Cross of Fire (44 page)

'I agree.' Newman said at once. 'Providing we can leave
today. Also, providing we can call in at Arcachon.'

'We take the Paris-Bordeaux Express,' Stein suggested.

'Yes. But we must leave it at an intermediate station
before Bordeaux. I have a reason. Trust me.'

'I do. I have been watching you. We could leave the
express at Angouleme, hire a car, drive the rest of the way. First to Arcachon, then on to the Landes.'

Newman took out a map of France he'd brought with
him, located Angouleme and agreed. He didn't say it was
far enough north of Bordeaux not to have watchers.

'That was quick,' Lasalle said when the two men had left his office. 'Newman is decisive, Tweed.'

'Newman is pretty good at assessing character. Clearly
he liked what he saw. We meet Navarre now? Good.'

'And I've decided I'm going to visit Jean Burgoyne at the Villa Forban,' Paula announced. 'She told me she was going
back there before she drove me to the Brudenell from
Admiralty House.'

'Wait here in Paris,' Tweed ordered. 'Phone Monica when
you've got a hotel room, give her the name and address and
phone number. If I decide to let you go you'll be accompanied - by Butler and Nield.'

'If you insist. Don't look so worried.'

'I am.' Tweed stood up as Lasalle checked his watch.
They were due at the Ministry of the Interior. 'I am worried.' Tweed stressed. 'I'm convinced General de Forge is waiting
for a trigger to set Europe ablaze. I just don't know what
that trigger will be.'

Part Two
Trigger of Death

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The President of France walked down the six steps which lead from the entrance to the Elysée Palace to the waiting
motorcade in the courtyard.

He stepped into the rear of his Citroen as his
chef de
cabinet
held open the door. Closing the door the
chef
ran
round the rear of the vehicle to join the President. The chauffeur and armed guard in civilian clothes waited until
both rear doors were closed, then slipped into the front.

There were eight Citroens comprising the motorcade drawn up in the courtyard behind the grille gates fronting
on the rue du Faubourg St Honored The Prime Minister got
quickly into the car behind the President's. Staff members
and armed guards climbed into the other vehicles.

Uniformed armed guards carrying automatic weapons
patrolled the street immediately outside the Elysée. Traffic had been diverted, in the distance curious crowds were held
well back by uniformed police. At a signal the gates were
opened, the President's limousine was driven out, pro
ceeded at speed towards the Gare de Lyon with the rest of
the motorcade streaming close behind.

Armed motorcycle outriders kept pace with the vehicles.
Four more outriders formed a group ahead of the President's limousine. A further group of outriders brought up
the rear behind the last vehicle.

The President held himself erect, knowing that despite
the speed, residents of Paris were lining the pavements,
gazing with excitement as the motorcade raced past them.
Only when they were close to the Gare de Lyon did the
President's driver slow down. He turned into the station,
pulled up precisely alongside a red carpet leading to the
presidential coach.

Stepping out of his car, the President inspected the guard
of honour drawn up, uniforms immaculate. He nodded his approval to their commander, boarded the train. A white-
coated steward, spotless, bowed, led the way to his armchair
seat in the luxurious coach. Aware now that the permitted
TV cameras were focused on him, the President, small and
stocky, sat with his profile tilted at the correct angle. He took a leather folder handed to him by an aide and pre
tended to be reading a file.

The presidential coach was immediately behind the huge locomotive which would transport him to Lyons. The
Train
de Grande Vitesse,
the pride of French Railways, sat in the
Gare like a long sleek polished bullet.

When it had left Paris behind it would move like a bullet,
travelling at speeds up to 150 m.p.h. There was a pause
while the rest of the President's entourage boarded the
express. The Prime Minister's coach was behind the Presi
dent's and he also had a large entourage.

The rear coaches were reserved for the press, radio, and TV personnel. They would record the President's tour of
devastated Lyons. His political aim was to show France how
much he cared for the victims of the outrage.

There was no signal to warn of the TGV's departure. One
moment it was standing in the Gare de Lyon, the next
moment the magnificent train was gliding out into the cold sunlight of a bitter November day.

For the first time the President spoke to his
chef de cabinet.

'Is everything arranged for my arrival at Lyons? I need a car for the first part of the tour.'

'A bulletproof limousine will be waiting at the station.'

'Later, I shall leave the car at an appropriate moment
when the crowds are massed. I will walk and mingle with
them, express sympathy, shake many hands ...'

'The chief of security was worried that might be what
you intended. Lasalle has warned there is a professional assassin, Kalmar, operating. He has already killed at least two people. He would prefer you to remain in your car.'

'Lasalle fusses. The President of the French Republic must
show himself to the people in their hour of need. That is
what you will tell security...'

The President busied himself with state papers, rarely
looking out of the window. The amount of paperwork
which crossed his desk at the Elys
é
e was formidable. He
was paying close attention to detailed reports of the unrest
in the south. He really had no idea how to placate the
disturbing growth of terror.

In the open countryside farmers and workers heard the
express coming. They paused to watch as it passed them in
the distance. A blur of movement - incredible movement
for a train. In the large cab of the locomotive an engineer checked his watch, looked at a colleague.

'We shall be there soon. Keep up maximum speed. The
President will expect it...'

South of Roanne the line crossed a high viaduct spanning
a river far below. The TGV was approaching at top speed as
it neared the viaduct. This was normal procedure. The Chief
Engineer peered through a window, saw the viaduct rushing towards him. He tucked a Gauloise between his thick
lips, decided not to light it yet.

The locomotive reached the viaduct, began crossing it,
hauling the coaches behind as though they were made of
plastic. In the distance, not more than half a mile away, a large village was perched on a hill. France spread away...

The whole length of the TGV train was crossing the viaduct when the explosion occurred ahead of it near the
end of the viaduct. A large stretch of track was hurled
skywards. The TGV thundered forward, the wheels encountered the gap. The locomotive swept sideways, rammed the stone wall as though it were constructed of paper. The TGV
continued its onward rush - into space. It shot forward like a torpedo, dragging the coaches with it. Then it curved downwards, plunging at hellish speed into the ravine. The
locomotive swivelled in mid-air. The Chief Engineer bit
clean through his unlit Gauloise. They found his decapitated
head later, half the cigarette inside his mouth.

The locomotive hit the bottom of the ravine like a bomb
detonating. A tumble of coaches smashed down on top of it,
behind it, in front. No one survived in the President's coach. No one survived in the Prime Minister's coach. Many died instantly in the other coaches, some were terribly injured.

At the edge of the village a middle-aged man in tattered clothes had been waiting for the express, staring through a
pair of old binoculars. He focused on the viaduct. The gap in the wall reminded him of a gap in a man's teeth.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

General de Forge's limousine pulled up outside the Villa
Forban. He didn't wait for the chauffeur, he opened the
door and dived out as soon as the car had stopped. He had
the keys to the two locks on the front door in his hand, inserted them one by one, pushed
open the heavy door,
walked inside, slammed it behind him, and stopped.

'What are you doing here?'

Jean Burgoyne, wearing a green form-fitting sweater and a mini-skirt, pushed a wave of blond hair over her shoulder. She waved her shapely hands in a gesture of surprise.

'Aren't you glad to see me, Charles?'

'You didn't inform me you were coming back so soon,'
he responded stiffly.

'You think I am your serf? That I should report all my movements to you?'

Her voice was soft and husky, showed no sign of annoy
ance. She took a gold cigarette case from her handbag,
selected a cigarette, placed it between her lips, lit it with her gold lighter. The one engraved with the Cross of Lorraine.

De Forge strode up to her, snatched the cigarette out of
her mouth, threw it on the polished wood-block floor.

'That will burn the nice flooring,' she remarked.

'So pick it up.'

'No, darling, you put it there, you pick it up.'

His lips tightened. He moved a few paces, crushed the
burning cigarette under the heel of his riding boot. Jean was
intrigued by his rage. She walked to one of the bullet-proof windows flanking the door, peered out. Only the chauffeur stood by the limousine.

'Where is your friend, Major Lamy? And your guard, Lieutenant Berthier? They always come with you.'

'I've told you before. Don't ask questions about military
affairs.'

She made a moue. 'I'm only thinking of your protection. You do have enemies. Would you like some coffee?'

'Might as well...'

When she had disappeared he walked into the living
room, paced restlessly. She had touched a raw nerve men
tioning the two officers.

Much earlier Lamy had contacted Kalmar through the
cut-out telephone the assassin used. A woman's voice had
told Lamy which public phone box to go to, the time Kalmar
would call the phone box number. So Lamy had reported,
confirming that he'd passed on de Forge's new request. All this after Lamy had phoned their informant inside Lasalle's
HQ at rue des Saussaies. Lamy had then driven to Bordeaux
where he'd caught an early Air Inter flight to Lyons.

Berthier, as instructed, had been flown to Lyons aboard a
Third Corps helicopter. Neither man knew of the other's movements. He continued pacing, checking his watch. He should get news by lunchtime.