Cross of Fire (27 page)

'Won't that be dangerous - after what happened when
he was there recently?'

'Very dangerous, but knowing Bob he'll insist on going
back. He was worried about that girl, Isabelle, who is hiding
away in Arcachon. And something else intriguing cropped
up
in my conversation with Lasalle ...'

He repeated Lasalle's comment about Lieutenant Ber
thier, telling her a photograph was on the way.

'That was a cryptic remark.' Monica commented. 'What
do you think he meant?'

'No idea,' Tweed said quickly, too quickly. Talking about
Newman going back to France reminds me.' Unlocking a
drawer, he took out the photograph of Sergeant Rey handed
to him by Lasalle in Paris. 'Come and look at this specimen.'

'Don't like the look of him one little bit,' Monica decided
after studying the photograph.

'Sergeant Rey. I think his rank is deceptive, maybe a
cover. He's de Forge's expert on boobytraps. Have the
Engine Room make six copies. Newman must have one -
and I may send him back-up when the time comes. Anyone who goes near Third Corps - or Bordeaux, for that matter -needs a copy of that reptile.'

'I'll get it done now...'

'No. First, get me Chief Inspector Kuhlmann on the line. Let's hope he's at his Wiesbaden HQ.'

'You really are moving,' Monica remarked as she went
back to her desk and began dialling the number from
memory.

'I don't think we have much time left...'

'Kuhlmann here,' a familiar growly voice introduced
himself on the phone. 'On scrambler. And you'd damn well
better be.'

'I am. Otto. Something has happened from your tone of
voice.'

'I'm on the track of this
Siegfried
movement. Imported
terrorists planning to create all hell over here.'

'Any leads?' Tweed asked quietly.

'Yes. I got a tip-off. From an Englishman. We raided an
address in Freiburg, found a small cache of arms and explosives. To be precise, six Kalashnikov rifles, five pounds of Semtex explosive, timers, and other devices for making half a dozen bombs.'

'And how many
Siegfried
terrorists?'

'None. The birds had flown. Not even a fingerprint in the
apartment. They'd cleaned up so well I think they must
have had a woman with them. Any luck at your end?'

'We're trying. I may have news soon. Patience, Otto. Is
that friend of yours, Stahl, still at the same address you gave
me?'

'Affirmative.'

'Incidentally, that tip-off from an Englishman. Would it have anything to do with
The Name of the Rose?'
Tweed
asked, quoting the title of a famous novel.

'Yes, it would. Let's leave it at that. And I may fly to
London soon. Even scramblers can be intercepted ...'

Tweed put down the phone, disturbed. The same sinister
atmosphere seemed to prevail in Wiesbaden as in Paris. A
diabolical air of nervousness and mistrust among men at the
top about their staffs. First Lasalle, now Kuhlmann.

'Who is Stahl?' Monica asked.

'Give me one of the top secret cards. Thanks. Stahl is an agent of Kuhlmann's operating under cover inside Bordeaux ...' He was writing on the card as he spoke. 'This gives the address, phone number - and the French name he's using. I want an envelope for Newman kept in the safe.' He handed back the card. 'That goes in Newman's envelope. Add to it the copy of the photo of the evil gnome-like Sergeant Rey when you've got it from the Engine Room.'

'Will do. What was that business about
The Name of The
Rose?'

'Kuhlmann had a tip-off about one of the safe houses
used by
Siegfried.
The tip-off came from Captain Victor Rosewater. I told you about our meeting him with Paula in Basle. Paula thinks he'd make good material for us.' 'Sounds as though Paula could be right.'

At Grenville Grange Dawlish had taken a long phone call
from New York as soon as he entered the living room with Lieutenant Berthier. The Frenchman stood staring down the
lawn to the landing stage. Beyond, in the wide loop of the
river Aide, a luxurious yacht was moored to a buoy. He
watched as a motorboat left the yacht with three men
aboard.
They headed the craft for the landing stage, jumped
ashore, ran up the edge of the lawn and disappeared round the side of the mansion. They were a tough-looking crew: well-built men in their thirties, who moved with athletic
strides.

'All right, Berthier,' Dawlish called out. 'Get to it. What
news do you bring?'

Berthier, erect, swung round on his heel, felt for his tinted
glasses, pressed them deeper into his top pocket. Dawlish's
manner was abrupt, his tone brusque.

'I was ordered to ask you when the next consignment would arrive.'

'Consignment of what?'

Dawlish watched Berthier's reaction closely. His visitor's eyes were blank, unblinking.

'I have no idea, sir. The message was exactly as I have
phrased it.'

'But you could make a guess?' Dawlish persisted.

'I could not, sir. My orders were to transmit certain questions to you. Then I take the answers back to my
superiors.'

'What unit are you attached to, Lieutenant? You are just
a lieutenant? Or maybe that covers a higher rank?'

'Just a lieutenant, sir. And I'm attached to the engineers. Bridge-building. That sort of work.'

'I see.'

Dawlish was careful not to show it but he was impressed.
Security was as tight as a closed hatch.

'The next consignment will be delivered within roughly three weeks from now. That answers your question?'

'It does. Thank you, sir.'

'Relax, man.' Dawlish became amiable. 'You're not on
duty. Pour yourself a drink. You press the button in that
bookcase - next to the volume of
Pilgrim's Progress.'

'I never drink when on duty, sir.'

'Then bloody well pour me one. A large Scotch.'

Dawlish turned at the Frenchman's pedantic adherence
to duty. He had never been able to break down the cold
mask Berthier habitually displayed. Give him an order and
he'd do anything. Dawlish found it disconcerting that he
couldn't penetrate the armour Berthier seemed to surround himself with. Frightened of few men, Dawlish had always found Berthier's presence unsettling. He took the glass of Scotch without a word, drank half the contents.

'There is another question I was asked to transmit.'
Berthier continued. 'Where will the consignment be landed?'

'Arcachon...'

Dawlish nearly added, 'as on previous occasions,' but
stopped himself just in time. Possibly Berthier did know as little about the operation as appeared to be the case.

'And a signal confirming the exact arrival date and time will be sent by the usual route twenty-four hours earlier?'

'Yes.'

Dawlish left it at that. Again he studied Berthier. Six feet
tall, strong face, good build, large hands hanging close to his sides. Almost as though standing to attention. On parade. The eyes were blue and ice-cold. The prototype of a well-trained machine.

'You're leaving when?' Dawlish demanded.

'I have been ordered to stay for a short time to explore
for certain information. I am staying locally.'

Dawlish would like to have asked where 'locally' was
but doubted whether he'd be told. Rather than risk a rebuff
from a man whose reactions he was unsure of, Dawlish
simply nodded. He drank the rest of his Scotch, stood up.

'Walters will show you out...'

He paced the room when Berthier had gone. People left
an atmosphere behind them when they had intruded and
gone. Dawlish felt that Death had just paid a visit to
Grenville Grange.

Chapter Eighteen

Still furious with the way Dawlish had tried to paw her,
Paula was very glad to see the man walking down the steps
of the Brudenell as she left her parked car. Victor Rosewater,
clad in a British warm, came forward to greet her, gave her a strong bear hug.

'You look strained.' he commented. 'Had a bad
experience?'

'Actually, it was a trifle unpleasant...'

She was surprised and pleased at how perceptive he was.
And he made no attempt to question her at that moment -
instead he said just the right thing.

'I was on my way for a walk through Aldeburgh. That
can wait. I suspect you could do with a drink. I'll wait in the bar while you divest yourself of your coat...'

In her room, Paula took a couple of minutes to check her make-up. She chose her favourite brooch to pin to the lapel
of her suit, combed, brushed her raven-black hair and
sprayed it.

'Champers?' Rosewater suggested when she perched by the counter.

'Lovely. I need it.'

'Let's go sit in a quiet corner.' Rosewater suggested as he carried two glasses of champagne.

Again she appreciated his consideration. Intuitively he had guessed she might want to talk where no one could overhear them. As she faced him she looked at his gear. A smart small-check sports jacket, corduroy trousers to ward off the cold outside, a cream shirt and a pale blue tie. He looked very fit. He raised his glass.

'Cheers! Do you want to talk about your experience or
shall we avoid the subject?'

'I'd like to get it out of my system.' She felt a little odd
getting on such warm terms with the man who had been
Karin's husband. But Rosewater was not only good-looking:
more important, he had an easy manner with women. He
sat patient and attentive as Paula went on.

'I do a bit of journalism on the side,' she said, shading the truth. I've just come back from interviewing Lord Dane Dawlish for
Woman's Eye.
It turned out to be an ordeal. He couldn't keep his hands off me.'

'Nothing serious - really serious - happened?' he asked
quietly.

'No. I fended him off. I should have scratched his face.'

'Probably just as well you didn't. Dawlish has a reputa
tion for playing rough with women who don't accommodate
him.'

'How do you know that?' she asked curious.

'It's part of my job to know all about the main players in the international game.'

'Game, Victor?'

'Wrong word. British understatement. It's anything but a
game - a deadly struggle for power, for money. You don't
become a Lord Dane Dawlish abiding by the Queensberry
Rules.'