Cross of Fire (7 page)

GHQ, Third Corps, was located in hilly country east of Bordeaux. During his drive in a hired Citroen Newman had passed through fields laid out with grids of vineyards, a distant view of the turrets of a large château.

'This way, Mr Newman.' the lieutenant said in French, walking between four lines of tanks, gun barrels precisely aligned parallel to each other. Uniformed soldiers ran in the distance. Newman had an impression of a highly organized military machine run by a man who tolerated no waste of time. Escorted inside a single-storey building guarded by sentries, he was led along a wide corridor to a heavy wooden mahogany door, elaborately carved with Napoleonic-style eagles. More like the door he'd expect to have seen inside the château he had passed.

'The General is expecting you. Just walk in.' the lieutenant invited, taking hold of the handle.

'How does he know I've arrived?' Newman enquired.

'The officer in the guard room had obtained a newspaper photo of you from the library. When you got out of your car he radioed to the General's aide-de-camp.'

'Radioed? Haven't you heard of the telephone?'

'Phones can be tapped.'

'And why was I body-searched before I was permitted to enter?'

'More security. You were checked for weapons, for a concealed tape recorder. Normal procedure against the danger of saboteurs. The General is waiting...'

The door was closed behind him as Newman walked
alone into a long room with a polished woodblock floor. A
very long room with a large Louis Quinze desk at the far end. Behind the desk sat a stocky figure wearing the uni
form of a full general. Standing
behind the tall-backed Louis
Quinze chair was a thin erect man, also in uniform and with the rank of major.

But what caught Newman's attention was the framed silhouette hanging from the wall behind the chair. A large black silhouette, unmistakably of General Charles de Gaulle, head and shoulders, in profile and wearing his képi.

'Welcome to Third Corps, Mr Newman. Please do sit
down. I hope you won't mind but we checked with
Der
Spiegel
that you were reporting for them.'

'General Charles de Forge?' Newman enquired, remain
ing on his feet.

'Of course. This is Major Lamy, my Chief of Intelligence.'

De Forge had a strong hawk-like face, longish and with a
firm jaw. His eyes were a piercing blue and he stared
penetratingly at Newman as he rose, extended a hand. His
grip was so firm Newman's fingers would have suffered
had he not been prepared for it.

Lamy sported a dark smear of a moustache and his
expression was sardonic as he nodded to Newman who
now sat down.

'I can't interview you, General, with someone else
present.'

De Forge, his manner aloof, stared at Newman. Leaning against the imperial high-backed chair, he exuded dynamic
energy under the control of an iron will. There was some
thing almost presidential about his manner.

'Major Lamy is one of my closest associates.'

'Nevertheless,' Newman insisted, 'I made it quite clear
on the phone - and the call was with Lamy - that the
interview was to be personal. That means alone.'

'Lamy, you'd better leave us. Reporters seem to think
they out-rank generals.'

'I have heard rumours,' Newman began after the Intelli
gence officer had shut the door, 'that you have strong views
on the present position in France. When I was at the gate I
was body-searched. The lieutenant used a word I didn't
quite grasp. Saboteurs.'

'The scum are everywhere. France is polluted with alien elements that should be removed. Algerians, Arabs - God knows what else.'

'That sounds like the programme of the new party,
Pour
France,
an extremist group akin to
Action Direct.'

Newman's French was fluent. He thought he detected a hint of surprise in the penetrating eyes. De Forge waved a
well-shaped hand.

'I am a servant of the Republic. Politics does not interest
me. But I must correct you.
Pour France
is a party whose
popularity is growing hourly. If their views coincide with
mine, that is irrelevant.'

'You're not concerned in any way with politics, or so you say. Have you any views on the new Germany?'

It was like pressing a button. De Forge leaned forward,
gesticulating with a clenched fist. But his voice remained calm as he launched his attack.

'We have to be on our guard. The present Chancellor is a man of peace, but who follows him? A new Bismarck who
will attempt to use the tremendous power of unified
Germany to take back Alsace-Lorraine from us again? I
draw your attention to the
Siegfried
movement which is
growing stronger daily. An underground organization
which may surface at any time. France must be prepared for a fresh onslaught. I repeat,
Siegfried
is a great menace to us - to your own country. We must be strong. You want to see
how strong we are?'

'I did see your tanks ...'

'I refer to our methods of training an elite army - ready
for any emergency. Come with me, Mr Newman...'

De Forge stood up, placed his képi over his high forehead. He glanced at the silhouette of General de Gaulle and smiled coldly.

'He was a great man. Maybe it is time for. a second de
Gaulle to arise. Come!'

De Forge led the way from his office out of the building
to where a vehicle like a jeep was parked. Jumping with
agility behind the wheel he beckoned for Newman to join
him in the passenger seat. Curious, Newman climbed up.
He had barely sat down when the vehicle began moving at high speed.

Uniformed men on motorcycles appeared as outriders
with sirens screaming, ahead of the General and behind his
vehicle. The racing cavalcade swept through the gates of the
main entrance which had been opened, continued into the
countryside.

Newman, holding on with his right hand to avoid being
tipped out, glanced at the General. His hawkish profile was
calm despite the fact that he obviously enjoyed moving at high speed. The cavalcade swung off the road up a track
across a field towards a forest, slowed down.

'Just where are we going?' Newman demanded.

'To show you the punishment well. Men have to be
tough to form an elite strike force. Discipline, order, and
stability are our watchwords.'

'I seem to recall the leader of
Pour France
used the same
slogan.'

Swivelling the wheel, de Forge stared at Newman and his expression was bleak. He stopped the vehicle in the
middle of the evergreen forest in a clearing. There was
something sinister about the atmosphere, the way the out
riders formed a circle a distance away from an old stone
well.

'This part of the interview is off the record,' de Forge ordered.

'I didn't agree to that condition earlier. You can't impose
it now.'

De Forge paused as though about to change his mind, to drive back to GHQ. Newman,
sensing the change of mood, jumped out of the vehicle, strode over to the well. De Forge
followed him. He wore riding boots polished so they
gleamed like glass. In his right hand he carried a whip
which he slashed against the boots. Newman had to admit
it was an impressive performance. Whatever else the General was, he was a natural leader.

Newman examined the ancient well. The main structure had crumbling walls but the windlass, operated by a handle, was brand new. Attached to one end of the windlass was a gauge measured in metres. Two ropes dangled tautly into the depths. Newman picked up a small stone, dropped it
down the side. It seemed for ever before he heard a faint
distant splash.

'Don't drop a large stone.' de Forge warned and smiled
his cold smile. 'You might hit the prisoner.'

'Prisoner?'

'This is the punishment well. If a soldier fails to carry out
an order - or doesn't perform up to scratch on the obstacle
course - he spends some time down the punishment well.
A defaulter is now suspended just above the stagnant
water.'

'Why two ropes?'

'One is attached round his neck like a noose. It has a
special adjustable slip knot which can be tightened or loosened from here. He is in no danger. Just a touch of terror.'

'And the second rope?' Newman asked in a tight voice.

'Attached to a harness round his chest. The main support between the defaulter and eternity. Later he will be hauled
up by the harness rope.'

'And that gauge?' Newman persisted.

'That tells us how close to the water the prisoner has been lowered.'

Newman peered over the rim into the black hole. It was
so dark he could see no sign of the poor devil hanging in space. He heard an engine sound. Out of the corner of his
eye he saw Major Lamy arrive in another jeep-like vehicle, the sardonic officer crouched over the wheel like a bird of prey.

De Forge strode over to him. There was a brief conversation. Lamy picked up a microphone. An aerial extended
upwards automatically. Lamy was speaking into the mike,
then replaced it and drove away. De Forge strode back.

'You see now how we have built the most powerful army in Europe.'

'I think it's barbaric ...'

Nothing further was said between the two men while de
Forge drove Newman back to GHQ. The sinister outriders, wearing tinted goggles, accompanied them. Racing up to the entrance, de Forge stopped with a jerk which would have hurled Newman to the ground had he not been prepared for just such a manoeuvre. De Forge stared straight ahead as he spoke.

'You leave here.'

Newman jumped out, de Forge raced into GHQ through the gates which had been opened at his approach. Walking towards his parked Citroen, Newman had to pass between the circle of outriders who had remained. Behind tinted glasses unseen eyes stared at him. Careful not to touch a motorcycle, he slipped through a gap, took out his key and inserted it into the lock of the Citroen.

The key did not slip in easily as it had done earlier. Newman grunted, punctuating his thought. He opened the
door, slipped behind the wheel, closed the door, started the
engine. The accelerator seemed slower to respond. He drove
off, waited until he had rounded two distant bends, well
clear of GHQ, parked on the grass verge.

Getting out, he extracted his pencil flash, crawled under
the chassis, examined it carefully. No sign of a bomb. It would have been a bomb activated by remote radio control - he had realized earlier there would be no danger of an explosion with the motoryclists so dose. I'm getting paranoid, he thought. De Forge is just an egomaniac who likes
to show off.

He drove on towards Bordeaux. Five minutes later, mov
ing along the deserted road, he saw a black Berliet van, a
large wide vehicle, appear in his rear-view mirror. The type of vehicle used by the CRS, the French paramilitary police
brought in to quell mob violence. Surely de Forge hadn't
managed to persuade them to become his allies? Then he
recalled the phoney DST men who had taken Francis Carey
from the Bar Miami. Had the vehicle been hijacked?