Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  It was, of course, Chief Inspector Buchanan and Sergeant Warden. Tweed sat gazing ahead as Buchanan got out and strolled up to his window.

  'A small world, Tweed.' he said, his grey eyes glancing at Hamilton. The tall man had bodyguard written all over him. 'We were taking a rest.' Buchanan continued genially, 'before keeping an appointment to interrogate Lord Dawlish.'

  'My intention too.' Tweed replied stiffly.

  'Then why don't we combine our visit? What colours are you sailing under this time?'

  'Special Branch.'

  'Then together we could possibly exert more pressure on his Lordship. I'm sure you'll have no objection ...'

  It was a grey weepy day. Inside Grenville Grange, Lord Dawlish gazed out of the windows down over the lawn to the landing stage. Over the lawn where once - it seemed a hundred years ago - he'd held his shooting party. His yacht, Wavecrest V, moored to the landing stage, rested motionless in the still water. Rain streaks slashed the windows, speckled the turgid surface of the Aide.

  Dawlish was in a blazing fury. He had recently returned from the Steel Vulture, still stationed off Dunwich, and he could have strangled the skipper, Santos. Arriving on the bridge he'd asked the vital question.

  'When can we sail? I want a straight answer. Now!'

  'The loading -' the swarthy-faced Santos had spread his hands - 'it is still proceeding.'

  'For God's sake, man, how long is it going to take?'

  'Señor, it is a dangerous cargo we are loading. A very large cargo - the largest yet. You would wish us not to risk an accident which might damage vessel.'

  I'm interested in results. Conditions are ideal. A calm sea - and the met forecasts for the Bay of Biscay are good. How long do you expect that to last?'

  'My first consideration is the safety of your beautiful ship, Señor ...'

  'It's not a cruise liner. Of course I'm concerned for its safety.' Dawlish waved a thick forefinger under Santos' nose. 'But I'm also seriously behind schedule. Put more men on the job, you cretin.'

  'All available divers are working round the clock. Is that right - round the ...'

  'I don't give a damn for your fractured English. Give me a straight answer,' Dawlish had stormed. 'When will we be ready to sail?'

  'The night after this night we will be ready. You will see...'

  'That's a deadline,' Dawlish had raged. 'And if not kept maybe you'll be dead.'

  He had attended to two more things before leaving. Rushing to his cabin, he had coded a message. It was phrased carefully.

  Expected cargo will be delivered agreed destination within seventy-two hours. My next signal will be the last, will give ETA. Oiseau.

  After taking it himself to the radio op. room he went on deck aft of the bridge. The specially designed aircraft which could land on ground or water - equipped with floats it also had a retractable undercarriage fitted with wheels - sat on the pad.

  'I want to see you take off and land again on this vessel.' he had ordered the pilot.

  Constructed as an adapted miniature version of the Harrier jump jet, the machine's jets began building up power. He watched it as the pilot lifted off vertically, hovered above the vessel, then landed with pinpoint precision on the pad. Satisfied with that at least, he had returned to Grenville Grange. Only to find a message waiting for him that Chief Inspector Buchanan of Homicide would be calling later in the morning.

  'What the hell could this flatfoot want?' he asked himself aloud as he stared across the lawn.

  Dawlish had convinced himself they had given up investigating the murder of Karin Rosewater. Someone tapped nervously on the panelled door. Dawlish bawled out for the intruder on his thoughts to come in. A manservant entered.

  'A Chief Inspector Buchanan and a Sergeant Warden have arrived. They say they have an appointment.'

  Dawlish told him to stay where he was. Opening up the cocktail cabinet, he poured himself a stiff neat whisky. He downed the drink in two long gulps, licked his thick lips, closed the cabinet.

  'Send the bastards in.'

  Entering the room Buchanan noted that Dawlish favoured an outfit of riding kit, which seemed bizarre at the end of November. He even wore a hard hat as he stood with his back to a large brick alcove fireplace where a log fire crackled. In one hand he held a coiled riding whip. He used it to gesture.

  'Kindly sit there.'

  Buchanan smiled to himself as he sat on a couch facing the light from the window and Warden perched uncomfortably beside him. An old trick: stand in the shadow yourself and plant your visitors with the light on their faces.

  Dawlish frowned as a third man entered, paused, looking carefully round the room. He seemed to be examining every piece of furniture - everything except the owner.

  'Who the blazes are you?' Dawlish snapped. 'I was told two men from Scotland Yard would be coming.'

  'Special Branch.'

  Tweed held up a card forged by the experts in the Engine Room at Park Crescent. He took his time putting the card back in his wallet before replying.

  'Obviously the message was garbled. But it is important that I ask you some questions later. Chief Inspector Buchanan takes precedence.'

  'I don't understand any of this. Sit down. There.'

  The whip gestured towards the large couch where there was space for a third visitor. Tweed ignored the suggestion. Walking to a carver chair placed against the same wall as the fireplace, he sat down. It placed him sideways on to Dawlish, who had to turn round to observe him. Buchanan smiled to himself again, guessing the reason for Tweed's manoeuvre.

  'I prefer a hard chair,' Tweed said neutrally. 'I now leave the floor to the Chief Inspector.'

  'Who has not yet shown any identification,' Dawlish snapped.

  Buchanan saw his chance. Standing up, he strolled over to Dawlish, showed him his identity card, remained where he was, leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece, several inches taller than his host. He produced a photograph.

  'Do you recognize her?'

  'No.'

  'Come, Lord Dawlish? the photo is a trifle blurred and you hardly glanced at it. I repeat, do you recognize this lady?'

  'Who is she?' Dawlish asked, studying the print handed to him.

  'You tell me. You seem to be having trouble answering the question. She is familiar then?'

  'I've never seen her in my life. What is this about?'

  Dawlish thrust the photo back at Buchanan. He glanced at Tweed who sat, knees together, hands clasped in his lap as he watched Dawlish. His Lordship seemed unsure whether to move away from the two men flanking him. He threw the whip on to a table, tossed his hard hat after it, thrust his large hands into the pockets of his jodhpurs.

  'This,' Buchanan informed him in the same level tone, 'is about the brutal murder of Karin Rosewater on the marshes at Aldeburgh. Not so far from here.'

  'So why come to me?'

  'Because a witness to the murder of Rosewater, Paula Grey, saw at least five heavily built men wearing Balaclavas, armed with rifles, pursuing them after following the two girls in a dinghy from Dunwich. You have divers aboard the Steel Vulture, I understand, Lord Dawlish.' Buchanan added conversationally.

  'That's what my philanthropic project is all about - using divers to explore the sunken village overwhelmed by the sea years ago.'

  'So, you admit you employ divers.' Buchanan made it sound like an accusation. 'My problem is to find the members of the murderous gang who chased the two girls, one of whom was brutally strangled.'

  'I still don't follow why you're bothering me.'

  Dawlish's tone had become aggressive. Ostentatiously he checked his Rolex watch.

  'Because,' Buchanan continued in the same calm manner, 'I am having trouble locating men who could have formed that gang. You check your divers' background before you hire them?'

  'Meticulously.' Dawlish found Tweed's unblinking stare irritating, turned to face him. 'What do you want to know?'

  'In addition to your philanthropic activities
you made your fortune out of armament deals. You supply arms to France?'

  'France has its own armaments industry,' Dawlish barked.

  'You haven't answered my question. Does your ship the Steel Vulture ever visit French ports?'

  Dawlish rounded on Tweed. 'Look, I've had enough of this. A man with my interests - which, incidentally, are mainly supermarkets - needs some relaxation. That may surprise you.' he said sarcastically. 'But I cruise all over the world in the Vulture.'

  'A dual-purpose vessel, then,' Tweed remarked.

  Dawlish froze. His hard black eyes gazed at Tweed with vehemence. If looks could kill Tweed would have dropped dead.

  'What the hell do you mean by that?' he demanded.

  'Did I touch a raw nerve?' Tweed enquired innocently. 'I referred to the fact that the Vulture is used to explore your sunken village. Also for jolly trips off to foreign parts.'

  Buchanan intervened, handing his card to Dawlish.

  'I'd like a complete list of your divers sent to me at the address on my card. I could, of course, investigate their backgrounds in other ways. Thank you for giving us some of your valuable time, Lord Dawlish. I think that's all. For now at any rate. Tweed?'

  Merely nodding, Tweed stood up and followed Buchanan and Warden. They were leaving the room when Tweed paused, turned round in the doorway to address Dawlish.

  'I've heard that Brand is always with you. A kind of Siamese twins act. He's abroad on his hols?'

  Dawlish aimed a stubby finger at Tweed's chest like a gun.

  'The front door is behind you.'

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Running up the wide staircase, Dawlish went into a front bedroom and watched the two cars leaving together - the Volvo in front - watched them until they vanished round a curve in the drive. He walked down to his room overlooking the lawn more slowly. Opening his cocktail cabinet, he poured himself another neat double Scotch.

  Settling his bulk in an armchair, he swallowed half the Scotch, put the glass down on a table. He didn't give a damn for the lofty Chief Inspector from the Yard. It was the enigmatic intruder from Special Branch which had shaken him.

  First, his reference to France, to French ports. Second, his ambiguous phrase 'dual purpose' about the Steel Vulture. And third, that last question about Brand. The way his eyes had studied Dawlish's when he mentioned the name.

  'May he rot in hell,' Dawlish said aloud.

  He drank the rest of his Scotch in one quick gulp.

  Tweed followed Buchanan's Volvo until they reached the A12. Here Buchanan turned south for London. Tweed swung right, accelerated along the highway. North for Dunwich.

  'Satisfactory, sir?' Hamilton asked when they had driven many miles.

  'I think so.'

  Tweed said no more, concentrating on maintaining the maximum speed along the highway which was comparatively free of other traffic. Impatiently, he had to slow down when he turned off east along the country road to Dunwich. Arriving at the coast, he left his Escort in the car park next to the Ship Inn.

  Getting out of the car, Tweed took a deerstalker hat from the rear seat, crammed it on his head. He looped a pair of binoculars round his neck. It gave him the appearance of a man on holiday, probably a birdwatcher. He looked at Hamilton.

  'Try and look more relaxed. We're tourists.'

  Hamilton's reluctant concession to Tweed's request was to shove both hands inside the pockets of his trenchcoat. He liked his right hand free to grab for the Colt. Tweed led the way out of the car park, turned right and made his way up a steep winding path past a signpost. Cliff Path.

  'You've been here before, sir?' Hamilton enquired.

  'A long time ago. It's one of the few places which never changes.'

  Tweed hustled up the difficult path, emerged on to a grassy plateau on top of the cliffs. A wooden seat stood facing the rippled grey of the calm sea, as though waiting for someone to sit on it. Tweed saw what he wanted to see without binoculars, but he pressed the lenses to his eyes, focused them.

  The Steel Vulture came up clear as described by Paula, motionless about half a mile out. Tweed swept the vessel with his glasses. A lighter was moored to the platform suspended just above the water - presumably for carrying supplies. A large dinghy with an outboard motor was attached to the lighter. Was it the dinghy which had carried men in Balaclavas in their cold-blooded pursuit of Paula and Karin? He pressed the lenses closer to his eyes, adjusted the focus with care.

  Aft of the bridge was a strange-looking aircraft. No one had reported that. So, once aboard, Dawlish had great mobility. Tweed saw several men descending into the dinghy, probably prior to coming ashore.

  'We'll get away from here fast...'

  He had hardly completed the brief instruction before he was hurrying back down the winding path back to Dunwich. Hamilton had trouble keeping up with him. Tweed already had the car engine started as he dived into the passenger seat beside him. Taking one last look at the anchored vessel beyond fields spreading down a slope towards the beach, Tweed drove off.

  He was speeding back down the A12 when he suddenly slowed, turned on to a wide grass verge and stopped, leaving the engine running. He sat like a man in a trance, hands quite still on the wheel. Hamilton glanced at him, saw his glazed look, was careful to keep quiet.

  Butler had once warned Hamilton that if he was with Tweed when this happened he should keep quiet. It meant that something of great significance had struck him.

  Twin-track.

  That was the phrase Howard had quoted the PM as using in their conversation. Two different units in the field - and Tweed hadn't been told which other unit was operating. It simply confirmed to Tweed that he had been right about the identity of Kalmar, the assassin.

  He resumed the drive to London at top speed.

  'Have you had anything to eat?' Monica asked the moment Tweed entered his office. 'I thought not,' she said as he shook his head. 'Ham sandwiches on your desk and a flask of freshly made coffee.'

  'Thank you. Most considerate.'

  Tweed checked the time as he sat at his desk. Half an hour before he had to leave to catch his flight back to Paris. Unwrapping the foil, he bit into a ham sandwich and realized he was ravenous. Monica came over, poured coffee from the flask into a mug.

  'You're going to stay in Paris until it's over one way or the other?' she asked.

  'No. To Paris first, yes. Then I fly south to Arcachon to take charge at this critical moment.'

  'Porton Down phoned again,' she said grimly. 'They did find one flask among some rubbish. Their top expert returned from holiday. He says the flask shows positive traces of nerve gas. From Dawlish's factory near Oxford.'

  'Which makes my visit to Arcachon even more vital.'

  'Won't it be dangerous?' Monica pressed.

  Tweed devoured another sandwich. 'Probably. But my team is in the danger zone. I must be there with them.'

  'You know something you're not telling me.' she accused.

  'If I do, I haven't told anyone else. Don't feel out of it.'

  'General de Forge is about to move, isn't he?'

  'Within the next two or three days. He's waiting for one more development. I want to be there when that development happens.'

  The phone rang. Annoyed, Monica ran to her desk, picked up the phone, listened, said she'd see if he was still in the building.

  'Chief Inspector Buchanan on the phone ...'

  'Tweed here.'

  'I think we make a good team. I detected signs of alarm in his Lordship. I'm tracing those divers.'

  'Good idea. A better one would be to check all the hotel registers in Aldeburgh for the night Karin Rosewater was murdered. Concentrate on the names of the people involved in this thing. Should lead you to the murderer. Sorry, must go now ...'

  Part Three Cross of Fire

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  'Operation Marengo - the seizure of Paris - has begun.'

  General Charles de Forge had taken his decision in the mi
ddle of the night. He was poring over a large-scale map of France spread over his desk. By his side stood Major Lamy.

  'The advance elements of the First Armoured Division are approaching the outskirts of Angouleme.' Lamy reported. 'They are moving at speed under the cover of darkness. Motorcycle patrols have already reached the outskirts of Angouleme. The Division will then proceed north tomorrow night - to outflank Paris and move on the capital from the north. According to plan.'

  'No!' de Forge contradicted. 'That is the official plan. There is a spy in our midst who has to be caught.' He glanced at Lamy. 'From Angouleme the Division, followed up by heavy reinforcements, will turn north-east, racing via Argenton for Chateauroux and beyond up the N20.'

  'The plan has been changed?' Lamy asked in surprise.

  'No! The plan I have distributed is a cover plan. If rumours of our movements leak to Paris they will think we are going to keep west of Paris until we can swoop on it from the north.'

  'And the real plan?'

  'Has been handed as sealed orders to each commander -orders to be opened and acted on only on receiving a personal signal from me. I have sent the signal.'