by Colin Forbes
Stepping over the huddle of corpses at the foot of the ladder, he had placed the crate in a certain position in the hold. Using a screwdriver and chisel, he had eased off one side of the crate. Inside it was packed with straw.
Locating the bomb, he had turned a switch which activated the radio waveband. The control box he carried concealed in a pocket of his windcheater was already adjusted to precisely the same waveband.
'Easy this time compared to the Lesbos,' he said to Portch on the bridge.
'Yes, indeed,' Portch replied in French. That was a ... messy business . . .'
Again they had transferred the explosives in the middle of the night well out in the North Sea. Earlier, in Rotterdam, Portch had laced the British crew's bottles of drink with a mild dose of sedative, enough to put them all to sleep. He had diagnosed food poisoning and they had been put to bed in a seamen's hostel.
A waiting crew of Algerians collected by Grand-Pierre took over duty on the coaster for that crossing to Blakeney. In the middle of the night the rendezvous had been made with the Lesbos. The Greek crew had packed the bombs inside the empty crates supposed to contain Portch's furniture - already packed in as few crates as possible.
Grand-Pierre had opened the stop-cocks of the Lesbos after being lowered over the side to change the name of the ship. Earlier he had shot the Greek crew, bound the bodies in heavy chains and thrown them overboard where the waters of the North Sea were deep.
The only thing which had gone wrong was the Lesbos had refused to sink, had been washed ashore on a sandbank near Brancaster, driven there by one of the sudden storms which blow up in the North Sea.
Here again Klein's meticulous attention to detail had paid off. He had instructed Grand-Pierre to lower all lifeboats into the sea and then hole them. It was later presumed the missing crew had perished in the same storm which had driven the Lesbos on to the sandbank.
'What happened to those work-shy Algerians?' Fox asked. 'The authorities accepted our story that all my crew had been taken sick - especially when it was backed up by Dr Portch.'
'What do you think?' Grand-Pierre lit a small cigar. 'They went back to Marseilles.' He paused while he puffed the cigar. 'They're all twenty fathoms down off the coast of Cassis - with concrete boots to keep them there. Can't trust the bastards.'
'And now,' Portch suggested, seeing the third lighter had completed loading, 'isn't it time we left this ship? For the last time.' Behind Fox's back he exchanged a look with Grand-Pierre.
'And where will you be ending up, Doctor, when it's all over?' enquired Fox. 'Buenos Aires? Or shouldn't I . . .'
He broke off as he felt something hard and metallic press into his left shoulder blade. Grand-Pierre pulled the trigger of the Luger. Fox was hurled against the chart table, fell forward, lay still, hands and arms sprawled over it.
'He really thought he was coming with us,' Portch said and he giggled.
'Can't afford loose ends,' replied Grand-Pierre, who had picked up the phrase from Klein. 'Let's leave. After you, Doctor. No, on second thoughts, give me a hand to carry him to the engine room.'
'Is that necessary, seeing that . . .'
'Klein's orders. Leave them all in the engine room, close to the bomb. Very tidy man, Mr Klein. You look thoughtful.'
'Seeing Fox lying there like that I was remembering the night that American, Lee Foley, killed those people at Cockley Ford who wouldn't agree to our plan - no matter how much money they stood to make. Then, of course, Klein had to deal with Mr Foley. I wonder if anyone will ever discover the secret of the seventh grave in the churchyard.'
'Let's move the body,' the Frenchman said impatiently.
They carried it between them, Grand-Pierre lifting the shoulders while Portch carried the legs. The helping hands were welcome to the Frenchman, who was feeling tired after his night's exertions. Standing on the platform above the engine room, they swung the body outwards, let go. It fell on top of the others.
'I'm glad that's over,' Portch remarked. 'Amazing how heavy a corpse can be.'
'I agree,' said Grand-Pierre. To be avoided wherever possible.'
He pulled out his Luger, rammed it into Portch's chest, fired twice. Portch grunted, doubled up, fell backwards.
Grand-Pierre waited until the lighter had sailed at least two nautical miles from the drifting coaster. It was still dark but his eyes had become accustomed to the night as he took out the control box. His thumb paused over the button. Were they far enough away? Of course they were. He was fatigued. He pressed the button.
There was a muffled boom. Nothing dramatic. Like the sound of a train approaching through a tunnel. Then the world blew up. The coaster exploded into a myriad fragments. There was an ear-splitting roar. A red flame shot into the sky like a rocket. The flame was extinguished by a giant fountain which hurtled vertically, a plume of surf rising upwards. The sea boiled where the vessel had floated. A vibration struck the lighter. For a few seconds, hanging to a deck rail, Grand-Pierre thought the lighter was capsizing as a massive wave rolled it.
Silence. The crew was awestruck. They gazed at each other, thankful to have survived. And that, Grand-Pierre reminded himself, was the smallest of the bombs and sea-mines.
41
It was when Lara was sitting alongside Klein in the BMW that she realized she'd lost interest in him. All passion spent - wasn't that the phrase? Strange how suddenly all feeling was gone, leaving a vacuum. But in the case of Klein it was good to be tree of him emotionally.
The trick now was not to let him know she thought as she gazed at the flatlands in the headlight beams. They had crossed into Holland without any problems and were now beyond Roosendaal; well on the way to Rotterdam. As though reading her mind, Klein glanced at her. his complexion drained of colour.
'In Rotterdam you stay at the Hotel Central on Kruis-kade - just down the street from the Hilton. It's as central as its name implies, and not far from police headquarters.'
That's a good idea?'
'Yes. The police never expect to find suspects under their noses. And by the way, you register as Miss Eva Winter.'
Klein smiled to himself as they crossed a reclaimed polder. Miss Winter. It rather suited the grisly role he'd allocated for her to play.
The Alouette was just crossing the frontier into Holland as Benoit returned from the pilot's cabin. Tweed sat by the window with Newman alongside and Butler in front. Tweed was restless, Newman sensed, although he sat like a graven image. He looked up as Benoit stood by Newman, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands.
'Several radio messages. Van Gorp, The Hague police chief, welcomes you to Holland. He's meeting us at the Hilton. He says if you're coming something must be up. And we've had a report of a large explosion in the North Sea between Norfolk and Europort.'
Tweed glanced at Newman. 'What kind of explosion?'
'No one seems to know. A Nimrod aircraft setting off on a patrol saw it from a distance. When it got there it could find nothing to explain it - no sign of a ship's wreckage. Which is strange. They thought at first a vessel's boilers must have blown.'
Benoit handed the messages to Tweed and went back to the pilot's cabin. Tweed read the signals, handed them to Newman.
'Don't like the sound of that,' he said. 'A normal explosion, there should have been plenty of wreckage . . .'
'Whereas a Triton Three bomb might leave nothing behind?'
'Exactly. I do wish we had news from Nield. Not like him to leave us in the dark. And still no news of that bargee, Haber. We'll just have to wait.'
Nield was nearly at the end of his tether as he drove through the deserted streets of London. Thank God he'd arrived before traffic built up. His head was pounding like a bass drum, his vision blurring. With a sigh of relief he pulled up outside Park Crescent.
George, the all-night doorman, let him in, stared at his bandaged head. 'My, been in the wars, sir?'
'Something like that.'
He hauled himself up the stairs, saw a light und
er the door to Tweed's office, pushed it open. Monica, now fully dressed, also stared at him. He sagged into Tweed's armchair, began talking quickly while she made coffee. She made him keep quiet until he'd drunk the first cup, then went on listening.
That's it,' he said eventually. 'You know where Tweed is?'
'In Brussels last night. I'll send a message via police HQ in Brussels after I've called a doctor . . .' 'Send the message first.' 'As soon as I've called the doctor,' she said firmly.
The Alouette had just landed when Benoit hurried from the pilot's cabin with more signals. He handed them to Tweed who scanned them quickly. He pursed his lips and stared outside where several cars were drawn up.
'Van Gorp sent them to meet us,' Benoit explained.
'What's happened?' asked Newman.
'I think we were right about that explosion at sea. Nield drove through the night to Park Cresent. In Blakeney last night he watched that coaster of Caleb Fox's being loaded with so-called furniture belonging to Dr Portch. Portch has left Norfolk to take up a post in, guess where - here in Holland.'
'You think something went wrong? That the coaster carried the whole Triton Three armament and blew up?'
'No. I see the hand of Klein behind that. I'm sure he offloaded all the bombs and sea-mines except one. He couldn't leave the coaster's crew behind to tell the tale. So he liquidated every man jack of them. A massacre. Fiend is the word for Klein. But it follows the same pattern. The one that started in Marseilles and Geneva. Leave no one alive who has any knowledge. Those bombs and sea-mines have been landed somewhere in Holland by some method. I'm really afraid, Bob.'
Newman stared at him. He'd never heard Tweed say anything like that before. That's it?' he enquired.
'No. Van Gorp reports they've found Joseph Haber. Don't too much like the sound of that either. Just that they've found him.'
'So, that's it.'
'Not quite. Monica has transmitted another brief message from Olympus.' He kept his voice low. 'My contact inside Klein's organization. The message is that it's not Antwerp - it's Europort. Probably.'
'Olympus never seems sure . . .'
'Which is because I'm certain Klein is working on the cell system. Maybe only two or three members of his team actually know each other. And no one except Klein will know the target until the last moment. He's a devil - his security is very professional. But then, considering his background and training, it would be. And that may be the last message I receive from Olympus. I'm very worried about my contact.'
'Why?'
'Because Klein is so clever. Olympus is now in mortal danger.'
Klein dropped Lara at the entrance to Kruiskade opposite the Hilton. She walked the short distance to the Hotel Central, an old five-storey building with a facade which had survived the wartime bombing.
Reception was expecting her, a room had been reserved, she registered and went up to her room on the second floor. As the door closed on the porter she sank on to the bed. Was this the objective at long last?
Lara felt unsure - Klein had led her such a dance. There were other potential targets further north. The German ports of Bremen and Hamburg. On the way Klein had given her the usual instructions.
Check Europort after hiring a car. Check the security. And check the potential for a safe escape route - more than one if possible.
She checked her watch. 7.30 a.m. Better get on with it. She unlocked her suitcase, opened the lid, undid the inner straps to save her clothes from being too compressed. Taking out her camera and binoculars, she went downstairs and had breakfast in the dining room.
She was dressed in her smart gaberdine suit - chosen deliberately before she left the Antwerp hotel. She felt good in it, which helped her keep up a front of still being besotted with Klein.
After breakfast she decided she needed a breath of fresh air to take the ache out of her limbs from travelling in the BMW. She turned left out of the entrance and soon entered a large spacious shopping precinct.
Rotterdam was different from what she'd expected. She'd anticipated a congested mass of concrete blocks. They existed, but the precinct was beautiful. Paved in stone, it was decorated with raised troughs containing evergreen shrubs. Pergolas projected from modern shop fronts. Hanging baskets of flowers were suspended from the overhead beams. She sat on a seat, taking in the beauty of the place. Was it Europort? she kept asking herself. After ten minutes' rest - Lara had enjoyed very little sleep - she walked to the car hire agency whose address she'd obtained from the directory in her bedroom, aided by the street plan obtained from the concierge. Near the agency was a row of phone booths.
'There is the barge, Erika, and there is the late Joseph Haber,' said Van Gorp.
Poker-faced, Tweed stepped aboard the barge, followed by Newman and Benoit. They had been driven from the airport to the Hilton. They had dumped their bags. They had driven straight to the huge docking basin of Waalhaven.
It was almost an exact replica of the horror Tweed had seen in the Dames de Meuse - where the other bargee, Broucker, had been buried up to his chest in mud. The Erika's hold still carried its load of gravel. Near the bows two shovels lay where men had carefully started removing gravel - until they unearthed what Tweed now stood staring down at.
Haber was buried up to his chest in gravel. His head flopped back, exposing the rim of dried blood which curved from ear to ear. His mouth was open, slack, and he appeared to be grinning. His skin had a deathly pallor.
'Found him in the middle of the night,' Van Gorp explained. 'Benoit called me, extended the search across the border. We checked and it was reported the barge had been seen in Waalhaven.'
'So,' Tweed said slowly, 'Klein now has the last instruments he needs to organize his catastrophe. The timer devices which will explode the bombs and the sea-mines. Have you issued a general alert? Declared an emergency?'
'No.'
Van Gorp was an impressive-looking man. Towering over Tweed, six feet one tall, in his forties, his hair was greying and he sported a trim moustache. There was a natural air of command about the man, softened by a hint of humour in the eyes. Slim in build with a longish face, he stood in a grey overcoat and a grey trilby hat.
'For God's sake why not?' Tweed rapped out. 'Klein has been here. Haber is wearing his trademark. He carried the timers aboard this barge, I'm certain.'
'I've already spoken with the Minister of the Interior at The Hague. Benoit sent me a long radio message giving me the information you've accumulated.'
'With what result?'
'He's not convinced . . .'
'The same problem I had in Brussels,' Benoit intervened. 'A lack of solid evidence.'
'There's your evidence.' Tweed nodded to Haber, then turned his head away.
'The Minister is attending a cabinet meeting this morning,' Van Gorp continued. 'He promised to bring the matter to their attention. His exact words.'
Tweed glanced at him suspiciously, detecting a touch of irony. Van Gorp stared back, his grey eyes motionless.
'The Dutch Government won't close down Europort without an overwhelming case.'
'Then Klein will close it down for them. You've taken no action at all?'
The Dutchman's eyes twinkled. 'I didn't say that, did I? I believe you. I have cancelled all police leave. I have brought in extra units from The Hague. We are combing the city - looking for any unusual activity. The trouble is you are Secret Service. The Minister made great play with that. Not your scene, man. Tracking bandits.'
'My omission,' Tweed apologized. He produced his warrant card. 'Temporary appointment. I'm a Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad.'
Van Gorp grinned. Thank you. Now I may have the Minister by the balls. Let's get back to the Hilton fast.' He called out to detectives waiting in a group near the stern. 'Do something about this horror in the gravel. And hurry it up.'
They made their way round the tall white cloth screen erected to shield the barge from public gaze. On their way back in the car Tweed thought about
Paula searching for Haber's wife and son.
The car pulled up outside the mill in the middle of the Ardennes. Paula jumped out, followed by her police escort, Pierre. She studied the old stone tower, the shuttered windows, then walked all round it.
'I think this is a very likely prison,' she told him. 'You have the spare set of keys the agent gave you?'
'Yes.' Pierre puckered his lips doubtfully. 'Strictly speaking I need a warrant from a magistrate.'
'Why? We checked the other places yesterday.'
'This one has been bought. Paid for outright.'
'Suppose they're starving inside? A woman with her child?'
'You are very persuasive. After all,' he joked, 'I can only lose my pension.'
The heavy door opened with a groaning creak. Paula followed him inside. Creepy. Pierre switched on his torch. It was Paula who mounted the old circular staircase to the door on the first floor landing. She took a deep breath as Pierre studied the labels attached to the keys, selected one, thrust it inside the keyhole and turned it.
Taking hold of the ancient handle, he paused, turned it swiftly and entered, his automatic in his hand. Paula followed. At the far circumference of the circular wall a woman with bedraggled hair stood, her arm round a boy.
'Marline Haber?' asked Paula in French.
'Yes. Thank God. Who are you?'
'Paula Grey. Pierre and I have been looking for you, searching empty houses from lists supplied by estate agents. Are you all right?'
'Yes. Perhaps because we didn't drink that.' She pointed to a thermos standing on a crude wooden table. 'It is coffee supplied by the kidnapper, but it tasted odd. So we did not drink any . . .'
