by Colin Forbes
'Which is?'
'After we've unloaded Dr Portch's stuff at Europort we sail up to Hamburg. Some shipyard has a strike. Shipyard owners are taking on this new lot of stevedores, sacking the lot on strike. And we're being well paid for the job.
Bonus in it for you later, Bates. Inform the crew we'll have extra passengers. Handle it in your own way.'
'I'd better go and make preparations. How many stevedores?'
'A dozen I was told. We'll have to see, won't we?'
Half an hour later four lighters hove to on the port side, two ladders had been slung over the coaster's hull, the first man to swarm up and come aboard was Grand-Pierre. He carried a bedroll and a small case. Other men dressed in seamen's gear climbed rapidly up and dropped on deck. Grand-Pierre made straight for the engine room, slamming shut the steel door behind him, gazing down from an iron platform as a stench of oil hit his nostrils.
Two men in the engine room, he'd been told. He saw them gazing up at him. He dumped his case, tucked the bedroll under one powerful arm, descended the ladder. Reaching the bottom, he walked towards the two men who stood by a mass of dials and gauges.
He reached his right hand inside the bedroll, produced the Luger pistol, shot the first man, then the second. The echoes of the reports resounded round the engine room. He moved close to the first slumped body, pressed the Luger muzzle close to the slumped man's skull, pulled the trigger. He performed the same act with the second sprawled body.
Moving with ape-like agility for a man of his size, he scrambled back up the ladder to the platform. He had the Luger out of sight behind his back when Sadler, who was puzzled about something he couldn't yet put his finger on, opened the engine-room door. Grand-Pierre's bulk blocked his view of the engine room.
'What the hell are you doing here?' Sadler demanded.
The Frenchman peered out. The corridor was deserted in both directions. He aimed the Luger and pulled the trigger in one movement. The heavy slug caught Sadler in the chest and slammed his body back against the wall.
'Merde,' muttered Grand-Pierre. Why had he come snooping round at this moment. He hoisted the body over his shoulder, walked back on to the platform, using one hand to shut the door. Perching on the edge of the platform, he dropped his burden. It hit the metal floor thirty feet below with a soft thud. No need for a second bullet there.
Opening the door again, he looked out and saw one of his men carrying another member of the crew towards the engine room. Someone shouted from the other end of the corridor. A crewman was hurrying towards the man stooped under the weight of his dead burden.
'What's the matter with Callaby?' the crewman shouted.
Grand-Pierre waited until he was close, then shot him twice. Gesturing towards the platform to his team member, he picked up the fourth corpse and, as arranged beforehand, dumped that over the edge.
He took a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket as his own man hurried away. Four dealt with out of a crew of nine. An extra name was on the list. A good preliminary exercise for his team, Grand-Pierre thought, a minor trial run for what was to come at Europort and Rotterdam.
'I tried to contact Nield,' Monica told Tweed over the phone as he sat in Benoit's office for the second time that night. 'When he didn't report in I called The Duke's Head. That was at eleven-thirty in the evening. They said his key was still with reception, that he hadn't returned. I'm worried.'
'Don't,' Tweed urged. 'Pete can look after himself. I may be leaving Brussels shortly, but they'll know here where to find me. Better use the code word Ghent to identify yourself. Got it?'
'Yes, Ghent. Are you all right? You're talking fast- the way you do when you're tired.'
'Perfectly OK. Next thing. I want Commander Bellenger from Admiralty to fly over here at once. He'll react when you tell him I asked for him. Tell him to come to Grand' Place. Also call Number Ten. Say I want the SAS team waiting to fly to Schiphol in Holland now. To stand by for further instructions. I'll try and call the PM myself but I may not get her.'
'You will if you call now. She phoned me a few minutes ago - to ask if I had any news from you. I'd better get off the line. And I'll call when I hear from Nield. Not that much seems to be happening up there.'
'You might be surprised,' Tweed said grimly and rang off.
He looked at Newman and Butler, explained he had to call the PM. They went into the anteroom next door and waited. Butler was not his normal phlegmatic self. He asked Newman for a cigarette although he rarely smoked.
'I'm worried about Nield,' he admitted. 'I was the one who shoved him out on a limb, left him in Norfolk by himself.'
'You heard Tweed say he can look after himself.'
That's true. But we normally work as a team ..."
'You are doing right now,' Newman assured him. 'But this time long distance.'
A few minutes later Tweed asked them back into Benoit's office. His expression was grim but before he could explain Benoit came into the room, slammed the door and sat down at the table.
'Coffee is coming. It's going to be a long night. How are things, Tweed?'
'This is confidential. I've spoken to the PM. She agrees with my reasoning that Europort is the target. But she has a problem. She needs evidence to convince the Dutch Government. What I have isn't enough . . .' He recalled for Benoit's benefit his conversation with Newman and Butler in his hotel room. Benoit shook his head.
'I know you, Tweed. I think you could be right. Although it could still be Antwerp. But can I convince my Minister? Like hell I can. The same problem - he wants ironclad evidence before he'll put Antwerp on siege alert. The most I could get is an order for the Antwerp port authority to reinforce security - which means no more than bringing another dozen men back on duty.'
'What about the SAS team?' asked Newman.
'They would be your first thought,' Tweed observed, 'considering you once served with them for a short time.'
'He did?' Benoit was surprised. 'When was that?'
'Oh when I was commissioned to do a series of articles on the organization. To get the proper flavour I asked to be put on one of their courses. It was sheer bloody murder, but I survived. Largely due to the prodding I got from the commander, Blade. Not his real name.'
'Blade,' Tweed informed him, 'is in charge of the team flying in to Schiphol tonight.'
'They are going in then?'
'The PM's decision. She's informing the Dutch Government as the team is in the air. They can always fly back if she can't persuade The Hague of the appalling danger they face. Which brings me to a further request I have to make,' he said, turning to Benoit. 'Would you loan us that Alouette again - to fly me to Rotterdam tonight with Newman and Butler? Another pilot is available, I hope?'
'You need the same chap, Georges Quintin. He took us down the hole in the clouds on the Meuse when you spotted that sunken barge. If Rotterdam gets hairy, he's your man. He ate a meal at the airport and went straight to sleep. He'll be fresher than any of us.'
'Us?'
'I think I'm coming with you. You know Van Gorp, chief of police in The Hague?'
'Yes. Very unorthodox in his methods. Nearly sacked twice for being too tough, for taking decisions on his own in emergencies.'
'A close friend of mine. Together we may be able to convince him. Then he'll act.'
'Talking about that sunken barge, the Gargantua, we still have to locate the other barge, the Erika, and its owner, Joseph Haber. I'm still convinced he's transporting those timer devices which detonate the explosives. Find Haber, we have definitely found the target.'
'No news yet, I fear. I checked by phone from the Minister's house. Last seen just south of Liege. Doesn't tell us much.'
Tweed took his charts of the canal system from the brief-case he carried everywhere. He studied them for a moment. 'Just south of Liege,' he commented. 'He could have continued north up the Meuse - to where it becomes the Maas in Holland. Or he could have moved into the Albert Canal
'Which wou
ld lead him direct to Antwerp,' Benoit pointed out.
'I still say Europort,' Tweed insisted. 'And talking about Haber, we've left Paula behind in Dinant trying to locate his kidnapped wife and child. I want her to be able to get in touch with me.'
'Easy,' replied Benoit. 'Leave it to me. She's searching with that competent-looking policeman, Pierre. I'll call Dinant police HQ, leave a message for her to phone here. You leave your own message.'
'Which will say?' Newman asked. 'She's had a pretty gruelling time already.'
'So,' Tweed responded, 'we'll see what she's really made of.' He looked at Benoit. 'Where shall we be staying in Rotterdam?'
'The Hilton. It's central.' He stood up. 'I'll go and get an assistant to deal with it, book us rooms there, including one for Paula. Also, I'll warn Chief of Police Van Gorp we're on our way.'
As he left the room Tweed scribbled a note for Paula. Newman was shaking his head when he glanced up. 'All right, Bob,' he said, 'you like the girl. So do I. She'll never forgive me if she isn't in at the death.'
'Depends whose death it is,' Newman snapped.
Klein left the night train at Antwerp Central. The car he had phoned the hire people for was waiting for him outside the station. A black BMW. He showed identification in the name Peter Conway in the form of a forged driving licence. He paid the fee for the special service involved, climbed behind the wheel and drove to the Plaza Hotel.
He parked a short distance back from but with a good view of the entrance. At Brussels Midi he'd seen Lara board a coach of the same express he'd travelled on. He sat waiting, knowing she would arrive soon. Taxis had been scarce at Antwerp station in the middle of the night. But sooner or later she would arrive. Then he would have to move quickly.
'One thing I forgot to tell you,' Benoit said when he returned to his office. "That French ferret who never lets go - The Parrot - reported Lara Seagrave left the Mayfair Hotel earlier this evening. She had dinner at the Hilton. A restaurant called the Maison de Bæuf, he thinks. He nearly lost her. She was on foot and he had to park his motor-cycle. He walked into the lobby just in time to see her enter an elevator in the distance. It stopped at the first floor and came down again empty. That restaurant is on the first floor. He sat it out in the lobby until she reappeared and walked back to the Mayfair.'
'Doesn't he ever give up?' asked Tweed.
'Never. We've offered him relief, to put one of our own officers on the job. He agrees - for a few hours. Then he's back again. Highly irregular- a French detective operating here. But his sheer doggedness has impressed the hell out of us. Says that he followed her from Marseilles!'
'He did just that,' said Tweed. 'Ferret is the word. Now, I need to keep in close touch with Park Crescent.'
'All arranged. When that Monica of yours phones we'll give her your room number at the Hilton, Rotterdam. And we can take a message while we're airborne.'
'The Alouette is ready?'
'Quintin, the pilot, phoned me. He'll take off the moment we reach Brussels Airport.' Klein watched Lara get out of the cab in front of the Plaza. She took her time paying the fare and while she did this a second cab appeared in his rear view mirror and crawled to a stop about thirty yards behind him. Klein waited for someone to alight from the second cab. No one did.
He cursed inwardly as Lara disappeared inside the hotel. At the last moment she was being tracked. How the devil could that have happened? He waited several minutes and then a small man alighted from the cab and trudged along the sidewalk,
Hands in pockets, The Parrot walked past the BMW. Glancing inside he saw a man wearing a trilby hat slumped behind the wheel, head turned away, obviously fast asleep. Probably resting after an evening's hard drinking. The Parrot went inside the hotel, approached the receptionist behind the counter. He spoke in English.
'I have a message for a young lady I believe has just arrived. A Miss Smith.'
The sharp-eyed night clerk shook his head. 'No one of that name registered here.'
'I thought I saw her walk in just a few minutes ago,' The Parrot persisted.
'You must be mistaken. No one of that name here.'
The Parrot walked back to his cab. He'd hoped to extract the name Lara was using. He climbed inside the cab, settled down to wait. He must be losing his grip. He felt incredibly tired. Eyes pricking, every limb aching.
Klein, watching him in the mirror, cursed again. He took one of his quick decisions. Starting the engine, he revved it up several times as though he'd had trouble starting it. Which would explain his parking at the kerb in the middle of the night. Then he drove off.
Arriving at Boekstraat, he parked at the entrance, put on a pair of dark glasses and walked to the sleazy hotel where he'd met Lara during her earlier trip to Antwerp, the hotel where Chabot and Hipper were staying.
The same sordid woman was sitting behind her counter. He gave the names his men were using, obtained the room numbers and went up and woke them in turn. He handed Hipper an unmarked map of Delft, the ancient Dutch town a few miles north of Rotterdam. His index finger pin-pointed the location of a camp site.
'It's near Delft-Noord. Get dressed at once. Drive straight to this site. A man called Legaud will receive you. Did you deal with Haber's family at the mill?'
'They'll be dead by now.'
His next stop was at the hotel where Marler was staying under an assumed name. Unlike Hipper and Chabot, Marler was fully dressed.
'I had a hunch you'd turn up tonight,' he drawled.
'Why?' There was a whiplash in Klein's tone, his suspicion surfacing instantly.
'After hanging about forever in Bouillon you suddenly start moving me about like a chess piece. Obvious conclusion? We are about to start the operation. Where to now?'
'You leave at once. You've had bad news . . .'
'Maybe that's true . . .'
'I don't like jokes. Drive to Rotterdam. A room has been reserved at the Hilton. In the name Harvey Miller. I want you there by morning.'
'Piece of cake . . .'
Still fuming, Klein left and drove back to the district where the Plaza was located. Marler always managed to irk him. He drove round, studying the layout until he came to a one-way street - traffic to come the other way only. A straight street and deserted at that hour. He checked his map. The ideal place to shake off whoever was watching Lara.
He pulled in by a call box, got out and dialled the Plaza's number, asking for Lara by the name she'd registered under. She sounded surprisingly alert. He began talking about nothing in particular, like a boy friend calling, then his voice changed.
'Stop listening to our conversation. Get off the bloody line or I'll report you to the manager . . .'
There was a click. On the switchboard the bored night operator swore. How the hell had the caller guessed?
Klein then gave her specific instructions as to what to do. He rang off, went back to the car.
He reached the Plaza earlier than he'd expected, pulling in at the kerb a distance behind the cab which was still parked in the same place.
His eyes narrowed as he saw Lara, carrying her case, walking back up the street and going back inside the Plaza. Checking his watch, Klein saw he was five minutes early. Why was she wandering about?
Precisely five minutes later Lara reappeared, walking down the street in the opposite direction, again carrying her case. The cab started up, crawling after her. Klein tapped fingers on the wheel, waiting. She was almost out of sight when he started the car, drove forward at speed.
The Parrot saw the BMW pass his cab at high speed. It pulled in alongside Lara, who hauled open the passenger seat door, jumped inside, and the BMW sped off. 'Don't lose that car!' The Parrot called out to his driver.
'All right, all right. He's exceeding the limit . . .'
'There's a big tip to keep up,'
The cab driver increased speed. The BMW was still in sight. It braked suddenly, swung left into a side street, accelerated. Arriving at the entrance the cab driver st
opped.
'Can't follow him up there. One-way street . . .'
'Follow him! Here ..." The Parrot shoved a handful of banknotes at the driver. 'That makes it worth your while . . .'
'Nothing makes it worth my while to lose my licence. Meet a patrol car and . . .' The driver glanced down the street. 'In any case, he's gone.'
The Parrot followed his gaze. The street was empty. Yes, blast it, he'd gone.
A short while earlier at Park Crescent the call had come through to Monica. In the middle of the ruddy night. She'd hauled from a cupboard Tweed's camp bed, fixed it up with blankets and a pillow. She'd just laid her head on that pillow when the phone rang.
Switching on the table lamp she'd perched against the back of a chair, she reached for the phone. Sitting up straight she suppressed a yawn, then came awake suddenly. It was Olympus.
'Monica? Good. I'm in a rush. It isn't Antwerp. Could be Europort, Rotterdam. Could be. Got it?'
Then he - she - Monica couldn't even guess at the sex of the caller, was gone. She stood up, lifted the phone, padded over to the desk in her stockinged feet and sat down. She had to call Grand'Place, Brussels. Urgently.
Grand-Pierre stood on the bridge of the coaster with Portch and Caleb Fox. Eight of the crew were dead, bodies dumped in the engine room. He watched from the window on the port side where one of his team was operating the deck winch, swinging over the side the last load in its net down to the waiting lighter.
The other two lighters had been loaded and had left, on their way to the Dutch coast with their deadly cargo. Grand-Pierre was sweating. He'd had a busy night.
Earlier he had driven from Delft to Schiphol Airport to meet Kurt Saur, the Austrian pilot, when he landed the two Sikorsky helicopters, now safely tucked away at a remote corner of the airfield. Saur and his co-pilot, with the two-man crew of the second machine, were sleeping at a hotel near the airport.
Grand-Pierre had then driven - often exceeding the speed limit - along the magnificent highway to Rotterdam where he had boarded one of the three lighters. They had immediately put to sea. Before unloading started the huge Frenchman had descended to the coaster's hold. With the aid of a torch he had searched for a small crate marked with a minute blue cross at one corner. While Portch chatted with Fox on the bridge he had taken the small crate from the hold and made his way to the engine room.
