by Colin Forbes
'Oh when I was commissioned to do a series of articles on the organization. To get the proper flavour I asked to be put on one of their courses. It was sheer bloody murder, but I survived. Largely due to the prodding I got from the commander, Blade. Not his real name.'
'Blade,' Tweed informed him, 'is in charge of the team flying in to Schiphol tonight.'
'They are going in then?'
'The PM's decision. She's informing the Dutch Government as the team is in the air. They can always fly back if she can't persuade The Hague of the appalling danger they face. Which brings me to a further request I have to make,' he said, turning to Benoit. 'Would you loan us that Alouette again – to fly me to Rotterdam tonight with Newman and Butler? Another pilot is available, I hope?'
'You need the same chap, Georges Quintin. He took us down the hole in the clouds on the Meuse when you spotted that sunken barge. If Rotterdam gets hairy, he's your man. He ate a meal at the airport and went straight to sleep. He'll be fresher than any of us.'
'Us?'
'I think I'm coming with you. You know Van Gorp, chief of police in The Hague?'
'Yes. Very unorthodox in his methods. Nearly sacked twice for being too tough, for taking decisions on his own in emergencies.'
'A close friend of mine. Together we may be able to convince him. Then he'll act.'
'Talking about that sunken barge, the Gargantua, we still have to locate the other barge, the Erika, and its owner, Joseph Haber. I'm still convinced he's transporting those timer devices which detonate the explosives. Find Haber, we have definitely found the target.'
'No news yet, I fear. I checked by phone from the Minister's house. Last seen just south of Liege. Doesn't tell us much.'
Tweed took his charts of the canal system from the brief-case he carried everywhere. He studied them for a moment. 'Just south of Liege,' he commented. 'He could have continued north up the Meuse – to where it becomes the Maas in Holland. Or he could have moved into the Albert Canal
'Which would lead him direct to Antwerp,' Benoit pointed out.
'I still say Europort,' Tweed insisted. 'And talking about Haber, we've left Paula behind in Dinant trying to locate his kidnapped wife and child. I want her to be able to get in touch with me.'
'Easy,' replied Benoit. 'Leave it to me. She's searching with that competent-looking policeman, Pierre. I'll call Dinant police HQ, leave a message for her to phone here. You leave your own message.'
'Which will say?' Newman asked. 'She's had a pretty gruelling time already.'
'So,' Tweed responded, 'we'll see what she's really made of.' He looked at Benoit. 'Where shall we be staying in Rotterdam?'
'The Hilton. It's central.' He stood up. 'I'll go and get an assistant to deal with it, book us rooms there, including one for Paula. Also, I'll warn Chief of Police Van Gorp we're on our way.'
As he left the room Tweed scribbled a note for Paula. Newman was shaking his head when he glanced up. 'All right, Bob,' he said, 'you like the girl. So do I. She'll never forgive me if she isn't in at the death.'
'Depends whose death it is,' Newman snapped.
Klein left the night train at Antwerp Central. The car he had phoned the hire people for was waiting for him outside the station. A black BMW. He showed identification in the name Peter Conway in the form of a forged driving licence. He paid the fee for the special service involved, climbed behind the wheel and drove to the Plaza Hotel.
He parked a short distance back from but with a good view of the entrance. At Brussels Midi he'd seen Lara board a coach of the same express he'd travelled on. He sat waiting, knowing she would arrive soon. Taxis had been scarce at Antwerp station in the middle of the night. But sooner or later she would arrive. Then he would have to move quickly.
'One thing I forgot to tell you,' Benoit said when he returned to his office. "That French ferret who never lets go – The Parrot – reported Lara Seagrave left the Mayfair Hotel earlier this evening. She had dinner at the Hilton. A restaurant called the Maison de B?uf, he thinks. He nearly lost her. She was on foot and he had to park his motor-cycle. He walked into the lobby just in time to see her enter an elevator in the distance. It stopped at the first floor and came down again empty. That restaurant is on the first floor. He sat it out in the lobby until she reappeared and walked back to the Mayfair.'
'Doesn't he ever give up?' asked Tweed.
'Never. We've offered him relief, to put one of our own officers on the job. He agrees – for a few hours. Then he's back again. Highly irregular- a French detective operating here. But his sheer doggedness has impressed the hell out of us. Says that he followed her from Marseilles!'
'He did just that,' said Tweed. 'Ferret is the word. Now, I need to keep in close touch with Park Crescent.'
'All arranged. When that Monica of yours phones we'll give her your room number at the Hilton, Rotterdam. And we can take a message while we're airborne.'
'The Alouette is ready?'
'Quintin, the pilot, phoned me. He'll take off the moment we reach Brussels Airport.' Klein watched Lara get out of the cab in front of the Plaza. She took her time paying the fare and while she did this a second cab appeared in his rear view mirror and crawled to a stop about thirty yards behind him. Klein waited for someone to alight from the second cab. No one did.
He cursed inwardly as Lara disappeared inside the hotel. At the last moment she was being tracked. How the devil could that have happened? He waited several minutes and then a small man alighted from the cab and trudged along the sidewalk,
Hands in pockets, The Parrot walked past the BMW. Glancing inside he saw a man wearing a trilby hat slumped behind the wheel, head turned away, obviously fast asleep. Probably resting after an evening's hard drinking. The Parrot went inside the hotel, approached the receptionist behind the counter. He spoke in English.
'I have a message for a young lady I believe has just arrived. A Miss Smith.'
The sharp-eyed night clerk shook his head. 'No one of that name registered here.'
'I thought I saw her walk in just a few minutes ago,' The Parrot persisted.
'You must be mistaken. No one of that name here.'
The Parrot walked back to his cab. He'd hoped to extract the name Lara was using. He climbed inside the cab, settled down to wait. He must be losing his grip. He felt incredibly tired. Eyes pricking, every limb aching.
Klein, watching him in the mirror, cursed again. He took one of his quick decisions. Starting the engine, he revved it up several times as though he'd had trouble starting it. Which would explain his parking at the kerb in the middle of the night. Then he drove off.
Arriving at Boekstraat, he parked at the entrance, put on a pair of dark glasses and walked to the sleazy hotel where he'd met Lara during her earlier trip to Antwerp, the hotel where Chabot and Hipper were staying.
The same sordid woman was sitting behind her counter. He gave the names his men were using, obtained the room numbers and went up and woke them in turn. He handed Hipper an unmarked map of Delft, the ancient Dutch town a few miles north of Rotterdam. His index finger pin-pointed the location of a camp site.
'It's near Delft-Noord. Get dressed at once. Drive straight to this site. A man called Legaud will receive you. Did you deal with Haber's family at the mill?'
'They'll be dead by now.'
His next stop was at the hotel where Marler was staying under an assumed name. Unlike Hipper and Chabot, Marler was fully dressed.
'I had a hunch you'd turn up tonight,' he drawled.
'Why?' There was a whiplash in Klein's tone, his suspicion surfacing instantly.
'After hanging about forever in Bouillon you suddenly start moving me about like a chess piece. Obvious conclusion? We are about to start the operation. Where to now?'
'You leave at once. You've had bad news…'
'Maybe that's true…'
'I don't like jokes. Drive to Rotterdam. A room has been reserved at the Hilton. In the name Harvey Miller. I want you there by morni
ng.'
'Piece of cake…'
Still fuming, Klein left and drove back to the district where the Plaza was located. Marler always managed to irk him. He drove round, studying the layout until he came to a one-way street – traffic to come the other way only. A straight street and deserted at that hour. He checked his map. The ideal place to shake off whoever was watching Lara.
He pulled in by a call box, got out and dialled the Plaza's number, asking for Lara by the name she'd registered under. She sounded surprisingly alert. He began talking about nothing in particular, like a boy friend calling, then his voice changed.
'Stop listening to our conversation. Get off the bloody line or I'll report you to the manager…'
There was a click. On the switchboard the bored night operator swore. How the hell had the caller guessed?
Klein then gave her specific instructions as to what to do. He rang off, went back to the car.
He reached the Plaza earlier than he'd expected, pulling in at the kerb a distance behind the cab which was still parked in the same place.
His eyes narrowed as he saw Lara, carrying her case, walking back up the street and going back inside the Plaza. Checking his watch, Klein saw he was five minutes early. Why was she wandering about?
Precisely five minutes later Lara reappeared, walking down the street in the opposite direction, again carrying her case. The cab started up, crawling after her. Klein tapped fingers on the wheel, waiting. She was almost out of sight when he started the car, drove forward at speed.
The Parrot saw the BMW pass his cab at high speed. It pulled in alongside Lara, who hauled open the passenger seat door, jumped inside, and the BMW sped off. 'Don't lose that car!' The Parrot called out to his driver.
'All right, all right. He's exceeding the limit…'
'There's a big tip to keep up,'
The cab driver increased speed. The BMW was still in sight. It braked suddenly, swung left into a side street, accelerated. Arriving at the entrance the cab driver stopped.
'Can't follow him up there. One-way street…'
'Follow him! Here…" The Parrot shoved a handful of banknotes at the driver. 'That makes it worth your while…'
'Nothing makes it worth my while to lose my licence. Meet a patrol car and…' The driver glanced down the street. 'In any case, he's gone.'
The Parrot followed his gaze. The street was empty. Yes, blast it, he'd gone.
A short while earlier at Park Crescent the call had come through to Monica. In the middle of the ruddy night. She'd hauled from a cupboard Tweed's camp bed, fixed it up with blankets and a pillow. She'd just laid her head on that pillow when the phone rang.
Switching on the table lamp she'd perched against the back of a chair, she reached for the phone. Sitting up straight she suppressed a yawn, then came awake suddenly. It was Olympus.
'Monica? Good. I'm in a rush. It isn't Antwerp. Could be Europort, Rotterdam. Could be. Got it?'
Then he – she – Monica couldn't even guess at the sex of the caller, was gone. She stood up, lifted the phone, padded over to the desk in her stockinged feet and sat down. She had to call Grand'Place, Brussels. Urgently.
Grand-Pierre stood on the bridge of the coaster with Portch and Caleb Fox. Eight of the crew were dead, bodies dumped in the engine room. He watched from the window on the port side where one of his team was operating the deck winch, swinging over the side the last load in its net down to the waiting lighter.
The other two lighters had been loaded and had left, on their way to the Dutch coast with their deadly cargo. Grand-Pierre was sweating. He'd had a busy night.
Earlier he had driven from Delft to Schiphol Airport to meet Kurt Saur, the Austrian pilot, when he landed the two Sikorsky helicopters, now safely tucked away at a remote corner of the airfield. Saur and his co-pilot, with the two-man crew of the second machine, were sleeping at a hotel near the airport.
Grand-Pierre had then driven – often exceeding the speed limit – along the magnificent highway to Rotterdam where he had boarded one of the three lighters. They had immediately put to sea. Before unloading started the huge Frenchman had descended to the coaster's hold. With the aid of a torch he had searched for a small crate marked with a minute blue cross at one corner. While Portch chatted with Fox on the bridge he had taken the small crate from the hold and made his way to the engine room.
Stepping over the huddle of corpses at the foot of the ladder, he had placed the crate in a certain position in the hold. Using a screwdriver and chisel, he had eased off one side of the crate. Inside it was packed with straw.
Locating the bomb, he had turned a switch which activated the radio waveband. The control box he carried concealed in a pocket of his windcheater was already adjusted to precisely the same waveband.
'Easy this time compared to the Lesbos,' he said to Portch on the bridge.
'Yes, indeed,' Portch replied in French. That was a… messy business…'
Again they had transferred the explosives in the middle of the night well out in the North Sea. Earlier, in Rotterdam, Portch had laced the British crew's bottles of drink with a mild dose of sedative, enough to put them all to sleep. He had diagnosed food poisoning and they had been put to bed in a seamen's hostel.
A waiting crew of Algerians collected by Grand-Pierre took over duty on the coaster for that crossing to Blakeney. In the middle of the night the rendezvous had been made with the Lesbos. The Greek crew had packed the bombs inside the empty crates supposed to contain Portch's furniture – already packed in as few crates as possible.
Grand-Pierre had opened the stop-cocks of the Lesbos after being lowered over the side to change the name of the ship. Earlier he had shot the Greek crew, bound the bodies in heavy chains and thrown them overboard where the waters of the North Sea were deep.
The only thing which had gone wrong was the Lesbos had refused to sink, had been washed ashore on a sandbank near Brancaster, driven there by one of the sudden storms which blow up in the North Sea.
Here again Klein's meticulous attention to detail had paid off. He had instructed Grand-Pierre to lower all lifeboats into the sea and then hole them. It was later presumed the missing crew had perished in the same storm which had driven the Lesbos on to the sandbank.
'What happened to those work-shy Algerians?' Fox asked. 'The authorities accepted our story that all my crew had been taken sick – especially when it was backed up by Dr Portch.'
'What do you think?' Grand-Pierre lit a small cigar. 'They went back to Marseilles.' He paused while he puffed the cigar. 'They're all twenty fathoms down off the coast of Cassis – with concrete boots to keep them there. Can't trust the bastards.'
'And now,' Portch suggested, seeing the third lighter had completed loading, 'isn't it time we left this ship? For the last time.' Behind Fox's back he exchanged a look with Grand-Pierre.
'And where will you be ending up, Doctor, when it's all over?' enquired Fox. 'Buenos Aires? Or shouldn't I…'
He broke off as he felt something hard and metallic press into his left shoulder blade. Grand-Pierre pulled the trigger of the Luger. Fox was hurled against the chart table, fell forward, lay still, hands and arms sprawled over it.
'He really thought he was coming with us,' Portch said and he giggled.
'Can't afford loose ends,' replied Grand-Pierre, who had picked up the phrase from Klein. 'Let's leave. After you, Doctor. No, on second thoughts, give me a hand to carry him to the engine room.'
'Is that necessary, seeing that…'
'Klein's orders. Leave them all in the engine room, close to the bomb. Very tidy man, Mr Klein. You look thoughtful.'
'Seeing Fox lying there like that I was remembering the night that American, Lee Foley, killed those people at Cockley Ford who wouldn't agree to our plan – no matter how much money they stood to make. Then, of course, Klein had to deal with Mr Foley. I wonder if anyone will ever discover the secret of the seventh grave in the churchyard.'
'Let's move the bo
dy,' the Frenchman said impatiently.
They carried it between them, Grand-Pierre lifting the shoulders while Portch carried the legs. The helping hands were welcome to the Frenchman, who was feeling tired after his night's exertions. Standing on the platform above the engine room, they swung the body outwards, let go. It fell on top of the others.
'I'm glad that's over,' Portch remarked. 'Amazing how heavy a corpse can be.'
'I agree,' said Grand-Pierre. To be avoided wherever possible.'
He pulled out his Luger, rammed it into Portch's chest, fired twice. Portch grunted, doubled up, fell backwards.
Grand-Pierre waited until the lighter had sailed at least two nautical miles from the drifting coaster. It was still dark but his eyes had become accustomed to the night as he took out the control box. His thumb paused over the button. Were they far enough away? Of course they were. He was fatigued. He pressed the button.
There was a muffled boom. Nothing dramatic. Like the sound of a train approaching through a tunnel. Then the world blew up. The coaster exploded into a myriad fragments. There was an ear-splitting roar. A red flame shot into the sky like a rocket. The flame was extinguished by a giant fountain which hurtled vertically, a plume of surf rising upwards. The sea boiled where the vessel had floated. A vibration struck the lighter. For a few seconds, hanging to a deck rail, Grand-Pierre thought the lighter was capsizing as a massive wave rolled it.
Silence. The crew was awestruck. They gazed at each other, thankful to have survived. And that, Grand-Pierre reminded himself, was the smallest of the bombs and sea-mines.
41
It was when Lara was sitting alongside Klein in the BMW that she realized she'd lost interest in him. All passion spent – wasn't that the phrase? Strange how suddenly all feeling was gone, leaving a vacuum. But in the case of Klein it was good to be tree of him emotionally.
The trick now was not to let him know she thought as she gazed at the flatlands in the headlight beams. They had crossed into Holland without any problems and were now beyond Roosendaal; well on the way to Rotterdam. As though reading her mind, Klein glanced at her. his complexion drained of colour.
