Cross of Fire (69 page)

Jean Picot. 3
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me.

'That's the name Stahl is hiding under?' Isabelle
whispered.

'Yes.' Newman looked round the end of the alley. No
sign of any life. 'It's strange there are no troops here.'

'Don't you see? They missed this alley. You nearly
walked past it yourself. I dragged you in.'

'True.' Newman was looking up the sheer wall. 'He's at
the top of the building according to that name plate. So here
goes.'

He pressed the button on the entryphone, pressed his ear close to the shoddy grille. Was the damned instrument still in working order? A voice spoke in French.

'Who is it? I'm just going to bed.'

'Gamelin.' Newman repeated the codeword. 'Gamelin.'

'Come up quickly.'

Isabelle pushed the door when the buzzer went. Newman
pulled her back when it was
open an inch or so, his foot
keeping it that way. He took the pencil flash off her, swiftly
ran the beam all round the door frame. No wires. No
indication of a boobytrap. Was it possible that the troops
didn't know about this entrance?

'Is this passage marked on any map?' he asked quickly.

'None that I've ever seen. Shouldn't we hurry?'

She nearly slipped on the ice before dashing inside as
Newman aimed the flashlight ahead of her, showing an old iron-railed staircase. Despite the large canvas bag she had
hung over her shoulder she ran up the stairs with great
agility as Newman, annoyed at her impetuous act, followed
and guided the way, shining the beam in front of her.

He had pushed the door to the alley shut with his foot.

Isabelle was flying up the stairs, flight by flight, the bag swaying against her hip. At any moment Newman expected to hear the muffled explosion of the front entrance being
blown in. Had they walked into a trap? What kept him
going was the thought of Stahl, the agent of Kuhlmann who
had stayed under cover for so long. He must have a lot of
guts.

Pounding up the worn bleak concrete steps, the treads
worn in the middle by God knew how many thousands of
footsteps which had naturally moved up the centre. The
whole place had a musty smell - bleak was the word. The
atmosphere of one of the many abandoned-looking build
ings which infested Bordeaux. They reached the top landing.

Newman raised the beam, saw alongside the closed door a similar name plate to the one in the alley. No entryphone. Just a button to press the bell. He pushed his thumb against it, held it there. They had so little time left.

The door opened a few inches still on a chain. The face
which peered out was not what Newman had expected. Round and with a bushy mop of hair and a bushy mous
tache. Eyes behind horn-rim glasses peered at them.

'Gamelin.' Newman repeated quickly. 'Troops are sur
rounding the building. We've got to get out of here fast.'

'English?'

The query was put in the same language, not French this
time. Newman felt brief annoyance. Everyone else had accepted him as a Frenchman. He reverted to English.

'Yes. Do you want to escape or don't you? We've risked
our own lives to ...'

'Come in.'

The door closed for a second, the chain was released, and
they were inside as Stahl closed and bolted the door with
one hand. In the other he held a grenade. Newman stared
at it, then at Stahl. The German was small, tubby, and
exuded energy. His eyes studied Newman, then Isabelle. He
moved close to Newman.

'I recognize you from pictures in the papers. Kuhlmann has talked about you. But who is this girl?' he whispered.

'Isabelle Thomas. She's proved herself.'

Isabelle's hearing was more acute than Stahl had anticipated. She glared at him.

'I have already killed two of de Forge's men. How many
more would you like me to dispatch before you're happy?'

'I have to check,' the German said sharply. 'That's how I've survived so far.'

This conversation was quick-fire. But Newman was
anxious to get out of the building. Just assuming that was
possible.

'We have to leave here fast,' he told Stahl. 'Back down
the staircase we came up and into the passage?'

'Too dangerous.' Stahl shook his head. 'Show me the
soles of your shoes,' he ordered Isabelle. She perched on one
leg like a steady stork, showed him the sole of her trainer
studded with rubber. He nodded, turned to Newman, who
swiftly performed the same action. Why was Stahl wasting valuable time? He was wearing rubber-soled shoes with the surface hardly worn. Again Stahl nodded.

'It's very dangerous - going out over the rooftops. They are covered with ice. But more dangerous to risk that staircase.' As though to confirm his opinion they heard somewhere way below them the muffled thud of an explosion.

'Rey has blown open the front door.' Newman warned.
'Have you collected information?'

He was asking the question as Stahl, clad in a leather jacket and corduroy trousers, moved quickly to a door,
opened it, revealing a narrow staircase going upwards to a
skylight. Stahl darted up the staircase, pulling on a pair of thick gloves. He answered as he reached the top tread and
raised a hand to the skylight window. Over his shoulder
was a leather bag similar to the canvas bag Isabelle was
carrying as she rushed up the staircase behind Newman
after closing the door at the bottom.

'A lot of information,' Stahl replied. 'In a book in my
pocket. The grenade was in case it was soldiers outside the door when you arrived. I'd have threatened to blow myself up with them. Remember, the roofs are like a skating rink, I go up first, then you. We'll haul Isabelle up after us.'

Earlier he had dropped the grenade inside his bag. While talking he had pushed back the skylight on to the roof and icy air flooded down the staircase. Agilely, Stahl hauled himself on to the roof, spread his body flat and extended a
hand to Newman.

Moving cautiously, Newman emerged into the bitter air of the Siberian night. The roof had a steep pitch and he saw it was above the street where the troops were assembled for the storming of the building. They must already be on their
way up. On one landing Newman had noticed when they were racing up to Stahl's apartment another staircase. At
this point the troops could run straight up to Stahl's
apartment.

By the light of a sputtering neon sign on the far side of the street Newman saw the sinister gleam of pack ice on the tiled roof. He sprawled alongside Stahl, one foot dug into a hole where a tile had disappeared. He heard below a splintering crash from inside Stahl's apartment. They had already broken down the door. He was reaching down for Isabelle, had grabbed her under her left armpit when he heard the thud of Army boots coming up the staircase. He tried to haul her up, but she wouldn't budge. She stared up at him, her expression grim.

'He's got hold of my leg. Hang on to me, Bob. Don't
touch my right arm...'

It flashed across his mind what a wide range of moods
she had: excitable when he'd arrived at her apartment in
Arcachon. Now with her life at stake she was cold, calculating. Her right hand fiddled inside her bag, came out holding a kitchen knife with a wide blade. Taking a firm grip on the
handle, she looked down, saw the soldier staring up at her,
holding her leg in an iron grip. She raised the knife, aimed for the side of his neck, plunged it in deep, still gripping the
handle. He emitted a horrible gurgle, let go of her leg as
blood spurted, collapsed into the staircase.

Newman hauled her on to the roof. She sprawled beside
him, her left hand gripping the rim of the skylight frame,
her right hand wiping the mess off the knife before she dropped it back inside her bag. Newman used his left foot
to kick ice off the roof. Three tiles scuttered down with the ice, exposing rotting rafters. He jammed his foot inside the exposed hole and Isabelle rammed her left foot into the hole
he'd left for her. Newman was holding on to the skylight
frame as he glanced round. Stahl was perched on top of the
roof, legs astride each side as he beckoned them to join him.

'We go this way,' he called out, still speaking English.

Newman was about to help Isabelle to join him when she
slipped. Appalled, he watched her sliding down the icy
slope to the brink. Her feet dug into the metal gutter below
the roof. Her gloved hands clawed the roof for better
purchase, found none. Only the gutter was saving her.
Newman let go of the skylight frame, slithered towards her. His gloved hands grasped one of the exposed rafters. Hold
ing on, he swivelled himself through one hundred and
eighty degrees, let go, hoping one foot would embed itself
in the same hole. Both feet slid into the hole, were held by the cross beam below the rafters. He stretched out a hand as
Isabelle stretched hers and he had her round the wrist. He
was on the verge of hauling her up when she jolted, the full weight of her body jerking in his hand, but he held on. The bloody gutter had given way, falling into the street. Which he should have expected. This was Bordeaux.

He hauled her slowly up over the glistening surface and
now the ice helped her body to move smoothly. Lying
alongside him, she jammed her feet into the large hole, managed a wan smile. He looked up at the ridge of the roof
where Stahl had moved further along like someone astride
a vaulting horse in a gymnasium. Stahl beckoned again for
them to join him.

'We go this way.' he called out.

Newman had one arm round Isabelle's waist as his other
hand hammered at the ice, dislodged more rotten tiles,
found purchase to haul them higher. It seemed slow progress but the skylight was close to the ridge and Newman
had hauled both of them to the summit. Isabelle was closer
to the skylight as Stahl shouted a warning. Glancing over
her
shoulder, Newman's arm still holding her firm round
the waist, she saw a soldier gripping an automatic weapon emerging. Newman was heaving her up to the ridge when
she spoke.

'Hold my right arm,' she commanded.

Perched on the ridge, he did what she had told him to, leaning down to grip her arm as she deliberately let her body slide a foot or so. Drawing up her left knee, she shot out her leg as the soldier, now on the roof, fumbled with his weapon. Her trainer hammered into the face of the sprawled soldier. He lost the grip his left hand had had on the skylight frame. They watched as he began to slide. Desperately his hands clawed at the roof as the weapon slithered out of view. His feet dug into the ice, loosened a large slab. The slab skated over the edge. High up Newman could almost see to street level. The soldier's momentum increased. He followed the ice slab over the brink, his arms windmilling as he screamed, an ear-splitting yell of terror, while his body plummeted downwards. The yell stopped abruptly as his body hit the iron-hard cobbles four storeys down.

Newman had hauled Isabelle on to the ridge, they were
easing themselves along the ice-cold rounded tiles when the
head of another soldier appeared above the fanlight opening. Stahl took a grenade out of his bag, removed the pin,
tossed it carefully. The grenade disappeared down the fan
light opening. A sharp
crack!
The soldier's head disap
peared. There was one further sound - the tumbling of
bodies down the staircase. Then a sudden silence. Newman
and Isabelle worked their way along the ridge. He was
worried by the sudden disappearance of Stahl who had
dropped out of sight. Literally. He was aching from the
effort of straddling the ridge top when he reached the end.
Looking down he saw why Stahl had vanished.