Cross of Fire (75 page)

'Do you really think you can manage it?' Paula persisted.

Stahl grinned. 'I used to be a mechanic before I took up
my present occupation. But please do not expect quick
results...'

During all this activity Newman had not moved an inch - let alone opened an eye. He was in a very deep sleep. At
lunchtime Paula collected the basket with sandwiches
wrapped in foil and two flasks of coffee. When she had
visited Isabelle just before they left Arcachon the French girl
had asked Paula how many people there were, how long
they would be away.

'Four people,' she lied, omitting Stahl. 'And two or three days,' she lied again.

'Then you'll need food and drink to see you on your
way.'

Isabelle had insisted, had prepared sandwiches in a few minutes, her knife flashing while Paula prepared coffee. At
the time Paula had cursed the delay: now she blessed
Isabelle's consideration. Handing round sandwiches after
unwrapping the silver foil, she then poured coffee and they
shared the same makeshift cup - the top of the flask.
Newman slept on.

While Nield held the new flashlight provided by Paula,
Stahl, arms and hands covered with oil and muck, worked away. Half the engine seemed to be on the floor and Paula
wondered whether he'd ever assemble it again. The alarm
came in the early afternoon.

Butler had made it his business to keep a watch through the windows, resisting the temptation to clean a hole in the
grime. At other times he climbed the ladder and peered
over the countryside through the skylight. He was in the
loft, Paula was scrunching restlessly over the straw, trying
to ignore the rising dust, when Stahl waved the screwdriver he'd found in the vehicle's toolkit.

'It's OK. It will go first time. I promise you ...'

'Trouble. Big trouble. And coming this way fast.'

It was Butler interrupting the German. Paula stiffened as Butler scrambled down the ladder. For a brief second she'd half-believed Stahl: he spoke with such assurance. Now her
hopes that they could get away fom this musty-smelling barn were dashed. Whatever the situation Butler usually kept his cool, but there had been urgency in his warning.
She glanced at Newman in the back of the vehicle. Still out
cold.

'What is it, Harry?' she asked.

'See for yourself. Through this window. Tanks. De
Forge's tanks. A whole squadron of them...'

She peered through the window from the side with Butler
staring over her shoulder. Coming over a low ridge towards
them were three large tanks, gun barrels elevated. She
tightened her lips. Of all the bloody bad luck. Butler gripped
her arm.

'Come with me. Take a better look.'

He shinned back up the ladder to the loft and she
followed him. Heaps of straw in the loft. Dry as a bone. The
barn was pretty waterproof. He took her to the skylight,
stood back so she could look out. From that height she had
a much better view - a panoramic sweep - over the low-
lying countryside. A spread of fields as far as the eye could
see. No trees. And a horde of tanks advancing in the
direction of the farm.

'Doesn't look too good.' she commented.

'They are on manoeuvres.' It was Stahl speaking. He'd followed them up the ladder. 'We are at least under cover. Maybe they will change direction before they get here.'

Paula's stomach muscles tightened as she watched. Here
and there veils of cold grey mist floated across the landscape, drifting over the ground. The tanks slid though the
veils, emerging like landbound sharks seeking prey. Stahl, as always, was for action.

'The Espace will go now,' he pressed. 'Let us drive to the north, back the way we came.'

'Better take a look to the north,' Butler advised.

Stahl and Paula turned their heads. More tanks were
advancing from that direction. They all seemed to be mak
ing for the farm from three points of the compass. West,
south, and north. Only the east was clear. And the road ran
roughly north to south.

Butler ran down the ladder, followed by the others. He peered out of the window which looked on to the separate farm building. About thirty feet divided the barn from the
wreck of a farmhouse. As he turned round there was
movement from inside the vehicle. Newman had at long
last woken.

He staggered out, stared down as his feet crunched straw,
shook his head as dust rose. Staring round with heavy eyes,
his gaze fixed on Butler.

'What the hell is happening?' He looked at his watch.
'It's mid-afternoon. We should be in the Landes ...'

Paula poured him lukewarm coffee. He swallowed it
greedily, held out the container for a refill as Butler tersely
explained what had happened, their present situation. The
report galvanized Newman.

Handing the container to Paula, he shinned up the ladder to the loft to see for himself. Butler and Stahl followed him.
On the barn floor Nield stood alongside Paula as they stared
at the incoming tanks which now looked like leviathans.
Mobile power at its most terrifying.

'We stay put.' Newman decided. 'Nothing else we can
do. Try to make a run for it and they'll use us for target
practice.'

'If it comes to it we can take some of them with us. The
tank commanders are exposed in their turrets.' Stahl
observed.

As he spoke he extracted the Heckler and Koch sub
machine-gun from his bag. He had cleaned his arms and
hands on cloths found in the rear of the Espace.

'Put that away.' Newman snapped. 'We can only wait
and hope for the best.'

'Or the worst.' Butler added under his breath.

Paula had run up the ladder to join them. She stared at
the tanks as though hypnotized. A unit of three large
machines was heading straight for them. Suddenly the lead tank increased speed, rumbled forward. She could hear the grind and clatter of its caterpillar tracks rumbling over the
stony field.

'Oh, my God!' she gasped.

She could see clearly in the turret of the lead tank a
sergeant wearing a helmet, waving
his arms ecstatically, in
his early twenties. The tank forged remorselessly on, slowed
as it reached the farmhouse, mounted a wall. The wall
collapsed, the entire farmhouse fell inwards under the
impact as the caterpillar tracks ground over the rubble of
the wreckage. The young tank commander swept his gloved
hand in a sideways gesture, shouting into his microphone.
Paula heard the command clearly.

'Now the barn. Flatten it...'

Her last thought was that she had made a brief call from
Isabelle's apartment, telling Lasalle they were driving south, giving him the apartment's number and its occupant. She'd seized the chance to make the whispered call while Isabelle was preparing the sandwiches.

Tweed had arrived back at the Ministry of the Interior in
the early hours of the morning when Newman and his team had left Arcachon for the Landes. He had been delayed for hours at Heathrow due to a bomb scare. His flight had left five hours after scheduled take-off.

Lasalle, just returned from rue des Saussaies, sat in his
office. He was studying his map when Tweed walked in, his
manner urgent as he took off his Burberry.

'Navarre.' Tweed said immediately. 'Where is he?'

'At an emergency Cabinet meeting. Impossible to get to him. Why?'

'I estimate he has a maximum of sixty hours before de Forge launches his bid for power. I heard at the airport here
that Dubois addressed a huge rally in Bordeaux yesterday
evening, that he said what he called "the people" would
soon be in power. Which means himself as Prime Minister, I assume.'

'I have heard about that ominous speech. Why no more than sixty hours?'

'Because de Forge is waiting for a delivery of weapons -
nerve gas missiles I suspect - before he strikes. The weapons
will come aboard the armament manufacturer Lord Dawlish's vessel, the
Steel Vulture ...'

'The catamaran you told me about before leaving for London?'

'Exactly. I think I know where the weapons are hidden.

Something Paula told me eventually came back. It all links
up with Kalmar, as I've always thought.'

'Where is this vessel now?'

'Anchored off a nowhere place called Dunwich on our
east coast.'

'Then why not impound - search - the vessel?'

'Because I have no proof of my theory.' Pacing restlessly, Tweed thought that must sound strange to Lasalle. 'The trouble is the catamaran is based at Harwich. While there at
different times recently it was searched - for drugs. Nothing was found. Dawlish has clout in high places, contributes large sums to party funds. I know I'm right but, as I said, I can't prove it.'

'We could send aircraft to patrol offshore. If we knew which areas to concentrate on.'

The approaches to Arcachon. The Bay of Biscay,' Tweed
said promptly.

'I will put the idea to Navarre as soon as I can. I do not
have the authority. You mentioned Paula. She called a few
minutes before you arrived ...'

He paused as Otto Kuhlmann, in shirt sleeves, looking
rumpled, appeared. The German held an unlit cigar in his hand as though he felt lost without it. Lasalle waved to a
chair, continued.

'I was telling Tweed that Paula Grey called from Arca
chon just before he got here. She was speaking in a low
voice as though not wishing to be overheard. She said the
team, including Egon, was driving south...'

'That damn bomb hoax,' Tweed burst out. 'Where was
she calling from?'

'Isabelle Thomas's apartment. She repeated the number.'

'Get it for me, please. Urgently, Rene.' Tweed requested. 'I might catch them before they leave.'

'Stahl will be an asset.' Kuhlmann reassured Tweed.

'I'm sure he will. But we need the information Jean
Burgoyne obtained. More urgently now...'

He took a deep breath as Lasalle handed him the phone. He was deciding how to talk to Isabelle if she had come on the line. She had. Odd, Tweed thought, to be answering the phone so quickly in the early hours.

'Is Paula there?' he asked.

'Paula? Who is that? And who are you?'

'A close friend - an associate - of Robert Newman's.'

'I have seen Newman's picture in the papers - if you
refer to the foreign correspondent. You have not given
me your name. Can you describe Mr Newman? Very
accurately.'

Tweed swore to himself, but was impressed by Isabelle's
caution. He could be anybody. She'd had enough trauma
with phoney DST men. He gave her a detailed description of Newman but she hadn't finished with him yet.