Cross of Fire by Colin Forbes Page A

and an island.
    Isabelle was well muffled against the piercing wind, clad in a heavy knee-length trench coat and a hood pulled over her head. By her side walked Newman, wearing the new clothes he had purchased at several local shops. He wore a black beret, a dark French overcoat, and training shoes. They walked past the Casino de la Plage and out on to the exposed promenade. It was deserted and the gale beat at them with full force. Isabelle pointed to a jetty.
    'The Jet é e d'Eyrac. That's where in summer the boats leave for Cap-Ferret. Further along to the east is the port. You can see the boats sheltering there.'
    Newman stared into the distance where a forest of masts swayed drunkenly under the blast of the wind. The previous night Isabelle had guided him to a small hotel near the Gare, had then been driven to her sister's apartment behind the front.
    'Do you have to leave today, Bob?' she asked wistfully.
    'Definitely. There are things I have to find out. I rely on you to stay here until I contact you at your sister's. On no account go anywhere near Bordeaux.'
    'If you say so.' She jutted her chin at the wind to show her disappointment. 'In summer you wouldn't recognize the place. Luxurious yachts from all over the world come here with their rich owners. There is even one strange ship with its hull cut in two.'
    'Cut in two?' Newman was instantly alert. 'Can you describe it more clearly?'
    'I don't know much about ships. All I can say is it's a big luxurious job.'
    'Name?'
    'No idea.'
    'How often does it come in here?' Newman persisted.
    'I don't know. But I can tell you that unlike most of the millionaire-type private ships it doesn't just arrive in the summer season. I've seen it heading for the port at various times of the year. Including now - in November.'
    'And that's unusual?'
    'Very. Millionaire yachts turn up here in the summer. There's the right atmosphere. Topless girls on the beach - sometimes bottomless, too. The Casino is booming. And the night club, the Etoile. I went there once at my sister's insistence. Never again.'
    'What happened?'
    'An English lord made a heavy pass at me. Wouldn't take no. Seemed to think every French girl was just dying to get laid by his Lordship. I should be able to remember his name.'
    They moved closer inland as waves began to hurl them selves against the promenade, splashing spume over the wall. Their force was so great Newman could have sworn the promenade shuddered when a storm wave hit.
    'It's not usually like this.' Isabelle commented. 'I think we ought to get back.'
    'I'm going to my car now. I have to move on. Stay in Arcachon, Isabelle.' He decided to drive home his plea regardless of her feelings. 'Remember what happened to Henri in Bordeaux. And they know you exist.'
    'Lord Dane Dawlish.' she said suddenly. 'That was the man who made a pass at me at the Etoile.'

    Newman drove back to Bordeaux at speed under a sky heavy as lead. The low clouds scudded east like drifts of grey smoke. Before leaving his Arcachon hotel he had phoned the airport, booked a flight to Paris on his open ticket. He had also booked a flight from Paris to Heathrow. First, he'd call at the Pullman Hotel to pick up his case. He wasn't worried about the old second-hand case he'd left at the pension: also he had paid for his miserable room for a fortnight in advance.
    He was approaching the Gare St Jean when he ran into a traffic jam. Vehicles, bumper to bumper, were not moving. He checked his watch. Reasonable time yet to catch his Air Inter flight to Paris. The driver of a car next to him leaned out of his window to speak to Newman.
    Don't go into the centre. A lot of trouble there.'
    'What kind of trouble?'
    The traffic was moving before the other driver could reply. Newman shrugged. Trouble was becoming a way of life in France. He had passed the Place de la Victoire when he saw there was no traffic ahead. Instead the street was filled with a sinister-looking mob. He swung his wheel, drove down a