Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  De Forge adjusted his képi, turned slowly to face her. His hands were on his hips as he stared at her with his hypnotic eyes. She stared back. His voice was quiet, menacing

  'What are you suggesting, Jean?'

  'I'm not suggesting anything. But I am waiting for you to suggest an explanation for strange, sinister events.'

  'The people are rising up to express their fury - their fear - at the emergence of an all-powerful Germany.'

  'I see.' She sounded quite unconvinced, switched to a different topic. 'Is your wife, Josette, still indifferent to our friendship?'

  'Josette remains loyal to me - to my position as the leading soldier in France.' de Forge said cynically. 'She has gone back to our apartment at Passy in Paris. She feels the time has come to hold some more of her famous salons. A lot of influential people attend them.'

  'I also get the impression,' Jean remarked, 'that you are waiting for some important news. I felt that while we were in bed.'

  De Forge shrugged, another giveaway gesture. 'You have too lively an imagination.'

  All de Forge's instincts of danger close to him surfaced.

  He was careful not to look at Jean. She had a way of inveigling herself into his mind. Had he told her too much? She was very curious about his activities, his future plans, had recently asked some dangerous questions.

  'I must go.'

  He hugged her tightly. Out of her line of sight his eyes were ice-cold. Had the time come to take precautions? Perhaps she was another assignment for Kalmar?

  Or for Manteau?

  The phone began ringing insistently.

  The Paris-Bordeaux Express had stopped at Angouleme, well north of Bordeaux. Newman and Moshe Stein had alighted, were moving fast. While Stein went to collect the hired car Newman found a public phone, called Lasalle's office in rue de Saussaies.

  He was told Lasalle was not available. Newman used all his powers of persuasion to convince the man at the other end that Lasalle was expecting his call. He was asked to give his number, to wait...

  Moshe Stein drove up in a Renault, parked on the opposite side of the street, pretended not to see Newman. It was late afternoon, the sky was a storm of low dark clouds. It would soon be night and they still had a long drive to Stein's villa in the Landes. After they had visited Arcachon en route.

  Before leaving Paris Newman had purchased a complete outfit of new clothes. He wore a beret, a French windcheater, French trousers and shoes. He fretted as he waited. Would anyone ever call him back? The phone began ringing...

  Lasalle, still in Navarre's office with the three English visitors, answered, grasped that Newman was in a call box, put Tweed on the line.

  'We've reached Angoulgme.' Newman reported, speaking fast. 'I'm running out of coins. Arcachon next stop. Then on to the Landes with Moshe.' He was careful not to use the name Stein. 'In an emergency you can leave a message with Isabelle. I forgot to give you her number. It is. Moshe has told me things which make me suspect we may be a target. Strange things happen in the Landes. Nearest small place to his villa is St Girons. He gave us a false address in Paris. Villa is close to the sea. St Girons is on the D42 - which cuts off west from the N10. Phone number...'

  'Got it,' Tweed replied. 'Paula is coming south - may need a bolthole. Have you one more minute? I'll put her on the line...'

  'Do it.'

  'Bob ...' Paula spoke clearly, quickly. 'Don't say too much. Could Isabelle be my bolthole?'

  'Yes. I'll warn her you're coming. "Gruyere cheese" is your password ...'

  'Thanks, Bob. That's all.'

  'Paula! Don't come. Moshe has told me things during our trip so far. Down here is a greater danger zone than round the Brudenell.'

  'Then take care. Won't hold you.'

  The connection was broken before he could protest any further. He stood in the box for a minute longer, thinking. God! There was a mistrust, danger everywhere. Moshe had given a false address inside the DST! A second before Lasalle had answered Newman had heard a girl operator say 'Ministry of the Interior ...' Even in that stronghold of French security Tweed had listened, had said very little. Paula had said Don't say too much. She had used Isabella's first name but not her surname. And his call had passed through the Ministry's switchboard.

  Had he said anything directly linking Isabella with Arcachon? He recalled his conversation. No, he hadn't. It all amounted to something quite terrifying - treason, treachery, paid informants in the highest places.

  He left the box as it began to drizzle, a cold, raw drizzle of rain like a mist. Walking swiftly across the street he got into the passenger seat beside Stein. His suitcase was in the back. Stein, who knew the way, was behind the wheel.

  'Let's move, Moshe...'

  A long way south Newman saw in the night, in open country in the middle of nowhere, a petrol station illuminated like a glowing torch. He asked Moshe to stop for petrol.

  'We're still well-tanked.'

  'Stop for petrol.' Newman insisted.

  He got out with Moshe and wandered round the inside of the cabinlike shop attached while Moshe had the Renault filled to the brim. Newman had seen plenty of Second World War photos and on a shelf he recognized an old German jerrican with a capacity for many litres.

  The old boy who ran the station stared as Newman strolled out, holding the jerrican. Newman grinned.

  'Wartime souvenir?'

  'I have several,' the old boy responded as he held the nozzle from the pump. 'A truck driver threw them out when he was fleeing back to Germany.'

  'Mind filling it up? So we have a spare supply? I'll pay whatever you want for the souvenir.'

  The old boy, having filled up the car's tank, carefully filled the jerrican, Newman handed over the agreed price, placed it carefully in the back of the car under a rug after making sure the cap was well screwed down.

  'We need that?' Moshe enquired as he drove off.

  'We might. Keep moving at high speed, but just inside the limit. And avoid Bordeaux like the plague. Straight to Arcachon.

  Earlier in Navarre's office in Paris the phone had rung again soon after Paula had spoken to Newman. She was just about to leave but waited on a gesture from Tweed.

  Navarre took the call, spoke briefly, asked a couple of questions, again held out the instrument to Tweed.

  'It's for you. Your butler is calling,' he said with a blank expression.

  'Tweed here...'

  Thank God!' It was clearly Harry Butler's unmistakable voice. 'We flew in about an hour ago as you'd asked. I've had a helluva job at rue de Saussaies to persuade them to put me through to you. Had to show my card, describe what you looked like. Pete is with me, again as requested. What now?'

  'Go to the Swiss Restaurant in the street leading off rue St Honor, direct up to Place de la Madeleine. It's on the first floor.'

  'I remember. We met there once before. Then?'

  'Both of you wait for someone to turn up. Stick to that someone like glue. Take instructions from the person you're guarding.'

  'Got it. We need ironmongery?'

  He meant weapons - handguns with plenty of spare ammo. Tweed assured him that they would be supplied. He put down the phone, looked at Paula who was lingering near the door. She had plenty of time to catch her Air Inter flight to Bordeaux.

  'When you've been back to rue de Saussaies.' he told her, 'you walk straight to that Swiss restaurant - I'm sure you heard what I said on the phone. First floor.' He switched his gaze to Lasalle. 'Can you help again? I'd like Paula to go back with you now to rue de Saussaies. She needs two 7.65mm Walther automatics and plenty of spare mags.'

  'And also.' Paula added, 'I need a .32 Browning - with extra mags...'

  Navarre stood up when they had gone and he was alone in the large office with Tweed. He paced slowly, hands behind his back.

  'What is the ultimate objective of this devious plan you have set moving?'

  'De Forge is trying to destabilize France.' Tweed replied. 'I am going to destabil
ize de Forge. Apart from the fact that he was responsible for the murder of one of my agents -something I won't forget - it is essential we have a stable Europe to face whatever might confront us from the East...'

  He stopped talking as Navarre answered the buzzing of his intercom. The dark-haired, agile Frenchman listened to the message Tweed couldn't catch, told them to send him up, switched off, and faced Tweed.

  'Otto Kuhlmann has arrived. He will be with us in a moment. We are keeping in close touch with Germany....'

  The door opened, Kuhlmann entered, his expression grim. He shook hands with Navarre, with Tweed, settled his bulk into a chair, studied his unlit cigar and then began speaking.

  'I've come to hear whether there have been any further developments. The German press is full of the riots in Lyons, the anti-American and anti-German slogans which were shouted.'

  'Don't worry.' Navarre reassured him. 'We are all working together. Tweed has a plan. I can't reveal the details. Tell us the present situation in Germany.'

  'Germany is very uneasy, uncertain of itself. Suddenly we are the most powerful country in Europe with unification. It worries thoughtful men and women. Gorbachev took the lid off Russia - but I'm not sure he realized he was also taking the lid off Germany. He may have opened the gate to dark forces. To Siegfried. What scares me is Siegfried could be the weapon of the extreme Right. I just hope to God the members of Siegfried are imported terrorists. If so, our dragnet must locate them sooner or later...'

  Kuhlmann talked on while Tweed sat thinking of Newman and Paula. Each of them by now well on their way to the south, to the Bordeaux region - de Forge's territory. He was still pondering the future when the phone rang once more.

  Navarre ran behind his desk, picked up the phone, listened. It was a long call with the caller doing most of the talking. Watching him both Tweed and Kuhlmann were aware of a rising sense of tension. Navarre sat up straighter, leaned forward, his facial muscles taut. He put down the phone slowly, looked at his visitors.

  'A catastrophe has occurred. That call was from Lyons -from the DST chief there.' He took a deep breath before continuing. 'The President of France is dead. The Prime Minister is dead. A saboteur blew up the track ahead of the TGV they were aboard. The whole train plunged into a deep ravine. Huge casualties.'

  'The trigger,' said Tweed. 'The trigger General Charles De Forge was waiting for. France is about to erupt like a volcano.

  Chapter Thirty

  As they approached Arcachon at reduced speed Newman watched Moshe's headlights sweeping over the fringes of the bassin - the almost landlocked harbour. In the beams he saw beyond the country road a marsh-like area, small creeks of stagnant water with an oily gleam. In the near distance the lights of Arcachon came closer in the dark.

  'I have to visit someone.' Newman said. 'Probably for no more than an hour, maybe longer. Do you mind staying at a small hotel until I come for you?'

  'Of course not, my friend. I know a small hotel near the station. Why don't we drive there first, then you can take over the car?'

  'It would be a help,' Newman admitted.

  He felt a sense of relief. He was tired and the idea of walking to Isabella's apartment did not appeal. Earlier, from a public call box in a village he had called her to warn he was coming. She had sounded wild with excitement, which worried him.

  Moshe pulled up in front of a small hotel, got out with his case, wished Newman luck and ran inside. The cold was intense as a bitter wind scoured the resort. Ten minutes later Newman was inside Isabelle's apartment. Dressed in. a warm two-piece blue suit she flung her arms round him.

  'Oh, my God! You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Have you heard the news, Bob? It's terrible...' Again the words came tumbling out. 'The President is dead, has been assassinated. The TGV he was aboard on his way to Lyons was blown up. And, Bob, the Prime Minister is also dead. He was aboard the same express...'

  'Slow down, slow down, Isabelle.'

  'I'll make you some nice hot coffee. You feel cold. You must be in this weather. Milk but no sugar. You see, I remember ... Come and make yourself comfortable in the living room. There is a log fire. Then we can talk...'

  Newman welcomed the log fire crackling away as he sat by himself on a couch in the cosy room. Not only for the warmth after the arctic conditions outside - but also it helped him to marshal his thoughts.

  The President of France dead - and the Prime Minister. When interviewing de Forge he'd sensed the General straining at the leash - the partial straitjacket of Presidential authority which had restrained him - to some extent. Now de Forge was free to act in any way he wished. There would be confusion - chaos - in Paris.

  And all this, he thought grimly, meant that Moshe Stein and himself, too, would be in far greater danger in the Landes. What Moshe had told him had previously alerted him to the risks they were taking. Now those risks were tripled.

  'Coffee...' Isabelle placed a tray on a small table and poured. 'Isn't the news frightful? It's so good to have you here. With me. The two of us alone again.'

  She had splayed her long legs like a cat underneath her as she sat on the floor, leaning against his knees, sipping her coffee. He asked the question bothering him.

  'Where is your sister? Any risk of her coming back?'

  'No.' A catlike smile. 'After your phone call Lucille called me from Stockholm at her boyfriend's place. She is staying there longer. She's very understanding about us.'

  'If she now? She knows my name?'

  'Of course not!' Her back stiffened. 'I'm. careful about your safety, even though I trust Lucille. But you know -pillow talk with her boyfriend. All she can tell him is a friend is with me. You look very French in your gear.'

  'That's the idea.' Newman had removed his beret and raincoat. He made the effort before the warmth - and Isabelle - overcame him. 'I'll have to leave soon.' Her hand gently fondled his knee. Much more of this and he'd be spending the night with her.

  'Bob, were you furious with me when I told you on the phone about my trip back to my mother's apartment in Bordeaux?'

  'No, just concerned. And relieved that you escaped from those two phoney DST thugs. They'd have murdered you -like they did Henri at the Gare St Jean.'

  'Instead I murdered them.'

  'You defended yourself with great courage and ingenuity. It was an accident they deserved.'

  'I have another confession to make ...'

  'I'm not a priest.'

  'I know that.' She smiled wickedly. 'Anyone less like a priest I can't imagine.' Her hand moved up to his thigh, rested there. He clamped his own hand on top of hers, squeezed it to encourage her. And to prevent her hand wandering too much.

  'Henri kept a notebook. He had filled it up and was going to record things in a fresh one. He gave me the old notebook to keep, said I should guard it. I promised not to look inside - he said that would be dangerous - and I kept my promise. I hid it among my underclothes in the Bordeaux apartment. It's still there.'

  'Why didn't you give it to me?' Newman asked quietly.

  'I forgot. I know it sounds crazy but so many things - awful things - happened. Henri's murder. Then when we were at the apartment we spotted those men watching. I was concentrating on doing what you told me so we could get away safely.'

  'And during your second visit - to get Henri's brooch?'

  'For God's sake!' she flared up. 'Those men knocked on the door. You know what happened afterwards. I forgot the notebook again. Can you wonder I did?'

  So Henri Bayle - alias Francis Carey, Tweed's agent -had left some kind of record of what he'd discovered in the Bordeaux region. Maybe he hadn't died in vain - an outcome Newman knew Tweed would live with for the rest of his time on earth unless Carey's mission had produced something vital. And maybe there was vital data in that hidden notebook. It could be even more important now France was sliding into anarchy after the brutal removal of the President and his Prime Minister.

  'Isabelle, you have a key to the apartment in
Bordeaux?' he asked casually.

  'Of course. It's in the drawer of that escritoire.'

  'Mind if I borrow it for a few hours?'

  'Why?' Her eyes blazed with anxiety. 'What are you up to now?'

  'Fetch me the key and I'll tell you.'

  'I'm coming with you.'

  She threw the remark over her shoulder as she jumped up and ran to the drawer. Newman was thinking it was fortunate he'd warned Moshe Stein he might be a while before he picked him up at the hotel - even more fortunate that Moshe had loaned him the hired Renault. Isabelle came back, holding the key in her hand behind her back. She knelt in front of Newman.

  'You can't have the key until you tell me why you need it.'

  'To get hold of Henri's note book. We need to know where to look before we go.'

  She took his statement as agreement that she could come with him. She explained exactly which drawer in the bedroom contained the notebook, buried deep among her underclothes. Newman nodded, leaned forward, pulled her towards him. She came willingly as he hugged her, reaching one hand behind her shapely back. She kissed him greedily, felt to be devouring his mouth. His right hand grasped hers, forced the fingers apart, felt metal, took the key.

  She wrenched herself free, a flaming fury. Standing up she looked down at him.

  'You tricked me! Damn you! You're going by yourself.'