Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  The first cr-a-a-ck of a rifle shot shattered the silence. A soldier dropped his weapon, stared at his hand streaked with blood. Followed by another cr-a-a-ck. A second soldier lost his weapon, gazed down at his own blood-smeared knuckles. Cr-a-a-ck! A third weapon hit the road. The soldier fainted with shock.

  *

  After listening to the NCO's report of the incident de Forge walked out, made straight for the main gates despite the sergeant's warning. 'You could be a target, General...'

  De Forge never lacked courage. Ignoring the protests, he marched up to the gates, waved a hand for them to be opened, walked out into the road.

  He examined the hands of the three men who had been hit, including the soldier who had fainted and had, fortunately, regained consciousness and stood up before the General's arrival. De Forge turned to Lamy who had followed him.

  'More marksmanship shooting. Like the bullet which missed me in the car by five centimetres.'

  'I don't understand...'

  De Forge led him aside so they could not be overheard. 'You are stupid. In all three cases these men's knuckles have been grazed - sufficient to make them drop their weapons. Quite remarkable. I wish we had men who could shoot like that...'

  He stopped speaking, stared at the distant landscape, at the boulder-studded hills. De Forge was reputed to have sharper eyes than any man under his command. In the windless sky a rope of smoke rose from one of the boulder-strewn hilltops. De Forge pointed.

  'That's where he fired from. Lamy, go and investigate.'

  'Yes, General. I think I'll get an armoured carrier and take an escort.'

  'That's right, Lamy.' De Forge grinned. 'Play it safe...'

  An hour later de Forge was poring over a battle plan for his advance on Paris. He folded it quickly, put it in a safe when Lamy entered.

  'So, you survived,' de Forge remarked, sitting in his chair.

  'The fire was caused by someone who had collected bracken and wood. We also explored the area. We found tracks of a motorcycle in one of the gullies. And I've found this.'

  Lamy produced something from behind his back, laid it on the desk and sat down. It was a large rumpled piece of cloth. De Forge opened it, spread it across his desk. It was a grey cloak. He felt a tingle of apprehension as he gazed at it.

  When the phone rang de Forge knew who it was before he picked it up. His expression was blank as he asked who was on the line.

  'Manteau speaking, General. Recently I shot three of your guards. I aimed to scrape their hands, make them drop their weapons. I think I succeeded.'

  'You did.'

  'So, General,' the voice continued respectfully' 'it was a last reminder that I'm short of one million Swiss francs for the killing of Jean Burgoyne. I called Major Lamy to give him instructions and he slammed the phone down on me. I dislike bad manners. I dislike people who don't pay up. You have three hours to remedy the situation. I will call Lamy one more time. After that, you are the target.'

  The connection was broken. De Forge replaced the received, relayed the gist of the conversation to Lamy.

  'That was more than a crime, it was a blunder, as Talleyrand once said - slamming down the phone on him.'

  'Kalmar is the man we deal with,' Lamy insisted obstinately. 'He is the man we paid three million francs to for organizing Siegfried.'

  'Which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake. Handing that task to a man whose identity I have no idea of. I suggest that when Manteau calls again you pay him.'

  'We haven't the money.' Lamy protested. 'Only enough to pay the troops. And payday is today. At this moment we can't afford not to pay them. So what do we do?'

  'What do you do?' de Forge corrected him with a dreamy look as he stared over his subordinate's shoulder.

  'Kalmar has always delivered.' Lamy said with renewed obstinacy.

  'Whoever Kalmar may be.' De Forge gave Lamy a piercing stare. 'Have you heard yet from Captain Rey? The traitor, Berthier, should be dead by now. The graveyard cleaned out.'

  'No news so far, General. But Rey may be careful about sending even coded signals concerning such a matter. He could be waiting until he returns here to report personally.'

  'If you say so.' De Forge rose and his action indicated dismissal. 'And find the money for Manteau.'

  'There is nowhere I can ...'

  Lamy stopped in mid-sentence. De Forge was leaving the room to inspect the troops.

  Brand came out of the phone box on the windswept front at Arcachon. The weather had changed suddenly and the bassin was a heaving mass of turbulence as waves crashed on to the promenade. Brand threw away his cigarette.

  Today he had dispensed with the seaman's outfit he had previously worn. Now he sported a blue blazer with gold buttons and knife-creased grey slacks under his trenchcoat. On his head he wore a naval cap rammed down over his forehead. He looked the typical British yachtsman abroad.

  He hurried round a corner to where he had parked his motorcycle. He had been using it to search Arcachon with great thoroughness. Settling himself in the saddle, he tucked his trouser ends inside his leather boots, pressed the starter button, and rode off to continue his search.

  The Alouette transporting Newman, Paula, Berthier and the other passengers, including their witness, Martine, descended to the almost deserted airfield near the etang south of Arcachon. The waters of the lake were seething as the wind increased in ferocity. The pilot showed great skill in landing them. Paula breathed a sigh of relief as the skids touched firm ground.

  'We haven't seen a sign of de Forge's troops,' she said to Newman as the rotors slowed to a stop.

  'That's because he's massing his forces to the north,' Newman replied grimly.

  'It's wonderful to get away from the. horrible Landes,' she commented.

  The door was opened, cold air flooded inside the machine, the exit ladder was lowered. Approaching the airfield Newman had observed the Renault Espace parked at the edge of the perimeter. Once airborne above St Girons, he had remembered they'd need transport. The co-pilot had radioed his request to Lasalle who received the signal inside his own radio-equipped Alouette on the beach.

  'What type of transport most desired?' he had radioed back.

  'Preferably a Renault Espace. But any vehicle large enough to take us all.'

  He had been surprised to see it was an Espace waiting for them. Lasalle must have made a great effort to provide him with what he needed. The driver stood outside the vehicle, waving a welcome as they landed.

  Newman had joined Berthier at the open door when he stiffened. From their concealed positions a troop of soldiers was running towards the helicopter. One man aimed an automatic weapon at the pilot's cabin. Paula, gazing over Newman's shoulder, trembled.

  'Oh, my God! Just when I thought we were safe. De Forge's men...'

  Major Lamy drove into Arcachon in the middle of the afternoon. He drove the Citroen slowly along the front, stopping frequently while he scanned the ships at their moorings swaying under the impact of the large waves sweeping inside the anchorage.

  He wore the same clothes he had dressed in when visiting Aldeburgh. A shabby Aquascutum raincoat with a well-worn buckle and underneath an English sports jacket and trousers. His suede shoes were English, as was his tie and his striped shirt. Lamy was a thorough man.

  After exploring the front and the port area he drove out of Arcachon to where a road edged the bassin, close to the boathouse where Jean Burgoyne had been strangled. A fleet of camouflaged canvas trucks, large vehicles, was parked near a wide slipway leading across the marshes to the edge of the bassin. He stopped again. A moment later two soldiers carrying rifles appeared on either side of his car.

  'You can proceed no further,' the soldier next to his window said in French.

  'I am English,' Lamy drawled in that language. 'Sorry, but I do not understand French. Anglais.'

  'No go. No go,' the soldier ordered in heavily accented English.

  'No go where?' asked Lamy.

&nbs
p; 'Back.' The soldier waved a hand away from the boat-house. 'You go. Zone militaire.'

  'I'm frightfully sorry.' Lamy smiled from under his deerstalker hat. 'I go back? OK?'

  'OK. Maintenant!'

  Lamy reversed his car up the track he had driven down to the road. Waving to the soldier, who did not respond, he drove back to Arcachon. He began driving round the town slowly, patiently criss-crossing Arcachon, slowing even more when he passed a pedestrian.

  On the bridge of the Steel Vulture, anchored off Dunwich, Dawlish was consulting Captain Santos. In his pocket he had the signal warning him of air patrols.

  'Santos, I have reason to believe there will be French aircraft patrolling off the coast, searching for us. We must elude them.'

  'Elude, Señor?'

  'Make sure they don't find us, you damned fool.'

  'In that case we do two things. We change course, sail further out to sea. And we sail through night, reaching Arcachon sometime after dawn, I think. Please wait.'

  Santos sloped over with his seaman's roll to his chart-room. Dawlish followed impatiently. Surely he could calculate a thing like that in his thick head. Santos would not be hurried. He used a ruler to take measurements on his chart, grunted, tapped the chart with the ruler.

  'Yes, but it has to be a rough estimate. We can probably arrive a few hours after dawn.'

  'See that we do.'

  Furious with the delay, Dawlish returned to his cabin to compose a further signal, to code it, to transmit it.

  *

  De Forge swore inwardly when he read the fresh signal from Oiseau handed to him by the unattractive Yvette. But his expression showed no reaction. He might have to delay sending the order to his commanders to open their sealed orders, might have to delay Austerlitz. Decide at the last moment he told himself. Looking at Yvette, he had an idea.

  'That night you followed Jean Burgoyne to the boathouse. I recall you said you saw a man and a woman in the headlights of their car?'

  'Yes, General. The man Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent. I recognized him at once from pictures I have seen in newspapers. And I had a good look at the woman.'

  'Good enough so you'd recognize both again?'

  'Absolutely.' Yvette spoke proudly. 'I have a perfect memory for faces. I would recognize both of them.'

  Then take your old car and drive round Arcachon. Keep on driving, looking for them. If you spot either - or both -call me over your radio telephone.' He smiled and she glowed. 'I am relying on you, Yvette.'

  Standing at the open door of the Alouette, gazing down at the soldiers surrounding the machine, Lieutenant Berthier whispered to Newman.

  'Leave this to me. I think I can handle them. With a bit of luck.'

  Straightening his kepi, his expression stern, Berthier descended the ladder slowly. The unit's commander, a sergeant, looked uncertain as he held his automatic weapon still pointed at the officer.

  'You normally point your weapon at an officer?' Berthier asked quietly. 'If you do not lower the gun at once I'll have you in the guardhouse, prior to demotion to corporal, maybe private.'

  'Sir, we have been instructed to guard this airfield. To escort anyone landing here to GHQ.' he added nervously.

  Berthier decided on the big bluff. He doubted whether de Forge had spread the news that he was due to be shot by firing squad.

  'You mentioned GHQ,' he went on in the same even tone. 'You have heard of Major Lamy?'

  'Oh yes, sir. He is...'

  'Chief of Intelligence,' Berthier completed for him. 'I am Lieutenant Berthier, Major Lamy's aide. I have with me several very important people I am accompanying to Arcachon. A secret mission for GHQ. And you are running counter to orders from the very top.'

  'We were not told...'

  'Of course not, cretin.' Berthier's tone was harsh. 'I have just told you this is a secret mission. Why do you think the Espace is stationed over there waiting for us? There are checkpoints on the way to Arcachon.'

  He made the last statement sound as though it could be an assertion or a question.

  'As you say, sir, there are checkpoints.'

  'So your unit, which is sloppily dressed, can serve GHQ some useful purpose. First, have you motorcycles?'

  'Yes, sir ...'

  'Then four of your unit can act as outriders to escort the Espace through the checkpoints. You will be one of them. Once we have passed through the last checkpoint you turn round and ride back here. Meantime, withdraw all your men out of sight. The passengers aboard are so important they must not be seen. Now, get moving. We are late ...'

  When all the soldiers had disappeared Berthier beckoned to the Espace. It drove to the foot of the ladder and the driver looked scared. The passengers filed down the ladder, entered the vehicle. Berthier sat in front beside the driver, told him to make for Arcachon at high speed. The four outriders joined them as they left the airfield - two in front, two bringing up the rear.

  'I wonder why I am sweating.' Berthier remarked.

  Kalmar sat astride the saddle of his motorcycle parked by the kerb on a quiet street near the front in Arcachon. He wore a black leather jacket and a Martianlike helmet. Adjusting his goggles, he prepared to continue his search of the town.

  He had been cruising the streets for an hour and had stopped for a rest. A farm tractor crawled along the front. At the same low speed a Renault Espace followed it, the driver obviously waiting for the moment to overtake.

  Through his goggles Kalmar stared hard. As the Espace crawled along he saw a woman peer out of the window midway along the vehicle. Paula Grey. He left the kerb, turned on to the front, keeping well back. The tractor proceeded further along the front, the Espace turned into a side street.

  Kalmar could hardly believe his luck. Once again his instinct had proved right: Paula Grey had returned. When the Espace turned again into another side street he overtook it, careful not to glance at the windows. In his wing mirror he saw it pull up. He slowed down.

  Newman jumped out first, helped Paula down, ran to the entrance to the apartment, inserted the key Isabelle had loaned him, threw open the door into the lobby. The other passengers jumped out, filed inside quickly. Newman went back to the driver who had also jumped out. Locking the Espace, the driver handed the keys to Newman, walked away towards the front.

  Kalmar watched all this in his wing mirror, counted up five men, including Newman. One had bushy hair and another, to his surprise, appeared to wear the uniform of a French officer.

  Newman closed the door as the others climbed to the first floor. To the side of the lobby the door to the ground-floor apartment was open a few inches. A woman with sharp eyes and a beaky nose closed it. She opened it a few minutes later when someone pressed the bell. A man in a black leather jacket, holding his helmet under his arm and a package in one hand, showed her a cutting from a newspaper of Newman. He explained he had to deliver the package to Mr Newman. Which floor?

  'Floor One.' Beaky-Nose replied. 'Now she's got five men up there.' She smirked. 'If you see what I mean.'

  Kalmar began to mount the stairs, pulling his helmet back over his head. The moment he heard her close the door he slipped quietly back to the lobby, the skeleton key he'd used to open the front door in his pocket.

  He closed the outer door quietly. Again he couldn't credit his luck. He had located where his target was staying. Paula Grey wouldn't have much longer to live.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The telephone van pulled up outside the apartment block. Four men in boiler suits jumped out, walked to the front door. One of them had a bunch of keys in his hand. The third key fitted, he opened the door and went inside the lobby. A short heavily built man, he immediately spotted the apartment door open a few inches, the beady eyes and beaky nose of the woman staring at them. He went to the door.

  'You want a good man, you old bag? Better still, a bad one?'

  'How dare you ...'

  She slammed the door in his grinning face. They ran up the stai
rcase and the second, slim man, knocked on the door of Isabelle's apartment. Newman opened it a crack, his right hand concealing his Smith & Wesson. He stared at the thin man in the boiler suit. Lasalle.

  'Are you going to be like Old Nosy downstairs?' Lasalle joked in English.

  Newman let the four men in. Lasalle introduced his companions as DST officers. They had blue pinheads stuck in their boiler suits. Lasalle smiled at the surprise on Paula's face.

  'I know what you're wondering. I've dispatched Martine and Moshe Stein by air to Paris. Rey and the rest of the thugs called soldiers are also on their way there for interrogation. We landed on the island in the bassin where a boat was waiting to bring us ashore. The telephone van was waiting. Precision organization. This town is crawling with de Forge's troops.'

  'Quite takes my breath away.' Paula said with a grin.

  'Now, no time to waste. You have those papers taken off poor Jean Burgoyne's body?'

  'Here in my bag. They appear to be notes of dispatches outlining a military campaign. There you are.'

  'Thank you.' He turned to Stahl. 'Kuhlmann told me you have vital information. Otto is in Paris where I go now.'