Cross of Fire (13 page)

'After we've seen Rosewater we'll fly straight on to Paris.' Tweed remarked. 'When you'd fixed up this meeting with Rosewater I called René Lasalle in Paris. He seemed very anxious to see me at the earliest possible moment. Events appear to be moving out of control. Confirming Kuhlmann's worst fears. The momentum of events is gathering pace.'

'What events?'

Tweed handed her a copy of the
Journal de Geneve
he had bought at the airport. The headline in large type jumped at her. She read it in French but thought of it in English.

SERIOUS RIOTS IN BORDEAUX. 1,000 CASUALTIES.

She read the article below. Large groups of men wearing Balaclava helmets had gone berserk, attacking pedestrians, wrecking shops near the Gare St Jean, painting anti-Semitic
slogans on walls. The odd result had been no arrests were
made: the police had been taken completely by surprise.

She glanced down out of the window. The aircraft had
flown half-way along Lake Geneva, had now swung north
west overland. Below they were crossing the Jura mountains
behind Geneva. The range was like a whaleback and its
summits were crested with snow. She shivered, handed
back the paper.

'What is behind it all?' she asked.

'You should have asked "Who" - and I have no idea.'

She didn't believe him but said nothing. They'd be landing at Basle soon and she was bracing herself for talking to Karin's widower. What on earth could he tell Tweed?

At the isolated villa east of Third Corps GHQ, de Forge,
wearing only pyjama trousers, jumped out of bed and ran
to the shower. He turned on the cold water tap and stood
quite still as ice-cold water sprayed his slim body.

Jean Burgoyne climbed out of the king-size bed more
slowly, wrapped a towel round her nude body, opened the
door and picked up the newspaper the maid had left on the floor. She perched on the edge of the rumpled bed as she
read the headline, looked up as de Forge reappeared, dried himself, swiftly dressed in his uniform. She stood up, still
holding the towel with one hand, the newspaper in the
other.

Jean Burgoyne was five feet seven, about the same height
as de Forge, had blond hair, good bone structure, long well-shaped legs. Her face was also longish with a firm chin and
a flawless complexion which owed nothing to make-up. She
handed the paper to de Forge. The headline was about the
Bordeaux riots.

'Charles, this wouldn't have anything to do with you,
would it?' she asked, her glance shrewd.

De Forge glanced at the paper. He dropped it on the
deep wall-to-wall carpet. His right arm rose and he struck
her across the face with the back of his hand. She reeled
backwards under the blow, fell across the bed. The towel
dropped, exposing her well-moulded figure. Her eyes stared at his as she reached for the towel, wrapped it round herself again, stood up.

Her voice calm. She even managed a wicked smile.

'Charles, don't ever do that again. You may be a great
man, but I doubt whether de Gaulle ever struck a woman in
his life. Maybe,' she continued, 'this is why your wife,
Josette, wants so little to do with you.'

He took a step forward, his eyes glowing with anger. She
raised one warning finger, her voice now little more than a whisper.

'I said never again. I mean it. Now, that creep, Major
Lamy, will be freezing outside. Duty calls,
mon General.'

He hesitated, unsure whether she was mocking him.
Then, turning on his heel, he walked to the door and paused before opening it to leave.

'Jean, I will phone you again when I am available.'

'As you wish...'

But de Forge had gone. Outside the balustraded two-storey stone villa surrounded with evergreens a deluxe Citroen stood parked. Major Lamy was walking up and
down, swinging his arms round his body, slapping his
gloved hands against his greatcoat. It was even colder than
the night before. De Forge glanced at the sky which was a
low ceiling of sullen cloud. It looked like a threat of snow
coming.

De Forge took the wheel: he loved driving at speed.
Lamy sat by his side as de Forge sped down the twisting
drive, spurting up showers of gravel until he emerged on to
the road. He pressed his foot down as he queried with Lamy
the general situation. He was still smarting from Jean's first
remark: women were for only one purpose. They should
bloody well never ask serious - even dangerous;- questions.

'Exercise General All is ready to start as soon as you
reach GHQ.' Lamy informed his chief.

'That's routine. I see we've started in Bordeaux.'

'Only the beginning.' Lamy smiled, twisting his lips.
'More is on the way. Toulon, Marseilles, Toulouse.'

'Then Lyons.' de Forge continued. 'Make it look like the start of an uprising, a revolution. After that,' he said with satisfaction, 'the big one. Paris...'

Back at the Villa Forban Jean Burgoyne sat in front of her
dressing table, using a pad of cottonwool dipped wych
hazel to apply to where de Forge had struck her. She didn't
think there would be a bruise but it was best to take
precautions.

'And I think a brief holiday back home in England would be a good tactic,' she mused aloud. 'Charles can fret for me for a while. And I can spend a few days at my uncle's house
in Aldeburgh...'

At 8.45 a.m. exactly Tweed hurried inside the Drei Konige -
the Three Bongs Hotel - in Basle. Carrying both cases with
Paula at his heels, he handed them to the waiting porter,
gave him a generous tip, asked him to store them safely.

'Victor's here already,' Paula whispered.

Facing the reception counter inside the main entrance was a well-furnished sitting-room area. A tall, well-built
man wearing a German sporting jacket and slacks stood up from a deep leather armchair, came forward to greet Paula, hugged her, gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Tweed studied the Englishman, who had spoken in
German, one of the several languages both Tweed and Paula spoke fluently. Tweed guessed Victor Rosewater was main
taining some kind of cover even in Switzerland.

In his thirties, Tweed estimated, Rosewater had an easy manner, was clean-shaven with the weather-beaten com
plexion of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had
a strong nose, shrewd brown eyes under dark eyebrows and
a well-brushed thatch of thick hair. A good-looking man
with a powerful personality.

'This is Tweed,' Paula introduced in German. 'He is in security.' she continued, following her chief's earlier instructions. 'Also a good friend.'

'Security?'

Rosewater's eyebrows rose a fraction, asking for further enlightenment.

'Security,' Tweed repeated and left it at that as he shook hands.

Rosewater had large hands, a strong grip. He smiled warmly and nodded, pressing Tweed no further. A natural
probe on the part of a man engaged in undercover military intelligence, Tweed thought.

'They have a pleasant dining room overlooking the Rhine.' Rosewater suggested. 'Maybe you would like to take breakfast with me? I drove down the autobahn from Freiburg. It was no distance at all, but I skipped any nourishment. Personally, I'm as hungry as a horse ...'

Tweed knew the room, had stayed at the hotel before, but he made no reference to this. Rosewater led the way to a table by one of the large windows overlooking a closed verandah where in summer the wealthy met for drinks and dinner.

Beyond the verandah the Rhine flowed swiftly, a muddy
colour compared with the Rhone at Geneva. A barge train
hauled by a stubby tug ploughed slowly upriver against the
current. Rosewater sat facing his two guests, made the
remark to Paula after breakfast had been ordered.

'I'm coming to terms with Karin's demise.' He glanced at
the barge train. 'At least I kid myself I am. I suspect, frankly,
I'm still in a state of shock.'

'Do you really want to hear about it now?' Paula asked.

'I think it would help me. My work is putting me under
great pressure at the moment...' He looked at Tweed
briefly. 'Not entirely divorced from your world of security.
I can't make up my mind whether that's helping me or not.'
He looked at Paula. 'Just tell me how it happened. What
shook me most was when you used the word murder on
the phone. Why Karin?'

'That's what we would like to know.' Tweed intervened brusquely and then went silent, eating some of the excellent bread on the table.

Paula had just started talking and then trailed off into
silence. She sipped her coffee slowly and took her time spreading jam on a piece of bread. Rosewater had switched his gaze to the far side of the restaurant and Tweed looked quickly in the same direction.

An attractive brunette in her thirties sat by herself at a
table by the wall. She had crossed her shapely legs, her skirt
sliding above her knees, stroking her tilted leg slowly with one hand as she looked straight at Rosewater. He watched her for a moment with an expressionless face, then stared at
Tweed. He gave a broad grin to disguise from the brunette
what he was saying.

'I've seen that woman before somewhere. I think I've
been tagged, and God knows I'm careful.'

'Maybe she just likes you,' Paula teased him.

Rosewater, she realized, had a personality appealing to
many women. He exuded good nature and a sense of fun.
Rosewater's voice remained serious.

'I would doubt that. Once is a chance encounter - twice is a danger signal. I don't know whether Paula told you,
Tweed, but I'm Military Intelligence.'

'She mentioned it in passing. You don't have to worry. In
my job I have to be very discreet. Also at times I have a
shocking memory.'

He sipped coffee, leaving the field to Paula. She was in a better position to ask questions. Rosewater persisted in addressing Tweed.

'You said your job was security?'

'Security,' Tweed agreed, and again left it at that.

'Would this be a good moment to tell you what happened
in Suffolk?' Paula intervened. 'Or would you sooner not
have the details?'

'Tell me everything. I'll feel better for knowing...'

He turned to her, listened with an intent expression as
she gave him an edited version, leaving out any reference to '
Park Crescent, as she had with Chief Inspector Buchanan in
London. Rosewater, ignoring his breakfast, watched her
until she'd concluded.

'... so the police arrived and took charge. Eventually I drove back home to try and get my mind off the whole
experience.'

'Did you see the murderer - even though I suppose he
wore one of these Balaclavas?' Rosewater asked.

'I had a good view from the treetop. I'm not sure. I was busy trying to hide myself from the men with guns.'