Cross of Fire (86 page)

'Now for Masson.' Lasalle decided, jumping up.

'Before that how did you know about this tape recorder?' Tweed asked. 'You installed it yourself?'

'It was Jean Burgoyne's idea. A wire runs from the
recorder under the carpet here.' Lasalle went to the wall
adjoining the room where the
Cerde Noir
had always met. He pulled aside an escritoire. 'One of my technicians drilled
a hole in the wall. A small powerful microphone was
inserted - voice-activated. It picks up everything said in
there. Jean always knew when they'd be meeting - de Forge
would invent an excuse for her not to be here during the
evening. She put on a fresh tape. Later she sent the tapes to
me. One reason why I knew so much. Bless her. I came here
earlier today with a new tape. Now for Masson...'

They entered the living room where Masson sat gazing
at the wall. Lasalle drew up a chair, facing the general.

'You have two options. Proposed by Navarre. You will
be guarded night and day in Paris - a rumour will be spread
that
Manteau
has said he is going to kill you. You keep your
present post until this problem is settled. You make only public statements sanctioned by Navarre. Later you retire -for reasons of ill health - on a full pension.'

Lasalle paused. He stared at Masson who gazed back
with an icy expression.

'The other option.' Lasalle continued, 'is public disgrace, a court martial, maybe even a prison sentence.'

'I will co-operate.' Masson said immediately.

There was a strange gleam in his eyes. Lasalle smiled to
himself: Masson had fallen for it. He was banking on de
Forge winning. When Masson had been escorted from the room Lasalle turned to Tweed and Newman.

'Janin will be offered the same terms. He will accept. We are gambling. Nothing is solved. A great pity de Forge was able to escape. He will move fast. The final crisis is imminent. You had better fly back with me to Paris. Navarre has agreed to the laying of old mines.'

'Not yet.' said Tweed. 'We are staying in Arcachon for
the moment. I want to see what Dawlish does. And I'd say
now is the time for Kuhlmann to round up
Siegfried -
before
they break loose.'

Kuhlmann's dragnet - spread out all over Germany - struck
at 1 a.m. the following morning. Police units stormed into
addresses in Hamburg, Frankfurt, Munich, and many other cities. The addresses supplied by Helmut Schneider, Rosewater's informant.

They surprised the
Siegfried
organization everywhere. By
3 a.m. in Paris Kuhlmann had received reports of several
hundred pounds of Semtex, bombs with timer devices, large
numbers of rocket launchers, and an armoury of weapons
being seized.

'Enough to start a small war.' he remarked to Lasalle
who had returned to Paris.

'And the men who were going to use this equipment?'

'Mostly from Alsace. Presumably because they can speak
some German down there. Even members of a crank move
ment which wanted Alsace taken over by Germany. The media has no idea of what happened. A model operation.'

'Austerlitz in Paris will be different.' Lasalle commented
grimly.

The
Steel Vulture
had sailed from Dunwich as soon as it was
dark. Instead of riding the rollers in Biscay the twin hulls sliced through the waves like a knife through butter.

Dawlish was on the bridge as Santos - for the umpteenth time - checked the sophisticated radar himself. No sign of any vessel ahead. Earlier he had briefly registered aircraft flying out from the French coast but they had turned away, mere blips a long way off.

The
Vulture,
on Dawlish's direct orders, was completing
its great sweep across the Atlantic without navigation lights.
Santos had expressed reservations.

'I have never sailed without them before.'

'So it's time you learned to live dangerously.' Dawlish
had snapped. 'We have radar. Best in the world.'

'No radar is foolproof...'

'Then make sure no fool is using it. Check yourself. That is what a skipper is for. No more crap. That is, if you want
that promised bonus ...'

Santos had shrugged. And he did want that large tax-free bonus paid in cash. Now they were approaching Arcachon
and the first blood-red streaks of dawn were splashed across
the eastern sky. Santos stood alongside Dawlish on the
bridge when the wireless operator dashed up the compan
ionway. He looked scared out of his wits, was waving a
piece of paper.

'Captain! I've just received this signal from the shore.
There are old wartime mines which have appeared! We are
ordered to turn round immediately before it is too late.'

'My God ...!' began Santos.

'Bluff.' Dawlish barked. 'Sheer bluff. Mines, my foot. It's
a Navarre trick. Maintain your present course ...'

'But if they are right...' Santos began again.

'I said
maintain your present course,
damn you!'

Aboard
L'Orage V
the tall DST officer they had met when they arrived on the vessel stood crouched over a powerful transceiver. Crowded behind him were Tweed, Newman, Paula and the others. The DST man looked at Tweed. 'They've sent the warning signal repeatedly. No reply.' 'And there won't be.' Tweed replied. 'I know Dawlish. He will try to bring in the
Vulture.
He'll think it's just a trick. Nothing gets in the way of Dawlish. I'm going to take a look...'

With binoculars looped round his neck he ran up the
companionway. On deck he climbed to the roof of the
wheelhouse, then mounted the ladder alongside the radar
mast. Below, Paula watched anxiously: Tweed had been known to suffer from vertigo.

Perched at the top of the mast, Tweed could see beyond the entrance to the
bassin
the
Vulture
cutting through the waves with its twin hulls. He kept the night glasses pressed to his eyes. It really was an amazing vessel. Could it, with
the luck the wicked so often possessed, dodge the mines
and make its owner's landfall?

Dawlish walked to the port side of the bridge. He stared down. A metal sphere with protruding prongs was drifting
a yard or so away from the hull. He left the bridge, ran to
the small aircraft aft of the bridge where a pilot was always at the controls.

Climbing the ladder to the inside of the machine, he
shouted his order. At the same time he pressed the button
which automatically retracted the ladder, slammed the door
shut.

'Lift off! Get this bloody toy in the air before we are
blown to pieces. Course? I'll tell you later. Get her up now, for Christ's sake!'

Watching through his glasses, Tweed saw the
Vulture
slowing down prior to entering the
bassin.
He pursed his lips. It looked as though Dawlish was going to make it. Nerve gas in the hands of a man like de Forge. The mere threat would clear the way straight into Paris.

Then he saw the small aircraft appear, jumping clear off the deck, climbing vertically, and he guessed Dawlish was escaping. One hundred feet up, the machine hovered above the vessel below, ready to fly away.

Seconds later the
Vulture
detonated the mine. There was
a dull thudding
b-o-o-m!
which echoed round the
bassin.
An
immense geyser of water rocketed upwards to a great
height, carrying with it huge chunks of metal debris. It
enveloped the hovering aircraft, which briefly vanished in the dense spray cloud. The geyser sank back. The aircraft
sank with the geyser, toppling with a slow windmilling
motion. Below, one of the twin hulls split off, skidding
across the ocean surface. The other hull went down like a
high-speed elevator. As the tumbling aircraft hit the deck
the vessel fragmented. Massive pieces of the hull and bridge
were hurled out to sea. There was an ear-splitting dull roar as the
relics of the
Vulture
dived beneath the waves. The missiles had exploded. A new eruption of water soared upwards, a gigantic fountain infested with the wreckage of
what had been one of the most advanced vessels in the
world. Tweed consoled himself with the knowledge that
nerve gas would swiftly disperse in the ocean, would
become harmless. He braced himself and the Shockwave shook the mast. Then silence. He climbed down, looked at
his team.

'Dawlish is no more. The weapon delivery is destroyed. I
don't think for a minute this will stop de Forge.'

Chapter Fifty-Six

Marler had received his fresh instructions before Tweed had
left Paris for Arcachon. For the first time he was not travel
ling Air Inter. He had waited for hours in the cabin of an
Alouette parked on a small airfield outside Paris.

In the seat beside him rested his large holdall containing his Armalite rifle and sniperscope. He ate the meals brought
to him by a girl who said little. Between meals he dozed
quite a lot of the time. But when the pilot came to shake
him awake he was instantly alert.

'News?' he asked abruptly.

'They're on the move. All hell has broken out in the
streets of Paris. We're flying south now...'

All hell had broken loose in the streets of Paris. But the hell
was being endured by the saboteurs infiltrated into the city
and activated by Austerlitz.

A group wearing Balaclavas threw open the rear doors
of a furniture van parked close to the main telephone
exchange and spilled out gripping automatic weapons. As
they approached the entrance other men clad in Balaclavas swarmed round them carrying rifles.

The leader of the attackers, bent on capturing the com
munications centre, was confused. Were these reinforce
ments he hadn't been told about? He was making up his
mind when a rifle butt descended on the back of his head
and he slumped to the ground.

With no leader, his troops were even more confused. The
next surprise was when tear gas shells burst at their feet.
None of the saboteurs noticed that the newcomers in Balaclavas wore a thin green band on their right arms.

The battle for the exchange was brief and rough. The CRS
paramilitary troops - able to distinguish friend from foe by
the green armbands - rounded up the Austerlitz attackers.
They were bundled into waiting Berliet trucks hidden in
side streets. Many of the defeated were carried aboard
unconscious. The whole counter operation lasted exactly
five minutes.

Similar scenes were taking place all over Paris. Lasalle
had skilfully predicted the likely targets, had distributed
CRS men disguised in Balaclavas close to every key
objective.