Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'And why are you here, Victor? It's good to see you.'

  'My immediate purpose was to find you. Which is why I was walking along the front. Can we talk?'

  'Later in the day. I'm off to see someone. See the café down that side street? Could we meet there about four this afternoon?'

  'I'll be there at three-thirty. If necessary I'll wait and wait and wait...'

  'Who was that?' Butler asked as he drove down the side street away from the front, still heading for the port.

  'Victor Rosewater, a Military Intelligence officer based at Freiburg in Germany. Has a roving commission...'

  She told him how with Tweed she'd first met Rosewater at the Drei Konige Hotel in Basle, recalled the murder of his wife, Karin, which she had almost witnessed. Butler drove back to where the road continued along the bassin as she talked. They arrived at the port. No sign of the Steel Vulture.

  'We'd better go straight to the Villa Forban,' Paula said, checking her watch. 'I wish I could tell Tweed about Brand being here.' .

  'I noticed a public call box on the way in,' Nield called out. 'You could contact him from there ...'

  Tweed, still in Paris, had spent the night at the Ministry of the Interior. Navarre had supplied himself and Kuhlmann with camp beds. The close co-operation between Britain, France, and Germany - between Tweed, Navarre, and Kuhlmann - was to become legendary in later years when it came to light.

  Tweed was still stiff from his night on the camp bed when Paula phoned. He listened as she reported the presence of Brand in Arcachon, her meeting with Victor Rosewater.

  'Yes, I told him he might find you in Arcachon,' Tweed confirmed. 'He's moving closer in to the enemy. Tell me what he says to you after you've met him later in the cafe.

  He may have obtained fresh information. I need to be kept very up to date.'

  'How is Bob Newman?' she asked.

  'No word from him. I expect I'll hear what he's found out soon. Now listen, Paula. This visit to the Villa Forban is fraught with danger. France has no President, but Navarre was confirmed as Prime Minister early today by a narrow majority. This may activate de Forge to make his ultimate move. He's unpredictable. You could run into something pretty dangerous at the Villa Forban.'

  'The coast is clear at the moment. It's a unique chance to discover something vital. Jean is very close to her friend.'

  'You will have company?' Tweed pressed.

  'The whole time. They're staying closer to me than one of those sticking plasters. Stop worrying. Must go. Bye.'

  Tweed put down the phone with grave misgivings. He now wished he'd forbidden her to risk the trip.

  General de Forge straightened a ruler so it was precisely parallel with the edge of his desk. Lamy thought it a typical gesture: de Forge was noted for his meticulous attention to detail. Some officers called it an obsession. The General looked at his subordinate, seated opposite in the large room, who had just reported on the arrival of more sabotage units in Paris.

  'So,' Lamy concluded, 'Paris can now be destabilized at the moment you give the signal. Despite the appointment of Navarre as Prime Minister. He won't be able to control the situation.'

  'I keep thinking of Jean Burgoyne,' de Forge remarked, staring into the distance. 'Whether I can trust her.'

  'You'd decided not to see her today.' Lamy reminded him. 'There is a great deal requiring your attention .'

  'Security is paramount.' De Forge continued as though he had not heard Lamy. 'It takes precedence over everything. Order the car.' Taking one of his instinctive decisions, he stood up and put on his képi. 'We are driving immediately to the Villa Forban. With a heavily armed escort.'

  'You are sure about this, General?' Lamy enquired.

  'I am a very observant man.' De Forge's mouth tightened. 'I was at the villa recently and left my dispatch case on a table while I had a bath. Afterwards when I came to pick up the case I noticed it had been moved slightly, did not line up with the table's inlay design as I'd left it. I know we have a spy who is reporting to Lasalle. When we identify that spy he - or she - will pay the ultimate penalty. They will end up in the Landes with the others. My escort is to carry automatic weapons ...'

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Marler carried two holdalls as he disembarked from the Air Inter flight which had transported him from Paris. The fact that there were no security checks on internal flights was a huge advantage.

  Dressed in denims, a windcheater, and trainers, he wore his beret down over his forehead at a jaunty angle. He strolled across the concourse at an easy pace, whistling a French tune. Slim and slight in build, no one could have picked him out from the average Frenchman.

  The hired Peugeot he'd phoned ahead for from Paris was waiting for him. He showed the girl his false papers in a common French name, paid her in cash, winked at her and got behind the wheel.

  Driving a few yards along the kerb, he paused, took out a map of the area. Checking his recollections of the route, he drove on. The call from Tweed giving him his fresh instructions had come through to his base in the apartment near the rue du Bac.

  'Step up the pressure,' had been Tweed's final order.

  At the Ministry of the Interior in Paris Tweed had been given his own small office by Navarre, a room equipped with a scrambler phone. It was mid-afternoon as he sat in his shirtsleeves, polishing his glasses on his handkerchief. He was trying to work out how Lord Dawlish could smuggle arms aboard the Steel Vulture - assuming his Lordship was doing just that. After all, he was in the international armaments business. But the Vulture had twice been subject to search at its base port, Harwich, for drugs. So would Dawlish risk using his unique vessel for transporting arms? At any time Heathcoate, the Habour Master, might order a third search. No, Dawlish was too shrewd to gamble on ruin, a heavy term of imprisonment. There was something at the back of Tweed's mind he couldn't bring to the fore. He dialled the number for Park Crescent, spoke to Monica.

  'Paula dictated to you a statement of the events at Dunwich and Aldeburgh - on the day her friend, Karin Rose-water, was murdered. Could you read it back to me. Detail is what I'm after...'

  He listened as Monica rapidly read the report back to him. Occasionally he made a note on the pad in front of him.

  'That's it,' Monica said eventually. 'Any help?'

  'I'm not sure. Something still eludes me, but I'm certain it's there. It will come back to me - I just hope it does in time. No further developments here ...'

  Earlier Tweed had called Monica, had given her details of his new temporary base. No further developments - that was not strictly speaking true. Navarre had been confirmed as Prime Minister by the National Assembly - by the most narrow of margins.

  The door opened and the man he was thinking about walked in. Navarre had had only two hours' sleep but was full of energy. He perched on the edge of Tweed's desk, clasped his lean wiry hands.

  'Well, my friend, I now have a problem. I was about to dispatch a large contingent of heavily armed CRS south together with a fleet of helicopters. Now Lasalle tells me a small army of saboteurs have infiltrated Paris, taking up position to start an insurrection. So do I concentrate on the north - here - or the south?' He waved a hand. 'I expect no answer. Only I can decide. But de Forge is close to making his big move, his masterstroke. The takeover of the French government.'

  'What about the Chief of the Army Staff, General Masson, de Forge's superior? He could remove him.'

  'I have already asked him to do so. He refused. Said if I insist he will resign. What would that do to public morale? The announcement that the Chief of the Army Staff had resigned. It would play straight into de Forge's hands. I now suspect Masson is a secret member of the Cercle Noir, that he is de Forge's creature.'

  'You have a difficult decision - where to position the paramilitary CRS units.' Tweed observed.

  'A decision I have to take within hours. Oh, Kuhlmann is wanting to see you...'

  The German police chief came in almost as soon as Nava
rre had left. Smoking his inevitable cigar, he looked fresh, determined, aggressive. He sat in a chair, looked directly at Tweed as he spoke.

  'I've decided to handle this Siegfried problem in my own way. Nearly every Kriminalpolizei officer has left Wiesbaden, covering most of Germany. They're putting maximum pressure on all known underworld informants to locate the hidden Siegfried cells. I've told them to use any method necessary to make people talk.'

  'The Chancellor knows this?'

  Kuhlmann clapped a hand to his broad forehead in a mock gesture of forgetfulness. He grinned.

  'You know something? With all that's going on it never crossed my mind to tell him. Now I think I'll wait for the results of this ruthless and intensive search. I'll keep you in touch...'

  Alone again, Tweed read through Paula's report for the second time. Everything was becoming a race against time. Navarre's protection of Paris. Kuhlmann's offensive to locate Siegfried, and his own search for the way Dawlish might be smuggling huge reinforcements to de Forge. Paula's report that Brand was in Arcachon made it all the more urgent.

  It was dusk as Lord Dane Dawlish walked down the beach at Dunwich to board the large waiting rubber dinghy with a powerful outboard motor. He had substituted for his hard riding hat a peaked naval cap. He also wore a blue blazer with gold buttons and dark blue trousers.

  Dawlish believed in dressing for the role he was adopting at any given moment. He was now presenting his sailor image. It went with the occasion. And emphasized his reputation as a playboy. Of course, if he happened to meet a beautiful woman so much the better: he'd live up to his playboy image with her.

  The Steel Vulture, which had sailed from Harwich early that morning, was anchored offshore. Even in the twilight scuba divers were going over the side, exploring the depths of the sunken village.

  'Is the operation completed?' he asked the First Mate who had come to escort him as the crew manoeuvred the craft closer to the weird twin-hulled giant.

  'It is still being carried out, sir.'

  'Should have damned well been completed by now. Butts will be kicked if we're behind schedule.'

  'I'm happy to report we're exactly on schedule, sir.'

  'You may be happy. I'll only join your happiness when the skipper reports the cargo is aboard ...'

  Onshore a few villagers, well wrapped against the zero temperatures, were gazing through field-glasses at the Steel Vulture. They were fascinated with Dawlish's persistence in locating Dunwich under the sea. And it was good for business.

  The local pub had been packed with customers - divers coming ashore for a break, slaking their thirst with a roll of banknotes. Dawlish was popular, Dawlish was good for business. No one suspected that anything sinister was taking place. They watched as Dawlish climbed on to the platform suspended just above a calm sea.

  When the Steel Vulture had raced north from Harwich early in the morning it had swung through a hundred and eighty degrees before anchoring off Dunwich. It floated about a half-mile out from the coast and the activity visible from the beach was on the starboard side.

  What could not be seen by the curious sightseers was the very different and furious activity on the port side facing out to sea. A squat mobile crane was operating a long chain suspended deep down. When not in use the crane was telescoped inside a huge cube of a deckhouse. Close to the stern was an advanced seaplane. It was not only equipped with floats for landing on water: it also had a retractable undercarriage which could lower wheels below the floats, enabling it to land on the ground.

  The Vulture, specially designed in a Norwegian shipyard, had cost Dawlish forty million dollars with its various accessories. Dawlish went straight to the bridge and his mood was aggressive as he addressed the skipper, Santos.

  'I presume we can sail for Arcachon tonight?'

  Santos spread apologetic hands. 'I am not sure the load ing will be completed for a few hours. We may have to sail tomorrow...'

  'A few hours!' Dawlish was outraged. His bullet-like eyes glared at the skipper. 'I should have come here earlier to crack a few skulls together. Why the hell do I have to supervise everything myself to ensure the schedule is kept? Always the same story. I have to do every bloody thing myself.'

  'It is dangerous work.' Santos pleaded. 'You would not wish us to have an accident with such a cargo.'

  'Report to me every half-hour. The trucks loaded the vessel during the night?'

  He was referring to the trucks which had brought their consignments from the factory in the forest on the road to Orford. The factory Newman and Marler had earlier tried to search, had been frustrated by their discovery of land mines which caused them to abandon the expedition.

  The villagers in Dunwich were not surprised when trucks arrived in the middle of the night. Two divers who patronized the Ship Inn had casually mentioned the trucks were bringing in food supplies for the crew and high-tech equipment for the clivers who were using new techniques to explore the sunken village.

  Santos wished Dawlish would leave the bridge. His nationality was Panamanian and he was paid a larger salary than he'd get anywhere else in the world. Large enough for him to keep his mouth shut.

  'Report to me on progress every half-hour!' Dawlish repeated, and stormed off to his luxurious cabin.

  His quarters were also equipped with the latest communications technology. He had hardly closed the door, started to pour himself a large Scotch, when his private radio telephone rang.

  'Hell and damnation.'

  He put down the drink, sat in the armchair, picked up the phone. Brand's burring controlled voice came over the receiver from Arcachon as clear as a bell.

  'There could be trouble here. Guess who I ran into in a local bar...'

  'I don't like guessing games. Get to the point, for God's sake.'

  'That cow, Paula Grey, who interviewed you. I tried to find out what she was doing here and got nowhere.'

  'That is too much of a coincidence ...'

  Dawlish gave Brand precise instructions, coding them in language no one else would have understood. Aware of the British government's highly sophisticated listening system at Cheltenham, Dawlish took no risks with security. And during their conversation neither man had mentioned the other's name. As for Paula Grey, Dawlish didn't think her name would ring any bells.

  Tweed had just returned from a brisk walk round Paris in the drizzle drifting down from a miserable overcast sky which blanketed the city. He had sensed a growing unease among the population.

  Walking into a bar he had listened to some bargees chatting while he sipped at a cup of coffee. Their views struck him as alarming, considering they weren't among the elite of Paris society.

  'We need General de Forge to take over,' one man had said.

  'I reckon he could be a second de Gaulle,' his companion had agreed.

  'A strong man to clear out these Arabs and other foreign trash,' a third bargee had said emphatically. 'I know exactly what I'd do. Round up the bastards and deport the whole tribe back to where they came from. De Forge is the man to do just that...'

  Arriving back at the Ministry of the Interior, Tweed showed the pass Navarre had issued him with. He hurried back to his office and the phone was ringing. He grabbed for it.

  'Yes? Who is this?'

  'Monica. I have more news.' I hope you'll understand me. First, those films Marler took when he was on a fishing expedition with Newman. Are you with me?'

  She was referring to the pictures Marler had taken of the laboratory-like building during their brief raid on Dawlish's factory in the forest on the road to Orford in the Aldeburgh area.

  'Yes. They've taken the devil of a time to develop them and come up with a comment.'

  'It's weird. I'll jump ahead a bit. When the data came back from Porton with their scientific report the Home Secretary authorized Special Branch to investigate the place. They were accompanied by experts from Porton. I have to tell you they came up with nothing.'

  'Nothing?'

&nbs
p; Tweed was taken aback. He recalled the veterinary pathologist's report on the dead fox Newman had brought back. Nerve gas.

  'I don't understand,' he replied.

  'Wait, please. I said I'd jump ahead a bit. The photos taken by Marler were subjected to intensive examination at Porton - using, I gather, new magnification techniques. It was the opinion of the experts that certain containers which showed up were just the type used for storing nerve gas. Hence their agreeing to travel all the way from Porton to join the Special Branch men.'

  'So what the devil did they discover - or not discover -inside that laboratory?'

  'The place was empty. Not a single container left. And they tested the whole place with special instruments. It was clean as a whistle. Almost too clean - that's a quote from one of the scientists. And no landmines.'

  'Thank you, Monica. Keep in touch...'

  Tweed felt depressed as he replaced the phone. He still felt certain he was missing something. He picked up the report of what Paula had said, began re-reading it again. Word by word.

  Butler drove the Renault along the country road and stopped a hundred yards from the entrance to the Villa Forban. As agreed in advance, Paula stepped out and walked swiftly to the closed grille gates.

  'I've got a bad feeling about this,' said Nield who sat in the rear.

  'Join the club,' answered Butler. 'Which is why we are taking the precautions I thought up.'