Cross of Fire (61 page)

'Old Nosy behind the counter.' Butler remarked.

She opened up the envelope, took out the folded map
and the note. The message was short.
A courier will come
tonight with a number giving my location. 22.00 hours.

'Jean is being very security-minded. I don't like this.'

She spread the map open on the only table in the
cramped room. Number One was inscribed above a cross
with 'Villa Rose' written in. Number Two had an inscrip
tion, 'Crossroads'. Number Three was inscribed 'Boathouse'.
She gave the map to Butler, checked her watch, 9.45 p.m.

'Harry, you be navigator when the courier arrives with
the rendezvous. I wish to God he'd hurry up. There isn't
much time. The precautions she's taken - I wish I'd been
here when
she called in.'

'Let's just relax and see what happens.' Butler reassured
her. 'From what I saw and heard at the Villa Forban she's a resourceful woman.'

'I'll go downstairs and wait for this courier.' Nield said
and left the room.

He was back within a minute, his manner urgent as he rushed into the room when Butler opened the door. Nield
took hold of Paula's arm.

'He insists on handing it to you. Be quick. That clerk is
kicking up about him being inside the hotel...'

Paula ran downstairs, closely followed by Nield as Butler
leaned over the banister, his Walther held behind his back.
A scruffy-looking man with a day's beard on his chin was
glaring at the clerk. He turned, moved towards Paula,
handed her an envelope.

'I was given your description,' he said in Provencal
French. 'I had to give it to you personally. No other person.'

'Thank you. Can I give you something?'

'I've been well paid.'

The down-and-out tipped his soiled hat to Paula, glared again at the clerk, left the hotel. In her room Paula ripped open the envelope. A sheet of folded paper in the same
handwriting as the previous note carried the terse message.
Number Three.

'It's the boathouse,' Paula said. 'Between Gujan and
Facture. Guide me, Harry,' she said as she was leaving the
room.

'I'll drive,' Nield offered as they ran down the stairs.

'No, damnit! I'll drive,' Paula snapped as they reached the street. I don't like any of this one little bit.'

Jean Burgoyne stood on the verandah of the boathouse
smoking a cigarette. She rarely smoked but her nerves were
stretched to breaking point. She shielded the light of the
cigarette with her left hand. Huddled in a sheepskin coat,
she had found the interior claustrophobic. The only sound
was the lapping of the water against the piles. At the end of the verandah was a creek, the shell of a small craft lying in the stagnant water.

The boathouse was perched close to the edge of the
bassin.
Abandoned, at one time a slipway had led across
marshland to the water. Now only the outer struts of the
slipway were left and all around was an air of decay.

The verandah had wooden steps leading up to it at either end. One flight from firm ground where Jean had mounted
the verandah; the other at the far end leading down to the
lonely creek. She had parked her Rover in a shallow bowl
by the side of the wide track leading off the road to the boathouse. The quiet lapping of the water in the middle of the boathouse, where an inlet from the
bassin
reached it,
would normally have been a
soothing sound. At night, in
this remote spot, it was getting on her nerves.

She had chosen this rendezvous because it was well away
from any other habitation. She felt convinced that de Forge would have discovered her absence, that she was in danger. She was determined to hand to Paula the notes of Operation
Marengo attached to her upper leg. It was an outrageous
plan, a plot for a coup. It was vital the details reached Paris.

She heard a creak. Like a footstep on old wood. Flattening herself against the wall of the verandah, she held her cigarette cupped in the palm of her hand, listened, stared at the steps from firm ground. There was no repetition of the
sound. She let out a sigh, straightened up. Old wood
creaked by itself.

She had thought of waiting at the Atlantique, hoping Paula would appear at any moment. But she hadn't liked
the way the leering night clerk had kept glancing at her
surreptitiously. If she could bribe him so could anyone. And
any search would start with the few hotels open in Arca
chon. It had seemed safer to wait at an out of the way
refuge.

She dropped her cigarette over the railing into the water.
It fizzled, went out. She wasn't risking stubbing it out on
the ancient planks beneath her feet. The last thing she
wanted was for the place to go up in flames. Then she heard two other faint sounds. The noise of car engines. Probably passing on the main road. But the sounds stopped. Had she
heard
two
cars? She wasn't sure: sound travelled a long
distance at night. She shivered. It was horribly cold. But she
was honest with herself: she had shivered with fear.

The strain of spending months at the Villa Forban had at
last taken its toll. The strain of ministering to the needs of
de Forge, of coaxing him into saying too much, of sending
back secret reports to Paris. While it was going on the
adrenalin had kept her cool and calculating. Now she'd left it behind she was suffering a reaction. God, she'd be glad to
get back to Aldeburgh, to Admiralty House, to the peace
and quiet of her uncle's home and his intelligent conver
sation - conversation she could listen to without memorizing every word.

The wood creaked again. She stiffened. The sound had been different, the creak stronger - as though under press
ure from the tread of someone heavy. With her back against the wall she slithered towards the steps leading down to the creek. Then remained motionless. The slurp of the water
reminded her of the movement of a shark. Absurd! Get a
hold on yourself, girl. Then she saw the enormous shadow appearing above the steps from firm ground. The silhouette
of a large figure. She couldn't see the face. That horrified
her.

This was for real. The planks creaked ominously as the
figure advanced towards her. Jean ran in the opposite
direction. She reached the steps leading down to the creek. She hurried down them and heard the squelch of other feet
in the soggy ground close behind her. She swung round, suddenly remembered the Mauser she'd tucked in her coat
pocket. She grabbed at the butt, hauled out the weapon. She was terrified.

Her night vision was good. She saw why she hadn't seen a face. The man wore a Balaclava helmet. One large hand
grasped her wrist, twisted it, nearly broke it and she
dropped the Mauser. Two hands fastened themselves round
her throat, two gloved hands,
the thumbs pressing expertly against her windpipe. She stumbled back into the old boat
and his weight pressed on top of her. Not for a second was the remorseless squeeze on her throat relaxed. Jean Bur
goyne's last view of this world was the Balaclava helmet,
the cold eyes staring down at her through the slits. The
vision began blurring, then faded for ever.

The killer stood up, breathing heavily. He crouched to search her and heard the sound of approaching cars. He
jumped up, made his way, crouched low, across the marsh, his rubber boots sinking into the mush. Later he reached the car he had parked some distance from the boathouse where an eerie silence had descended.

Yvette Mourlon had followed Jean Burgoyne when she'd
left the Atlantique. When she saw her quarry making for
the boathouse she'd elevated her aerial, reported the loca
tion. Then she had remained parked a good way off from
the boathouse which, she suspected, was a killing ground.

Yvette had a crush on de Forge. What might occur inside
the boathouse to the rich well-dressed woman concerned
her not at all. Yvette loved only one thing more than de
Forge money.

Chapter Forty

'There's the boathouse. Pray to God we're in time.'

Paula spoke as she drove like hell along the road with
her headlights undimmed. There was no other traffic at this
hour, so what the devil did it matter. She had the bit
between her teeth and, beside her, Butler was careful not to
speak.

'Bleak-looking bloody spot,' Nield commented in the
back.

Paula slowed, searching for the track leading off to the
left. Her headlights picked it up and she swung on to the
track, headlights blazing. A signal to Jean that she was
coming, that help was very close and she wouldn't be alone much longer.

Jamming on the brakes in the lee of the boathouse, she
reached for the handle of the door. Butler's restraining hand
gripped her arm.

'Better leave me to go first...'

'Get your bloody hand off me! I'm in a hurry.'

Wrenching the door open, she jumped out, unzipping
her shoulder bag, extracting her Browning .32. Her other
hand hauled out a torch from her coat pocket. As she
climbed the steps Butler was close behind her, Walther in his hand.

Paula slowed down when she arrived on the verandah, swivelling her torch beam. She tried the door into the
boathouse half-way along the verandah, flashed the beam
over an
ancient yacht, its hull falling to pieces. Was Jean
unsure who had arrived?

'Paula here. Jean, it's Paula with friends. Are you in
there?'

Only when there was no answering reply did she proceed
further along the verandah, aiming the beam ahead in case
one of the planks was rotted. She didn't want to fall through,
ending up in the lapping water. She arrived at the end of
the verandah where another flight of steps led down.

Nield had stayed with the car. He heard another vehicle approaching, slipped out of the vehicle on the side furthest away from the road. He crouched low as headlights illuminated his car, gripped the Walther more firmly.

Paula's flashlight had also shown up smudged footprints
of mud, large footprints, too large for Jean. She paused at
the top of the steps, again aiming the beam. It stopped
moving suddenly. She froze. Close behind her Butler
whispered.

'What is it?'

'Oh, my God! Not again! Please! Not again ...'

She ran down the steps and over the short stretch of the marsh. Stopping afresh, she held the torch steady with sheer will-power. The body sprawled on its back inside the wreck of a craft. The blond hair splayed over the stern. The creek
with its oily surface, the ooze. It was Aldeburgh all over
again. She gritted her teeth as Butler pushed past her, leant over the corpse, using his own flashlight.

'Stay where you are, Paula.'

She nearly jumped out of her skin as a hand grasped her
arm. It was Newman's voice. She turned to face him, the
last person she'd expected to meet during this horrific
experience.