Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  By the light of a sputtering neon sign on the far side of the street Newman saw the sinister gleam of pack ice on the tiled roof. He sprawled alongside Stahl, one foot dug into a hole where a tile had disappeared. He heard below a splintering crash from inside Stahl's apartment. They had already broken down the door. He was reaching down for Isabelle, had grabbed her under her left armpit when he heard the thud of Army boots coming up the staircase. He tried to haul her up, but she wouldn't budge. She stared up at him, her expression grim.

  'He's got hold of my leg. Hang on to me, Bob. Don't touch my right arm...'

  It flashed across his mind what a wide range of moods she had: excitable when he'd arrived at her apartment in Arcachon. Now with her life at stake she was cold, calculating. Her right hand fiddled inside her bag, came out holding a kitchen knife with a wide blade. Taking a firm grip on the handle, she looked down, saw the soldier staring up at her, holding her leg in an iron grip. She raised the knife, aimed for the side of his neck, plunged it in deep, still gripping the handle. He emitted a horrible gurgle, let go of her leg as blood spurted, collapsed into the staircase.

  Newman hauled her on to the roof. She sprawled beside him, her left hand gripping the rim of the skylight frame, her right hand wiping the mess off the knife before she dropped it back inside her bag. Newman used his left foot to kick ice off the roof. Three tiles scuttered down with the ice, exposing rotting rafters. He jammed his foot inside the exposed hole and Isabelle rammed her left foot into the hole he'd left for her. Newman was holding on to the skylight frame as he glanced round. Stahl was perched on top of the roof, legs astride each side as he beckoned them to join him.

  'We go this way,' he called out, still speaking English.

  Newman was about to help Isabelle to join him when she slipped. Appalled, he watched her sliding down the icy slope to the brink. Her feet dug into the metal gutter below the roof. Her gloved hands clawed the roof for better purchase, found none. Only the gutter was saving her. Newman let go of the skylight frame, slithered towards her. His gloved hands grasped one of the exposed rafters. Holding on, he swivelled himself through one hundred and eighty degrees, let go, hoping one foot would embed itself in the same hole. Both feet slid into the hole, were held by the cross beam below the rafters. He stretched out a hand as Isabelle stretched hers and he had her round the wrist. He was on the verge of hauling her up when she jolted, the full weight of her body jerking in his hand, but he held on. The bloody gutter had given way, falling into the street. Which he should have expected. This was Bordeaux.

  He hauled her slowly up over the glistening surface and now the ice helped her body to move smoothly. Lying alongside him, she jammed her feet into the large hole, managed a wan smile. He looked up at the ridge of the roof where Stahl had moved further along like someone astride a vaulting horse in a gymnasium. Stahl beckoned again for them to join him.

  'We go this way.' he called out.

  Newman had one arm round Isabelle's waist as his other hand hammered at the ice, dislodged more rotten tiles, found purchase to haul them higher. It seemed slow progress but the skylight was close to the ridge and Newman had hauled both of them to the summit. Isabelle was closer to the skylight as Stahl shouted a warning. Glancing over her shoulder, Newman's arm still holding her firm round the waist, she saw a soldier gripping an automatic weapon emerging. Newman was heaving her up to the ridge when she spoke.

  'Hold my right arm,' she commanded.

  Perched on the ridge, he did what she had told him to, leaning down to grip her arm as she deliberately let her body slide a foot or so. Drawing up her left knee, she shot out her leg as the soldier, now on the roof, fumbled with his weapon. Her trainer hammered into the face of the sprawled soldier. He lost the grip his left hand had had on the skylight frame. They watched as he began to slide. Desperately his hands clawed at the roof as the weapon slithered out of view. His feet dug into the ice, loosened a large slab. The slab skated over the edge. High up Newman could almost see to street level. The soldier's momentum increased. He followed the ice slab over the brink, his arms windmilling as he screamed, an ear-splitting yell of terror, while his body plummeted downwards. The yell stopped abruptly as his body hit the iron-hard cobbles four storeys down.

  Newman had hauled Isabelle on to the ridge, they were easing themselves along the ice-cold rounded tiles when the head of another soldier appeared above the fanlight opening. Stahl took a grenade out of his bag, removed the pin, tossed it carefully. The grenade disappeared down the fanlight opening. A sharp crack! The soldier's head disappeared. There was one further sound - the tumbling of bodies down the staircase. Then a sudden silence. Newman and Isabelle worked their way along the ridge. He was worried by the sudden disappearance of Stahl who had dropped out of sight. Literally. He was aching from the effort of straddling the ridge top when he reached the end. Looking down he saw why Stahl had vanished.

  Six feet or so below the end of the ridge was a railed metal platform. Stahl stood looking up with a beaming smile. The German had nerves of steel. Newman glanced over his shoulder, saw Isabelle was close behind him and there were no signs of activity from the distant skylight. He dropped to the platform, his body loose, his knees bending to cushion the drop.

  Turning round, he was just in time to grab hold of Isabelle by the waist, breaking the force of her fall. She was breathing heavily, had removed her white scarf and stuffed it inside her bag. She smoothed his hair.

  'Where to now?' Newman asked.

  Stahl put a finger to his lips, ushered Newman to the rear of the platform, leaned forward and pointed down. Newman leaned over and saw he was looking down into the Passage Emile Zola. It was crowded with troops who carried automatic weapons. Presumably they'd found their way down from the landing where the two staircases met inside the building. He moved away as Stahl tugged at his sleeve.

  'Is there any way out?' Newman asked. 'I don't fancy any more rooftop climbing - we might not be so lucky next time.'

  'How did you get here?' Stahl asked.

  'By car. A hired Renault. Left it parked the other side of the entrance to the passage. About twenty yards from it. We'll never be able to reach it without being spotted.'

  'I think we might,' Stahl replied. 'They won't expect us in that street. They'll be sending troops all over the rooftops. We go down this fire escape first. I suggest I lead the way with Isabelle ...'

  Newman noticed for the first time a flight of metal steps leading down the side of the building from the platform. He followed as Stahl descended, one hand on the side rail, the other round Isabelle's waist. It was a gesture she resented.

  Inwardly her nerves were screaming but outwardly she was composed. They descended one flight, reached a landing, turned down a fresh flight. Stahl kept glancing into the well below them. Then both Isabelle's feet slid from under her and she'd have crashed down the flight but for Stahl's tight grip, holding her against him until she recovered her balance.

  'These metal treads are coated with solid ice.' he explained. 'It really is no time to practise skating.'

  She looked at him and he grinned impishly. From that moment she liked Stahl. And she felt that with these two men looking after her there was a chance they'd escape from the hell that Bordeaux had become.

  On the first floor Stahl led the way across a treacherous metal bridge where the ice was solid underfoot from rail to rail. At ground level he led them through a labyrinth of alleyways on what seemed to Newman to be a circular route. They emerged into the street where the Renault was parked only fifty yards away.

  The street was deserted. Stahl's prediction had come true: the troops were scaling the world of the rooftops. At Newman's suggestion the German slipped into the back, hid himself under a travelling rug. Poking out his bushy head, his moustache frosted with ice mist, he joked.

  'I've found a bottle of Beaujolais. May I imbibe? My excuse is that if we're stopped you're taking a drunken friend home. Me!'

  Isabelle guided Ne
wman through the ice mist along a new route. The grey vapour made Bordeaux even more shabby and derelict, if possible. There was a checkpoint and a barrier on the far side of the Pont Saint Jean, but Newman was in no mood for further encounters with de Forge's troops. He had also noticed the mist was very thick by the river - more like a fog. In his undimmed headlights he saw shadowed figures drifting as though in a nightmare and beyond another of the flimsy barriers they'd seen on the Pont de Pierre.

  'We're not stopping.' he warned his passengers.

  Isabelle was puzzled. Approaching the western end of the bridge Newman dimmed his headlights, reduced speed to a crawl as though pulling up. Suddenly, driving on to the bridge, he pressed his thumb on the horn and kept it at a blaring howl. Switching his headlights full on, he pressed his foot down, roaring over the bridge, smashing through the barrier. The drifting shadows jumped out of his way to both sides. He increased speed, thought he heard a rifle shot, then they were way beyond the bridge.

  'Turn right now!' Isabelle shouted, straining against her seat belt to see where they were.

  He swung the wheel, his horn silent, the tyres screeching at the wildness of his driving. He slowed down as they came to a sharp corner in a narrow street. Isabelle guided him through a complex labyrinth which seemed to go on and on for ever. Without warning they were clear of the suburbs, free of even a hint of ice mist, driving through open country along a deserted road.

  'How long to Arcachon?' Newman asked.

  'We'll be there well before dawn.'

  'We have to be.'

  Newman was almost exhausted, flaked out with two endless drives, the tension of rescuing Stahl. And ahead of him was a drive to meet the Alouette near the étang. After that a long drive south to the Landes, to pick up their witness. Martine, the crone who collected brushwood on the Atlantic shore. Could he last out? And if he ran into trouble, would his reflexes be fast enough?

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The tension which grows in the early hours under pressure was showing itself inside the Ministry of the Interior in Paris. Tweed, unshaven, sat behind his desk as Navarre came in from an emergency Cabinet meeting. Lasalle, also short of sleep like the others, was pacing restlessly. Only Kuhlmann, seated in a leather armchair was, like Tweed, relaxed and alert.

  'Any news?' Navarre demanded, looking at Lasalle as he perched his buttocks on Tweed's desk.

  'A whole fleet of CRS trucks is speeding down to Bordeaux, may already have reached the city. They're being parked round the Prefecture.'

  'More psychological warfare,' Tweed said quietly.

  'Psychological warfare?' Navarre queried.

  'The Berliet trucks have no CRS inside them,' Lasalle explained. 'Only a driver and one other man in the cab. Their arrival will be reported within minutes to de Forge. With luck they'll have to wake him to tell him - ruin his night's sleep. Tweed wants to wear him down.'

  'But how will you transport the huge number of CRS when it comes to the final confrontation?' Navarre asked brusquely.

  'I have secretly assembled a whole armada of helicopters at airfields on the outskirts of Paris. When we strike we do it from the air.'

  'I like the idea,' Navarre decided. 'I have recorded a TV address to the nation. I hammer home the point that the civil power takes precedence over the military in democracy.'

  'The Cabinet was told this?' Lasalle, alarmed, enquired,

  Navarre smiled grimly. 'No, Louis Janin, our so-loyal Minister of Defence, would have informed de Forge at once. I have a feeling we are close to that final confrontation.' He took a cassette from his jacket pocket, handed it to Lasalle. 'That is the recording of my address to the nation. Lock it in your personal safe at rue des Saussaies. Please remain available there or here. It's only a short walk to your HQ.'

  'When do you expect de Forge to make his move?' Kuhlmann asked.

  'I suspect it has already begun. This dangerous exercise General Masson has sanctioned - with the so-called assumption that they're repelling a North African invasion by the fictitious General Ali. I have just heard that some of de Forge's advanced motorcycle patrols have reached Angouleme.'

  'A long way north of Bordeaux and closer to Paris.' Tweed observed.

  'Exactly,' Navarre agreed. 'And now, gentleman, I must snatch a few hours' sleep.'

  The others agreed it was a sound idea and Tweed was left alone. Opening a map he studied the position of Angouleme, shook his head. He was folding the map when the phone rang. It was Monica at Park Crescent, still at her desk in the early hours.

  'Howard has returned from his extended trip to the States,' she told him. 'He wants to see you over here for consultation at the earliest moment. He's just come from a visit to the PM.'

  'Tell him I'll catch the first available scheduled flight this morning. Also tell him I'm flying back to Paris before the evening.'

  'I don't think that's quite what he had in mind.' Monica warned.

  'Then I'll put it in his mind when I get there. All you need to confirm is that I'm coming. And I may want to drive to Aldeburgh while I'm in Britain. Again a quick trip. Back in town in time to catch a Paris flight.'

  'Should I have your car ready?'

  'The Ford Escort,' Tweed replied. 'Very reliable but not too noticeable. Also check on the present whereabouts of Lord Dane Dawlish and his catamaran, the Steel Vulture. Heathcoate, the Harwich Harbour Master, might help.'

  'I'd already thought of him. Look forward to seeing you.'

  Tweed frowned as he put down the receiver. Howard was the Director, his only superior in the SIS. What on earth was this urgent summons all about? And what had passed between Howard and the new PM, a man of very decided views? He'd interviewed Tweed before the journey to Paris, listened to what Tweed had to say, had agreed his mission was vital.

  He picked up the phone after checking his watch, dialled the number of the Atlantique in Arcachon. When the duty clerk answered he phrased his request carefully. No name.

  'I wish to speak to Mr Harry Butler who is staying with you. Tell him it's a friend - he's expecting my call...'

  'Butler here. I'm glad you called. Please hang on just a sec...'

  Butler put his hand over the mouthpiece, called out to Nield who was catnapping on the bed with his clothes on.

  'Pete, a call's come through.'

  'I'll get down fast.'

  Nield slipped on his shoes, checked his jacket as he ran to the door to make sure he had a packet of the Gauloises favoured by the night clerk. When he reached the lobby the clerk hastily put down his phone as Nield asked for a cup of coffee, explaining he couldn't sleep.

  'Go ahead,' Butler said in the bedroom.

  'I have to leave for London by the first flight. I'll be back late this evening. Warn Paula. That's it.'

  'Will do.'

  In Paris Tweed picked up the phone again to call the airport - to ask them to hold a return ticket to London for him. He had no inkling of the consequences which would follow his call to Arcachon.

  At the Atlantique in her bedroom Paula was wakened by the alarm clock she'd set for 4 a.m. She wanted to be ready in good time to board the Alouette.

  She showered, dressed quickly, applied make-up in three minutes. She snapped shut the lid of the case she had packed the night before and at that moment she heard the agreed tattoo tapping on her locked door. Even so, she took the Browning automatic from her shoulder bag before opening the door on the chain. It was Butler.

  'Come in, Harry. I'm ready for the trip. Is Bob back?' she asked anxiously.

  'Not yet. Not to worry. It was one hell of a roundabout route they were taking.'

  'I hope nothing's gone wrong,' she said as she closed and locked the door. 'I didn't like the idea of his going back to Bordeaux again one little bit.'

  There was a note of concern verging on affection in her tone, Butler noticed. He smiled reassuringly.

  'Bob can look after himself. What I came to tell you is I've decided we ought to move out of here. It's dang
erous to stay in one place for long.'

  'But where to?'

  'I can't find another suitable hotel. I'm going to ask Bob whether we could move for a few days to Isabelle's apartment. Difficult for anyone to trace us there.'

  'Isabelle?' Paula sounded doubtful. 'I can get on with her but I'm not so sure it would work the other way.'

  'Bob will fix that...'

  He looked at the door where the correct tattoo rapping had been repeated. Extracting the Walther he opened the door on the chain, saw Newman standing outside with a bushy-haired stranger. He let them inside and Newman introduced them by first names only to Stahl. Paula took an immediate liking to the amiable German who looked her straight in the eye as they shook hands. Newman was determined to check the bona fides of Egon Stahl.

  'Egon wants to put through a call to Kuhlmann.' he said. 'I'll get the number.' He looked at Butler. 'I see Nield is still downstairs, playing poker with the night clerk...'

  Butler nodded. In fact Nield had been unable to sleep, so he had gone down into the lobby to play cards. An expert card sharp, Nield was just about to deal when he saw Butler peer over the banister very soon after Newman had returned with the jolly bushy-moustached man. Butler was signalling they were about to make a call. Nield shuffled the pack again, dealt the clerk a winning Royal Flush. That should keep his mind on the game while the call was being made.