Cross of Fire (83 page)

'Floor One.' Beaky-Nose replied. 'Now she's got five men
up there.' She smirked. 'If you see what I mean.'

Kalmar began to mount the stairs, pulling his helmet
back over his head. The moment he
heard her close the door
he slipped quietly back to the lobby, the skeleton key he'd
used to open the front door in his pocket.

He closed the outer door quietly. Again he couldn't credit
his luck. He had located where his target was staying. Paula Grey wouldn't have much longer to live.

Chapter Fifty-Three

The telephone van pulled up outside the apartment block.
Four men in boiler suits jumped out, walked to the front door. One of them had a bunch of keys in his hand. The third key fitted, he opened the door and went inside the lobby. A short heavily built man, he immediately spotted
the apartment door open a few inches, the beady eyes and beaky nose of the woman staring at them. He went to the
door.

'You want a good man, you old bag? Better still, a bad
one?'

'How dare you ...'

She slammed the door in his grinning face. They ran up the staircase and the second, slim man, knocked on the door of Isabelle's apartment. Newman opened it a crack, his right hand concealing his Smith & Wesson. He stared at the thin man in the boiler suit. Lasalle.

'Are you going to be like Old Nosy downstairs?' Lasalle
joked in English.

Newman let the four men in. Lasalle introduced his
companions as DST officers. They had blue pinheads stuck in their boiler suits. Lasalle smiled at the surprise on Paula's
face.

'I know what you're wondering. I've dispatched Martine
and Moshe Stein by air to Paris. Rey and the rest of the
thugs called soldiers are also on their way there for interrog
ation. We landed on the island in the
bassin
where a boat
was waiting to bring us ashore. The telephone van was
waiting. Precision organization. This town is crawling with
de Forge's troops.'

'Quite takes my breath away.' Paula said with a grin.

'Now, no time to waste. You have those papers taken off poor Jean Burgoyne's body?'

'Here in my bag. They appear to be notes of dispatches
outlining a military campaign. There you are.'

'Thank you.' He turned to Stahl. 'Kuhlmann told me you have vital information. Otto is in Paris where I go now.'

Stahl produced a small notebook from somewhere under his jacket. He handed it to Lasalle.

'I disguised myself as a DST officer.' he said in English. 'I
got inside GHQ, then inside de Forge's office. He had
rushed out during some emergency - leaving on his desk
the order of battle. For an attack on Paris. The notebook has the details.'

'Thank you. A remarkable feat. Kuhlmann - and others -will be relieved to lay their hands
on this.' Lasalle looked at Berthier. 'I am glad to see you escaped from de Forge. You have done wonders for your country. We can talk properly when you return to Paris.' His voice became casual. 'Is Isabelle about?'

'In the kitchen.' Newman said. 'I'll bring her out if that's what you want?'

'Please. A remarkable woman, from what you've told
me. Just tell her we are from the DST. But hurry!'

'First, this is Henri Bayle's notebook. Inside is a list of de Forge's units he identified in Bordeaux.' After handing over
the notebook for which Francis Carey had died, Newman
brought Isabelle out after she'd hastily whipped off her
apron. She had been preparing a pile of sandwiches. She shook hands with Lasalle. He gazed at her with a quizzical
expression Newman found odd. Then the DST team were
gone.

Berthier began speaking as they all sat round the large table, devouring the sandwiches. Isabelle frequently stood up with
the coffee pot to refill cups. Paula had tried to help her in
the kitchen but she had refused politely. Newman had told
the others they could trust Isabelle, had recalled how she
had accidentally killed two of de Forge's fake DST men -and had come with him on his dangerous mission to bring
out Stahl.

'I was working for Lasalle for many months.' Berthier
told them, 'once I realized de Forge was a menace to France.
As an Intelligence officer, working under Major Lamy, I pretended to de Forge that I was fooling Lasalle,
pretending
to work for the DST. If you follow my meaning. Lasalle
provided me with misleading information to hand on to
GHQ. He also gave me a listening device I could attach to
the wall of my office, next door to Lamy's. I overheard
many phone conversations. When I called Lasalle I used a public call box in different nearby villages.'

'So what went wrong?' Newman asked. 'They were going to shoot you on that beach.'

'Later on no one was allowed to leave barracks at GHQ. I made the mistake of using an internal phone to report
something vital to Lasalle. That bastard de Forge had had
all phones tapped. I was overheard. Captain Rey took
delight in telling me that on the beach.'

'But what were you doing in Aldeburgh.' Paula asked
him, 'posing as James Sanders, salesman of marine spares?'

'General de Forge sent me with a message to Lord
Dawlish. That is another evil man.' He looked at Newman.
'His only ambition is to establish close relations with the
French High Command so he can sell arms to certain middle
eastern countries. Especially those where arms sales are officially banned. That is my story.'

Newman looked at Paula who had left her seat to gaze
out of the window. It was the second time she had done so.

'What are you nervous about, Paula?'

'Shortly after we arrived I looked out of this window. A man on a motorcycle was riding
down the street. He wore a
helmet and was hunched over the handlebars. I am sure I
know that man. Something about his movements as he
turned the corner. It will come back to me.'

'Get on with your meal. Then I want to drive round
Arcachon. I have the feeling something important is about
to happen here.'

General Charles de Forge stood erect in the turret of his
tank. Before him on the vast parade ground at GHQ were drawn up line upon line of tanks of the Second Armoured
Division. Their commanders and crews stood at ease beside
their leviathans, gazing at the General as he began his
hypnotic speech.

'Soldiers of France! Zero hour is close! It is your duty to save the Republic from the corrupt politicians in Paris. Mob
rule is rampant in Toulon, in Marseilles, in Toulouse, in
Bordeaux itself, in Lyons, in half a dozen other cities. How
long before Paris collapses into chaos?

'Soldiers! Who is behind this anarchy? There are three
and a half million Arabs in France. Arabs! They have raped
our French women, have wrecked shops, have set fire to
French homes. The Jews are also rising - seeing their chance
to take control. Algerians! Go home to where you came
from! The slums of Africa, riddled with disease they bring
here.

'Soldiers,
you
will be the saviours of France! Hordes of
refugees threaten to overwhelm Europe from the East.
France must resume its rightful role. Only France has the
will to stem this tide of aliens. Are you ready?'

A storm of cheering broke out. A thunderous shouting of
men whipped to hysteria.

'De Forge to Paris! To Paris! De Forge to the Elysee!'

As the roar eventually began to die down a captain
turned to a lieutenant.

'What a great orator. He makes Dubois look like some
amateur...'

De Forge waved, acknowledged the acclamation. Jump
ing from his tank he marched swiftly along the front line,
shaking the hands of officers, of private soldiers. They were
ready.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Tweed had arrived in Arcachon. It was now December.

The Alouette which had brought him from Paris was
descending over the triangular-shaped
bassin -
prior to
landing on the beach at the tip of the lie aux Oiseaux, the
island north of Arcachon. A second Alouette was stationary on the sand. The flight had been timed for low tide. Tweed spoke to the pilot through his headset microphone.

'Could you please cruise over the front at a low altitude. I want to get my bearings.'

'What's the idea?' asked Fred Hamilton, sitting next to
him.

Back at Park Crescent Howard had insisted that Hamil
ton should accompany Tweed as bodyguard. Reluctantly,
Tweed had agreed.

The Alouette lost more height, changed course. It flew south almost to Cap-Ferret, located on the peninsula which blocked off the full fury of the Atlantic. A short distance
further south was the narrow entrance to the
bassin
from the
ocean - the entrance the
Steel Vulture
would have to pass through before berthing at the port.

'The idea,' Tweed said as the machine began to approach the front, 'is to see if I can recognize anyone.'

He had lifted a powerful pair of field-glasses and scanned
the front, the boats moored offshore. He adjusted the focus
on a man swabbing down the deck of a cabin cruiser. Victor
Rosewater. Always present at the new trouble spot.

Near the port he frowned, focused afresh. A man wearing
a naval cap was stepping ashore from a vessel, walking
towards a motorcycle. Dawlish's right-hand man. Brand.
Tweed had rather expected he would be in the area. His mouth tightened as he watched Brand exchange the naval
cap for a yellow helmet, start up his machine, riding away
from the shore into the town. He gave the pilot a fresh
order.

'Please follow that motorcycle - without him realizing
what we're doing if you can. Even if it means gaining some
altitude.'

The Alouette climbed a little higher. The pilot showed great skill keeping his target in sight from a distance. Using his field-glasses, Tweed was struck by the intricate network of streets making up the town.

Brand was threading his way in and out of the maze. He
seemed to have no particular destination. Then it dawned
on Tweed the rider was searching the town. Looking for
what? A few minutes later he saw the second motorcyclist.

He was riding down a street in a different part of the
town from Brand. Tweed adjusted the focus as the rider
turned into an alley, stopped, swung his machine round.
From the way he took off his helmet, stretched his neck, Tweed guessed he was taking a breather.

In a town like Arcachon a motorcycle was a good way to
get about but it seemed odd to spot two in such a short
space of time. Tweed adjusted the focus while the rider was stretching aching muscles. A familiar face jumped into his
lenses, a face Tweed recognized from one of the photos
Lasalle had shown him. The face of Major Lamy.