Cross of Fire Read Online Free Page A

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