by Colin Forbes
All in one breath. She snuggled up against him. Her body pressed against his. She was moaning with pleasure, hands clutching at him. I have a problem here, he thought. He grasped both her shoulders, gently pushed her to arm's length, and she stood staring at him, quivering, her eyes huge.
'Isabella, I need your help. I have to leave almost at once. To go to Bordeaux again...'
'No! Not Bordeaux!' You don't know what it's like now. Friends have told me. There are army patrols in all the main streets...'
'I don't want a main street. I want the Passage Emile Zola. Ever heard of it?'
Releasing her, he took out his street map of the city and spread it over the living-room table. She stood next to him, her hair brushing his face, a pen in her hand. She had it poised to make a mark when he stopped her.
'No. Marked maps are dangerous. You do know where it is?'
'Yes. It is very difficult to find. You can walk past it a dozen times without seeing it. But I can take you there.'
'Nothing doing. This is one trip I make on my own.'
'Really?' She pulled at strands of her hair. 'Which way will you drive in to Bordeaux? I suppose you will follow the same route we used?'
'It seems sensible, since I know it.'
'Very sensible. When the Passage Emile Zola is on this side of the city.'
She pointed to the eastern area, furthest from Arcachon and on the way to the airport. He looked at the area she had vaguely indicated and couldn't see the passage, in any case, it wasn't included in the map's index. His tone changed, became rough.
'Look, stop fooling around, Isabelle. Someone's life is at stake. Without making a mark just damn well show me where this passage is.'
'There.' She retracted her pen tip and lightly touched the map. 'And to have any chance of surviving the army patrols we'd take a roundabout route and approach it from the east. I can guide you.'
'Thanks. I won't risk you coming again.' 'Excuse me. I must turn off the coffee percolator.' She disappeared through the swing door into the kitchen, was absent for no more than thirty seconds, then came back with a coat over her arm, a canvas bag in her hand. Newman said goodnight after swiftly folding the map. He went to the door, threw back the bolt, turned the key, and left the apartment.
He had unlocked the door of his car, was easing himself behind the wheel of the Renault, when the passenger door opened and Isabelle, wearing the coat, slid in beside him, closing her door. She moved like a cat. He'd not heard a footstep. Her arrival had been so sudden he'd slipped his hand inside his sheepskin to grip the butt of his Smith & Wesson.
'Give me the map.' she said calmly. 'You said someone's life was at stake. That makes two of you. Without my local knowledge you'd never make it. Hadn't we better get moving?'
'Manteau here.'
General de Forge, alone in his GHQ office, froze. Only two words but they'd had an extraordinarily sinister ring over the phone.
'Yes, what the hell is it now? You've been paid.'
'Trickery. My God, you do take chances. Don't you want to go on living?'
'Just hold it there.' De Forge had a grip on himself now. 'I would appreciate an explanation of that cryptic remark.'
'The money, General.'
'What about it? The amount was as agreed.'
De Forge was puzzled. Lamy had delivered it as instructed - or was his Chief of Intelligence going into business for himself? Was Lamy the rotten apple of the inner circle?
'The amount was as agreed.' Manteau repeated. 'But three-quarters of it is counterfeit. The remaining quarter has bills in numbered sequence. That was a grave mistake, General. Maybe even suicidal.'
The voice was so deadly calm it was unnerving. As though discussing a perfectly normal business transaction. The man was like ice. And de Forge was appalled at what he had been told, hardly knew how to react.
'I'll investigate.' he said brusquely. 'I handed over the money to the emissary myself. It was as requested at that moment.'
'So you say. So you would say, of course. I'm going to have to provide one last demonstration. Incidentally, I have left the cloth bag containing what was inside behind the same phone box. Have it collected. Just in case you are telling the truth. Which I very much doubt.'
'What demonstration are you talking about...'
De Forge realized he was talking into a dead line. Shaken, he put down the phone, thought for a moment, picked up the phone again, ordered Major Lamy to come at once. He next called Lieutenant Berthier's quarters, found the officer had just returned, told him he wanted to see him, to wait outside his office when he arrived. De Forge was standing with his back to the huge silhouette of General de Gaulle when Lamy entered. Which meant Lamy had to remain standing.
De Forge told him about the Manteau call. He watched Lamy closely as he spoke, his manner grim. The Chief of Intelligence was careful to wait until his commander had finished, his face devoid of expression.
'So what have you to say?' de Forge demanded.
'This is crazy.' Lamy protested. 'I delivered the money as arranged. Counterfeit? Impossible.'
'Unless someone is stashing away a nest egg for himself.' de Forge remarked coldly.
'Is that an accusation, General?'
'Rather call it a suggestion. There's one way to discover the truth. As I told you, he has left the cloth bag behind the phone box. Go and bring it back to me immediately.'
'Now? At this hour of night?'
'Have you gone deaf? I said immediately. And take with you an escort. Lieutenant Berthier will be waiting outside. Take him with you - and one other officer.'
'What about Kalmar, General? He has just phoned me and asked for his fee. For eliminating Jean Burgoyne ...'
He stopped speaking as the phone rang. De Forge looked Lamy up and down with a chilling expression he was famous for. He lifted the receiver.
'De Forge. I'm busy. Who the hell is it now?'
'Manteau reporting, General. During my previous call I omitted to tell you I have extinguished Jean Burgoyne. That will cost you one million Swiss francs. Tell Lamy he'll receive instructions how to make payment. This time in real money, if you please.'
'Listen to me...' Again the line went dead.
De Forge replaced the phone carefully as though it might explode in his face. He looked at Lamy again for almost a minute before he told him about this latest call. Lamy listened, his mind racing over how to respond.
'I don't know how he could possibly have known where she was. Jean Burgoyne chose a very remote rendezvous. And without Yvette following her no one would have known.'
'But someone did know.' de Forge said softly. 'You knew - or that girl who took the call here from Yvette knew.'She passed the information to you over the radio and you said you'd phoned Kalmar at an agreed number.'
'What do you suggest?' Lamy asked stiffly.
'That you carry out my order - collect that bag with the money from behind the phone box.'
Lamy turned to go. Then he decided to risk more protest. De Forge didn't seem to realize what he was asking.
'If Manteau is in the area, watching that isolated phone box, he'll think it's a trap - when he sees my escort in the car with me.'
'It's a risk you'll have to take,' de Forge told him brutally. 'Send in Lieutenant Berthier and wait outside for him...'
Berthier stood rigidly to attention as de Forge studied him. The General was watching for any signs of nervousness, of sweat appearing on his forehead - as he had with Lamy.
'Paula Grey,' de Forge snapped. 'Any news by now?'
'Yes, General. She is staying at the Hotel Atlantique in Arcachon. The night clerk showed me her signature in the register. The problem is she's protected by two bodyguards. Professionals, by the way they behave. Never let her out of their sight.'
'Thank you, Berthier. You have done well.' De Forge had become amiable. He made it a point never to be at odds with more than one officer at a time. 'I may send you back to Arcachon. At the moment Major Lamy has
a job for you and is waiting outside...'
Alone, de Forge sat at his desk, drawing Crosses of Lorraine on fire on a pad while he thought. Kalmar. Manteau. Could they be the same man? Or were both an invention of Major Lamy's?
Lamy was an expert marksman. Lamy had always been the go-between separating de Forge from the unknown killer. It was an arrangement which suited de Forge: no one could ever link him with the assassin. Lamy had suggested the idea. Lamy always took the huge sums paid to the assassin when someone had to be eliminated. The President and the Prime Minister, for example. And before transferring to Intelligence Lamy had been an explosives technician with the Engineers. Was Lamy accumulating a fortune at the expense of the Army?
De Forge was irritated and confused. He should be concentrating all his brainpower on Operations Austerlitz and Marengo. The mystery of the assassins - if there were two of them - was taking up valuable time. I should know the solution when they return with the money, he decided. And the problem of Paula Grey should also soon be solved.
Chapter Forty-Three
Major Jules Lamy was a loner. He intensely disliked his escort and had sat both officers in the rear of the car. In the middle of the night his headlight beams, undimmed, swung over a bleak landscape of deserted fields with not a single habitation in sight.
He was within two miles of the small village which had the phone box on its southern outskirts. The advantage was he could search round the box for the canvas bag containing the money without risk of being seen by any villager. That was, assuming the money was there.
In the rear Berthier sat beside the other lieutenant and behind the empty front passenger seat. His Service revolver was resting in his lap, his hand holding the butt. He had removed it from his holster surreptitiously, certain that Lamy would object if he had known about the gun.
Neither of the lieutenants had spoken a word during the long drive from GHQ. Both knew Lamy wished them in hell and were careful not to break the silence. Berthier was on edge. He mistrusted this drive through the darkness without a motorcycle outrider escort. They were a sitting target, in Berthier's opinion.
The thought had just passed through his mind when Lamy slowed as he negotiated a sharp and dangerous bend. He was crawling when their silence was broken. A shattering crack stunned the three occupants. Berthier was the first to realize it was a bullet.
The crack was followed instantly by a splattering of breaking glass. The officer next to Berthier was showered with glass splinters. Berthier saw a hole in the window on his side also. He took off his képi and the brim had disappeared.
'Move!' he shouted at Lamy. 'We're under fire. That was a bullet...'
At the moment he spoke Lamy pressed his foot down on the accelerator. He saw a straight stretch of road and zigzagged along it at speed. He was careful not to keep up a predictable rhythm: his zigzagging was erratic and proved Lamy was a skilled driver. He also asserted his authority as he drove.
'Anyone hurt back there?'
'Our colleague is cut about the face.' Berthier reported. 'But I think he'll live.'
Berthier had escaped any injury. The bullet had scattered shards of glass over his companion when it entered, but had blasted the glass outwards on Berthier's side. Siberian air sheered into the interior through the two holes. Descending into a deep gully beyond the straight stretch, Lamy slowed, stopped, gave the order.
'When I'm searching round the phone box you take up position - away from the car and well separated. Can you manage that, Lieutenant Chabert?'
'I think so sir ...'
'Think isn't good enough.'
'I can, sir.' Chabert replied hastily.
Using a large handkerchief he was mopping blood off his face. As the car started up again he examined his face with his fingers but there were no shards of glass embedded in the skin. The two officers prepared to leave the car as Lamy pulled up a few yards from the phone box.
Wasting no time, Lamy jumped out, crouched low, gun in hand, peered inside the box with his pencil flash. Empty. He found the cloth bag where Manteau had said it would be: behind the box. The same bag - Lamy recognized a dirty mark - but the cord tying it had been unfastened and retied with a different knot. Lamy dumped it on the front passenger seat, the lieutenants dived into the rear, Lamy turned the car round and drove back towards GHQ. What they would find inside the bag was his great concern. And fear of another bullet.
After listening to Lamy's report de Forge walked out of his office into the icy night without bothering to don his greatcoat. He stood, hands on his hips, looking at the bullet-holes in the car. He gestured with his head to lieutenants Berthier and Chabert.
'Get into the rear of the car and remember exactly how you were sitting when the bullet struck.'
Berthier, still wearing his képi minus the brim, leaned forward beyond Chabert as he had been doing, about to say something to Lamy. De Forge studied their positions, recalling his own experience when a bullet had penetrated his limousine. He waved for the two officers to get out.
'You'llhave to draw a new képi from the quartermaster.' he observed to Berthier.
'He nearly got me, General.'
'No, he aimed to miss by centimetres again.' He looked at Lamy. 'We've had the demonstration we were promised. Back to your quarters,' he ordered the two lieutenants. 'Berthier, leave for Arcachon as soon as you've put on civilian clothes. Check on that girl, then report back to Major Lamy immediately ...'
He marched back into his office with Lamy following him. The cloth bag lay on his desk. De Forge waved a hand.
'Open it up. Check the money.'
Another major from the Paymaster's Office, summoned by de Forge, entered while Lamy was examining the packages. The Paymaster officer had been a banking official before joining the Army and de Forge handed him a Swiss thousand-franc bill.
'Would you say that was genuine?'
De Forge wandered restlessly while the officer took out a magnifying glass. Switching on de Forge's desk lamp he examined the banknote carefully, left his glass on the desk, gave his verdict.
'It's a counterfeit. A very good one. But definitely a counterfeit.'
De Forge picked up two more of the notes Lamy was checking. He handed them to the Paymaster officer without a word. Again the process of careful examination was repeated before the officer returned them to de Forge.
'Also counterfeit. No doubt about it.'
'Would these be supplied by a bank in error?' de Forge enquired.
'Absolutely not. They are high denomination notes. No bank would be fooled. One note, possibly - although it would be most unusual. Three? Never.'
'Thank you. Major, you may go now. And not one word about this to anyone. There may be a scandal I have to investigate.
'Well, Major Lamy?' de Forge asked softly when they were alone.
Lamy looked disturbed, puzzled. He held up a stack of notes.
'The numbers are all in sequence. They weren't when I delivered them.'
'You think our English friend, Oiseau, has been swindling us?'
It was a trap question. De Forge waited for an answer as Lamy considered his reply. He pursed his thin lips.
'I don't think so for a moment. He is buying friendship -yours - for future arms deals with countries France has close relations with.'
Take the lot away and put them in the safe. Now!'
When Lamy had gone de Forge's confidence in Manteau had risen in direct relationship to his loss of confidence in Lamy. Now he must concentrate on Operation Marengo.
About the same time, early that morning when de Forge was watching the checking of the money, Helmut Schneider sat eating breakfast at a truck drivers' cafe on the outskirts of Karlsruhe.
After leaving Victor Rosewater in Freiburg he had driven north along the autobahn. It was a very different Helmut in appearance. Prior to getting into his car he had discarded the dark glasses, the white cane, the disreputable overcoat and boots, stowing them into a holdall which he hid at the back
of the boot of his car.
In the cafe he wore a clean windcheater, his denims, and a peaked cap of the type German students used to wear. He drank his steaming coffee slowly, took his time over consuming a hamburger. Frequently he checked his watch.
As soon as the main Post Office was open he parked close to it in Karlsruhe, centre of the German judicial system. Walking the rest of the way, he entered the Post Office, glanced at the few early customers, slipped inside one of the phone booths.
Dialling a number inside Germany, he spent several minutes transmitting a coded message which, to an eavesdropper, would have sounded like a normal business conversation. Replacing the receiver, he walked back to his car and resumed his journey back to his apartment in Frankfurt.
To reach the Passage Emile Zola, Isabelle had guided Newman along a devious route round the southern fringes of Bordeaux. Her idea was they would enter the city from the east to avoid any idea they had come from Arcachon.
Newman also had had an idea before they drove off. They went back into her apartment and raided the wine store, carrying a dozen bottles of Beaujolais to the car. At Newman's suggestion Isabelle had borrowed a white scarf from her sister's wardrobe. She wrapped it round her head. White - the colour of 'just married'.