Read Online Cross of Fire by Colin Forbes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Colin Forbes
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Action & Adventure, Political, Large Type Books, Intelligence service, Terrorists
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only for tonight. I return to Wiesbaden tomorrow. One more thing - Stahl reports Siegfried have hired the most ruthless assassin on the continent. Someone called Kalmar.'
'That's a new name.'
'To me, too. And Stahl said contact between Siegfried and Kalmar is maintained here in Geneva. Now, I'm going to finish this excellent meal...'
At Kuhlmann's suggestion they left separately as they had arrived. Tweed asked the waiter to phone for a taxi. Paula kissed Kuhlmann on the cheek, told him to take care of himself. Just before they left, Tweed leaned close to the German, whispered.
'Warn Stahl that however he communicates with you not to use a radio transmitter. Detector vans could locate him.'
'You have a reason for that advice?'
'I have ...'
Kuhlmann left the restaurant ten minutes after Tweed and Paula were driven away in a taxi. Tweed had insisted on paying the bill. The German did not call for a cab. He walked in the drizzle through the silence and the dark of the Old Town. He chose to descend by a route opposite to the way the cab had brought him to the foot of the tunnel below the Cathedral. Walking down the deserted Grand Rue, his mind was full of the death of Karin Rosewater. But as he pursued a devious route through side alleys he kept a lookout for the motorcyclist who had followed him earlier.
He had seen no sign of the tracker when eventually he crossed the Rhone footbridge to the Hotel des Bergues. Tweed had really said very little, but the German felt now resolving the crisis depended largely on the Englishman.
Chapter Six
Seen on a street plan Bordeaux is a city going nowhere. Driving round the city Newman had the same impression. Moving along a main street leading from the Gare St Jean towards his hotel, the Pullman, small narrow streets led off on both sides, radiating like the sails of a windmill.
The ancient city comprised old blocks, five or six storeys high, built of grey stone. The walls were stained with the grime of ages, hadn't been cleaned for years. Shutters hung at drunken angles. Nowhere was there any sign of paint being used for a decade. Some were uninhabited ruins, stark walls which looked like the relics of bombing, but he suspected they were simply relics of neglect.
It was like driving through a monstrous prison as he jammed on the brakes once again. Traffic everywhere, filling the streets, parked nose to tail on the sidewalks. Most bore signs of collisions - dented chassis, battered doors. The leaden sky added to the atmosphere of dreariness.
Newman had a room at the Pullman, one of the better hotels. But he had also taken a room at a small dump of a lodging house where he'd been able to register in a false name. All the old biddy who ran the place wanted was money in advance. He had bought a shabby suitcase from a sleazy second-hand shop, had filled it with a selection of clothes taken from his suitcase at the Pullman, carried to his car in one of the ubiquitous plastic bags.
It was a precaution - taking a room at the lodging house.
The murder of Francis Carey had made him take certain precautions. Now he was driving to a rendezvous with Isabelle Thomas, Carey's girlfriend. He had phoned her at the address provided by Tweed, they had agreed to meet at a bar named by Isabelle, the Bar Rococo, at six in the evening. She had told him how she would be dressed. He turned down the street she had named, saw a car leaving a 'slot' on the sidewalk, drove in fast. A woman with a fur round her neck behind the wheel of a Renault leaned out of her window.
'That was my slot, you bastard. Get out of the way.'
Newman gave her a broad smile. 'First come, first served,' he rejoined.
He locked his car and waited to make sure she wasn't going to follow up her insult with physical damage to his vehicle. She made an obscene gesture, drove away. Bor deaux drivers' manners...
The Bar Rococo was of a higher class than he'd expected. Large bulbous pots stuffed with green ferns obscured a clear view
'That's a new name.'
'To me, too. And Stahl said contact between Siegfried and Kalmar is maintained here in Geneva. Now, I'm going to finish this excellent meal...'
At Kuhlmann's suggestion they left separately as they had arrived. Tweed asked the waiter to phone for a taxi. Paula kissed Kuhlmann on the cheek, told him to take care of himself. Just before they left, Tweed leaned close to the German, whispered.
'Warn Stahl that however he communicates with you not to use a radio transmitter. Detector vans could locate him.'
'You have a reason for that advice?'
'I have ...'
Kuhlmann left the restaurant ten minutes after Tweed and Paula were driven away in a taxi. Tweed had insisted on paying the bill. The German did not call for a cab. He walked in the drizzle through the silence and the dark of the Old Town. He chose to descend by a route opposite to the way the cab had brought him to the foot of the tunnel below the Cathedral. Walking down the deserted Grand Rue, his mind was full of the death of Karin Rosewater. But as he pursued a devious route through side alleys he kept a lookout for the motorcyclist who had followed him earlier.
He had seen no sign of the tracker when eventually he crossed the Rhone footbridge to the Hotel des Bergues. Tweed had really said very little, but the German felt now resolving the crisis depended largely on the Englishman.
Chapter Six
Seen on a street plan Bordeaux is a city going nowhere. Driving round the city Newman had the same impression. Moving along a main street leading from the Gare St Jean towards his hotel, the Pullman, small narrow streets led off on both sides, radiating like the sails of a windmill.
The ancient city comprised old blocks, five or six storeys high, built of grey stone. The walls were stained with the grime of ages, hadn't been cleaned for years. Shutters hung at drunken angles. Nowhere was there any sign of paint being used for a decade. Some were uninhabited ruins, stark walls which looked like the relics of bombing, but he suspected they were simply relics of neglect.
It was like driving through a monstrous prison as he jammed on the brakes once again. Traffic everywhere, filling the streets, parked nose to tail on the sidewalks. Most bore signs of collisions - dented chassis, battered doors. The leaden sky added to the atmosphere of dreariness.
Newman had a room at the Pullman, one of the better hotels. But he had also taken a room at a small dump of a lodging house where he'd been able to register in a false name. All the old biddy who ran the place wanted was money in advance. He had bought a shabby suitcase from a sleazy second-hand shop, had filled it with a selection of clothes taken from his suitcase at the Pullman, carried to his car in one of the ubiquitous plastic bags.
It was a precaution - taking a room at the lodging house.
The murder of Francis Carey had made him take certain precautions. Now he was driving to a rendezvous with Isabelle Thomas, Carey's girlfriend. He had phoned her at the address provided by Tweed, they had agreed to meet at a bar named by Isabelle, the Bar Rococo, at six in the evening. She had told him how she would be dressed. He turned down the street she had named, saw a car leaving a 'slot' on the sidewalk, drove in fast. A woman with a fur round her neck behind the wheel of a Renault leaned out of her window.
'That was my slot, you bastard. Get out of the way.'
Newman gave her a broad smile. 'First come, first served,' he rejoined.
He locked his car and waited to make sure she wasn't going to follow up her insult with physical damage to his vehicle. She made an obscene gesture, drove away. Bor deaux drivers' manners...
The Bar Rococo was of a higher class than he'd expected. Large bulbous pots stuffed with green ferns obscured a clear view
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