Cross of Fire (55 page)

'It is still being carried out, sir.'

'Should have damned well been completed by now. Butts
will be kicked if we're behind schedule.'

'I'm happy to report we're exactly on schedule, sir.'

'You may be happy. I'll only join your happiness when
the skipper reports the cargo is aboard ...'

Onshore a few villagers, well wrapped against the zero
temperatures, were gazing through field-glasses at the
Steel Vulture.
They were fascinated with Dawlish's persistence in
locating Dunwich under the sea. And it was good for
business.

The local pub had been packed with customers - divers
coming ashore for a break, slaking their thirst with a roll of
banknotes. Dawlish was popular, Dawlish was good for
business. No one suspected that anything sinister was taking
place. They watched as Dawlish climbed on to the platform suspended just above a calm sea.

When the
Steel Vulture
had raced north from Harwich
early in the morning it had swung through a hundred and
eighty degrees before anchoring off Dunwich. It floated
about a half-mile out from the coast and the activity visible from the beach was on the starboard side.

What could not be seen by the curious sightseers was the
very different and furious activity on the port side facing
out to sea. A squat mobile crane was operating a long chain
suspended deep down. When not in use the crane was
telescoped inside a huge cube of a deckhouse. Close to the
stern was an advanced seaplane. It was not only equipped
with floats for landing on water: it also had a retractable
undercarriage which could lower wheels below the floats,
enabling it to land on the ground.

The
Vulture,
specially designed in a Norwegian shipyard,
had cost Dawlish forty million dollars with its various
accessories. Dawlish went straight to the bridge and his
mood was aggressive as he addressed the skipper, Santos.

'I presume we can sail for Arcachon tonight?'

Santos spread apologetic hands. 'I am not sure the load
ing will be completed for a few hours. We may have to sail tomorrow...'

'A few hours!' Dawlish was outraged. His bullet-like eyes
glared at the skipper. 'I should have come here earlier to crack
a few skulls together. Why the hell do I have to supervise
everything myself to ensure the schedule is kept? Always the
same story. I have to do every bloody thing myself.'

'It is dangerous work.' Santos pleaded. 'You would not
wish us to have an accident with such a cargo.'

'Report to me every half-hour. The trucks loaded the
vessel during the night?'

He was referring to the trucks which had brought their
consignments from the factory in the forest on the road to
Orford. The factory Newman and Marler had earlier tried to search, had been frustrated by their discovery of land
mines which caused them to abandon the expedition.

The villagers in Dunwich were not surprised when trucks
arrived in the middle of the night. Two divers who patron
ized the Ship Inn had casually mentioned the trucks were
bringing in food supplies for the crew and high-tech equip
ment for the clivers who were using new techniques to
explore the sunken village.

Santos wished Dawlish would leave the bridge. His
nationality was Panamanian and he was paid
a
larger salary than he'd get anywhere else in the world. Large enough for
him to keep his mouth shut.

'Report to me on progress every half-hour!' Dawlish
repeated, and stormed off to his luxurious cabin.

His quarters were also equipped with the latest com
munications technology. He had hardly closed the door,
started to pour himself a large Scotch, when his private
radio telephone rang.

'Hell and damnation.'

He put down the drink, sat in the armchair, picked up
the phone. Brand's burring controlled voice came over the receiver from Arcachon as clear as a bell.

'There could be trouble here. Guess who I ran into in a local bar...'

'I don't like guessing games. Get to the point, for God's
sake.'

'That cow, Paula Grey, who interviewed you. I tried to
find out what she was doing here and got nowhere.'

'That is too much of a coincidence ...'

Dawlish gave Brand precise instructions, coding them in language no one else would have understood. Aware of the
British government's highly sophisticated listening system at Cheltenham, Dawlish took no risks with security. And during their conversation neither man had mentioned the other's name. As for Paula Grey, Dawlish didn't think her
name would ring any bells.

Tweed had just returned from a brisk walk round Paris in the drizzle drifting down from a miserable overcast sky
which blanketed the city. He had sensed a growing unease among the population.

Walking into a bar he had listened to some bargees
chatting while he sipped at a cup of coffee. Their views
struck him as alarming, considering they weren't among the
elite of Paris society.

'We need General de Forge to take over,' one man had
said.

'I reckon he could be a second de Gaulle,' his companion
had agreed.

'A strong man to clear out these Arabs and other foreign trash,' a third bargee had said emphatically. 'I know exactly
what I'd do. Round up the bastards and deport the whole
tribe back to where they came from. De Forge is the man to
do just that...'

Arriving back at the Ministry of the Interior, Tweed
showed the pass Navarre had issued him with. He hurried
back to his office and the phone was ringing. He grabbed
for it.

'Yes? Who is this?'

'Monica. I have more news.' I hope you'll understand
me. First, those films Marler took when he was on a fishing expedition with Newman. Are you with me?'

She was referring to the pictures Marler had taken of the laboratory-like building during their brief raid on Dawlish's factory in the forest on the road to Orford in the Aldeburgh
area.

'Yes. They've taken the devil of a time to develop them
and come up with a comment.'

'It's weird. I'll jump ahead a bit. When the data came
back from Porton with their scientific report the Home
Secretary authorized Special Branch to investigate the place.
They were accompanied by experts from Porton. I have to
tell you they came up with nothing.'

'Nothing?'

Tweed was taken aback. He recalled the veterinary
pathologist's report on the dead fox Newman had brought
back. Nerve gas.

'I don't understand,' he replied.

'Wait, please. I said I'd jump ahead a bit. The photos
taken by Marler were subjected to intensive examination at
Porton - using, I gather, new magnification techniques. It
was the opinion of the experts that certain containers which
showed up were just the type used for storing nerve gas.
Hence their agreeing to travel all the way from Porton to
join the Special Branch men.'

'So what the devil did they discover - or not discover -
inside that laboratory?'

'The place was empty. Not a single container left. And they tested the whole place with special instruments. It was
clean as a whistle. Almost too clean - that's a quote from
one of the scientists. And no landmines.'

'Thank you, Monica. Keep in touch...'

Tweed felt depressed as he replaced the phone. He still felt certain he was missing something. He picked up the report of what Paula had said, began re-reading it again.
Word by word.

Butler drove the Renault along the country road and
stopped a hundred yards from the entrance to the Villa
Forban. As agreed in advance, Paula stepped out and
walked swiftly to the closed grille gates.

'I've got a bad feeling about this,' said Nield who sat in
the rear.

'Join the club,' answered Butler. 'Which is why we are
taking the precautions I thought up.'

Paula reached the gates, saw the entryphone Jean Bur-
goyne had told her to look for set into one of the pillars. She
pressed the button, looking along the road which led to
GHQ Third Corps.

'Yes? Who is it?'

Jean's distinctive voice speaking in French. Paula put her mouth close to the entryphone.

'Paula here. Are you alone?'

'Yes. Come in. I will operate ...'

'Don't
open the gates. We are coming in from the back of
the estate. Please trust me. Leave a rear door open - I'll be
there in about five minutes OK?'

'Anything you say. Looking forward very much to seeing
you...'

Paula ran back to the car, jumped in beside Butler. She
told them Jean was alone, that it was all right. Butler
nodded, said nothing as he drove off the road up a very
narrow side road. He'd studied a large-scale map before
they had left Arcachon, had found this road led to the back of the villa. He'd also discovered that it forked, that another narrow route led across country before it rejoined the road they'd come along.

To their right was a high stone wall. This didn't worry
Butler, who had cross-questioned Paula about the location
of the villa the night before in Arcachon. Early that morning
he had visited a ship's chandler, had purchased a length of
strong rope and an iron grapple. They'd be able to scale the wall at the back.

It was mid-afternoon and the sky was like thick grey
soup. No wind, but it was arctic cold. The met forecasts,
which Butler monitored when he could, had talked of a
heavy sea mist coining in. And they were later than they'd
expected to be, which again worried Butler. They'd taken a
wrong turn.

Following the road round the back of the walled estate
Butler saw the rope and grapple wouldn't be needed. He
positioned the car carefully under the branches of an overhanging tree which had its trunk on the far side of the wall.

'Think you're athletic enough to shin up that branch and
climb down the other side of the tree, Paula?'

She gave him a dirty look, started to open her door to get out. Butler laid a hand on her arm.

'We do this my way. We're in enemy territory.'

'General de Forge's stronghold.' Nield commented. 'We
must be crazy.'

'So,' Butler continued, 'I'm coming with you. If you prefer to talk to Burgoyne on your own, OK. But I want to be in the next room. And I go up the tree first.'