Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  In Paula's room Newman dialled the Ministry of the Interior, gave the code word Tweed had suggested, asked to speak to him. After a pause Lasalle, sounding fogged with sleep, came on the line. He listened to Newman before telling him his boss had just left for the airport.

  'Actually we want to speak to Otto Kuhlmann.' Newman explained.

  A far more alert Kuhlmann came to the phone quickly and Newman handed the instrument to Stahl. He had concealed from the German that he spoke his language as fluently as he spoke French.

  Listening to Stahl he heard a reference to Kapitan Fischer. The emphasis on Kapitan told him this was Stahl's identification word. Stahl reported that he had obtained vital data, that he would keep it until he met Kuhlmann. From the rest of the conversation Newman gathered Stahl's chief had told him that his rescuer was totally reliable, that he could tell him everything.

  Paula was watching Newman as he sagged on her bed, checked his watch. She thought Newman looked at the end of his tether, desperately short of sleep, haggard, and with a drawn face. He leaned towards her, whispered hoarsely as Stahl ended his conversation.

  'Tweed is no longer in Paris. Lasalle told me he was on his way to the airport.'

  'He was expecting me.' Paula protested. 'Aboard the Alouette.'

  Butler had joined them. He listened for a moment, then lowered his voice while Stahl was washing his hands. The sound of the water running into the basin muffled their conversation.

  'Tweed said he wouldn't be back from London until some time this evening.'

  'Then there's no point in my flying to Paris aboard the chopper,' Paula decided, still watching Newman who had stifled a yawn. 'Harry, you'd better call Lasalle and tell him to send the chopper to land at dawn twenty-four hours later.'

  'I have to drive to the Landes,' Newman commented, spacing out his words, talking with an effort.

  'Like hell,' Paula snapped. 'You're flaked out. Anyone can see that. You'll end up driving the car into some ditch.'

  'Have to collect the witness ... Martine ...'

  'Yes, we do.' Paula continued briskly. 'So I'll share the driving with Harry and Pete. You can sleep in the back. Then you'll be fresh enough to guide us when we get close to the witness.'

  She used the last word because Stahl, adjusting his glasses and smiling, had come close to them. He stared at Newman, then at Paula.

  'I'm OK.' Newman growled. He propped himself against the headboard to stop falling asleep. 'You stay here, Paula. The Landes ... dangerous.'

  'It would be for you.' she snapped and stamped her foot. 'You say you're OK, you haven't slept for ages, and you can't even keep your eyes open now.'

  'And.' Butler reminded him, 'Pete and I have to stay next to Paula. Remember?'

  Stahl intervened. 'You have a problem? Maybe I could help? I slept during the day and I'm fresh.'

  'You wouldn't have a weapon of sorts?' Butler enquired.

  'Would these help? Give you confidence?' Stahl replied.

  In his eager beaver manner he unzipped his leather bag. Butler stared as he produced a Heckler and Koch submachine-gun. Newman recognized the type used by the SAS that had a collapsible stock. As he went on talking Stahl was careful to aim the muzzle at the ceiling.

  'This 9mm sub-machine-gun has a rate of fire of six hundred and fifty rounds a minute, a range of almost five hundred feet. I have a lot of spare mags, as you see. Also I have grenades, a lot of them. Like this one.'

  'You're carting around a ruddy armoury.' Butler commented.

  'But I was trapped in that building before Mr Newman and the girl, Isabelle, brought me out. I couldn't have tried to escape without transport. The patrols in the streets keep stopping people at night - especially those on foot. I could come with you.'

  'You're hired for the duration.' Paula decided without consulting anyone. Newman blinked at her.

  'You've taken charge?' he enquired.

  'Yes. Someone has to until you're fresh. I just elected myself. Harry, you'd better call Lasalle now, turn back that Alouette.'

  Butler told Newman they were moving base to Isabelle's apartment before they left, went to the phone. Newman raised a hand, dropped it.

  'I'd better tell Isabelle that... ask her, I mean.'

  'No!' Paula's tone was firm. 'I'll talk to her briefly before we set out for the Landes. Won't tell her where we're going, but I'll check to see whether she can cope with this lot. I can handle her.'

  'Still don't think you should come with us to the Landes, it could - will be - a damned dangerous undertaking,' Newman protested again.

  'It's decided.' Paula told him. 'And try not to go to sleep before we carry you into the back of the car. It will be a full house.' she added, glancing at Stahl, 'but we'll manage. And both of you should have a shave. If you don't mind.'

  Victor Rosewater, clad in a British warm camel-hair, arriving on the flight from Switzerland at Bordeaux Airport, walked across the concourse. Stopped by an army patrol, he waved a pass at them.

  'Get out of my way, I'm in a hurry.'

  He hastened to where he'd left his car parked. Two minutes later he was roaring away confidently. His destination was Arcachon and, as usual, he wanted to get to where he was going quickly.

  To avoid registering at a hotel he had hired a small cabin cruiser moored at the edge of the bassin. He bought food from a supermarket, cooked it himself in the cruiser's galley, or ate out at restaurants. Rosewater was expert at evading a country's regulations designed to record who had arrived from abroad.

  When he'd checked his vessel his first call was planned for the Bar Martinique. He was determined to trace the movements of the talkative Irishman who frequented the bar. Then he hoped to meet Paula Grey again, even if it meant exercising patience.

  Carrying his holdall, Marler disembarked from the Air Inter flight at Orly, Paris. Once again he avoided the waiting taxis: cab drivers had good memories.

  He used the anonymous Metro to reach the station nearest his shoddy apartment close to the rue du Bac. On his way up to his room, the key in his pocket, he doled out more francs to the reception clerk - enough for another two weeks' stay.

  'Business good?' the clerk enquired, accepting the tip.

  'So, so...'

  Inside his room Marler checked for any indication that it had been searched. If so, he'd move to the other apartment he'd reserved a few streets away. There was no sign of any intrusion.

  Taking off his trainers, he sat on his made-up bed and took the mobile phone from his holdall. Dialling the Ministry of the Interior, he asked for Tweed by using a codename. After a delay Lasalle came on the phone, told him the man he wanted was abroad for the whole day.

  'Thank you. I'll call him later, Rene.'

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Tweed was on the warpath at Park Crescent. Arriving on the first flight from Paris, he had found Howard waiting for him in his own office. Monica greeted him, looked grim, then buried her head in a file.

  'You bought yourself a new suit in the States?' Tweed suggested with a straight face.

  'You must be joking.' Howard indignant. 'This came from Harrods. Chester Barrie. The best money can buy off the Peg.'

  Plump faced, his complexion pink, clean shaven, six feet tall and with a well-fed look, the Director was at his most pompous. He stood by Tweed's desk, shot his cuffs to expose jewelled rinks and smoothed one of the lapels of his dark grey suit with a thin chalk stripe. The trousers had the fashionable turnups. He placed a hand on his right hip.

  'I called you back to find out what was going on in France. And I've had an interview with the PM since I returned. I understand that, like his predecessor, he gave you one of those damned personal directives.'

  'Yes, he did,' Tweed said tersely, seating himself behind his desk.

  'Well, did he tell you that he's working on a twin-track basis?'

  'What does twin-track mean?' Tweed enquired, polishing his glasses on the corner of his handkerchief.

  'It means ...' H
oward paused, took up his favourite pose, sprawling in the armchair with one leg propped over the arm. His black leather shoes gleamed like glass. 'It means,' he repeated, 'that the PM has another unit in the field of which we have no knowledge.'

  Of which ... Typical of the Director's liking for pedantic phraseology. Tweed began drumming his fingers slowly on the desk, a sign that he was in a mood of cold fury. Monica looked up, intrigued at the prospect of battle.

  'Doesn't he realize,' Tweed demanded, 'that a manoeuvre like that can cause total disaster? Two different units stumbling around on the same territory without any idea of the other's existence? Didn't you point out that it could lead to a catastrophe?'

  'Well...' Howard adjusted the display handkerchief in his breast pocket. 'He is the new boy. We need his support so we have to give him some licence.'

  'In other words you're telling me you didn't have the guts to object.' Tweed growled.

  'I deeply resent your insubordinate language.'

  'Resent away.' Tweed showed no contrition. 'Did he by any chance give you a hint as to who the other unit is?'

  'None at all.' Howard's manner was stiff. 'And I most certainly didn't ask him. We are talking about the new PM. He has a right to his own ideas.'

  'He struck me as a man who appreciates straight talk.' Tweed was disgusted. 'He was waiting to see if you'd press him, insist on being given the information.'

  'You weren't there...'

  'He was testing you.' Tweed insisted.

  'My dear chap.' Howard ran a manicured hand over his perfectly brushed dark hair. 'We are the ones who are on trial. My guess is he's simply not relying on one organization. The situation is serious. By the way, how serious is it?'

  Tersely, Tweed brought him up to date. He concluded by revealing he'd made a quick call from a London Airport public phone to Lasalle - that Lasalle had received a late call from Butler saying they were moving south to bring back a witness.

  'South?' Howard sounded appalled. 'South from Acachon? My God! Straight into the jaws of the lion's den. The den of General Charles de Forge. Whereabouts exactly are they going to?'

  'The Landes, I expect.'

  'Heavens, man! Are you crazy?' Howard swung his leg on the floor, jumped up, buttoned his jacket. 'You've just told me about this hideous burial ground of de Forge's. In the Landes. How could you let our people venture near there again?'

  'I let my people in the field have wide latitude as to how they react in an emergency. You know that,' Tweed said quietly. 'They took the decision themselves and I am backing them to the hilt. If you think you can run an operation from an armchair here, then you've spent too long in the States.'

  The quiet vehemence of Tweed's attack threw Howard off balance. He pursed his lips, looked at Monica, who looked back at him.

  'What are your next plans?' Howard added eventually in a reasonable tone. 'I mean you personally.'

  'Before I return to Paris tonight I am driving to Aldeburgh. That's where it all started - with the murder of Karin Rosewater. If Lord Dawlish is at home I'm calling on him.'

  'For what purpose, if I may ask?'

  'You may. He's up to his neck in this thing, I'm sure now. I want to rattle his cage.'

  'I insist you take protection. No, hear me out.' He held up his hand as Tweed opened his mouth to protest. 'What about Fred Hamilton? Be good experience for him. And he scored tops on the target range I understand.'

  'He's very promising.' Tweed admitted.

  'Then that's settled.' Howard beamed his broad smile. 'I shall feel far less worried as you're going there with Hamilton by your side. Must get on. Piles waiting for me to deal with...'

  Monica stared at Howard's back as he left the room. She looked furious and burst out as soon as she judged Howard was well clear.

  'Piles, indeed! I dealt with everything that came in for him while he was away. All he has to look at are copies of my replies.' She calmed down. 'Still, you could have knocked me down with a feather when he insisted Hamilton accompanied you. He sounded really concerned.'

  'He was.' Tweed agreed. 'And it will take him time to learn to cope with the different style of the new PM.'

  'What are you doing in France to cope with de Forge?' she asked.

  'I'll tell you.'

  Tweed clasped his hands behind his neck, stared at the ceiling after checking his watch. He began to talk.

  'In my temporary office in the Ministry of the Interior I have pinned a photograph of de Forge Lasalle found for me on the wall. It faces my desk. I study my enemy, try to put myself in his shoes.'

  'I read that General Montgomery did that - had a picture of Rommel pinned up in his caravan so he could get inside the mind of his opponent.'

  'That very much over-dramatizes what I'm doing. Maybe there is a similarity -I wouldn't know. To get down to brass tacks. I'm convinced de Forge has set the stage for a coup d'etat to make himself President of France. All the riots, the absurd - but highly effective - use of men in Ku-Klux-Klan garb. I'm convinced he's waiting for just one more development before he makes his move.'

  'Which is?'

  'The arrival of more funds - and especially sophisticated weaponry - from Lord Dawlish, armaments king. In short, the berthing of the Steel Vulture at Arcachon. Brand, his deputy, is already there.'

  'Where is the Steel Vulture now? Can't it be stopped?'

  'Answer One, I'm driving up to Aldeburgh to shake Dawlish. Then on to Dunwich to try and trace the vessel. Answer Two, no we can't stop the vessel. We have no proof it's carrying arms.'

  'You mean General de Forge is going to start a war?'

  'Definitely not,' Tweed replied. 'He's going to try and use the threat of overwhelming force to subdue Paris and the present government. I predict there will be rumours that his troops are armed with nerve gas.'

  'And what are you doing to stop him?'

  'Two things at the same time. Rattle him by using psychological warfare tactics - to cause him delay. Rather unusual techniques. The second thing is to get evidence which will discredit him before he strikes.'

  'This is serious, then.'

  'The worst threat to the stability of Western Europe since the Berlin Wall collapsed. A military dictator in Paris would upset the whole of Europe. Now I must get moving. There's not much time left for me to drive to Aldeburgh and Dunwich, then drive back in time to catch a late flight to Paris.'

  As he stood up Monica brought to his desk a copy of the Daily Mail. She laid it down flat and pointed to the headline and the main story.

  MANTEAU - 'THE CLOAK' - MASTER ASSASSIN

  As he put on his Burberry, Tweed glanced at the story which had now crossed the Channel. Manteau was 'credited' with having killed the Prefect of Paris, with the assassination of the President and the Prime Minister by blowing up the TGV Express, and also with the killing of an Englishwoman, Jean Burgoyne.

  In each instance, the article continued, the assassin had left behind his trademark. The Cloak. In the case of the Paris Prefect a cloak had been found stuffed in a nearby litter bin. When the TGV Express was wrecked DST men had found another cloak in a nearby village. And now, with the strangulation of Burgoyne, DST men had discovered a discarded cloak inside the boathouse in the vicinity of Arcachon.

  'This Manteau is very sinister,' Monica observed.

  'And mysterious,' Tweed agreed impatiently. 'Hamilton is waiting with the car?'

  'Yes. Have a care. Kalmar may still be in the Aldeburgh area.'

  'Or do you mean Manteau?' Tweed commented as he left.

  Fred Hamilton sat behind the wheel of the Ford Escort. Marler mockingly had nicknamed the new member of the team the RSM: he thought Fred took life desperately seriously.

  'I'll take the wheel,' Tweed said brusquely.

  Hamilton transferred his tall figure to the front passenger seat. Twenty-eight years old, he sat like a ramrod, glancing round as they moved through the London traffic to check whether they were being followed. He was clean shaven with brown h
air trimmed short and an aquiline nose. They were well clear of London, driving through Essex when Tweed asked his question after glancing at Hamilton's trenchcoat.

  'You're carrying a handgun, aren't you?'

  'A Colt .455 automatic pistol. Magazine capacity seven rounds. Plus spare mags.'

  'I don't think you'll need that.'

  'Mr Howard insisted. And, with respect, sir, it's when you don't expect to need a firearm that you find it saves your life.'

  'No need to call me "sir". Just Tweed will do ...'

  He drove like the clappers across Suffolk, just inside the speed limit. Ignoring Aldeburgh, he slowed down as they passed Snape Mailings, turned on to the country road for Grenville Manor. He was on the point of turning left down the last stretch to Been, the river Aide a calm lagoon below them, when a car parked on the grass verge started up, followed them, with the Volvo's horn tooting.

  Hamilton slipped his hand inside his trenchcoat. Tweed looking in the wing mirror, shook his head, swore inwardly, pulled up, and the Volvo parked behind them.

  'I know these people. The Yard.' Tweed warned Hamilton.