Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'We have what may be a vital one.' Tweed agreed. 'Between Aldeburgh and Arcachon - which is close to Bordeaux. And Dawlish is armaments. And Lasalle told me some unknown organization was supplying General de Forge with arms and money. It could be fiendishly clever.'

  'What could be?' asked Paula.

  'Landing arms at Arcachon instead of direct to the port of Bordeaux where the watch on incoming cargoes will be stricter. Bless Isabelle - and you, Paula.'

  'But at what a price.' Paula said nostalgically. 'The price of Karin's life.'

  'Victor Rosewater is available then if we need him?' Tweed asked, changing the subject.

  'Yes. He may even track Karin's murderer. He's a tough character.'

  'Describe again to me, Bob, how this signet ring came to be found.' Tweed bent back in his swivel chair and watched Newman. 'Start from the beginning. Every minute detail...'

  He unlocked a drawer half-way through Newman's recall of what had happened on that dark night on the marshes with Paula and Rosewater. Tweed took a large silk handkerchief from the drawer, screwed up into a ball, laid it on his desk.

  When Newman had finished, ending with their trip in the marsh buggy with Buchanan and Warden to the Brudenell, he congratulated him on his total recall. Opening the handkerchief he took out two signet rings, pushed them across the desk to Paula.

  'Which one is the ring Rosewater found under the boat?'

  Paula examined them carefully. She supped both squarely on her middle finger. Both were far too large to stay on. Puzzled, she looked at them again, shook her head, stared at Tweed.

  'I don't understand. They're identical.'

  'Not quite. There's a tiny scratch on the inside of one ring. That's the original. The Engine Room worked for thirty-six hours - including through the night - creating the twin. You see, I have to hand the original to Chief Inspector Buchanan - but I wanted a copy. Find the finger that wore it and we may have found our murderer.'

  'Why may?' Newman asked aggressively.

  'Because nothing is conclusive. Just as we can't assume yet that Dawlish is linked to de Forge. We need more solid evidence - and urgently. Which is why, Marler, I think you should get moving on that special mission in France I described to you.' He held up a hand, looked round his audience. 'No, only Marler and I know about it.'

  'First things first,' Marler entered the conversation for the first time. 'I have to explore that factory in the forest on the road to Orford ...'

  'And I go with him,' Newman said firmly.

  'Nothing doing,' Marler said emphatically.

  'Hold it, both of you,' said Tweed. 'You both just survived your previous trip into that area. No argument. You explore that factory together. Armed. Then, Bob, we'll turn our attention to France, launch a major expedition to find out what de Forge is really up to - and what this Siegfried business is about in Germany. It will be dangerous.'

  'What about my fox?' Newman asked.

  'Collected for immediate delivery to the top veterinary pathologist in the country, Robles. Hours ago. .And I gave them the keys to your car because Robles wanted to examine the boot too. Now, I think we ought to go to lunch in small groups. Maybe there will have been developments even by the time we get back ...'

  Tweed realized Monica was excited as soon as he returned to his office with Paula, Newman, and Marler. She waited until he had taken off his coat and settled himself behind his desk. Outside there was a cold November drizzle, a raw biting wind.

  'The courier arrived from Lasalle with the photos you asked for. He left them and went straight back to Heathrow to board a flight for Paris.'

  'And?'

  Newman sat in the armchair close to his desk and Paula perched herself on one arm. Marler adopted his usual stance, leaning against a wall. Monica brought over an envelope, placed it in front of Tweed with a smile of smug satisfaction.

  'You're going to be interested.'

  'Sounds as though I'd better be.'

  Tweed extracted the glossy prints. He laid them out across his desk. There were three copies of each print. On their backs Lasalle had written names in his own neat writing. Josette de Forge. De Forge himself. Major Lamy. Lieutenant Berthier. Jean Burgoyne.

  Tweed handed a set of copies to Paula, another set to Newman. He began examining them himself. Glancing up at Monica, now behind her own desk, he saw her watching him with anticipation. He went on looking at the pictures, then stopped and reached for his magnifying glass. He looked up at the others.

  'I thought I'd seen that signet ring before.'

  He held up the photograph he had been studying. In Paris he had spotted the ring without the aid of a glass. He was holding up a photo of de Forge's Chief of Intelligence, Major Lamy.

  'So,' Newman said after an interval of silence, 'we've found Kalmar, the assassin. Nice work.'

  'Not necessarily,' Tweed warned.

  'But it's conclusive,' Newman protested. 'His ring was found under the boat where Karin was strangled.'

  'And how do you think a man like Major Lamy flew here, stayed somewhere, and was available for murdering her? Bearing in mind his job, the danger of being recognized in England. Also does anyone know he speaks English fluently?'

  'He might. He might be able to slip over here, back again without being spotted.'

  '"Might" isn't good enough,' Tweed rapped back. 'It remains a possibility - no more at this stage.'

  'He looked like a nasty piece of work when I met him.' Newman said and relapsed into silence.

  'You're forgetting earlier events,' Tweed said cryptically. He picked up a sheet of paper with Monica's handwritten notes. 'But this is conclusive, may well interest both you and Marler. We know how your fox died. Ready?'

  'Very.'

  'Robles phoned a preliminary report to Monica while we were out at lunch. He suspects the fox was killed by some type of nerve gas mixed with the smoke that helicopter ejected.'

  'Nerve gas?' Marler was startled out of his normal coolness. 'So if Newman and I had breathed in any of that smoke...'

  'You'd be as dead as the fox.' Tweed completed his sentence. 'Nerve gas. That really is sinister.'

  'And.' Monica interjected, 'my researches turned up the fact that Dawlish Chemicals has a high security laboratory in the factory complex on the road to Orford.'

  'Robles.' Tweed went on, 'is taking the carcase in a refrigerated truck to a friend of his who works at Porton Down, the chemical warfare establishment. Then he'll be able to tell us the precise type of nerve gas used.'

  'We'd better get back to Suffolk fast - Marler and myself. Time we took a closer look at Dawlish's conservation activities.' Newman suggested.

  'Agreed.' said Tweed. 'The sooner the better - Marler has to go to France. But take great care.'

  'We do know now we're not dealing with pussycats.' Newman retorted. He left the room with Marler.

  The phone rang. Tweed waited while Monica took the call. She asked someone to wait just one moment, nodded to Tweed's phone.

  'It's Lasalle in Paris. Wants to talk to you urgently.'

  'More problems, Rene?' Tweed enquired. 'Yes, I'm on scrambler...'

  'I've had a call from the Prefect of Bordeaux, a man I can rely on.' Lasalle stressed. 'He had an anonymous phone call - thinks it was from a girl - who gave him the address of an apartment block here in Bordeaux. Told him he'd find the two fake DST men who were involved in the murder of Henri Bayle. Your agent found at the Gare St Jean. He went to the address himself. Incidentally, the girl said he'd find the two men unconscious. He found them all right. Dead. Both of them.'

  'How did they die?'

  'Hard to say, apparently. Both had fallen two floors. His men found traces of blood on the door frame of the apartment occupied by Isabella Thomas and her mother. Both women have disappeared. But their descriptions fit what witnesses at the Bar Miami said about the two men who took Bayle away - after a little arm-twisting. I'm flying to Bordeaux to interview General de Forge. With this I can shake him, r
attle his cage. He's had it all his own way too long...'

  'Take care.' Tweed warned. 'You're not going down there alone?'

  'Yes, I am.' He paused. 'Maybe with a little back-up.'

  'One more thing before you go. Do you know if Major Lamy is fluent in English?'

  'Speaks your language like a native. An English native.'

  In his cramped office Lasalle put down the phone, checked the time. He had an appointment with Navarre, Minister of the Interior. Throwing on his coat and hat - it was sleeting outside - he left the building, walked into the rue du Faubourg St Honore,. turning to the right away from the Elysée Palace.

  Normally mild-mannered but tenacious, Lasalle strode along briskly with a grim expression. Reaching the entrance to the Ministry in the Place Beauveau, he expected the guards, who knew him well, to usher him straight past the gates. A guard barred his way.

  'Identification, sir.'

  'You know me by now ...'

  'Orders, sir. Identification, please.'

  Lasalle produced his special identity pass, handed it to the guard. After examining it, the guard returned the pass, waved him on with a salute. So Navarre had stepped up security, Lasalle thought, hurrying across the spacious yard in front of the ministry building: that's good.

  The minister's office is on the first floor, overlooks the front courtyard. Its occupant rose from behind his desk as Lasalle was ushered inside. Pierre Navarre was a short stocky individual with dark hair, thick brows and impatient eyes. Like General de Forge, he came from Lorraine. He shook hands with the DST chief, told him to sit down and, holding a document in one hand, hauled a chair close to Lasalle's. He handed him the document which Lasalle read quickly. Scrawled at the bottom of the letter was Navarre's strong, swift signature.

  'That should do it, Minister.' Lasalle said.

  Time we put pressure on that bastard.' Navarre remarked savagely. 'When do you fly to Bordeaux?'

  'Within the hour...'

  'Report to me what happens. I will be working here a little late ...'

  A little late. The phrase echoed in Lasalle's mind as he hurried back to his office. Navarre was noted for the hours he kept - often eighteen hours a day. In his office he phoned a Bordeaux number, gave certain orders, slammed down the phone and ran to the car waiting in the courtyard to take him to the airport.

  Arriving at Bordeaux Airport late in the afternoon under a murky sky he was met by a DST officer who led him to a bullet-proof Citroen. Lasalle jumped inside, followed by the officer. The driver, who had the engine running, raced away from the airport.

  'What about the reserves?' Lasalle asked the officer beside him in the rear.

  'Assembled and hidden in a field near Third Corps HQ. General de Forge expects you to come alone?'

  'Yes. He's not the only tactician in France...'

  Out in the country well away from Bordeaux the driver slowed, pulled up alongside a gated field. A man in a blue raincoat opened the gate, lifted his arm in a signal, then waved Lasalle's vehicle on. Lasalle glanced back through the rear window as they raced along a straight stretch of road. Behind followed a convoy of eight cars, filled with armed DST men. Behind them followed CRS motorcyclists, clad in black leather coats, automatic weapons slung over shoulders. The huge convoy pulled up in front of the entrance to Third Corps.

  A uniformed lieutenant approached the Citroen, frowning. As Lasalle pressed the button which lowered the window he peered inside. Lasalle wasted no time.

  'Open the damn gate.' He flashed his identity card. 'Lasalle of DST, Paris. General de Forge is expecting me. I phoned Major Lamy early this morning.'

  'You were expected alone...'

  'Don't argue with me. Open the gate.'

  'I'll have to fetch Major Lamy ...'

  'He has two minutes to get here. I said two minutes. Move, man. Things seem sloppy round here ...'

  Within a minute a car drove up behind the gate. Major Lamy emerged, walked through the pedestrian gate. He stared along the road at the endless convoy.

  'What is that white vehicle?'

  'An ambulance. Now, General de Forge is expecting me, so open the gates or we'll drive through them.'

  Lamy looked at the four CRS outriders who had drawn up alongside Lasalle's Citroen. Wearing black crash helmets, the CRS riders stared back at him through their sinister goggles.

  'If you insist,' Lamy decided. 'But this is a military establishment

  'I didn't think it was a holiday camp,' Lasalle interrupted him. 'The gates ...'

  'Only your vehicle can enter...'

  Then the rest will smash down the gates and follow me. Give the order...'

  Lasalle pressed the button again and the window shut in Lamy's face. He turned, nodded, the gates opened, and Lamy had to run to dive into his car which led the way to General de Forge's quarters. Behind them the convoy streamed through the entrance, nose to tail. They proceeded down a long concrete avenue lined with single-storey military buildings. Lasalle noticed that at the beginning of each side road a large tank was stationed, each huge gun barrel aimed at a low angle, its tank commander standing in the turret. De Forge was emphasizing his power.

  Lamy's car eventually stopped outside a building indistinguishable from the others. Lasalle jumped out of his own car, clutching the brief case he had held on to since leaving Paris. Lamy escorted him into a large room with a woodblock floor gleaming like glass. At the far end General de Forge waited, seated behind a large desk.

  Lamy marched forward while Lasalle strolled, taking his time, glancing curiously round the room. Hanging from the right-hand wall was a huge banner carrying the symbol of the Cross of Lorraine, de Gaulle's symbol when he formed the Free French during World War n.

  'Welcome to Third Corps GHQ,' de Forge said in a stiff voice as he remained seated.

  Lasalle sat in the hard-backed chair on the far side of the desk, facing the General across the acre or so of desk. No papers. Three phones of differing colours. A blotter framed in leather.

  'Does he have to remain?' Lasalle enquired, nodding his head towards Lamy as though he were the Army's mascot. Lamy, standing erect, hands clasped behind his back, stiffened even more. He looked at his master.

  'It is the custom.' de Forge informed him, 'for Major Lamy to be present, even for meetings of minor importance.'

  Lasalle nodded, ignoring the insult. Unfastening his brief case, he extracted a folded sheet of paper and laid it in his lap. He stared straight at de Forge, his expression giving no clue as to his mood. But his tone of voice was like a whiplash.

  'This is a serious matter which brings me here. May I remind you that under the Constitution the military is entirely subordinate to - the servant of - the civil power? I represent that civil power. Let us be very clear on that before I proceed.'

  'Proceed, then.' de Forge ordered, his face bleak.

  'We have had several cases - even numerous instances -of unauthorized personnel impersonating DST officers. I don't have to remind you that is a grave offence, I take it.'

  'I have no idea what the hell you are talking about.'

  'Give me just a minute more and all will be clear. I have outside two examples of men who impersonated DST officers.' Lasalle stood up. 'Could you please accompany me.'

  'Why should I?'

  'Because I am ordering you to, General.'

  'You have no power to order me to do anything!' de Forge roared in his parade ground voice.

  Lasalle made no reply. He leaned over the desk, handed the folded sheet to de Forge. The General glanced at Lamy, looked back at Lasalle, who remained staring back coldly. De Forge slowly opened the sheet. His eyes saw the printed logo at the top, realized it was a sheet of the personal stationery of the Minister of the Interior. He read the instruction. You will co-operate with my emissary, Rene Lasalle, Chief of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. You will accede to any request he may make. He has plenipotentiary powers.

  'Now perhaps you will come outside wit
h me.' Lasalle said quietly.

  Lasalle walked more briskly back down the long room than his pace on entering. Half-way to the door, he paused, looked back. De Forge was following, his riding boots as brilliantly polished as the floor. Lamy remained by the desk.

  'Major Lamy,' Lasalle called out, taking command, 'you will come too.'

  He resumed his brisk trot to the door, opened it, looked outside. His orders had been obeyed. Escort cars had moved to the far side along with his own vehicle. The ambulance stood backed up to the entrance, doors still shut, two men in white coats standing by the step. Lasalle stood aside, watched.

  General de Forge emerged from his office, stood stock still, taking in the long convoy at a glance. His thin lips tightened.

  'This is an invasion.'

  'You could call it that,' Lasalle agreed. 'DST officers, real ones, all armed. Also CRS, again armed, as you can see.'

  'This is an outrage ...'

  'I call it a precaution,' Lasalle replied mildly.

  'What impertinence have you called me out here for?' He saw some soldiers standing, gazing at the spectacle. He turned to Lamy. 'Major, send all those men immediately for a run over the obstacle course in full battle order.'

  'That can wait,' Lasalle said firmly. 'Major Lamy may also be interested to see this.'