by Colin Forbes
The roundabout route took a long time and it was early morning but still dark as they entered the city. Newman drove in from the direction of Bergerac along the N136. They had seen large numbers of mechanized vehicles manoeuvring in the distance but had encountered no trouble so far.
'We are approaching the Pont de Pierre,' Isabelle warned him. 'That is where there could be a checkpoint.'
She proved to be right. Coming up to the bridge over the river Garonne, Newman saw in his headlights troops with automatic weapons standing in the road. Behind them a wooden barrier with gates barred the way. His headlights were blurred in a mist rising off the river.
'Get ready to go into our act,' he reminded her.
With the white scarf concealing her hair and draped over her shoulders, she snuggled up close to him, holding a bottle of wine in her hand. Newman lowered his window and with her free hand she lowered hers. Newman stopped the car, left the engine running, grabbed a bottle of wine and began rolling in his seat as troops crowded in round the vehicle. In a drunken voice Newman began singing the Marseillaise.
'The new Beaujolais.' he shouted and tossed a bottle out of the window.
He had thrown it over the heads of the troops near the car and there was a mad scramble as one soldier caught it in mid-air. Newman was again singing and the refrain was taken up by the soldiers who a moment earlier had been shivering in the icy mist, bored to tears with the task of manning the checkpoint.
Isabelle threw her bottle. She flashed a smile at the men near her. They stared at her lecherously and then jostled to grab the bottle. She picked up another as Newman hurled a fresh one well clear of the car.
'The new Beaujolais!' he roared in drunken tones.
'It's a bit late in the season this year.' Isabelle whispered and giggled nervously.
Newman threw another bottle, repeating the well-known slogan and Isabelle hurled a bottle from her side. The troops were standing further back to have a chance of catching the bottles. Newman, grinning drunkenly, began honking his horn for them to remove the barrier so he could drive on.
'We're in a hurry,' he shouted good-humouredly.
'You won't be a virgin much longer,' a soldier shouted at Isabelle.
'Obscene lout,' she muttered, smiled, threw out another bottle.
Newman kept his hand on the horn, leaned out of the window, hurled a bottle at a soldier close to the gates. The soldier caught it in mid-air. Several soldiers were already drinking the wine, passing bottles round. The soldier close to the gate opened it, waved them on, bottle in his his hand. Newman grinned, saluted, sped across the bridge to the far side and Isabelle guided him through side streets.
He began to recognize where he was - in the vicinity of the Meriadeck office and shopping complex. A concrete horror which was more like a fortress. He checked his rear-view mirror and saw an Army jeep with four soldiers following him. He told Isabelle. Then told her the mist had blotted it out.
Turn right!' she said.
He swung into a narrow side street. In the murk Bordeaux looked even more dreadful. Wrecks of old buildings, with Cinzano posters on the end walls, smeared with grime and peeling at the edges. Again he had the impression of a city which had been bombed.
'Turn left quickly!'
He found himself in a narrow street with battered cars parked on both pavements. Isabelle was leaning forward staring through the gloom. Newman looked in the mirror. No sign of the jeep.
'Grab that slot! We're nearly there.'
Newman swung the Renault on to the pavement, swivelled the wheel, crawling, straightened up an inch from the car parked in front. He backed a few inches, stopped, switched off the engine. Even in London no one would have regarded the space he occupied as a feasible slot.
He'd noticed the Citroen backing down the street towards him as he'd swung in so swiftly. The car stopped as he stepped out and nearly slipped on a patch of solid ice. The air on his face was cold as the Arctic. A smartly dressed woman jumped out of the Citroen, came up to him, her face distorted with fury.
'That was my slot. Didn't you see me backing? I want that slot,' she raved.
Newman reopened his door, reached in, brought out the only vintage bottle of Beaujolais. He bowed, presented it to her with a flourish.
'We've just got married. A present to celebrate our happiness. Please.'
She grabbed the bottle, turned it round, peered at the vintage. Glancing at Isabelle who stood on the pavement, she tossed her head.
'I suppose it is some compensation. God knows where I'll get another slot. The bloody troops have surrounded a building just up the street. Their jeeps have five slots. It's disgusting...'
Without a word of thanks she returned to her car, backed it past the Renault. The vehicle disappeared into grey mist. Newman looked at Isabelle, spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.
'I thought it best to keep her quiet.'
'She'll keep quiet, the greedy harridan. While she was telling you about the troops I saw the gleam in her eye. It was the vintage, wasn't it?'
'Yes. And she may have done us a favour. I don't like the sound of those troops surrounding a building. How far is it to the passage?'
'About a hundred yards further along this street.'
Newman put his arm round her and they walked slowly, more interested in each other apparently than where they were going. He thanked God he'd taken the precaution. As the mist drifted away they saw ahead the military jeeps parked either side of the street on the pavements. Two cars, which had presumably occupied slots the Army needed, lay on their sides in the middle of the street.
Newman sidled them into the deep alcove of a doorway. On both sides troops with automatic weapons were stationed. All were staring at the building on the same side as Newman and Isabelle. A familiar figure was crouched by the entrance, packing something against the base of the door. Newman recognized the evil gnome-like Sergeant Rey.
'Could that be the building we're going to?' he asked Isabella.
'Yes, it is. The Passage Emile Zola is just a few yards from here. It runs down the side of the building.'
'The troops are preparing to assault it. De Forge's booby-trap expert is packing what I imagine is explosive by the door to blow it open.'
'We've arrived in the nick of time.'
'Or just too late.' Newman replied, thinking of the poor devil, Stahl, holed up inside.
Chapter Forty-Four
Tweed took the call from Paula in his office at the Ministry of the Interior. His first concern was to ask whether it was a safe line.
'Quite safe.' she assured him. 'I've taken precautions. I've had time to think about your request for me to return to see you.'
'I'm listening,' Tweed coaxed her when she paused.
'I've read certain documents Jean Burgoyne was carrying. I think I should bring them to you at once aboard the chopper Lasalle is sending. Jean risked her life -' she gulped - 'lost her life to get these to me. And they're really important. That's one thing.'
'And the other?' Tweed enquired concealing his relief.
'I think it's awful the way Jean is lying out you know where. Out in the cold and the damp. I know it doesn't make any difference to her...'
'Stop worrying.' Tweed interjected. 'A team of DST men was dispatched by Lasalle from Bordeaux to take her away, fly the body back to Paris. The machine bringing her is already in the air.'
'Thank God. There's one more thing.'
'Which is?'
'I'm only returning to Paris on the understanding I can come back here very quickly. You know who I have to locate.'
Kalmar, Tweed thought. He was careful not to tell her Lasalle was very upset about the murder of Burgoyne. He was thinking quickly about her request.
'I agree to your suggestion.' he decided.
'And the condition laid down?'
'The request you made.' Tweed corrected her.
'Of course, I'm sorry. It was a request.'
'I agree.'
/> 'And that DST team.' she persisted. 'They did know where to find her?'
'Newman was very specific when he phoned me earlier. About the location. I repeat, she is already in mid-air. We look forward to seeing you. Now please put Butler on the line...'
He had put down the phone when Kuhlmann came into the office. In his hand he held a folded fax sheet. He handed it over to Tweed.
'Just came in from Wiesbaden. You were right. Damn it, you always are.'
At the Atlantique they had devised a simple system of making sure the duty clerk - who also handled the small switchboard - didn't listen in while someone was making a call. Nield had made friends with the day and night clerks.
Both smoked. The day clerk favoured Gitanes, the night man Gauloises. Nield always had a spare pack to give them, plus an onerous tip for services like sending up sandwiches and coffee.
He made it a habit to stroll down and engage them in Conversation whenever a call was being made. So they wouldn't suspect his intention he also stopped by for a chat when no call was being made.
When Butler had finished speaking to Tweed, Paula asked him what had been said. Butler punched her arm gently.
'If you must know everything, Pete and I have to accompany you to the dawn chopper, see you safely aboard. When you come back from Paris we're not to let you out of sight for a second. Tweed was pretty ferocious about that.'
'I have the feeling Tweed knows a lot more than he's telling us. It's almost as though I'm a target and he knows that,' Paula mused.
'Tweed knows what he's doing.' Butler checked his watch. 'You've had no sleep and you have to meet that Alouette at dawn. How about some kip?'
'You're right.' She sat perched on the edge of her bed with a worried look. 'I suppose I ought to flop out now.'
'You look bothered about something.'
'Recently I've remembered something very weird that happened in Aldeburgh. Don't ask me what - I need to think it through. And I wonder how Bob is getting on in Bordeaux?'
'There may be a rear entrance to that building in the Emile Zola passage,' Isabelle said. 'Like there is to my mother's apartment here.'
'Then I'd better risk it.' Newman decided. 'Before those troops storm the building.'
'We had better risk it,' Isabelle said firmly. 'Using a different version of the trick which came off at the Pont de Pierre. Don't argue. I know that passage.'
She gripped his arm, pressed herself against him after making sure her white scarf was draped over her shoulders, gazed up at him with adoring eyes. They walked slowly and when a soldier turned to look at them Isabelle pulled Newman's head down and kissed him full on the mouth. The soldier grinned, turned away as they drew level with the entrance to the passage.
They slipped inside the narrow alley unchallenged. There was a smell of rancid rubbish, Isabelle wrinkled her nose as she hurried Newman to a door near the end of the alley. He noticed that at one time there must have been an exit at the other end but the outline of an arch was blocked up. Pity. No alternative escape route. Isabelle aimed a pencil flash Newman had lent her. The light showed the name plate below the entryphone, the grille smeared and rusty.
Jean Picot. 3éme.
'That's the name Stahl is hiding under?' Isabelle whispered.
'Yes.' Newman looked round the end of the alley. No sign of any life. 'It's strange there are no troops here.'
'Don't you see? They missed this alley. You nearly walked past it yourself. I dragged you in.'
'True.' Newman was looking up the sheer wall. 'He's at the top of the building according to that name plate. So here goes.'
He pressed the button on the entryphone, pressed his ear close to the shoddy grille. Was the damned instrument still in working order? A voice spoke in French.
'Who is it? I'm just going to bed.'
'Gamelin.' Newman repeated the codeword. 'Gamelin.'
'Come up quickly.'
Isabelle pushed the door when the buzzer went. Newman pulled her back when it was open an inch or so, his foot keeping it that way. He took the pencil flash off her, swiftly ran the beam all round the door frame. No wires. No indication of a boobytrap. Was it possible that the troops didn't know about this entrance?
'Is this passage marked on any map?' he asked quickly.
'None that I've ever seen. Shouldn't we hurry?'
She nearly slipped on the ice before dashing inside as Newman aimed the flashlight ahead of her, showing an old iron-railed staircase. Despite the large canvas bag she had hung over her shoulder she ran up the stairs with great agility as Newman, annoyed at her impetuous act, followed and guided the way, shining the beam in front of her.
He had pushed the door to the alley shut with his foot.
Isabelle was flying up the stairs, flight by flight, the bag swaying against her hip. At any moment Newman expected to hear the muffled explosion of the front entrance being blown in. Had they walked into a trap? What kept him going was the thought of Stahl, the agent of Kuhlmann who had stayed under cover for so long. He must have a lot of guts.
Pounding up the worn bleak concrete steps, the treads worn in the middle by God knew how many thousands of footsteps which had naturally moved up the centre. The whole place had a musty smell - bleak was the word. The atmosphere of one of the many abandoned-looking buildings which infested Bordeaux. They reached the top landing.
Newman raised the beam, saw alongside the closed door a similar name plate to the one in the alley. No entryphone. Just a button to press the bell. He pushed his thumb against it, held it there. They had so little time left.
The door opened a few inches still on a chain. The face which peered out was not what Newman had expected. Round and with a bushy mop of hair and a bushy moustache. Eyes behind horn-rim glasses peered at them.
'Gamelin.' Newman repeated quickly. 'Troops are surrounding the building. We've got to get out of here fast.'
'English?'
The query was put in the same language, not French this time. Newman felt brief annoyance. Everyone else had accepted him as a Frenchman. He reverted to English.
'Yes. Do you want to escape or don't you? We've risked our own lives to ...'
'Come in.'
The door closed for a second, the chain was released, and they were inside as Stahl closed and bolted the door with one hand. In the other he held a grenade. Newman stared at it, then at Stahl. The German was small, tubby, and exuded energy. His eyes studied Newman, then Isabelle. He moved close to Newman.
'I recognize you from pictures in the papers. Kuhlmann has talked about you. But who is this girl?' he whispered.
'Isabelle Thomas. She's proved herself.'
Isabelle's hearing was more acute than Stahl had anticipated. She glared at him.
'I have already killed two of de Forge's men. How many more would you like me to dispatch before you're happy?'
'I have to check,' the German said sharply. 'That's how I've survived so far.'
This conversation was quick-fire. But Newman was anxious to get out of the building. Just assuming that was possible.
'We have to leave here fast,' he told Stahl. 'Back down the staircase we came up and into the passage?'
'Too dangerous.' Stahl shook his head. 'Show me the soles of your shoes,' he ordered Isabelle. She perched on one leg like a steady stork, showed him the sole of her trainer studded with rubber. He nodded, turned to Newman, who swiftly performed the same action. Why was Stahl wasting valuable time? He was wearing rubber-soled shoes with the surface hardly worn. Again Stahl nodded.
'It's very dangerous - going out over the rooftops. They are covered with ice. But more dangerous to risk that staircase.' As though to confirm his opinion they heard somewhere way below them the muffled thud of an explosion.
'Rey has blown open the front door.' Newman warned. 'Have you collected information?'
He was asking the question as Stahl, clad in a leather jacket and corduroy trousers, moved quickly to a door, opened it, revealing a narrow stairc
ase going upwards to a skylight. Stahl darted up the staircase, pulling on a pair of thick gloves. He answered as he reached the top tread and raised a hand to the skylight window. Over his shoulder was a leather bag similar to the canvas bag Isabelle was carrying as she rushed up the staircase behind Newman after closing the door at the bottom.
'A lot of information,' Stahl replied. 'In a book in my pocket. The grenade was in case it was soldiers outside the door when you arrived. I'd have threatened to blow myself up with them. Remember, the roofs are like a skating rink, I go up first, then you. We'll haul Isabelle up after us.'
Earlier he had dropped the grenade inside his bag. While talking he had pushed back the skylight on to the roof and icy air flooded down the staircase. Agilely, Stahl hauled himself on to the roof, spread his body flat and extended a hand to Newman.
Moving cautiously, Newman emerged into the bitter air of the Siberian night. The roof had a steep pitch and he saw it was above the street where the troops were assembled for the storming of the building. They must already be on their way up. On one landing Newman had noticed when they were racing up to Stahl's apartment another staircase. At this point the troops could run straight up to Stahl's apartment.
