Cross of Fire (14 page)

'I see.' He broke a roll, automatically piled butter and
marmalade on a chunk, chewed it with a thoughtful
expression. 'I think I'll visit Aldeburgh as soon as I can,' he
said eventually. 'I was appalled I couldn't attend her
funeral. I was involved in a very important check on a
possible suspect - a saboteur, I'll call him. That was inside Germany.'

'I was there,' Paula said quietly. 'I laid a wreath for you. Do you want to see her grave?'

'No!' Rosewater showed emotion for the first time. 'I
don't think I could bear that. I want to remember Karin as she was. Are the police anywhere near tracking down the
swine who killed her?'

'Nowhere near, as far as we know,' Tweed commented.
'I was wondering how you could visit Suffolk, tied down as you are in Germany. You could take leave, I suppose?'

Rosewater dabbed at his strong mouth with his napkin
as he glanced across the room at the brunette and looked away. She was still staring at him, tilting her crossed leg provocatively up and down.

'I have a strange job, Tweed. You could call it a roving commission. To locate the people I'm after I can travel
anywhere in Europe, often incognito, as now. I shall make it
my business to visit Aldeburgh as soon as I can.'

'When you do, Victor,' Paula suggested, 'call me before
you leave Germany at this number.' She scribbled on a notepad she'd extracted from her shoulder bag. 'If I'm not
in leave a message on the answerphone. If you want me to - but only if - I'll come with you to Aldeburgh.'

'Thank you.' He put his arm round her shoulder. 'I'd appreciate your company on such a trip. I will phone before I come.' He looked at Tweed. 'And where are you off to,
now? Or does that question come under the heading of indiscreet?'

'Not at all. London.' Tweed lied smoothly. 'You say you
travel all over Europe. What do you think of the trouble
building up in France? Specifically, in Bordeaux?'

'Yes, Europe is my playground,' Rosewater agreed. 'A
battlefield more than a playground. Germany is mainly my theatre of operation. As to Bordeaux, I haven't had time to
read any papers.' He checked his watch. 'Soon I'll have to
leave.'

'Just before we go.' Tweed said, leaning over the table,
keeping his voice down. 'In my job I have recently heard
rumours of an ace assassin operating on the continent.
Name of Kalmar.'

Rosewater used one hand to scoop crumbs off the table into the other. He dropped them on to his plate and studied
Tweed.

'So you've heard of him. They call him the Ghost in the
Shadows. No one knows his nationality, where he's come
from, where he's based - if anywhere. He reminds me of a
moving target. I've a funny feeling that some time during
my work I may encounter Kalmar. Twice I've just missed
him by a whisker. Provided with an address, I go there and
find the bird has already flown.'

'Interesting.' Tweed stood up, insisted on paying the bill.

'You've left your lighter.' Paula said as they began leav
ing. She picked it up.

'Observant lady, and thank you.' responded Rosewater,
pocketing the lighter.

It was, thought Paula, the only outward sign that he had
been upset by her story. He wasn't the kind of man who
normally overlooked anything, she felt certain.

As they walked out of the restaurant Tweed glanced at the brunette who still sat smoking a cigarette with a cup of coffee in front of her. She stared boldly at Rosewater as they left. Certainly an attractive woman, Tweed thought.

The taxi he had ordered for the airport was waiting. They said goodbye to Rosewater, who hugged Paula and thanked her for her help. While the driver was walking round to his
seat after opening the rear door, Paula glanced out at
Rosewater. He was standing outside the entrance, tall and
handsome. Tweed followed her gaze as Rosewater waved
and she waved back, then the taxi was moving. Paula
looked at the expression on Tweed's face.

'You're thinking what I am. Victor would make a good recruit for Park Crescent.'

'You will persist in believing you can read my mind,' he
chided her. 'But he's bright. The way he dodged my ques
tion about Bordeaux. What you'd expect from a top flight
Military Intelligence officer. I should know.'

'I wonder what he is really doing?'

'From the little he said, infiltrating the IRA cells operating
against British bases in Germany. Now, we should find out what is really happening. Within a couple of hours
we'll be in Paris. With Lasalle -I called him briefly from the airport after we landed from Geneva.'

'And I wonder how Bob Newman is faring,' Paula
mused.

Chapter Eight

At Arcachon, about thirty miles west of Bordeaux, the anchorage, triangular in shape, is almost entirely closed off
from the fury of the Atlantic by a narrow peninsula which
forms a barrier. The only entrance, to the south, is a narrow
opening between the tip of
the peninsula and an island.

Isabelle was well muffled against the piercing wind, clad
in a heavy knee-length trench coat and a hood pulled over
her head. By her side walked Newman, wearing the new
clothes he had purchased at several local shops. He wore a
black beret, a dark French overcoat, and training shoes.
They walked past the Casino de la Plage and out on to the
exposed promenade. It was deserted and the gale beat at
them with full force. Isabelle pointed to a jetty.

'The Jet
é
e d'Eyrac. That's where in summer the boats
leave for Cap-Ferret. Further along to the east is the port.
You can see the boats sheltering there.'

Newman stared into the distance where a forest of masts
swayed drunkenly under the blast of the wind. The previous
night Isabelle had guided him to a small hotel near the
Gare, had then been driven to her sister's apartment behind the front.

'Do you have to leave today, Bob?' she asked wistfully.

'Definitely. There are things I have to find out. I rely on
you to stay here until I contact you at your sister's. On no
account go anywhere near Bordeaux.'

'If you say so.' She jutted her chin at the wind to show her disappointment. 'In summer you wouldn't recognize the place. Luxurious yachts from all over the world come here with their rich owners. There is even one strange ship with its hull cut in two.'

'Cut in two?' Newman was instantly alert. 'Can you
describe it more clearly?'

'I don't know much about ships. All I can say is it's a big luxurious job.'

'Name?'

'No idea.'

'How often does it come in here?' Newman persisted.

'I don't know. But I can tell you that unlike most of the
millionaire-type private ships it doesn't just arrive in the summer season. I've seen it heading for the port at various times of the year. Including now - in November.'

'And that's unusual?'

'Very. Millionaire yachts turn up here in the summer. There's the right atmosphere. Topless girls on the beach -
sometimes bottomless, too. The Casino is booming. And the
night club, the Etoile. I went there once at my sister's
insistence. Never again.'

'What happened?'

'An English lord made a heavy pass at me. Wouldn't take no. Seemed to think every French girl was just dying to get
laid by his Lordship. I should be able to remember his
name.'

They moved closer inland as waves began to hurl them
selves against the promenade, splashing spume over the
wall. Their force was so great Newman could have sworn the
promenade shuddered when a storm wave hit.

'It's not usually like this.' Isabelle commented. 'I think
we ought to get back.'

'I'm going to my car now. I have to move on. Stay in Arcachon, Isabelle.' He decided to drive home his plea regardless of her feelings. 'Remember what happened to Henri in Bordeaux. And they know you exist.'

'Lord Dane Dawlish.' she said suddenly. 'That was the man who made a pass at me at the Etoile.'

Newman drove back to Bordeaux at speed under a sky
heavy as lead. The low clouds scudded east like drifts of
grey smoke. Before leaving his Arcachon hotel he had phoned the airport, booked a flight to Paris on his open
ticket. He had also booked a flight from Paris to Heathrow.
First, he'd call at the Pullman Hotel to pick up his case. He
wasn't worried about the old second-hand case he'd left at
the
pension:
also he had paid for his miserable room for a fortnight in advance.

He was approaching the Gare St Jean when he ran into a traffic jam. Vehicles, bumper to bumper, were not moving. He checked his watch. Reasonable time yet to catch his Air Inter flight to Paris. The driver of a car next to him leaned
out of his window to speak to Newman.

Don't go into the centre. A lot of trouble there.'

'What kind of trouble?'

The traffic was moving before the other driver could
reply. Newman shrugged. Trouble was becoming a way of life in France. He had passed the Place de la Victoire when
he saw there was no traffic ahead. Instead the street was filled with a sinister-looking mob. He swung his wheel,
drove down a side street and parked his Citroen well away
from the main street.

Locking the Citroen, he ran back the way he had come, peered out, saw the mob seemed even larger. A sign adver
tised a bar on the first floor. He ran up the steps, entered a
crowded room, ordered a Pernod to have a glass in his
hand, slithered between men and
women chattering excit
edly until he reached a window overlooking the main street.

Below a mob of Balaclava-masked men waving clubs and
bottles were shouting slogans.
Pour France ... Pour France
... Pour France? Oui!... Juif? Non!!!

The inflammatory chant went on.
For France? Yes. The Jew?
No!!!
Holding his glass, Newman went on watching. He had
the distinct impression the chant was organized. The riot became more savage. Men stormed into a restaurant, tore
down the lace curtains, upturned chairs with customers, throwing them to the floor. Men and women: it made no
difference. Terror was loose on the streets.

Having wrecked the interior the rioters flooded out,
seeking a fresh target. One man with an aerosol paint
canister sprayed a word across the window from the street.
In huge red
letters the word
Juif!
disfigured the glass. On
the fascia above was the owner's name. Bronstein.

Newman estimated over two hundred Balaclava-masked
men were prowling the street when he saw the CRS van
stop further up the street. The paramilitary had arrived to quell the berserk mob. Berserk? What followed was
extraordinary.