Cross of Fire (59 page)

'What are you up to now?'

'Time I went back into the field, saw for myself, This
place is fraught with tension. It's becoming positively claustrophobic.'

'I have one more piece of information.' Lasalle continued. 'There is the foreign member of the notorious
Cercle Noir
who goes under the code name
Oiseau.
He is attending these conspiratorial meetings much more frequently.'

'How on earth do you obtain such information?'

'That's top secret. I have informants.'

'In the plural?' Tweed queried.

'You heard correctly. One bit of advice. If you do go to
Passy, take care ...'

By himself again, Tweed wrote the word
Oiseau
on his
notepad. He added the English translation. Bird. Then he
drew a vulture. It was all adding up. But who could be
Lasalle's informants?

Yvette Mourlon, Lamy's woman agent, had received her
orders from her chief. She was sitting in the battered Peu
geot she had driven from Third Corps GHQ and was now
in position to watch the Villa Forban. She had driven the
vehicle with a souped-up engine into a field where she
could see the grille gates but couldn't herself be seen.

Yvette was a plain-looking girl with sallow skin and poor
legs. In addition she had a cruel mouth. Her loyalty to
General de Forge was carried to the point of devotion. The General cleverly gave her small gifts from time to time, a
compliment she'd never received from any other man. He was careful to keep her at a distance but her dedication to
him was complete.

Her Peugeot had also been equipped with a high-pow
ered transmitter which enabled her to communicate with
Third Corps GHQ from long distances. Her great advantage
was she was a girl no one ever looked at twice. She wore a
crumpled raincoat and a pair of old, worn gloves.

She leaned forward as she saw the gates opening. Even
from a distance she recognized the driver of the Rover as
the car drove away to the north. Jean Burgoyne's long blond
hair was unmistakable. Yvette waited, then turned on the
ignition, drove out of the field and followed the Rover.

Jean Burgoyne had not been fooled by de Forge's apparent change of mood just before he left the villa. She had seen through his pretended amiability, and realized he no longer
trusted her an inch.

She had always known this day would come - the day to run for her life. Packing quickly, she slipped the notes she'd made of Operation Marengo - after skip-reading the papers
in de Forge's dispatch case - in a polythene bag. Using adhesive tape, she attached the bag to her body under her
panties.

She had taken with her only the minimum selection of everyday clothes. Without a qualm she had left behind the
mink cape, the silk underclothes de Forge had given her:
she wanted to wear nothing which reminded her of their relationship. But she did slip the Mauser pistol into her handbag.

The devious country route to Arcachon was deserted as she drove through the late afternoon. She would go to the Atlantique Hotel in Arcachon, book a room, contact Paula. If Paula wasn't available soon she'd contact Paris.

*

The man known as Kalmar sat in his hotel room studying a photograph of Jean Burgoyne. He had no doubt the oppor
tunity would soon present itself when he would strangle
her.

He hadn't a photo of Paula Grey, but he didn't need one. After all, he'd met her. He didn't often get an assignment to eliminate two targets. He was rather looking forward to the
double killing.

Lamy's instructions over the phone had been precise and simple. The odd thing was Lamy had given him no idea of the location of either target. That was most unusual. Some
times Kalmar wondered about Major Jules Lamy. His pay
as Chief of Intelligence would hardly amount to a fortune.
And he was the only other man - apart from de Forge presumably - who knew the targets. Which might explain
some strange events which had occurred.

Putting the photo back into an envelope, he tucked it
inside his pocket. This looked like very easy money. The
thought that the fee paid involved the murder of two
women never crossed his mind.

Newman had slept for twenty-four hours in his bedroom at
the Atlantique Hotel in Arcachon. Driving north from the Landes non-stop to Arcachon with Moshe Stein, he had
arrived exhausted in the late afternoon.

And, like himself, Moshe had been flaked out, all reserves
of energy used up. Both men had retired to their rooms.
Newman had wanted to phone Tweed but when he lay on
the bed after a quick wash he fell fast asleep.

It was a troubled sleep, crucified by nightmares. Firing
squads on a lonely beach backed by the sand dunes with
the forests of the Landes behind them. Stretcher parties
carrying the dead victim up over the dunes into the forest,
dumping a body whose face looked like his own into a hole
in the ground. An old woman watching, cackling with
obscene delight at the spectacle. A man wearing a Ku-Klux-
Klan mask bending over him. The man removing the mask
to reveal the grinning face of Major Lamy.

Eventually Newman woke, feeling his head was stuffed
with cotton-wool. He forced himself out of bed, checked the
time. It was almost dusk outside. Stripping to the waist, he sluiced himself with cold water, dried off. His brain was beginning to function.

He was shivering from the cold. The heating in the hotel was meagre. He threw on a few fresh clothes, the first ones he came to when throwing back the lid of his case.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he dialled the special
number at the Ministry of the Interior from memory. He
had to be very forceful to get put through to someone in
high authority, who turned out to be Lasalle.

'Need to speak urgently to Tweed.'

'I'm afraid he is not in the building just at the moment,
Mr Newman. Can I help?'

'Only Tweed can. Thanks. Call you back,' Newman
mumbled and put down the phone.

Only Tweed could be trusted with the information he
had gathered. He went along the corridor to Moshe's room, knocked on the door. He had to knock several times before
the door was opened on a chain. Moshe's bleary-eyed,
unshaven face peered at him.

'Oh, it's you. Sorry, I was asleep.'

Moshe put the chain back on the door when Newman
had entered. He ran a hand through his tousled hair.

'I feel as though the Eiffel Tower fell on me. What do we
do now? I still think you should leave me here. Go north.
Take the car. No reason why you should risk your life any more.'

'I'm sticking with you until you're safe in Paris, Mean
while, I may have to go out. You have money? Good. Bribe
the people here to send a decent meal to your room. Stay
here until I knock on the door like this.'

Newman rapped his knuckles with a certain tattoo on the
dressing table. Going back to his room, he had a quick
shave, tidied himself up, put on a warm coat. It would be pretty raw outside.

First he'd enquire whether Paula was in the hotel.
Accommodation in Arcachon was fairly limited in winter.
He found she was registered but out. That would give him
time to visit Isabelle. Maybe she had seen someone floating round Arcachon, someone he ought to know about.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

'I'm sorry I'm so late, Victor. I never expected you would wait.'

Rosewater grinned as Paula hurried up to him in the bar
restaurant she'd earlier called a 'cafe'. Clad in a black leather
jacket and heavy navy trousers with a razor sharp crease, he gave her a bear hug, asked her what she would like to drink as they sat at a table.

'Vermouth, please.'

'Are you hungry?' he enquired.

'Ravenous. Haven't eaten for hours.'

'There's the menu. What do you fancy?'

'Don't need to look. A huge mushroom omelette with
lots of fried potatoes. Damn watching my figure this
evening.

'I'll take pleasure watching it instead,' he assured her and summoned a waiter.

The restaurant was only half full. Butler wandered in as
though on his own. He chose a small table by a window.
Paula had said it was unnecessary for her two escorts to come, that she'd return to the Atlantique as soon as she'd
finished her meal with Rosewater.

'You can go in on your own.' Butler had told her. 'Then
I'll follow, merge with the wallpaper. But we're staying with
you all the time. Tweed's strict orders.'

Outside Nield sat in the parked Renault where Butler
could see him through the window. Nield was surveying
his surroundings. What attracted his attention was a red
Porsche, parked twenty yards or so further along the road.

Parked in the shadows, away from the nearest street
lamp, it was difficult to tell whether there was anyone in the driver's seat. Nield slipped his Walther out of its holster and laid it on his lap. The Porsche bothered him.

Inside, Paula was sipping her vermouth, studying Rose-
water. Even late in the day he looked as fresh as paint with
his strong jaw, his handsome face, and pleasant smile. Paula
liked men who smiled a lot.

'Tell me what you've been up to,' Rosewater invited.

'Oh, just visiting an old friend.'

'Man or woman?'

'Now you're prying.'

'I'm jealous ...'

His gaze swivelled as a tall elegant Frenchwoman entered
the restaurant. A waiter relieved her of her coat. She made
a performance of the action. Slipping her arms out of the
sleeves slowly, she raised her hands to smooth down her
long sleek hair. The movement emphasized her well-built sum figure. Dressed in black, her breasts protruded against
the tight dress. She was looking directly at Rosewater and
gave a slow smile.

Paula followed Rosewater's fixed gaze. Across the room
Butler chose the same moment to turn round, taking his
time to lift a salt cellar from the empty table behind him.
His eyes swiftly scanned the new arrival.

The waiter led her to a table by a window next to where
Butler sat. He put down the salt cellar, which he had no
intention of using.

'That woman...' Rosewater switched his gaze back to
Paula. 'She's attractive so it's odd she's alone. She is just the
sort of woman who could be one of de Forge's army of
spies.'

'Let's forget her, enjoy our evening.' Paula suggested.

'So was it a man or a woman? I am jealous.' Rosewater repeated.

'You've increased my appetite no end. And what, may I ask, have you been occupying yourself with?'