by Colin Forbes
'It's my war as well as yours. My job is to help stop de Forge. Those are his men coming to get you. I'll bet ten thousand pounds on it.'
'I think you ought to leave.' Moshe persisted. 'I wish I had never agreed to let you come.'
'Don't you want vengeance? Isn't that the same chant you heard at Tarbes just before your friends were all incinerated?'
'The very same chant...'
'So it could be some of the same men. Don't you want revenge?' Newman repeated.
'We cannot just lie down and die again as once we did.'
'So what the hell are you grumbling about?'
'I wasn't grumbling,' Moshe protested.
Newman grinned in the dark. 'You were giving a very good imitation of it...'
He stopped speaking as he heard the chanting increasing in venom. They sounded to be inside the clearing which surrounded the villa now. He crept to a window as a glow of light lit up the interior of the cabin, creating sinister shadows on the walls. He sucked in his breath.
The leader of the attacking group holding aloft a cross of fire - the Cross of Lorraine adopted by General de Gaulle during the Second World War. Newman stared at this ghastly perversion of a sacred symbol. The leader was flanked by four men spread out like a military wing on either side, advancing on the cabin. All nine men wore terrifying white sheets which came to a peak at the tops of their invisible heads. All the flankers carried flaming torches as they chanted the same dirge over and over. It was pure Ku Klux Klan.
'You must go now, Bob.' Moshe whispered.
Two of us will leave here alive - or two of us will be left here dead,' Newman said calmly. 'You know the plan.'
'Yes, I can do it. Is it time?'
'Let them get a little closer. The bastards are enjoying themselves, want to make the terror last a little longer.'
'They will burn the villa to the ground.'
'That is their plan. Now we operate ours ...'
They left the villa by the rear window, closing it behind them. Newman led the way, crawling swiftly along the gully below the level of the surrounding ground. He had already made one trip earlier to make sure they could ease their way swiftly through the culvert pipe. He emerged from the end of the stuffy gully and smelt the aroma of pines. Moshe clambered out behind him. As planned, Newman moved to the right of the villa, Moshe to the left.
Newman had a bottle in his hand, uncapped it and the pine aroma was replaced by the stench of the bottle full of petrol from the jerrican - fed inside with the aid of Isabelle's funnel. He pulled out a short length of the strip of cloth he had stuffed in the neck, came round the end of the villa to face the two outer flankers on his side. Using his lighter, he ignited the cloth, hurled the bottle. It landed between the flankers, exploded into flame. Greedily, the flame set light to the sheets of both men and they became human fireballs, screaming.
Newman lit a second fuse, threw it at the leader holding the obscene fiery cross. The bottle exploded at his feet, swept a sheet of flame over his strange clothing. The cross wobbled, fell on to the ground and the leader fell into the inferno, shrieking with terror. Newman threw a third bottle. It exploded just before it landed, firing the white sheets of two more attackers. They dropped the torches and this added to the conflagration.
Over to his left Moshe was hurling his own fire bottles. His aim was accurate. Four attackers were in flames, running a short distance as they shrieked, then collapsing. Hell that night was flames soaring into the night. The chanting was replaced with the shouts and shrieks of the men who had come to murder Moshe Stein, to burn him to death.
There was a sudden silence. The only sound was the dying crackle of fire burning itself out as an unpleasant stench began to drift through the Landes. Two men had rolled on the ground in a futile attempt to save themselves, and their action had extinguished the fire more quickly compared with the others now burnt to a cinder.
Newman walked over to these two dead men. The sheets had been destroyed but their clothes had miraculously survived as they lay motionless. Under the sheets they had been wearing French Army uniforms. Newman calmly took out his camera, recorded five photos of each corpse.
'It is horrible.' said Moshe, hurrying up behind Newman.
Hardened by his experiences a few years before behind the lines in East Germany during the days of the Cold War, Newman's hand was steady as a rock as he took his pictures. He put away the camera, emptied his pockets of unused bottles.
'It was them or us. Now I have evidence. I suggest we pack at once and drive straight back to Arcachon. I have to make contact with Paris ...'
Chapter Thirty-Four
At 8.30 a.m. in Arcachon smoke-coloured clouds pressed down on the resort like a lid. It was bitingly cold as Paula stepped out of the Renault near the entrance to the apartment block where Isabelle Thomas lived.
Butler stepped out of the rear to escort her. Pete Nield remained at the wheel - to guard the car, to watch the entrance ahead of him. Both Butler and Nield carried small walkie-talkies. At any sign of danger approaching while they were inside, Nield would warn Butler.
Paula had phoned Isabelle from the hotel before they set out. The French girl had not sounded enthusiastic about the arrival of Paula, but had agreed to see her. Butler had insisted on accompanying Paula to the apartment.
Isabelle opened the door on a chain. She peered out and studied Paula.
'Yes?' she enquired.
'I'm Paula Grey. I wonder if you have any Gruyere cheese?'
'Who is the man with you?'
'My minder.' Paula smiled. 'A friend and a professional bodyguard. He has me on a tight leash.'
Isabelle released the chain, opened the door, closed and replaced the chain, locking the door when they were inside. She led them across the dining-living room to a sitting area. Butler said he wouldn't intrude, was there somewhere close by he could wait?
'You would like coffee?' Isabelle asked.
'Yes, please. Black, no sugar,' Paula responded.
Five minutes later Isabelle returned with coffee, leaving Butler in the kitchen. Again she studied Paula from tip to toe, unsmiling as she sat opposite her with the table between them. Paula sensed an underlying hostility and realized its source with Isabelle's next question.
'You are a very close friend of Bob Newman's?'
'I work for a security organization. Mr Newman helps us from time to time. He knows the world so well from his experiences as a foreign correspondent. I know him well but I wouldn't say he's a very close friend.'
Paula saw the relief in Isabelle's eyes she tried to conceal. So it was jealousy. She could understand Newman being attracted: Isabelle was not only an extremely good-looking girl, she was also very intelligent. It explained the enthusiasm with which Newman had described her. Paula charged the subject quickly.
'Do you feel safe here? You've suffered some ghastly experiences.
'There's something I should tell you, Paula. May I call you Paula?' Her mood had changed, had become animated. 'Good. I'm Isabelle. Bob told me to do any shopping early in the morning. To keep under cover here the rest of the time. I've done exactly as he said.'
'You're wise ...'
'Wait! I heard something. A shopkeeper told me about a rumour that the peculiar ship from Britain with its hull split in two may arrive here soon. Bob was interested in that ship. And in a lecherous man called Lord Dane Dawlish.'
'He's expected?' Paula asked sharply.
'I don't know.'
'Have you any idea where this shopkeeper heard the rumour?'
'Yes!' Isabelle looked pleased. 'He told me he heard it in the Martinique Bar near the front.'
'Could you describe to me the location of this Martinque Bar?' Paula probed.
'Yes!' Isabelle seemed eager to help now. 'I can draw you a plan showing you how to get there from here. It will be open now. It's not really a very nice place. I'll get a pad...'
When she had drawn her diagram Paula noticed how neat and clear it
was. Like her handwriting. She drank more coffee as the French girl made sure she understood the directions. Although like a coiled spring in her intensity, Isabelle moved with great gracefulness.
'Can I ask you a question?' she asked when Paula folded the diagram.
'Ask away.'
They had conversed in English ever since Paula's arrival. A feeling of warmth was developing between the two women.
'Have you any idea.' Isabelle began tentatively, 'when we may expect to see Bob back in Arcachon?'
'No idea at all. Most of the time he doesn't reveal to me his movements.'
'Paula!' Isabelle was intense again. 'I almost forgot. This may be something you should know. Bob phoned me some hours after he'd left. To warn me he felt sure he had seen an officer called Lieutenant Berthier when he was driving out of Arcachon late at night. He described him. He said I should be careful of this man.'
Paula was taken aback. Her mind flashed to the incident when he'd driven her to Jean Burgoyne at Admiralty House in Aldeburgh. When he'd attempted his amorous approach. Berthier - who had posed as James Sanders, who was a key member of General de Forge's inner circle. Arcachon was no longer the safe haven they had hoped for. She worded her reply carefully.
'I have heard of this Berthier. He is a dangerous man. Please do take Bob's advice and stay under cover. And now I must go.'
'You must be careful yourself,' Isabelle urged. 'If you need a safe place to hide, come here immediately.'
'I won't hesitate to take up your offer.' Paula hid her dismay at the news of Berthier's presence. 'And I will keep in touch with you.'
Butler emerged from the kitchen. 'Thank you for the cup of excellent coffee,' he said formally.
He waited until they reached the pavement after he had peered out in both directions. They walked towards where Nield appeared to be sleeping behind the wheel of the Renault.
'Do you trust her?' Butler asked.
'The only people I trust in this situation are Tweed's team. Berthier turning up here is a shock. We'll have to keep a lookout for him where we're going.'
'And where might that be?'
To the Martinique Bar. That's where the rumour originated that Dawlish's Steel Vulture may be coming here. I shudder every time I think of that ship. It takes me back to when poor Karin and I were scuba-diving off Dunwich. When we surfaced we saw that evil-looking ship. Let's hope we can find out something at the Martinique.
It's not really a very nice place. Isabelle's description of the Martinique was pure British understatement. Paula, dressed in a trenchcoat, walked in by herself as Butler strolled in half a minute later, giving the impression Paula was on her own. This time Nield did not stay with the car: he wandered in shortly after Butler had entered.
A seamen's waterfront bar - even though not on the front. Paula walked straight up to the bar. She was aware of seamen in pea-jackets staring openly at her. One made an obscene suggestion in a loud voice. She ignored it.
'A dry Vermouth, please.' she asked the barman.
Perching herself on a stool, she chanced a tricky question when the barman, a rough-looking type with a cast in his right eye, brought her drink.
'I hear that British twin-hulled ship, the Steel Vulture, is due to arrive back in Arcachon soon. Is it?'
'I wouldn't know. My job is to make this place pay.' He glanced over Paula's shoulder. 'The customer you should ask is sitting at that table in the corner behind the door.'
Paula sipped her drink. It was too early in the day for any drink, but it would look funny if she just left the glass full. She looked round the bar which had pictures of nude girls in various poses on the walls. Then she had a bad shock. Sitting at the corner table was a heavily built man with wide shoulders, dressed in a clean pea-jacket. Brand.
She had last seen Dawlish's deputy at the shooting party held at Grenville Grange on the river Aide. The day she had interviewed Dawlish, repelled his advances. Brand was staring straight back at her. He said something to his two tough companions, stood up, made his way towards her. His large hand gripped her shoulder as he climbed on to the adjoining stool.
'Miss Paula Grey. Now what would a nice lady like you be doing in Arcachon - and in a bar like this?'
'If you want to talk to me will you kindly first remove your paw?'
'A choosy dame.' The hand left her shoulder. 'It's a small world, as they say.'
'As you just said - so what are you doing here far away from Aldeburgh?'
'Still the nosy investigative reporter. Always asking questions. One day that habit will get you into nasty trouble.'
'I happen to do the occasional interview. My main job is with an insurance company.'
Brand grinned unpleasantly. 'And you're practised at evading questions. I asked why you were here. In this bar. In Arcachon.'
Paula swivelled her stool, to face him, to make it easy to get away if necessary. She smiled icily.
'Brand, I'll make a deal with you. I'll answer you if you first answer me. Fair enough?'
'No, it isn't.' Brand's expression was ugly. 'Don't get clever-clever with me.' His hand reached out again, grasped her forearm, held it tight. Paula willed herself not to wince. He had the grip of an ape. 'The last woman who tried that is still bruised all over. I want an answer ...'
'I can give you one.' Butler had come up behind Brand. His tone was as controlled as his expression. 'Miss Grey and I have an appointment to keep. And if you don't take your hand off her pronto I'll break your arm. Maybe both arms.'
Brand let go of Paula, dropped off his stool, swung round to face Butler who stood a good two inches higher. Brand bunched his huge fist, stared at Butler who stood quite still. Something about Butler's stance, his poker-faced expression, bothered Brand. He shrugged, turned to go.
'I could make mincemeat of you,' he growled.
Try it,' Butler suggested.
Brand's bull-neck, his face, reddened. He turned back and measured up Butler again. His arm stiffened, ready to strike the first blow.
'You can have a brawl if you want to,' Butler went on calmly. 'Of course someone will call the police and I have plenty of witnesses as to who started this. When you're lying poleaxed on the floor.'
'You'll be late for your bloody appointment.'
Brand marched off back to the corner table where his two companions waited. One of them had started to get up when he saw what was happening. Nield, who had wandered close to the table, pressed his left hand hard on the man's shoulder. He held him down as he spoke in French, his eyes flickering to the other man.
'DST. Make any trouble and I'll crack you on the skull.' His right hand was inside his coat, gripping the Walther. 'And then I'll haul you in for questioning as a suspected terrorist...'
Paula and Butler passed the table where Brand had just sat down again. Dawlish's right-hand man looked away from the group as it left.
Paula reacted as she settled herself beside Butler who was behind the wheel. Nield slipped into the back of the Renault.
'Thank you, Harry. That was getting grim. Did you see the size of his hand? He was really hurting me. But he backed off from you.'
'Which is interesting,' Butler commented. 'It was the mention of the police coming which scared him off. Of course, you know who he is.'
'Brand. Dawlish's close confidant, as far as we know. He got uptight when I asked him what he was doing in Arcachon. I'm wondering whether the Steel Vulture is expected. If that's why he's here.'
'Unless he has some other job in mind first. Where do we go now?'
'To the Villa Forban so so I can meet Jean Burgoyne. She is confident de Forge won't be there today. But we'd better be careful - very careful.'
'I thought that was why Pete and I were with you.' Butler remarked drily.
He'd studied the map Lasalle had provided Paula with showing the most solitary route to the villa. He was driving along the windswept front as Paula had suggested. She wanted to check that there no sign of the Steel Vulture. It was a dirt
y day for any fishing vessels out beyond the shelter of the bassin. Paula suddenly sat up very erect.
The front was almost deserted. A strip of folded canvas above the window of an ice-cream parlour was flapping furiously, trying to tear itself loose. Even inside the bassin waves were rolling in, high and surf crested. In the distance the clustered masts in the port were swaying madly. One man, dressed in a trenchcoat, his hair flying all over the place, was striding towards them. Paula felt sure she recognized the athletic stance, the swinging stride of the tall solitary walker.
'Harry, pull in when we reach that man coming this way.'
As he came closer Paula saw that it was Victor Rosewater. The last person she'd expected to see in Arcachon. She stepped out into the wind as Butler parked the car.
'Victor! What a wonderful surprise. I certainly never expected to see you down here.'
Rosewater gave her a bear hug, glanced into the car and looked a question at Paula. How like him she thought - not to pry directly.
'It's all right,' she assured him. 'They're Tweed's. So you can talk freely. What are you doing?'
'Tweed told me you were in this area when I phoned Monica. Careful lady, that. I had to give her a number where Tweed could call me back.'