Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'I'll have you up on a charge. No! It will be a court martial. You crazy idiot! You have wantonly destroyed a farmer's property. We need the farmers on our side. You will also be accused of attempting to smash down the barn. You are relieved of command of your tank, Sergeant! My own NCO will take control. Get down immediately. You will be a prisoner in my tank...'

  The engines of both machines had stopped. Inside the barn they froze, gazed at each other in disbelief. Outside they heard the sound of boots descending - presumably the sergeant leaving for the other tank. Newman gestured and they withdrew from a window, sliding back along the roughened wall.

  Paula looked at Nield who had remained at the other side of the barn, cool as a cucumber, holding his handgun. With his other hand he gave her the thumbs-up sign and winked. She managed a smile.

  The roar of the tanks' engines was resumed, the grinding clatter of their caterpillar tracks. Newman held up a warning hand to ensure everyone kept still. He waited until the sounds had receded some distance, then dived back up the ladder with Paula at his heels.

  From a skylight he surveyed the landscape. It was not encouraging. The tanks were coming together in compact formations, manoeuvring across the distant terrain, conducting some mock battle. He shook his head.

  'We're not out of the woods yet.'

  'So how long do you think we may have to stay here?'

  'Until we're very sure the coast is clear. And I see Pete is munching a sandwich. I hope you kept some for me ...'

  In the late morning of the same day Tweed arrived at the Passy home of Josette de Forge. He had phoned in advance, using the same pseudonym, Prentice of the Daily World, explaining that his editor was enthusiastic for more information.

  'Information, Mr Prentice?' she had purred, giving the word an ambiguous inflexion. 'If you come now I shall be available for you...'

  Available? When she opened the door herself she wore a fluffy housecoat, open at the front, and underneath a flimsy chiffon slip which was very revealing. As she led him upstairs her housecoat swung wider while she mounted the curving steps, exposing a magnificent long leg. Tweed was relieved when she led him into a bedroom at the front. She turned to face him, taking his Burberry, her dark eyes peering at him through long lashes. She looked towards a large canopy bed draped with the most expensive and laced-edged linen.

  'I thought we would be more comfortable up here. And we shall not be bothered by the servants. Just a pleasant tete-a-tete.'

  'I do have some questions to ask.' Tweed insisted.

  He walked over to a chaise longue and perched at one end. Not the piece of furniture he would have chosen but there was no chair in the elaborately furnished room. Hanging his Burberry in a dressing room, she came and sat close to him, crossing her legs.

  'Do we have to waste time on boring questions? And when will your long article on my husband appear in your so respected paper?'

  'Soon. That is a very fine bust over there.'

  In case she was tempted to interpret the word 'bust' in another way he pointed. On a half-round table against one wall was a head-and-shoulders bust of Napoleon. He thought, apart from other factors, his visit had been worthwhile to observe the presence of the bust. He waited for her reaction.

  'Charles brought that here. Maybe at the moment he is only Bonaparte, but in the future ...'

  'I heard a rumour that General de Forge's army is nearing Paris. Will Navarre permit that?'

  'A delicious question, cheri. Navarre is a nobody who will be swept aside by the tidal wave of history.'

  'You mean you expect your husband to occupy the Elysee?'

  She patted his right cheek. 'Now, I did not say that.'

  'But he is a clever man. I hear he has extraordinary Intelligence sources here in Paris. When I was last in this house for your salon I observed some influential guests. General Masson, for example. It occurred to me that your salons would be ideal occasions for passing Intelligence from GHQ Third Army to Paris, and the other way round.'

  She was inserting a cigarette into an ivory holder as he spoke. Her hand slipped, broke the end of the cigarette. Her full lips tightened and for a moment she didn't look at him while she recovered her poise.

  'You do have a lively imagination,' she retorted with an edge to her voice.

  'Have I? Most of your important guests have been linked with de Forge's views.'

  'It was a mixed gathering. Artists, intellectuals ...'

  'Together with generals and other key officers.'

  'My salons are artistic gatherings ...'

  'Which would be excellent camouflage for Intelligence-gathering operations.'

  'You are not putting these lies in your paper, I hope?'

  'Only the truth, Madame de Forge,' Tweed replied.

  'We are wasting time.' She dropped a fresh cigarette and the holder into a crystal ashtray. Turning to him, she leaned forward and he caught the aroma of expensive perfume as she wrapped her long bare arms round his shoulders.

  He smiled, reached up, removed her hands just before she embraced him. Standing up, he walked to the front windows, draped with heavy net curtains. He moved one as though peering into the street, let it drop.

  'What is it?' Josette asked, her expression bleak and cold.

  'No one is watching this house, if that is what worries you. I thought I'd told you. My husband has his own dalliances. So why shouldn't I?'

  She had left the door slightly ajar and suddenly there was a continuous ringing of the bell accompanied by non-stop hammering of the bronze knocker. Tweed went swiftly to the door.

  'Excuse me, Madame.'

  He ran down the staircase as a woman wearing a black shawl over her head and a black dress which draped her ankles appeared in the hall. The housekeeper. Brushing past her, he turned the security handle as he had observed Josette close it, flung open the door. There were six men in business suits and open trenchcoats outside. Beyond them two black limousines were parked at the kerb.

  'The front bedroom upstairs,' Tweed said.

  Lasalle and three men rushed up the staircase. As he entered the room Lasalle saw Josette holding an old-fashioned gold telephone to her ear, working the cradle up and down furiously. He placed a hand on her arm.

  'DST. You have to come with us. And the phone wire has been cut. Please, we must leave at once, even if we have to carry you. Which would be undignified.'

  They hustled her down the stairs, protesting. In the marble-floored hall two more men stood by the housekeeper. Lasalle walked up to her, excused himself politely, removed her black shawl. Turning, he wrapped it round Josette's head.

  'What are you doing, you shit?' she screamed.

  'Treating you like a lady. You wouldn't want scandal, the neighbours talking. You will leave as though you are the housekeeper. We are taking you to a comfortable residence well outside Paris. No, Madame. You have no say in the matter. Treason is an offence that carries a heavy penalty.

  Make a scene.' Lasalle continued genially as they escorted her to a limousine, 'and I will give the papers a list of twelve of your lovers - eight of them married men. There is bound to be one wife who will shriek her head off in public, which would be a shame. Spoiling your eminent position in Parisian society...'

  Holding her arm, he had seen her into the limousine where two men joined her. He closed the door, bowed for the benefit of any prying eyes. Josette had preserved - for her - a rare silence. The limousine moved off.

  Tweed, who had watched, was full of admiration for Lasalle's skilled performance. Only a Frenchman could have pulled it off. He walked to the other limousine, climbed in the back as Lasalle joined him and the chauffeur pulled away.

  'I have left men inside the place to search it,' Lasalle informed him. 'She will simply disappear. You see, I also know how to practise psychological warfare. Imagine the effect on de Forge.'

  'Very good,' Tweed agreed. 'I had a nasty moment when I thought she might take me into a back bedroom. You saw my signal with t
he curtain, of course.'

  'We left our cars the moment we saw the curtain move. I think you handled your part well.'

  'I saw something which tells me the route de Forge will adopt to march on Paris - if it ever comes to that. Now we must launch Phase Two.'

  'What did you see in that apartment?'

  'A favourite bust of de Forge's. Of Napoleon. Remember Waterloo.' Tweed ended cryptically.

  At Arcachon Victor Rosewater stood on the deck of his cabin cruiser, scanning the front with binoculars. He switched his survey to the craft in the port where the masts of a cluster of vessels swayed slowly under the gentle swell entering the bassin from the Atlantic.

  Dressed in a polo-necked sweater under an oilskin he looked the typical sailor. A fine drizzle of rain was falling. The sky was like grey porridge. Everything looked grey. Satisfied that he was not observed, he ran down the companionway into a large cabin.

  Throwing off the oilskin, he pressed a secret button. A section of the galley wall slid back, revealing a radio telephone and a transmitter. He pressed another button and on deck a tall aerial elevated alongside the mast.

  Within minutes he was speaking to his contact, Oscar, at Kriminalpolizei HQ in Wiesbaden. They exchanged code words and Rosewater gave his message.

  'Soon I will be able to supply a list of the addresses where our friends are staying in the Federal Republic. That is all...'

  In Wiesbaden Oscar immediately transmitted the signal to Kuhlmann in Paris.

  Despite Rosewater's careful surveillance of the bassin he had overlooked a broad-shouldered man dressed in a pea-jacket. Brand was crouched behind the wheelhouse of a smaller cabin cruiser moored in the port.

  He was also using binoculars and had seen Rosewater scanning the anchorage. He continued watching as the Englishman disappeared inside the cabin. Through his binoculars he saw the elevation of the aerial. He stood up, stepped ashore and strolled along the waterfront to a public callbox. Shoulders hunched, a cap pulled down over his forehead, he appeared to be just an ordinary seaman. He entered the callbox, dialled the number from memory, announced himself as Bird Two. It was fortunate the girl who came on the line spoke English.

  'Is that you, Yvette? Listen. You know where I am. There's a British spy ship in the harbour. The Red Ensign at the mast. Cabin cruiser. The Typhoon TV. Got that? Repeat the name. Yes, that's it...'

  General de Forge was in a rage. Summoned to his presence, Major Lamy found him in a storming mood, unable to keep still. He looked at his subordinate with a piercing stare.

  'You know what's happened now? I can't contact Josette. The operator says the line has been disconnected. My main pipeline into Paris has been cut. Just as we are about to launch Austerlitz within hours. Find out what the hell is going on. Why are you still standing there?'

  'Yvette has reported a call from Oiseau Deuxieme...' Reluctantly he gave de Forge more bad news. As he feared, it did not improve the General's temper. De Forge hammered his fist on the desk.

  'Send a team to clean out Arcachon. You know how important the place is. First this Paula Grey, who is still on the loose. Now this new spy. Include in the team Sergeant Rey. A booby trap may be the answer for this cabin cruiser, Typhoon IV. And Kalmar has to liquidate the Grey woman at the earliest opportunity.'

  'There is our problem of paying Kalmar...'

  'Your problem! Flood Arcachon with men posing as DST. And don't forget Isabelle Thomas, mistress to Henri Bayle. Wipe the lot out. One more thing. I have a report from the Landes that the attempt to kill Moshe Stein misfired. Find him. There has been no report from Paris of his arrival -and if he had got there they would have put him on TV to moan on about the so called Tarbes massacre. I'm worried about the Landes. Dispatch another team by sea to remove the remains of the criminal elements from the graveyard in body bags. Take them out to sea, weight the body bags, and throw them into the Atlantic.'

  'You don't wish me to be involved in this?' Lamy protested.

  'No. Put Lieutenant Berthier in charge of the team. And tell him to wait until Sergeant Rey is available to join the unit. It may be easier and more effective to blow up the relics well out at sea. Act now...'

  De Forge waited for a few minutes, then summoned Sergeant Rey to come and see him. When the gnome-like booby trap expert appeared, képi under his arm, head bent respectfully, de Forge greeted him warmly by his real rank.

  'Sit down, Captain. Recently I had a telephone engineer in our pay come and tap the phones of every officer among our inner circle. I have discovered the traitor who has informed Paris of some of my plans. I will play the tape in a moment.'

  'Every officer?' Rey enquired.

  His nominal role of sergeant enabled him to mix with the troops, to inform de Forge of what they were saying. Guile was one of the General's favourite weapons.

  'Yes. Yourself included.' De Forge smiled cynically. 'I am noted for thoroughness. Now, this is what I want you to do...'

  Newman and his team were still trapped inside the barn. It was early evening, a grey dusk was descending over the surrounding landscape. From the skylight window in the loft Newman watched distant tanks lining up behind each other in columns. They had their rear lights on but no headlights, and they were moving very close together. It reminded Newman of accounts he'd read of General Gud-erian's panzer breakthrough into France during World War II. His tanks had moved through the defiles of the Luxembourg Ardennes at night nose to tail, each German tank commander following the vehicle ahead by watching its rear lights. He descended the ladder.

  'Are we still stuck here?' Paula enquired.

  'I'm afraid so. Let's hope the manoeuvres don't go on all night. You look worried.'

  'I was thinking of Moshe Stein. Where is he?'

  'Still in his room at the Atlantique. He has food sent up and I warned him not to venture outdoors. As soon as we can, one of us must escort him to Paris.'

  'Will he do that? Just stay in a cramped room?'

  'He once spent six months in a cellar as a boy during the Second World War. Somewhere in the Balkans. He'll stay put.'

  'Thank heavens,' Paula said with feeling. 'Then he will be quite safe.'

  Chapter Fifty

  France was ablaze. In Toulouse, in Marseilles, in Toulon, in Bordeaux, men in Balaclavas marched holding aloft slow-burning Crosses of Lorraine. They were joined by aggressive youths, small shopkeepers, market stall holders. The same chant built up to a crescendo, started by the hooded men in Balaclavas.

  Pour France! Pour France! Au Pouvoir! Au Pouvoir!

  For France! For France! To Power! To Power!

  The conflagration was spreading to smaller towns, caught up in the frenzy. It was dark now and the symbolic crosses burned like menacing daggers.

  On the hillsides bonfires were lit. Great beacons seen from miles away. Spreading the message further and further north. In Bordeaux Dubois was addressing an assembly of massed people crowding to listen as he orated at the Place de la Victoire.

  'Frenchmen! Your hour has struck. The little people will at long last have their say. We will sweep aside the vested interests which have for so long used you as serfs. You will become the pride of all Europe. Paris will be cleansed of the filthy exploiters, the corrupt ministers, the men who buy you for a miserable handful of francs...'

  'Pour France...!'

  Not everyone joined in the manic orgy of mob violence. Some stayed indoors, the shutters firmly closed. In one apartment a lawyer turned to his wife, his voice full of foreboding.

  'Louise. This reminds me of what I've read of the early days of the Revolution in 1789. The prelude to the Reign of Terror...'

  In central France and towards the north rather different scenes were taking place. Farmers were working in the night, hauling out of storage bales of hay. Their wives were helping too - helping to carry the bales to open trucks waiting to receive the loads.

  DST officers were overseeing the operation. They were carefully listing the quantity and numbers of the
bales, preparing records for future compensation by the government.

  Many of the bales were ripped open once aboard a truck. Once a vehicle was full, tough young farmers armed with pitchforks jumped inside the truck, resting on the hay as the vehicle moved off to its pre-arranged destination.

  Close to the main highways groups of petrol tankers were parked in laagers. Often as many as half a dozen. The drivers were content to sit in their cabs: they were being paid full wages without the stress of driving their mammoth loads through the night. Each driver had concealed in his cab a long coiled stretch of hosepipe. And each man had been supplied with a walkie-talkie and instructions by DST officers.

  Wherever possible they were laagered inside evergreen woods. This meant they were invisible to observation from aircraft. It was now a matter of waiting for the orders to come over the walkie-talkies.

  News of the fiery crosses burning in the south, of the crowds massing and chanting had reached Paris. Lights were burning late in the Ministry of the Interior which Navarre had now made his emergency HQ.

  For one thing, the ministry was heavily guarded. For another it was equipped with the most sophisticated communication facilities in France. Navarre, in his shirt sleeves, had called a meeting in his large office. Round the table sat Tweed, Kuhlmann, and Lasalle. The only men he could fully trust.