Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

'Thank you ...'

  She unfastened her seat belt quickly. His strong left hand wrapped itself round her neck, his right hand slipped under her coat, felt the dress, slipped under that. He'd released his own safety belt and was leaning over to her, pulling her towards him. She raised her right hand, free of the glove she'd slipped off, reached for his face with her hard nails.

  'Leave me alone or I'll mark you for life ...'

  'Gutsy? I like that in a girl.'

  His grip increased on the back of her neck. Her nails dug into his face without drawing blood. Suddenly her hand left his face, she rammed the point of her elbow against his Adam's apple. He spluttered, released the grip on her neck, his other hand sliding out from under her coat. Her left hand opened the door, her right grabbed the loose glove, she jumped out on to the mushy grass. She spoke quickly before slamming the door shut, her tone contemptuous.

  'Thank you so much for the lift, Mr Sanders. I won't be needing transport back...'

  Hurrying along the verge, she turned into the entrance to Admiralty House. Walking along the drive she saw the curtains were pulled back from an inviting living room well illuminated. Jean Burgoyne saw her coming, met her at the door.

  'Welcome to the Brigadier's den...'

  Paula went inside. She'd already decided not to say anything about the episode with Berthier. Later she would walk home. It wasn't all that far.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tweed found two car slots available up against the wall of the Brudenell when he arrived. Plenty of space to park Newman's large Mercedes. He collected his small case off the front passenger seat, the special walking stick devised for him by the Engine Room, got out into the icy night, locked the car, walked into the hotel.

  'Yes, Mr Tweed, we have a room reserved for you. The same room you occupied recently,' the receptionist assured him. 'And a number for you to phone urgently as soon as you arrive.'

  'Thank you. I'll make the call from my room...'

  Inside the large room with windows overlooking the front he threw his Burberry on to the bed. The North Sea was making more noise than it had last time. The windows were closed but he could hear the crash of countless tons of water against the promenade.

  Dumping his case on the floor, propping the stick by the wall, he opened the folded slip. Monica's number. Something had happened. He picked up the phone, dialled.

  Tweed here, Monica. I am speaking from my hotel room.' he said rapidly, warning her.

  'I understand.' A brief pause. 'The brand product was originally used in diving operations - from a North Sea oil rig. It was found to be defective - its use was discontinued under a cloud. Later it was used by bodyguards employed by two security firms. Again it was thought to be defective - nothing proved. It was then taken up by a firm of qualified accountants. Latest development, held in high regard by a firm at Dawlish Warren in Devon. End story.'

  'Thank you for doing such a good job.'

  'Don't go. There's more. Rather sensitive, could be urgent.'

  'Something affecting my business trip here ...?' Tweed was talking rapidly. He raised his voice suddenly. 'Operator! This is a bad line. Can you do something about it?' He listened for the click telling him someone was listening in. No click. His acute hearing waited for a sharp intake of breath. Nothing. No one was listening in. 'Go ahead, Monica.'

  'Lasalle called. He's worried.'

  'About what?'

  'His informant at Third Corps tells him Sergeant Rey has disappeared. Lasalle trunks it might be an ominous development.'

  'Lasalle is right.'

  'There's more. Corcoran phoned from Heathrow. Major Lamy flew in a few hours ago - just after you left. No doubt about it. Travelling as William Prendergast. You won't believe this.'

  'Try me.'

  'He left Heathrow in a hired car he drove himself, a Rover. On his way to Aldeburgh. I tracked him myself. That's all.'

  'It's enough.' Tweed said grimly. 'Thanks again. Don't hesitate to call me with any more news. Get some rest...'

  Tweed put down the phone, began pacing the room. Brand, Dawlish's right-hand man, had originally been a diver for an oil rig. It sounded as though he'd been mixed up in something shady. Sabotage? Later he'd been a bodyguard for two separate firms - and dismissed from both. Had he already become a spy for Dawlish? And Monica's reference to the tiny coastal resort of Dawlish Warren had been clever. She was telling him he'd moved from the two security firms straight into Dawlish's employ. The reference to qualified accountant was strange - it sounded as though ' Brand had been one, which meant he was far more than just a thug running other thugs. Tweed continued pacing, thinking about the Lasalle data.

  Sergeant Rey, de Forge's boobytrap specialist, had vanished from Third Corps GHQ. Where could Rey be? What mission might he be engaged on? Of course, he could be on leave. But Tweed didn't think so. De Forge wouldn't be sending anyone on leave now the momentum of his campaign was building up.

  Even more intriguing - possibly more ominous - Lamy secretly visiting Aldeburgh. That was another positive link between Suffolk and France. One Tweed didn't like at all.

  He decided he must find Paula at once. Throwing on his Burberry, picking up his walking stick, he left the room, avoided the elevator, ran down the staircase, went to Reception.

  'I'm looking for my friend, Paula Grey.' he told the girl behind the desk.

  'Oh, she drove off a little while ago. She is visiting someone in Aldeburgh.'

  'Go by herself?'

  'Yes

  'Do you know where she went? I have to get in touch with her urgently because of that phone message.' he improvised.

  'I'm sorry, I have no idea...'

  'Are Newman and Marler in the hotel?'

  'No.' The girl was surprised by the bombardment, by the sense of urgency Tweed generated. 'Mr Marler left to go back to London. Mr Newman is out for a walk.'

  'Thank you.'

  Tweed decided he'd do the job he'd come to do - to take his mind off his anxiety. He walked out of the back entrance, passed Newman's Merc, hurried across the car park on to the gravel road. He carried the stick in his right hand, a flashlight in his left hand. It was so dark he needed the beam to find his way.

  Tweed had total recall of important conversations. He was able to remember exactly the route Paula, Newman, and Rosewater had followed when the latter had unearthed the signet ring. Major Lamy's? Apparently.

  Passing an old shed set back from the gravel road he noted the sign. Boat Storage. He was close to where the path led down off the road on to the marshes. The powerful beam focused on a narrow footpath leading away from the road, down on to the marshes. This was it. He slithered agilely down it on to level, soggy ground. The wind blew his hair all over the place but he didn't notice: he was totally concentrating on following the same route.

  The beam showed him the footpath running parallel to the gravel road above. He walked rapidly, holding the stick as a soldier might hold a rifle midway along its length. He switched off the flashlight and stood still, waiting for his night vision to return. Ahead he saw the dark silhouette of a high bank. The dyke which ran alongside the harbour.

  Switching on the flashlight again he came to the point where the footpath forked - one fork leading back up to the road, the other up to the dyke. He paused. Easy to go wrong here. He climbed the path to the ridge of the dyke, saw where the footpath followed the crest of the dyke east. The harbour below it on his left, the marshes below him on his right. This was correct.

  He moved rapidly along the tricky path. Stopping for a moment, he swivelled his beam across the harbour, saw boats swathed in blue plastic covers like huge blue eggs. Their masts rocked wildly, then moved more slowly. The wind had dropped suddenly. He heard a strange noise. He changed his grip on the stick so he held it by the handle.

  The walking stick was a weapon. The tip was weighted. One blow could crack a man's skull. But there was more to it. Under the handle was a button. Press the button and a two-inch steel
spike projected. It was not a sword stick, but one jab and an attacker would be injured. It was not Tweed's habit to carry weapons but Aldeburgh was becoming a dangerous place - the marshes possibly even more dangerous. To retract the spike he only had to press the button a second time. Now he recognized the weird sound. The twanging of metal wires against the metal masts of boats. He walked on.

  He was aiming his flashlight down the slope to his left now. He must be near the place where the trio had discovered the relic of the craft where Karin Rosewater had died. The beam swept over a creek of stagnant water, swept back a fraction.

  The craft, staves showing like ribs of some animal, was lying upside down at the edge of the creek. This was where the signet ring had been discovered. Tweed made his way down the awkward slope, keeping his balance easily. He stood on a firm tuft of grass encircled with ooze, slowly played his torch over the area inch by inch. For a minute he crouched down, examining carefully the messy terrain. His gloved hand poked at the grass, felt its sogginess give way under his pressure.

  He sighed, stood up, scrambled back to the summit of the dyke. It had all been as he expected to find it - down to the last detail.

  Stooping against the wind which blew up suddenly with greater force he hurried back along the dyke, followed the same route back to the Brudenell. Inside, he made himself speak casually to the receptionist.

  'Has Miss Grey returned yet?'

  'Not yet.'

  Tweed returned to his room, full of foreboding.

  Jean Burgoyne was a lively hostess. Dressed in a form-fitting green dress, she also wore a wide belt round her slim waist. Her dress stopped just above her knees, revealing her shapely legs clad in dark green tights. Her long thick mane of golden hair glistened under the lights of the chandeliers in the living room. Quite a girl, Paula thought.

  She was seated in a comfortable armchair close to a blazing log fire. Jean sat in a hard-backed chair next to her, legs crossed, one high heel dangling. Both women were holding glasses of champagne.

  'Paula, this is my uncle, Brigadier Burgoyne.' she introduced as a man entered the room.

  The Brigadier was small, well-padded under his velvet smoking-jacket. His head was egg-shaped, bald on top with strands of white hair brushed carefully on either side. He had a ruddy complexion and looked more like a man in his mid sixties than eighty.

  'Pleased to meet you, Miss Grey,' he said formally, bending to shake her hand. 'Jean has told me quite a lot about you. But I can see with my own eyes you're a woman of resource. Like that...'

  He had walked briskly to a sideboard, pouring himself a glass of port from a decanter, when Paula asked the question. For a fraction of a second he stopped pouring - so briefly only Paula's sharp eyes caught it.

  'I understand, Brigadier, you were with Military Intelligence.'

  'Oh, all that's long behind me...' He glanced swiftly at Jean, switched his gaze to Paula, raised his glass. 'Your good health.' He sipped the port, remained standing by the sideboard.

  'You must miss that work.' Paula continued, determined to stay with the subject. 'Especially as there is so much scope for it now. France is a good example. We need to know exactly what is going on over there - at the Third Corps particularly.'

  The Brigadier stood quite still. His eyes blinked once. Like an owl. He looked rather like an owl, Paula was thinking.

  'I'm rather out of touch these days.' Burgoyne was looking vague, which he hadn't before. 'I wonder if you'd think me very rude if I went to my study upstairs? I've work on some legal papers which need my attention. Just came down to say how do you do. Hope you'll come back to see us again. Don't mind my absence. Jean stays up all hours...'

  He shuffled out of the room. A very different movement from the quick tread when he'd entered. You're acting, you sly old thing, Paula thought.

  'He tires quickly,' Jean explained. 'He liked you - I could tell.'

  'But you know Third Corps, don't you?'

  Jean drank the rest of her champagne quickly, offered more to Paula, who refused, then filled her own glass again. She pushed a wave of blonde hair back over her shoulder, watched Paula over the rim of her glass as she spoke.

  'You seem to be very well informed.'

  'Don't mind me, I'm a journalist. It's my job. And I promised - no interview.'

  'I do know General de Forge.' Jean said slowly after drinking more champagne. Her sleeve touched the ice bucket standing by her side. She jerked it away. 'It is cold.' She chuckled, a pleasant lilting sound. 'I regard him as a friend. Very dynamic, very stimulating. One of the most important men in Western Europe. Holds strong views, which is refreshing.'

  'On deporting all foreigners from France? Especially Algerians and Negroes?'

  'He has a lot of support for his views. Support which is growing by the hour.' Jean drank more champagne, refilled her glass. She was certainly knocking it back, Paula noted. 'Some people think de Forge is a second General de Gaulle.' Jean went on. Her tone was neutral.

  'Do you?' Paula asked.

  'De Gaulle was a great statesman. De Forge is only a soldier. How could he ever become a statesman?'

  'Maybe the first stage would be to create chaos.'

  Jean had long fair lashes. She studied Paula through them, her eyes half-closed. Reaching for a silver box, she raised the lid, took out a cigarette, lit it with a gold lighter she also took from the box. Paula hadn't seen her smoke before during their short acquaintance. Jean blew a smoke ring, spoke as she watched it float to the ceiling.

  'You really are a professional newshound to your fingertips.' she commented dreamily.

  There was no criticism, no irritation in her manner. It was a statement of fact. She stroked her cheekbone with the index finger of her left hand. Her bone structure was perfect. She really was a beautiful woman, Paula was thinking. The kind of woman who would drive a lot of men mad with desire.

  'I'm just interested in what is going on in the world.' Paula fenced.

  'You're right, of course. A lot is going on in France.' Jean seemed to be speaking in a trance. 'And no one can predict where it will all end.'

  'Where do you think it will end?'

  'At the gates of hell...'

  She chuckled again, but this time there was a bitter note. She switched the conversation to Aldeburgh.

  'Aldeburgh is rather unreal. Haven't you noticed? It's inhabited mostly by retired people - diplomats, soldiers like my uncle. They were brought here as children for their holidays by their parents. When they came home from abroad for good this was the only place they knew. There's nothing much in the way of jobs for youngsters. Except as shop assistants. Most of the work is in Ipswich, which is quite a distance. The other residents are second-homers. They've bought some of the houses on the front for summer visits ...'

  They chatted for quite a while longer. At one stage Jean left Paula alone for a few minutes to go to the bathroom. Paula lifted the lid of the cigarette box, took out the gold lighter. Engraved on it was the same symbol which was engraved on the signet ring Victor Rosewater had recovered on the marshes. The Cross of Lorraine ...

  'I'd better get back to the Brudenell.' Paula decided a little later. 'Thank you so much for such a relaxing evening.'

  'I'd like it to go on all night long. If you're ever near Bordeaux, phone this number. It's the Villa Forban. I'll come and collect you in the car.'

  She handed the sheet she'd scribbled on to Paula, escorted her to the front door. Opening it, Jean peered out.

  'It's a foul night. You have transport? If not I'll drive you...'

  'I have transport.' Paula lied.

  She wanted to walk back, to absorb impressions she'd stored up of the Brigadier, of her conversation with Jean. Muffled against the raw cold inside her suede coat, her head protected with her scarf, she walked down the drive, waved to Jean who stood in the doorway, turned to the right to walk back down the hill.

  She was treading her away across the damp grass verge when she heard something. She
was about to look back when a thick brown paper bag was shoved over her head, rammed down hard. A pair of large hands grasped her round the neck, swung her through a hundred and eighty degrees, so she faced her attacker. Strong thumbs pressed against her windpipe. She couldn't breathe.

  She might have panicked but her first reaction was that this was the bastard who had strangled Karin. She resisted the instinct to claw futilely at the lethal hands. She jerked her hands up to the bag, to roughly the point where it covered her mouth. Her hard nails tore furiously at the material. For a moment she thought it was too tough to penetrate. Then, as the hands tightened their grip, her finger nails ripped open a large slit. She clenched her fist, hit with all her force, as low down the body of the invisible man as she could, hoping for the kidneys. She heard a grunt. For a few seconds the hands loosened their grip. She opened her mouth, pressed to the hole, let out an ear-splitting scream.

  'A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-r-r-g-h...!'

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Paula was hurled backwards as she heard what sounded like the firing of a high-powered handgun four times in rapid succession. Fortunately she was still on the grass verge, but she lay there winded. She heard a fresh sound. A car's engine starting up. She made the effort, pulled the bag off her head, forced herself up on her elbows - in time to see the red tail-lights of a car retreating in the opposite direction she'd travelled when driven there by Berthier.