, filling his rearview mirror like a mobile hulk. He swung round the first bend, his foot pressed down with all his strength. Ahead lay the last bend. It seemed to creep towards him as the Berliet almost touched his rear bumper. He swung the wheel, negotiated the last bend and the narrow hump-backed stone bridge was a hundred yards away. Newman tightened his grip on the wheel, forced himself to ignore the mirror.

  On his outward journey he had slowed to cross the narrow bridge, just sliding both sides of the car between the stone walls without scraping the Citroen. Now he had to judge in centimetres, taking the bridge at a belting speed. He risked a brief final glance in the mirror. The Berliet was about to ram him. The wheels of the Citroen mounted the near side of the hump-back, raced over the crest. The solid stone walls flashed past him in a blur. He gripped the wheel more firmly as he felt the Citroen descending. He almost lost control but his nerve held. He was beyond the bridge.

  hi his rear-view mirror he saw the Berliet reach the bridge. Because he'd had plenty of time Newman had not taken the main road to Third Corps GHQ; he had driven along a more devious route to see the vineyards and maybe a château. The driver of the Berliet saw the bridge too late. The wide van roared up the near side, metal screaming as it grated against the stone. The van stopped abruptly, jammed between the walls. The left-hand wall broke under the pressure, fell into the gorge below and took with it a portion of the floor of the bridge. The Berliet swayed, hung tilted at an angle over the drop for a fraction of a second, then followed the wall, turning over in mid-air, smashing into the rock-strewn gorge with a noise like a bomb detonating.

  Newman stopped the Citroen, jumped out, climbed a bank which gave him a view down into the gorge. The Berliet lay motionless. Nothing moved. No one emerged from the metal coffin.

  Newman shrugged, got back behind the wheel and drove on to Bordeaux. When Tweed heard he was flying to the city he had given him the address of Isabelle Thomas, Francis Carey's girlfriend. It was time someone paid her a visit to see how she was bearing up - and perhaps gain more information.

  Chapter Five

  The first surprise Tweed and Paula had when they arrived in Geneva at the Hotel des Bergues was the sight of Chief Inspector Kuhlmann sitting reading a newspaper in a chair near reception. He had arrived much earlier than they'd expected.

  The second surprise was his reaction. He glanced up and then ignored them, turning to a fresh page of his paper. Paula looked at Tweed.

  'Don't say a word to him.' he warned. 'And don't look at him again ...'

  Tweed registered for his room. When Paula followed his example Tweed wondered why she stood well back as she filled in the form. The receptionist handed her a key.

  'What room did you say?' she asked in a loud voice. 'I have left my reading glasses behind.'

  'Room Number 135,' the receptionist repeated in an equally carrying voice.

  Tweed hurried to her room as soon as he had swiftly unpacked. Her room was also a large double - the only rooms Monica had been able to reserve. Situated at a corner overlooking the rue du Mont-Blanc on one side and the river itself across the street where the main entrance was located, it was more like a suite.

  'Very deluxe,' Paula glowed. 'And look a
t the lights across the river.'

  Beyond the uncurtained windows neon of various colours illuminated the distant buildings in the dark, the signs reflected like coloured snakes in the water. Tweed nodded appreciation, his thoughts eleswhere.

  'Otto Kuhlmann has already phoned me,' Paula went on. 'He asked when we would be leaving for dinner, said he'd be waiting in the lobby, then rang off abruptly.'

  'He's acting mysteriously. Maybe he's going to join us so I think we need somwhere discreet.'

  'I'd already caught on to that. I hope you don't mind, but after his call I booked a corner table for three at Les Armures. It's a fashionable restaurant in the Old Town, near the Cathedral. I hope you approve.'

  'An excellent choice. Do you want to change?'

  'I want food. I'm hungry. And I sense Otto is wanting to see us urgently. He used that word when he called me.'

  'Put on your coat and let's move...'

  Kuhlmann standing just outside the entrance, wearing a black overcoat and a black wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his broad forehead. Short in stature, he had very wide shoulders, a large head and reminded Paula once more of old films she'd seen of Edward G. Robinson. The same tough face, firm mouth, the suggestion of great physical and mental strength. Again he ignored them as he stood under the canopy, peering to left and right as though waiting for someone else.

  Paula approached the Mercedes cab which drove forward. As the driver darted to open a rear door for her she spoke in a clear penetrating voice.

  'Could you take us to Les Armures, please? It's a restaurant in the Old Town near the Cathedral.'

  'I know it well, Madame...'

  She settled back in the warmth of the car with Tweed beside her as the car left the kerb. It had been freezing cold even during the short time she had stood on the pavement. A raw east wind was blowing from off the lake - probably from Siberia, she thought.

  'I hope he caught on.' she whispered.

  'Oh, he'd catch on, if that is his idea...'

  Crossing the wide Rhone bridge, the car followed a zigzag course to the restaurant. It had begun to drizzle. The cobbled streets had a greasy shine under the glow of the street lamps. The Old City was perched on a hill facing the main part of Geneva across the river. It rose steeply, climbing to the summit, the Cathedral. The car continued its swerving pace round hairpin bends between rows of old houses huddled together. Tweed glanced at Paula.

  Her reaction to the dreadful experience in Suffolk had been remarkable. The way she had taken command of the situation back at the hotel, relaying to Kuhlmann her room number. And later when they left she had cleverly informed him of their destination.

  He knew what she was attempting and admired her for it. She was proving to him that despite her ordeal she was capable of doing her job.

  Paula stared out of the window as the Mercedes continued its endless ascent of the narrow cobbled streets. At night the Old City had a sinister atmosphere. No one about. Shadowed alleyways and the occasional flight of precipitous staircases.

  The Mercedes slowed, stopped close to a narrow street running alongside a large raised platform supporting old cannons. The driver twisted round to speak.

  'It is only a short walk under the Arsenal,' he said, indicating the platform.

  'I know,' Tweed said and paid him.

  The driver ran to open the rear door, Paula stepped out, followed by Tweed who stood in the drizzle, pulling up his overcoat collar as the Mercedes drove off. He appeared to be listening to the heavy silence which had fallen.

  'Trouble?' Paula enquired, sheltering on the platform.

  'No. I wanted to make sure we hadn't been followed. 'Let's get inside and hope Kuhlmann joins us...'

  Les Armures, 1 Puits-St-Pierre, showed a welcoming glow of light behind old windows. They entered through a revolving door, passed a bar with wood-topped stools. Paula revelled in the sudden warmth, took off her coat and handed it to a waiter who hurried forward. The room was packed with tables, most of them occupied. A babble of voices mingled with the clink of glasses.

  'You have a table for three. The name is Grey.' Paula told the waiter who was relieving Tweed of his coat.

  As the waiter escorted them Paula had a glimpse through an archway into another room, the Salle des Artistes. Elephant tusks decorated the wall of the inner room. Paula had requested a secluded table and they were shown to a corner table with crossed muskets on the wall. She sat in a chair, leaving the corner chair for their guest while Tweed occupied the flanking seat.

  'This place is just as I remember it,' Paula remarked before studying the large menu. 'And still popular.'

  'A good place to talk.' Tweed replied.

  The warmth, the babble of voices created an atmosphere of people enjoying themselves. Mostly locals, Tweed judged. He was studying the menu when Paula saw Otto Kuhlmann enter. He paused by the bar, scanning the crowded room. She guessed he had checked the faces of everyone in the room before he handed over his coat and hat and joined them in the corner chair.

  'I had company.' the German began in English, explaining his precautions. 'A motorcyclist tagged my cab.'

  'How did you shake him?' Tweed asked.

  'By directing my cab to stop at the tunnel of steps below the Cathedral. Then I ran up the steps and he was unable to follow on his machine. He's lost.'

  'Something to drink.' Tweed suggested.

  'Let's start with Kir Royale.' Paula said promptly and Kuhlmann nodded agreement as he produced his trademark, a large cigar.

  'Down to business. I hope you don't mind the cigar - I have denied myself since leaving Wiesbaden, hoping to avoid identification. Somewhere I slipped up - but the people we are dealing with are ruthless and thorough.'

  He paused while Tweed gave the drinks order. They were served almost at once. Paula drank half the mix of champagne and blackcurrant liqueur, put down her glass.

  'I needed that. Now, Otto. And do smoke your cigar.'

  'As I said on the phone, Tweed, a crisis is building in the new Germany. We have a dangerous enemy we can't locate. Extreme elements of the Paris press are painting a picture of an aggressive Germany which wishes to take revenge on France for historic defeats.'

  'That's ridiculous, Otto,' Tweed protested. 'We know Germany has the most peaceful intentions of any nation in Europe.'

  'True, but there is a brilliantly orchestrated campaign to portray us as dangerous.'

  'Under the present Chancellor? That's absurd.'

  'I know. The propaganda is insidious, worthy of the infamous Goebbels. It is suggested a new Bismarck may take over later. That he will want to take back from France Alsace-Lorraine - which Germany annexed in 1871.'

  'Surely such an obvious lie can be countered.'

  'There is more.' Kuhlmann drank the rest of his Kir Royale, paused while Paula ordered another round. 'I have to tell you there is a new underground movement being organized by someone outside Germany. Organized in cells made up of terrorists. Where they are coming in from we can't trace. It is called the Siegfried movement. And has extreme right-wing characteristics. We know arms and explosives are being smuggled in and stored for future use on a large scale. Again, we can't detect the source.'

  'You must have some idea who is behind this conspiracy,' Tweed said quietly.

  'As I said earlier, certain extremist elements of the Paris press are stoking the fires.' He puffed at his cigar as they ordered food, said he would have the same. 'All this is very confidential, you will have realized. Even more top secret is the fact that I've travelled here as the personal representative of the Chancellor.'

  Paula stared at him over the rim of her second Kir Royale. With his thick dark hair, equally dark eyebrows, his wide mouth clamped tight on his cigar, Kuhlmann looked very grim.

  'I see, Otto.' Tweed said quietly. 'Have you an idea of the view of the President of France?'

  'He can't believe there is any such conspiracy. He is extremely annoyed at what certain French newspapers have said. He
thinks it best not to comment - that would draw more attention to their aggressive statements. Also, he has his own problems.'

  'Which ones are you referring to?' Tweed pressed.

  'The growing popularity of this new party, Pour France. They advocate deporting all foreigners - Algerians, etc. That strikes a chord with many and he doesn't know how to react.'

  'So I come back to my earlier question. Who exactly in France is behind this conspiracy, all these lies about Germany?'

  'Emile Dubois, driving force behind Pour France, is one, I would guess. But there are disturbing rumours that some Cabinet Ministers in Paris support Dubois secretly. There is a fog over France and it is very difficult to penetrate it, to find out what is really happening. Which is why I have taken the enormous risk of sending in an agent secretly to investigate.'

  The emince de veau Zurichoise with rosti had been served after Kuhlmann had revealed his role as representative of the German Chancellor. Now Paula sat very still, food poised on her fork. She was wondering whether Tweed would tell Otto about Francis Carey. 'Define the risk for me,' Tweed said.

  'Supposing he was caught, his mission exposed. Can you imagine what the French press would make of it? German Secret Agent Spies On France. I could write the headlines myself.'

  'You must be - determined - to take that risk.'