Cross of Fire (65 page)

'Time to go out and do your thing.' he told his mirror
image.

He was aware he was talking to himself. It was a habit
he occasionally indulged in when on his own for long
periods. He looked forward to leaving the rundown apart
ment on the Left Bank where the heating was nil.

At the Atlantique in Arcachon Newman also had a map
spread out on his bed, but this was a large-scale map of
Bordeaux. In the room with him were Paula, Butler, and
Nield.

'I have to go back into the city to haul out Stahl, a
German agent in hiding,' he explained. 'I'm going in tonight.
Best chance after dark.'

'You're crazy,' Paula burst out. 'First, you were lucky when you went there before. And all the news reports far more security now than there was earlier. Look at the papers...'

They, too, were spread over Newman's bed. All showed
pictures of the riots in Marseilles and Toulon. The most
prominent feature of the photographs was of men in Balacla
vas with the Cross of Lorraine - the crosses blazing with
fire in the night. The atmosphere of insurrection was growing by the hour.

'Second,' Paula hammered away, 'you'll have no sleep if you go to Bordeaux. And you have to meet that helicopter near the
etang
at dawn tomorrow. Your reflexes won't be so good if you run into something, which you probably will.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' Newman snapped back.

'I'm just thinking of your safety, you cretin.'

'Let's cool it.' Newman grinned. 'I'd grasped that and I
am grateful, touched.'

'Obstinate bastard.' she chaffed him, her good humour
returning with his infectious grin.

They hugged each other. Pete Nield winked behind them at Butler. There always came a moment like this during an
operation. A situation of continuing danger. Too little sleep.
Fatigue. Nerves frayed.

'I can't find Stahl's address on the map.' Newman admitted as he released Paula. 'The Passage Emile Zola. Before I head for Bordeaux I'll visit Isabelle. She should know.'

Paula grinned wickedly. 'Mind she doesn't keep you
there all night in her apartment.'

He slapped her on the rump, looked at Butler and Nield.

'You two take good care of her while I'm away.'

'But you have to come back here before ... you drive
down to meet the Alouette.' Butler said.

He'd been on the verge of saying
before you drive down to
the Landes.
But he guessed Newman had omitted to tell her
about that dangerous expedition. And Newman's instruction about her had been superfluous: on the phone Tweed had told Butler and Nield separately that he held them personally responsible for Paula's safety, that she was in
grave danger.

Chapter Forty-Two

Victor Rosewater was a long way from Arcachon. He sat in
the living room of his ultra-modern flat in the Konvikstrasse
in Freiburg - on the edge of the Black Forest in Germany.
He checked his watch. 4 a.m. Helmut should arrive shortly.

Rosewater had been flown by a private plane from Bor
deaux Airport to Basle in the middle of the night. After
paying the pilot the substantial sum agreed, Rosewater had
driven his car parked near the airport across the Swiss
border up the autobahn to Freiburg.

The weather was lousy. Heavy snow smothered the
ancient rooftops of the University city. Rosewater got up,
walked into his kitchen which had every up to date appli
ance. He poured himself another cup of coffee from the percolator, went back to his chair in the living room. As he sipped coffee he stared at the photograph of Paula Grey he had secretly taken. The print was propped up against an old
silver jug he had bought in an antique shop. Silver was his
hobby and he had quite a collection.

Paula was a very attractive girl, he thought. And, unlike
so many attractive women, she had a vibrant personality.
'You've got everything going for you,' he mused.

Helmut Schneider: his mind switched to the German he had flown to Freiburg to meet. Helmut was an extrordinary man. He had a network of informants through the whole of Germany, a number of them unsavoury characters. Among
the more respectable were barmen, hotel commissionaires
and concierges, cab and bus drivers - all people who noticed
what was going on round them, who heard unguarded
conversations.

Among the less savoury were brothel keepers, unlicensed
arms merchants and dubious night club bouncers. It was a
world the public had no idea existed.

Until recently Helmut had told them to inform him, for a price, about any strangers patronizing these establishments with Irish accents, their modes of transport. By using these
sources Rosewater had tracked down several IRA cells
before they'd had time to become active.

He had recently given Helmut a new instruction. To
search for clues as to the
whereabouts of
Siegfried
units. Now he waited to hear if Helmut had had any luck.

The weird thing was Helmut rarely left his cheap apartment in Frankfurt. All communication was carried out over the phone. But Helmut was a man of cunning. He took
short-term leases on an apartment, rarely using the same phone number for more than two months.

He would then move on to another part of Frankfurt.
This involved calling a host of informants to give them his new number. But Helmut had a strong instinct for survival. Staying in one place for long was risky, could easily be a
lethal mistake.

A tapping on the knocker of the front door interrupted
the mind-wanderings of Rosewater. He jumped up, hauled
from his holster a 7.65mm pistol, went to the solid front
door, and peered through the spyhole before drawing bolts and unlocking the door.

Outside crouched a bizarre figure. Dressed in black from
head to foot, the man wore black glasses and carried the
white cane of a blind man. It took Rosewater a moment to
recognize Helmut Schneider.

'Shake the snow off your coat.' he ordered. 'And maybe you'd be considerate enough to remove your boots.'

The apartment had fitted carpet wall to wall. Meticulous
in his dress, Rosewater kept the luxurious apartment clean
as a new pin. He closed the door after Schneider had
removed the soft snow from his coat, divested himself of his
boots and walked into the warmth of the hall. Rosewater
gestured towards the living room, took coat and boots to the kitchen, hung up the coat behind a door and dumped
the worn boots in the sink. He poured another cup of coffee
and handed it to Schneider, who had seated himself in an
armchair, feet in socks stretched out towards a radiator, in
the living room.

'Any results?' About
Siegfried?'
Rosewater greeted his
guest.

'A clever girl has infiltrated their High Command. Won't tell you who she is.' Schneider grinned, exposing two missing teeth. 'She has personal reasons to hate the guts of shit
like that. She has brains - and she's got guts.'

Schneider had removed his dark glasses and his cunning
eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Arriving at the apartment he'd looked like a down-and-out: now he was alert, erect,
and watchful. Like a clever ferret.

'But actual results?' Rosewater demanded impatiently.

'Contain yourself,' Schneider reproved him, continuing
in German, the language both men were speaking. 'It's
warmer in here. Like bloody Siberia out there.'

'Why the elaborate disguise?' Rosewater asked, suddenly anxious. 'You weren't followed?'

'I was.'

'You mean to here? For God's sake ...'

'Contain yourself,' Schneider repeated, pleased that he
had shaken the normally cool Englishman. 'You really think
I can't spot a shadow? Two of them, moving separately. I lost them in Heidelberg. Then I changed cars at a friend's
place. Then I put on this gear when I'd left the second car
on the outskirts of your patch.'

'Very professional.' Rosewater forced himself to mask his
growing irritation. 'And the results?'

'Siegfried
is in Hamburg, Dortmund, Berlin, Hanover,
Dusseldorf, Frankfurt, Karlsruhe, Munich, and Stuttgart. It's a big operation.'

While talking Schneider extracted an old wallet from beneath three layers of clothing: two woollen pullovers and a jacket. He unzipped a concealed compartment, took out a grubby, folded sheet of A4 paper, handed it over to Rose-water. Then he spread his feet a little closer to the radiator.

Rosewater looked down the list of detailed addresses and
recognized several. He looked at Schneider who had
removed his mittens, was holding the cup in both hands to
warm himself.

'This is the lot?' he asked.

'By no means.' Schneider finished his coffee, placed the
cup on the hearth. 'I expect to have another long list very
shortly. I'll phone the number you gave me so they can
contact you.'

'Good.'

Rosewater was thinking Schneider was ideal for the job. A social outcast, a man able to mingle with, to haggle with
the shabby half-world which was his network. And there was no danger he'd try to pre-empt Rosewater by handing
to the police this information. The police were his enemy.

Schneider, a pickpocket, had served five short sentences
in German prisons. One more misdemeanour and he'd go
down for a very long sentence.

Time you left,' Rosewater suggested.

Schneider made the universal gesture asking for money
- rubbing thumb against middle finger. Rosewater made it a matter of policy to wait until he asked for money: it discouraged the German from thinking there was a bottomless pit available.

Taking four five-hundred Deutschmark banknotes from his pocket he handed them over. The equivalent roughly of
seven hundred pounds. But Helmut's expenses came high.
The German looked dubious.

'Not enough to cover what I'll have to pay out. Double
this might just manage it.'

'I haven't got that to spare.' The usual haggling which
Schneider expected. 'You'll have to get by with this. Not a Deutschmark more.'

He produced two more five-hundred Deutschmark notes,
dropped them on the table.
Schneider scooped them up as
Rosewater went into the kitchen, collected the coat and boots. He banged the latter to get rid of the snow which
hadn't melted in the warmth of the central heating. He was
anxious to get Schneider out of the apartment.

The German put on his disguise before leaving. Adjusting
his dark glasses, he adopted a stooped posture, tapping the white cane against the walls to accustom himself again to
his role of blind man.