Cross of Fire (66 page)

Rosewater was glad to see the back of him. He was
anxious to drive to Basle Airport. There he would catch the first flight to Bordeaux via Geneva, driving on to Arcachon.
Rosewater had overheard in the Bar Martinque a man with
a distinct Irish accent. Discreet enquiries had confirmed the
Irishman frequented the bar. And also he wanted to meet
Paula Grey again.

Twelve hours earlier during the previous evening Newman
had driven to Isabelle's apartment from the Atlantique. As
he moved along the front the
bassin
was a seething mass of
heaving waves, reminding him of Aldeburgh.

He was also thinking of the notes he'd extracted from the
polythene envelope attached to poor Jean Burgoyne's lifeless
body. Reading them alone in his room he had been startled
to find he was looking at plans for an army movement on Paris. The details gave the route to be followed north by a lightning thrust of de Forge's armoured divisions. Their
objective was Paris.

Could the information be genuine? Newman thought so:
Jean had given map references, used language which
sounded to have been extracted from military dispatches.
His dilemma was whether to entrust such vital data to an
Alouette which might crash before it arrived in Paris. How else could he get the notes into the hands of Tweed?

Parking in a side street a short distance from her apart
ment, well away now from the front, he stepped out. Before
he approached the entrance he stood banging his gloved
hands round his body while he made sure he had not been
followed.

He had phoned Isabelle just before leaving the Atlan
tique. When he pressed the bell beside her apartment door
she had it thrown wide open in seconds. She was talking
while she locked and bolted the door.

'It has been so long since I've seen you, Bob. You will
stay the night? If you don't want to make love we'll sit and
chat. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that. But I've been
thinking of you. Have you been thinking of me?'

All in one breath. She snuggled up against him. Her body
pressed against his. She was moaning with pleasure, hands
clutching at him. I have a problem here, he thought. He
grasped both her shoulders, gently pushed her to arm's
length, and she stood staring at him, quivering, her eyes
huge.

'Isabella, I need your help. I have to leave almost at once.
To go to Bordeaux again...'

'No! Not Bordeaux!' You don't know what it's like now. Friends have told me. There are
army patrols in all the main
streets...'

'I don't want a main street. I want the Passage Emile
Zola. Ever heard of it?'

Releasing her, he took out his street map of the city and spread it over the living-room table. She stood next to him,
her hair brushing his face, a pen in her hand. She had it
poised to make a mark when he stopped her.

'No. Marked maps are dangerous. You do know where it
is?'

'Yes. It is very difficult to find. You can walk past it a dozen times without seeing it. But I can take you there.'

'Nothing doing. This is one trip I make on my own.'

'Really?' She pulled at strands of her hair. 'Which way
will you drive in to Bordeaux? I suppose you will follow the
same route we used?'

'It seems sensible, since I know it.'

'Very sensible. When the Passage Emile Zola is on this side of the city.'

She pointed to the eastern area, furthest from Arcachon and on the way to the airport. He looked at the area she had vaguely indicated and couldn't see the passage, in any case,
it wasn't included in the map's index. His tone changed,
became rough.

'Look, stop fooling around, Isabelle. Someone's life is at
stake. Without making a mark just damn well show me
where this passage is.'

'There.' She retracted her pen tip and lightly touched the map. 'And to have any chance of surviving the army patrols we'd take a roundabout route and approach it from the east. I can guide you.'

'
Thanks. I won't risk you coming again.' 'Excuse me. I must turn off the coffee percolator.' She disappeared through the swing door into the kitchen, was absent for no more than thirty seconds, then came back
with a coat over her arm, a canvas bag in her hand.
Newman said goodnight after swiftly folding the map. He
went to the door, threw back the bolt, turned the key, and
left the apartment.

He had unlocked the door of his car, was easing himself behind the wheel of the Renault, when the passenger door
opened and Isabelle, wearing the coat, slid in beside him, closing her door. She moved like a cat. He'd not heard a
footstep. Her arrival had been so sudden he'd slipped his
hand inside his sheepskin to grip the butt of his Smith &
Wesson.

'Give me the map.' she said calmly. 'You said someone's life was at stake. That makes two of you. Without my local
knowledge you'd never make it. Hadn't we better get
moving?'

'Manteau
here.'

General de Forge, alone in his GHQ office, froze. Only
two words but they'd had an
extraordinarily sinister ring
over the phone.

'Yes, what the hell is it now? You've been paid.'

'Trickery. My God, you do take chances. Don't you want to go on living?'

'Just hold it there.' De Forge had a grip on himself
now. 'I would appreciate an explanation of that cryptic
remark.'

'The money, General.'

'What about it? The amount was as agreed.'

De Forge was puzzled. Lamy had delivered it as
instructed - or was his Chief of Intelligence going into business for himself? Was Lamy the rotten apple of the inner circle?

'The amount was as agreed.'
Manteau
repeated. 'But three-quarters of it is counterfeit. The remaining quarter has
bills in numbered sequence. That was a grave mistake,
General. Maybe even suicidal.'

The voice was so deadly calm it was unnerving. As
though discussing a perfectly normal business transaction.
The man was like ice. And de Forge was appalled at what he had been told, hardly knew how to react.

'I'll investigate.' he said brusquely. 'I handed over the
money to the emissary myself. It was as requested at that moment.'

'So you say. So you would say, of course. I'm going to have to provide one last demonstration. Incidentally, I have
left the cloth bag containing what was inside behind the same phone box. Have it collected. Just in case you are
telling the truth. Which I very much doubt.'

'What demonstration are you talking about...'

De Forge realized he was talking into a dead line. Shaken,
he put down the phone, thought for a moment, picked up
the phone again, ordered Major Lamy to come at once. He next called Lieutenant Berthier's quarters, found the officer
had just returned, told him he wanted to see him, to wait
outside his office when he arrived. De Forge was standing with his back to the huge silhouette of General de Gaulle when Lamy entered. Which meant Lamy had to remain standing.

De Forge told him about the
Manteau
call. He watched
Lamy closely as he spoke, his manner grim. The Chief of
Intelligence was careful to wait until his commander had
finished, his face devoid of expression.

'So what have you to say?' de Forge demanded.

'This is crazy.' Lamy protested. 'I delivered the money as arranged. Counterfeit? Impossible.'

'Unless someone is stashing away a nest egg for himself.' de Forge remarked coldly.

'Is that an accusation, General?'

'Rather call it a suggestion. There's one way to discover the truth. As I told you, he has left the cloth bag behind the phone box. Go and bring it back to me immediately.'

'Now? At this hour of night?'

'Have you gone deaf? I said immediately. And take with you an escort. Lieutenant Berthier will be waiting outside. Take him with you - and one other officer.'

'What about Kalmar, General? He has just phoned me
and asked for his fee. For eliminating Jean Burgoyne ...'

He stopped speaking as the phone rang. De Forge looked
Lamy up and down with a chilling expression he was
famous for. He lifted the receiver.

'De Forge. I'm busy. Who the hell is it now?'

'Manteau
reporting, General. During my previous call I omitted to tell you I have extinguished Jean Burgoyne. That
will cost you one million Swiss francs. Tell Lamy he'll
receive instructions how to make payment. This time in real money, if you please.'

'Listen to me...' Again the line went dead.

De Forge replaced the phone carefully as though it might explode in his face. He looked at Lamy again for almost a
minute before he told him about this latest call. Lamy
listened, his mind racing over how to respond.

'I don't know how he could possibly have known where she was. Jean Burgoyne chose a very remote rendezvous.
And without Yvette following her no one would have
known.'

'But someone did know.' de Forge said softly. 'You knew
- or that girl who took the call here from Yvette knew.'She
passed the information to you over the radio and you
said
you'd phoned Kalmar at an agreed number.'

'What do you suggest?' Lamy asked stiffly.

'That you carry out my order - collect that bag with the money from behind the phone box.'

Lamy turned to go. Then he decided to risk more protest. De Forge didn't seem to realize what he was asking.

'If
Manteau
is in the area, watching that isolated phone
box, he'll think it's a trap - when he sees my escort in the
car with me.'

'It's a risk you'll have to take,' de Forge told him brutally.
'Send in Lieutenant Berthier and wait outside for him...'

Berthier stood rigidly to attention as de Forge studied
him. The General was watching for any signs of nervous
ness, of sweat appearing on his forehead - as he had with
Lamy.

'Paula Grey,' de Forge snapped. 'Any news by now?'

'Yes, General. She is staying at the Hotel Atlantique in
Arcachon. The night clerk showed me her signature in the
register. The problem is she's protected by two bodyguards. Professionals, by the way they behave. Never let her out of their sight.'

'Thank you, Berthier. You have done well.' De Forge had become amiable. He made it a point never to be at odds with more than one officer at a time. 'I may send you back to Arcachon. At the moment Major Lamy has a job for you and is waiting outside...'

Alone, de Forge sat at his desk, drawing Crosses of
Lorraine on fire on a pad while he thought. Kalmar.
Manteau.
Could they be the same man? Or were both an inven
tion of Major Lamy's?