by Colin Forbes
'US Embassy at The Hague met me at the airport. What I want to talk about…'
'Just a moment,' Tweed interrupted. 'You'll want what I may tell you off the record – so switch off the tape recorder, if you don't mind.'
Dillon reached down below the seat, turned a switch. 'Off the record. I'm in a hurry. So are you. Let's get to it. We have had strong rumours an ex-CIA man is mixed up in this Rotterdam business. I think Moscow is spreading the poison. My worry is it could be true. Remember Lee Foley?'
'Left you – with all his expertise – to set up CDA, the Continental Detective Agency, in New York. I last encountered him in Switzerland…'
'He's gone missing.'
Despite his normal manner of iron self-control, Tweed sensed anxiety under the surface. There was as much tension inside the Cadillac as in the HQ room.
'How long ago was this?' Tweed asked.
'Six months. Boarded a flight for London, left Heathrow and vanished. Foley was good at that trick. We've used good men to track him. They've come up with zilch. A guy doesn't just walk out on a profitable business and disappear. Foley did.'
'Paula,' Tweed suggested, 'tell him very briefly about your experience at Blakeney and on the road to Cockley Ford.'
He listened, checking his watch several times, while Paula recalled what had happened tersely. Including the bomb on her doorstep. Dillon grunted when she'd finished.
'Tweed,' he began, 'if Foley is involved here, I'm going to ask you a favour. Don't care how you do it. Just make sure any part Foley has played never goes public. The Russians would tear us to pieces. OK? Then I'll owe you one.'
'I'll do my best. Now, fly back to London. Wait for me at your Grosvenor Square Embassy. I'll contact you when I can.'
'I have another problem. Cal Dexter, Schulzberger's security chief aboard the Adenauer, reports Schulzberger won't leave the ship.'
'Good for him. You have no problem. Go back to London as I suggested. Now I must get back.'
'What happened?' Dillon asked as Paula reached for the door handle. To Foley, I mean.'
'He shook hands with the devil.'
'The bullion is on its way to Findel,' Van Gorp told Tweed as he came back with Paula. 'The governments are putting a heavy burden on you. They're assuming somehow you'll get the gold back. Luckily no hint of this surrender has reached the outside world. Yet,' he added.
'Then Klein will know, too. I'm sure he had someone at Frankfurt Airport watching. Gentlemen…' Tweed laid his hand on the Verey pistol. '… we are close to the crunch.' He looked at Van Gorp. 'Don't forget Benoit – and Flashpoint. You have your man on the roof watching?'
'Yes. I don't understand your plan, but he's in constant contact with me through his walkie-talkie.' He picked up his own walkie-talkie off the table. 'And I'll call Benoit myself.'
'He may call you, ask you to keep the line open.'
'What do you plan to do?' asked Bellenger. 'Incidentally, a bit of good news. The bomb disposal lads have arrived at Schiphol outside Amsterdam. Why not fly them here?'
'Not yet. As to my plan, I have very little idea. I will have to react to events as they unfold – waiting for that one unguarded moment of Klein's. He, of course, will have been monitoring all communications through that CRS van, as I said earlier.'
'Don't worry about that,' Van Gorp assured him. 'I worked out a code for the police radio band. You've no idea how many prowlers we seem to have loose on the streets tonight.'
'How is Lara getting on?' Tweed asked quietly.
'Still suspended by that rope. That man is a fiend.'
'But a clever fiend. All along he has held us in a balance of terror. He has done enough to hold us in the deadlock. Sinking the dredger, Ameland. Blowing up Shell-Mex Two. Killing five policemen. The Lara thing. All enough to stop us daring to move. But nothing yet so tremendously appalling – like sinking the Adenauer – which might make us throw caution to the winds. I warned you – a master planner.'
'So what next?'
'At this moment we are in the hands of Newman.'
Benoit rushed into the cafe up to the table where Newman and Butler waited. He was breathing heavily and it was a moment before he could speak.
'Brand has asked permission to be driven to the airport. The transport with the gold is coming. He has warned us the man holding him will shoot him dead if we attempt to interfere.'
'You were able to persuade the local police chief to leave the airport free of his men?' Newman asked, standing up, looping the scabbard with the rifle over his shoulder.
'With difficulty, yes. He agreed.'
Then let's get moving. Pretty damn quickly – to get there before Brand and his so-called captor.'
Five minutes later, with Benoit seated beside him, Newman was driving the Lamborghini across the viaduct, crossing the chasm. No traffic about. He rammed his foot down, exceeding the limit, swerving round corners, then on to the highway direct to the airport. Benoit pressed his tingling feet against the floor, trying to preserve his portly aplomb.
Newman increased speed on the highway. Benoit watched the needle on the speedometer creep steadily higher. Something streaked past them. A motor-cycle. The rider hunched under his crash helmet.
'God! He's moving,' Benoit gasped.
'Butler. Wheels off the ground. Ever seen a motor-bike flying? New experience for you.'
'The whole thing is a new experience…'
No sign of life at the airport. Lights on inside the main reception building. Newman drove round the side and parked out of sight. Brand mustn't see the Lamborghini. Benoit levered his stiff limbs out of the car, carrying a large torch in one hand.
'Why did you want me to bring this?'
'I'll be out somewhere on the airfield when the machine gets here. I want you by a window facing the airfield, with the telephone in your hand. The moment Rotterdam gives the go-ahead – Flashpoint – you signal with that torch. On and off six times. That's vital. I'm hamstrung-so is Butler – until Tweed sends his own signal…'
Butler had perched his motor-cycle on the side of the building closest to the airfield. He was checking his Browning automatic when they found him.
'Hear it coming?' Butler asked.
'I can see it,' said Newman.
'I'd better get to security, find a phone, the right position,' said Benoit.
The night sky was clear, moonless, star-studded. There were two mobile stars, one green, one red. From the east came the rumble of the approaching transport plane carrying the gold bullion.
One of the double doors of the Banque Sambre opened. Brand – arms extended in front of his body – emerged slowly. Hipper, a slouch hat pulled over his forehead, a handkerchief masking his face, came alongside him, holding the Luger against the banker's skull.
They walked slowly along the Avenue de la Liberte as police marksmen on the roof covered Hipper. Turning down the side street, they approached the waiting limousine where the chauffeur held open the rear door.
The inspector, hidden inside a doorway, spoke into his walkie-talkie to the marksmen. 'Don't attempt it. The gunman's reflex action would pull the trigger. Brand must reach Findel alive…'
The limousine drove off slowly past the barriers which had been removed. Reaching the street leading to the viaduct, the chauffeur accelerated. He kept up the same speed until he arrived at the airport. As Brand stepped carefully out, followed by Hipper, the huge transport machine from Frankfurt landed.
The plane is at Findel,' Klein said as he put down the phone. 'So is Brand. He's just called from the security office. In a few minutes he will check the bullion, then report back to me over the aircraft's radio.' His voice was still detached, calm.
'When do you call up the Sikorsky?' Marler enquired.
'The moment Brand reports he's checked the gold. It is only a few minutes' flight from Rotterdam Airport. Legaud's van will ensure all communications work…'
Inside the CRS vehicle the professorial Legaud had sent one of the four
men to sit behind the wheel through the door linking the cab with the interior of the van. He felt quite safe as he sat in front of a console of dials and switches, wearing a headset as he listened to the police radio band.
Three more armed men sat in the van behind him. The vehicle was bullet-proof, the few windows made of armoured glass. A telephone receiver lay on its side by his left hand, keeping him in constant touch with Klein. The whole operation had hinged on his expertise, or so Legaud preened himself.
Inside the HQ room Tweed sat with his hand close to the Verey pistol. Van Gorp was talking to Benoit. He put the receiver on the table.
'We now have an open line permanently to Benoit. He says the plane has landed. Brand has arrived. He's going aboard the aircraft. How long to check the gold?'
'No idea. Again, we wait.'
'So drink more coffee,' said Paula.
'I'm swimming in the stuff, but thank you, yes.'
'It will be soon, then?' asked Inspector Jansen.
'Soon,' Tweed replied and drank more coffee.
'There's something very wrong,' Newman said to Butler who sat astride his Honda.
They were near the end of the runway, at take-off point. Newman had suggested they walk the long distance in the dark as he clutched his rifle. Butler was mystified why they were waiting there.
'What's wrong?' he asked.
'That transport plane. When it landed it taxied to the other end of the main runway, then turned slowly through a hundred and eighty degrees.'
'Why did you expect?'
'The control tower would have instructed it to move on to one of the approach paths. It's positioned itself where it could make an immediate take-off. I don't like it. I sense some trick.'
**
Brand had climbed the ladder lowered by the air crew into the plane. Hipper, Luger aimed at his back, had followed. As Brand stepped aboard the pilot pulled him out of sight.
'We are ready when you tell us the cargo is OK. We have now dealt with the air crew which took off from Frankfurt.'
'Dealt with them?'
'Shot them, of course. When we're over the Atlantic we can drop the bodies. Now, we are short of time. You come this way.'
He led Brand into the cargo hold where long wooden boxes roped down were stacked. The ropes had been removed from several boxes. The pilot explained they'd work as a team for speed. He would rope down each box after Brand had checked it while his co-pilot unroped others for Brand's inspection. The radio op. was at his post in the pilot's cabin, keeping in touch with Euromast.
Brand took a leather pouch from his pocket, unfolded it and extracted from its leather compartment a small glass pipette containing a liquid. Standing over the open box, staring at the large ingot stamped with German markings, he held the pipette over it, let slip a tiny drop. It sizzled as it landed on the ingot.
'Gold,' Brand said. 'Let's keep moving. Next box…'
'Klein wants to talk again. Wait while I check we're ready.' Van Gorp put down the phone, picked up the other one lying on the table and spoke to Benoit. He nodded to Tweed as he lay it on its side. 'Benoit is waiting. Brand still checking that gold.' He picked up the walkie-talkie, its aerial already extended, exchanged a few words in Dutch with his man watching on the roof. 'Communications in order.'
'And your man on the roof understands the signal I told you both in private he would receive – if my plan works?'
'Didn't understand it – as I don't – but he'll recognize the signal, inform me instantly. Then I pass the codeword to Benoit. Good luck.'
Three minutes later Tweed handed the Verey pistol to Blade who was still waiting with his Sabre Troop. 'Keep that for me,' Tweed requested. 'Collect it from you when I get back.'
Standing at the base of Euromast with the microphone in his hand, Tweed stared up. Klein began talking immediately in a brusque manner, giving orders.
The gold is checked. Sensible of you to carry out my orders. Now listen. Don't interrupt. A Sikorksy is flying in here. It will land on one of those barges behind you. I shall leave the Euromast with a number of my men. Others will stay inside Euromast. When I leave to board the machine I will be holding the control box, thumb over the red button. Shoot me, my last act will be to press the button. Everything goes up. A second Sikorksy will arrive – to take off the rest of my team. My Sikorsky will fly downriver – closing the range with those floating deathtraps. Any interference, I press the button – both Sikorskys will be in constant radio touch.'
'That was not the arrangement…'
'I said don't interrupt. That is the arrangement now. All those people's lives are in your hands. I shall remain in communication with Findel. The plane will be allowed to take off. Any interference with that take-off – you know what will happen. And in case you doubt my will to do as I say…'
Klein tapped his right leather-soled shoe twice. Marler was further round the platform, rifle aimed at Tweed. Inside the lobby a Luxembourger sawed through the rope holding Lara by her waist. The last strand broke…
She fell a dozen feet. The noose tightened round her neck. She swung slowly in space. The TV cameras zoomed in, recording the sight of her extended neck, her bulging eyes.
Tweed gazed up, frozen with shock and disbelief. Chilled to the bone. His eyes glued to the suspended figure, hanging like a marionette, a broken rag doll. He realized he was in shock, gripping the mike like a vice. His legs felt paralysed. He couldn't move. It wasn't happening…
55
Tweed took back the Verey pistol from Blade and crouched next to the troop commander. He was silent for a minute or two, being careful not to look up at the tower. The drizzle was still falling, a moist sheen gleamed on the sidewalks and the decks of the moored barges.
'You're soaked,' Blade remarked.
'Just a bit wet. What's that thing?'
He pointed to a phone handset which lay on the ground next to Blade. A cable stretched from it away into the distance.
The Dutchman organized that while you were out there. An efficient lot, these Dutch chaps. Don't panic. That will be for you,' he said as the phone started a muted buzz.
'Tweed here.'
'Van Corp. That was pretty grim…'
'Shock tactics. Perfect timing. Klein's about to run for it. That showed he means business with his bloody little red button.'
'Still deadlock then. I'm waiting. So is the other chap at the end of the line…'
'Must go. Something's happening.'
Blade had gripped his arm. The growing sound of a helicopter approaching broke the silence. The Sikorksy looked enormous when it hove into view over the river. Tweed gripped the pistol. 'Just one mistake, Klein,' he whispered to himself.
On the platform Klein watched the machine coming, turned to Marler. 'I'm going down in the elevator. Cover me.'
'Will do.'
Klein took five men inside the elevator, holding the control box firmly. Emerging from the elevator on the ground level, he walked alongside a wall and stared out of a window. The Sikorsky had turned over Parkhaven, was hovering above one of the barges. It descended slowly. Rotors still whirling, it settled on the deck, its port side facing towards the end of the basin where Blade's men were hidden.
Klein walked out slowly, hand extended. A file of men holding Uzi machine-pistols followed him down the steps. Klein walked across the sidewalk, stepped off the kerb into the street. A dozen yards more and he would he shielded by the bulk of the machine which kept its rotors whirling, ready for immediate take-off.
On the platform Marler moved round to the far side -away from the buildings where the Sabre Troop waited. Raising his rifle, he rammed the stock into his shoulder and waited, gazing through the telescopic night sight.
Klein stepped on to the barge deck which was sleazy with oily wetness. No one behind the wall with Tweed saw what happened next. Klein moved forward towards the open door of the Sikorsky, his leather-soled shoes slipped, he lost his balance and sprawled forward full length. The control b
ox slid out of his hand, skidding under the chopper's fuselage. Klein hauled himself forward, made no attempt to climb to his feet. His hand reached forward to grip the control box.
Marler saw it clearly through his sight. The hand reaching out desperately for the box. He began shooting with surgical precision. The first bullet tore into the outstretched hand. Klein's arm jerked back in a reflex of pain.
He rolled on his side, closer to the box. Using his uninjured left hand he reached again for the box. Marler saw the hand as though it were inches from his face. The long fingers clawing forward like a spider's legs. He aimed for the centre of the back of the hand, it disintegrated into a bloody mess of mangled flesh. Again the arm jerked back. He aimed for the iower back as Klein rolled in agony, pulled the trigger. The body jerked convulsively, lay still. Marler aimed for a point below the left shoulder blade and fired again. Klein twitched, lay motionless. A figure in the doorway dropped to the deck. Marler shot him in the chest. He was hurled back as though hit by a hammerblow. Inside the Sikorsky, sitting behind his controls, the pilot, Victor Saur, was confused. He had no idea Klein had been shot. Another man appeared at the doorway, saw the body of his companion and retreated inside the machine. 'No sign of Klein yet,' he reported.
On the platform Marler turned as a Luxembourger walked round the side of the tower. He shot him. Then he walked to the rail, held his rifle at a vertical angle, waved it sideways back and forth three times, and reloaded.
Tweed saw the signal, fired his Verey pistol. Above Parkhaven a green light flared brilliantly. Blade's men moved forward in three widely separated groups, crouched low as they ran for the entrance to Euromast.
On the roof of the HQ building Van Gorp's lookout gave the warning through his walkie-talkie.
' Flashpoint! '
Inside the HQ room Van Gorp grabbed for the phone which linked him to Findel.
'You there, Benoit? Flashpoint! Flashpoint! '
Blade's men had reached the entrance. Several hurled stun grenades over the crude barrier of furniture. The grenades exploded with a deafening crack. Balaclava-masked figures leapt straight over the barrier. They were firing their Ingram machine-pistols as they landed.
