Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  He nodded to the two white-coated men, descended the steps to join them, followed by de Forge and Lamy. Opening the rear doors, the two men stood on the step. A blast of icy air rushed out of the interior. De Forge and Lamy stared at the interior. Large metal drawers were stacked inside. A drawer at floor level was opened. The white-coated men stood back, Lasalle waved a hand.

  'I told you I had brought two men who impersonated DST officers in Bordeaux.'

  The white-coated couple opened another drawer. In each drawer a half-clothed corpse was stretched out, its head perched on a wooden block. Icy air from the refrigerated mobile morgue continued to flow out.

  'Those men are dead,' Lamy burst out.

  'You are most observant.' Lasalle commented. 'They are soldiers - presumably from the Third Corps since they were found in Bordeaux.'

  'How on earth do you know that?' de Forge asked contemptuously.

  'Oh, they carried no identification except the fake DST credentials. They were dressed in civilian clothes - but one point was overlooked. Those underclothes are Army issue. That point is certain.'

  De Forge looked at Lamy. The Chief of Intelligence went closer to the corpses. He swung on his heel, addressing the General.

  'I recognize both men now, sir. They are deserters -disappeared from their unit weeks ago.'

  Lamy could think fast. Lasalle privately paid him that compliment. But he did not let go so easily.

  'Posted officially as deserters?'

  'Major Lamy,' de Forge intervened, catching on, 'go and fetch the records so we can show the gentleman from Paris.'

  He walked back into the building as Lamy ran round the corner of the building and disappeared. Lasalle nodded before following de Forge. The white-coated men closed the drawers with their grisly contents: both bodies were badly damaged round the skulls. He followed de Forge back into the building.

  'Both men were involved in a brutal murder.' Lasalle informed de Forge as they waited for Lamy: de Forge seated at his desk while Lasalle wandered back and forth in front of it. His restlessness irked de Forge but the General sat immobile as a statue.

  'Deserters are scum.' de Forge eventually responded.

  'If they were deserters.' Lasalle phrased his comment carefully. 'Someone clever was giving them orders ...'

  He broke off as Major Lamy marched towards the desk, a file under his arm, ignoring Lasalle. He placed the file in front of the General.

  'Privates Gillet and Perron.' he reported. 'Deserted five weeks ago. Not seen since.'

  'There you are.'

  De Forge waved towards the two sheets he had glanced at. He made no move to hand them to Lasalle. The DST chief reached across the desk swiftly, grabbed the sheets, looked at them.

  'Those copies are our property.' de Forge warned.

  Lasalle was holding the sheets up to the light. He turned each sheet in turn to different angles. Then he slipped them inside his briefcase, snapped it shut.

  'Must I remind you I am conducting a murder investigation? These records represent vital evidence. A spectroscope examination will prove whether these so called records were, as I suspect, produced within the past five minutes.'

  'I deeply resent your implication.' Lamy snapped.

  'All part of my work. The civil power takes precedence over the military.' He stood up. 'Thank you for your cooperation. I will be back...'

  De Forge waited until he heard the convoy moving off. He then gave Lamy the order. 'Organize really ferocious riots in Lyons. We must move fast.'

  Chapter Twenty

  Newman heard the phone ringing when he opened the door of his ground-floor flat at Beresforde Road, South Ken. He ran, sure it would cease ringing just as he reached the instrument in the large living room. Grabbing the receiver, he gave his number - but omitted his name. It was Tweed.

  'Bob, I thought you ought to know. Lasalle has called me from Bordeaux. The two phoney DST men who took Francis Carey from the Bar Miami before he was murdered have been found at the apartment of Isabelle Thomas's mother...'

  'Found? What does that mean?'

  'Curb your anxiety. I haven't finished. The Prefect of Bordeaux received an anonymous call - from a girl, he believes - who reported the presence of the two men. She said they were unconscious. In the basement. The police found them. Both men were dead.'

  'Oh, God! How had they died?'

  'Very curious. No one is certain. But they had fallen two floors, their skulls crushed. Do you think Isabelle could have done that?'

  'Not deliberately. Seems unlikely she'd have coped with two of them - although she's exceptionally strong. Swims every day in a leisure club. You say Lasalle called from Bordeaux?'

  'Yes. Flew there. Made an audacious move. Fixed up to see de Forge, took the bodies in a refrigerated truck, showed them to him. Identified as soldiers by their Army-issue underclothes. They always forget something. He's shaken de Forge.'

  'Is that good?'

  'It may provoke him into a wrong move. We need the trigger to make him show his hand. Trouble is, I don't know what that trigger will be. Must go now. You're leaving soon for your return trip?'

  'Just waiting for Marler. He's due in about half an hour.'

  'Don't push it to the limit...'

  Newman had hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. Marler? Warning him he'd be late? He picked up the phone, again gave only the number,

  'That's you, Bob, isn't it? I recognize your voice.' Isabelle. All in a rush. He told her to slow down. 'You're going to be very mad with me. I was a fool to ignore your warning...'

  'Slow down, Isabelle,' he repeated, alarmed. 'Are you in danger? And where are you calling from?'

  'It's all right, it's safe, I'm calling from my sister's apartment in Arcachon, she's not here, I'm alone ...'

  'For Pete's sake then, slow down. Now, nice and easy.'

  'I went back to my mother's flat in Bordeaux, Bob ...'

  Without more interruption he listened grimly to her experience. She was talking at normal speed now, giving him a terse but detailed report of everything that had happened. She concluded by telling him about how she'd called the Prefect of Bordeaux before driving like hell back to Arcachon.

  'Maybe you were followed,' he suggested.

  'Not possible. I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror. There was hardly any traffic at that hour. And I stopped for a few minutes in the country outside Arcachon. No vehicle of any kind appeared.'

  'Then that's all right.' Newman hesitated, decided he had to ensure she stayed in Arcachon by frightening the life out of her. 'There's one detail in what you told me you got wrong.'

  'What was that?'

  'You said the two fake DST men were unconscious. Both of them were - are - dead.'

  'Are you sure? How do you know that, Bob?'

  She sounded as cool as the proverbial cucumber when he'd expected hysterics. Almost a note of satisfaction.

  'I assure you they're both dead as a doornail. I know, Isabelle. For a certainty. I have my contacts.'

  'So the men who led poor Henri to his death are dead now themselves.'

  'As dead as you can get.' he stressed.

  'I didn't waste time going down to look at them. Bob, are you mad with me for going back to Bordeaux, for disobeying you?'

  She sounded as though that possibility worried her far more than the news he'd given her.

  'Will you be going back to Bordeaux again?' he asked.

  'No! I promise you, I know I promised you before but this time I'll keep my word. Bob, you do believe me, don't you? Say you believe me. Please say it...'

  Her metabolism was all revved up again. The words tumbled over each other like some river roaring down over rapids.

  'I believe you,' Newman assured her. 'A lot of people will be looking for you. Are you certain no one in the city knows about your mother having a place in Arcachon?'

  'I'm absolutely sure, certain, positive. I told you, she doesn't like anyone in Bordeaux, she's never
let anyone know about her apartment here. So no one would dream of looking for me here. When will I see you again?'

  'I'll contact you as soon as I can. Meantime read some of those books I saw in your apartment. Go out for a walk after nightfall. And push your hair up under some kind of headgear. A beret. A scarf. Anything ...'

  'I promise, Bob. I'll tie up my hair, then hide it under a scarf. And I'll wear trousers. I have a pair. I never normally wear them because I don't think they look feminine. No one even here will recognize me. I will see you soon?'

  'As soon as I can make it. Someone is at the door. Must go. Chin up ...'

  Newman peered round the side bay window through the heavy net curtains which gave him a view of the entrance. It was almost dark already. November dark. Marler stood at the entrance, carrying a long holdall. That meant he was bringing his dismantled Armalite rifle. He must be expecting trouble at the Dawlish factory on the road to Orford.

  Marler's new Volvo station wagon was parked in a slot further down the road. They'd be travelling in that, Newman thought as he went to the lobby to operate the button which opened the front door. His Mercedes 280E was still in the hands of the veterinary pathologist.

  'You'll need some insulation,' Marler said as he entered the apartment. 'It's cold enough out there to freeze the whatnots off a monkey.'

  Marler was wearing his sheepskin, collar turned up. Newman thought the intense cold - met forecast had said it would be below freezing point - might help them. Guards didn't like patrolling too thoroughly on cold nights. At least he hoped he was right in his assumption.

  In his Park Crescent office Tweed knew Paula was excited about something as soon as she entered. She put down the cardboard-backed envelope she had been carrying on her desk, took off her suede coat, one of her few extravagances.

  Taking one of Lasalle's photos from the envelope, she laid it on her desk. As she asked the question she covered the print with one hand.

  'Is it all right if I play around with this print with my felt tip pen? It's one of the photos Lasalle sent us.'

  'Go ahead. The Engine Room made up a large number of copies of all the photos.'

  Tweed showed no curiosity, writing out a list of names on his pad. Monica, in contrast, surreptitiously was watching Paula as she used her felt tip pen. Paula put down the pen, rifted up the photo, held it at a distance.

  'It's him.' she announced. 'I thought it was when I was looking at the photos in my flat.'

  'Who?' Tweed enquired.

  'Lieutenant Berthier, on the staff of Major Lamy, is here in this country. To be precise he's probably still staying at the Brudenell Hotel in Aldeburgh.'

  She took the photo to Tweed, placed it in front of him. She had used the pen to sketch in a pair of tinted glasses over the eyes, to darken his hair. Tweed looked at what she had sketched, then at her.

  'Clever,' he said. 'You are right. I saw this man leaving the bar at the Brudenell when I was on my way out for a night walk over the marshes.'

  'He's the man Newman thought he heard swear in French when he stubbed his toe, as you'll recall. He's the man,' Paula continued, 'you asked me to chat up, which I did, as you know. I spoke to him suddenly in French, asked him if he'd like another drink. Remember? He started to get up from his chair to fetch more drinks himself, then stopped in time and pretended to be settling himself more comfortably in his chair. I thought he knew what I'd said. Now I know I'm right.'

  'So,' Tweed remarked, 'we have another French link between Suffolk and France. Berthier. There is something very serious going on near Aldeburgh. This is one coincidence too many.'

  'He told me his name was James Sanders.' Paula recalled thoughtfully, 'that he was a salesman dealing in marine spare parts, that he'd just returned from Paris.'

  'Another possible link,' Tweed said immediately. 'An officer on Lamy's staff, posing as a salesman of marine parts, would have a legitimate reason for contacting Dawlish. Because of the Cat, the Steel Vulture. More pieces of the jigsaw are coming to light, fitting into an insidious pattern.'

  'I think I'll return to Aldeburgh,' Paula suggested. 'I could use the excuse of visiting Jean Burgoyne.'

  'Except we know Burgoyne is de Forge's mistress. Tricky. We don't know at this stage who we can trust - if anyone.'

  'I still think I should go back, especially as we know Berthier is there. He might let something slip if I play up to him.'

  'I don't like the idea,' Tweed told her. 'I have in front of me a list of names - any of which could be the highly professional assassin, Kalmar.'

  'Can we see the list?' Monica interjected.

  'No. Not yet. I want to be more sure of my ground - I still need more data ...'

  'Which I might obtain if I go to Aldeburgh,' Paula insisted. 'And both Newman and Marler are on their way there. Newman is bound to phone you - you could tell him I'll be at the Brudenell.'

  'You can go only if you wait at the hotel until Newman has contacted you. That's an order.'

  'I'm on my way.' Paula jumped up before Tweed could change his mind. I'll pick up my ready-packed case at my flat, then drive up to Suffolk .. .'

  'Do you think that was wise?' Monica queried when they were alone. 'She's going back to where one murder has been committed. The murderer could still be in the area.'

  'What baffles me.' said Tweed, his mind elsewhere, 'is if, by a long shot, it's Dawlish who is supplying arms to the Third Corps secretly how does he transport them there?'

  'Aboard that catamaran,' Monica said promptly. 'Dawlish himself told Paula the size of the vessel - that it can carry over a hundred people and a number of heavy vehicles. And Newman's friend, Isabelle, told him she'd seen a vessel which fits the Steel Vulture's description dock frequently in Arcachon.'

  'You don't get my point. Dawlish also said the vessel is berthed at Harwich. I happen to know they've tightened security at Harwich. They found a large drug consignment aboard a ship bound for Rotterdam - a reverse ploy of the drug traffickers. Drugs brought in here by some other route are then sent out to the continent. With that kind of security would Dawlish risk a search? I think not.'

  'Then what's the solution?'

  'No idea. He may not be involved at all. But that has stimulated a different line of investigation. I'm calling Heathcoate, Harbour Master at Harwich. He owes me.'

  Tweed unlocked a drawer, checked through an address book, found the number, dialled it himself, gave his name, asked to be put through to the Harbour Master.

  'Is that you, Heathcoate? How are you? Yes, I want a favour. A ship called the Steel Vulture, a twin-hulled catamaran...'

  'Owned by millionaire Lord Dawlish. A very advanced design, the ship of the future. He berths it here. It is moored here now. What about it?'

  'Ever search it? The drugs business.'

  Heathcoate chuckled. 'You think millionaires are outside the law? Because they're not. Answer, yes. We searched it twice over the past six months. Clean as a whistle. You think we missed something?' Heathcoate enquired. 'That we should keep an eye on that ship?'

  'Waste of time. And it's not drugs I was thinking of. Don't ask me what. Top secret.'

  'You expect me to talk and then you clam up.' Heathcoate grumbled with mock seriousness.

  'Buy you a Scotch next time we meet. Thanks anyway...'

  'No good.' Tweed told Monica. 'Heathcoate searched the catamaran twice in six months. Nothing. Dawlish is too smart to risk being caught. Looks like a dead end. But someone told me something which might be the loophole and I'm damned if I can recall it.'

  'You didn't hear a word I said a few minutes ago.' Monica chided him. 'I said one murder has already been committed where Paula is going back to. The murderer could still be in the area.'

  'I don't think that's at all likely.'

  It was a remark Tweed was to regret in the near future.

  The Cercle Noir was holding an emergency meeting at the Villa Forban near Third Corps GHQ. It had been called by General de Forge during Jean Bur
goyne's absence from the villa. He sat at the head of a table in the living room with the curtains closed. Outside it was dark.

  Seated round the table were Louis Janin, Minister of Defence; General Masson, Chief of the Army Staff; General Lapointe, commander of the atomic force de frappe; Emile Dubois, leader of the new political party, Pour France; and the man known as Oiseau - Bird.

  Janin was a short, heavily built man with slicked-back dark hair who wore rimless spectacles. He had the air of an-intellectual. Nominally de Forge's superior, he was awed by the General's charismatic personality. General Lapointe was made of sterner stuff: a small lean-faced man, he believed only Charles de Forge could save France from domination by an all-powerful Germany now unification had taken place. Emile Dubois was squat and a natural orator. Given to waving his arms to stress a point, he hoped one day to become Premier under the Presidency of de Forge. General Masson was a second-rate soldier, greatly conscious of the dignity of his post.

  'We have reached a crossroads in history.' de Forge began. 'Now there is a growing state of turbulence in this country there can be no turning back. There will be new and more terrible riots in Lyons. Then the target is Paris itself.'

  'Are we moving too fast?' Janin queried.