Cross of Fire (4 page)

Two Army lieutenants came in, walked straight to the bar, ordered drinks. He served them as they talked, paid,
and drank.

'Soon we'll be drinking in Paris, Anton. They say the women there are quite something.'

'Paris? You mean on leave? We haven't any due.'

'So they haven't told you? Well, I am in a specialist unit. Forget what I said.'

The officer turned to stare at Carey. The barman was
using a cloth to wipe the counter.

'Haven't seen you here before.' the lieutenant said.

'It's a new job,' Carey answered easily. 'My girlfriend moved, so I moved to be closer to her.'

'And I'll bet you're very close to her at night!'

The officer grinned lewdly, finished his drink, the two
men left. An odd remark that - about Paris - Carey thought.
I'll quote it in my next signal. He froze as he saw Isabelle
pushing her way through the crowd towards him, a wide smile on her full red lips. A fat man leaning on the bar
belched and Carey forced himself not to show repugnance. A mixed stench of garlic and anisette turned his stomach.
He'd gone off French smells after his years in England.
Isabelle perched on a stool and he poured her a Pernod.

'Will you be free soon?' she asked eagerly. 'I know a
small restaurant where we can get a super meal.'

'Pay for your drink. The boss is looking. I'll give it to you
later.'

'No need. You can buy the dinner. Here it is.'

Further along the counter the chief barman, a short fat
man with greasy hair, a long moustache and a stomach
which bulged against his apron noted the transaction with
satisfaction. No free drinks in his bar - not even for Henri's bedmate.

'Just a few more minutes and we can go,' Carey said,
automatically polishing the counter.

He glanced at the door, wondering why a hush had
descended on the room. Everyone was looking at two men
who had just entered. Both wore belted grey trench coats with wide lapels, trilby hats pulled down over their foreheads, and dark glasses. Why in winter and at night would
they sport tinted glasses? Carey was suddenly afraid as they
pushed their way steadily towards him.

'Get well away from me, Isabelle.' he ordered. 'No questions. Just move - and take your glass with you.'

Unlike some women she did exactly what he told her to
without asking any questions. She had melted into the
crowd by the time the two men reached the bar opposite
Carey. The crowd, still silent, continued to watch their
backs.

'DST.' The taller of the two heavily built men flashed a folder. 'You are Henri Bayle?'

DST.
Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire -
French counter-espionage. And they had the
name he had assumed, the name on his papers skilfully forged in the Engine Room
in the basement at Park Crescent. He nearly produced his papers to confirm his identity and then decided that would
be a mistake at this stage. He continued polishing the
counter as he replied.

'That's me. What can I do for you?'

'You are coming with us. For interrogation. Where is
your jacket and coat?'

'I only have a jacket. It's out at the back. I'll go and fetch
it.'

'Stay where you are,' the taller man snapped. He looked
at the chief barman who had edged close. 'Go and bring this
man's jacket. He's leaving with us...'

'You have a problem?' Carey enquired.

'No. You are the problem.'

Carey put on the jacket his boss had thrown on the bar
counter, walked to the flap exit, lifted it and walked out
with an escort on either side. He was careful not to look for
Isabelle. As they came close to the door he rammed his
elbow into the stomach of the man on his left, shoved his
way through the crowd and out into the bitter air. A foot
reached out, tripped him up. The foot was planted on his
back as he lay on the flagstones, trying to get his breath
back.

'Stupid, that.' the tall man remarked as he came out.

Carey looked up and saw two more men similarly
dressed. They had been waiting for him outside. Hauled to his feet, he was thrown into the rear of a parked Citroen. As the car moved off one man sat on either side of him. Their
two companions occupied the front seats. They arrived at
the Gare St Jean and the Citroen turned down the deserted
ramp leading to the quiet station entrance below street level.

Behind them as they drove away from the bar Isabelle followed on her moped, easily keeping the Citroen in view
along the dark empty streets. She was puzzled when the
Citroen disappeared down the ramp. Where were they
taking Henri? Could they be moving him somewhere by
train? If so, why? She parked her moped by the station wall,
attached the safety chain, clasped her windcheater close to her neck against the bitter wind off the Atlantic.

As the Citroen descended down the ramp Henri gritted
his teeth to conceal his fear. It was like entering a dimly lit cavern. No passengers were about at that hour. The tall man
repeated for the third time the question he had asked as
they drove to the Gare.

'Who were you communicating with when you used that
transmitter we found in your apartment?'

'I'm a radio ham. I talk to other hams all over the world.'

'You're lying. That's the last time I'm going to ask.'

'How did you get into my apartment?' Henri demanded.

'Haven't you heard of skeleton keys? I'm sure you have. This is the end of the line. Get out.'

The Citroen had parked near the entrance to the ticket hall. Behind, the cavern was disturbing darkness. Carey followed the shorter man out on to the sidewalk. His arm was
gripped in a vice. The tall man stayed inside the car, pointed an automatic at him.

'Get rid of him, Louis. He isn't going to talk.'

'You can go now.' Louis told Carey. 'You get out to the
street that way. Shove off before we change our minds.'

Carey walked into the deep shadow and stopped as something moved, a shadow among the shadows. Hands
grasped him round the neck. Carey tried to kick his attacker in the groin, slipped and fell. The shadowy figure knelt on
top of him, hands still grasping his neck, thumbs pressed expertly on his windpipe. Carey tried to scream. Only a
gurgle emerged as the remorseless pressure increased.
Carey began to lose consciousness. He choked for dear life, his clenched fists hammering futilely against his assailant.
Even when Carey had gone limp the strangler continued
exerting pressure. When another minute had passed he rose to his feet, vanished into the darkness.

Louis pressed the button on his flashlight, walked for
ward, bent down over the prone form, checked its neck pulse. He strolled back to the car, climbed back into the
rear.

'No neck pulse,' he reported to the tall man.

'Kalmar - whoever he may be - did another good job.
For a big fat fee, I'm sure. What will we get? A pat on the
back.' He addressed the driver. 'Back to the barracks.'

Isabelle pressed herself against the wall at the top of the
ramp as the Citroen drove off. She had caught a glimpse of
Henri getting out of the car by the glow of the courtesy light
inside the car when the rear door was opened.

She crept slowly down the ramp, stopped to listen. The
silence frightened her. She pulled out the flashlight her
mother insisted she carried, switched it on, walked on to the
bottom of the ramp. Swivelling the beam, she ventured into the shadows.

She almost tripped over the body, gave a little cry as she
aimed the beam downwards. Henri was on his back, his tongue protruding obscenely from his slack open mouth.
His throat was badly bruised.

She forced herself to kneel beside him, felt his wrist
pulse. But she knew he was dead. Numb with terror and
grief, she felt inside the breast pocket where he kept his
papers, his wallet. Both had gone. She had no way of
knowing that within minutes Kalmar would be throwing
them from the bridge into the Garonne.

She kissed the cold head, her eyes closed to avoid seeing
the distorted face. Standing up, she stumbled back up the ramp to where she had left her moped. She was unlocking
her moped chain when a drunk holding a bottle staggered
across the wide
place
from the Bar Nicole. Tears were streaming down Isabelle's face as she began to wheel her
machine to the street. The drunk leered at her.

'Lost your boy friend, girlie? Maybe we could have fun
together...'

'Drop dead.'

She started up her moped and rode off towards her
home. The wind raked her damp
face
as tears continued to
pour down her cheeks. She remembered what she had just said to the drunk. It was poor Henri who was dead and she
had been in love with him.

At least she could do one last thing for him. Carry out
his request if anything happened to him. On her way to
work the following morning she would phone the London
number he had given her in secrecy, would tell whoever
answered what had happened to him.

Chapter Three

'Kuhlmann has changed the rendezvous at the last moment.' Tweed announced to Monica and Paula. 'That is quite out of character. He must be a very worried man. Geneva - not Luxembourg City - is the meeting place. Tomorrow morning at the Hotel des Bergues.'

'What time would you like to leave?' Monica asked, her
hand poised over the phone.

'I'd like to leave this evening.' Tweed turned to Paula. 'Yesterday was a bit gruelling for you -I spent most of the day drilling you in what to say to Chief Inspector Buchanan.'

'And I'm grateful. I'm sure I'm word perfect. It was
clever of you to tell Buchanan when he phoned I was out of
town and you didn't know where ...'

She broke off as the door opened, Newman and Marler
came in, sat down and looked at Tweed. As Monica lowered
her voice on the phone Tweed warned Newman quickly.

'Bob, I've got a bit of a shock for you. The man who is
investigating Karin Rosewater's murder is our old friend,
Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan.'

'He's no friend of mine. The last time we met he had me
marked as number one suspect in a murder case. May I look
forward to a repeat performance?' He frowned. 'Just a
minute. Buchanan is Homicide, New Scotland Yard. There
hasn't been time for the locals to request the Yard's aid. It
was only the day before yesterday we found Karin's body.'

'I asked Buchanan that very question when he phoned to come and interview Paula yesterday. Apparently he'd just solved another murder case in Suffolk and was still there.
Most of the senior officers at Ipswich HQ are down with flu.
Hence the Chief Constable asked Buchanan if he'd stand in
temporarily.'