Cross of Fire (71 page)

At the Atlantique in her bedroom Paula was wakened by
the alarm clock she'd set for 4 a.m. She wanted to be ready in good time to board the Alouette.

She showered, dressed quickly, applied make-up in three
minutes. She snapped shut the lid of the case she had
packed the night before and at that moment she heard the
agreed tattoo tapping on her locked door. Even so, she took
the Browning automatic from her shoulder bag before open
ing the door on the chain. It was Butler.

'Come in, Harry. I'm ready for the trip. Is Bob back?' she
asked anxiously.

'Not yet. Not to worry. It was one hell of a roundabout
route they were taking.'

'I hope nothing's gone wrong,' she said as she closed and locked the door. 'I didn't like the idea of his going back to Bordeaux again one little bit.'

There was a note of concern verging on affection in her tone, Butler noticed. He smiled reassuringly.

'Bob can look after himself. What I came to tell you is
I've decided we ought to move out of here. It's dangerous
to stay in one place for long.'

'But where to?'

'I can't find another suitable hotel. I'm going to ask Bob
whether we could move for a few days to Isabelle's apart
ment. Difficult for anyone to trace us there.'

'Isabelle?' Paula sounded doubtful. 'I can get on with her
but I'm not so sure it would work the other way.'

'Bob will fix that...'

He looked at the door where the correct tattoo rapping had been repeated. Extracting the Walther he opened the
door on the chain, saw Newman standing outside with a
bushy-haired stranger. He let them inside and Newman
introduced them by first names only to Stahl. Paula took an
immediate liking to the amiable German who looked her
straight in the eye as they shook hands. Newman was
determined to check the bona fides of Egon Stahl.

'Egon wants to put through a call to Kuhlmann.' he said. 'I'll get the number.' He looked at Butler. 'I see Nield is still downstairs, playing poker with the night clerk...'

Butler nodded. In fact Nield had been unable to sleep, so
he had gone down into the lobby to play cards. An expert
card sharp, Nield was just about to deal when he saw Butler peer over the banister very soon after Newman had returned with the jolly bushy-moustached man. Butler was signalling
they were about to make a call. Nield shuffled the pack again,
dealt the clerk a winning Royal Flush. That should keep his
mind on the game while the call was being made.

In Paula's room Newman dialled the Ministry of the
Interior, gave the code word Tweed had suggested, asked to speak to him. After a pause Lasalle, sounding fogged
with sleep, came on the line. He listened to Newman before telling him his boss had just left for the airport.

'Actually we want to speak to Otto Kuhlmann.' Newman
explained.

A far more alert Kuhlmann came to the phone quickly and Newman handed the instrument to Stahl. He had concealed from the German that he spoke his language as fluently as he spoke French.

Listening to Stahl he heard a reference to
Kapitan
Fischer.
The emphasis on
Kapitan
told him this was Stahl's identification word. Stahl reported that he had obtained vital data, that he would keep it until he met Kuhlmann. From the rest of the conversation Newman gathered Stahl's chief had told
him that his rescuer was totally reliable, that he could tell
him everything.

Paula was watching Newman as he sagged on her bed,
checked his watch. She thought Newman looked at the end of his tether, desperately short of sleep, haggard, and with a drawn face. He leaned towards her, whispered hoarsely as Stahl ended his conversation.

'Tweed is no longer in Paris. Lasalle told me he was on
his way to the airport.'

'He was expecting me.' Paula protested. 'Aboard the
Alouette.'

Butler had joined them. He listened for a moment, then lowered his voice while Stahl was washing his hands. The
sound of the water running into the basin muffled their
conversation.

'Tweed said he wouldn't be back from London until
some time this evening.'

'Then there's no point in my flying to Paris aboard the chopper,' Paula decided, still watching Newman who had stifled a yawn. 'Harry, you'd better call Lasalle and tell him to send the chopper to land at dawn twenty-four hours later.'

'I
have
to drive to the
Landes,'
Newman commented, spacing out his words, talking with an effort.

'Like hell,' Paula snapped. 'You're flaked out. Anyone
can see that. You'll end up driving the car into some ditch.'

'Have to collect the witness ... Martine ...'

'Yes, we do.' Paula continued briskly. 'So I'll share the
driving with Harry and Pete. You can sleep in the back.
Then you'll be fresh enough to guide us when we get close
to the witness.'

She used the last word because Stahl, adjusting his
glasses and smiling, had come close to them. He stared at
Newman, then at Paula.

'I'm OK.' Newman growled. He propped himself against the headboard to stop falling asleep. 'You stay here, Paula.
The Landes ... dangerous.'

'It would be for you.' she snapped and stamped her foot.
'You say you're OK, you haven't slept for ages, and you
can't even keep your eyes open now.'

'And.' Butler reminded him, 'Pete and I have to stay next to Paula. Remember?'

Stahl intervened. 'You have a problem? Maybe I could
help? I slept during the day and I'm fresh.'

'You wouldn't have a weapon of sorts?' Butler enquired.

'Would these help? Give you confidence?' Stahl replied.

In his eager beaver manner he unzipped his leather bag. Butler stared as he produced a Heckler and Koch sub
machine-gun. Newman recognized the type used by the
SAS that had a collapsible stock. As he went on talking Stahl
was careful to aim the muzzle at the ceiling.

'This 9mm sub-machine-gun has a rate of fire of six
hundred and fifty rounds a minute, a range of almost five
hundred feet. I have a lot of spare mags, as you see. Also I have grenades, a lot of them. Like this one.'

'You're carting around a ruddy armoury.' Butler
commented.

'But I was trapped in that building before Mr Newman and the girl, Isabelle, brought me out. I couldn't have tried to escape without transport. The patrols in the streets keep stopping people at night - especially those on foot. I could come with you.'

'You're hired for the duration.' Paula decided without
consulting anyone. Newman blinked at her.

'You've taken charge?' he enquired.

'Yes. Someone has to until you're fresh. I just elected myself. Harry, you'd better call Lasalle now, turn back that Alouette.'

Butler told Newman they were moving base to Isabelle's
apartment before they left, went to the phone. Newman
raised a hand, dropped it.

'I'd better tell Isabelle that... ask her, I mean.'

'No!' Paula's tone was firm. 'I'll talk to her briefly before we set out for the Landes. Won't tell her where we're going, but I'll check to see whether she can cope with this lot. I can
handle her.'

'Still don't think you should come with us to the Landes,
it could - will be - a damned dangerous undertaking,'
Newman protested again.

'It's decided.' Paula told him. 'And try not to go to sleep
before we carry you into the back of the car. It will be a full
house.' she added, glancing at Stahl, 'but we'll manage. And
both of you should have a shave. If you don't mind.'

Victor Rosewater, clad in a British warm camel-hair, arriving
on the flight from Switzerland at Bordeaux Airport, walked across the concourse. Stopped by an army patrol, he waved a pass at them.

'Get out of my way, I'm in a hurry.'

He hastened to where he'd left his car parked. Two
minutes later he was roaring away confidently. His desti
nation was Arcachon and, as usual, he wanted to get to
where he was going quickly.

To avoid registering at a hotel he had hired a small cabin
cruiser moored at the edge of the
bassin.
He bought food
from a supermarket, cooked it himself in the cruiser's galley,
or ate out at restaurants. Rosewater was expert at evading a
country's regulations designed to record who had arrived
from abroad.

When he'd checked his vessel his first call was planned for the Bar Martinique. He was determined to trace the
movements of the talkative Irishman who frequented the bar. Then he hoped to meet Paula Grey again, even if it
meant exercising patience.

Carrying his holdall, Marler disembarked from the Air Inter
flight at Orly, Paris. Once again he avoided the waiting
taxis: cab drivers had good memories.

He used the anonymous Metro to reach the station near
est his shoddy apartment close to the rue du Bac. On his
way up to his room, the key in his pocket, he doled out
more francs to the reception clerk - enough for another two weeks' stay.

'Business good?' the clerk enquired, accepting the tip.

'So, so...'

Inside his room Marler checked for any indication that it had been searched. If so, he'd move to the other apartment he'd reserved a few streets away. There was no sign of any intrusion.

Taking off his trainers, he sat on his made-up bed and
took the mobile phone from his holdall. Dialling the Minis
try of the Interior, he asked for Tweed by using a codename.
After a delay Lasalle came on the phone, told him the man
he wanted was abroad for the whole day.

'Thank you. I'll call him later, Rene.'

Chapter Forty-Six

Tweed was on the warpath at Park Crescent. Arriving on
the first flight from Paris, he had found Howard waiting for
him in his own office. Monica greeted him, looked grim,
then buried her head in a file.

'You bought yourself a new suit in the States?' Tweed suggested with a straight face.

'You must be joking.' Howard indignant. 'This came from Harrods. Chester Barrie. The best money can buy off the Peg.'

Plump faced, his complexion pink, clean shaven, six feet
tall and with a well-fed look, the Director was at his most
pompous. He stood by Tweed's desk, shot his cuffs to
expose jewelled rinks and smoothed one of the lapels of his dark grey suit with a thin chalk stripe. The trousers had the
fashionable turnups. He placed a hand on his right hip.

'I called you back to find out what was going on in
France. And I've had an interview with the PM since I returned. I understand that, like his predecessor, he gave
you one of those damned personal directives.'