Cross of Fire (70 page)

Six feet or so below the end of the ridge was a railed
metal platform. Stahl stood looking up with a beaming
smile. The German had nerves of steel. Newman glanced
over his shoulder, saw Isabelle was close behind him and
there were no signs of activity from the distant skylight. He dropped to the platform, his body loose, his knees bending to cushion the drop.

Turning round, he was just in time to grab hold of
Isabelle by the waist, breaking the force of her fall. She was breathing heavily, had removed her white scarf and stuffed it inside her bag. She smoothed his hair.

'Where to now?' Newman asked.

Stahl put a finger to his lips, ushered Newman to the rear
of the platform, leaned forward and pointed down. New
man leaned over and saw he was looking down into the
Passage Emile Zola. It was crowded with troops who carried
automatic weapons. Presumably they'd found their way
down from the landing where the two staircases met inside the building. He moved away as Stahl tugged at his sleeve.

'Is there any way out?' Newman asked. 'I don't fancy
any more rooftop climbing - we might not be so lucky next time.'

'How did you get here?' Stahl asked.

'By car. A hired Renault. Left it parked the other side of
the entrance to the passage. About twenty yards from it.
We'll never be able to reach it without being spotted.'

'I think we might,' Stahl replied. 'They won't expect us in that street. They'll be sending troops all over the rooftops. We go down this fire escape first. I suggest I lead the way with Isabelle ...'

Newman noticed for the first time a flight of metal steps leading down the side of the building from the platform. He followed as Stahl descended, one hand on the side rail, the other round Isabelle's waist. It was a gesture she resented.

Inwardly her nerves were screaming but outwardly she
was composed. They descended one flight, reached a landing, turned down a fresh flight. Stahl kept glancing into the well below them. Then both Isabelle's feet slid from under
her and she'd have crashed down the flight but for Stahl's
tight grip, holding her against him until she recovered her
balance.

'
These metal treads are coated with solid ice.' he
explained. 'It really is no time to practise skating.'

She looked at him and he grinned impishly. From that
moment she liked Stahl. And she felt that with these two
men looking after her there was a chance they'd escape
from the hell that Bordeaux had become.

On the first floor Stahl led the way across a treacherous metal bridge where the ice was solid underfoot from rail to
rail. At ground level he led them through a labyrinth of
alleyways on what seemed to Newman to be a circular
route. They emerged into the street where the Renault was parked only fifty yards away.

The street was deserted. Stahl's prediction had come true:
the troops were scaling the world of the rooftops. At New
man's suggestion the German slipped into the back, hid
himself under a travelling rug. Poking out his bushy head,
his moustache frosted with ice mist, he joked.

'I've found a bottle of Beaujolais. May I imbibe? My
excuse is that if we're stopped you're taking a drunken
friend home. Me!'

Isabelle guided Newman through the ice mist along a new route. The grey vapour made Bordeaux even more
shabby and derelict, if possible. There was a checkpoint and a barrier on the far side of the Pont Saint Jean, but Newman
was in no mood for further encounters with de Forge's
troops. He had also noticed the mist was very thick by the
river - more like a fog. In his undimmed headlights he saw
shadowed figures drifting as though in a nightmare and beyond another of the flimsy barriers they'd seen on the
Pont de Pierre.

'We're not stopping.' he warned his passengers.

Isabelle was puzzled. Approaching the western end of
the bridge Newman dimmed his headlights, reduced speed
to a crawl as though pulling up. Suddenly, driving on to the
bridge, he pressed his thumb on the horn and kept it at a
blaring howl. Switching his headlights full on, he pressed
his foot down, roaring over the bridge, smashing through
the barrier. The drifting shadows jumped out of his way to
both sides. He increased speed, thought he heard a rifle
shot, then they were way beyond the bridge.

'Turn right now!' Isabelle shouted, straining against her seat belt to see where they were.

He swung the wheel, his horn silent, the tyres screeching
at the wildness of his driving. He slowed down as they
came to a sharp corner in a narrow street. Isabelle guided
him through a complex labyrinth which seemed to go on
and on for ever. Without warning they were clear of the
suburbs, free of even a hint of ice mist, driving through
open country along a deserted road.

'How long to Arcachon?' Newman asked.

'We'll be there well before dawn.'

'We have to be.'

Newman was almost exhausted, flaked out with two
endless drives, the tension of rescuing Stahl. And ahead of him was a drive to meet the Alouette near the
é
tang.
After
that a long drive south to the Landes, to pick up their
witness. Martine, the crone who collected brushwood on the Atlantic shore. Could he last out? And if he ran into trouble,
would his reflexes be fast enough?

Chapter Forty-Five

The tension which grows in the early hours under pressure
was showing itself inside the Ministry of the Interior in Paris. Tweed, unshaven, sat behind his desk as Navarre
came in from an emergency Cabinet meeting. Lasalle, also short of sleep like the others, was pacing restlessly. Only
Kuhlmann, seated in a leather armchair was, like Tweed,
relaxed and alert.

'Any news?' Navarre demanded, looking at Lasalle as he perched his buttocks on Tweed's desk.

'A whole fleet of CRS trucks is speeding down to Bor
deaux, may already have reached the city. They're being parked round the Prefecture.'

'More psychological warfare,' Tweed said quietly.

'Psychological warfare?' Navarre queried.

'The Berliet trucks have no CRS inside them,' Lasalle
explained. 'Only a driver and one other man in the cab.
Their arrival will be reported within minutes to de Forge.
With luck they'll have to wake him to tell him - ruin his
night's sleep. Tweed wants to wear him down.'

'But how will you transport the huge number of CRS
when it comes to the final confrontation?' Navarre asked
brusquely.

'I have secretly assembled a whole armada of helicopters
at airfields on the outskirts of Paris. When we strike we do
it from the air.'

'I like the idea,' Navarre decided. 'I have recorded a TV address to the nation. I hammer home the point that the civil power takes precedence over the military in democracy.'

'The Cabinet was told this?' Lasalle, alarmed, enquired,

Navarre smiled grimly. 'No, Louis Janin, our so-loyal
Minister of Defence, would have informed de Forge at once.
I have a feeling we are close to that final confrontation.'
He took a cassette from his jacket pocket, handed it to
Lasalle. 'That is the recording of my address to the nation.
Lock it in your personal safe at rue des Saussaies. Please
remain available there or here. It's only a short walk to your HQ.'

'When do you expect de Forge to make his move?'
Kuhlmann asked.

'I suspect it has already begun. This dangerous exercise
General Masson has sanctioned - with the so-called assump
tion that they're repelling a North African invasion by the
fictitious General Ali. I have just heard that some of de
Forge's advanced motorcycle patrols have reached
Angouleme.'

'A long way north of Bordeaux and closer to Paris.'
Tweed observed.

'Exactly,' Navarre agreed. 'And now, gentleman, I must
snatch a few hours' sleep.'

The others agreed it was a sound idea and Tweed was
left alone. Opening a map he studied the position of Angou
leme, shook his head. He was folding the map when the
phone rang. It was Monica at Park Crescent, still at her desk
in the early hours.

'Howard has returned from his extended trip to the
States,' she told him. 'He wants to see you over here for
consultation at the earliest moment. He's just come from a
visit to the PM.'

'Tell him I'll catch the first available scheduled flight this morning. Also tell him I'm flying back to Paris before the evening.'

'I don't think that's quite what he had in mind.' Monica warned.

'Then I'll put it in his mind when I get there. All you
need to confirm is that I'm coming. And I may want to drive
to Aldeburgh while I'm in Britain. Again a quick trip. Back in town in time to catch a Paris flight.'

'Should I have your car ready?'

'The Ford Escort,' Tweed replied. 'Very reliable but not too noticeable. Also check on the present whereabouts of Lord Dane Dawlish and his catamaran, the
Steel Vulture.
Heathcoate, the Harwich Harbour Master, might help.'

'I'd already thought of him. Look forward to seeing you.'

Tweed frowned as he put down the receiver. Howard
was the Director, his only superior in the SIS. What on earth
was this urgent summons all about? And what had passed between Howard and the new PM, a man of very decided
views? He'd interviewed
Tweed before the journey to Paris,
listened to what Tweed had to say, had agreed his mission
was vital.

He picked up the phone after checking his watch, dialled
the number of the Atlantique in Arcachon. When the duty
clerk answered he phrased his request carefully. No name.

'I wish to speak to Mr Harry Butler who is staying with
you. Tell him it's a friend - he's expecting my call...'

'Butler here. I'm glad you called. Please hang on just a
sec...'

Butler put his hand over the mouthpiece, called out to
Nield who was catnapping on the bed with his clothes on.

'Pete, a call's come through.'

'I'll get down fast.'

Nield slipped on his shoes, checked his jacket as he ran
to the door to make sure he had a packet of the Gauloises
favoured by the night clerk. When he reached the lobby the
clerk hastily put down his phone as Nield asked for a cup
of coffee, explaining he couldn't sleep.

'Go ahead,' Butler said in the bedroom.

'I have to leave for London by the first flight. I'll be back late this evening. Warn Paula. That's it.'

'Will do.'

In Paris Tweed picked up the phone again to call the
airport - to ask them to hold a return ticket to London for
him. He had no inkling of the consequences which would
follow his call to Arcachon.