Deadlock tac-5

by Colin Forbes

  'I will give you route instructions,' Blanc said in French. 'We don't talk until we are outside the town.'

  They drove along the ruler-straight main street, reached the end of the small town at a place called Les Eplatures. Following Blanc's directions, Klein swung left over a concrete bridge spanning the railway and climbed up a green Alp. They had the world to themselves as Klein turned off the road, stopping the car behind a copse of dark firs.

  'You have the timers, the radio-control systems?' he asked.

  'In the case behind us. Sixty timers, five control systems. You will approve the merchandise. The timers are completely waterproof. As requested,' Blanc continued in his soft sibilant voice. 'One delicate matter. Payment…'

  'I have it in my pocket. It's yours – once I'm satisfied with what you've produced. Have you met the specification?'

  'Oh, yes. Of course.' Blanc sounded smug. 'Your specification was clever, very clever. I've never been asked to design anything so sophisticated. It was quite a challenge…'

  'Let's get on with it.'

  Blanc unzipped the case. Neatly packed inside was a collection of white cardboard boxes. Blanc opened one, took out a tissue-wrapped package, handed it to his client. Klein produced a pair of chamois gloves and slipped them on before taking the box.

  'Very wise,' Blanc commented. 'No fingerprints. I prefer dealing with professionals…'

  Half an hour later Klein was satisfied. The instrumentation was an engineering work of art. The plastic control boxes – no larger than small pocket calculators – enabled a man to detonate the timers over distances varying from one to fifty kilometres. The timer devices were equally good, fitted with magnetic clamps. Once attached to a bomb, Blanc explained, they were immovable. The control boxes worked over the long distances through the medium of an ultra-high frequency radio wave.

  'You understand how the system works?' Blanc asked.

  'Perfectly. Now, payment. Here you are.'

  Still wearing the chamois gloves, he leaned across Blanc, opened the compartment facing the Swiss, took out a thick envelope and handed it to him. He waited until Blanc had closely examined the bearer bond.

  'As you know, a bearer bond is untraceable, the most negotiable form of money.'

  'I know that.' Blanc stared at the man beside him. 'This is for only half a million Swiss francs. The agreed fee

  'Was one million,' Klein snapped. 'You still have to make the delivery. You get the second bearer bond when you've completed the job. You have made the arrangements, I hope?'

  'Of course. My contact with Transportation at the Glasshouse was most cooperative…'

  The Glasshouse?'

  'It's the Vevey locals' name for the Nestle chocolate headquarters building. As you know, the chocolate usine – where they make the stuff- is at the small town of Broc north-east of Vevey. This evening, precisely at six the case is handed to the Turkish driver of a certain truck. He has a consignment for Belgium – so he can personally deliver the case in Larochette on his way. He will have no trouble crossing the border…'

  'We arranged this before. You have a car? Good. What make? 7

  'A Renault station-wagon. Why?'

  'Because I want you to fetch your car now, taking that case with you. You then come back here and drive to Broc. I'll follow you. Once the case is aboard the truck the second bearer bond is in your hands.'

  'You didn't tell me this before…'

  'Don't argue. You want the money? And the Turk will know you presumably. We do it my way…'

  Gaston Blanc didn't like it, didn't like it one bit as he drove his Renault through Neuchatel and along the lakeside to Yverdon. From there he headed due south for Lausanne and the autoroute near the shore of Lake Geneva.

  He kept glancing in his rear-view mirror and always Klein's black Mercedes was one or two vehicles behind him. Blanc disliked any change of plan. And he had no idea why Klein had done this to him.

  His feelings about Klein were mixed. He knew nothing about the man except that he'd approached him weeks ago with a letter of introduction from a previous client. It was the money which had tempted Blanc. One million francs! Never before had he earned so much from what he quaintly termed in his own mind a 'freelance' job. Which meant he used his company's facilities to produce equipment paid for privately, money tucked away in his secret bank account in Geneva.

  He drove through Lausanne, heading for Vevey. He glanced once more in his mirror. Klein was immediately behind him. Those eyes! They seemed to stare into the very depths of a man's soul. Cold as ice. Yet, on other occasions, Klein had shown an amiable side, encouraging Blanc to talk of his problems with his wife. He had even told him about his mistress in Berne…

  Klein, his gloved hands on the wheel, checked his watch. They would arrive in Broc early. That mustn't happen. He had always planned that Blanc would carry the case of timers. That eliminated the outside chance that they would be intercepted by a routine patrol car check. If that happened Klein would simply drive on, leaving Blanc to explain. He glanced in his wing mirror, saw the highway was as empty behind as it was ahead. Pressing down his foot, he overtook Blanc, slowed, gestured with one hand for him to pull in at the lay-by. Alighting from his stationary vehicle, he walked back to the Renault.

  'What is it?' Blanc asked irritably, poking his head out of the window.

  'We're going to be early at Broc.' Klein opened the door, sat himself in the front passenger seat, shut the door. 'I drove over this route and timed it in sections. We don't want to hang around at Broc. Get there in time for you to hand that case to the Nestle truck driver and leave immediately. Here is the exact address he has to deliver the case to…'

  Blanc sat with hands clasped in his lap, made no move to take the card with a typed address. 'I've done what you asked me to,' he went on, not looking at Klein. 'You take the case – and give me my second half-million.'

  'It's not going to happen that way.' Klein was relaxed, his hands clasped behind his neck. 'You wouldn't want me to make a phone call – to police headquarters in Berne. They'd be interested to hear about the terrorist groups you've supplied in the past…'

  'You wouldn't…'

  Then there's the managing director of Montres Ribaud. He'd be intrigued to hear about you. To say nothing of your wife. Then you'd never use your secret funds to buy that villa you covet in Cologny – where you'd live happily ever after with Yvette from Berne. After you'd dumped your wife. How do you propose to dump her?' Klein asked in the same conversational tone.

  'I have no idea,' Blanc said, his voice faint.

  'Buy a Doberman – one of those fierce guard dogs. Train it to be loyal only to yourself. Teach it a word which means "Attack!" Then use the word when you are alone in the apartment with your wife. It will rip her to pieces. Who could blame you? The dog went mad. I won't even charge you for the idea.'

  'It's quite horrible – your idea…'

  Klein glanced sideways. He could see Blanc was already thinking about it. Klein sat in silence, watching the clock on the dashboard. He also kept an eye on the highway, but traffic was light. And no patrol cars.

  'Time we moved,' he announced. 'You lead the way. As before.'

  Blanc drove automatically for the rest of the journey, turning away from the lake at Vevey, heading north for Broc. He was stunned. All idea of forcing Klein to take the case had vanished from his mind.

  How the devil did Klein know about his desire to live in Cologny? Cologny was the millionaire district on the southern shore of the lake just outside Geneva. A place where world-famous racing drivers lived, where Arab sheiks owned villas with grounds patrolled by guards and fierce dogs.

  Dogs? The Dobermann idea wouldn't leave him alone. It seemed foolproof. Even the Swiss police would never suspect anything. He'd create an alibi for himself – so everyone would think the dog had killed her while he was away…

  He slowed down as he approached the rendezvous, a lonely part of the road not too far from the Broc usine. B
ehind him the Mercedes was a hundred metres away. Blanc crawled to the bend, stopped, peered through the windscreen. The Nestle truck was parked on the grass verge, also about a hundred metres ahead.

  Blanc switched off the engine and proceeded in his precise way. First the card with the address for delivery which Klein had dropped on the seat. Hotel de la Montagne, Larochette, Luxembourg. He slipped this inside the envelope containing a one-thousand franc note – the driver's fee. About?350. Then he left the car, carrying the case, and walked to the truck.

  Klein had watched all this through a monocular glass he had taken from his pocket. Once Blanc was out of sight he moved. He ran light-footed to the bend, peered round it. Blanc was climbing inside the cab of the Nestle vehicle, a Ford truck with its body painted cream and a large red band above the chassis. At the rear was a heavy door with a large handle. A VD registration plate, showing it was registered in the Canton of the Vaud.

  Klein lifted the bonnet of the Renault, reached in with his gloved hand, took out the distributor arm and hurled it over a hedge into the nearest field. Closing the bonnet, he returned to his Mercedes and waited.

  Blanc reappeared within minutes, climbed inside and tried to start up the Renault. Klein waited until the Swiss had made six efforts to get the engine going, then drove alongside. He got out, leaned inside the window.

  'It's gone dead on you. Leave it here. I'll drive you to Vevey station. Catch a train to Geneva…'

  'I can't just leave my car here…'

  'You can't hang around. I thought you said the bank would stay open to accept your bearer bonds.'

  'It will

  'Not all night. Takes ages to get a pick-up truck. By the time you get back to Geneva the bank will have given up -closed its doors.'

  Blanc was in a dilemma. He didn't want to leave the car; even less did he want to carry around a million francs in negotiable bonds. If his pocket was picked anyone could cash the bonds in any bank in the world.

  'I can't wait much longer,' Klein pressed. 'Do you want a lift or don't you?'

  'Who at Montres Ribaud might have seen you making the timers?' Klein asked as he drove back to Vevey through growing dusk.

  'Absolutely no one…'

  'Why so confident?'

  'Because I always worked on them late into the night. The building was empty.'

  'But surely that is unusual? Someone belonging to the firm might have seen a light in your office if they passed it?'

  'They would think nothing of it,' Blanc insisted. 'Often I work late for the company's work. You can concentrate – no interruptions from staff or phone calls. When do I get the balance of my fee?'

  'Now.'

  Klein drove with one hand on the wheel. The other slipped inside his pocket, took out a bulky envelope which he gave the Swiss. He watched with amusement as Blanc produced a pencil torch and closely examined the bearer bond for half a million francs.

  'Satisfied?'

  'I will be when I have deposited it with the bank. Can't you drive any faster?'

  'Not in this treacherous light. Want to end up in hospital and have someone find those bonds?'

  Klein was watching the dashboard clock without Blanc realizing it. He timed it so they arrived at Vevey station just after a local had left for Geneva. Blanc would have to catch the express coming up from the Valais. In fifteen minutes. Klein had memorized the timetable in his head. He pulled in by the station.

  'Haven't you forgotten something?' Klein asked.

  'Oh, the blueprints I made for the devices. I was worrying about my car. Here they are. Now, I must catch my train…'

  'The express isn't due yet. Wait a minute.'

  Klein opened the envelope, took out the folded contents. Two blueprints. He borrowed Blanc's pencil torch to check them, then handed it back.

  'Satisfied?' enquired Blanc, mimicking Klein's earlier query.

  There was a hint of smugness in his tone which made Klein look at him quickly. Then he guessed the Swiss had been playing a little game with him. For the first time he misunderstood the plump little man. Blanc reached for the door handle.

  Two more things,' Klein said. 'I may have a similar job for you later,' he lied. 'Another million francs…'

  'I'd have to think about it.'

  'A million and a quarter.'

  'Get in touch when you're ready. There was something else?'

  'Yes. Travel first-class to Geneva. Remember what you have in your pocket. It will be safer. Train travel can be dangerous.'

  'You are probably right. Good night…'

  It was a relief for Blanc when he boarded the express. He had worried in case Klein suggested driving him back to Geneva. This was the last thing Klein thought of as he drove the Mercedes into a parking lot near the station.

  Unlocking the boot, he took out a large hold-all bag, relocked the car and walked into the hotel facing the station. The toilets led off from the public restaurant. Keeping an eye on his watch, Klein worked quickly. He was just in time to buy a first-class ticket to Geneva as the express came in. He watched Blanc board a first-class coach and ran to board the train himself moments before it departed.

  Blanc sat in the non-smoking section – divided off from the smoking area by a door with a window in the upper half. The express had left Lausanne. The next stop, Geneva, was about twenty minutes away when Klein saw what he had hoped for.

  The Swiss was the only passenger in his part of the coach – as was the case with Klein. Blanc, suffering from nervous reaction to his recent experience, stood up and made for the lavatory. It was situated in the exit, between his coach and the next one.

  Inside the toilet, Blanc relieved himself and at once felt the tension draining out of his system as he washed his hands. He used a tissue to clean his glasses. He wasn't at all sure he would ever accept another commission from Klein.

  What really worried him was that Klein seemed to know everything about his most intimate life – whereas Blanc knew nothing about Klein. Where he came from. His nationality. What he was up to. It was not the way Blanc usually undertook his 'freelance' assignments. The trouble was the million francs had proved too tempting.

  At least I've got them, he thought as he straightened his tie, checked his watch. Not long before he arrived in Geneva. He would take a cab to the bank. Safer. Klein had been right on that point. He opened the door and froze.

  It took him a few seconds to recognize the man in the waterproof hat who stood apparently waiting to use the lavatory. He also wore a long dark blue waterproof coat which came to below his knees and was buttoned to the neck. Klein…

  'You! What is this?'

  'Keep your voice down. Something has gone wrong…'

  Klein eased himself inside the toilet before Blanc recovered from his shock and re-locked the door. He was carrying the large hold-all bag and spoke again rapidly.

  There is something wrong with one of those bearer bonds. I have to come to the bank with you – so I can countersign it.'

  'Why? A bearer bond doesn't need…'

  As he spoke he reached a hand inside his breast pocket for the two envelopes. Klein glanced down, swore, remarked that his shoe-lace was undone. Dropping the bag, he bent down to attend to it. He stood up again suddenly. His right hand gripped the knife he had plucked from the sheath strapped to his leg. His left hand pushed back Blanc's jaw, exposing the throat. With one swift movement Klein slit it from ear to ear. A second hideous red mouth appeared below Blanc's chin.

  Blood spurted, gushed, splashing Klein's coat. Blanc uttered a brief moan-gurgle and sagged back on the lid of the toilet seat. Klein wiped the knife on Blanc's suit, shoved it back inside the sheath. Blanc's head had slumped sideways, his eyes wide open behind the gold-rimmed spectacles which hung askew. He looked almost ridiculous, except for the growing lake of dark red spreading down his shirt front.

  Klein reached inside his pocket with his gloved hand, took out the envelopes. No point in throwing away a million francs. He checked his w
atch. Four minutes to Geneva's Cornavin station – where the train ended its journey. He examined himself in the mirror. Only the coat was stained.

  Stripping off the coat, he folded it inside out, extracted a plastic bag from a local department store from the hold-all. There was a spot of blood on his right glove. He dropped both gloves inside the plastic bag which was already weighted with stones.

  He slipped the screwed-up plastic bag inside his jacket pocket. Next he put the folded coat inside the hold-all and zipped up the bag. The train was slowing down. Too late for anyone to be waiting to use the lavatory. He counted off precisely two minutes on his watch after the train had stopped. All passengers would have disembarked.

  Taking a small leather pouch from his other jacket pocket, he selected a tool like a small screwdriver. Picking up the hold-all, he opened the door, peered out. Not a sound. Emerging into the deserted exit area, he glanced in both directions and fiddled with the closed door, sliding the notice to Occupe. He was the last passenger to leave the express as he strolled towards the exit hall.

  The next job was to get rid of the hold-all, the blood-spattered coat which had protected his suit. The coat had been bought in Harrods, London, over a year before. Untraceable, And several sizes too large. Its eventual discovery would give the police no idea of his true measurements.

  Walking to the baggage container section, he chose one at random, opened the door, shoved the hold-all inside, adjusted the mechanism to a twenty-four hour period, fed in coins, locked it and took away the key.

  At the station canteen he bought a doughnut, asked them to put it in a paper bag and walked off. Ten minutes later he stood on the footbridge crossing the Rhone near the Hotel des Bergues. With one hand he fed pieces of bun to swooping gulls, with the other he dropped the plastic bag into the tumbling current. A pair of gloves could give information about the size of his hands – and one was spotted with blood. The bag sank into the torrent, was followed by the baggage container key.

  Klein walked straight back to Cornavin Gare. Shutting himself inside a phone booth, he dialled the number of the Hotel de la Montagne. Hipper answered almost at once.