Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'I like to be in good time,' Buchanan said as he handed his coat to Monica. 'We bumped into Mr Rosewater as we were walking up and down outside. It seemed a good idea to get on with it.'

  Tweed had already caught on to Buchanan's tactics. With Warden he had deliberately turned up very early, hoping to see Rosewater arrive. That way there would be no time for Tweed to prime the Intelligence officer.

  With his guests seated, Tweed wasted no time. Leaning into the back of his chair he explained how Rosewater, Newman, and Paula had found the signet ring on the marshes. He unlocked a drawer, took out the copy of the original ring, handed it to Buchanan.

  'This comes under the heading of suppressing evidence in a murder ...' Buchanan began, staring at Rosewater.

  Tweed's clenched fist crashed down on his desk. 'Now you listen to me - and don't forget where you are. You have been given the ring. Voluntarily. In case you've forgotten, you're at the headquarters of the SIS. And, in case you've overlooked it, Captain Rosewater is a member of Military Intelligence. I happen to know that he is involved in a matter of the utmost importance to national security. There will be no questions asked, no accusations made, without my agreement. I will not have you adopting an overbearing manner in my office.'

  He sank back in his chair, his expression furious and his mouth tight-lipped. Paula was staring at him.

  'So that's the way you're going to play it,' Buchanan observed calmly, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles.

  'I'm not playing, as you put it!' Tweed leaned forward again. 'Men have died outside this room. One of them my agent. Abroad. Where you have no jurisdiction. I can and do operate abroad,' he snapped. 'If you want information which may help you in your investigation, then you will cease and desist. Now!'

  'My main concern is who murdered this gentleman's wife, strangled her in cold blood on those marshes where this ring was found.'

  Buchanan's manner was still mild. He might have been conducting a friendly conversation in a pub. In contrast Tweed still appeared to be in a controlled rage.

  'You've got the ring. You've heard the circumstances under which it was found.' His voice rose. 'But I am concerned with the cauldron boiling up in Europe, a situation which is worsening by the hour, hi case you don't know what I'm talking about, read the papers.'

  'I realize you have grave responsibilities. Perhaps it would be better if we came back when you are less fraught. And I would like to ask Captain Rosewater a question...'

  'No!' Tweed stood up. 'Captain Rosewater is directly involved in what is happening in Europe. I know you will not think me impolite if I say I do not have the time to prolong this discussion. I'm under pressure. A major conflagration is building up in Europe.'

  'I think I have what I came for.' Buchanan stood up, the signet ring held in his hand covered with a surgical glove he had slipped on before accepting it. He dropped it inside a plastic bag Sergeant Warden held out. 'But I may need to see Captain Rosewater at the Yard...'

  'Sorry, Chief Inspector,' Rosewater interjected, 'but I expect my job to take me back to Germany today. Where I'm based.'

  'But you'll have time to come and make a statement.'

  'I'm afraid not. Tweed has described what happened very precisely. I'll be on the first available flight.'

  'Bon voyage,' Buchanan replied ironically and left the room.

  'You saved me a tough inquisition,' Rosewater said as soon as they were on their own. That Chief Inspector is one bright cookie.'

  'I didn't want him trying to penetrate your role in France and Germany. You'll be based in Freiburg if I need to contact you?'

  'Mostly.' He looked at Paula. 'If you can coax your boss into being generous, maybe you'd come and visit me. I gave you the address.'

  'I may be waiting on your doorstep,' Paula joked.

  Rosewater stood up. 'I meant what I said to Buchanan. I'm leaving for the continent now. If you can't get me in Freiburg, contact Kuhlmann. He may be able to reach me. We're keeping in close touch.'

  Take care.' Tweed warned, watching him, 'Siegfried is deadly. I gather you're having trouble tracking them.'

  'They've organized themselves into independent cells, each with a mission when the balloon goes up in Germany. Sabotage and assassination on a large scale. That much I have learned. Strictly between these walls I'm trying to infiltrate agents inside Siegfried. It's a race against time -before their controller gives the signal. He could be Kalmar...'

  'Why,' asked Paula when Rosewater had gone, 'haven't you told Buchanan about Major Lamy and Lieutenant Berthier? Both were in Aldeburgh. Even Sergeant Rey?'

  'Because.' Tweed explained, 'I'm letting them run on a loose rein, giving them plenty of rope. Meantime you and I are leaving for Paris. You have your usual case packed here for emergency take-offs? Good. Monica has booked three seats on the Paris flight today.'

  'Three?'

  'I'm expecting Newman to arrive here any moment. He's going in via Paris. The Bordeaux Airport is closely watched. And you'd better ask Lasalle for a weapon - we're moving into the cauldron.'

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Major Lamy, wearing his normal French civilian clothes, disembarked from the Air Inter Flight at Bordeaux Airport. He did not know it but later that same day Tweed would fly to Paris. Lamy was met by a chauffeur in a civilian uniform, escorted to the waiting Citroen.

  Half an hour later he entered the large room where General de Forge was studying the newspaper accounts of the devastation caused by the fresh Lyons riots. De Forge neatly folded the paper he was reading, added it to the pile, waved to Lamy to sit opposite him.

  'Did you get Oiseau to agree?' he demanded.

  'Mission accomplished.' Lamy sat erect, aware this was a formal interview. 'Oiseau agreed to supply double the original number of missiles with nerve gas warheads.'

  'When?' De Forge fired back at him.

  'He said he would send a signal from the transmitter aboard the Steel Vulture giving the delivery date. I had the impression it would be soon.'

  'Soon? Oiseau wants to learn military precision. We may need those weapons within one week from now. Have you heard the President is thinking of travelling to Lyons to inspect the damage? Because he dislikes flying he'll go there aboard the TGV?'

  Lamy's expression showed no sign of his surprise, that he hadn't known: de Forge expected you to know everything that was going on. The TGV — the Train de Grande Vitesse — famous for its bullet-like speed of up to 150 m.p.h.

  'That concerns us?' he enquired.

  'I will give you orders soon. Urgent orders. This may be our opportunity. Have you also heard the Prefect of Paris -the man who might have got in our way when we focus on Paris - has been assassinated?'

  Lamy nodded. 'Kalmar has delivered again ...'

  'Kalmar! Are you sure you know it was him? I had a phone call on my private number from a man calling himself by the codename Manteau.'

  He watched Lamy closely as the Intelligence chief stared back, sitting more erect. Lamy found himself still thinking in English, a mental habit he'd easily slipped into during his trip to Aldeburgh. Manteau meant Cloak.

  'What did this Manteau say?' Lamy asked.

  He hardly had the words out of his mouth before de Forge exploded.

  'He said he had shot the Prefect. He gave me a detailed description of how and where and when - which has not appeared in the press yet. I ordered Berthier to phone our contact inside Lasalle's DST. He gave exactly the same details of the assassination. Manteau has asked for a fee of half a million Swiss francs. He said that if I refused that was all right, but he would expect my next commission.'

  'How the devil could he know we wanted the Prefect eliminated?' wondered Lamy.

  'Because there has to be a leak inside my own GHQ.' de Forge shouted back. 'You had better discover that leak fast. Whoever it is must be shot in the Landes. His body disposed of in the usual way.'

  De Forge was gazing closely at Lamy as he spoke. Aware of the scrutiny, L
amy gazed back without blinking. Then he changed the subject quickly, opening the briefcase in his lap.

  'I will carry out the investigation myself.' He took a large fat envelope out of the case. 'Oiseau has supplied the funds requested. Three million Swiss francs. He gave them to me without hesitation.' He placed the envelope on the desk.

  'Why aren't you already conducting that investigation?' de Forge stormed.

  Lamy was hurrying out of the long room to change into his uniform when de Forge called out for him to wait a moment. His voice was dangerously quiet. Lamy was well accustomed to his chief's unpredictable changes of mood, knew he was treading on tricky ground. He turned.

  'Yes, my General?'

  'Did you organize that Ku Klux Klan-style attack on the Jews in the south before leaving for England?'

  'Yes. It was to take place last night. I'm sure you'll hear news of it today. And a reporter with a gun in his back and a camera in his hand will have recorded it.'

  Tweed, Paula, and Newman met a grim Lasalle when they had arrived at rue des Saussaies in Paris. The Frenchman greeted them courteously, ordered an aide to bring coffee, waited until the four of them were alone.

  'What's happened now, René?' Tweed asked quietly as he sat down, sensing his host's disquiet.

  'This newspaper has just been flown to me by courier from Bordeaux by the chief of my team in the city. It is the most hideous atrocity.'

  He spread the newspaper over his desk facing them, said nothing, knowing they could all read French. The front page carried a huge picture, one of the most sinister Paula had ever seen. The headline screamed:

  'ANTI-SEMITES GO BERSERK AT TARBES. TWENTY JEWS BURN.

  The photograph was weird, macabre. Figures clad in what appeared to be white sheets from head to toe carried blazing torches. The sheets were shaped so they rose to the point of a triangle above the invisible heads with slits for the eyes. Each figure carried a flaming torch in one hand, a long knife in the other. The group of roughly forty men was formed into a triangular formation. At the apex - in front of the white-sheeted figures - the leader carried the Cross of Lorraine blazing with fire.

  It was not the only thing blazing. Men, mostly bare headed in the night, were running as flames enveloped them. One desperate fugitive wore a skull cap. Tweed turned to the next page which was covered with photos. Corpses burnt to a cinder littered the ground. Paula swallowed, stiffened herself.

  'This happened last night?' Tweed asked.

  'Yes.' Lasalle explained. 'Apparently there is some old castle where a Jewish group gathered to discuss the scriptures. I gather it was some kind of club - that they attended meetings regularly. So the fiends who did this knew when their victims would be there.'

  'It's horrific,' Paula whispered. 'Why?

  'Obvious, I'd have thought,' Newman commented. 'We all know there's anti-Semitism below the surface in many countries. Someone in France is working up the population - that part of it which is anti-Jewish.'

  'But this is a massacre,' Paula protested.

  'Exactly,' said Newman. 'A vicious atrocity to work up more chaos. The man behind this is a monster.'

  'Dubois, I'm sure.' Lasalle said. 'His speeches are vitriolic against all foreign elements, as he terms them. Especially the Jews.'

  'What about the reporter? Newman probed.

  'My DST chief who is in charge in Bordeaux says he was kidnapped at gunpoint. Then he was forced to take these foul pictures. The President is appalled. The trouble is he's just about to leave on the TGV for Lyons.'

  Today, you mean?' Tweed queried.

  'Yes. And he's taking the Prime Minister with him. The security problem is a nightmare. Still, that's simply something else to pigeonhole in my mind. As Churchill once said, my mental culvert is almost overflowing - something like that. What I'm about to tell you now is top secret.'

  'Understood.' said Newman, knowing he was the visitor Lasalle was bothered about.

  'The Prefect of Paris was assassinated last night.'

  'Oh, my God!' Paula burst out. 'He was one of the few strong men you could rely on in an emergency.'

  'Which was why he was a target. Now, listen, we have decided to keep it quiet, away from the public and the press.'

  'How on earth can you do that?' Newman protested.

  'By saying he has gone on holiday. He was due for some leave. I'd cancelled it but no one knows that. There was a witness to the killing. The disturbing thing is I had a phone call from a Frenchman calling himself Manteau. He claimed he had shot the Prefect. We have been hearing rumours about this new professional assassin, Manteau. A professional. So now we have two to cope with - Kalmar and Manteau.'

  'Unless,' Tweed said quietly, 'Manteau is Kalmar. He could be cleverly confusing the search for him.'

  Lasalle stared at Tweed. 'I had never thought of that. It fits in with the pattern of mounting chaos. I've kept the witness downstairs. You might like to question her. With your skill at interrogation you might extract something I've missed...'

  He spoke into his intercom. Paula watched the door, curious to see who was the witness. Tweed accepted Las-alle's offer to sit in the chak behind his desk, sat with his hands clasped. The door opened and a DST officer ushered inside the last type of witness Paula had expected.

  A short overweight bag lady shuffled into the office. She clutched a large bundle held together with a piece of soiled cloth. Glaring at the DST officer she spoke to Tweed, assuming he was the boss, that Lasalle must be an underling.

  'They tried to take my bundle. All my possessions in the world are inside it. Never let it out of my sight. I sleep under one of the Seine bridges. The flics keep moving me on. Say I'm not nice for the tourists. Who gives a monkey's cuss for the tourists?'

  'Please sit down, Madame,' Tweed said in French. 'And I will personally ensure no one touches your possessions.'

  'You'd better if you want to ask me questions. And I'd like more money first.'

  Lasalle, standing to one side, brought out his hands from behind his back. He riffled through the wad of banknotes he was holding.

  'You get these later. But only if my chief is satisfied with your answers.'

  'I've already told you,' she went on grumbling. 'Why don't you tell him?'

  'Because.' Tweed intervened in a sympathetic tone, 'it's important I hear what happened to the Prefect from you. You strike me as a woman who keeps her eyes open.'

  'Don't miss much, I can tell you,' the bag lady replied, mollified by Tweed's manner.

  'So tell me, please, what you saw.'

  'I was crossing the lie de la Cite on my way to doss down. It was one o'clock in the morning. I know that because I'd looked at a clock. The Prefecture is on the lie de la Cite. But you know that. I know the Prefect by sight. I should do. In the past he's given me a few francs. More than any flic would do.'

  'So tell me what you saw last night.'

  Paula was studying the bag lady's clothing. She was wrapped in a khaki-coloured army blanket, fastened at the neck with a huge safety-pin. Round her head she wore a large scarf, the colours faded, wisps of grey hair protruding. Newspaper projected from the worn pair of man's shoes encasing her large feet. But her bare red hands looked strong and her jaw jutted as she began, staring at Tweed.

  'I was a distance away from the entrance to the Prefect's building. A car was parked on the opposite side of the street, the side I was on. A man was crouched behind the car, seemed to be doing up his shoe lace. I recognized the Prefect as soon as he came down the steps towards his car ...'

  Her previous rasping tone had sunk to a monotone, like a woman reciting by rote. Of course, Paula thought, she's told this same story before to Lasalle.

  'The man crouched behind the car stood up. He was holding what looked like a rifle. He steadied it on the roof of his car, took aim, fired. The Prefect stopped halfway down the steps, then collapsed.'

  'And the assassin?' Tweed coaxed.

  'Jumped into his car, didn't he, and drove off
like hell. Don't ask me the make of the car. I don't know them. Never owned a car.'

  'What did the assassin look like? Height? Weight? Was he bare-headed? What colour of hair if he was ...'

  'Stop! Stop! For God's sake...'

  'Sorry. Take your time.' Tweed spoke very slowly. 'I expect you noticed how he was dressed?'

  'Wore a cloak, didn't he? A dark cloak. Dark like his hat.

  Don't see them much these days. Cloaks. Except sometimes when the toffs are going into the Opera.' Her mouth clamped shut.

  'You probably noticed something else about - the Cloak.'

  'That's it. All happened so quickly. I wouldn't know him if I saw him again. Then the police came running out of the building, waving their guns. Too late, as usual. That's it. Except they grabbed me. What about my money?'

  Tweed nodded. Lasalle held out the wad of banknotes, then withdrew it as she reached out. His voice was harsh.

  'You remember the conditions. You don't talk about this to the press, the radio, to anyone on God's earth. If you do you lose the bigger sum I'll give you later.'

  'Bigger? How much?' Quick as a flash.

  'That you'll find out when I decide you've earned it. I'm having you watched twenty-four hours a day.'

  He gave her the banknotes. Without checking the amount she stuffed them somewhere under her blanket, glared at Tweed, stood, picked up her bundle, refusing help from Lasalle who opened the door. The DST officer was waiting in the corridor, escorted her away. Lasalle closed the door and looked at his three visitors with raised eyebrows.