Cross of Fire (15 page)

The apparently wild mob moved into a series of separate
units. Somewhere a bell like a strident alarm was bellowing
its clangour non-stop. A warning? A signal? Instead of
retreating, units of the mob ran towards the van where CRS men clad in black coats and visored helmets were emerging
with clubs. Seven men in the mob produced stubby wide-
barrelled pistols, aimed at the van.

The CRS troops were about to advance when the projec
tiles from the pistols hit the cobbles in front of them, sending
up clouds of tear gas. The CRS men stumbled, coughing,
some ramming their hands to their injured eyes. A second
unit, also armed with similar pistols, aimed for the no man's land of deserted street between the CRS and the mob. More projectiles hit the area accurately. Black smoke billowed.
Smoke bombs.

Below the bar inside which Newman stood a TV man
with a camera was grabbed by two men, held as a third
took the camera he hadn't yet used. The lens was aimed
away from the mob, swivelled slowly across the wreck of
shops, restaurants, bars. No pictures of the mob.

When he had finished using the camera, one of the thugs
holding the TV cameraman dubbed the back of his head. The TV reporter was perched on the edge of the kerb. He slumped into the gutter. The camera was dumped into his
lap.

The strident alarm bell had stopped ringing. The mob
moved in ordered groups, like troops on an exercise, some
vanishing down side streets. Others climbed inside large
tradesmen's vans which had appeared from the direction of the Gare St Jean. The vehicles sped out of the area.

Suddenly the street was deserted. The CRS men, recov
ering from the tear gas onslaught, appeared through the
curtain of smoke to find their targets gone. Newman opened
the window cautiously, heard the boots of the CRS trampling across heaps of shattered glass. It looked like the
aftermath of a battlefield.

There was a hush inside the bar as Newman sidled his
way through the crowd, ran down the steps before the CRS
arrived. He continued running up the side street, reached
his Citroen, unlocked it, dived inside, drove away from the main street, heading for the airport.

*

He had intended calling at the Pullman Hotel to collect his few belongings. Now he decided to forget it. His one aim was to leave Bordeaux alive.

He doubted whether this was the only riot which was in full swing in the city. What he had seen had all the hall
marks of a carefully organized campaign of terror. Objec
tives: to scare the population witless. To demoralize them
into a state where they would welcome
any force which could bring strong government, law and order. Anything
which would allow them to live their normal lives in peace. It was a diabolical strategy.

He approached the airport cautiously, certain there
would be watchers - even phoney DST men. And they'd
probably have the registration number of his Citroen, which
had to be handed back to car hire. Slowing down, he let traffic catch up with him. As he drove into the airport a
queue of cars was ahead of him, disgorging passengers. Newman switched off, took out the keys, looked round.

Close by, a man in uniform stood waiting by an empty
limousine. His cap band carried the name of a hotel. New
man reached for his case, climbed out, approached the
chauffeur, speaking rapidly, a five-hundred franc note
between his fingers.

'Excuse me, can you help? I'm going to miss my Lyons
flight. I have to hand in that Citroen to the car hire people
up there. Could you hand it in for me?' He winked. 'Trouble is I have the most accommodating girl waiting for me. She
won't wait for the next flight...'

'What about payment?' the chauffeur demanded, eyeing the banknote.

'Nothing to pay. Paid in advance as usual...'

'Petrol?'

'I've used a lot less than I've already paid for.'

Newman extended the folded note.

'It's a lot but the smallest I've got. And what is waiting
for me in Lyons is worth it.'

'My pleasure, sir...'

The banknote vanished inside the chauffeur's clothing.
He ran to the Citroen and Newman hurried into the airport, then slowed down. Two men in trenchcoats with hats stood
erect by a caf6. Stood too erect, more a military stance. With
his beret pulled well down, Newman strolled to the counter, had his ticket verified, left his case at the check-in
counter, walked to the departure point for his Paris flight.

He only relaxed when the Air Inter machine took off.
And he had no intention of lingering in Paris. A flight
straight back to London at the earliest possible moment. As the ground receded, a flat plain of green and grey segments, he hoped to God Isabella would be safe in Arcachon.

Chapter Nine

The Paris headquarters of French counter-espionage - the DST - is located in an obscure side street few tourists ever notice. This is despite the fact that the rue des Saussaies, a narrow winding street off the rue du Faubourg St Honore, is close to the Elysée Palace, residence of the President of France.

The entrance is a stone archway leading to a cobbled yard
with only two uniformed policemen giving a clue that this
building is the key to the protection of the French Republic.

Tweed and Paula were seated in the cramped office of the chief of the DST, who was standing while he poured coffee. René Lasalle was a tall, heavily-built man in his forties. A dynamo of energy, he placed the cups in front of his guests, darted round his desk to sit behind it. He studied Tweed from under thick brows through horn-rimmed spectacles, his eyes alert and quick-moving. 'A man for all seasons.' Tweed had once described him, 'and especially in a major crisis.'

'I'm glad you brought Paula with you,' Lasalle began. He gave her a half-smile. 'An experienced woman can detect something vital a man might miss.'

'What is the situation?' asked Tweed, determined to hear his host's comments before he made any of his own.

'Critical. Soon to be catastrophic. For France - and maybe
for the whole of Europe.'

'You're not usually so melodramatic.'

'First tell me where you two have been.' Lasalle suggested.

'Geneva, then Basle. From Basle straight here.'

'So Robert Newman is operating on his own in
Bordeaux.'

Tweed was rarely taken aback. Even now his expression
gave nothing away. Paula was equally staggered and tried
to keep her own expression neutral as she crossed her
shapely legs.

'Is Newman all right?' Tweed asked quietly.

T would say he is now. Two of my men spotted him as
he boarded a plane at Bordeaux airport for Paris...'

He excused himself as the phone rang. Listening for a moment he said,
'Merci,'
and replaced the receiver.

'Newman is moving fast. I sent men to meet his aircraft
here at Orly. He took a cab to Charles de Gaulle Airport
and is aboard a flight for London.'

'You said
now a
few moments ago, referring to Newman.
Why?' asked Tweed.

'When he arrived at Bordeaux Airport he was dressed
like a Frenchman. My operative who spotted Newman had once met him. His clothing suggests to my suspicious mind he was evading pursuit by someone. Possible?'

'He flew to Bordeaux with a commission from the
German news magazine,
Der Spiegel.
To interview General
Charles de Forge.'

Lasalle raised his eyebrows. 'Our Mr Newman is a brave man. France is about to experience an earthquake. And I'm
convinced the man organizing it is General Charles de
Forge, who sees himself as the new de Gaulle. I would say
a pseudo-de Gaulle.'

'Can you explain that in more detail?' Tweed asked. 'And
did you find out why my agent, operating under the name
Henri Bayle, was arrested by the DST?'

'One question at a time, please. Excuse me...' He
answered the phone again, then spoke rapidly in French.
Paula got the gist of it. Lasalle was ordering a new team of
twenty DST men to leave for Bordeaux at once.

'You're reinforcing your people in Bordeaux,' Paula com
mented. 'Sorry if I sound interfering, but I couldn't help
hearing what you said.'

Lasalle smiled at her. 'Of course, the pressure is such I'd
forgotten for a moment your French is better than my
English.'

'Nothing wrong with your English. Again, my apologies.'

'Not necessary.' Lasalle waved his hands. 'Now your questions, Tweed. First, when Bayle was taken from the Bar Miami and later murdered at the Gare St Jean there was not one single genuine DST operative in the Bordeaux area. I should know - I'm aware of the location of every DST man under my command. The men who took Bayle were impersonators.' A bite came into his normally soft tone. 'I do not find that amusing - which is one reason why I am flooding that city with my men.'

'And the other reason?' Tweed enquired.

'May I come to that later. I have been in touch myself
with the Prefect of Bordeaux. The police there have come up
with nothing so far. But he told me a curious story. He had an anonymous phone call. It reported a Berliet truck of the
type used by the CRS would be found at the bottom of a
gorge well outside Bordeaux. With bodies inside. A rough indication of the location was given by the caller.'

'Curious, as you say,' Tweed agreed. 'They found it?'

'No! No truck, no bodies. But they located the bridge described...' He arched his hand in a hump-back. 'The police found the bridge, partly collapsed and one wall in the gorge.' He paused. They also found traces of a very heavy tracked vehicle. The type of vehicle used by the Army. To
be specific, by the Engineering Section of the Third Corps. Only such a machine would be able to lift and transport away a Berliet truck.'

'You're checking with General de Forge?' Tweed pressed.

'Why? I have no solid evidence. No witnesses. So it
becomes merely another mysterious incident added to my
dossier on de Forge.' He looked at Paula. 'Another fact in
that dossier is the existence of de Forge's English mistress at the Villa Forban near Third Corps' GHQ. A Jean Burgoyne.
Comes from some nowhere place I'd never heard of in East
Anglia.' He checked the dossier. 'Here it is - Aldeburgh.'

Paula forced herself not to stiffen. She began reciting a
catalogue of facts.

'Jean Burgoyne. A blonde beauty. Comes from landed gentry in Lincolnshire. Walked out of the London season because she said "London society is such a bloody bore." I
quote
her. Reputed to have a very high IQ. A bit wild and
independent-minded. Likes adventurous living.'

'The Villa Forban.' Lasalle repeated. 'Owned by de Forge, used as a secret hideaway for meetings with the infamous
Cercle Noir.'

'What's that?' Tweed enquired. 'And it sounds to me you
have an informant planted in de Forge's camp.'