The Stone Leopard (16 page)

`And Lasalle?' the short man persisted. 'It will look like an accident, I promise you. The men who are dealing with this are experts. . .'

`Experts?' The tall man straightened up and his expression showed distaste. 'In wartime one took these actions for granted, but in peacetime . . . Still, it has to be done. In a way it is a continuation of the war. As for Lasalle, he must not be added to the list yet. I am sure he has no idea what is going to happen when the president of France leaves for Moscow. . .'

PART TWO

The Killer Commando

December 17—December 21

CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD BEEN the secret nightmare of every major security service in the west since the earliest days of the Cold War— and the later phoney period of so-called `detente'—that in one major country or another a secret Communist would stay dormant until he had worked his way up the ladder of power and reached the summit.

This is the man who is most feared by intelligence chiefs in London, Washington and other capitals—the Rip Van Winkle of Communism who has no contact with Russian agents, who visits no safe houses to pass on information, who is controlled by no spymaster. And because for many years he has no contact with Moscow there is no way to detect him as, by sheer ability, he continues his climb. He is not interested in delivering the details of a guided missile system to Moscow—he hopes to deliver his country.

It was Col Rene Lasalle who first caught a whiff of conspiracy when he was still assistant chief of military counter-intelligence. Burrowing deeper into the background of the elusive Leopard, he came up against Guy Florian, who dismissed him for crossing the thin line between military and political counter-espionage. By a strange quirk of history it fell to Marc Grelle to take up the trail again where Lasalle had been compelled to lose it.

On Friday, 17 December—the day the Soviet Commando crossed the border into France—Marc Grelle was distracted from his many duties by what, at the time, seemed a diversion, an incident which would be recorded in the files and forgotten. At ten in the morning he heard of the emergency at Orly airport where Algerian terrorists had just tried to destroy an El Al aircraft on the verge of take-off. 'We'd better go and have a look,' he told Boisseau. 'I thought the security at Orly was foolproof. . .'
 
Grelle had reason to be worried; in only a few days' time Guy Florian was due to fly from Orly to Marseilles, where he would make a major speech on the eve of his departure for Russia.

Arriving at the airport, where it was pouring with rain, they found that Camille Point, the officer in command of the Airport Gendarmerie, had the situation under control. In the distance, barely visible in the rain squalls, they could see the Israeli aircraft which had been the target standing unscathed at the end of a reserve runway. Boisseau left Grelle with Camille Point for a moment to check the position with a radio-equipped patrol car. The whole airport was swarming with armed police.

`One of my men spotted the terrorist just in time,' Point explained. 'He was aiming his weapon at the El Al machine which was just about to take off with two hundred people aboard. Mouton—the gendarme—fired at him and missed, but he scared the terrorist who ran off and left his weapon behind. Come up on to the roof and I'll show you. . .

`This terrorist—he escaped ?'

There was anxiety in Grelle's voice. It had been known for some time that an Algerian terrorist cell was operating inside Paris and the prefect was anxious to round up the whole gang. He had given orders—which Roger Danchin had approved— that if the gang was cornered the police were to shoot to kill. But one man was not enough. Boisseau, who had run back from the patrol-car, heard the question.

`He got away, yes,' Boisseau began.

`Shit!' Grelle said venomously.

`But we have him under observation,' Boisseau continued. `Using the new system you have set up for the presidential motorcade drive to Roissy on 23 December, he is being passed from one patrol-car to another at this moment. And he does not appear to realize he is being tailed. I have just heard that he is moving along the Peripherique, heading for northern Paris. . .'

Boisseau broke off as the driver of the near-by patrol-car waved to him. When he came back after taking the new radio report he nodded to the prefect. 'He's still under surveillance, still heading north. Do we risk losing him or close in ?'

`Don't close in—and don't lose him,' Grelle replied.

`That's what I have just told them. . .'

It was worth the risk Grelle told himself as he followed Point up on to the roof of the building. If they could trace the Algerian to his secret hideout, maybe even then continue to keep him under surveillance, they stood a chance of wiping out the whole cell at one swoop. Reaching the rooftop, Grelle paused and stared. Five uniformed gendarmes were gathered round a bulky instrument lying on a sheet of canvas. The fingerprint man, who had just finished examining the weapon, stood up and addressed Boisseau. 'I've got what I want. Pleasant little plaything, isn't it ?'

`Grail ?' the prefect inquired.

`Yes, sir.' It was a young, keen-looking gendarme who replied.

Grail is the NATO code-name for the Russian-made SAM— surface-to-air missile system—of the man-portable variety. It was also the rocket-launcher, quite capable of being carried by one man, which Moscow had supplied in meagre quantities— and quite unofficially—to certain Arab terrorist organizations. Weighing no more than eighteen kilos when loaded with one rocket or
strela
(the Russian word for arrow) it has a range of between one and two miles.

Only a few years earlier, Heathrow Airport, London, had been sealed off while crack troops of the British Army took control in a major anti-terrorist operation. At the time there had been reports that a terrorist group armed with Grail was waiting to shoot down the incoming plane carrying Dr Kissinger. Similar to a bazooka in appearance, the weapon had a heavy stock and a complex-looking telescopic apparatus mounted over its thick barrel. Two rockets lay beside it on the canvas. Point flopped down behind the unarmed launcher and aimed it over the parapet at the stationary El Al plane. 'You should look at this,' he told the prefect. 'It gives me the creeps how close that bastard came to wiping out two hundred people. Buvon here knows the damned thing backwards. He's with the anti-terrorist section. . .

Grelle was appalled as he took up Point's prone position and gazed through the sight. The Israeli machine, blurred as it was by the rain, came up so close he felt he could reach out and touch it. Flopping beside him, Buvon demonstrated how it worked, even to the extent of inserting a rocket.

`It works on a heat sensor system. There is a device in the nose of the rocket which, once airborne, homes straight on to the highest temperature source within range—in this case, with the Israeli plane just airborne, it would have homed on the heat emitted by the machine's jet engines. . .

Stretched out in the rain, Grelle listened a little longer. 'Can the pilot of the plane take any evading action ?' he inquired as he handled the weapon. 'Is there any hope?'

`None at all,' Buvon replied briskly. 'Even if he saw it coming, which is doubtful, even if he changed course—even more doubtful—the heat sensor would simply change direction, too, and go on heading for the target until they collided. Then —boom !—it's all over. . .

Remembering that Florian was due to fly off from this airport to Marseilles in only a few days, Grelle took an immediate decision. 'I'm carrying this hideous thing back to Paris myself,' he announced. 'Have it put in the rear of my car. . . .' With Boisseau behind the wheel, they drove to Surete headquarters at the rue des Saussaies where the prefect personally watched it being put away inside a strong-room on the fourth floor which itself was isolated inside another room. Demanding all the keys to both rooms, he was handed three and when he asked if these were all he received an equivocal reply. 'There were four originally, but one of them was a bad fit. I understand it was destroyed.'

`No one, absolutely no one is to be allowed in this room without my permission,' Grelle ordered. 'When the army people want to have a look at it, they must come to me for the keys. . .

They had only just returned to the prefecture when Boisseau received a phone call. He went to the prefect's office to report immediately. 'The Algerian has gone to earth and we know where. He is inside an abandoned apartment block off the Boulevard de la Chapelle in the eighteenth
arrondissement
. The address is 17 rue Reamur. . .

`That stinking rabbit warren,' Grelle commented. It was the Arab Quarter in the Goutte-d'Or district, an area which had been an Arab preserve for over thirty years. 'Any more of the

gang visible ?' he inquired.

`There is no sign of anyone else about and we think he is alone. One of the patrol-car men who overtook him thinks he identified him as Abou Benefeika, but that's not certain.'

`He can't give us the slip, I hope ?' Grelle asked.

`He's safely Penned up and we have men watching both front and rear entrances. Also there are good observation points where we can watch him night and day. Do we bring him in or leave him to ferment ?'

`Let him ferment,' Grelle ordered.

In Basel at the Hotel Victoria, Alan Lennox heard the news report of the alert at Orly over his bedroom radio. He thought nothing of it as he sat smoking a cigarette, checking his watch occasionally; terrorist alerts at Orly had happened before. The Englishman was killing time, something he disliked, but there was a right moment to cross the border into France; about eleven in the morning he estimated. Earlier the passport control people would only just have come on duty; they would be irritable and alert as they started a new day; and they would give their full attention to the few travellers passing through.

At 11 am precisely he left the Victoria, crossed the street and went inside the Hauptbahnhof. At Basel Hauptbahnhof there is a French frontier control post unique in Europe. While technically still on Swiss soil, all French nationals returning home from Basel pass through a special checkpoint quite separate from Swiss passport control. The checkpoint is manned by French officials who deal only with their own countrymen. It was a perfect opportunity to test the false papers Peter Lanz had supplied.

If there was trouble—if the falseness of the papers was detected—he would be handed over to the Swiss police. He could then give them Peter Lanz's name and phone number and he had little doubt that, bearing in mind the discreet co-operation which goes on between the Swiss and German authorities, that Lanz could persuade them to release him into the hands of the German police. Lennox was not a man who had survived so far by taking unnecessary risks. Carrying his Swiss case, he joined the queue which was moving quickly. `Papers. . .'

It was unfortunate: the examination was conducted by one of the younger officials, a sharp-eyed man whose enthusiasm had not yet been dulled by years of looking at dog-eared passports. The official compared the photograph carefully with the man standing in front of him, then disappeared inside a room. Inwardly tense, Lennox leaned against the counter with a Gitane hanging out of the corner of his mouth, looked at the woman next to him and shrugged. These bloody bureaucrats, he seemed to say. The official came back, still holding the document.

`Which countries have you visited ?'

`Switzerland and Germany. . . .' It is always best to tell the truth whenever you can. Lennox looked bored as the young official continued examining the passport as though it were the first he had ever seen, as though he was sure there was something wrong.

`How long have you been away from France ?'

`Three weeks. . .'

Always just answer the question. Never go babbling on, embroidering with a lot of detail. It is the oldest trick in the book, used by officials all over the world; get the suspect talking and sooner or later he trips himself up. The official handed back the passport. Lennox picked up his bag, was waved on by Customs, and walked on to the platform where the train for France was waiting. Within two hours he would be in Strasbourg.

The Munich express was due to arrive at Strasbourg in two hours. In the corner of a first-class compartment Carel Vanek sat reading a French detective novel and the aroma of an expensive cigar filled the compartment as the Czech smoked fitfully.

Opposite him the austere Brunner did not approve of the cigar; he had even made the mistake of making a reference to it. 'When we get back we shall have to account for our expenditure. . .'

`In a capitalist society an air of affluence opens all doors,' Vanek replied and turned the page of his book.

The truth was that Vanek enjoyed the good things of life and regarded Brunner as a bit of a peasant. Now, as they came closer to Strasbourg, he read his novel with only half his mind. He was thinking of Dieter Wohl, the German who lived in Freiburg. Of the three people on the list the Commando had to 'pay a visit'—Vanek's euphemism for terminating a life— the German was closest to them at this moment. It seemed logical that Dieter Wohl should be the first to receive a visit from them.