by Colin Forbes
Chapter Eight
At Arcachon, about thirty miles west of Bordeaux, the anchorage, triangular in shape, is almost entirely closed off from the fury of the Atlantic by a narrow peninsula which forms a barrier. The only entrance, to the south, is a narrow opening between the tip of the peninsula and an island.
Isabelle was well muffled against the piercing wind, clad in a heavy knee-length trench coat and a hood pulled over her head. By her side walked Newman, wearing the new clothes he had purchased at several local shops. He wore a black beret, a dark French overcoat, and training shoes. They walked past the Casino de la Plage and out on to the exposed promenade. It was deserted and the gale beat at them with full force. Isabelle pointed to a jetty.
'The Jetée d'Eyrac. That's where in summer the boats leave for Cap-Ferret. Further along to the east is the port. You can see the boats sheltering there.'
Newman stared into the distance where a forest of masts swayed drunkenly under the blast of the wind. The previous night Isabelle had guided him to a small hotel near the Gare, had then been driven to her sister's apartment behind the front.
'Do you have to leave today, Bob?' she asked wistfully.
'Definitely. There are things I have to find out. I rely on you to stay here until I contact you at your sister's. On no account go anywhere near Bordeaux.'
'If you say so.' She jutted her chin at the wind to show her disappointment. 'In summer you wouldn't recognize the place. Luxurious yachts from all over the world come here with their rich owners. There is even one strange ship with its hull cut in two.'
'Cut in two?' Newman was instantly alert. 'Can you describe it more clearly?'
'I don't know much about ships. All I can say is it's a big luxurious job.'
'Name?'
'No idea.'
'How often does it come in here?' Newman persisted.
'I don't know. But I can tell you that unlike most of the millionaire-type private ships it doesn't just arrive in the summer season. I've seen it heading for the port at various times of the year. Including now - in November.'
'And that's unusual?'
'Very. Millionaire yachts turn up here in the summer. There's the right atmosphere. Topless girls on the beach -sometimes bottomless, too. The Casino is booming. And the night club, the Etoile. I went there once at my sister's insistence. Never again.'
'What happened?'
'An English lord made a heavy pass at me. Wouldn't take no. Seemed to think every French girl was just dying to get laid by his Lordship. I should be able to remember his name.'
They moved closer inland as waves began to hurl themselves against the promenade, splashing spume over the wall. Their force was so great Newman could have sworn the promenade shuddered when a storm wave hit.
'It's not usually like this.' Isabelle commented. 'I think we ought to get back.'
'I'm going to my car now. I have to move on. Stay in Arcachon, Isabelle.' He decided to drive home his plea regardless of her feelings. 'Remember what happened to Henri in Bordeaux. And they know you exist.'
'Lord Dane Dawlish.' she said suddenly. 'That was the man who made a pass at me at the Etoile.'
Newman drove back to Bordeaux at speed under a sky heavy as lead. The low clouds scudded east like drifts of grey smoke. Before leaving his Arcachon hotel he had phoned the airport, booked a flight to Paris on his open ticket. He had also booked a flight from Paris to Heathrow. First, he'd call at the Pullman Hotel to pick up his case. He wasn't worried about the old second-hand case he'd left at the pension: also he had paid for his miserable room for a fortnight in advance.
He was approaching the Gare St Jean when he ran into a traffic jam. Vehicles, bumper to bumper, were not moving. He checked his watch. Reasonable time yet to catch his Air Inter flight to Paris. The driver of a car next to him leaned out of his window to speak to Newman.
Don't go into the centre. A lot of trouble there.'
'What kind of trouble?'
The traffic was moving before the other driver could reply. Newman shrugged. Trouble was becoming a way of life in France. He had passed the Place de la Victoire when he saw there was no traffic ahead. Instead the street was filled with a sinister-looking mob. He swung his wheel, drove down a side street and parked his Citroen well away from the main street.
Locking the Citroen, he ran back the way he had come, peered out, saw the mob seemed even larger. A sign advertised a bar on the first floor. He ran up the steps, entered a crowded room, ordered a Pernod to have a glass in his hand, slithered between men and women chattering excitedly until he reached a window overlooking the main street.
Below a mob of Balaclava-masked men waving clubs and bottles were shouting slogans. Pour France ... Pour France ... Pour France? Oui!... Juif? Non!!!
The inflammatory chant went on. For France? Yes. The Jew? No!!! Holding his glass, Newman went on watching. He had the distinct impression the chant was organized. The riot became more savage. Men stormed into a restaurant, tore down the lace curtains, upturned chairs with customers, throwing them to the floor. Men and women: it made no difference. Terror was loose on the streets.
Having wrecked the interior the rioters flooded out, seeking a fresh target. One man with an aerosol paint canister sprayed a word across the window from the street. In huge red letters the word Juif! disfigured the glass. On the fascia above was the owner's name. Bronstein.
Newman estimated over two hundred Balaclava-masked men were prowling the street when he saw the CRS van stop further up the street. The paramilitary had arrived to quell the berserk mob. Berserk? What followed was extraordinary.
The apparently wild mob moved into a series of separate units. Somewhere a bell like a strident alarm was bellowing its clangour non-stop. A warning? A signal? Instead of retreating, units of the mob ran towards the van where CRS men clad in black coats and visored helmets were emerging with clubs. Seven men in the mob produced stubby wide-barrelled pistols, aimed at the van.
The CRS troops were about to advance when the projectiles from the pistols hit the cobbles in front of them, sending up clouds of tear gas. The CRS men stumbled, coughing, some ramming their hands to their injured eyes. A second unit, also armed with similar pistols, aimed for the no man's land of deserted street between the CRS and the mob. More projectiles hit the area accurately. Black smoke billowed. Smoke bombs.
Below the bar inside which Newman stood a TV man with a camera was grabbed by two men, held as a third took the camera he hadn't yet used. The lens was aimed away from the mob, swivelled slowly across the wreck of shops, restaurants, bars. No pictures of the mob.
When he had finished using the camera, one of the thugs holding the TV cameraman dubbed the back of his head. The TV reporter was perched on the edge of the kerb. He slumped into the gutter. The camera was dumped into his lap.
The strident alarm bell had stopped ringing. The mob moved in ordered groups, like troops on an exercise, some vanishing down side streets. Others climbed inside large tradesmen's vans which had appeared from the direction of the Gare St Jean. The vehicles sped out of the area.
Suddenly the street was deserted. The CRS men, recovering from the tear gas onslaught, appeared through the curtain of smoke to find their targets gone. Newman opened the window cautiously, heard the boots of the CRS trampling across heaps of shattered glass. It looked like the aftermath of a battlefield.
There was a hush inside the bar as Newman sidled his way through the crowd, ran down the steps before the CRS arrived. He continued running up the side street, reached his Citroen, unlocked it, dived inside, drove away from the main street, heading for the airport.
*
He had intended calling at the Pullman Hotel to collect his few belongings. Now he decided to forget it. His one aim was to leave Bordeaux alive.
He doubted whether this was the only riot which was in full swing in the city. What he had seen had all the hallmarks of a carefully organized campaign of terror. Objectives: to scare the population wi
tless. To demoralize them into a state where they would welcome any force which could bring strong government, law and order. Anything which would allow them to live their normal lives in peace. It was a diabolical strategy.
He approached the airport cautiously, certain there would be watchers - even phoney DST men. And they'd probably have the registration number of his Citroen, which had to be handed back to car hire. Slowing down, he let traffic catch up with him. As he drove into the airport a queue of cars was ahead of him, disgorging passengers. Newman switched off, took out the keys, looked round.
Close by, a man in uniform stood waiting by an empty limousine. His cap band carried the name of a hotel. Newman reached for his case, climbed out, approached the chauffeur, speaking rapidly, a five-hundred franc note between his fingers.
'Excuse me, can you help? I'm going to miss my Lyons flight. I have to hand in that Citroen to the car hire people up there. Could you hand it in for me?' He winked. 'Trouble is I have the most accommodating girl waiting for me. She won't wait for the next flight...'
'What about payment?' the chauffeur demanded, eyeing the banknote.
'Nothing to pay. Paid in advance as usual...'
'Petrol?'
'I've used a lot less than I've already paid for.'
Newman extended the folded note.
'It's a lot but the smallest I've got. And what is waiting for me in Lyons is worth it.'
'My pleasure, sir...'
The banknote vanished inside the chauffeur's clothing. He ran to the Citroen and Newman hurried into the airport, then slowed down. Two men in trenchcoats with hats stood erect by a caf6. Stood too erect, more a military stance. With his beret pulled well down, Newman strolled to the counter, had his ticket verified, left his case at the check-in counter, walked to the departure point for his Paris flight.
He only relaxed when the Air Inter machine took off. And he had no intention of lingering in Paris. A flight straight back to London at the earliest possible moment. As the ground receded, a flat plain of green and grey segments, he hoped to God Isabella would be safe in Arcachon.
Chapter Nine
The Paris headquarters of French counter-espionage - the DST - is located in an obscure side street few tourists ever notice. This is despite the fact that the rue des Saussaies, a narrow winding street off the rue du Faubourg St Honore, is close to the Elysée Palace, residence of the President of France.
The entrance is a stone archway leading to a cobbled yard with only two uniformed policemen giving a clue that this building is the key to the protection of the French Republic.
Tweed and Paula were seated in the cramped office of the chief of the DST, who was standing while he poured coffee. René Lasalle was a tall, heavily-built man in his forties. A dynamo of energy, he placed the cups in front of his guests, darted round his desk to sit behind it. He studied Tweed from under thick brows through horn-rimmed spectacles, his eyes alert and quick-moving. 'A man for all seasons.' Tweed had once described him, 'and especially in a major crisis.'
'I'm glad you brought Paula with you,' Lasalle began. He gave her a half-smile. 'An experienced woman can detect something vital a man might miss.'
'What is the situation?' asked Tweed, determined to hear his host's comments before he made any of his own.
'Critical. Soon to be catastrophic. For France - and maybe for the whole of Europe.'
'You're not usually so melodramatic.'
'First tell me where you two have been.' Lasalle suggested.
'Geneva, then Basle. From Basle straight here.'
'So Robert Newman is operating on his own in Bordeaux.'
Tweed was rarely taken aback. Even now his expression gave nothing away. Paula was equally staggered and tried to keep her own expression neutral as she crossed her shapely legs.
'Is Newman all right?' Tweed asked quietly.
T would say he is now. Two of my men spotted him as he boarded a plane at Bordeaux airport for Paris...'
He excused himself as the phone rang. Listening for a moment he said, 'Merci,' and replaced the receiver.
'Newman is moving fast. I sent men to meet his aircraft here at Orly. He took a cab to Charles de Gaulle Airport and is aboard a flight for London.'
'You said now a few moments ago, referring to Newman. Why?' asked Tweed.
'When he arrived at Bordeaux Airport he was dressed like a Frenchman. My operative who spotted Newman had once met him. His clothing suggests to my suspicious mind he was evading pursuit by someone. Possible?'
'He flew to Bordeaux with a commission from the German news magazine, Der Spiegel. To interview General Charles de Forge.'
Lasalle raised his eyebrows. 'Our Mr Newman is a brave man. France is about to experience an earthquake. And I'm convinced the man organizing it is General Charles de Forge, who sees himself as the new de Gaulle. I would say a pseudo-de Gaulle.'
'Can you explain that in more detail?' Tweed asked. 'And did you find out why my agent, operating under the name Henri Bayle, was arrested by the DST?'
'One question at a time, please. Excuse me...' He answered the phone again, then spoke rapidly in French. Paula got the gist of it. Lasalle was ordering a new team of twenty DST men to leave for Bordeaux at once.
'You're reinforcing your people in Bordeaux,' Paula commented. 'Sorry if I sound interfering, but I couldn't help hearing what you said.'
Lasalle smiled at her. 'Of course, the pressure is such I'd forgotten for a moment your French is better than my English.'
'Nothing wrong with your English. Again, my apologies.'
'Not necessary.' Lasalle waved his hands. 'Now your questions, Tweed. First, when Bayle was taken from the Bar Miami and later murdered at the Gare St Jean there was not one single genuine DST operative in the Bordeaux area. I should know - I'm aware of the location of every DST man under my command. The men who took Bayle were impersonators.' A bite came into his normally soft tone. 'I do not find that amusing - which is one reason why I am flooding that city with my men.'
'And the other reason?' Tweed enquired.
'May I come to that later. I have been in touch myself with the Prefect of Bordeaux. The police there have come up with nothing so far. But he told me a curious story. He had an anonymous phone call. It reported a Berliet truck of the type used by the CRS would be found at the bottom of a gorge well outside Bordeaux. With bodies inside. A rough indication of the location was given by the caller.'
'Curious, as you say,' Tweed agreed. 'They found it?'
'No! No truck, no bodies. But they located the bridge described...' He arched his hand in a hump-back. 'The police found the bridge, partly collapsed and one wall in the gorge.' He paused. They also found traces of a very heavy tracked vehicle. The type of vehicle used by the Army. To be specific, by the Engineering Section of the Third Corps. Only such a machine would be able to lift and transport away a Berliet truck.'
'You're checking with General de Forge?' Tweed pressed.
'Why? I have no solid evidence. No witnesses. So it becomes merely another mysterious incident added to my dossier on de Forge.' He looked at Paula. 'Another fact in that dossier is the existence of de Forge's English mistress at the Villa Forban near Third Corps' GHQ. A Jean Burgoyne. Comes from some nowhere place I'd never heard of in East Anglia.' He checked the dossier. 'Here it is - Aldeburgh.'
Paula forced herself not to stiffen. She began reciting a catalogue of facts.
'Jean Burgoyne. A blonde beauty. Comes from landed gentry in Lincolnshire. Walked out of the London season because she said "London society is such a bloody bore." I quote her. Reputed to have a very high IQ. A bit wild and independent-minded. Likes adventurous living.'
'The Villa Forban.' Lasalle repeated. 'Owned by de Forge, used as a secret hideaway for meetings with the infamous Cercle Noir.'
'What's that?' Tweed enquired. 'And it sounds to me you have an informant planted in de Forge's camp.'
'Did I say so?' Lasalle raised his eyebrows. 'Now, we will take some
lunch at a Swiss restaurant near the edge of the Place de la Madeleine. Afterwards I will tell you about the Black Circle...'
In her bedroom at the Villa Forban Jean Burgoyne sat in front of her dressing table, clad in only a silk dressing gown, unbelted at her slim waist. De Forge, she guessed, was about to engage in some frenetic activity.
It was only midday and his second visit to her bed in twelve hours - always a sign that something big was under way. It was as though he felt the need for her in times of crisis. On a drum table by the window lay his leather dispatch case.
De Forge emerged from the shower, completed towelling his lean frame. He dressed quickly in his uniform and then his eyes fell on the dispatch case. He froze for a second, then completed his dressing.
Normally he handed the dispatch case to Major Lamy before entering the villa. But it had started snowing when he arrived this time and he'd hurried inside, depositing the case on the table. He walked slowly to the dressing table, his hypnotic eyes staring at hers in the mirror. She ignored his gaze after a second, continued applying face cream. His hands gripped her shoulders, slithered the gown off them, exposing her well-rounded breasts as the cloth slipped to her lap.
'Not again, Charles,' she said in her slightly husky voice. 'Time you went. And I'm flying home for a few days in England. Today.'
The grip on her shapely shoulders tightened. Jean never showed any fear of de Forge, a quality she suspected added to her attraction for him. His voice was dangerously quiet.
'I left my dispatch case on the table over there. It is not exactly in the position I.left it. I have an eye for detail...'
