The Stone Leopard (32 page)

`Everything!' Blanc threw up his hands in an expressive gesture. 'The Russian convoy. The persistent rumours of an imminent coup d'etat in Paris. By whom, for God's sake? And half an hour ago I hear for the first time that the president made a secret flight to Germany on Monday—to the French army GHQ, at Baden-Baden!'

Grelle stared at the minister in astonishment. 'You didn't know he had flown to Baden-Baden ? He didn't inform you ? The Minister of National Defence? I thought you knew—I made the arrangements myself with GLAM. . .'

GLAM—Groupe Liaison Aerien Ministeriel—is the small air fleet which is reserved for ministerial and presidential usage.

`What on earth is going on?' the prefect asked.

`That I would like to know myself,' Blanc said grimly. 'And I have just heard also that our two armoured divisions in Germany, the 2nd and the 5th, are moving through the Ardennes on their way back to France, which will leave no French troops on German soil. When I phone the Elysee to request an immediate appointment I am told that the president is busy with the Soviet ambassador. . .'

`And he leaves for Moscow tomorrow.'

`Precisely,' Blanc snapped. 'Recently he has been acting as though I don't exist—a total change of mood and method I cannot even begin to understand. It is almost as though he were trying to provoke my resignation. He may succeed—I may have to resign. . .'

'Don't do that,' Grelle said quickly. 'We may need you yet. You've discussed this with other ministers?'

`They are supine!' Blanc exploded. 'They think he is God and they are the apostles! I am the only one who has started to ask questions, to demand what the hell is going on. I tell you, I shall have to resign if this goes on. . .'

`Don't do it. We may need you desperately,' Grelle repeated.

Only a few minutes after Blanc had left, Grelle was told he had another visitor waiting to see him and he asked his secretary to repeat the name, sure she must have got it wrong. But no, it was Commissioner Suchet, his old enemy of the counter-espionage service. Apologizing for calling without an appointment, Suchet squeezed his gross bulk into a chair and came straight to the point. 'These
coup d' etat
rumours are coming from the Red Belt suburbs—from Billiancourt. Certain agitators are very active today saying that soon the people may have to defend the Republic. Coming from that scum, it's a great joke, but I'm not laughing—I'm worried stiff. An hour ago some of my agents uncovered an arms dump at Renault. I thought you ought to know. Someone must act. . .'

Grelle took decisive action at once, first phoning Roger Danchin to obtain his approval, then issuing a stream of orders. Guards were trebled on all public buildings. A special detachment was sent to key points like the telephone exchanges and the television transmitters. Tough CRS troops were drafted from the barracks outside the city into Paris to guard the bridges over the Seine. With a minimum of fuss Paris was moving into a state of siege. Then at 7.30 pm. Grelle made what appeared to be a routine visit to the Elysee to double-check security ready for the drive to the airport the next day.

Arriving at the palace, it didn't particularly surprise Grelle to discover that Soviet Ambassador Vorin was not only not there; he had not been anywhere near the Elysee since the morning. Someone had been instructed to keep ex-paratrooper Blanc away from the place until Florian's departure on the following day. Admitted to the palace by an usher who opened the plate-glass doors for him, the prefect wandered towards the back of the building, opening and closing doors in what appeared a random way. He was looking for Kassim, Florian's dog.

He found him outside in the walled garden where the dog spent so much of its time—and where the president was accustomed to strolling with Leonid Vorin when the Russian visited the Elysee. As Grelle appeared, the Alsatian barked and romped forward through the dark, jumping up to his full height and perching his forepaws over the prefect's shoulders while it panted happily in his face. Grelle reached up and fondled the animal for a short while round the studded collar which encircled its powerful neck. Then he gave Kassim a hard slap to make him get down and went back inside the palace.

From there he walked quickly to the near-by rue des Saussaies and up on to the fourth floor of Surete headquarters. The electronics expert he had earlier sent there from the prefecture was waiting and he gave him certain instructions before returning to the Elysee to collect his car and drive back to his office.

It had been easier than he had expected, and this was one decision he did not inform Boisseau about. One career at stake was quite enough.

The prefect had just attached a tiny transmitter to the inside of Kassim's studded collar. The words of anyone who spoke close enough to the dog would be relayed to the receiver linked to a tape-recorder inside the locked room at the rue des Saussaies, only a few dozen metres away from the Elysee Palace.

CHAPTER FIVE

SO FAR, Vanek had avoided travelling by air. At airports individual passengers can easily be checked, searched, but to reach Paris ahead of the express carrying Annette Devaud he had no alternative. As he bought his ticket from Air Inter and made his way to the departure point the Czech carried nothing incriminating. He had tossed the Luger pistol into a canal on his way to the airport. The BMW was now standing in the airport car park. And he had thrown the bargee's cap into the canal after the Luger.

When he bought his ticket he paid for a return fare: he had no intention of returning to Strasbourg but for airport personnel there is something normal and reassuring about a return ticket. He had no trouble passing through the security checks, partly because by now he was no longer alone. Waiting in the departure lounge for the Air Inter flight, he observed an attractive girl of about twenty-two who was obviously on her own; he further observed as she took off her glove to light a cigarette that she wore neither an engagement nor wedding ring.

He lit her cigarette and sat beside her, looking anxious. 'I do hope this flight for Paris isn't late. It's my sister's birthday and she expects her present . . .'
 
He prattled on, instinctively choosing the right approach. Most women were happy to chat with Vanek if it wasn't too obvious a pick-up; the reference to a sister was reassuring, clearly indicating a man who treated women with respect. They went through the security check together. Vanek holding her small hand-case, joking with her, and everyone thought they were a couple.

On the plane he sat beside her, found out that her name was Michelle Robert, that she was personal assistant to an executive with a tyre firm whose headquarters were at La Defense. Before they were half-way to Paris he had extracted her phone number. And somewhere over Champagne their Fokker 27 aircraft overtook the Stanislas express carrying Madame Devaud to the capital.

The TEE express was due to arrive at the Gare de l'Est at 9 pm. Vanek, who had phoned the railway station from the airport to check its arrival time, caught the 6.30 flight from Strasbourg which landed him at Orly Airport at 7.30. Fortunately, Michelle Robert was being met by a friend, so he got rid of her without any trouble. Mistrusting Paris traffic, Vanek used the Orly-rail system to reach the city and then he changed to the Metro.

He calculated that with a little luck he should reach the Gare de l'Est just before the express arrived.

The express from Strasbourg reached the Gare de l'Est at 9.6 pm. Normally the ticket barrier is open—tickets have been examined aboard the train—and people just walk off, but on the night of 22 December the barrier was closed and no one was permitted near the platform.

`It is an outrage,' one passenger aboard the express fumed. `My wife is expecting me. . .'

`There is a terrorist alert. You must wait,' the inspector informed him. And in that much of a rush, he thought cynically, it can only be your mistress who awaits you.

The superintendent Grelle had personally despatched to the station had sprinkled the concourse beyond the platform with armed plain-clothes detectives. One man, equipped with a sniperscope rifle, waited in a window overlooking the platform. And some of the detectives who lounged about the station even had suitcases filled with files they had grabbed from their offices to provide weight. The door to the sealed coach was opened and a circle of plain-clothes men gathered at the foot of the steps. There were no uniformed gendarmes in sight. `Nothing conspicuous,' Grelle had warned. 'Keep it as normal as possible.'

With Boisseau in front, Madame Devaud climbed down the steps and the crowd of plain-clothes men closed round her. Boisseau separated himself from the group, going out on to the concourse and standing idly while he lit a cigarette, his coat hanging open so he could reach his revolver at a second's notice. This was the moment he feared most—getting her from the train to the car. The group moved across the concourse, moving slowly at Madame Devaud's pace. It went on into the exit hall, then outside to where a car door had already been opened. Several passengers were stopping now, beginning to take notice. It was impossible to cover up completely.

Boisseau heard a car door slam shut and sighed with relief. Moving quickly out of the exit he climbed inside another police car and pulled the door shut. 'I want sirens all the way,' he told the man beside the driver who had radio communication with the other cars. 'We jump lights where we can. . . The radio man transmitted the message and the motorcade moved off. There were four vehicles. One in front. Then Madame Devaud's. A third vehicle—to ram any car which tried to intercept. And Boisseau bringing up the rear. It was 9.09 pm.

Vanek ran up out of the Metro and into the main station of the Gare de l'Est. He dropped to walking pace as he saw the Stanislas in the distance and when he got close he was in time to see the last passengers coming through the open barrier. It was 9.15 pm. He had been badly delayed on the Metro but there had been nothing he could do about it; getting off and finding a taxi would only have taken longer. He waited for a few minutes by a bookstall—on the off-chance that they were going to take off the Devaud woman when all the other passengers had disembarked—and then he went to a phone booth to call the Paris number.

`Salicetti here. . .'

`I have nothing for you. . .'

`I have something for you,' Vanek snapped, 'so stay on the line. The previous order you specified will now have to be fulfilled in Paris—I am speaking from the Gare de l'Est. I need the firm's address.'

For the first time since the phone calls had begun, the cold, anonymous voice at the Paris number was unsure of itself. There was a brief pause. 'You had better call back at half-hour intervals—ten o'clock, ten-thirty, and so on,' the voice replied eventually. 'I have no information at this moment. . .'

`I shall need more samples,' Vanek said tersely.

The voice recovered its poise; it was ready for this contingency. Salicetti must go to the Bar Lepic in the Place Madeleine, giving the firm's name, Lobineau, to the proprietor, who would hand him a baggage storage key. The samples were in a public locker at the Gare du Nord station. And would he be sure to call back at half-hourly intervals? At 10 pm, 10.30. . . .' Vanek slammed down the receiver. Bloody hell, what a primitive arrangement. Things were managed with greater finesse when he was in Paris. He took a cab to the Bar Lepic, collected an envelope, left a five-franc tip to make the transaction look normal to anyone who might be watching, and took another cab to the Gare du Nord.

Using the numbered key he found inside the envelope, he opened the luggage locker at the Gare du Nord and took out a hold-all bag covered in tartan cloth, which again was stupid: it was too noticeable. It was a very long bag, the type used to carry around tennis racquets. But the contents inside showed that someone had used his head: a French MAT sub-machine gun with a wire stock, the magazine folded parallel to the barrel to make it inoperative, and a spare magazine; a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver with spare rounds; and a short, wide- bladed knife inside a clip-on sheath. Vanek crossed the deserted hall to the opposite battery of lockers, chose an empty one, slipped the hold-all inside, shut the door, inserted his coin and turned the key. He had no intention of carrying weapons until it was necessary—especially since he had noticed during his two cab-rides intense police activity in the streets. There were also truck-loads of CRS bully-boys parked at strategic points. But Vanek had also noticed that cabs were still moving normally about the city; no one ever notices the Parisian cab-driver who is as much a part of the scenery as the Louvre.

Vanek, who had not eaten anything since the snack-lunch in the Renault on the way from Strasbourg to Saverne, would have liked to snatch a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He looked at his watch and swore. It was almost ten o'clock; time to make the next phone call. Using one of the station phones, he dialled the number.

He had hardly announced it was Salicetti speaking when the voice broke in, as abrupt as ever.

`Rue des Saussaies. Now! You know where I mean ?' `Yes. . .'