Cross of Fire (67 page)

Lamy was an expert marksman. Lamy had always been
the go-between separating de Forge from the unknown
killer. It was an arrangement which suited de Forge: no one
could ever link him with the assassin. Lamy had suggested
the idea. Lamy always took the huge sums paid to the
assassin when someone had to be eliminated. The President and the Prime Minister, for example. And before transferring to Intelligence Lamy had been an explosives technician
with the Engineers. Was Lamy accumulating a fortune at
the expense of the Army?

De Forge was irritated and confused. He should be concentrating all his brainpower on Operations Austerlitz
and Marengo. The mystery of the assassins - if there were
two of them - was taking up valuable time. I should know the solution when they return with the money, he decided.
And the problem of Paula Grey should also soon be solved.

Chapter Forty-Three

Major Jules Lamy was a loner. He intensely disliked his
escort and had sat both officers in the rear of the car. In the middle of the night his headlight beams, undimmed, swung over a bleak landscape of deserted fields with not a single habitation in sight.

He was within two miles of the small village which had the phone box on its southern outskirts. The advantage was
he could search round the box for the canvas bag containing
the money without risk of being seen by any villager. That was, assuming the money was there.

In the rear Berthier sat beside the other lieutenant and
behind the empty front passenger seat. His Service revolver
was resting in his lap, his hand holding the butt. He had removed it from his holster surreptitiously, certain that
Lamy would object if he had known about the gun.

Neither of the lieutenants had spoken a word during the
long drive from GHQ. Both knew Lamy wished them in hell
and were careful not to break the silence. Berthier was on edge. He mistrusted this drive through the darkness without a motorcycle outrider escort. They were a sitting target, in Berthier's opinion.

The thought had just passed through his mind when
Lamy slowed as he negotiated a
sharp and dangerous bend. He was crawling when their silence was broken. A shatter
ing
crack
stunned the three occupants. Berthier was the first
to realize it was a bullet.

The
crack
was followed instantly by a splattering of
breaking glass. The officer next to Berthier was showered
with glass splinters. Berthier saw a hole in the window on
his side also. He took off his képi and the brim had
disappeared.

'Move!' he shouted at Lamy. 'We're under fire. That was
a bullet...'

At the moment he spoke Lamy pressed his foot down on
the accelerator. He saw a straight stretch of road and zigzagged along it at speed. He was careful not to keep up a
predictable rhythm: his zigzagging was erratic and proved Lamy was a skilled driver. He also asserted his authority as he drove.

'Anyone hurt back there?'

'Our colleague is cut about the face.' Berthier reported.
'But I think he'll live.'

Berthier had escaped any injury. The bullet had scattered shards of glass over his companion when it entered, but had
blasted the glass outwards on Berthier's side. Siberian air
sheered into the interior through the two holes. Descending into a deep gully beyond the straight stretch, Lamy slowed, stopped, gave the order.

'When I'm searching round the phone box you take up
position - away from the car and well separated. Can you
manage that, Lieutenant Chabert?'

'I think so sir ...'

'Think isn't good enough.'

'I can, sir.' Chabert replied hastily.

Using a large handkerchief he was mopping blood off his
face. As the car started up again he examined his face with
his fingers but there were no shards of glass embedded in
the skin. The two officers prepared to leave the car as Lamy
pulled up a few yards from the phone box.

Wasting no time, Lamy jumped out, crouched low, gun
in hand, peered inside the box with his pencil flash. Empty. He found the cloth bag where
Manteau
had said it would be: behind the box. The same bag - Lamy recognized a dirty mark - but the cord tying it had been unfastened and retied with a different knot. Lamy dumped it on the front passenger seat, the lieutenants dived into the rear, Lamy turned the car round and drove back towards GHQ. What they would find inside the bag was his great concern. And fear of another bullet.

After listening to Lamy's report de Forge walked out of his office into the icy night without bothering to don his great
coat. He stood, hands on his hips, looking at the bullet-holes
in the car. He gestured with his head to lieutenants Berthier and Chabert.

'Get into the rear of the car and remember exactly how you were sitting when the bullet struck.'

Berthier, still wearing his képi minus the brim, leaned forward beyond Chabert as he had been doing, about to say
something to Lamy. De Forge studied their positions,
recalling his own experience when a bullet had penetrated his limousine. He waved for the two officers to get out.

'You'llhave to draw a new képi from the quartermaster.' he observed to Berthier.

'He nearly got me, General.'

'No, he aimed to miss by centimetres again.' He looked
at Lamy. 'We've had the demonstration we were promised.
Back to your quarters,' he ordered the two lieutenants.
'Berthier, leave for Arcachon as soon as you've put on
civilian clothes. Check on that girl, then report back to Major
Lamy immediately ...'

He marched back into his office with Lamy following
him. The cloth bag lay on his desk. De Forge waved a hand.

'Open it up. Check the money.'

Another major from the Paymaster's Office, summoned by de Forge, entered while Lamy was examining the pack
ages. The Paymaster officer had been a banking official
before joining the Army and de Forge handed him a Swiss
thousand-franc bill.

'Would you say that was genuine?'

De Forge wandered restlessly while the officer took out a
magnifying glass. Switching on de Forge's desk lamp he
examined the banknote carefully, left his glass on the desk, gave his verdict.

'It's a counterfeit. A very good one. But definitely a counterfeit.'

De Forge picked up two more of the notes Lamy was checking. He handed them to the Paymaster officer without
a word. Again the process of careful examination was
repeated before the officer returned them to de Forge.

'Also counterfeit. No doubt about it.'

'Would these be supplied by a bank in error?' de Forge
enquired.

'Absolutely not. They are high denomination notes. No
bank would be fooled. One note, possibly - although it
would be most unusual. Three? Never.'

'Thank you. Major, you may go now. And not one word about this to anyone. There may be a scandal I have to investigate.

'Well, Major Lamy?' de Forge asked softly when they
were alone.

Lamy looked disturbed, puzzled. He held up a stack of
notes.

'The numbers are all in sequence. They weren't when I
delivered them.'

'You think our English friend,
Oiseau,
has been swindling
us?'

It was a trap question. De Forge waited for an answer as Lamy considered his reply. He pursed his thin lips.

'I don't think so for a moment. He is buying friendship -
yours - for future arms deals with countries France has
close relations with.'

Take the lot away and put them in the safe. Now!'

When Lamy had gone de Forge's confidence in
Manteau
had risen in direct relationship to his loss of confidence in Lamy. Now he must concentrate on Operation Marengo.

About the same time, early that morning when de Forge
was watching the checking of the money, Helmut Schneider
sat eating breakfast at a truck drivers' cafe on the outskirts
of Karlsruhe.

After leaving Victor Rosewater in Freiburg he had driven
north along the autobahn. It was a very different Helmut in
appearance. Prior to getting into his car he had discarded
the dark glasses, the white cane, the disreputable overcoat and boots, stowing them into a holdall which he hid at the
back of the boot of his car.

In the cafe he wore a clean windcheater, his denims, and a peaked cap of the type German students used to wear. He drank his steaming coffee slowly, took his time over consuming a hamburger. Frequently he checked his watch.

As soon as the main Post Office was open he parked
close to it in Karlsruhe, centre of the German judicial system.
Walking the rest of the way, he entered the Post Office,
glanced at the few early customers, slipped inside one of the
phone booths.

Dialling a number inside Germany, he spent several
minutes transmitting a coded message which, to an eaves
dropper, would have sounded like a normal business
conversation. Replacing the receiver, he walked back to his
car and resumed his journey back to his apartment in
Frankfurt.

To reach the Passage Emile Zola, Isabelle had guided New
man along a devious route round the southern fringes of
Bordeaux. Her idea was they would enter the city from the east to avoid any idea they had come from Arcachon.

Newman also had had an idea before they drove off. They went back into her apartment and raided the wine
store, carrying a dozen bottles of Beaujolais to the car. At
Newman's suggestion Isabelle had borrowed a white scarf from her sister's wardrobe. She wrapped it round her head. White - the colour of 'just married'.

The roundabout route took a long time and it was early
morning but still dark as they entered the city. Newman drove in from the direction of Bergerac along the N136.
They had seen large numbers of mechanized vehicles
manoeuvring in the distance but had encountered no
trouble so far.

'We are approaching the Pont de Pierre,' Isabelle warned him. 'That is where there could
be a checkpoint.'

She proved to be right. Coming up to the bridge over the
river Garonne, Newman saw in his headlights troops with automatic weapons standing in the road. Behind them a
wooden barrier with gates barred the way. His headlights
were blurred in a mist rising off the river.

'Get ready to go into our act,' he reminded her.

With the white scarf concealing her hair and draped over
her shoulders, she snuggled up close to him, holding a
bottle of wine in her hand. Newman lowered his window
and with her free hand she lowered hers. Newman stopped
the car, left the engine running, grabbed a bottle of wine
and began rolling in his seat as troops crowded in round the
vehicle. In a drunken voice Newman began singing the
Marseillaise.