Cross of Fire (72 page)

'Yes, he did,' Tweed said tersely, seating himself behind his desk.

'Well, did he tell you that he's working on a twin-track
basis?'

'What does twin-track mean?' Tweed enquired, polishing his glasses on the corner of his handkerchief.

'It means ...' Howard paused, took up his favourite pose, sprawling in the armchair with one leg propped over the arm. His black leather shoes gleamed like glass. 'It means,' he repeated, 'that the PM has another unit in the field of which we have no knowledge.'

Of which ...
Typical of the Director's liking for pedantic
phraseology. Tweed began drumming his fingers slowly on the desk, a sign that he was in a mood of cold fury. Monica looked up, intrigued at the prospect of battle.

'Doesn't he realize,' Tweed demanded, 'that a manoeuvre like that can cause total disaster? Two different units stum
bling around on the same territory without any idea of the other's existence? Didn't you point out that it could lead to
a catastrophe?'

'Well...' Howard adjusted the display handkerchief in
his breast pocket. 'He is the new boy. We need his support
so we have to give him some licence.'

'In other words you're telling me you didn't have the
guts to object.' Tweed growled.

'I deeply resent your insubordinate language.'

'Resent away.' Tweed showed no contrition. 'Did he by any chance give you a hint as to who the other unit is?'

'None at all.' Howard's manner was stiff. 'And I most
certainly didn't ask him. We are talking about the new PM.
He has a right to his own ideas.'

'He struck me as a man who appreciates straight talk.'
Tweed was disgusted. 'He was waiting to see if you'd press him, insist on being given the information.'

'You weren't there...'

'He was testing you.' Tweed insisted.

'My dear chap.' Howard ran a manicured hand over his
perfectly brushed dark hair.
'We
are the ones who are on
trial. My guess is he's simply not relying on one organization. The situation is serious. By the way, how serious is
it?'

Tersely, Tweed brought him up to date. He concluded by
revealing he'd made a quick call from a London Airport
public phone to Lasalle - that Lasalle had received a late call from Butler saying they were moving south to bring
back a witness.

'South?' Howard sounded appalled. 'South from Aca
chon? My God! Straight into the jaws of the lion's den. The den of General Charles de Forge. Whereabouts exactly are they going to?'

'The Landes, I expect.'

'Heavens, man! Are you crazy?' Howard swung his leg
on the floor, jumped up, buttoned his jacket. 'You've just
told me about this hideous burial ground of de Forge's. In
the Landes. How could you let our people venture near
there again?'

'I let my people in the field have wide latitude as to how they react in an emergency. You know that,' Tweed said quietly. 'They took the decision themselves and I am back
ing them to the hilt. If you think you can run an operation
from an armchair here, then you've
spent too long in the
States.'

The quiet vehemence of Tweed's attack threw Howard off balance. He pursed his lips, looked at Monica, who
looked back at him.

'What are your next plans?' Howard added eventually in
a reasonable tone. 'I mean you personally.'

'Before I return to Paris tonight I am driving to Aldeburgh.
That's where it all started - with the murder of Karin Rosewater. If Lord Dawlish is at home I'm calling on him.'

'For what purpose, if I may ask?'

'You may. He's up to his neck in this thing, I'm sure
now. I want to rattle his cage.'

'I insist you take protection. No, hear me out.' He held
up his hand as Tweed opened his mouth to protest. 'What
about Fred Hamilton? Be good experience for him. And he
scored tops on the target range I understand.'

'He's very promising.' Tweed admitted.

'Then that's settled.' Howard beamed his broad smile. 'I shall feel far less worried as you're going there with Hamilton by your side. Must get on. Piles waiting for me to deal with...'

Monica stared at Howard's back as he left the room. She looked furious and burst out as soon as she judged Howard
was well clear.

'Piles, indeed! I dealt with everything that came in for
him while he was away. All he has to look at are copies of
my replies.' She calmed down. 'Still, you could have
knocked me down with a feather when he insisted Hamilton accompanied you. He sounded really concerned.'

'He was.' Tweed agreed. 'And it will take him time to
learn to cope with the different style of the new PM.'

'What are you doing in France to cope with de Forge?'
she asked.

'I'll tell you.'

Tweed clasped his hands behind his neck, stared at the
ceiling after checking his watch. He began to talk.

'In my temporary office in the Ministry of the Interior I have pinned a photograph of de Forge Lasalle found for me on the wall. It faces my desk. I study my enemy, try to put myself in his shoes.'

'I read that General Montgomery did that - had a picture of Rommel pinned up in his caravan so
he
could get inside
the mind of his opponent.'

'That very much over-dramatizes what I'm doing. Maybe there is a similarity -I wouldn't
know. To get down to brass
tacks. I'm convinced de Forge has set the stage for a
coup
d'etat
to make himself President of France. All the riots, the absurd - but highly effective - use of men in Ku-Klux-Klan
garb. I'm convinced he's waiting for just one more develop
ment before he makes his move.'

'Which is?'

'The arrival of more funds - and especially sophisticated
weaponry - from Lord Dawlish, armaments king. In short,
the berthing of the
Steel Vulture
at Arcachon. Brand, his
deputy, is already there.'

'Where is the
Steel Vulture
now? Can't it be stopped?'

'Answer One, I'm driving up to Aldeburgh to shake
Dawlish. Then on to Dunwich to try and trace the vessel.
Answer Two, no we can't stop the vessel. We have no proof
it's carrying arms.'

'You mean General de Forge is going to start a war?'

'Definitely not,' Tweed replied. 'He's going to try and
use the threat of overwhelming force to subdue Paris and
the present government. I predict there will be rumours that
his troops are armed with nerve gas.'

'And what are you doing to stop him?'

'Two things at the same time. Rattle him by using
psychological warfare tactics - to cause him delay. Rather
unusual techniques. The second thing is to get evidence
which will discredit him before he strikes.'

'This is serious, then.'

'The worst threat to the stability of Western Europe since
the Berlin Wall collapsed. A military dictator in Paris would
upset the whole of Europe. Now I must get moving. There's
not much time left for me to drive to Aldeburgh and
Dunwich, then drive back in time to catch a late flight to
Paris.'

As he stood up Monica brought to his desk a copy of the
Daily Mail.
She laid it down flat and pointed to the headline
and the main story.

MANTEAU - '
THE CLOAK' - MASTER ASSASSIN

As he put on his Burberry, Tweed glanced at the story
which had now crossed the Channel.
Manteau
was 'credited'
with having killed the Prefect of Paris, with the assassination
of the President and the Prime Minister by blowing up the
TGV Express, and also with the killing of an Englishwoman, Jean Burgoyne.

In each instance, the article continued, the assassin had
left behind his trademark. The Cloak. In the case of the Paris Prefect a cloak had been found stuffed in a nearby litter bin.
When the TGV Express was wrecked DST men had found another cloak in a nearby village. And now, with the stran
gulation of Burgoyne, DST men had discovered a
discarded cloak inside the boathouse in the vicinity of Arcachon.

'This
Manteau
is very sinister,' Monica observed.

'And mysterious,' Tweed agreed impatiently. 'Hamilton
is waiting with the car?'

'Yes. Have a care. Kalmar may still be in the Aldeburgh area.'

'Or do you mean
Manteau?'
Tweed commented as he left.

Fred Hamilton sat behind the wheel of the Ford Escort.
Marler mockingly had nicknamed the new member of the
team the RSM: he thought Fred took life desperately
seriously.

'I'll take the wheel,' Tweed said brusquely.

Hamilton transferred his tall figure to the front passenger
seat. Twenty-eight years old, he sat like a ramrod, glancing
round as they moved through the London traffic to check
whether they were being followed. He was clean shaven
with brown hair trimmed short and an aquiline nose. They
were well clear of London, driving through Essex when
Tweed asked his question after glancing at Hamilton's
trenchcoat.

'You're carrying a handgun, aren't you?'

'A Colt .455 automatic pistol. Magazine capacity seven
rounds. Plus spare mags.'

'I don't think you'll need that.'

'Mr Howard insisted. And, with respect, sir, it's when you don't expect to need a firearm that you find it saves
your life.'

'No need to call me "sir". Just Tweed will do ...'

He drove like the clappers across Suffolk, just inside the
speed limit. Ignoring Aldeburgh, he slowed down as they passed Snape Mailings, turned on to the country road for
Grenville Manor. He was on the point of turning left down
the last stretch to Been, the river Aide a calm lagoon below
them, when a car parked on the grass verge started up,
followed them, with the Volvo's horn tooting.

Hamilton slipped his hand inside his trenchcoat. Tweed looking in the wing mirror, shook his head, swore inwardly,
pulled up, and the Volvo parked behind them.

'I know these people. The Yard.' Tweed warned
Hamilton.

It was, of course, Chief Inspector Buchanan and Sergeant
Warden. Tweed sat gazing ahead as Buchanan got out and strolled up to his window.

'A small world, Tweed.' he said, his grey eyes glancing at Hamilton. The tall man had bodyguard written all over
him. 'We were taking a rest.' Buchanan continued genially,
'before keeping an appointment to interrogate Lord
Dawlish.'