Cross of Fire (8 page)

It was closing up on him rapidly, huge in his mirror. In
the cab sat the driver and two men wearing Balaclavas
which concealed their faces. One held what looked like a
long truncheon. Standard CRS equipment for beating back a seething mob.

Newman had an excellent memory for routes. He had
only to drive along a new complex route once to be able to
remember every detail on the return trip. He rammed his
foot down and again there wasn't the normal reaction he'd
experienced when driving out to the GHQ, the same burst
of speed.

Newman knew exactly what had happened. He recalled
the change in de Forge's manner when he had refused to
accept the 'off the record' condition imposed so belatedly.
The arrival of the cynical Lamy, de Forge's conversation
with him, Lamy's use of the radio to send back a message. They had used skeleton keys to open his car, had tampered
with the accelerator. He glanced in the mirror again. The
black Berliet van was moving like a shell from a gun, was
almost in his boot.

He pressed his foot all the way down, coaxed more speed
out of the damaged mechanism. Newman swung round a
bend, sped on, recognizing exactly where he was. Could he
reach the bridge in time? It would be a matter of seconds. No bookmaker would give odds on him for this race for
survival.

The two Balaclava-masked passengers in the cab leaned forward. Newman could sense their savage eagerness to get at him. The gap between the two vehicles had temporarily widened with his recent pressure on the accelerator. Two more bends.

The Berliet was closing the gap again, filling his rearview mirror like a mobile hulk. He swung round the first bend, his foot pressed down with all his strength. Ahead lay the last bend. It seemed to creep towards him as the Berliet almost touched his rear bumper. He swung the wheel, negotiated the last bend and the narrow hump-backed stone bridge was a hundred yards away. Newman tightened his grip on the wheel, forced himself to ignore the mirror.

On his outward journey he had slowed to cross the
narrow bridge, just sliding both sides of the car between the
stone walls without scraping the Citroen. Now he had to judge in centimetres, taking the bridge at a belting speed.
He risked a brief final glance in the mirror. The Berliet was
about to ram him. The wheels of the Citroen mounted the
near side of the hump-back, raced over the crest. The solid stone walls flashed past him in a blur. He gripped the wheel
more firmly as he felt the Citroen descending. He almost
lost control but his nerve held. He was beyond the bridge.

hi his rear-view mirror he saw the Berliet reach the bridge. Because he'd had plenty of time Newman had not taken the main road to Third Corps GHQ; he had driven along a more devious route to see the vineyards and maybe a château. The driver of the Berliet saw the bridge too late. The wide van roared up the near side, metal screaming as it grated against the stone. The van stopped abruptly, jammed between the walls. The left-hand wall broke under the pressure, fell into the gorge below and took with it a portion of the floor of the bridge. The Berliet swayed, hung tilted at an angle over the drop for a fraction of a second, then followed the wall, turning over in mid-air, smashing into the rock-strewn gorge with a noise like a bomb detonating.

Newman stopped the Citroen, jumped out, climbed a bank which gave him a view down into the gorge. The
Berliet lay motionless. Nothing moved. No one emerged
from the metal coffin.

Newman shrugged, got back behind the wheel and drove
on to Bordeaux. When Tweed heard he was flying to the
city he had given him the address of Isabelle Thomas,
Francis Carey's girlfriend. It was time someone paid her a
visit to see how she was bearing up - and perhaps gain
more information.

Chapter Five

The first surprise Tweed and Paula had when they arrived
in Geneva at the Hotel des Bergues was the sight of Chief Inspector Kuhlmann sitting reading a newspaper in a chair
near reception. He had arrived much earlier than they'd
expected.

The second surprise was his reaction. He glanced up and
then ignored them, turning to a fresh page of his paper.
Paula looked at Tweed.

'Don't say a word to him.' he warned. 'And don't look at
him again ...'

Tweed registered for his room. When Paula followed his example Tweed wondered why she stood well back as she filled in the form. The receptionist handed her a key.

'What room did you say?' she asked in a loud voice. 'I
have left my reading glasses behind.'

'Room Number 135,' the receptionist repeated in an
equally carrying voice.

Tweed hurried to her room as soon as he had swiftly
unpacked. Her room was also a large double - the only
rooms Monica had been able to reserve. Situated at a corner
overlooking the rue du Mont-Blanc on one side and the
river itself across the street where the main entrance was located, it was more like a suite.

'Very deluxe,' Paula glowed. 'And look at the lights
across the river.'

Beyond the uncurtained windows neon of various colours illuminated the distant buildings in the dark, the signs reflected like coloured snakes in the water. Tweed nodded appreciation, his thoughts eleswhere.

'Otto Kuhlmann has already phoned me,' Paula went on.
'He asked when we would be leaving for dinner, said he'd
be waiting in the lobby, then rang off abruptly.'

'He's acting mysteriously. Maybe he's going to join us so I think we need somwhere discreet.'

'I'd already caught on to that. I hope you don't mind, but
after his call I booked a corner table for three at Les
Armures. It's a fashionable restaurant in the Old Town, near
the Cathedral. I hope you approve.'

'An excellent choice. Do you want to change?'

'I want food. I'm hungry. And I sense Otto is wanting to see us urgently. He used that word when he called me.'

'Put on your coat and let's move...'

Kuhlmann standing just outside the entrance, wearing a
black overcoat and a black wide-brimmed hat pulled down
over his broad forehead. Short in stature, he had very wide
shoulders, a large head and reminded Paula once more of
old films she'd seen of Edward G. Robinson. The same
tough face, firm mouth, the suggestion of great physical and
mental strength. Again he ignored them as he stood under
the canopy, peering to left and right as though waiting for
someone else.

Paula approached the Mercedes cab which drove for
ward. As the driver darted to open a rear door for her she
spoke in a clear penetrating voice.

'Could you take us to Les Armures, please? It's a restaurant in the Old Town near the Cathedral.'

'I know it well, Madame...'

She settled back in the warmth of the car with Tweed
beside her as the car left the kerb. It had been freezing cold
even during the short time she had stood on the pavement.
A raw east wind was blowing from off the lake - probably from Siberia, she thought.

'I hope he caught on.' she whispered.

'Oh, he'd catch on, if that is his idea...'

Crossing the wide Rhone bridge, the car followed a
zigzag course to the restaurant. It had begun to drizzle. The
cobbled streets had a greasy shine under the glow of the
street lamps. The Old City was perched on a hill facing the main part of Geneva across the river. It rose steeply, climb
ing to the summit, the Cathedral. The car continued its swerving pace round hairpin bends between rows of old
houses huddled together. Tweed glanced at Paula.

Her reaction to the dreadful experience in Suffolk had
been remarkable. The way she had taken command of the situation back at the hotel, relaying to Kuhlmann her room number. And later when they left she had cleverly informed him of their destination.

He knew what she was attempting and admired her for
it. She was proving to him that despite her ordeal she was
capable of doing her job.

Paula stared out of the window as the Mercedes con
tinued its endless ascent of the narrow cobbled streets. At night the Old City had a sinister atmosphere. No one about.
Shadowed alleyways and the occasional flight of precipitous
staircases.

The Mercedes slowed, stopped close to a narrow street running alongside a large raised platform supporting old
cannons. The driver twisted round to speak.

'It is only a short walk under the Arsenal,' he said,
indicating the platform.

'I know,' Tweed said and paid him.

The driver ran to open the rear door, Paula stepped out, followed by Tweed who stood in the drizzle, pulling up his overcoat collar as the Mercedes drove off. He appeared to be listening to the heavy silence which had fallen.

'Trouble?' Paula enquired, sheltering on the platform.

'No. I wanted to make sure we hadn't been followed. 'Let's get inside and hope Kuhlmann joins us...'

Les Armures, 1 Puits-St-Pierre, showed a welcoming
glow of light behind old windows. They entered through a
revolving door, passed a bar with wood-topped stools.
Paula revelled in the sudden warmth, took off her coat and
handed it to a waiter who hurried forward. The room was packed with tables, most of them occupied. A babble of
voices mingled with the clink of glasses.

'You have a table for three. The name is Grey.' Paula told the waiter who was relieving Tweed of his coat.

As the waiter escorted them Paula had a glimpse through an archway into another
room, the
Salle des Artistes.
Elephant tusks decorated the wall of the inner room. Paula had requested a secluded table and they were shown to a corner
table with crossed muskets on the wall. She sat in a chair,
leaving the corner chair for their guest while Tweed occupied the flanking seat.

'This place is just as I remember it,' Paula remarked before studying the large menu. 'And
still popular.'

'A good place to talk.' Tweed replied.

The warmth, the babble of voices created an atmosphere
of people enjoying themselves. Mostly locals, Tweed judged.
He was studying the menu when Paula saw Otto Kuhlmann
enter. He paused by the bar, scanning the crowded room.
She guessed he had checked the faces of everyone in the
room before he handed over his coat and hat and joined
them in the corner chair.

'I had company.' the German began in English, explain
ing his precautions. 'A motorcyclist tagged my cab.'

'How did you shake him?' Tweed asked.

'By directing my cab to stop at the tunnel of steps below the Cathedral. Then I ran up the steps and he was unable to follow on his machine. He's lost.'

'Something to drink.' Tweed suggested.

'Let's start with Kir Royale.' Paula said promptly and
Kuhlmann nodded agreement as he produced his trade
mark, a large cigar.

'Down to business. I hope you don't mind the cigar - I
have denied myself since leaving Wiesbaden, hoping to
avoid identification. Somewhere I slipped up - but the
people we are dealing with are ruthless and thorough.'