Deadlock

by Colin Forbes

  He hailed a cab in the Avenue Louise, told the driver to take him to Brussels Midi, and forced himself to relax. In his mind he was recalling from his phenomenal memory the times of the trains to Luxembourg City. If the cab kept moving he'd just be in time to catch the express which went on to Basle.

  Arriving at Midi, he hurried to the ticket counter, bought a first-class return, checked the departure board and ran up the steps. He sank into the seat of an empty compartment as the express began to move.

  He never made advance appointments with anyone -they were dangerous because they forecast your movements. But Brand had told him he would be available at the Banque Sambre. It had never occurred to Klein he might mean the branch in Luxembourg City. And he was puzzled what Brand was doing in that part of the world -the last place he wanted attention drawn to.

  31

  The Alouette flew in brilliant sunshine on a south-easterly course bound for Luxembourg City. Tweed sat with Newman, a map spread across their laps, while Benoit chatted with Butler in front. Butler stared down through the window at the corrugated landscape of wooded ravines and ridges which were the Ardennes.

  'According to your markings on that map we're flying in the wrong direction,' Newman observed.

  'So it would seem,' Tweed agreed.

  The unfolded map of Western Europe carried route markings in felt-tip ink, markings which ended in bold arrows pointing north, always north.

  One route began at Marseilles and proceeded north direct to Paris. From where Klein had hired the explosives expert, Chabot - and where Chabot's girl friend, Cecile Lament, the bar girl, had been dragged from the sea with her throat cut.

  A second route started at Geneva, went on to Basle, continued to Dinant and up the Meuse to Namur. Tweed had added a dotted line from Namur, following a circuitous route to Antwerp. Newman pointed to this.

  'What does that suggest?'

  'It looks like Antwerp. You want facts? Lara Seagrave ended her photographic expeditions in Antwerp - before returning to Brussels - only a short train ride from the port. I am also convinced that missing barge is carrying the timers to the target. Follow the Meuse, see how you can branch off it north of Liege along the Albert Canal - direct to where? Antwerp.'

  'So why are we flying south - away from the possible target area?'

  'Because of that brochure I found in Marline's cottage. It was folded to the Cargolux page - as I showed you. There is a huge fortune in gold bullion being held at the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt - only a short flight from Findel.'

  'Findel?'

  'The airport we are heading for- only six kilometres from Luxembourg City. And the word Rio was written on that brochure. Rio de Janeiro. In Brazil. A country with no extradition treaty. I asked Lasalle before he left to return to Paris to check with Interpol on Brazil. A long shot.'

  'What was? Stop being so cryptic.'

  'I remembered the infamous Ronald Biggs, the Great Train Robbery villain. We couldn't extradite him even with the most solid evidence. Why? Because he had made a Brazilian girl pregnant. Interpol will try to check whether a man with a German-sounding name - Klein, whatever -has fathered a child by a Brazilian mother. Then, whatever crime he commits he will be safe.'

  'And you think he'll try and fly to Rio from Findel?'

  'I think he might fly the gold bullion obtained by a terrible terror threat to Brazil via Findel.'

  'As you said, a long shot.'

  'The one thing that keeps nagging at me is the explosives. I simply can't see that they were transported by barge. Far too big a consignment, far too dangerous.'

  'And every time you mention them,' Newman commented, 'I feel I know something I haven't told you and can't recall. Why is Harry Butler coming with us?'

  'To watch the Banque Sambre in Luxembourg City. You give him a description of Peter Brand when we reach Findel, he hires a car and drives to take up watch on Brand's bank in the Avenue de la Liberté.'

  Lara Seagrave was becoming bored by the luxury of the Mayfair Hotel in Brussels. She had explored the shops, visited the famous Grand'Place where medieval buildings of different periods walled each side of the square. She'd also noticed a uniformed policeman leaning out of a window and had located to police headquarters.

  She sat in front of the dressing-table mirror, brushing her long hair. She picked up the envelope which had been waiting when she arrived. The outside simply carried her typed name. On a blank sheet of paper inside was typed a message.

  It won't be long now. Have patience. No long absences from the Mayfair. K.

  Klein had foreseen there was a limit to the time she could be kept dangling - that she would grow restless. Hence the letter.

  Lara was thinking about something else. She was not convinced by Klein's apparent rejection of Antwerp The fact he had given her no fresh port to explore she felt was highly significant. Giving her appearance a final check, she left the hotel.

  * *

  Hipper noted the deserted country lane ahead, looked in his rear view mirror to make sure nothing was in sight behind, then swung off along the tarred track. The old windmill - which had long ago lost its sails when converted into a private house - reared up behind the trees like a mis-shapen Martello tower.

  He parked the car inside the trees, collected the package of tinned foods, bread and thermos of coffee from the back seat, and walked to the solid wooden door at the base of the tower. In his right hand he carried a bunch of keys on a ring. Selecting a large old-fashioned key, he unlocked the door, went inside, relocked it.

  A musty smell of a building unoccupied for a long time met him as he climbed the circular staircase to the next floor. On the landing he again selected another key as he stood in front of a heavy wooden door.

  He took a minute or so arranging himself. The package of food was tucked under his left arm, his left hand held the key while the right gripped the Walther automatic, safety catch off. He unlocked the door and pushed it wide open.

  Martine Haber sat on a chair in front of a crude wooden table, one hand behind her back. No sign of the boy, Lucien. The Luxembourger pursed his lips. His soft voice was slow and menacing as he aimed the gun.

  Tell the kid to come out from behind the door. Tell him to stand behind that table or I will shoot you within the next ten seconds.'

  Crestfallen, a sullen look of frustration on his face, the lad emerged from behind the door, dropped the leg of the chair he had wrenched from it, and walked to the other side of the table.

  'Don't try that again,' Hipper warned. 'And you, woman, put your other hand on your lap.'

  With a sigh Martine brought her hand into sight, dropping the container of pepper. She would have risked it when Hipper came closer, but she couldn't risk Lucien's life.

  The Luxembourger came closer, the gun now aimed at Lucien. Martine sat very still as Hipper dropped the package on the table. Still pointing the gun at Lucien, he examined the strong padlock which locked the closed shutters over the window.

  The Elsan bucket needs emptying,' Martine protested.

  'Next time . . .'

  'How much longer . . .' she began, then stopped.

  Hipper had backed to the door, slammed it shut, re-locked it. At the foot of the staircase he checked the telephone cord he had detached from the wall socket. There was an extension phone in Marline's room.

  Klein had foreseen at some stage Haber would insist on proof that his family was alive, that they were well. He had called La Montagne, arranged with Hipper to be at the mill at a certain time, then permitted Haber to have a brief conversation with his wife from a public call box.

  It was Hipper who had kidnapped Martine and Lucien. He drove back at speed to Larochette. Chabot, the explosives expert from Marseilles, was becoming a pain in the arse. Too restless for Hipper's liking. At least he had accomplished the kidnap well, leaving behind nothing to give the police a clue.

  Arriving back at La Montagne, Hipper entered the derelict hotel beneath the cliff face and was im
mediately grabbed from behind. A vicious knife touched his throat. He froze as he heard Chabot's voice. An almost empty bottle of red wine stood on the sideboard. Chabot's voice was slurred. Oh, God! Chabot was drunk.

  'No more screwing around,' Chabot snarled. 'I want to know the target. Now! Or I'll slit your gizzard . . . '

  Hipper's mind blurred. 'Antwerp,' he gasped. 'Have you gone mad?'

  'No, just lost patience with hanging around.'

  Chabot released the Luxembourger and his voice was normal. No trace of being the worse for drink. The bastard had tricked him. Hipper stared in fury at the Frenchman who tossed the knife with a twirling gesture. It landed beside the bottle, the point stuck in the wood, the blade quivering.

  'And I'm going out for a walk. This bleedin' place is like being in prison. Worse - with only you as company . . .'

  'It's not quite dark,' Hipper protested.

  'It's not quite dark,' Chabot mimicked and rubbed his swarthy chin. 'I'm still going for a walk. See you, little one.'

  Hipper waited until he had gone, realizing it was an excellent opportunity to make the urgent call Klein had told him to deal with late in the day. He took a grubby notebook from his pocket, checked the number of the Hotel Panorama in Bouillon, made the call. He asked for M. Lambert, the name Marler was using.

  'And who is calling?' Marler's terse voice enquired after a moment.

  'Your friend. You can recognize my voice . . .'

  'Yes. Get on with it.'

  'Leave tomorrow for the meeting in Brussels. We hope to complete the business deal. Three o'clock in the afternoon would do nicely.'

  'Goodbye.'

  Marler slammed down the phone and stood in his bedroom, musing on the message. Tomorrow he'd take up residence in the executive suite at the Hilton Klein had told him about. He took out a map, spread it on the bed and studied it for a few minutes, whistling to himself. Then he folded up the map, shoved it in his pocket and left the hotel.

  'No news. No developments.'

  Back at Park Crescent in Tweed's office Monica gave the same reply to Howard's question she'd given nine times previously. The SIS chief strolled round the room, brushed a hand over the sleeve of his spotless suit, removing an imaginary speck of dust.

  Go away! Monica almost screamed to herself inwardly. He stood by the window, gazing towards Regent's Park. Like a lost soul, Monica thought. Lost because he hasn't Tweed to badger.

  'The PM also enquired,' Howard remarked. 'Phoned herself.'

  Ten times?'

  'Well, actually no. Once.'

  'And how did she react?'

  'Said that was all right, that Tweed would report back in his own good time,' Howard admitted reluctantly. 'Better get back to my own office. The "in" tray is practically piled up to the ceiling. Keep busy, Monica . . .'

  Condescending so-and-so, she thought. The phone rang within thirty seconds of Howard leaving her in peace. She grabbed for it, expecting Tweed on the line. A muffled voice asked for Tweed.

  'He's not here. This is Monica. Can I help?'

  'Olympus here. The target is Antwerp. I think.'

  'Could you repeat that? The line is bad.' Sounded as if the caller were speaking through a silk handkerchief. 'I did catch the Olympus bit . . .'

  'The target is Antwerp. I think.'

  'Thank you. I got it that time . . .'

  The line went dead before she finished speaking. Monica replaced the receiver slowly. Tweed had told her any message from Olympus was top priority, and for his ears only. Now she had to work out how to try and track down Tweed.

  Had it been a man or a woman she was talking to? She had no idea - no inkling of sex or age or nationality. Only that the caller had spoken in English. She decided to try Chief Inspector Benoit in Brussels first.

  32

  That's the Avenue de la Liberté where you'll find the Banque Sambre,' Tweed told Butler. 'Leads up from the Place de la Gare. And there is the station. A train is just coming in from the Brussels direction.'

  'It's a weird city. Spectacular,' Newman commented, peering over Tweed's shoulder.

  The Alouette was flying at a height of several hundred feet, the whole city lay spread out below, the pilot was in touch with Findel control tower as he continued his descent, and the sun shone brilliantly.

  Seen from the air, the site of Luxembourg City looks as though in ages past some pagan god wielded an immense axe and clove the ground, leaving behind a vast and deep gulch like a small Grand Canyon. In places the gulch approaches a quarter-mile in width, over a hundred feet in depth.

  Possibly the greatest fortress city in Europe, the precipitous walls of the gorge provided a natural defence against armies which roved this part of the continent - a defence enormously reinforced by Louis the Fourteenth's brilliant architect of forts, Vauban.

  The Alouette turned east, following the broad highway which leads through open country to the airport. It landed close to the modern building which houses all the facilities associated with airports, a building whose walls seemed to be constructed of glass.

  'I want Cargolux,' Tweed told the pilot as they stood on the tarmac. 'If you want refreshment, we won't need you for a little while.'

  Harry Butler had already left them, striding towards the airport building to hire a car. As he walked he folded a copy of an Identikit picture Tweed had given him, a facsimile of the photocopy of Igor Zarov given to Tweed in Switzerland. Tweed had simply told him this was probably a portrait of Klein.

  'I need a car urgently,' he told the girl behind the desk. 'The make doesn't matter.'

  'Would a Citroen suit you?' she asked in English. 'One of our clients has just left a car before boarding a flight.'

  'I'll take it.' He began filling in the form as he spoke. 'How long for me to reach the Avenue de la Liberté?'

  'At this time of day, no more than twenty minutes. I have a local map. I will mark out the route ..."

  Klein had leaned up to look out of the window of the compartment he occupied by himself. The express from Brussels was approaching Luxembourg City. It was the sight of the helicopter which caught his attention, flying several hundred feet up and almost parallel with the train.

  He took out his monocular glass - the twin of the one he had given to Lara - and focused it on the machine, steadying the glass by perching his elbow on the window ledge. A police job. The word was clearly visible on the fuselage. With Belgian markings.

  It appeared to be keeping pace with the express. Probably on traffic patrol. Klein pocketed the glass. No, that couldn't be the reason for its presence. Not in Luxembourg. Not with Belgian markings.

  The express slowed, the platform of the station was gliding past, the train stopped. Klein took the light case he always carried off the seat beside him, stood up and prepared to alight. He was going straight to the Banque Sambre to find out what the devil Brand was up to. It was only a short walk from the station exit. Two minutes later he emerged from the booking hall into a blaze of sunshine.

  * *

  Before boarding the Alouette at Dinant, Paula had asked Tweed for a private word. They strolled along the waterfront while the others went to where the machine was waiting on a section of open land on the opposite bank.

  'I'm worried about Marline and Lucien,' she said. 'Could I stay here and see if I can locate them? If I can we'll have broken the hold Klein has over Haber.'

  'Good idea in theory,' Tweed agreed. 'How are you going to set about it in practice?'

  'Visit all the local estate agents. Have a look at all the properties on their books - especially any bought recently but where the deal hasn't been completed. Some place not too far away from here, but with a remote situation and which has been on the market a good while.' She frowned. 'I'mnot putting this very well, but I've a feeling I'll spot the sort of property Klein would choose when I see it.'

  'You could give it a try. After I've made certain enquiries at Findel Airport we'll be flying back here. It's a bit vague though - your spec
ification.'

  'Oh, it has to have a telephone which is still in use.'

  'I don't follow you.'

  'What is the usual sequence of events when a kidnapping takes place? The victim still free - in this case Haber - demands proof from the kidnapper that his family is safe and well. The kidnapper gets over that one by letting him have a brief conversation with whoever has been kidnapped. That means telephone communication must be available. See what I'm driving at?'

  'I should have thought of that myself.'

  'You have got rather a lot on your mind,' she pointed out.

  'Come with me. Before we board the Alouette I'll ask Benoit to liaise with the local police. You'll need one of them with you to have the authority to question estate agents . . .'

  And so Tweed had left Paula in Dinant. While the helicopter was flying them to Findel Airport Paula, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, made a tour of the estate agents. She discovered several properties which were promising and was driven to each of them in turn.

  It was dusk when they walked away from a property way out in the Ardennes, a large empty house which had once been a clinic for mental patients - and thus had bars on the windows. Paula was disappointed.

  'I had high hopes of that place,' she said to Pierre, the handsome young policeman who was enjoying himself hugely in her company.

  'Never mind, Miss, we can try again tomorrow. You still have several left for us to explore. I think we should get back to Dinant before dark.'

  'I'm tired out,' she admitted. She studied one brochure before getting into the car. 'I'mwondering about this old mill. It looks pretty remote, was on the market for months before being bought by a Mr Hipper. And the phone is still working. How far away is it?'