by Colin Forbes
'Excuse me,' he said, 'but I'm dining alone. Something I never enjoy. Unless you've someone waiting for you, I'd be delighted if you'd share my table. David Ashley. For dinner, I mean - just dinner.'
She was obviously English and he'd deliberately spoken in that language to reassure her. Being careful not to touch her, he gestured towards his table. 'I'mover there in the corner -you can sit nearest the next table. It's all rather convenient.'
'What is?' she asked, sizing him up, liking what she saw.
'The table. Next to the grille. If you order a steak you can watch, shout "stop!" if you like it rare and he's overdoing things.'
'I like mine well done.'
She had joined him as he followed her to the table, A considerate man. That little touch about letting her sit in the outside seat - enabling her to leave easily if she wanted to. He reached for a bottle cloth-shrouded in a silver bucket.
'All girls like champers, so I've heard. Care for a drop while you study the menu?'
'Thank you. I'd love some. It will calm me down.' 'Then here's to a pleasant evening. I'm rather good at chatter. Even if at nothing else . . .'
Klein walked into the bar leading off the lobby of the Hilton. It was dimly lit, which suited him. He sank into an armchair, ordered mineral water, automatically checking the other drinkers.
Lara's outburst was exactly what he had feared. The long wait was telling on nerves. He'd been so taken up with getting her out of the place he hadn't noticed who was dining in the room, a rare oversight.
He sat sipping his Perrier, his mind racing over every aspect of the operation. He'd have moved them all out of Brussels that very night - but he couldn't up-date the operation. It all hinged on the fleet of ships moving towards Europort.
He decided against visiting the café Manuel to check on Chabot and Hipper. No one could possibly be aware of his presence in Brussels, but this was the moment not to move about the city.
Klein had no intention of sleeping anywhere tonight. Without a hotel room he didn't exist. He'd get a quick meal at the café Henry further up the Boulevard, have a drink while Marler dined in the Sky Room, then spend half the hours of darkness in a night club.
An attractive woman sat in a nearby chair facing him, crossed her legs, and gave him a long look. He smiled briefly, looked away. There'd be plenty of time for that later. He was thinking that the Sikorsky helicopters would at this moment be flying from Frankfurt to Schiphol. An essential element in the enterprise.
The woman signalled her availability, moving one crossed leg up and down. Yes, plenty of time later. When he was safely in Brazil.
* *
Marler was puzzled as he ate his steak. What role could Lara Seagrave possibly play in the coming operation? She could be Klein's girl friend, but he didn't think so. He continued to probe gently.
'You have a job? Or is that too personal?'
'Not at all. This steak is perfect. And I love this restaurant. So warm arid comforting.'
The tables were well-spaced, the banquettes at the right height and angle for eating, the coverings a mix of brown and beige. The lighting was indirect, but you could see what you were eating.
'I'm a publisher's scout,' she said, remembering a job a girl friend of hers had.
'What's that?'
'Oh, I represent different publishers - in Denmark, Germany, France and Sweden. My languages got me the job-plus the fact I'm an avid reader. I keep a sharp lookout for books I think might interest one of my employers. It means getting in first - before any of my many rivals.'
'So you travel a lot?' he suggested, watching her over the rim of his glass.
'Yes, I do. It's one of the great attractions of the job. I have just come up from France - Marseilles and Paris.'
'What are you doing, in Brussels?'
'Enjoying myself.' She smiled impishly, flirting openly. 'I fly home soon. I'm waiting for instructions. From London,' she added.
'What firms do you represent?'
She reeled off a list, again bringing back what her friend had told her about the job. Marler nodded, called for the sweet trolley. He didn't believe one damn word she'd told him. So what kind of an operation would call for her services? Klein had better not know they'd met. Fortunate he'd given her a false name. No, prudent. He'd done that after seeing Klein arguing with her. Tension? Was it very close?
* *
Marler timed the ending of his dinner with Lara carefully. He insisted on paying. To her relief he made no attempt to arrange another meeting, to find out where she was staying. She left at 8.50 p.m. exactly and went back to the Mayfair.
Marler told the waiter he had another guest joining him, had all traces of Lara's presence cleared off the table. It was 9.15 p.m. when Klein, tight-lipped, walked into the Maison de Bæuf, looked round, spotted Marler, walked across and sat beside him.
'Good evening,' said Marler, one hand nursing his glass of cognac.
'I've been looking for you. I left a note. Dinner at nine in the Sky Room.'
'And I got your note,' Marler smiled amiably. 'I prefer this restaurant. I knew you'd find me sooner or later.'
'When I give an order . . .'
'About the operation,' Marler interjected, 'I listen and carry out your wishes. Which is what I'm paid for. I am not paid to be led around like a dog on a leash, eating where you think I should dine.' His tone had hardened. 'I think we should be clear about that. Now, what is it?'
Klein told the waiter he'd already eaten in the Sky Room, a lie. He ordered coffee and turned to his companion when they were alone.
'Be prepared to leave at a moment's notice. I will phone you. Have you a car?'
'Yes. Hired a fresh one.'
'Parked in the underground garage here?'
'Of course not.' He made no attempt to enlighten Klein further. 'Where shall I be driving to? How close are we?'
'Close. The destination I give you when I call.' He stood up, reached for his coat which he'd brought into the room dumping it on a chair. Leaving it at the garderobe made for delay in case a swift departure was necessary. Tell the waiter when he brings my coffee I had to leave. Later than I thought.'
Marler watched him walk very erect from the room, the coat over his arm. 'Up yours, chum,' he said to himself and drank the rest of the cognac.
37
At Blakeney, the tiny Norfolk port, Pete Nield was proper browned off, as he put it to himself. He'd spent endless days in the pub overlooking the front and the house belonging to Paula Grey where the bomb had been placed on her doorstep.
By now he was a regular, a habitue of the pub, and a close friend of the barman. Wearing a hunting jacket and corduroy trousers, he sat with yet another beer at a table where he could watch the sea front. The barman, cleaning a glass with a cloth, wandered over.
'See Caleb Fox's coaster is taking on board a different load.'
'So I notice. And Dr Portch is hanging round again. Those two seem real buddies.'
Nield was remembering the night he'd followed Dr Portch's car along the coast road in the dark. How Portch had gone inside a cottage which, it turned out, was Caleb Fox's.
'Anything about the sea interests Portch. He's a pal of the harbourmaster here. Knows the Customs people. That cargo they're loading now. It's Portch's bits and pieces -all his furniture from Cockley Ford. Going back to Holland is the good doctor.'
'He's been there before?' Nield asked casually.
He moved restlessly inside the clothes he didn't like because they felt strange. But hanging about Blakeney all this time he'd have been absurdly conspicuous in his normal smart suits. He'd bought the gear in King's Lynn, which was still his base. And he was still staying at The Duke's Head facing Tuesday Market. Again to avoid standing out like a sore thumb in Blakeney.
Before Butler returned on his own to London they'd discussed what Nield should do. 'Stay here,' Butler had decided. 'Keep an eye on the Blakeney sector.'
'What for?' Nield had queried.
&nbs
p; That bomb found on Paula Grey's doorstep. It was the first appearance of that new Soviet type of bomb in this country.'
'And what has that to do with the price of tea in China?'
'No idea,' Butler had admitted. 'But stick around.'
Nield had stuck around, driving to Blakeney each day, drinking gallons of good Norfolk beer. Now, for the first time, the barman's chance remark seemed to give some point to his long vigil.
'Oh, yes,' the barman replied to his question. 'When he first came to Cockley Ford the practice wasn't vacant for a few months. Some cock-up. I suppose Portch needed the money. He took on a locum job in Holland - and took his furniture with him. Said it would make him feel more at home. Then he brings it back again when he takes up the practice. Now, I hear, he's found himself a permanent post in Amsterdam. He liked the Dutch. So off goes his furniture again, like I just said.'
Think I could do with a breath of sea air.'
Nield stood up, said he'd be back, and wandered out on to the front which was deserted except for the loading activity by Fox's coaster. Dusk was falling, lights in houses had a weird glow, below in the creek there was the sound of water surging in from the sea. Like a tide race.
Nield turned up the collar of his duffel coat against a chill breeze coming across the desolate marshes, thrust hands into his pockets and strolled along the front.
He was within twenty yards of the coaster when the crane hoisted a loading net containing an oblong crate off the quayside. Inside the net something came loose, a hinged side of the crate slid open. Shouting from the group on the quay. The operator in his little cabin atop the crane stopped the hoist, lowered it back to the quay.
Nield was about twenty yards away when the incident occurred. He lengthened his pace without appearing to walk any faster. Under the spotlight shining down from the crane he saw an old-fashioned wardrobe inside the crate. Both doors had also swung loose, exposing its empty interior. Fit for firewood, Nield thought. The junk people lumbered their lives with.
Three of the removal men from the furniture van standing in the shadows started roping up the wardrobe. Dr Portch came forward, shaking his head as he watched them.
'Sorry about that, lads. I should have locked it more securely. My fault entirely.'
In his high-pitched voice Nield, who had an acute ear for intonation, caught a hint of smugness. Behind the group gathered round the net a Customs official was busy chalking other crates.
'Should know your stuff by now, Dr Portch. Back and forth, back and forth to Holland. A right commuter, you be. You'll be with us again, I'll be bound.'
'Wouldn't surprise me one little bit,' Portch assured him.
Nield stood stock still. His mind raced. Butler's remark. That bomb found on Paula Grey's doorstep . . . the first appearance of that new Soviet type of bomb . . . Then Newman's account of what he'd seen the evening he visited Cockley Ford - and the church - with Harry Butler.
Then there was the Custom official's comment. Should know your stuff by now ... He was automatically passing all the crates, marking them with his piece of chalk -without examination. He hadn't even bothered to come and have a look at the opened crate inside the net.
Nield received further confirmation of the appalling idea which had flashed through his mind when one of the removal men spoke as he tackled the crate.
'Can't understand how these screws came loose. You crated most of the others yourself, Dr Portch. This one I screwed up.'
'Must have worked their way loose during the journey along that bumpy side road from Cockley Ford,' Portch said smoothly. His voice quickened as he addressed the man tightening the screws. 'Foreman, I'd like to give you your tip now. I'll forget it if I leave it until the last minute . . .'
He had his wallet in his hand, taking out banknotes which he handed to the foreman. 'You've done a very good job again.'
'Thank you very much, Doctor. Very generous. Mind you, we're not finished. Only half the van has been unloaded.'
'And you'll take the same care you always do.'
Nield felt himself go cold. Portch had successfully turned the removal crew's attention away from the loose screws. The crate had been intended to fly open - a precaution to show the innocence of the cargo. He suddenly realized Portch had noticed his presence, was staring at him.
'A bit late for an evening walk, sir.'
'A necessary bit of exercise,' Nield replied instantly. 'I have been consuming rather a lot of beer . . .'He belched.
Portch chuckled, a sound like pebbles sliding down an iron chute. 'Getting the wind out of his sails.'
There was a polite chortle from the assembled removal men who stood back as the foreman waved a hand and the hoist began to lift the net prior to swinging it over the hold.
Nield was taut with tension. He had to get to a phone, to call Park Crescent. He turned quickly, caught his foot between two projecting cobbles, lost his balance and heeled over sideways. His skull struck the stone wall of a cottage. The world spun, oblivion fell like a curtain, he collapsed.
The barman, who had been watching from a window, came running along the front as Dr Portch bent over Nield, felt his pulse. As he straightened up Nield stirred, one hand groping against the wall. The barman, panting, stood silent for a few seconds, regaining his breath.
'He's drunk,' Portch announced. 'He practically admitted it.'
'No he's not.' The barman, a burly man with ruddy cheeks, had clenched his fists. 'No one gets drunk in my bar. I saw it. He tripped, hit 'is 'ead against that wall.'
'Well, his pulse is normal . . .'
'He needs to go to 'orspital,' the barman hammered on. 'I'll drive him there.'
'Might be best,' Portch agreed with no particular interest. 'I have to catch the tide.'
The barman stooped as Nield struggled to get to his feet and looped an arm round him, hauling him upright. He glared up at Portch who watched with blank eyes from behind the gold pince-nez. Some doctor, the barman was thinking. And now I see him close up I don't like those eyes. Lizard eyes.
'Can . . . walk,' Nield mumbled.
'With a bit of 'elp. I'll take your weight.'
The barman took Nield back to the pub by easy stages, supporting him under the shoulders. Inside he let Nield sag into a chair near the door. He shouted to his assistant. 'Mick, you take over. I'll be gone a while.' He turned back to Nield.
'Your car's parked down road? Usual place? Give me the keys then.'
Nield fumbled under his coat for his jacket pocket. The barman reached into the pocket, his hand came out with the keys. When he backed the car round the corner in front of the pub and went inside Nield was still conscious, sipping mineral water provided by Mick. The glass suddenly tumbled from his hand, rolled across the floor.
'Never mind that, sir. Ups-a-daisy. Car's outside.'
'Get me ... to King's Lynn . . . Duke's Head,' Nield mumbled, his face ashen.
'You're going to 'orspital. Come on now.'
With the barman's aid Nield stood up, stumbled towards the door. He nearly tripped at the exit but the barman's firm grip saved him. Nield's last clear vision of Blakeney was of the coaster, the crane swivelling another loading net to the hold. He fell into the back of the car, rested his swimming head on the head-rest, then blacked out.
38
'A lot of urgent messages for you, Tweed,' Chief Inspector Benoit said as they settled in his office at police HQ off Grand'Place. He pushed a sheaf of typed notes across his desk.
Newman sat in a corner chair where he could survey the whole room. He lit a cigarette while Tweed sorted through the pile, arranging it in a certain order.
The Alouette had flown them from the football field to Brussels Airport. As arranged over the radio by Benoit, unmarked police cars had been waiting to drive them into Brussels.
No one had eaten for hours and Newman felt very tired. He also detected rare signs of fatigue in Tweed, his face drawn but the eyes behind his glasses were still alert. Tweed looked at Benoi
t.
'You have a scrambler phone? I have to call Lasalle in Paris.'
Benoit pushed one of the two phones on his desk forward after pressing a red button on the instrument. 'Installed since the growth of terrorism. Help yourself. You know the number?'
'Yes.' Tweed dialled from memory, wondering whether Lasalle would still be at rue des Saussaies. It was nine in the evening. Lasalle himself answered.
'Tweed? Been trying to get you for hours. I contacted Interpol about whether any German in Brazil had fathered a child. Didn't expect anything but a reply came back fast. Bit of a scandal - the woman involved comes from a good family. A man called Kuhn gave her a son a few months ago. They plan to marry. Nothing on present whereabouts of this Kuhn. Best I can do.'
'Thank you very much . . .'
'Getting anywhere?'
'Nothing definite. Be in touch.' Tweed put down the phone, looked at the other two men. 'Man called Kuhn had an affair with an upper-class Brazilian girl. Result, a son. Supposed to be going to marry her. He's disappeared. Klein. Kuhn. The names are similar.'
'Not conclusive by a mile,' Newman objected. 'Any description?'
'I gather not. It's a miracle Interpol extracted that much information.'
'But if Klein were Kuhn,' Benoit pointed out, 'it would give him a bolt-hole you'd never penetrate. No extradition from Brazil if he has an offspring by a Brazilian girl - even out of wedlock.'
'It's a long shot,' Newman insisted. 'What positive evidence have we got about anything? None. Klein, as someone said earlier, moves like a phantom.'
'I have to call Monica next,' Tweed said.
He was reaching for the phone when there was a knock on the door, a uniformed officer appeared when Benoit called out ami the man whispered in his ear. The Belgian police chief looked at Tweed.
'Harry Butler is outside. Ask him to come in,' he told the officer.
