by Colin Forbes
Jean Burgoyne was an attractive Englishwoman whose vitality had appealed to de Forge when he met her at a government reception in Paris. He always felt need of her when he had made a speech.
As Lamy drove him to the villa the Chief of Intelligence glanced at his chief. De Forge was staring ahead, presenting his famous profile to his subordinate.
'That reference, General, to friends in Paris was a clever remark. Most confidence-inspiring. And true.'
'What would not have been clever would have been a reference to an even stronger ally. General Lapointe, next to myself the most important member of the Cercle Noir.'
'Lapointe is vital.' Lamy agreed.
French military power rested on the force de frappe, the formidable group of long-distance rockets deep in silos on a plateau to the east. And the rockets were armed with nuclear warheads.
One of the soldiers who had listened most closely to de Forge's address did not immediately return to barracks with his comrades. Lieutenant Berthier, protected against the Siberian cold, walked by himself across the parade ground. As he strode along Berthier repeated to himself the speech he had listened to word by word. He had an excellent memory but wished to be sure every sentence was imprinted on his brain. When the time came for him to report the contents of the speech he wanted to be word perfect.
Tweed moved fast the following morning. Paula found herself sitting next to him aboard Flight SR951 - bound from Geneva for Basle, the Swiss city at the north-west tip of the country where the French border meets the German frontier.
The flight took off promptly at 7.10 a.m., was due to touch down at 7.55. Paula glanced behind them, saw the seats were empty, as were the seats in front. No damn wonder: they'd had to get up at five in the morning. She still kept her voice low.
'Now will you tell me why - instead of flying direct to Paris to see Lasalle of the DST - we're first meeting Victor Rosewater in Basle?'
'Because he was Karin's husband.'
Paula gritted her teeth. The previous night she had phoned Rosewater at his apartment in Freiburg, asking if she could meet him in Basle, that maybe he'd like to hear from her exactly what had happened to his dead wife as she'd been with Karin. Rosewater had agreed at once and they'd arranged to see each other at the Hotel Drei Konige. Now, from Tweed's terse reply, she realized he was going to tell her nothing more after instructing her to make the call the previous evening. What was Tweed playing at?
'After we've seen Rosewater we'll fly straight on to Paris.' Tweed remarked. 'When you'd fixed up this meeting with Rosewater I called René Lasalle in Paris. He seemed very anxious to see me at the earliest possible moment. Events appear to be moving out of control. Confirming Kuhlmann's worst fears. The momentum of events is gathering pace.'
'What events?'
Tweed handed her a copy of the Journal de Geneve he had bought at the airport. The headline in large type jumped at her. She read it in French but thought of it in English.
SERIOUS RIOTS IN BORDEAUX. 1,000 CASUALTIES.
She read the article below. Large groups of men wearing Balaclava helmets had gone berserk, attacking pedestrians, wrecking shops near the Gare St Jean, painting anti-Semitic slogans on walls. The odd result had been no arrests were made: the police had been taken completely by surprise.
She glanced down out of the window. The aircraft had flown half-way along Lake Geneva, had now swung northwest overland. Below they were crossing the Jura mountains behind Geneva. The range was like a whaleback and its summits were crested with snow. She shivered, handed back the paper.
'What is behind it all?' she asked.
'You should have asked "Who" - and I have no idea.'
She didn't believe him but said nothing. They'd be landing at Basle soon and she was bracing herself for talking to Karin's widower. What on earth could he tell Tweed?
At the isolated villa east of Third Corps GHQ, de Forge, wearing only pyjama trousers, jumped out of bed and ran to the shower. He turned on the cold water tap and stood quite still as ice-cold water sprayed his slim body.
Jean Burgoyne climbed out of the king-size bed more slowly, wrapped a towel round her nude body, opened the door and picked up the newspaper the maid had left on the floor. She perched on the edge of the rumpled bed as she read the headline, looked up as de Forge reappeared, dried himself, swiftly dressed in his uniform. She stood up, still holding the towel with one hand, the newspaper in the other.
Jean Burgoyne was five feet seven, about the same height as de Forge, had blond hair, good bone structure, long well-shaped legs. Her face was also longish with a firm chin and a flawless complexion which owed nothing to make-up. She handed the paper to de Forge. The headline was about the Bordeaux riots.
'Charles, this wouldn't have anything to do with you, would it?' she asked, her glance shrewd.
De Forge glanced at the paper. He dropped it on the deep wall-to-wall carpet. His right arm rose and he struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She reeled backwards under the blow, fell across the bed. The towel dropped, exposing her well-moulded figure. Her eyes stared at his as she reached for the towel, wrapped it round herself again, stood up.
Her voice calm. She even managed a wicked smile.
'Charles, don't ever do that again. You may be a great man, but I doubt whether de Gaulle ever struck a woman in his life. Maybe,' she continued, 'this is why your wife, Josette, wants so little to do with you.'
He took a step forward, his eyes glowing with anger. She raised one warning finger, her voice now little more than a whisper.
'I said never again. I mean it. Now, that creep, Major Lamy, will be freezing outside. Duty calls, mon General.'
He hesitated, unsure whether she was mocking him. Then, turning on his heel, he walked to the door and paused before opening it to leave.
'Jean, I will phone you again when I am available.'
'As you wish...'
But de Forge had gone. Outside the balustraded two-storey stone villa surrounded with evergreens a deluxe Citroen stood parked. Major Lamy was walking up and down, swinging his arms round his body, slapping his gloved hands against his greatcoat. It was even colder than the night before. De Forge glanced at the sky which was a low ceiling of sullen cloud. It looked like a threat of snow coming.
De Forge took the wheel: he loved driving at speed. Lamy sat by his side as de Forge sped down the twisting drive, spurting up showers of gravel until he emerged on to the road. He pressed his foot down as he queried with Lamy the general situation. He was still smarting from Jean's first remark: women were for only one purpose. They should bloody well never ask serious - even dangerous;- questions.
'Exercise General All is ready to start as soon as you reach GHQ.' Lamy informed his chief.
'That's routine. I see we've started in Bordeaux.'
'Only the beginning.' Lamy smiled, twisting his lips. 'More is on the way. Toulon, Marseilles, Toulouse.'
'Then Lyons.' de Forge continued. 'Make it look like the start of an uprising, a revolution. After that,' he said with satisfaction, 'the big one. Paris...'
Back at the Villa Forban Jean Burgoyne sat in front of her dressing table, using a pad of cottonwool dipped wychhazel to apply to where de Forge had struck her. She didn't think there would be a bruise but it was best to take precautions.
'And I think a brief holiday back home in England would be a good tactic,' she mused aloud. 'Charles can fret for me for a while. And I can spend a few days at my uncle's house in Aldeburgh...'
At 8.45 a.m. exactly Tweed hurried inside the Drei Konige - the Three Bongs Hotel - in Basle. Carrying both cases with Paula at his heels, he handed them to the waiting porter, gave him a generous tip, asked him to store them safely.
'Victor's here already,' Paula whispered.
Facing the reception counter inside the main entrance was a well-furnished sitting-room area. A tall, well-built man wearing a German sporting jacket and slacks stood up from a deep leather armchair, came forward to greet
Paula, hugged her, gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Tweed studied the Englishman, who had spoken in German, one of the several languages both Tweed and Paula spoke fluently. Tweed guessed Victor Rosewater was maintaining some kind of cover even in Switzerland.
In his thirties, Tweed estimated, Rosewater had an easy manner, was clean-shaven with the weather-beaten complexion of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had a strong nose, shrewd brown eyes under dark eyebrows and a well-brushed thatch of thick hair. A good-looking man with a powerful personality.
'This is Tweed,' Paula introduced in German. 'He is in security.' she continued, following her chief's earlier instructions. 'Also a good friend.'
'Security?'
Rosewater's eyebrows rose a fraction, asking for further enlightenment.
'Security,' Tweed repeated and left it at that as he shook hands.
Rosewater had large hands, a strong grip. He smiled warmly and nodded, pressing Tweed no further. A natural probe on the part of a man engaged in undercover military intelligence, Tweed thought.
'They have a pleasant dining room overlooking the Rhine.' Rosewater suggested. 'Maybe you would like to take breakfast with me? I drove down the autobahn from Freiburg. It was no distance at all, but I skipped any nourishment. Personally, I'm as hungry as a horse ...'
Tweed knew the room, had stayed at the hotel before, but he made no reference to this. Rosewater led the way to a table by one of the large windows overlooking a closed verandah where in summer the wealthy met for drinks and dinner.
Beyond the verandah the Rhine flowed swiftly, a muddy colour compared with the Rhone at Geneva. A barge train hauled by a stubby tug ploughed slowly upriver against the current. Rosewater sat facing his two guests, made the remark to Paula after breakfast had been ordered.
'I'm coming to terms with Karin's demise.' He glanced at the barge train. 'At least I kid myself I am. I suspect, frankly, I'm still in a state of shock.'
'Do you really want to hear about it now?' Paula asked.
'I think it would help me. My work is putting me under great pressure at the moment...' He looked at Tweed briefly. 'Not entirely divorced from your world of security. I can't make up my mind whether that's helping me or not.' He looked at Paula. 'Just tell me how it happened. What shook me most was when you used the word murder on the phone. Why Karin?'
'That's what we would like to know.' Tweed intervened brusquely and then went silent, eating some of the excellent bread on the table.
Paula had just started talking and then trailed off into silence. She sipped her coffee slowly and took her time spreading jam on a piece of bread. Rosewater had switched his gaze to the far side of the restaurant and Tweed looked quickly in the same direction.
An attractive brunette in her thirties sat by herself at a table by the wall. She had crossed her shapely legs, her skirt sliding above her knees, stroking her tilted leg slowly with one hand as she looked straight at Rosewater. He watched her for a moment with an expressionless face, then stared at Tweed. He gave a broad grin to disguise from the brunette what he was saying.
'I've seen that woman before somewhere. I think I've been tagged, and God knows I'm careful.'
'Maybe she just likes you,' Paula teased him.
Rosewater, she realized, had a personality appealing to many women. He exuded good nature and a sense of fun. Rosewater's voice remained serious.
'I would doubt that. Once is a chance encounter - twice is a danger signal. I don't know whether Paula told you, Tweed, but I'm Military Intelligence.'
'She mentioned it in passing. You don't have to worry. In my job I have to be very discreet. Also at times I have a shocking memory.'
He sipped coffee, leaving the field to Paula. She was in a better position to ask questions. Rosewater persisted in addressing Tweed.
'You said your job was security?'
'Security,' Tweed agreed, and again left it at that.
'Would this be a good moment to tell you what happened in Suffolk?' Paula intervened. 'Or would you sooner not have the details?'
'Tell me everything. I'll feel better for knowing...'
He turned to her, listened with an intent expression as she gave him an edited version, leaving out any reference to ' Park Crescent, as she had with Chief Inspector Buchanan in London. Rosewater, ignoring his breakfast, watched her until she'd concluded.
'... so the police arrived and took charge. Eventually I drove back home to try and get my mind off the whole experience.'
'Did you see the murderer - even though I suppose he wore one of these Balaclavas?' Rosewater asked.
'I had a good view from the treetop. I'm not sure. I was busy trying to hide myself from the men with guns.'
'I see.' He broke a roll, automatically piled butter and marmalade on a chunk, chewed it with a thoughtful expression. 'I think I'll visit Aldeburgh as soon as I can,' he said eventually. 'I was appalled I couldn't attend her funeral. I was involved in a very important check on a possible suspect - a saboteur, I'll call him. That was inside Germany.'
'I was there,' Paula said quietly. 'I laid a wreath for you. Do you want to see her grave?'
'No!' Rosewater showed emotion for the first time. 'I don't think I could bear that. I want to remember Karin as she was. Are the police anywhere near tracking down the swine who killed her?'
'Nowhere near, as far as we know,' Tweed commented. 'I was wondering how you could visit Suffolk, tied down as you are in Germany. You could take leave, I suppose?'
Rosewater dabbed at his strong mouth with his napkin as he glanced across the room at the brunette and looked away. She was still staring at him, tilting her crossed leg provocatively up and down.
'I have a strange job, Tweed. You could call it a roving commission. To locate the people I'm after I can travel anywhere in Europe, often incognito, as now. I shall make it my business to visit Aldeburgh as soon as I can.'
'When you do, Victor,' Paula suggested, 'call me before you leave Germany at this number.' She scribbled on a notepad she'd extracted from her shoulder bag. 'If I'm not in leave a message on the answerphone. If you want me to - but only if - I'll come with you to Aldeburgh.'
'Thank you.' He put his arm round her shoulder. 'I'd appreciate your company on such a trip. I will phone before I come.' He looked at Tweed. 'And where are you off to, now? Or does that question come under the heading of indiscreet?'
'Not at all. London.' Tweed lied smoothly. 'You say you travel all over Europe. What do you think of the trouble building up in France? Specifically, in Bordeaux?'
'Yes, Europe is my playground,' Rosewater agreed. 'A battlefield more than a playground. Germany is mainly my theatre of operation. As to Bordeaux, I haven't had time to read any papers.' He checked his watch. 'Soon I'll have to leave.'
'Just before we go.' Tweed said, leaning over the table, keeping his voice down. 'In my job I have recently heard rumours of an ace assassin operating on the continent. Name of Kalmar.'
Rosewater used one hand to scoop crumbs off the table into the other. He dropped them on to his plate and studied Tweed.
'So you've heard of him. They call him the Ghost in the Shadows. No one knows his nationality, where he's come from, where he's based - if anywhere. He reminds me of a moving target. I've a funny feeling that some time during my work I may encounter Kalmar. Twice I've just missed him by a whisker. Provided with an address, I go there and find the bird has already flown.'
'Interesting.' Tweed stood up, insisted on paying the bill.
'You've left your lighter.' Paula said as they began leaving. She picked it up.
'Observant lady, and thank you.' responded Rosewater, pocketing the lighter.
It was, thought Paula, the only outward sign that he had been upset by her story. He wasn't the kind of man who normally overlooked anything, she felt certain.
As they walked out of the restaurant Tweed glanced at the brunette who still sat smoking a cigarette with a cup of coffee in front of her. She stared b
oldly at Rosewater as they left. Certainly an attractive woman, Tweed thought.
The taxi he had ordered for the airport was waiting. They said goodbye to Rosewater, who hugged Paula and thanked her for her help. While the driver was walking round to his seat after opening the rear door, Paula glanced out at Rosewater. He was standing outside the entrance, tall and handsome. Tweed followed her gaze as Rosewater waved and she waved back, then the taxi was moving. Paula looked at the expression on Tweed's face.
'You're thinking what I am. Victor would make a good recruit for Park Crescent.'
'You will persist in believing you can read my mind,' he chided her. 'But he's bright. The way he dodged my question about Bordeaux. What you'd expect from a top flight Military Intelligence officer. I should know.'
'I wonder what he is really doing?'
'From the little he said, infiltrating the IRA cells operating against British bases in Germany. Now, we should find out what is really happening. Within a couple of hours we'll be in Paris. With Lasalle -I called him briefly from the airport after we landed from Geneva.'
'And I wonder how Bob Newman is faring,' Paula mused.