Cross of Fire (32 page)

'Yes. Flew there. Made an audacious move. Fixed up to
see de Forge, took the bodies in a refrigerated truck, showed
them to him. Identified as soldiers by their Army-issue
underclothes. They always forget something. He's shaken
de Forge.'

'Is that good?'

'It may provoke him into a wrong move. We need the
trigger to make him show his hand. Trouble is, I don't know what that trigger will be. Must go now. You're leaving soon
for your return trip?'

'Just waiting for Marler. He's due in about half an hour.'

'Don't push it to the limit...'

Newman had hardly replaced the receiver when the
phone rang again. Marler? Warning him he'd be late? He
picked up the phone, again gave only the number,

'That's you, Bob, isn't it? I recognize your voice.' Isabelle. All in a rush. He told her to slow down. 'You're going to be very mad with me. I was a fool to ignore your warning...'

'Slow down, Isabelle,' he repeated, alarmed. 'Are you in danger? And where are you calling from?'

'It's all right, it's safe, I'm calling from my sister's apart
ment in Arcachon, she's not here, I'm alone ...'

'For Pete's sake then, slow down. Now, nice and easy.'

'I went back to my mother's flat in Bordeaux, Bob ...'

Without more interruption he listened grimly to her
experience. She was talking at normal speed now, giving
him a terse but detailed report of everything that had
happened. She concluded by telling him about how she'd
called the Prefect of Bordeaux before driving like hell back
to Arcachon.

'Maybe you were followed,' he suggested.

'Not possible. I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror.
There was hardly any traffic at that hour. And I stopped for a few minutes in the country outside Arcachon. No vehicle
of any kind appeared.'

'Then that's all right.' Newman hesitated, decided he had to ensure she stayed in Arcachon by frightening the life out of her. 'There's one detail in what you told me you got wrong.'

'What was that?'

'You said the two fake DST men were unconscious. Both
of them were - are -
dead.'

'Are you sure? How do you know that, Bob?'

She sounded as cool as the proverbial cucumber when
he'd expected hysterics. Almost a note of satisfaction.

'I assure you they're both dead as a doornail. I know,
Isabelle. For a certainty. I have my contacts.'

'So the men who led poor Henri to his death are dead
now themselves.'

'As dead as you can get.' he stressed.

'I didn't waste time going down to look at them. Bob, are you mad with me for going back to Bordeaux, for disobey
ing you?'

She sounded as though that possibility worried her far
more than the news he'd given her.

'Will you be going back to Bordeaux again?' he asked.

'No! I promise you, I know I promised you before but
this time I'll keep my word. Bob, you do believe me, don't
you? Say you believe me. Please say it...'

Her metabolism was all revved up again. The words
tumbled over each other like some river roaring down over rapids.

'I believe you,' Newman assured her. 'A lot of people
will be looking for you. Are you certain no one in the city
knows about your mother having a place in Arcachon?'

'I'm absolutely sure, certain, positive. I told you, she
doesn't like anyone in Bordeaux, she's never let anyone
know about her apartment here. So no one would dream of looking for me here. When will I see you again?'

'I'll contact you as soon as I can. Meantime read some of
those books I saw in your apartment. Go out for a walk after nightfall. And push your hair up under some kind of headgear. A beret. A scarf. Anything ...'

'I promise, Bob. I'll tie up my hair, then hide it under a
scarf. And I'll wear trousers. I have a pair. I never normally wear them because I don't think they look feminine. No one even here will recognize me. I will see you soon?'

'As soon as I can make it. Someone is at the door. Must
go. Chin up ...'

Newman peered round the side bay window through the
heavy net curtains which gave him a view of the entrance.
It was almost dark already. November dark. Marler stood at
the entrance, carrying a long holdall. That meant he was
bringing his dismantled Armalite rifle. He must be expecting
trouble at the Dawlish factory on the road to Orford.

Marler's new Volvo station wagon was parked in a slot further down the road. They'd
be travelling in that, Newman thought as he went to the lobby to operate the button which opened the front door. His Mercedes 280E was still
in the hands of the veterinary pathologist.

'You'll need some insulation,' Marler said as he entered
the apartment. 'It's cold enough out there to freeze the
whatnots off a monkey.'

Marler was wearing his sheepskin, collar turned up.
Newman thought the intense cold - met forecast had said it
would be below freezing point - might help them. Guards
didn't like patrolling too thoroughly on cold nights. At least
he hoped he was right in his assumption.

In his Park Crescent office Tweed knew Paula was excited
about something as soon as she entered. She put down the cardboard-backed envelope she had been carrying on her
desk, took off her suede coat, one of her few extravagances.

Taking one of Lasalle's photos from the envelope, she laid it
on her desk. As she asked the question she covered the print
with one hand.

'Is it all right if I play around with this print with my felt
tip pen? It's one of the photos Lasalle sent us.'

'Go ahead. The Engine Room made up a large number of copies of all the photos.'

Tweed showed no curiosity, writing out a list of names
on his pad. Monica, in contrast, surreptitiously was watch
ing Paula as she used her felt tip pen. Paula put down the
pen, rifted up the photo, held it at a distance.

'It's him.' she announced. 'I thought it was when I was
looking at the photos in my flat.'

'Who?' Tweed enquired.

'Lieutenant Berthier, on the staff of Major Lamy, is here
in this country. To be precise he's probably still staying at
the Brudenell Hotel in Aldeburgh.'

She took the photo to Tweed, placed it in front of him.
She had used the pen to sketch in a pair of tinted glasses
over the eyes, to darken his hair. Tweed looked at what she had sketched, then at her.

'Clever,' he said. 'You are right. I saw this man leaving
the bar at the Brudenell when I was on my way out for a
night walk over the marshes.'

'He's the man Newman thought he heard swear in
French when he stubbed his toe, as you'll recall. He's the man,' Paula continued, 'you asked me to chat up, which I
did, as you know. I spoke to him suddenly in French, asked him if he'd like another drink. Remember? He started to get up from his chair to fetch more drinks himself, then stopped in time and pretended to be settling himself more comfort
ably in his chair. I
thought
he knew what I'd said. Now I
know I'm right.'

'So,' Tweed remarked, 'we have another French link
between Suffolk and France. Berthier. There is something very serious going on near Aldeburgh. This is one coincidence too many.'

'He told me his name was James Sanders.' Paula recalled
thoughtfully, 'that he was a salesman dealing in marine
spare parts, that he'd just returned from Paris.'

'Another possible link,' Tweed said immediately. 'An officer on Lamy's staff, posing as a salesman of marine parts, would have a legitimate reason for contacting Dawlish. Because of the Cat, the
Steel Vulture.
More pieces of the jigsaw are coming to light, fitting into an insidious pattern.'

'I think I'll return to Aldeburgh,' Paula suggested. 'I
could use the excuse of visiting Jean Burgoyne.'

'Except we know Burgoyne is de Forge's mistress. Tricky.
We don't know at this stage who we can trust - if anyone.'

'I still think I should go back, especially as we know
Berthier is there. He might let something slip if I play up to
him.'

'I don't like the idea,' Tweed told her. 'I have in front of
me a list of names - any of which could be the highly
professional assassin, Kalmar.'

'Can we see the list?' Monica interjected.

'No. Not yet. I want to be more sure of my ground - I
still need more data ...'

'Which I might obtain if I go to Aldeburgh,' Paula
insisted. 'And both Newman and Marler are on their way
there. Newman is bound to phone you - you could tell him I'll be at the Brudenell.'

'You can go only if you wait at the hotel until Newman
has contacted you. That's an order.'

'I'm on my way.' Paula jumped up before Tweed could change his mind. I'll pick up my ready-packed case at my flat, then drive up to Suffolk .. .'

'Do you think that was wise?' Monica queried when they
were alone. 'She's going back to where one murder has been committed. The murderer could still be in the area.'

'What baffles me.' said Tweed, his mind elsewhere, 'is
if
,
by a
long shot, it's Dawlish who is supplying arms to the
Third Corps secretly how does he transport them there?'

'Aboard that catamaran,' Monica said promptly. 'Dawlish himself told Paula the size of the vessel - that it can carry
over a hundred people and a number of heavy vehicles.
And Newman's friend, Isabelle, told him she'd seen a vessel which fits the
Steel Vulture's
description dock frequently in Arcachon.'

'You don't get my point. Dawlish also said the vessel is
berthed at Harwich. I happen to know they've tightened
security at Harwich. They found a large drug consignment
aboard a ship bound for Rotterdam - a reverse ploy of the
drug traffickers. Drugs brought in here by some other route are then sent
out
to the continent. With that kind of security would
Dawlish risk a search? I think not.'

'Then what's the solution?'

'No idea. He may not be involved at all. But that has
stimulated a different line of investigation. I'm calling Heathcoate, Harbour Master at Harwich. He owes me.'

Tweed unlocked a drawer, checked through an address
book, found the number, dialled it himself, gave his name,
asked to be put through to the Harbour Master.

'Is that you, Heathcoate? How are you? Yes, I want a
favour. A ship called the
Steel Vulture, a
twin-hulled
catamaran...'