Cross of Fire (48 page)

Out of the corner of his eye he was watching the group
of dice-players who seemed absorbed in their game. As he
drew level with the alley Newman was collided into by a
couple absorbed in their own company.

'Pardon!'
said the youth automatically.

When they had moved on Newman was inside the wide alley. Parked at the end of the alley before it turned the L-
shaped corner to the rear of the apartment was a battered
old
van. By the glow from a low-powered wall light New
man read the legend
Ramoneur.
Chimney sweep.

He walked alongside the wall of the next building
beyond the apartment block, his rubber-soled shoes making
no sound on the cobbles. He was watching the closed door
which led to the staircase, the door to which he had the key
in his pocket. It was pure fancy - maybe nerves - he told
himself, but the closed door had a sinister look.

He was also watching the van as he came closer, wonder
ing if the chimney sweep was behind the wheel, smoking a
cigarette before he went home to his nagging wife. He came
up to the front, peered inside. Empty. Parked for the night. Probably the sweep had the nicest wife in all Bordeaux. He looked back at the closed door.

The idea came to him suddenly. Brought on by his
certainty that it was Sergeant Rey he had seen with the dice-
players. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected
the pick-lock given to him by a small-time villain in the East
End of London. It all depended on whether the sweep was using old-fashioned equipment still favoured by some housewives - especially out in the countryside, the type of
brush with a long handle composed of bamboo lengths
inserted into each other - as opposed to a vacuum sweep.

It took him less than a minute to fiddle open the rear
door. Shielding the beam with his hand, he examined the
interior with his pencil flash. Thank God! The old-fashioned
type.

Newman worked quickly, assembling the long handle.
When he had the handle ready
he attached the brush.
Leaving the van, he looked round the alley, towards the
main street at the end, listened. Nothing. No sign of life anywhere.

Holding the long, supple handle, he approached the rear
door to the apartment block at an angle. Extending the
brush in front of himself, he crouched low, moved the brush
over the door. He covered the upper half, ran it slowly
round the framework, then he pressed the brush as hard as
he could against the area of the lock and the door handle.

The explosion was a muffled boom. The whole door flew out, shattered into several pieces. The brush and handle were ripped out of his hands. Dust drifted from the inside of the apartment block. Had he attempted to open the door he would have been blown to pieces.

Newman ran towards the devastated entrance, ran inside.
Holding his breath against the cloud of dust, he raced
upstairs, pencil flash in one hand, key to the apartment door in the other.

If he moved swiftly he had no worry about the other
inhabitants reacting quickly. They'd be in a state of shock,
would stir themselves slowly. He opened the drawer in the
bedroom, searched among Isabelle's underclothes trying not
to leave a mess. The notebook was wrapped inside a slip. Francis Carey's note book. Small, sum, and bound in blue leather. He slipped it into his pocket, ran out of the apart
ment, closing the door before he hurtled down the staircase.
He glanced over the banister which remained intact -
opposite Isabelle's apartment a large chunk had been torn
away. Looking down into the
well he saw a dim light on
the concrete basement floor. No wonder the two DST men
had ended up dead - plunging down that drop.

He peered out into the alley before leaving the building. Deserted. But sooner or later the police would arrive. He
walked swiftly towards the entrance, keeping close to the
wall. He had just reached the corner when a man in a heavy overcoat walked round it. Sergeant Key.

Newman reacted instantly, reinforced by his SAS training. Rey also reacted swiftly, shoving his right hand inside
his coat. Newman's stiffened edge of his right hand struck
Rey a vicious blow on the side of the neck. Rey slumped to
the cobbles, began moaning and wriggling. Newman had
hoped to kill the bastard. No time to hang about.

He ran towards his parked car after glancing over his
shoulder. The dice-playing group was still watching the
front entrance. He was halfway to the side street before they
saw him, began clambering to their feet.

Newman's feet hardly touched the ground as he rushed
to the Renault, dived inside, started the engine, drove off in the opposite direction from the main street behind him. At
the bottom he turned into another side street. A second
before he turned he glanced in his rear-view mirror. No sign
of the dice-players. Slow on the uptake. And they hadn't
seen his make of car.

He drove out of Bordeaux just inside the speed limit,
headed along the lonely road back
to Arcachon.

Moshe Stein opened his bedroom door in the small hotel on
the third tap from Newman. Fully dressed, he ushered him inside, pointed to the rumpled bed.

'I slept in my clothes. I'm ready to drive through the
night to my villa if that suits you. But maybe
you
need sleep.
And your windcheater is covered with dust. Also, I repeat,
I'm happy to go there by myself.'

'Don't talk rubbish. Give me time to make one phone
call. Get ready for that instant departure ...'

Newman used the bedside phone to call Isabelle. She
spoke on the second ring: Newman guessed she'd been
sitting by her phone.

'It's Bob.' he said. 'Now listen, I haven't much time. The
sneak of a chief barman at the Bar Miami heard Henri
mention Arcachon when you were talking one night. Just one bribe and he passed on to me what I'm sure he's also
passed on earlier to others less friendly...'

'I will be very careful, Bob. Wonderful to hear from you. Where are you speaking from?'

'A long way off.' he lied. 'Now
listen
!
I think when I was driving out of Arcachon I saw a certain Lieutenant Berthier.
Got the name? Good. He's one of General de Forge's inner
circle of confidants. Description ... Got it? He's in uniform
but he might change into
civvy clothes. Which is why I
emphasized his physical appearance. Stay indoors as much
as you can...'

'I have to go out shopping some time.'

'Go out early - as soon as the shops open. Avoid crowds. Wear a scarf round your head. Stay indoors as much as you
can. I may phone you again in the not very distant future.'

'When?
When,
Bob?'

'As soon as I can. Must go.'

He put down the phone before she could protest. He had
been careful not to mention her name. He trusted Moshe
implicitly - but how much torture can any man resist? After
what had happened in the alley in Bordeaux he was begin
ning to think de Forge had become a monster. It could have
been Isabelle - even her mother - who had tried to open
that rear door. Their bodies would have been shattered into a bloody pulp.

'I'm ready when you are.' Moshe's voice said behind him. 'That is, if you still insist on coming. They know they missed one man during the massacre at Tarbes. A list of the members of the reading group and their addresses was left behind in the visitors' book everyone signed. I'm known to be an outspoken opponent of de Forge. I - we - will be targets.'

'I'm ready now.' Newman replied.

Half an hour later they were driving well south of Arcachon through the night towards the Landes.

*

Paula disembarked from the Air Inter flight at Bordeaux
well after dark. Behind her, but apparently on his own, Harry Butler followed, dressed in casual clothes and wearing a leather jacket. He carried his suitcase in his left hand and he glanced all round the concourse.

Only a few passengers had come off the flight but there were quite a few uniformed French soldiers strolling round, carrying automatic weapons. Behind Harry Butler, also
appearing to be on his own, walked Pete Nield, clad in a
smart business suit and looking like a salesman.

It was Butler who spotted the girl in the uniform of a
stewardess filming the new arrivals. He hurried on past
Paula, walked into the raw cold of the night and found the
waiting hired car he'd phoned for before leaving Paris. The
courier girl was holding a card.
Pierre Blanc.
A nice common
name and the Engine Room back at Park Crescent had provided all the necessary papers in that name.

Butler shoved his bag in the back, leaving a seat vacant,
paid the girl in cash. Paula,
carrying her small case, was
walking away from the airport. Butler got behind the wheel,
took his time settling himself, drove away and caught up with her. He stopped briefly, she jumped into the back, he
drove off towards Bordeaux.

Behind them Pete Nield, who spoke fluent French, had
joined the taxi queue. Paula stacked her case alongside
Butler's, stretched - stiff from the flight - then relaxed,
gazing out at the lights of the night.

'Well, Harry, we managed that well.'

'No, we didn't. A fat little man smoking a cheroot is on
our tail in a Fiat. He saw me pick you up.'

'That's a problem.'

'Not really.' The burly Butler shrugged. 'The plan is we go first to the Pullman Hotel in the Meriadeck area, book in,
pay in advance with cash, leave a few things in our rooms, then take off.'

'So? The fat little man with the cheroot?'

'We don't drive straight to Archacon when we leave the Pullman tonight. I've studied a map of the area. First we drive south. That Fiat has a very advanced-looking radio aerial. Cheroot may make regular reports. There is a country road I'll take, again heading south. Later we double back, make for Archachon and the delectable Isabelle. Newman's description, not mine.'

'And Cheroot?'

'Will no longer be with us...'

Paula had phoned Jean Burgoyne at the Villa Forban from
Paris. Jean had told her tomorrow afternoon would be a
good time for her visit: she would be
alone
at the villa. Paula
had decided it would be a good chance to go and see
Isabelle Thomas at Arcachon in the morning.

It was Harry Butler who had worked out the strategy on
the assumption they were spotted by so-called 'DST' agents. They arrived at the modernistic Pullman, registered for one
week, paid for two rooms in advance in cash. The hotel
reminded Paula of a concrete bee-hive, especially when she
looked round her room on the floor entitled
Privilege -
which meant their expensive accommodation.