by Colin Forbes
'That's slander – or is it libel,' Butler commented amiably. 'I'm very good on one of those machines. '
'But I do wish you'd drive with the wheels on the ground.'
Benoit left them to check the latest position with the inspector. Newman drank more coffee. Anything to keep him awake. His eyelids were heavy as lead.
'If it is a fake,' Butler remarked, 'this so-called kidnapping of Brand, why is he throwing away all he has? One of the top bankers. A luxurious estate on the Meuse. A mansion in Brussels. He's got it all.'
'Except Benoit says he hasn't. He spends money like confetti. Apparently the Brussels Fraud Squad has been waiting for an excuse to move in. Friend Brand has been paying interest out of shrinking capital. Even to his madcap wife in New York. And she could arrive back at any time. Brand's trouble is she can read a balance sheet. Her father taught her. If Benoit should be right Brand is on the verge of bankruptcy. So, he needs a safe country, and a slice of that Frankfurt bullion.'
The way things are going, he could get it. Klein has got a stranglehold on us.'
'May be up to us to break that stranglehold.'
'Would you believe it,' growled Van Gorp, 'a TV crew has penetrated the cordon and set up cameras on the roof of a building with a full view of Euromast? Just to the west. I'd like to remove it – but we'll get a scream about police interfering with freedom of the media. In any case, newspaper reports are beginning to appear in Tokyo. Soon the world will know.'
'Klein might not like that,' Tweed warned. 'If not, you'll have to send men to shift them. The reason? They are endangering people's lives…'
Van Gorp snatched up the phone at the second ring, listened, said something brief in Dutch, put down the receiver and looked at Tweed.
'Over to you, I fear. Klein wants to talk again…'
Tweed appeared near the foot of the tower a few minutes later. On the way he had conversed briefly with Blade who had spread out his Sabre Troop into three different groups. They're ready to attack,' he'd assured Tweed. 'And one man is now on the HQ roof with a bazooka aimed at the restaurant…'
Tweed had stopped at the police van to collect the microphone with the long cable. He walked carefully to the same place at the base of the tower; the paving stones were slippery. He felt moisture damping his face and was glad he'd put on his waterproof hat. He looked up and spoke in a firm voice.
'Before you start talking I have a demand to make…'
'No demands…'
'Shut up and listen to me. You are on the brink of success. Medics are waiting to come out and remove those two dead men on the steps. The medics are dressed in shirts and shorts. You can see they carry no weapons. Unless you agree I have lost the cooperation of the Dutch authorities. They will not allow those men to lie there any longer.'
'By all means remove them. It would be a humanitarian act.'
Tweed stared up at the platform. Why this change of mood? He was suspicious, uneasy. Klein's voice through the amplifiers sounded jocular.
'I'm going to signal them to come and do their job,' Tweed warned. 'I'm out of it if you play any tricks.'
'Would I play tricks on you, Tweed?' The voice was mocking now. 'Send in the medics.'
Tweed studied the tiny figure of Klein leaning over the rail, one hand out of sight. Holding the control box, he felt sure. Beside him Marler stood, a tiny wisp of blond hair showing in the light from the interior lobby, rifle aimed point-blank at Tweed.
Slowly, Tweed raised his left hand. Four men wearing white shirts and shorts walked rapidly out of the shadows, carrying stretchers. In less than a minute they were moving away, each supporting the body of one of the policemen toppled from the platform. Why this change of mood? Tweed asked himself.
'And now,' Klein called out, 'a different demonstration which will show you we will stop at nothing.' He called over his shoulder. 'Bring her out. It will give those TV ghouls over there something they will really enjoy.'
Tweed froze with horror. A girl was being lowered over the rail. He pulled out his binoculars with his left hand and aimed them upwards. Oh, dear God! No! He felt sick in his stomach, a reaction succeeded by one of cold unreasoning fury. He could have killed Klein with a knife if he'd been up there.
Lara Seagrave had a rope tied round her waist. The only support which stopped her plunging three hundred feet. Her legs dangled over the abyss, her hands tied behind her back. He went on staring through the binoculars, pressed hard into his eyes. The horror had only begun.
A masked man leant forward and looped a noose round her neck. She was literally hanging in space. Tweed could see the rope round her waist was extended back up over the rail and out of sight, a rope holding her tightly. From the noose another length of rope – this one loose – extended back also out of sight. This was macabre, unthinkable.
Klein's voice began speaking. His tone was detached, as though describing some everyday occurrence.
'This is Lara Seagrave, daughter of Lady Windermere, a well-known London hostess. You heard the name clearly? Lady Windermere. She is supported safely by the rope round her waist which we have attached to the leg of a very heavy table. The noose round her neck is also attached to another leg of the same table. We only have to cut the first rope and she will hang from the neck until she is dead. Any attempt to storm Euromast and a man standing by cuts the first rope. She is our hostage – our guarantee of good behaviour on your part, Tweed. Now, do you understand the position clearly?'
Tweed lowered his glasses, unable to look at Lara's face for a moment longer. She looked terrified – fear beyond belief. He swallowed, unable to speak, automatically gripping the microphone, struggling for self-control. Lara…
'I said,' Klein's voice repeated, 'do you understand?'
Tweed glanced up again, saw the suspended figure, lowered his head. Oh, Jesus Christ! This was awful. He was aware suddenly of the heavy silence. The medics had gone with their grisly burdens. Couldn't hear a thing. Except for the gentle lap of water against those barges. He took a firmer grip on the mike, on himself.
'Klein we also want medics to remove the bodies from that police launch…'
'No! They moved without my permission. They stay where they are. I will ask you again…'
'Klein! Haul her back inside or you're finished. I will be replaced by a senior Dutch official…'
'Then I will talk to him. Go away. We are waiting for the gold to reach Findel. Next move then.'
Tweed looked up quickly. Klein had disappeared. Only Marler stood there, rifle still aimed. He walked slowly away. Handing back the mike to the driver, he trudged on in a daze. Reaching the entry to the side street his feet slipped on the greasy surface. A hand grabbed his arm, steadied him. A voice spoke. Blade's. 'We'll enjoy sending that bugger to kingdom come.'
'We must still wait…'
Tweed used his hand to haul himself up the back staircase. Paula met him at the top. She looped an arm through his. 'Come and sit down. That was terrible. I saw it from the roof…'
Arriving inside the room, he sagged into his chair, then he straightened his back. Round the table they watched him without speaking. Beilenger, Jansen, Van Gorp. No one seemed to know the right thing to say. Tweed broke the silence.
'I know the girl. Lara Seagrave. Met her in Paris. She had been spotted photographing ports. I liked her. I'd have liked her as a friend. She's Lady Windermere's stepdaughter. Not daughter. That slip was deliberate on Klein's part. Makes her sound more important. Only reason she's up there is the bloody step-mother. Drove her out of the house.' He paused. 'Now, we must put our thinking-caps on. The next stage is Klein's secret escape route. He has to have one. I think I know what it is.'
'Well?' said Van Gorp.
'Let's see what develops. It will be soon now.'
'In the meantime,' commented Bellenger, 'we can do nothing at all. That girl will just have to stick it out…'
'How can you be so cold-blooded, so Goddamn callous?' Paula burst out.
'
Just getting the thing in perspective. I have a daughter of my own. Not callous at all, I assure you.'
'He's right,' Tweed told her. 'We can only wait.'
'He's got a stranglehold on us…' Bellenger paused. 'Not phrased well, that. Sorry.'
'You have a plan, Tweed?' Van Gorp asked.
'I'm playing it off the cuff. Klein ran out of luck long ago. He's going to make a mistake. I've pandered to his ego. I'm banking on that. He'll make just one mistake.'
53
'I want you to bring that Seagrave girl back in here now.' Chabot faced Klein, a Walther P. 38 automatic pistol in his right hand, muzzle pointing at the floor. The Frenchman's face was pallid with fatigue. Behind them on the platform Marler watched, holding his rifle.
'She stays out there, you fool,' Klein rapped back. He extended the control box in front of his waist, thumb poised over the red button. 'Put that gun back into your holster now. This very minute.'
'It's too much…'
'Shut up! Listen!' Klein's voice became matter-of-fact as he explained. 'Your knowledge of mass psychology is zero. They now have TV cameras recording the scene out there and soon pictures will appear all over the world.'
'What's that got to do with my request?'
The tense expression on Klein's face, the poised thumb, the steel in his voice frightened him. He slid the gun back inside his hip holster as Klein continued.
'People are stupid, very sentimental. This is something the tiny minds of those watching can take in. One girl on the verge of eternity. One slash of a knife and she hangs from her neck, choking her life out until she is dead. They can take in the fate of a single individual. The idea that two thousand people aboard those ships are at risk is too much for their feeble minds. Using Lara Seagrave as our hostage is my masterstroke. You will see.'
'I still don't like it,' Chabot repeated obstinately.
Then go down to ground floor level and stay there. Someone else can go up to the Space Tower. You are now in charge of the defences at the entrance. And remember, Chabot, if they should attack they will shoot down everyone in their way – if you let them get inside. So, if that happens, you kill them first. Go to the elevator. Don't come back.'
'The French can be so sentimental,' Klein remarked as Chabot disappeared inside the elevator.
'I don't like it too much myself,' said Marler who had walked in from the platform. 'You could have pushed them a shade too far.'
'Ah, that is a point of tactics you raise. You British can be very ruthless in your gentlemanly way. My judgement of psychology is better in this case. Now we are alone for a moment I will tell you your role in the escape plan.'
'Which is?'
'A Sikorsky will take off from Rotterdam Airport where it is now waiting for my signal. It will land on one of those large barges moored below. I shall board it with a team of men – still holding this control box. Your job will be to stay on the platform to cover me. From this height – with your talent with that rifle – you will be able to shoot down anyone foolish enough to try and prevent my escape.'
'Won't work. The moment your chopper is out of range of the ships offshore they'll be after you.'
'My dear Marler, I have thought of that. The Sikorsky will fly downriver above the Maas – towards the ships. The range will narrow, not widen.'
'Clever.' Marler leaned against the wall. 'What after that?'
The Sikorsky flies low, well below radar level. It flies on over the Adenauer and heads north for a certain Frisian island. There a large power cruiser is waiting to take us on board. By then they will have lost us. The cruiser takes us to a certain destination where we board a waiting executive jet. Comments?'
'You've left me carrying the can…'
'No, carrying this.'
From behind the seat where Lara had lain trussed up he produced an executive case, dumped it on the seat, snapped open the catches with his left hand. He gestured to the contents.
Marler blinked. Holding the rifle in one hand, his finger inside the trigger guard, he stooped over the case. Packed with neat bundles of banknotes. He sorted through several stacks at random. Fifty-pound notes. He made a quick calculation.
'One hundred thousand pounds,' Klein said.
Marler extracted one note, held it up to the light. He examined it carefully then stuffed it in his breast-pocket behind his display handkerchief. Closing the case, he replaced it behind the seat, straightened up.
'Hope you didn't print those yourself. If you have done, I will certainly find you. What about the big balance?'
'In bearer bonds, negotiable anywhere in the world.'
Klein patted his pocket. 'I give you them when the Sikorsky has landed.'
'Very neat. Except it leaves me here to face the music.'
'The second Sikorsky picks you up five minutes later. The pilot knows the route – again along the Maas- to another power cruiser waiting in the Frisians. You take the rest of the team with you. All the time I have you covered -with the control box aboard my helicopter.'
'Communication. In case of a spot of bother?'
"The pilot of the second Sikorsky will be in constant touch with my pilot. Any interruption and I press the button. You can explain the position to Tweed. He's an understanding type of chap, as you'd say.'
'What comes next?'
'The signal from. Brand at Findel – confirming the bullion is genuine, the right amount. Then the first Sikorsky arrives.'
'Neat,' Marler said again. 'What could possibly go wrong?'
54
Seated with Butler in the cafe overlooking the Avenue de la Liberte, Newman stared at the TV screen above the serving counter. The proprietor had left the machine on -even though it showed only a blank screen.
'They get so used to that damn thing,' he said, 'they leave it on when there's nothing on…'
He stopped, gripped Butler by the arm, nodding towards the TV. An announcer had appeared. He began talking. 'The crisis at Rotterdam.. .' Pictures flashed on to the screen.
'Oh, my God!' Newman said hoarsely.
'It's bestial,' Butler commented.
The camera had zoomed in close on Euromast. The figure of Lara Seagrave suspended from the platform came up. The camera zoomed in closer. A shot of her face, distraught, stricken with terror. The camera panned slowly up and down the side of the immense tower.
The announcer was explaining the position in detail. The fact that only two ropes held her, the second a noose round her neck. Newman swore, went over to the phone on the counter and told the proprietor this was a security call. The man vanished through a door. Newman dialled the number Tweed had given him.
Tweed here.'
'Bob. We've just seen Euromast on TV. The girl hanging in mid-air. Klein is a sadist…'
'More a brutal psychologist. I was just going to phone you. We're close. Gold loaded at the other end. Plane due to fly off. May have done so now. Don't forget to get Benoit to keep on an open line from Findel so he can contact you. The codeword for taking action is Flashpoint. Once you're told that word take any action you like to stop the plane taking off again.'
'You can synchronize it like that?'
'I don't know. I can only hope and pray.'
'Flashpoint,' Newman repeated.
At the house in Eaton Square, London, Lady Windermere was furious as she climbed out of bed and slipped into a peignoir over her night-dress.
'Why have you woken me at this hour?' she snapped at her Spanish maid. 'What's all this nonsense about something terrible, Anita?'
'Please to come and look at the television…'
The TV? Are you mad. It's not on…'
'But it is, your Ladyship. Please to come and look…'
Tightening her thin lips, Lady Windermere followed Anita down the curving staircase into the study. She paused at the entrance, surprised. The TV screen was showing pictures.
'It's Lara,' Anita said, almost sobbing. 'Look for yourself.'
'Where is this happening?'<
br />
'Rotterdam – in Holland.'
With a face like stone Lady Windermere sat in an armchair. The camera was scanning the full height of Euromast as the commentator explained. Then another close-up of Lara hanging from the platform. Lady Windermere clenched her hand.
'The little fool. I said she'd get into some awful scrape. Now this dreadful publicity – and Robin's wedding is on Saturday. It really is too bad of her. She could spoil everything. What a disgusting spectacle.'
'But, your Ladyship, shouldn't we call your husband?'
'No, certainly not. He's in Manchester on business. At this hour he'll be fast asleep.' Thank God, she thought. If Rolly knew he'd be on the phone, making a fuss.
'On no account are you to ring him,' she ordered. 'You've already spoilt my night's sleep. Switch that thing off, I do not wish to see any more. If it goes on it will take the spotlight off Robin's marriage in the papers. I'm going back to bed.'
How perfectly infuriating, she said to herself as she mounted the staircase.
'An American, Cord Dillon, is waiting to see you in a car parked in the side street,' Van Gorp informed Tweed. 'He wanted to come up but the guard stopped him.'
'I'd better go down and talk to him in the car,' Tweed said, standing up. 'Call me instantly if there's a development.' He looked at Paula. 'Like to come with me?'
A crimson Cadillac was standing by the kerb in the dark side street. A uniformed chauffeur opened the rear door and Tweed, followed by Paula, got inside. The Deputy Director of the CIA was a tall, well-built man in his fifties with a craggy face. He had a shock of thick brown hair, was clean shaven had a strong nose, prominent cheekbones and ice-blue eyes.
'Who is she?' he snapped, gesturing to Paula.
'My personal assistant. Totally vetted. Paula Grey. Meet Cord Dillon.'
'This talk with you was to be between the two of us.'
'Paula stays. If you're going to talk about what I think you are she may be able to help.' Tweed waved his hand, indicating the spaciousness of the car. Paula sat turned sideways in one corner, Dillon in the other of the rear seat with Tweed between them. 'Where did you get this wheeled palace?'
