Cross of Fire (77 page)

'Treating you like a lady. You wouldn't want scandal, the neighbours talking. You will leave as though you are the housekeeper. We are taking you to a comfortable residence
well outside Paris. No, Madame. You have no say in the
matter. Treason is an offence that carries a heavy penalty.

Make a scene.' Lasalle continued genially as they escorted
her to a limousine, 'and I will give the papers a list of twelve
of your lovers - eight of them married men. There is bound to be one wife who will shriek her head off in public, which would be a shame. Spoiling your eminent position in Pari
sian society...'

Holding her arm, he had seen her into the limousine
where two men joined her. He closed the door, bowed for the benefit of any prying eyes. Josette had preserved - for
her - a rare silence. The limousine moved off.

Tweed, who had watched, was full of admiration for
Lasalle's skilled performance. Only a Frenchman could have
pulled it off. He walked to the other limousine, climbed in
the back as Lasalle joined him and the chauffeur pulled
away.

'I have left men inside the place to search it,' Lasalle informed him. 'She will simply disappear. You see, I also know how to practise psychological warfare. Imagine the
effect on de Forge.'

'Very good,' Tweed agreed. 'I had a nasty moment when
I thought she might take me into a back bedroom. You saw my signal with the curtain, of course.'

'We left our cars the moment we saw the curtain move. I
think you handled your part well.'

'I saw something which tells me the route de Forge will adopt to march on Paris - if it ever comes to that. Now we must launch Phase Two.'

'What did you see in that apartment?'

'A favourite bust of de Forge's. Of Napoleon. Remember
Waterloo.' Tweed ended cryptically.

At Arcachon Victor Rosewater stood on the deck of his
cabin cruiser, scanning the front with binoculars. He
switched his survey to the craft in the port where the masts of a cluster of vessels swayed slowly under the gentle swell
entering the
bassin
from the Atlantic.

Dressed in a polo-necked sweater under an oilskin he
looked the typical sailor. A fine drizzle of rain was falling.
The sky was like grey porridge. Everything looked grey.
Satisfied that he was not observed, he ran down the com
panionway into a large cabin.

Throwing off the oilskin, he pressed a secret button. A
section of the galley wall slid
back, revealing a radio tele
phone and a transmitter. He pressed another button and on
deck a tall aerial elevated alongside the mast.

Within minutes he was speaking to his contact, Oscar, at Kriminalpolizei HQ in Wiesbaden. They exchanged code words and Rosewater gave his message.

'Soon I will be able to supply a list of the addresses where
our friends are staying in the Federal Republic. That is
all...'

In Wiesbaden Oscar immediately transmitted the signal
to Kuhlmann in Paris.

Despite Rosewater's careful surveillance of the
bassin
he had
overlooked a broad-shouldered man dressed in a pea-jacket.
Brand was crouched behind the wheelhouse of a smaller
cabin cruiser moored in the port.

He was also using binoculars and had seen Rosewater
scanning the anchorage. He continued watching as the Eng
lishman disappeared inside the cabin. Through his binoculars
he saw the elevation of the aerial. He stood up, stepped
ashore and strolled along the waterfront to a public callbox.
Shoulders hunched, a cap pulled down over his forehead, he
appeared to be just an ordinary seaman. He entered the
callbox, dialled the number from memory, announced him
self as Bird Two. It was fortunate the girl who came on the
line spoke English.

'Is that you, Yvette? Listen. You know where I am.
There's a British spy ship in the harbour. The Red Ensign at the mast. Cabin cruiser. The
Typhoon TV.
Got that? Repeat
the name. Yes, that's it...'

General de Forge was in a rage. Summoned to his presence, Major Lamy found him in a storming mood, unable to keep still. He looked at his subordinate with a piercing stare.

'You know what's happened now? I can't contact Josette. The operator says the line has been disconnected. My main
pipeline into Paris has been cut. Just as we are about to launch Austerlitz within hours. Find out what the hell is
going on. Why are you still standing there?'

'Yvette has reported a call from
Oiseau Deuxieme...'
Reluctantly he gave de Forge more bad news. As he
feared, it did not improve the General's temper. De Forge
hammered his fist on the desk.

'Send a team to clean out Arcachon. You know how important the place is. First this Paula Grey, who is still on the loose. Now this new spy. Include in the team Sergeant Rey. A booby trap may be the answer for this cabin cruiser,
Typhoon IV.
And Kalmar has to liquidate the Grey woman
at the earliest opportunity.'

'There is our problem of paying Kalmar...'

'Your
problem! Flood Arcachon with men posing as DST.
And don't forget Isabelle Thomas, mistress to Henri Bayle. Wipe the lot out. One more thing. I have a report from
the Landes that the attempt to kill Moshe Stein misfired. Find
him. There has been no report from Paris of his arrival -
and if he had got there they would have put him on TV to moan on about the so called Tarbes massacre. I'm worried
about the Landes. Dispatch another team by sea to remove the remains of the criminal elements from the graveyard in body bags. Take them out to sea, weight the body bags, and
throw them into the Atlantic.'

'You don't wish me to be involved in this?' Lamy
protested.

'No. Put Lieutenant Berthier in charge of the team. And
tell him to wait until Sergeant Rey is available to join the
unit. It may be easier and more effective to blow up the relics well out at sea. Act now...'

De Forge waited for a few minutes, then summoned
Sergeant Rey to come and see him. When the gnome-like
booby trap expert appeared, k
é
pi under his arm, head bent
respectfully, de Forge greeted him warmly by his real rank.

'Sit down, Captain. Recently I had a telephone engineer
in our pay come and tap the phones of every officer among
our inner circle. I have discovered the traitor who has
informed Paris of some of my plans. I will play the tape in a moment.'

'Every officer?' Rey enquired.

His nominal role of sergeant enabled him to mix with the troops, to inform de Forge of what they were saying. Guile was one of the General's favourite weapons.

'Yes. Yourself included.' De Forge smiled cynically. 'I am
noted for thoroughness. Now, this is what I want you to
do...'

Newman and his team were still trapped inside the barn. It
was early evening, a grey dusk was descending over the surrounding landscape. From the skylight window in the
loft Newman watched distant tanks lining up behind each
other in columns. They had their rear lights on but no
headlights, and they were moving very close together. It
reminded Newman of accounts he'd read of General Gud-erian's panzer breakthrough into France during World War II. His tanks had moved through the defiles of the Luxem
bourg Ardennes at night nose to tail, each German tank
commander following the vehicle ahead by watching its rear
lights. He descended the ladder.

'Are we still stuck here?' Paula enquired.

'I'm afraid so. Let's hope the manoeuvres don't go on all
night. You look worried.'

'I was thinking of Moshe Stein. Where is he?'

'Still in his room at the Atlantique. He has food sent up
and I warned him not to venture outdoors. As soon as we
can, one of us must escort him to Paris.'

'Will he do that? Just stay in a cramped room?'

'He once spent six months in a cellar as a boy during the Second World War. Somewhere
in the Balkans. He'll stay
put.'

'Thank heavens,' Paula said with feeling. 'Then he will
be quite safe.'

Chapter Fifty

France was ablaze. In Toulouse, in Marseilles, in Toulon, in Bordeaux, men in Balaclavas marched holding aloft slow-
burning Crosses of Lorraine. They were joined by aggressive
youths, small shopkeepers, market stall holders. The same
chant built up to a crescendo, started by the hooded men in
Balaclavas.

Pour France! Pour France! Au Pouvoir! Au Pouvoir!

For France! For France! To Power! To Power!

The conflagration was spreading to smaller towns, caught
up in the frenzy. It was dark now and the symbolic crosses
burned like menacing daggers.

On the hillsides bonfires were lit. Great beacons seen
from miles away. Spreading the message further and further north. In Bordeaux Dubois was addressing an assembly of
massed people crowding to listen as he orated at the Place
de la Victoire.

'Frenchmen! Your hour has struck. The little people will
at long last have their say. We will sweep aside the vested
interests which have for so long used you as serfs. You will
become the pride of all Europe. Paris will be cleansed of the
filthy exploiters, the corrupt ministers, the men who buy
you for a miserable handful of francs...'

'Pour France...!'

Not everyone joined in the manic orgy of mob violence.
Some stayed indoors, the shutters firmly closed. In one
apartment a lawyer turned to his wife, his voice full of
foreboding.

'Louise. This reminds me of what I've read of the early
days of the Revolution in 1789. The prelude to the Reign of
Terror...'

In central France and towards the north rather different scenes were taking place. Farmers were working in the
night, hauling out of storage bales of hay. Their wives were
helping too - helping to carry the bales to open trucks
waiting to receive the loads.

DST officers were overseeing the operation. They were carefully listing the quantity and numbers of the bales, preparing records for future compensation by the government.

Many of the bales were ripped open once aboard a truck.
Once a vehicle was full, tough young farmers armed with
pitchforks jumped inside the truck, resting on the hay as the vehicle moved off to its pre-arranged destination.

Close to the main highways groups of petrol tankers were
parked in laagers. Often as many as half a dozen. The drivers
were content to sit in their cabs: they were being paid
full wages without the stress of driving their mammoth loads
through the night. Each driver had concealed in his cab a long
coiled stretch of hosepipe. And each man had been supplied
with a walkie-talkie and instructions by DST officers.