Cross of Fire (12 page)

'Show me how to get out of the rear entrance. While I'm away do your packing. Oh, I suppose you haven't an empty bottle of wine?'

'Only in the trash can. I could wash and clean it
thoroughly.'

'I'll be drinking out of it. Fill it with water ...'

She led him down to the rear entrance, unlocked the
door and he found himself in the alley leading to the main
street.

A raw wind slashed at his face. Newman cowered under his
floppy hat, staggering slowly along the sidewalk, waving
the bottle with his left hand. The wind grew in fury, sheets
of newspaper flew in the air, Newman leaned against a
wall, tilted the bottle, drank from the neck. He stumbled
into the deserted street closer to the parked Renault.

Behind him the two men in trench coats peered out at his
erratic progress. Newman rammed the hat tighter over his head as the wind almost blew it away. He spun round in a
drunken circle. The trench coat men had retreated deep into the shelter of their doorway.

He lurched across to the car, sprawled on the cobbles alongside the rear wheel of the Renault. Letting go of the
bottle, he grasped the first knife, plunged the blade deep
into the tyre, the handle protruding close to the cobbles in
the direction the car would move. Swiftly he gripped the second knife, repeated his performance, driving the second
knife alongside the first. The wind was blowing away the
bottle when he grabbed it by the neck, staggered to his feet.
No sign of Trenchcoats.

He began his weaving walk back the way he had come,
watching the doorway from under the brim of his hat. Still
no sign of the enemy. He resisted the temptation to move
faster, arrived at the entrance to the alley, tottered out of
sight.

Now he ran to the rear entrance in the alley, took the key Isabelle had handed him from his trouser pocket, and within
a minute was back inside her mother's apartment. She was
standing by the window in the living room, turning round
as he entered.

'God! You just made it. They both peered out as you
made the alley...'

'You're supposed to be packing.'

'I'm ready. Can we make a run for it now?'

'Now...'

She wrapped a silk shawl round her head, concealing her titian mane. A blue coat buttoned to her neck completed the transformation. As protection against the wind she had changed her mini for a knee-length blue skirt.

'My trenchcoat.' Newman reminded her.

'Packed in my case, plus Henri's shaving kit and the pyjamas he left behind - hidden where my mother would
not find them. It will get you through the night in Arcachon...'

The alley was deserted as they hurried to the parked
Citroen in the courtyard. They'd have the description of his car, Newman thought grimly - and its registration number. Plenty of time to record that while de Forge took him to see
the punishment well. Undoubtedly passed to the phoney
DST men. Best to assume the worst.

He drove out of the alley with Isabelle beside him. She was careful not to look towards the doorway sheltering the
watchers as Newman swung the vehicle in the opposite direction. He glanced back, saw the two men running for
the parked Renault.

The two men dived into the front of the car. Behind its
wheel the taller man started up the engine, released the
brake, pressed his foot down. The car sped forward maybe
a dozen yards and then the rear wheel's tyre collapsed as
the knives penetrated it. The driver cursed as the car slewed
towards the sidewalk, the wheel rims grinding on the
cobbles.

Newman saw what happened in his mirror, increased
speed along the deserted street as the wind hammered at
the windscreen. With Isabelle's guidance, he soon left the
outer suburbs behind and was racing along the N650 -
towards the Atlantic, towards Arcachon.

'Has your mother friends in Bordeaux who could let enquirers know her address?' Newman asked.

'No. She doesn't like her city neighbours, lets them know nothing of her affairs. No one knows she has relatives in Arcachon. No one can say anything.'

It seemed she would be safe in Arcachon, Newman
hoped. He was also wondering whether the police had acted
on his anonymous call to the Prefecture in Bordeaux. His call had been made from the Post Office before driving on
to the Bar Rococo.

He had told them about the CRS Berliet truck crashing
into the gorge, had given them an idea of the location.
Whose bodies would they find inside?

Chapter Seven

General Charles de Forge sat in his high-backed chair, his
hands rested on the arms as he fired questions at Major
Lamy, standing facing him across the large desk. It was
early evening, the only illumination a desk lamp which
threw Lamy's saturnine face into sharp relief.

'Most unfortunate about-that Berliet truck. Has Newman got away?'

'Only for the moment, sir. We're watching the airport,
the main rail stations - a small army of our men in plain
clothes. All with his description.'

'And the Berliet?'

'Dealt with. The bodies removed to the usual place.'

'And that spy? Henri Bayle, wasn't that his name? I
understand he had a mistress.'

'Her apartment is being watched. I hope to have news of her detention. After being questioned - if necessary under
pressure - she will be disposed of.'

De Forge stood up, walked round his desk, hands clasped
behind his back. He paced slowly up and down the long
room.

'It is the details which have to be attended to. Never
forget that, Lamy.'

'What I don't understand, General, is why you agreed to see Newman, then changed your mind about him.'

'Because I have a fingertip feeling about people. I hoped an article in
Der Spiegel,
angled my way, would add to the
growing anxiety and confusion in Germany. Later, he
seemed hostile. My decision, as always, was logical. Now, I
will address my troops ...'

The tank commanders assembled in the drill hall had
been served a good meal. De Forge often quoted maxims of
Napoleon. One of his favourites was 'an army marches on
its stomach'. A loud cheer went up as de Forge appeared in
full uniform on the raised platform at the end of the hall.
Then the chant began.

'Pour France ... Pour France ... Pour France,..'

De Forge silenced them by raising his right hand, palm open, shoulder high. The soldiers, who had jumped to their feet at his appearance, sat down and leaned forward. At the end of the front row a certain Lieutenant Berthier, lean and
clean-shaven with fair hair cut very short, watched his
commander intently.

'Soldiers of France,' de Forge began in his magnetic voice,
'the time is approaching for action. Paris - not Berlin - will become the capital of the New Europe. It will be your skill,
your courage which will bring all this about. And you are not
alone - your help in bringing in the harvest assures us of the
support of the farmers. And beyond that we have our friends
in high places - in Paris. You are the iron barrier against
which the foreign scum will break their unwashed skulls ...'

He had to pause as his audience broke into a thunder of
cheering and applause. He continued speaking for another
half hour, a natural orator of compelling power. His climax, which lifted off the roof, was typical.

'None of this is for me, as you well understand. It is for
France...!'

He acknowledged the three minutes of wild applause
with a solemn, aloof expression, hands clasped behind his back, then walked off the platform, disappearing through a side door where Major Lamy waited.

'They would die for you, my General.' Lamy commented.

'They may have to. Now, drive me to the villa of Mademoiselle Jean Burgoyne. I need some active relaxation.'

De Forge was married but rarely visited his wife, Josette. She lived in an expensive apartment in Bordeaux where she held 'salons' - parties for influential and artistic celebrities.
He had married her because she had been the daughter of
the Minister of Defence at that time. A career move.

Jean Burgoyne was an attractive Englishwoman whose
vitality had appealed to de Forge when he met her at a
government reception in Paris. He always felt need of her when he had made a speech.

As Lamy drove him to the villa the Chief of Intelligence glanced at his chief. De Forge was staring ahead, presenting his famous profile to his subordinate.

'That reference, General, to friends in Paris was a clever remark. Most confidence-inspiring. And true.'

'What would not have been clever would have been a
reference to an even stronger ally. General Lapointe, next to myself the most important member of the
Cercle Noir.'

'Lapointe is vital.' Lamy agreed.

French military power rested on the
force de frappe,
the
formidable group of long-distance rockets deep in silos on a
plateau to the east. And the rockets were armed with
nuclear warheads.

One of the soldiers who had listened most closely to de
Forge's address did not immediately return to barracks with his comrades. Lieutenant Berthier, protected against the Siberian cold, walked by himself across the parade ground.
As he strode along Berthier repeated to himself the
speech he had listened to word by word. He had an excel
lent memory but wished to be sure every sentence was
imprinted on his brain. When the time came for him to
report the contents of the speech he wanted to be word
perfect.

Tweed moved fast the following morning. Paula found
herself sitting next to him aboard Flight SR951 - bound from
Geneva for Basle, the Swiss city at the north-west tip of the country where the French border meets the German frontier.

The flight took off promptly at 7.10 a.m., was due to touch down at 7.55. Paula glanced behind them, saw the
seats were empty, as were the seats in front. No damn wonder: they'd had to get up at five in the morning. She
still kept her voice low.

'Now will you tell me why - instead of flying direct to
Paris to see Lasalle of the DST - we're first meeting Victor
Rosewater in Basle?'

'Because he was Karin's husband.'

Paula gritted her teeth. The previous night she had
phoned Rosewater at his apartment
in Freiburg, asking if
she could meet him in Basle, that maybe he'd like to hear
from her exactly what had happened to his dead wife as
she'd been with Karin. Rosewater had agreed at once and
they'd arranged to see each other at the Hotel Drei Konige.
Now, from Tweed's terse reply, she realized he was going
to tell her nothing more after instructing her to make the
call the previous evening. What was Tweed playing at?