by Colin Forbes
'I have.' Navarre began, 'informed the Cabinet it will meet next in three days' time.'
'Why?' asked Lasalle.
Navarre smiled grimly. 'It is a trick. Within three days the crisis will be settled. One way or the other. I am sure de Forge has already heard the news. He will think we believe we have plenty of time, that no action will be taken against him in the meantime.'
'Are the measures we talked about being activated?' Tweed asked.
'The measures you suggested,' Navarre corrected him. 'Yes. Both with the farmers and the drivers of a whole fleet of petrol tankers. The trouble is we need to know the route de Forge's forces will take.'
'The N20,' Tweed said. 'The direct route to Paris. But I emphasize that is my educated guess. We need the data Stahl compiled, the data Jean Burgoyne obtained. And my people, who have the documents, are on their way to the Landes. That was a mistake, but I can't blame them. I'm sure they want to give us a complete package - including a witness we can put on TV.'
'Time is running out,' Lasalle said quietly.
'You still have an informant inside de Forge's camp?' Tweed enquired. 'Even after the murder of Jean Burgoyne?'
'That murder I mourn,' Lasalle replied. 'She was a brave woman. To answer your question, yes I still have one informant. I received a brief message early this afternoon. The Cercle Noir is holding one final meeting just after dusk today. That is why I say time is running out.'
'I think we must do something about that.' Navarre decided. 'At the Cabinet meeting General Masson said he would be away from Paris visiting a unit.'
'I think I would suggest that we do two things if you are agreeable. A double-pronged attack. Plus more psychological warfare. The first prong of the offensive should be ...' Tweed elaborated.
Arriving in Arcachon, Sergeant Rey worked quickly. He had little time before he had to join Lieutenant Berthier's seaborne landing in the far south.
Rey dressed as a fisherman. He wore an oilskin with the hood pulled well down over his face. He trudged in a mist of drizzle, plodding in his gumboots, carrying a fishing rod. Over his shoulder was slung a canvas bag, presumably for his catch. Inside the bag was the time bomb.
He had earlier sat on a stone jetty, fishing line in the water dappled with the rain, watching the Typhoon IV. He saw no sign of activity and the curtains were drawn over the cabin windows. The owner was undoubtedly enjoying an afternoon nap.
Rey made no sound as he stepped from the shore on to the wet deck. He took one final look round to make sure he was not observed. Extracting the limpet-shaped bomb, he pressed a button, activating the magnetic legs. Crouching down, he attached it to a band of metal running round the outside of the cabin. He pressed a second button. The timer was now operating, the silent clock ticking away. Rey had five minutes to get clear.
He walked rapidly to his car as though fed up with the drizzle which had developed into steady rain. Dumping his fishing rod with the canvas bag on the back seat, he climbed behind the wheel, started his engine, waited.
He had parked his car in a position where he could see Typhoon IV, moored by itself. He was several hundred yards away from his target. He checked his watch. One more minute...
The explosion was muffled by the rain but still loud. The Typhoon IV was ripped apart. The hull soared above the bassin. It shattered into pieces which fell back into the water, some pieces causing huge eruptions of water like fountains. Smoke rose from the portion of the hull still at the mooring point. Flame flared briefly, was quenched as the remains of the vessel disappeared.
'Another job dealt with.' Rey muttered to himself callously.
He drove off to the rendezvous with Berthier at a lonely point on the coast south of Arcachon. They should reach the Landes by mid-afternoon.
Aboard another cabin cruiser, his reserve base, Rosewater saw the explosion. He had expected something like this. All essential equipment had been moved to the cruiser he watched from through binoculars.
Earlier, while transmitting his brief message to Oscar in Wiesbaden, he had watched through the net curtains masking the windows of his cabin. He had seen Brand appear suddenly, hurrying along the waterfront. Too suddenly after Rosewater had scanned the area for any sign of activity.
It could have been a coincidence, but Rosewater had survived so far by never believing coincidences. And wherever he was stationed even for a few days he always had a second secret base. As the fountains of water vanished he shrugged his shoulders. He was not disturbed - his occupation assumed risks all the time.
Newman was driving the Renault Espace through the night. Paula sat beside him, checking her map. Behind them were seated Stahl and Nield. And in the back, staring constantly through the rear window, was Butler.
Taking a risk - because they had lost so much time -Newman was racing down the N10, the main highway towards the Spanish border. He had stopped at a truck drivers' cafe earlier to check the situation. Strategically situated by the side of the N10, the eating place was filled with the smoke of cheap cigarettes; so much so he paused inside the entrance of the long cabinlike structure to get used to the blue haze, the stench of overcooked food mingling with beer fumes.
Drivers from the trucks parked outside occupied all the tables. Others were standing. He pushed his way to the bar, ordered a Pernod, started chatting to a burly driver in French.
'We're on our way to the border from Paris on holiday. I'm wondering whether to turn back. Bloody Army seems to be everywhere.'
'Keep going south.' the driver advised. 'I'm up from San Sebastian. The tanks have all gone north. You'll meet nothing. You think this Dubois is any good? Don't believe a word he says. He's after a fat job in the Cabinet - to keep him quiet. That's politics for you.' He spat on the straw-covered floor. 'You take your holiday, mate ...'
They drove on, reached the Landes, the sinister walls of the forest closed in on both sides. Here and there a massacre had taken place. Trees chopped down, the headlights of the Espace swept over vast clearings with ugly tree stumps left like the amputated limbs of giants.
Dawn was not so far away when, guided by Paula, Newman turned off the N10, swung west on to the D42 at Castets. Soon they reached St Girons, the village where their witness, Martine, lived. It took them a while to locate her tiny cottage on the edge of the village as Moshe Stein had described. Newman was disturbed to see lights in every window of the dwelling.
The first grey streaks of dawn filtered from the east as he took Paula with him and pressed the ancient bell. He heard nothing inside so he hammered on the woodwork. A shuffling sound like someone walking in clogs approached the door. It was opened on a heavy chain. Martine, fully dressed, peered out.
'Remember me?' Newman asked quietly. 'This is Marie. We have other friends outside.'
'Are you armed?'
The question shook Newman, unsure which answer would reassure her. Then he realized she was frightened.
'Yes we are ...'
'Come in!' She couldn't open the door quickly enough and talked non-stop in an urgent gabble. 'You may be in time. You may be too late. Can you remember the way to the graveyard? They are going to kill another one ... They landed from the sea ... I was collecting brushwood when I saw them coming.'
'Saw who coming?' Newman asked.
Paula looked round the living room-cum-kitchen. It was spotless. An ancient stove stood against one wall and a welcome glow of heat met her. It was freezing outside.
'Their rubber boats with engines...' Martine clutching Newman's arm. 'One man had his hands tied behind his back. It's another firing squad. The swines are going to murder another one, then bury him. Hurry! You might be in time. I have just got back. They were just coming in to land when I hurried back...' We'll go immediately.'
Newman had to abandon the Espace after driving a short distance when he came to where the path leading into the forest was too narrow. The light was growing stronger but it was still not dawn as they ran flat-footed among the trees to prevent stumblin
g on the soggy earth.
They were very close to the sea: they could hear a surge of incoming waves slapping on a beach and the tang of salt air was strong in their nostrils. This was mixed with the aroma of pine and fir and, normally, Paula would have revelled in the scent. Now she was only hoping they would not be too late.
There had been a brief argument outside the cottage when Newman had told Paula to stay with Martine and she had insisted on coming. Newman had made a mistake in how he worded his suggestion.
It might be better if someone stayed to guard Martine -and in any case it would be much safer if you waited for us here.'
'Safer!' she flared up. 'You think I'm just a passenger? Someone you can drop off the train as soon as the journey looks tricky? You're damn well wasting time - and I am coming with you...'
Newman found he could remember the way along the path he had previously trod and led the way. Behind him Paula followed and behind her Stahl, nursing his submachine-gun. Butler and Nield completed the small column. They had reached firmer ground, were threading their course through the immense tree trunks towering above, when Newman held up a hand to stop them.
'We have reached the graveyard.'
'Is it those humps?' Paula asked, gritting her teeth.
'Yes. I think I heard someone over to the right. A voice, I'm sure.'
'Then whoever it is must be on the beach,' Paula commented. 'We'd better riot waste a second...'
They crept forward through the trees, Newman in the middle, Paula on his left, Stahl on his right. Behind followed Butler and Nield. All held their weapons in their hands. The forest ended suddenly. They were out in the open and below the leaden sea stretched away, its surface ruffled with the endless waves rolling in.
Paula almost gasped with horror, clapped her left hand to her mouth. They were on an elevated bank of fine sand. Beyond, dunes spread away to the south, those in the distance rising to a considerable height. The tide was out and a belt of freshly washed sand edged the swirling surf from the gentle waves. It was the scene on the beach below which had startled Paula.
A lieutenant stood erect, blindfolded, facing north, his hands tied behind his back to a wooden stake rammed into the beach. Twenty feet away from him, facing south, were ten soldiers holding rifles. Well back, and midway between the target and the men with rifles, stood a hunched figure, also in uniform, a pistol in his hand by his side.
'My God!' Paula whispered. 'It's a firing squad. They're going to shoot Lieutenant Berthier.'
'And that creep with his back to me is familiar. Sergeant Key. He's going to administer the coup-de-grace. After that squad has shot him.'
'Can't we stop them?'
As she spoke Rey raised his weaselly voice, attempting to assume a commanding posture.
'Take aim...'
The rifles were rising when Newman's voice bellowed out. At the same moment Stahl aimed his sub-machine-gun.
'Don't move, Sergeant Rey! We can shoot you all down in seconds. Here is a demonstration...'
Stahl pressed the trigger and the sub-machine-gun spattered the beach, spraying close to the feet of the squad.
Fine sand spurted up in the soldiers' faces. In the act of raising their rifles they froze. It was like a waxwork tableau. Newman bellowed again.
'Sergeant Rey! Order them to drop their rifles. Now!'
Stahl aimed his sub-machine-gun again. Bullets sprayed the beach a few feet in front of Rey. He stiffened and gave the order. Ten rifles fell to the beach. For the third time Newman shouted an order.
'Sergeant Rey! Drop your pistol. Now!'
Still not daring to turn round, Rey obeyed. Newman gave him a fresh instruction.
'Order your soldiers to lie on their stomachs in the shape of a fan. A wheel - like the spokes of a wheel. One man facing outwards, the next towards the hub. Get on with it.'
Rey gave the order. The soldiers had to be told three times what was wanted. Newman's tactic was to have the face of one man between the boots of his companions. No communication could then be passed between them.
'Get rid of their weapons, Pete,' Newman whispered to Nield. 'And keep well clear of Stahl's line of fire - just in case someone gets lively.'
Nield collected Rey's automatic pistol first, ejected the magazine, fired the bullet up the spout towards the sea. He then gathered up the rifles, piling them away from the spreadeagled soldiers and near the surf line. Picking up each rifle, he extracted the cartridges, used a piece of hard wood he'd found among the brushwood littering the sand. He used it to damage the breeches. Then, one by one, he hurled each weapon as far out to sea as he could.
'Check Rey for other weapons,' Newman called out.
'Clean.' Nield reported after checking the gnome whose face twisted with hatred.
'Rey.' Newman ordered, 'you will now release Lieutenant Berthier from that barbaric stake. Nield, accompany him and keep your gun at the ready.'
As the two men reached the prisoner a strange silence fell over the scene, broken only by the peaceful sound of the surge of the sea. Freed, Berthier eased the ache out of his hands, flexing them, stretched his arms and walked with surprising firmness to Newman.
'Keep Rey where he is.' Newman ordered Nield.
He couldn't understand the furtive expression which had come over Rey's evil face. As though he were waiting for something. Berthier stood in front of Newman.
'Thank God! You saved my life. They turned on me when I was in one of the dinghies. They've dragged them into the undergrowth to avoid surveillance from the air. I managed to phone Paris.' he continued in a low voice, 'just before we embarked. Said I was calling my girlfriend. Then I delayed the passage of the dinghies down here before they grabbed me. I kept pretending to see lights of vessels - which meant we had to put out our lights and stop.'
'You phoned Paris? Who did you contact...'
Newman got no further. Rey shouted at the top of his voice.
'Don't move. Drop your weapons or you'll be shot down like the trash you are.'
As he completed his threat Rey dropped flat to the beach.
Newman glanced behind them. Twelve more French soldiers had emerged from the forest, most of them carrying automatic weapons aimed point blank at Newman's team. Two had shovels sloped over their shoulders.
Stahl stiffened, Newman warned him quickly.
'Don't, Egon. We'll be cut down. Drop it. We're outgunned.'
Newman was cursing himself for carelessness. As they'd hurried across the graveyard he'd noticed signs of recent disturbance of the humps. He had hardly registered the fact, so urgently had he wanted to reach the beach.
Obviously - now - another section of troops had been beginning to remove the evidence when they had heard Newman's team approaching. They must have retreated into the forest to observe who was coming. And Rey was now wearing the uniform of a captain. The gnome swaggered after Nield who joined the others with his hands in the air. Rey was grinning, exposing bad teeth, as he stared at Paula.
'We'll have some fun with you before six more corpses are sunk at sea. Your death, Berthier, may be prolonged.'
At the Atlantique in. Arcachon Moshe Stein's bedroom door flew open and two grim-looking men in trenchcoats stared at him. The smaller man had a Luger pistol aimed at Stein's chest. The taller, more heavily-built man seemed to be in charge.
'DST. Moshe Stein? You're wanted for questioning.'
'Where? And why, if I may ask?'
'You may not.' The taller man strode forward and hit him across the face with his clenched fist. The ring on his finger cut Moshe's lip. 'You just come with us, you filthy Jew, and keep your dirty mouth shut.'
Both men gripped an arm, hauled him to the door and down the staircase. The staircase was narrow so the tall man went first, keeping hold of one arm, while his companion followed, also gripping an arm at an awkward angle. The descent was painful. No duty clerk behind the desk, Moshe noted. They frog-marched him into the street towards a waiting car.
Chap
ter Fifty-One
In Dunwich no one would have recognized the well-known figure of Lord Dawlish as he walked along the beach at half the pace of his normal vigorous stride. He wore gumboots, a pea-jacket underneath his oilskin with the hood pulled over his head.
He had disguised himself as a seaman on his way to the waiting large dinghy hauled up on the sand. No local would realize he was going on board, as he often did before the departure of the Steel Vulture.
Seeing his expression, none of the crew aboard the dinghy spoke to him as he settled himself at the stern. The outboard was started after several hefty seamen had pushed the dinghy into the sea and jumped aboard.
The dinghy purred across the calm surface while drizzle continued to fall. The atmosphere was so murky it was several minutes before the catamaran hove into view -weather conditions which gave Dawlish great satisfaction. After dark the Vulture, sailing illegally without navigation lights, could depart without anyone in Dunwich realizing it had left its station.
He summoned Captain Santos to his cabin as soon as he went on board. Taking off his dripping oilskin, he thrust it at the skipper.
Take that and get it dried off. You will be ready to sail tonight? By God, the answer had better be yes this time.'
'Señor, I am most happy to report the loading is almost complete...'
