by Colin Forbes
'I know that Manteau isn't Kalmar,' Newman said flatly.
They all stared at him. Newman shrugged, rubbed one eye and spoke again.
'I didn't phrase that well. I was up half the night. I don't believe Manteau is Kalmar.'
'Why not?' Lasalle enquired, his tone soft.
'The modus operandi. Kalmar strangles his victims. Carey in Bordeaux at the Gare St Jean. Karin Rosewater in Aldeburgh. Manteau shot the Prefect.
'The assassin would have had trouble getting close enough to the Prefect to strangle him,' Tweed pointed out.
'As you learned from your SAS training, Bob, there's more than one way of killing - and men skilled with different techniques.'
Lasalle waved an impatient hand. 'There was also a witness to that hideous massacre of the Jews near Tarbes. He's waiting downstairs. I think you ought to meet him. The head of the discussion group. Moshe Stein...'
Moshe Stein was a heavily built man of medium height with a tough face and a gentle smile. Above his beaky nose, dark alert eyes took in everyone in the room. His thick black hair was neatly brushed back from a high forehead. He wore a well-pressed dark blue business suit and above the firm mouth was a bushy moustache. Lasalle introduced his other guests as 'members of a top security organization'. He spoke in English and as Stein responded in the same language he smiled warmly.
'Moshe Stein.' Lasalle explained, 'is the sole survivor of the Tarbes massacre.'
'I am afraid I am a coward,' Stein said to Paula, settling in his chair. 'I saw this horrific attack from our HQ, the chateau. Very old but very small. I realized I couldn't help - there were too many of the killers. I felt someone should live to tell the authorities. So I hid in a secret cellar. When they had gone I walked to the local station, took a train to where I could board the Paris Express. I feel ashamed and guilty.'
'Nonsense,' Paula said robustly. 'You did the sensible thing. You may even end up avenging your friends ...'
Stein talked in his quiet voice, recalling the arrival of the assault force. He thought they'd imitated the American Ku Klux Klan which, he understood, had revived in a small way in the deep South of the States. He looked at Newman.
'I'm going back to my small villa in the Landes. That is a beautiful area of France. Great forests of firs and pines spread a great distance until the Atlantic stops them. Even the beach is beautiful - great sand dunes rear up, concealing the endless cold blue water beyond.'
Paula thought Stein was rather poetic: as he spoke a dreamy look came over his weatherbeaten face. Again he looked at Newman.
'There is something mysterious going on in the Landes. You are a newspaper reporter. I thought we'd travel together. That is, if you think there may be a story.'
'I agree.' Newman said at once. 'Providing we can leave today. Also, providing we can call in at Arcachon.'
'We take the Paris-Bordeaux Express,' Stein suggested.
'Yes. But we must leave it at an intermediate station before Bordeaux. I have a reason. Trust me.'
'I do. I have been watching you. We could leave the express at Angouleme, hire a car, drive the rest of the way. First to Arcachon, then on to the Landes.'
Newman took out a map of France he'd brought with him, located Angouleme and agreed. He didn't say it was far enough north of Bordeaux not to have watchers.
'That was quick,' Lasalle said when the two men had left his office. 'Newman is decisive, Tweed.'
'Newman is pretty good at assessing character. Clearly he liked what he saw. We meet Navarre now? Good.'
'And I've decided I'm going to visit Jean Burgoyne at the Villa Forban,' Paula announced. 'She told me she was going back there before she drove me to the Brudenell from Admiralty House.'
'Wait here in Paris,' Tweed ordered. 'Phone Monica when you've got a hotel room, give her the name and address and phone number. If I decide to let you go you'll be accompanied - by Butler and Nield.'
'If you insist. Don't look so worried.'
'I am.' Tweed stood up as Lasalle checked his watch. They were due at the Ministry of the Interior. 'I am worried.' Tweed stressed. 'I'm convinced General de Forge is waiting for a trigger to set Europe ablaze. I just don't know what that trigger will be.'
Part Two Trigger of Death
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The President of France walked down the six steps which lead from the entrance to the Elysée Palace to the waiting motorcade in the courtyard.
He stepped into the rear of his Citroen as his chef de cabinet held open the door. Closing the door the chef ran round the rear of the vehicle to join the President. The chauffeur and armed guard in civilian clothes waited until both rear doors were closed, then slipped into the front.
There were eight Citroens comprising the motorcade drawn up in the courtyard behind the grille gates fronting on the rue du Faubourg St Honored The Prime Minister got quickly into the car behind the President's. Staff members and armed guards climbed into the other vehicles.
Uniformed armed guards carrying automatic weapons patrolled the street immediately outside the Elysée. Traffic had been diverted, in the distance curious crowds were held well back by uniformed police. At a signal the gates were opened, the President's limousine was driven out, proceeded at speed towards the Gare de Lyon with the rest of the motorcade streaming close behind.
Armed motorcycle outriders kept pace with the vehicles. Four more outriders formed a group ahead of the President's limousine. A further group of outriders brought up the rear behind the last vehicle.
The President held himself erect, knowing that despite the speed, residents of Paris were lining the pavements, gazing with excitement as the motorcade raced past them. Only when they were close to the Gare de Lyon did the President's driver slow down. He turned into the station, pulled up precisely alongside a red carpet leading to the presidential coach.
Stepping out of his car, the President inspected the guard of honour drawn up, uniforms immaculate. He nodded his approval to their commander, boarded the train. A white-coated steward, spotless, bowed, led the way to his armchair seat in the luxurious coach. Aware now that the permitted TV cameras were focused on him, the President, small and stocky, sat with his profile tilted at the correct angle. He took a leather folder handed to him by an aide and pretended to be reading a file.
The presidential coach was immediately behind the huge locomotive which would transport him to Lyons. The Train de Grande Vitesse, the pride of French Railways, sat in the Gare like a long sleek polished bullet.
When it had left Paris behind it would move like a bullet, travelling at speeds up to 150 m.p.h. There was a pause while the rest of the President's entourage boarded the express. The Prime Minister's coach was behind the President's and he also had a large entourage.
The rear coaches were reserved for the press, radio, and TV personnel. They would record the President's tour of devastated Lyons. His political aim was to show France how much he cared for the victims of the outrage.
There was no signal to warn of the TGV's departure. One moment it was standing in the Gare de Lyon, the next moment the magnificent train was gliding out into the cold sunlight of a bitter November day.
For the first time the President spoke to his chef de cabinet.
'Is everything arranged for my arrival at Lyons? I need a car for the first part of the tour.'
'A bulletproof limousine will be waiting at the station.'
'Later, I shall leave the car at an appropriate moment when the crowds are massed. I will walk and mingle with them, express sympathy, shake many hands ...'
'The chief of security was worried that might be what you intended. Lasalle has warned there is a professional assassin, Kalmar, operating. He has already killed at least two people. He would prefer you to remain in your car.'
'Lasalle fusses. The President of the French Republic must show himself to the people in their hour of need. That is what you will tell security...'
The President busied himself with state paper
s, rarely looking out of the window. The amount of paperwork which crossed his desk at the Elysée was formidable. He was paying close attention to detailed reports of the unrest in the south. He really had no idea how to placate the disturbing growth of terror.
In the open countryside farmers and workers heard the express coming. They paused to watch as it passed them in the distance. A blur of movement - incredible movement for a train. In the large cab of the locomotive an engineer checked his watch, looked at a colleague.
'We shall be there soon. Keep up maximum speed. The President will expect it...'
South of Roanne the line crossed a high viaduct spanning a river far below. The TGV was approaching at top speed as it neared the viaduct. This was normal procedure. The Chief Engineer peered through a window, saw the viaduct rushing towards him. He tucked a Gauloise between his thick lips, decided not to light it yet.
The locomotive reached the viaduct, began crossing it, hauling the coaches behind as though they were made of plastic. In the distance, not more than half a mile away, a large village was perched on a hill. France spread away...
The whole length of the TGV train was crossing the viaduct when the explosion occurred ahead of it near the end of the viaduct. A large stretch of track was hurled skywards. The TGV thundered forward, the wheels encountered the gap. The locomotive swept sideways, rammed the stone wall as though it were constructed of paper. The TGV continued its onward rush - into space. It shot forward like a torpedo, dragging the coaches with it. Then it curved downwards, plunging at hellish speed into the ravine. The locomotive swivelled in mid-air. The Chief Engineer bit clean through his unlit Gauloise. They found his decapitated head later, half the cigarette inside his mouth.
The locomotive hit the bottom of the ravine like a bomb detonating. A tumble of coaches smashed down on top of it, behind it, in front. No one survived in the President's coach. No one survived in the Prime Minister's coach. Many died instantly in the other coaches, some were terribly injured.
At the edge of the village a middle-aged man in tattered clothes had been waiting for the express, staring through a pair of old binoculars. He focused on the viaduct. The gap in the wall reminded him of a gap in a man's teeth.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
General de Forge's limousine pulled up outside the Villa Forban. He didn't wait for the chauffeur, he opened the door and dived out as soon as the car had stopped. He had the keys to the two locks on the front door in his hand, inserted them one by one, pushed open the heavy door, walked inside, slammed it behind him, and stopped.
'What are you doing here?'
Jean Burgoyne, wearing a green form-fitting sweater and a mini-skirt, pushed a wave of blond hair over her shoulder. She waved her shapely hands in a gesture of surprise.
'Aren't you glad to see me, Charles?'
'You didn't inform me you were coming back so soon,' he responded stiffly.
'You think I am your serf? That I should report all my movements to you?'
Her voice was soft and husky, showed no sign of annoyance. She took a gold cigarette case from her handbag, selected a cigarette, placed it between her lips, lit it with her gold lighter. The one engraved with the Cross of Lorraine.
De Forge strode up to her, snatched the cigarette out of her mouth, threw it on the polished wood-block floor.
'That will burn the nice flooring,' she remarked.
'So pick it up.'
'No, darling, you put it there, you pick it up.'
His lips tightened. He moved a few paces, crushed the burning cigarette under the heel of his riding boot. Jean was intrigued by his rage. She walked to one of the bullet-proof windows flanking the door, peered out. Only the chauffeur stood by the limousine.
'Where is your friend, Major Lamy? And your guard, Lieutenant Berthier? They always come with you.'
'I've told you before. Don't ask questions about military affairs.'
She made a moue. 'I'm only thinking of your protection. You do have enemies. Would you like some coffee?'
'Might as well...'
When she had disappeared he walked into the living room, paced restlessly. She had touched a raw nerve mentioning the two officers.
Much earlier Lamy had contacted Kalmar through the cut-out telephone the assassin used. A woman's voice had told Lamy which public phone box to go to, the time Kalmar would call the phone box number. So Lamy had reported, confirming that he'd passed on de Forge's new request. All this after Lamy had phoned their informant inside Lasalle's HQ at rue des Saussaies. Lamy had then driven to Bordeaux where he'd caught an early Air Inter flight to Lyons.
Berthier, as instructed, had been flown to Lyons aboard a Third Corps helicopter. Neither man knew of the other's movements. He continued pacing, checking his watch. He should get news by lunchtime.
Another thing which irked de Forge was finding Jean at the Villa Forban. In her assumed absence he had come there to search her possessions, to go through the place with a fine-tooth comb. He checked his watch again. Would it work - his masterstroke?
In his large office overlooking the courtyard and the Place Beauveau beyond, Pierre Navarre, Minister of the Interior, got down to business without any formality. Tweed was impressed by the drive and determination of the lean-faced dark-haired Frenchman. Formidable - as the French said.
'Your plan is working, Tweed,' Navarre began. 'As I imagine you already know.'
Navarre looked at Lasalle, raised his dark brows, and Lasalle nodded agreement. Three people sat in chairs arranged in a crescent round the Minister's desk. Paula sat to one side, Tweed faced Navarre across the desk, Lasalle occupied a chair on Tweed's right. Paula risked a question.
'Minister, why is France so suddenly in a ferment? I have always regarded your country as stable. Now we have riots, this horrible eruption of the Ku-Klux-Klan mob attacking the Jews.'
'A good question.' Navarre leaned forward in his chair behind the Louis-Quinze desk, his piercing dark eyes fixed on hers. 'Under the surface France is desperate to become itself again. Certain elements hanker for the time of de Gaulle - when France bestrode Europe like a colossus. The unification of Germany has increased this hankering. De Forge is exploiting this nostalgia to the full, putting himself forward as a new de Gaulle. It is naked ambition.'
'Surely he can't get away with it,' Paula persisted.
Navarre made a Gallic gesture, spreading his hands.
'I don't think he can. But he is cleverly appealing to this unspoken desire on the part of certain Frenchmen - for France to make a great impact on Europe, on the whole world later.'
'I'm still not sure.' Tweed intervened, 'why you've asked for my support.'
'Simple!' Navarre made the same gesture. 'We are submerged in the situation. So perhaps we do not see it as clearly as we should. You are insular - no criticism intended, rather the reverse. But you therefore see the crisis through detached eyes. What you have already suggested may confuse the enemy. General Charles de Forge.'
'I am fearful.' Tweed responded. 'I sense de Forge is just waiting for what I call the trigger. An event which will give him an excuse to act.'
'The President of France stands between de Forge and chaos.' Navarre replied in his rapid French. 'He may hesitate. He listens too closely to that poodle of de Forge's -Janin, the Minister of Defence. But the second riot in Lyons has, I know, stiffened the President's determination. And soon I expect another visitor who will give us the German point of view. Chief Inspector Otto Kuhlmann is flying here at my request. With the full authority of the Chancellor of Germany...'
General de Forge, an expert tactician, a man not liking to waste time, had decided he might as well take advantage of his visit to the Villa Forban he could no longer search. He went to the bathroom as Jean Burgoyne, clad only in a short slip, perched on the rumpled bed and slid on her tights.
She was again fully dressed when de Forge emerged, buttoning up his uniform. It seemed a good moment to chat to him as she brushed her mane of golden ha
ir.
'Who is really behind all these terrible riots, Charles?'
'How would I know?'
'Major Lamy should have been able to tell you. That is what Chiefs of Intelligence are for.'
'The French people are getting fed up with the foreigners who infest France, who take their jobs, who pollute the streets by their very presence.'
'And yet I saw a report in Le Monde that the so-called mobs operate with military precision. And if they were ordinary people why wear these Balaclavas? It seems to be very important not a single person is identified?'
'I suppose they're worried the police might be able to pick them up if they knew who they were.'
De Forge spoke in an off-hand manner as he studied his appearance in a wall mirror. Jean knew that manner, that tone of voice: he was covering up. He'd just enjoyed himself so maybe he'd talk.
'You haven't convinced me, Charles. And what about that horrible massacre of the Jews near Tarbes? The killers wore Ku-Klux-Klan robes. Again, masked men - and again the reporter they temporarily kidnapped to witness the horror used the phrase "an assult carried out with military precision".'
