by Colin Forbes
Twelve million. Paula did a quick calculation in her head. Over four million pounds. She sensed Tweed's awakening interest as he leaned forward closer to Charvet.
'Both banks in Basle, you mean?'
'Yes. You know the city, of course. They were both near the Bankverein tram stop on the way to the railway station. No clue as to how they moved the gold, but the police have called the robbers The Russian Gang.'
Tweed sat drinking his coffee, absorbing the information. He had a faraway look Monica would have recognized. He was trying to link up this new development with the meagre data he already possessed.
'Why The Russian Gang?' he asked eventually.
'It was the UTS lot, which is surprising. Load of cranks.'
'You mean the Free Ukraine movement?' Paula asked. 'Those pathetic people who were born in the Ukrainian Republic and escaped to the West. They still believe that one day they can bring about a Free Ukraine state -independent of Russia. Mostly they operate out of Munich, pursuing their dream.'
'Yes.' Charvet looked surprised, addressing Tweed. 'Miss Grey has a lot inside her head. Most people have never even heard of the UTS.'
'How do the police know?' Tweed asked.
'One of them was dragged out of the Rhine shortly after the robbery, his throat slit from ear to ear. He carried papers which soon led Arthur Beck to Munich - to identifying him. Presumably they organized the bullion theft to finance their activities.'
'Presumably . . .' Tweed had drifted off into another bout of silence. 'I don't think it's what I'm looking for,' he said eventually.
'Of course not,' Charvet replied. 'I'm just reporting whatever comes to mind. I know I'm not being very helpful.'
'That man your French friends have nicknamed The Recruiter. I don't understand why?'
'Oh, he's supposed to be paying out huge sums to build a team of villains - top specialists in their fields. No one tells me anything specific. You have to realize some of my contacts do spread pure gossip rather than say they have nothing.'
'And that's it?'
'I am very much afraid so.' Charvet peered inside the envelope Tweed had given him. 'This is far too much for rubbishy gossip.'
'Keep it,' Tweed said as he stood up. 'On account of another day.'
'I'msorry,' Paula apologized as they made their way across the footbridge in the dusk. 'It must have sounded as though I was showing off when I babbled on about the UTS.'
'Quite the opposite. Charvet was impressed. That's good. One day I may want you to come and see him if I'm tied up. Now he will talk to you. And he will never let another soul know you exist.'
'Was it all a waste of time?'
'I think so. Charvet makes his living dealing with facts. He has a reputation to keep. That's why he kept emphasizing he was passing on rumours - gossip.'
'What about this gold bullion robbery in Basle? You did seem intrigued by that news. It's the first I've heard of it.'
'Me too. But the Swiss won't want to broadcast a thing like that. Their banks have a reputation for being the safest in the world. One thing puzzles me. Brr! It's getting chilly. I'll be glad to get back inside the hotel.'
'And what puzzles you?'
'That a ramshackle outfit like the UTS could organize not one - but two - successful robberies. And from Swiss banks!'
'What's the answer?'
'No idea. Here we are. Let's dive inside. Come along to my room when you're ready. We'll talk about it a bit more.'
Tweed had taken off his lightweight Burberry, wishing he'd worn a heavier coat, had a quick wash, when he decided to call Charvet at his apartment.
'Alain, Tweed here again. That chap, The Recruiter, does this character have a name?'
'More like a ghost than a real person. It's all gossip like I told you . . .'
'But does he have a name? It is a man, I assume?'
'So the grapevine says. Which is about all it does say. And yes they do toss around a name. Common enough in a number of countries. It's Klein.'
16
Klein was the first passenger to get off the train at Basle. He hurried to the French station, which is attached to the main station. A curious city, Basle. Three countries meet here - Switzerland, France and Germany. Only a short train ride away is Basle Bad Bahnhof, the German station.
He used French francs to buy a single first-class ticket to Brussels. The express was waiting and he settled himself in an empty compartment. As the train began to move through the night he checked over in his mind a list of the tasks he had accomplished.
Timers. They were on their way aboard the Nestle truck bound for Larochette. By using trains Klein would arrive there before the truck. Gaston Blanc had been eliminated.
And no one could connect Klein with that episode. He had bought a single ticket from Geneva to Basle. Now he was travelling with another single ticket to Brussels. That severed the link with Switzerland.
But the day's work was not yet finished. There was still the problem of the Turkish driver bringing the timers. A problem he would solve soon. Klein settled back to sleep. He had an alarm clock inside his head, could always wake before he reached his destination . . .
Fifteen minutes before the express arrived at Luxembourg City, Klein woke, checked his watch. He extracted from his case a small slim black box, shoved it in his pocket and made for the toilet. He seemed to spend half his life inside lavatories he thought with macabre humour as he opened the box.
Among other articles in separate compartments in the velvet-lined box were a tube of foundation cream, a container of light-coloured face powder, cotton wool and a small brush. He worked quickly, rubbing into his face a little of the foundation cream with his fingers. He then applied some of the powder, brushing off the surplus with the complexion brush. He studied the effect in the mirror.
That make-up girl in the closed city of Gorky had taught him a thing or two. 'Most people don't realize,' she had said, 'that a man's complexion - especially someone with a high colour like yours - is one of their most distinguishing features.' Mind you, later he had taught her a thing or two stretched out on the leather couch.
The stark white image stared back at him. It gave him a somewhat sinister appearance. Intimidating. Satisfied, he racked his equipment back inside the box and returned to his compartment after taking a pee.
Again he was the first passenger off the express when it rolled into Luxembourg City. The Volvo station wagon was parked outside the station where Hipper had left it earlier, taking a cab back to Larochette.
Klein unlocked the car with the key Hipper had provided, slid behind the wheel, inserted the ignition key and drove off. Reaching the turn-off from the main highway, he pressed his foot down. Klein moved along the crag-walled winding road at even higher speed than Hipper had driven. Louis Chabot would have been terrified.
It was close to midnight when Louis Chabot returned from his walk through the deserted village and along the winding gorge where, Hipper had told him, the old railway had once run. My God, it was good to get away from that mausoleum, La Montagne. From the rooms with furniture covered with sheets. Only the kitchen was modern and in use.
He heard the car coming from the same direction he had been driven and stepped back inside a narrow alley. The Volvo braked suddenly, swerved into the drive in front of the hotel, sending up a shower of pebbles.
'Bloody maniac,' Chabot growled.
He remained hidden as the driver got out after dousing his lights. The figure was no more than a pale silhouette in the shadows as he disappeared round the side to the rear entrance. Chabot decided to wait, lit a Gauloise. He was good at waiting. Sometimes he'd had to wait hours for the target he'd been commissioned to kill.
He might learn something. Which was more than he ever would from that Hipper who was as informative as a wooden Indian. Half an hour later the Nestle truck arrived, pulled in by the side of La Montagne. Chabot went on waiting. There were some things it might be better not to know. And Hipper had let slip
a cargo of timers was expected.
Klein was amiable with the Turkish driver after he had handed over the case containing the timers. He poured him a glass of red wine in the kitchen, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent tube, then perched his buttocks on a table as he chatted to the driver in French.
'You are heading for Brussels now, I understand?'
'Yes . . .'
The greasy-haired, swarthy-complexioned Turk's command of the language was limited. Klein spoke slowly, kept it simple.
There's been a landslide of rocks on the direct route. I will take you to Clervaux.' He produced a map folded to the right section, showed the driver. 'From there you can drive on to Brussels. You will never find the way on your own - at night it is easy to get lost in the Ardennes.'
'How you get back - from this Clervaux?'
'Easy. My friend here will follow in his car and bring me back. After I have taken you through the difficult bit.'
'You make me pay money for this?'
'God, no! The consignment of drugs you have brought is so important I am glad to see you safely on your way.'
A more intelligent mind might have wondered why such dangerous information had been revealed. But Klein had judged his man well. The Turk's Swiss work permit expired in two months and would not be renewed. He didn't worry about that. He'd be glad to get back to his family, to his wife, in the village a few kilometres outside Ankara.
He had saved a lot of money, sending it back home. But never before had he received so much for one simple job - a thousand-franc note. He had never even seen one before. He readily agreed to Klein's suggestion. He was standing up, finishing off his glass of red wine when Klein bumped against him, spilling wine down the Turk's front.
'I am so sorry . . .'
'It is nothing. Should we go now?'
Klein led the way to the truck, climbing up into the cab on the driver's side behind the wheel. The Turk stood looking up with a puzzled expression as Hipper ran to the Volvo.
'Get in the passenger seat,' Klein called down. 'I know the way. There are few signposts this side of Clervaux.'
The Turk shrugged, walked round the front and joined Klein. As the truck came out of the drive, heading away from Luxembourg City, followed by the Volvo, Chabot watched from inside his alley.
He didn't understand what was going on. Had the Nestle truck delivered the timers? He peered out of the alley, saw the red tail-lights of the Volvo turning left, driving north. He went back to La Montagne,
He found the open bottle of red wine in the kitchen, poured himself a glass, drank it, then began his search for the timers. He searched all three floors, using a torch he had taken from his case, which was still packed. Chabot had a feeling he might want to leave Larochette quickly. But he didn't find the timers.
It was still the middle of the night when Klein stopped the truck. He had turned off the highway up a side track - in the headlight beams the Turk could see straight ahead a thin copse of pine trees. He looked in the wing mirror on his side. The headlights of Hipper's Volvo had stopped a few metres behind.
'What is happening?'
'I have to take a leak.' Klein patted his crotch. 'Now you can take over the wheel. You back the truck the short distance we came off the highway and continue north. You are near Clervaux. And I will pay you the rest of the money in a minute . . .'
More money? The Turk kept his face expressionless. He'd understood at Vevey he'd be paid one thousand francs. Had this man not known he had already been paid? The prospect of another one thousand franc note filled him with joy. He would buy his wife a present . . .
'Here you are.'
Klein had suddenly opened the other door, climbed up into the passenger seat. He held an envelope in his left hand. His right hand grabbed the Turk's long hair and jerked his head back. The Turk felt certain the hand couldn't hold his slippery mane. He lunged forward. Which was exactly the reaction Klein was expecting. His hand opened, the palm shoved the head forward with all his force. There was a thud as the Turk cracked his skull on the wheel and lay still. Klein checked the neck pulse. Nothing. He nodded to Hipper who stood outside the foot of the passenger door, holding an inflated plastic bag.
'Dead.'
Klein spoke the single word as he jumped down from the cab, leaving the door open. He walked cautiously to the copse he had found a week earlier, looking for the right place. Beyond the sapling pines the earth dropped away sheer into an abyss.
'Let's get on with it. We have to get back to La Montagne. See what Chabot's been up to. He must be a marathon walker.'
Hipper went round to the driver's side where the Turk slumped over the wheel. He would never see Ankara, his waiting family again. Hipper perched on the edge of the cab, reached over, turned on the ignition. Klein had taken a small sachet of cocaine he'd bought on the Paris streets for an absurd sum, ripped the packet and scattered the contents inside the cab. Something for the forensic fanatics to think about - assuming any traces of the stuff survived.
Hipper waited while Klein checked the plastic bag of petrol the Luxembourger had handed him. A fuse protruded from the neck of the bag. He'd have to act fast. He took his lighter out, nodded again to Hipper standing in the cab. He really was a very small man.
Hipper adjusted the gear, jumped to the ground and grasped the brake. Klein nodded a third time as he lit the fuse. As Hipper released the brake and slammed the cab door shut Klein threw in the bag, slamming his own door shut. The vehicle was already moving down the slope.
There was a whooshing sound and light flared inside the cab. The truck trundled on downhill as Klein followed. It brushed aside the feeble trees, upended and vanished. Klein and Hipper ran to the edge. The truck plunged straight down the abyss past the rock face, went down a good hundred feet and hit the rocks at the bottom with a distant thud. For a few seconds it was very quiet. Then the base of the abyss exploded with a dull roar. Flames flared. Smoke drifted in the windless night up the side of the precipice. Klein sniffed. Smelt like burning flesh and petrol fumes.
His precautions were a waste of time. Inside the inferno the Turk was incinerated into almost a blackened skeleton.
'Better get back,' Klein commented. 'Another loose end dealt with. I'll drive.'
17
Tweed, like Paula, was an owl. Both were at their most alert when most of the world was going to bed. They had a late and leisurely dinner in Le Pavilion, talking about Alain Charvet, about why they were there.
'I just can't get a grip on a single hard fact,' Tweed complained. 'Maybe there isn't one to get hold of.' He drank more coffee, called for the bill and signed it.
'Why didn't you show Charvet the picture of Zarov?' Paula enquired.
'Because the fewer people who see it the better. That is, until we have something concrete to go on. The odd thing,' he ruminated, 'is I have used the word phantom several times - which shows I don't really believe in his existence. Then on the phone when I called Charvet to ask if the so-called Recruiter has a name, Charvet himself used the word ghost. You see?'
'See what?'
'Phantom. Ghost. Neither of us really believe in the existence of a mysterious mastermind. Zarov.'
'If he was really brilliant wouldn't he set out to make you think just that?'
Before he could reply the concierge from reception came to the table and whispered in Tweed's ear. 'Thank you,' he said. Tell him we'll be out there very shortly.' He waited until they were alone. 'Blast the man!'
'What's the matter now?'
'It's Arthur Beck again. Chief of the Federal Police. Waiting in the lobby to see me. At this hour. I suppose we'd better take him up to my room. Although what he can want I can't imagine.'
Seated on a couch by herself in Tweed's room Paula studied Beck. Not a bit like my idea of a top policeman, she thought. Dressed in a light grey business suit, a blue-striped shirt, a blue tie which carried a kingfisher emblem woven into the fabric, he looked more like a clever banker. Plump-cheeked, his most ar
resting feature was his alert grey eyes beneath thick dark brows the same colour as his thick hair. In his mid-forties, she guessed, his complexion was ruddy, that of a man who spent as much time as possible outdoors.
His movements were quick and he fiddled with a silver pencil as he watched Tweed, who had already made introductions. He showed rare surprise when Tweed spoke.
'I should tell you, Arthur, that I'm now a commander with the Anti-Terrorist Squad at Scotland Yard. Here is my warrant card.'
'I don't believe it.' Beck stared at the card and handed it back. 'You mean you've left the Service?'
'More complicated than that.' Tweed was mildly pleased with the shock he'd given his old friend. 'I also still hold my position with the Service. I'm working on a weird investigation. What I would like to know is why you took the trouble to fly from Berne to see me. And how you knew I was here.'
'Answer to first question, I didn't. I'm working on a murder case. A bit grisly.' He glanced at Paula. 'Answer to second question, the Passport Control man at Cointrin thought your name rang a bell, checked it against his list, called me.'
'What murder case?' Tweed enquired. 'You don't get many of them here.'
'Well . . .' Beck smiled slightly. 'Seeing as you're now also with Scotland Yard means I can talk to you about anything.' Again he glanced at Paula.
'You used the word "grisly",' she said. 'Not to worry. I've a pretty strong stomach.'
'Funny business. Murdered chap discovered in a train at Cornavin which had finished its journey. Cleaning woman finds a lavatory locked, calls guard. He opens up. Inside, parked on the lavatory seat lid is this body of a man. Small and fat, head lolling to one side, mouth open . . .' He was looking towards Paula again. '. . . his throat slit from ear to ear, blood all down his shirt front . . .'
