Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  De Forge held intellectuals in contempt. 'We must move ahead faster now the momentum has built up. Caution is the reaction of faint-hearts and cowards.'

  'Navarre has the ear of the President more and more,' Janin warned, nettled by the implication.

  'Navarre may have to go,' de Forge informed him.

  'Surely you do not mean Kalmar?' Janin protested.

  'The General made no suggestion at all in that direction.' Lapointe said severely.

  'My members are travelling en masse to Lyons.' Dubois assured de Forge. 'We shall be there to play our part.'

  'I had a visit from a lackey of Navarre.' de Forge reported. 'Lasalle of the DST. He is trying to build up a case against us. He will fail, of course. But when we take power he will be the first to be hurled into the street. We need men of strong patriotic fibre in all key positions. I need your agreement that in Lyons we light a furnace, ignite a beacon which will be seen in Paris. And we must send advance contingents inside the capital secretly.' He hammered a clenched fist on the table. 'From this second on the momentum must be accelerated non-stop. All agreed, hammer their fists on this table ...'

  Five fists hammered the table with varying degrees of conviction. Janin's, de Forge noted, was the feeblest response. And now the Minister of Defence raised the objections which were worrying him.

  'As before, I still do not like the fact that one member of the Cercle remains unknown to us.'

  Oiseau sat at the far end of the oblong table, facing de Forge, his head concealed beneath a Balaclava mask. He was the one man who never spoke a word at the secret meetings. Now he turned and gazed at Janin without saying a word. De Forge exploded.

  'I have told you before, Janin, time and again, Oiseau supplies us with the extra arms we need. More important still, he supplies us with finance from his own funds -finance which is untraceable back to its source. Without that finance Pour France, our vital civil arm, could never have been built up. His identity is of no concern to you. And I noticed his fist hammered the table with much greater force than yours.'

  'I feel it is dangerous to make a major move until we know the reaction of the President.' Janin persisted.

  'So we don't make a major move until we see how he reacts to the new Lyons riots.' De Forge's mood became mocking. 'You like discussion, Janin. It is decision that worries you. Just keep me informed about the Elysée...'

  The meeting continued for another quarter of an hour. Most of it was occupied by de Forge reinforcing morale, working up a sensation of enthusiasm, a conviction that victory lay just round the next corner.

  As always, the members of the Cercle Noir left the Villa Forban one by one, with a five-minute interval between each departure. Oiseau was the first to depart. He bowed briefly to de Forge, collected his coat himself from the cupboard in the hall, walked out into the bitter night where a limousine waited to whisk him to the executive jet at Bordeaux Airport. Only when the driver, Brand, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform, drove out between the villa gates did his passenger, Oiseau, remove his Balaclava helmet.

  Inside the villa de Forge waited until the other members had left. Then he opened the door into the next room and closed it. Seated in the study Major Lamy was working on papers at a desk while a cassette played Stravinsky's Rite of Spring softly. Lamy switched off the machine and looked up.

  'Are there any notepads I could use? I've checked the desk - except the deep bottom drawer I can't open. I see it has a special lock.'

  'That is the drawer where Jean keeps her jewellery,' de Forge told him. 'She has the only key. God save me from some of those cretins who have just left.'

  'Anyone in particular?'

  'Janin. I suggest Navarre might have to be removed -Janin mentions Kalmar. Can't he remember Lapointe thinks Kalmar is merely a thug who roughs up people causing us trouble?'

  'Lapointe would not approve of Kalmar's real talent.'

  'Of course not. He'd leave the Cercle immediately.'

  'Janin is a weak sister.' Lamy agreed. 'But there is nothing to worry about - he's clever at playing up to the President. Flattering him.'

  'The President is the main stumbling block to our plan. I can't forecast which way he will jump. We'd better leave now. Back to Third Corps ...'

  'I shall be away for about thirty-six hours from now on.' Lamy informed his chief while they sat in the rear of the limousine moving off down the drive.

  'So long - to organize Lyons?' de Forge, ever supicious, queried.

  'You ordered that Lyons should be turned into an inferno. I must check our contingent is in place, we cannot rely on that Dubois with his amateurs. Also, our contact inside Lasalle's HQ has reported a Paula Grey has met and talked to Lasalle recently. My contact thinks she is a British agent. He is providing me with a photograph he took of her secretly.'

  Lamy was staring out of the window away from de Forge as he spoke.

  'A job for Kalmar? The decision is yours. And you know.' de Forge went on cynically. 'I think we can cope, however long you are away.'

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At Park Crescent, Tweed was checking through sheets of data prior to arranging for teams to leave for France. Most of it was in his head but, meticulous, he relied on written records in case he missed one detail. He looked up at Monica. It was late at night.

  'This man, Brand, seen by Newman and Paula at Grenville Grange. Later involved with Newman in that brawl at the Aldeburgh pub. Find out everything you can about him fast. I think he's Dawlish's right-hand man.'

  'Needed yesterday, of course.' Monica commented.

  'Or the day before that...'

  Marler parked his Volvo station wagon beyond a bend in the country road before he reached the entrance to Dawlish's factory. As a precaution for a quick getaway he had executed a three-point turn so the Volvo faced the way they had come.

  'At least the moon has gone behind clouds,' Newman remarked as he followed Marler out of the car. 'Let's hope it doesn't reappear at the wrong moment...'

  Both men were armed. Newman carried a .38 Smith Wesson in a hip holster. Marler was relying on his Armalite rifle. Both men carried duvets folded over their left arms as, in rubber-soled shoes, they walked slowly along the road. They paused at the bend, listening, watching what they could see of the fence which guarded the establishment. No sounds, no sign of guards patrolling with dogs.

  'They won't expect us to try anything twice.' Newman whispered.

  'You hope,' Marler said drily.

  They approached the fence and again, paused, to listen, to look. There was no wind. The silence of the forest in the night was oppressive, nerve-rattling. Newman took the decision.

  'Let's get on with it.' he whispered. 'Your move.'

  Marler took a wooden-handled screwdriver from his pocket, walked to the gate, turned, paced out the same distance he had estimated on their previous visit. Reaching up, he pressed the metal end against wires protruding from a white plastic tube. There was a brief flash.

  'Electrified wire fused.' he said to Newman, standing behind him. 'Let's hope it doesn't set off an alarm.'

  'We'll soon know. Don't give them time to react...'

  Inside the folded duvets each of them also carried an extending metal ladder, attached to the duvet over a plastic hook. Newman unhooked his ladder, extended it to its full length, perched the top rubber-covered rung halfway up the wire. Marler mounted the ladder, flung his duvet higher up over the wire. Still carrying his own duvet, he swung over the duvet-covered wire, dropped to the ground inside.

  Swiftly he erected his own ladder, perched it against the inside for an easy retreat later, climbed back up, swung his own duvet over Newman's. The reporter was heavier than the slim Marler. Within seconds Newman was standing beside him. They were both inside enemy territory.

  *

  'Watch where you tread.' Newman warned. 'I'll lead. I have a funny feeling about this place. The lack of guards isn't natural...'

  Part of his mind was going back to a m
emory over the years. When he had trained with the SAS to write an authorized article on that legendary elite of soldiers. Somehow he had survived the course. He heard the voice of the SAS trainer he only knew as Sarge. Approaching any security area never forget the ground your feet are treading on may be the greatest danger...

  Newman shone his pencil flashlight, shielded with the palm of his hand, downwards where he would tread next. Behind him Marler, notorious for going his own way, was carefully placing his feet where Newman had just placed his own. Damp mushy ground with here and there a rock half-embedded. The slow trudge uphill continued. Marler wanted to call out 'For Christ's sake get a move on.' He kept his mouth shut, deterred by Newman's slow, methodical progress.

  Frequently Marler glanced up, skimmed his gaze round the deserted wilderness - deserted except for one of the single-storey concrete blockhouse-like buildings. All in darkness. No sign of movement, no sound. The sheer silence was uncanny, disturbing. They were within thirty feet of one of the morgue-like buildings and this one had windows facing them like black slit-eyes. Were they being watched? Would the first indication that they had walked into a trap be a hail of bullets?

  Newman held up his other hand. Marler, eyes accustomed to the dark, saw the gesture, halted. Newman was crouching down, flashlight in one hand, his other hand, also gloveless - you couldn't fire a weapon wearing gloves -feeling something on the ground. His fingers were frozen to the bone but he continued his probing as Marler crouched behind him.

  'Trouble?' Marler whispered.

  'Could be lethal.' Newman responded calmly.

  'What is it?'

  Newman patted the ground to his right gently, poked at the clumps of heather. He gestured for Marler to come forward to that piece of ground. Now they crouched alongside each other. Marler glanced at Newman, saw his expression was grim.

  'Look at these.' Newman whispered.

  He moved his flashlight slowly. In the beam Marler saw metal prongs protruding from tufts of grass. As the beam continued moving he counted seven prongs, protruding no more than half an inch. The metal was new. It gleamed in the glow of the flashlight.

  'Anti-personnel mines.' Newman said tersely. 'Tread on one and if they're explosive you lose a leg. Maybe both legs. It's too dangerous to move any closer. We are dealing with right bastards.'

  'So?'

  'We go back exactly the same way we came. Again, let me lead.'

  'Can we wait for thirty seconds? Before I left London the Engine Room boffins gave, me a new camera. Infra-red lens and zoom. Miniaturized. I want to photograph the windows in that building...'

  'What are you waiting for? Thirty seconds. And I'll be counting...'

  Marler took a small oblong plastic box from his pocket, aimed the lens at the windows of the building one by one, taking six shots of each. They'd said the thing adjusted itself to light conditions - even pitch dark. Just aim, press the button. He did so.

  'Finish as soon as you can.' Newman warned. 'The clicks are loud. They could have installed sensors. This lot is capable of any devilry ...'

  'Ready, Commander.'

  Marler gave a mock salute after he'd slipped the camera back into his pocket. The way back seemed even more of an ordeal than their way in. Newman again checked with his flashlight - with even more care now he'd seen those sinister prongs. Marler suppressed a sigh of relief as they arrived at the fence. Newman went over first. As he followed Marler paused, stomach looped over the duvet, reached down the inner side of the fence, grabbed hold of the metal ladder. As he landed on the road side Newman, the taller, stretched up an arm, hauled down the duvets. Carrying both ladders, they walked through the silence of the night back to where the Volvo was parked.

  'We didn't achieve much.' Newman mused. 'Can't win them all.'

  'We won't know that until the boffins in the Engine Room have developed this film.' Marler pointed out.

  They had stowed everything in the rear, were sitting in the front. Newman, who liked driving, had asked Marler if he could take over the wheel.

  'Be my guest...'

  'Listen!'

  Somewhere close behind them they heard a vehicle rumbling over rough ground. The sound came from inside the fenced off area: had it been driving along the road behind them it wouldn't be making such heavy weather as they listened to its slow progress.

  'We were spotted.' Marler remarked.

  'I don't think so. We checked the car thoroughly before we got into it. No sign of someone fooling around with the engine, no bombs attached underneath. And they'd have come after us inside the wire. I'm driving off now to find a place we can hide. That vehicle will be coming this way.'

  'Not the other?'

  'Which leads only to Orford, a dead end? I think not....'

  With headlights undimmed he drove on round two bends, the beams sweeping over motionless trees. Then he swung off the road to the right up a track into the forest, made a U-turn, parked behind several trees with a view of the road between them, switched off, waited.

  A heavy truck, lights undimmed, drove past the entrance to the track, heading for Snape Mailings. Newman drove after it without any headlights at all, keeping his distance without losing sight of the red tail-lights. He turned effortlessly round a bend. Marler grunted.

  'Without even side lights you'll end up in the ditch.'

  'No I won't. You're forgetting - I drove the Merc on this very road not long ago. I can remember.'

  Marler was partially reassured. He remembered Newman had only to drive along a strange route once to be able to return along the same route without missing his way once. With the Armalite perched across his lap, he settled more comfortably.

  The truck turned right along the deserted road at Tun-stall, still heading for the Maltings. Beyond the collection of ancient warehouses which stages Benjamin Britten concerts in summer the truck continued through the lonely countryside towards Snape village.

  'Marler, I think there's only the driver with that vehicle. I'm going to overtake, then stop him. You get out, pretend you're some kind of authority, search his truck.'

  'If you say so.'

  Newman switched on his headlights full, pressed down his foot, raced past the truck for a short distance. Then he slowed down, swung the wheel, positioned the Volvo across the road as a barrier, his headlights blazing. He told Marler to leave his door open so the courtesy light added to the illumination. Marler nodded, climbed out, walked back, stood on the grass verge.

  The truck came on, moving at a fairish speed. Its own headlights showed up the obstacle. The truck slowed, stopped close to the Volvo. The driver was opening the door of his cab when Marler jerked it open further. He caught the driver who was falling out. Shock tactics often worked.

  'Bloody 'ell! What the 'ell do you think you're up to?'

  He was a runt of a man, weatherbeaten face, aged between forty and sixty, eyes bloodshot. He wore a padded windcheater, brand new. Dawlish seemed to be a stickler for his staff being well-fitted out. Marler smelt alcohol on his breath. Cognac? He waved his General & Cumbria Assurance identity card quickly in the runt's face.

  'Ipswich CID. I want to look in the back of this truck. You can refuse - but then I'll report you for driving under the influence. My colleague already has your registration number.'

  Marler saw a look of fear in the bloodshot eyes. Dawlish must come down heavy on staff who needed disciplining. The driver led the way to the rear. As he walked behind him Marler noticed the legend painted along the vehicle. Dawlish Conservation.

  He further noticed as the driver took out a bunch of keys that the rear doors were fastened with two new padlocks. He waited as the driver had trouble unlocking them, then opened one door, stood back.

  'You won't find no drugs if that's what you're after.'

  'Just wait here. Don't try and lock me in - my colleague will make mincemeat of you...'

  Switching on his flashlight he swept it over the contents. Stack upon stack of neatly piled canvas sacks. Each
one tied up with a simple metal clasp. He removed one, shone his torch inside. It was full of Balaclava helmets. Not what he'd expected. He examined a number of other sacks at random. All full of Balaclavas. Odd. Most odd.

  'What are the Balaclavas for?' he asked as he jumped to the road.

  'Big fancy dress party at Christmas...'

  Marler grabbed him by the shirt collar exposed under the windcheater. 'Don't fool with me. You could find yourself occupying a cell at Ipswich police HQ.'

  'It's Gawd's truth, mate. Christmas is coming. Didn't you know? We deliver early. A big order. A palais do would be my guess. Don't know who you're dancin' with until the great moment comes. Midnight. Everyone takes off 'is or 'er mask.'

  He was talking too much, giving too much detail. Marler waved a hand, waited while the driver attended to the padlocks.

  'And your destination is?'

  '... Lowestoft.'

  There had been a brief hesitation before this question was answered. First, he talked too much, then he only uttered one word. As he walked back with the driver to his cab Marler slapped him on the rump. As he expected his hand hit something hard in the driver's rear trouser pocket. A flask of cognac.

  'Just watch your driving.' he warned. 'And switch off those damned lights. They're blinding my colleague...'

  Newman manoeuvred the car swiftly once Marler slipped into the passenger seat. He moved off before the truck driver could turn on his lights again. Marler lit a king-size.