Cross of Fire (46 page)

'We need that?' Moshe enquired as he drove off.

'We might. Keep moving at high speed, but just inside
the limit. And avoid Bordeaux like the plague. Straight to
Arcachon.

Earlier in Navarre's office in Paris the phone had rung again
soon after Paula had spoken to Newman. She was just about
to leave but waited on a gesture from Tweed.

Navarre took the call, spoke briefly, asked a couple of questions, again held out the instrument to Tweed.

'It's for you. Your butler is calling,' he said with a blank
expression.

'Tweed here...'

Thank God!' It was clearly Harry Butler's unmistakable
voice. 'We flew in about an hour ago as you'd asked. I've
had a helluva job at rue de Saussaies to persuade them to
put me through to you. Had to show my card, describe
what you looked like. Pete is with me, again as requested.
What now?'

'Go to the Swiss Restaurant in the street leading off rue
St Honor, direct up to Place de la Madeleine. It's on the first floor.'

'I remember. We met there once before. Then?'

'Both of you wait for someone to turn up. Stick to that someone like glue. Take instructions from the person you're
guarding.'

'Got it. We need ironmongery?'

He meant weapons - handguns with plenty of spare
ammo. Tweed assured him that they would be supplied. He
put down the phone, looked at Paula who was lingering
near the door. She had plenty of time to catch her Air Inter
flight to Bordeaux.

'When you've been back to rue de Saussaies.' he told her, 'you walk straight to that Swiss restaurant - I'm sure you heard what I said on the phone. First floor.' He switched his gaze to Lasalle. 'Can you help again? I'd like Paula to go back with you now to rue de Saussaies. She needs two 7.65mm Walther automatics and plenty of spare mags.'

'And also.' Paula added, 'I need a .32 Browning - with
extra mags...'

Navarre stood up when they had gone and he was alone
in the large office with Tweed. He paced slowly, hands
behind his back.

'What is the ultimate objective of this devious plan you
have set moving?'

'De Forge is trying to destabilize France.' Tweed replied. 'I am going to destabilize de Forge. Apart from the fact that
he was responsible for the murder of one of my agents -
something I won't forget - it is essential we have a stable
Europe to face whatever might confront us from the East...'

He stopped talking as Navarre answered the buzzing of his intercom. The dark-haired, agile Frenchman listened to
the message Tweed couldn't catch, told them to send him
up, switched off, and faced Tweed.

'Otto Kuhlmann has arrived. He will be with us in a
moment. We are keeping in close touch with Germany....'

The door opened, Kuhlmann entered, his expression
grim. He shook hands with Navarre, with Tweed, settled
his bulk into a chair, studied his unlit cigar and then began
speaking.

'I've come to hear whether there have been any further
developments. The German press is full of the riots in
Lyons, the anti-American and anti-German slogans which
were shouted.'

'Don't worry.' Navarre reassured him. 'We are all work
ing together. Tweed has a plan. I can't reveal the details.
Tell us the present situation in Germany.'

'Germany is very uneasy, uncertain of itself. Suddenly
we are the most powerful country in Europe with unifica
tion. It worries thoughtful men and women. Gorbachev took
the lid off Russia - but I'm not sure he realized he was also
taking the lid off Germany. He may have opened the gate
to dark forces. To
Siegfried.
What scares me is
Siegfried
could
be the weapon of the extreme Right. I just hope to God the
members of
Siegfried
are imported terrorists. If so, our
dragnet must locate them sooner or later...'

Kuhlmann talked on while Tweed sat thinking of Newman and Paula. Each of them by now well on their way to the south, to the Bordeaux region - de Forge's territory. He
was still pondering the future when the phone rang once
more.

Navarre ran behind his desk, picked up the phone,
listened. It was a long call with the caller doing most of the
talking. Watching him both Tweed and Kuhlmann were
aware of a rising sense of tension. Navarre sat up straighter,
leaned forward, his facial muscles taut. He put down the
phone slowly, looked at his visitors.

'A catastrophe has occurred. That call was from Lyons -from the DST chief there.' He took a deep breath before continuing. 'The President of France is dead. The Prime Minister is dead. A saboteur blew up the track ahead of the TGV they were aboard. The whole train plunged into a deep ravine. Huge casualties.'

'The trigger,' said Tweed. 'The trigger General Charles De Forge was waiting for. France is about to erupt like a volcano.

Chapter Thirty

As they approached Arcachon at reduced speed Newman
watched Moshe's headlights sweeping over the fringes of
the
bassin -
the almost landlocked harbour. In the beams he
saw beyond the country road a marsh-like area, small creeks
of stagnant water with an oily gleam. In the near distance
the lights of Arcachon came closer in the dark.

'I have to visit someone.' Newman said. 'Probably for no
more than an hour, maybe longer. Do you mind staying at
a small hotel until I come for you?'

'Of course not, my friend. I know a small hotel near the
station. Why don't we drive there first, then you can take
over the car?'

'It would be a help,' Newman admitted.

He felt a sense of relief. He was tired and the idea of
walking to Isabella's apartment did not appeal. Earlier, from
a public call box in a village he had called her to warn he
was coming. She had sounded wild with excitement, which worried him.

Moshe pulled up in front of a small hotel, got out with
his case, wished Newman luck and ran inside. The cold
was intense as a bitter wind scoured the resort. Ten
minutes later
Newman was inside Isabelle's apartment.
Dressed in. a warm two-piece blue suit she flung her arms round him.

'Oh, my God! You have no idea how glad I am to see
you. Have you heard the news, Bob? It's terrible...' Again
the words came tumbling out. 'The President is dead, has been assassinated. The TGV he was aboard on his way to
Lyons was blown up. And, Bob, the Prime Minister is also
dead. He was aboard the same express...'

'Slow down, slow down, Isabelle.'

'I'll make you some nice hot coffee. You feel cold. You
must be in this weather. Milk but no sugar. You see, I
remember ... Come and make yourself comfortable in the
living room. There is a log fire. Then we can talk...'

Newman welcomed the log fire crackling away as he sat by himself on a couch in the cosy room. Not only for the
warmth after the arctic conditions outside - but also it
helped him to marshal his thoughts.

The President of France dead - and the Prime Minister. When interviewing de Forge he'd sensed the General strain
ing at the leash - the partial straitjacket of Presidential
authority which had restrained him - to some extent. Now
de Forge was free to act in any way he wished. There would
be confusion - chaos - in Paris.

And all this, he thought grimly, meant that Moshe Stein
and himself, too, would be in
far greater danger in the
Landes. What Moshe had told him had previously alerted him to the risks they were taking. Now those risks were
tripled.

'Coffee...' Isabelle placed a tray on a small table and
poured. 'Isn't the news frightful? It's so good to have you
here. With me. The two of us alone again.'

She had splayed her long legs like a cat underneath her
as she sat on the floor, leaning against his knees, sipping her
coffee. He asked the question bothering him.

'Where is your sister? Any risk of her coming back?'

'No.' A catlike smile. 'After your phone call Lucille called
me from Stockholm at her boyfriend's place. She is staying
there longer. She's very understanding about us.'

'If she now? She knows my name?'

'Of course not!' Her back stiffened. 'I'm. careful about your safety, even though I trust Lucille. But you know -
pillow talk with her boyfriend. All she can tell him is a
friend is with me. You look very French in your gear.'

'That's the idea.' Newman had removed his beret and raincoat. He made the effort before the warmth - and Isabelle - overcame him. 'I'll have to leave soon.' Her hand gently fondled his knee. Much more of this and he'd be spending the night with her.

'Bob, were you furious with me when I told you on the
phone about my trip back to my mother's apartment in
Bordeaux?'

'No, just concerned. And relieved that you escaped from those two phoney DST thugs. They'd have murdered you -like they did Henri at the Gare St Jean.'

'Instead I murdered them.'

'You defended yourself with great courage and ingenuity. It was an accident they deserved.'

'I have another confession to make ...'

'I'm not a priest.'

'I know that.' She smiled wickedly. 'Anyone less like a
priest I can't imagine.' Her hand moved up to his thigh,
rested there. He clamped his own hand on top of hers, squeezed it to encourage her. And to prevent her hand
wandering too much.

'Henri kept a notebook. He had filled it up and was going
to record things in a fresh one. He gave me the old notebook
to keep, said I should guard it. I promised not to look inside
- he said that would be dangerous - and I kept my promise.
I hid it among my underclothes in the Bordeaux apartment. It's still there.'

'Why didn't you give it to me?' Newman asked quietly.

'I forgot. I know it sounds crazy but so many things - awful things - happened. Henri's murder. Then when we were at the apartment we spotted those men watching. I was concentrating on doing what you told me so we could get away safely.'

'And during your second visit - to
get Henri's brooch?'

'For God's sake!' she flared up. 'Those men knocked on the door. You know what happened afterwards. I forgot the notebook again. Can you wonder I did?'

So Henri Bayle - alias Francis Carey, Tweed's agent -
had left some kind of record of what he'd discovered in the
Bordeaux region. Maybe he hadn't died in vain - an out
come Newman knew Tweed would live with for the rest of
his time on earth unless Carey's mission had produced something vital. And maybe there was vital data in that hidden notebook. It could be even more important now
France was sliding into anarchy after the brutal removal of the President and his Prime Minister.