by Colin Forbes
Klein swung off the road across an area of scrubby grass and sand towards a huge concrete breakwater. He parked the car in the same spot he'd used during his reconnaissance weeks earlier. Buttoning up his black coat to the collar, he rammed his wide-brimmed black hat firmly over his head and stepped out.
No one else was in sight as he climbed to the top of the breakwater and stared out across the endless ripples of the North Sea. Only one vessel was in sight, a huge dredger. He took a monocular glass from his pocket, and focused it on the vessel.
A massive craft with a large crane on deck, it was dredging the mouth to the New Waterway, the entrance to the whole system of communication with the heartland of Europe. He scanned the vessel from stem to stern, lowered his glass, nodded to himself with satisfaction as he returned to the car. The dredger would be the first vessel to be sunk with all hands.
29
Tweed arrived at Brussels Airport the following morning. He was accompanied by Harry Butler and Paula. It was only when Monica walked into his office, cured of her flu, that he asked Paula to join them.
'You take over here at base, Monica,' he had instructed. He spent half an hour putting her in the picture. Paula marvelled at his gift for explaining so swiftly all that had happened. She marvelled equally at Monica's ability to absorb the data.
'Monica takes over as from now,' Monica announced when Tweed had finished. She glanced at Paula. 'Your real baptism of fire is coming up, I sense . . .'
The truth was Tweed had felt - as he had in the past -that a climax was close, that he would need all the back-up he could muster. He hurried off the aircraft in Brussels. He had called Chief Inspector Benoit the night before, asking for certain facilities.
Benoit, a jovial portly man of forty with a great beaked nose, light brown hair and shrewd eyes ushered them into an airport security office which had been placed at his disposal. From his expression Tweed saw the Belgian took an immediate fancy to Paula.
'Don't know how you stand this slave-driving boss of yours,' he commented in English.
'Oh, I just bend with the wind.'
Tweed could understand Benoit's reaction. Paula was kitted out in a suede zip-up and form-fitting jacket, a suede skirt and wore leather knee-length boots. Cups of strong black coffee arrived and Benoit got down to business the moment they were alone.
'A chopper is waiting on the tarmac, an Alouette. As per your request.' He opened a brief-case and brought out a sheaf of charts which he dumped on the table in front of Tweed. 'Those are from the Navigation Institute of Waterways. They extend down the Meuse across the border into France. I rang Lasalle in Paris as you suggested.'
'His reaction?'
'Surprising. Electric when I mentioned your name. He's flying to Givet just south of Dinant. And we have permission to overfly the frontier if necessary. What are we looking for?'
'A missing Belgian barge. The Gargantua. It sailed from Dinant upstream towards Les Dames de Meuse and hasn't been seen since. I want to find it.'
'May be a problem - in the Dames de Meuse - if we don't find it further downstream. The chopper pilot warned me. They get heavy mists in that area. The Ardennes rise to thirteen hundred feet. On either side of the river. Imagine the risk our chopper pilot will face if you want a closer look.'
'I think, Paula,' Tweed said, 'you'd better wait here until we return.'
Paula, her forearms rested on the table, sat very erect, clasping her hands as she stared at Tweed. 'Paula did not come to drink coffee hour after hour in an airport. Remember Monica? My real baptism of fire, she said. When do we leave?'
Tweed glanced at Butler who shrugged his shoulders. 'Better give in now. She's a will of her own, this one has. And a pair of sharp eyes. May come in very useful.'
'Thank you for the vote of confidence, Harry,' Paula said, giving him her warmest smile.
That was when the phone rang. Benoit reached for it. 'I told Grand'Place they could get me here,' he told Tweed. He listened, spoke in French, then handed the receiver to Tweed.
'It's Lasalle in Paris - for you. He rang London and they told him you should be at Grand'Place . . .'
'Tweed speaking . . .'
'The Parrot never gives up, my friend,' Lasalle boomed. 'He has followed your girl friend. I have a surprise. Lara Seagrave is on your doorstep.'
'What does that mean?'
'She is staying at the Mayfair Hotel, Avenue Louise in Brussels. She has returned from Antwerp - where she followed her usual routine. Took many photographs of the port area. And watched many ships through her binoculars. The Parrot is furious about one thing. She left her hotel in Antwerp to visit a street of ill fame, the Boekstraat. The Parrot thinks she met someone there - but he didn't know there was a rear exit. Have you traced Klein yet?'
'Unfortunately, no.'
'I have other news, which may mean nothing. Came in on the grapevine through our pal, Calgourli. A communications specialist called Legaud, Jean Legaud, was hired by a stranger recently. Now I hear one of the CRS communications trucks is missing. It may have crossed the border into Luxembourg last night. Report from a frontier post. Similar type of van. A black Citroen truck.'
'Who is Legaud?'
'Had to leave a big telecommunications company suspected of fraud two years ago. No proof, no prosecution. Legaud is a specialist in telephones, radio communication . . .'
'You did say radio?'
'Yes. That means something?'
'It might. Thank you for calling, if that is all.'
'For the moment. See you on the Meuse.'
Tweed had just put down the phone when a uniformed security official came in after knocking and Benoit called out 'Enter'.
'A Mr Robert Newman has just arrived from Grand' Place. He is asking for a Mr Tweed.'
'Show him in.'
Tweed was relieved. He'd phoned Newman from London at his hotel in Liege, asking him to meet them at Grand'Place the following morning. He stood up as Newman came in, introduced him to Benoit, and then Newman spoke to Tweed.
'I need to talk with you urgently. On your own . . .'
'This office next door is available,' Benoit offered, opening a door.
Tweed listened while Newman told him briefly about his visit to the Meuse, what the bargee, Willy Boden, had told him, his encounter with the crusty Colonel Ralston - and his later encounter with Peter Brand at Profondeville.
'This girl friend of his, Carole Browne,' Tweed commented. 'I take it she was positive a man called Klein had visited this palatial villa?'
'Several times. She was quite certain. I believe her.'
'And you mentioned bullion to Brand, you say?'
'Yes, to stir him up. I think I did just that.'
'You do realize that Brand's reference to Les Dames de Meuse is probably a trap?'
'Of course. You think I'm thick? That's why I'm going - to see what happens.'
'I should have assumed that. Bob, we're all going -Benoit has laid on an Alouette - so we can search the river from the air. And all this points to what I've suspected. Now we have a clear link between Klein and his banker, who is Peter Brand. More than that, those heavy wheel tracks from Brand's landing stage across the lawn and out into the drive - that could be the vehicle which collected the bullion stolen from Basle on its way to be melted down.'
'My thought too . . .'
'So it becomes very urgent to locate that barge, Gargantua - which probably transported the bullion from Basle through the canal complex to Profondeville - and was unloaded during the night.'
'Klein is clever.'
'A master planner. And it becomes even more urgent to locate Haber, the owner of that barge. He's the only one who can tell us what happened. He may even be transporting the timer devices made by that murdered Swiss
There was a knock on the door, Benoit showed his head, informed them the chopper pilot said they'd have to wait for take-off. Visibility was ten-tenths. Dense fog. Could be clear at any moment. He'd keep them informed.
/> 'I'm in a dilemma,' Tweed confessed as he sat down. 'Lara Seagrave has turned up at the Hotel Mayfair here in Brussels. She's twenty minutes' drive from where we're sitting. And she's just back from photographing the port of Antwerp.'
'I still don't understand this talk of hijacking a ship,' Newman responded. 'Klein has a whole arsenal of sea-mines and bombs. Does that sound like the simple hijacking of one ship?'
'No. Incidentally, in case anything happens to me I think you should know I have someone planted inside Klein's organization. Code-named Olympus. Came about by chance. I get occasional reports - but I think Klein is working on the cell system, that not one single member of his team is told more than they need to know.'
'This Olympus. Man or woman?'
'I'm not telling anyone that. Not even you. Olympus has to have all the protection I can provide. If Klein even suspected, he'd cut their throat. Look at his track record. You know what I fear he's planning?'
'Something pretty big . . .'
'A holocaust,' Tweed replied.
Klein booked in at the Hilton on the Boulevard de Waterloo in Brussels the morning Tweed arrived at the airport. He registered at the Executive Desk on the eighteenth floor in the name Dupont and went up in the elevator to Executive Suite Number 1914. This was the room Marler would occupy when moved to Brussels.
Looking out of the window he gazed at the enormous cathedral-like edifice of the Palais de Justice. Domed, it was the largest building in Europe - larger than St Peter's in Rome. He was staring out of the window when the phone rang.
'Dupont speaking.'
'Legaud here. I called twice earlier. No reply . . .'
'I'mreplying now. Where are you?'
'Maastricht. The equipment is in perfect working order. I shall arrive and make delivery by this afternoon . . .'
'I will be in touch. Goodbye.'
Klein broke the connection, took a map from his pocket, unfolded it and spread it out on one of the beds. He carried a detailed map of Europe in his head, but there was no substitute for checking, checking, checking . . .
Legaud, the communications specialist, had done well. Maastricht was just over the frontier from Belgium. Legaud was already inside Holland. He would drive the vehicle to the rendezvous prearranged with Grand-Pierre out in the wilds - where the black vehicle would be fitted with Dutch number plates, the bodywork resprayed from black to cream.
The call had come through quickly. Excellent. His next appointment was with Peter Brand at his residence on the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. There final arrangements would be concluded for the transportation of two hundred million pounds worth of gold bullion at present held by the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. When the time came.
The Alouette lifted off shortly after midday. Tweed, Newman, Butler, Paula and Benoit were aboard as the pilot flew south-east, heading for the start point down the Meuse Tweed had suggested. Namur.
They passed over Namur and Tweed looked down on the citadel, on the fork where the Sambre river entered the Meuse. The pilot then flew steadily south a few hundred feet above the winding river in clear weather. On the port side Tweed used binoculars to check the names of each barge proceeding downstream. Benoit, with his own pair of field glasses, performed the same function to starboard.
They flew above Dinant. Another citadel perched on top of a pinnacle of rock. They were approaching Givet when the co-pilot reported receipt of a message from Chief Inspector Lasalle. Would they land briefly at Givet - on the French side of the frontier - and pick him up from one of the quays?
'Are you feeling all right?' Paula asked Tweed alongside her as the pilot began his tricky descent. 'You've lost colour.'
'Hate ships. They bob about. So does this thing. Think I'd better take a Dramamine.'
'Take it now. Don't think about it. Do it . . .'
Tweed swallowed one of the brown tablets from the packet he always carried. 'It takes effect in less than half an hour,' he commented. 'There could be turbulence over Les Dames de Meuse. Those Ardennes . . .'
Lasalle came aboard with an inspector called Sonnet, a stern-faced slim individual who was a local from Givet. Benoit greeted Lasalle like an old friend and then they were airborne. Tweed left Newman to explain the situation through his head-set. He was entering the pilot's cabin when the machine suddenly climbed vertically, swaying from side to side. Grimly, he held on, staring ahead.
'Ah! Ah!' the pilot called out. 'We are in trouble.'
Tweed didn't need to be told. Approaching Les Dames de Meuse, a bank of solid white fog appeared ahead. Vapour drifted past the perspex window in the pilot's cabin. The river below had vanished. They were flying blind.
'Have to climb,' the pilot continued. 'The hills rise to above thirteen hundred feet . . .'
The machine went on climbing, Tweed caught a glimpse of solid rock on the starboard side, rock which seemed feet away from the plane. He swallowed, binoculars looped round his neck. How the hell could they hope to spot the barge in this stuff? He wished to God he'd insisted on Paula staying behind. He glanced back into the cabin, caught Paula's eye and she winked. Guts, he thought.
He watched the altimeter climb well above the equivalent of thirteen hundred feet in metres. They should be safe - but the whole exercise was becoming pointless. He peered forward. The fog, rolling in waves, was thinning.
'Where are we?' he asked through his mouthpiece. 'Have you any idea?'
'Directly above Les Dames de Meuse,' the pilot replied. 'I have a wall of rock on both sides. Below us.'
Tweed hardly heard him. He was gazing with intensity at the mist ahead. A great hole seemed to have appeared in the dense whiteness. He peered down. The river was immediately below. He had an impression of loneliness, no water traffic, thick forest descending to the water's edge, a wide belt of reeds spreading out from the bank. He stared at something, leaned forward.
'Pilot! Can you take her down? Now? Land on that towpath?'
'Risky. . .'
'It's clear below us . . .'
'Give it a try, sir.'
Something touched Tweed's sleeve. He glanced up. Benoit, who had heard the exchange, was beside him. Standing behind the Belgian were Newman and Lasalle. The machine began a slow descent as trails of vapour curled round the fuselage.
Tweed had forgotten his queasy stomach. His eyes were fixed on a vast swathe of reeds and grasses projecting from the left bank. Almost like a dense swamp, dark and brooding at a bend in the river. His eyes flickered to the right. Another brief glimpse. This time of forest clinging to the near cliff-like hillside. Again it seemed to be feet away from the machine.
'What is it?' Benoit asked.
'I think I saw something. Down there among the reeds.'
'What was it?'
'Let's wait till we're down . . .'
The pilot was glancing from side to side. More mist had drifted in close to the chopper, mist rising up from the river. He had poor visibility. End up in the bloody river, he was thinking. He said nothing, concentrating on his controls, praying the towpath would appear in the right place as they went down, down, down.
'This,' Lasalle contributed, 'if I'm not mistaken, is where the Ardennes are at their highest. The river is almost walled in by rock and forest. Perhaps your eyes deceived you . . .'
'Perhaps.'
Behind Newman Paula stared fascinated at Tweed. He was crouched forward, like a hound watching a fox, ignoring the chopper's descent. His head was motionless, his stare fixed, gazing at the swamp-like morass extending from the river bank.
She jumped as the machine hit something, settled, lying still. The pilot operated another control, switching off the engine. The whirling rotors began to slow. They had landed on the towpath.
"This is bloody ridiculous. You know that?' Marler remarked to Hipper who sat beside him as he drove on, his headlights hardly penetrating the fog.
They were driving along a curving road above Les Dames de Meuse. Visibility came and went as the fog curtain whirled in fr
ont of them. And Marler's mood was not improved by the presence of the soft-spoken Luxembourger.
Hipper turned up early in the morning at the Panorama in Bouillon unexpectedly. He had explained that their 'mutual acquaintance' wished him to accompany Marler on his mission. Marler would have told him to piss off -but he didn't want to draw attention to them in the hotel lobby. The next thing he knew Hipper was in the car beside him, carrying a whacking great Leica cine-camera equipped with a zoom lens.
'Why?' enquired Hipper as Marler drove on along a deserted road.
'Why what?'
'Why is it ridiculous?'
'Oh, God Almighty.' Mailer's tone was at its most superior and resigned. 'It is ridiculous because how do you think I am going to locate Newman in this fog? Just assuming he is within a hundred miles of this part of the world.'
'We shall find his car. You will recognize him from the picture I gave you. He will come.'
'How do you know?'
'A friend of our friend pointed him to Les Dames de Meuse. For today.'
'Why don't you say Klein? Your so-called friend is Klein, I take it? Give me an answer or I'll pitch you out of the car.'
'Yes. But you see . . .' That slow pedantic voice. Marler felt he could strangle him.'. . . I have trained myself never to use his name. It is good security . . .'
'Shut up! I heard something. An engine . . .'
'Maybe Newman in his car ..."
'I said shut up - and I meant it.' Marler stopped the car as the road began running downhill towards the river.
Perching an elbow on the window edge, he listened, one hand cupped to his ear. There it was again. Throb-throb. Louder now. Above them. Somewhere in the ceiling of solid fog.
'What is it . . .' Hipper began.
One look from Marler silenced him. The throb-throb was coming closer. Marler craned his neck out of the window, staring skyward. The fog was thinning, a pallid glow which was the sun appeared, illuminating a large break in the veil of mist overhanging the river.
