Deadlock

by Colin Forbes

  'For a short walk,' she snapped. 'I'm not staying cooped up inside any hotel hour after hour . . .'

  'Your bill was paid in advance. You're coming with me now.'

  'I'm going up to the loo first, If you don't mind . . .'

  'I do. There's a toilet where we're going.'

  'I said I was going to the loo. I'll be down in a minute.' She tugged loose from his grip, her eyes flaming. 'My case is packed. Do I bring that?'

  'Leave it . . .'

  Before he could say another word she'd dashed inside the hotel. Klein was furious. Independent little bitch. He calmed down, began striding slowly up and down past the entrance, a chauffeur waiting for his client. Twice he checked his watch. When she emerged, wearing a camel hair coat, he escorted her to the BMW, opened the rear door and waited while she slid into the rear seat.

  Marler stared as he saw her coming, the girl he'd dined with at the Maison de Bæuf in Brussels. He decided it would be wise to pretend he'd never met her. She had glanced at him as she reached the car and looked away.

  Klein closed the door, went round the back of the car, made sure the boot was locked, the boot which contained the two lengths of rope, one tied into a hangman's noose. Climbing behind the wheel he paused before starting the engine.

  'This is Martin Shand,' he told her. 'Martin, this is Lara. Just Lara . . .'

  He turned the ignition, and drove off through the night. The traffic had slackened to almost nothing as he made for the Euromast.

  Inside the garage Klein had hired Legaud, the communications expert, sat behind the wheel of the resprayed CRS truck. He checked his watch for the third time in half an hour. Beside him sat a Luxembourger clad in windcheater and denims with a small rug spread across his lap. Beneath the rug he held a Uzi machine gun. The Uzi fires at the rate of six hundred rounds per minute.

  Legaud was slim with a clever face which slanted down to a pointed, fox-like chin. He wore rimless glasses, which gave him a professorial appearance. In the main compartment behind the cab was a complex of dials and switches with metres indicating wavelengths. It was also occupied by four men dressed in the same garb as the guard beside Legaud. They were equipped with machine guns and Browning pistols.

  Again Legaud checked his watch. He nodded to the guard who descended from the cab, pressed the button on the wail which operated the automatic door. The moment it elevated Legaud backed carefully into the quiet darkened street, turned and headed for his objective. Euromast.

  'How long does Euromast stay open?' Butler asked as Van Gorp drove close to the river front.

  'Until ten at night. People go there for dinner in the restaurant - and to see the view at night. Why?'

  'I just wondered,' Butler replied and lapsed into his normal silence.

  Tweed had been sitting gazing out of the window, not seeing the river, his mind squirrelling away. It was a mood Butler was used to and Paula, glancing back once, was careful not to say anything.

  'Stop the car!' Tweed said suddenly. 'I've been a complete idiot.'

  'What's the matter?' asked Van Gorp, parking by the kerb.

  'If you wanted to send a top security message could you do it over your radio - or would it be more secure from police HQ?'

  'From police HQ. Amateur radio hacks often tune in to police wavebands. Why?'

  'It was staring me in the eyes when I was inside the Space Tower. I failed to grasp its significance.' He didn't mention that it had been his feeling of disorientation which had clogged his brain. 'Paula was right when she queried whether it was really the Maas . . .'

  'Still don't follow you,' the Dutchman commented.

  Those thirty sea-mines. Sea-mines! What are they used for in wartime?'

  'To sink ships . . .'

  'Exactly. And from the Space Tower I saw God knows how many of them approaching Europort. There was even a large liner.'

  'The Adenauer. Stopping to take on board more passengers before it sails for its cruise in the Mediterranean. It also has the US Secretary of State aboard - with his wife.'

  'Lord help us. Don't you see? Those ships are the objective, the main one anyway. Klein is going to use those sea-mines to hold them to ransom. That's how he will get his two hundred million pounds in gold bullion. I've puzzled over that a lot - what could be worth such a king's ransom? All those ships must be warned. They're in great danger.'

  'Police headquarters,' said Van Gorp and drew away from the kerb, accelerating.

  Hipper, driving the Fiat he had transferred to after leaving one of the four-wheel drive trucks at an isolated spot, pulled in by the entrance to Rotterdam Airport. He now wore a plain grey business suit and carried a brief-case.

  Inside the reception hall he walked across to a small bullet-headed man with black hair plastered close to his skull. The description fitted and the man dressed in pilot's clothing was standing by the bookstall, looking at a paperback.

  'Excuse me, sir,' Hipper said in German, "out would you by any chance be Victor Saur?'

  'I would. Who are you?'

  Cold brown eyes like glass marbles stared back at the Luxembourger. A cigarette dangled from the Austrian's thin lips.

  'Hipper. You have transport to Brussels for me?'

  'Benny will fly you there. That bloke in flying kit over at the drinks counter with an orange juice.'

  'Thank you most kindly, sir.'

  Creep, thought Saur as he watched Hipper waddle towards Benny, a heavily-built man several inches taller than Saur. There was a brief conversation and the two men went off together as Saur walked outside where he could see the night sky. A few minutes later a Sikorsky helicopter rose above the building, described a half circle and flew off south for Brussels Airport. Saur checked his watch. Dead on time.

  A lot of people were going to be dead on time.

  On top of the high-rise building overlooking the barracks of the Dutch marines Prussen also checked his watch. Through his night-glasses he saw the laundry van pass through the gates after showing his pass. The van proceeded across the parade ground towards the side entrance where it would park.

  Prussen took the control box from his pocket and held it in one hand while the other pressed the glasses to his eyes. The van seemed to crawl. Prussen felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He licked his lips once.

  Then he remembered his dark glasses. He nearly panicked. He forced himself to remain calm. Placing the binoculars and the box on the wall-top, he took out the glasses and put them on. He raised the binoculars again. The laundry van was just pulling up outside the entrance.

  Prussen took hold of the control box, his thumb half an inch above the button. He took a deep breath as he saw a marine emerge to collect the laundry. Now was the moment. His thumb jammed down hard. He braced himself.

  There was a brilliant flash of light. Night briefly became day. A thunderous roar almost deafened him. A cloud of vapour obscured the whole barracks area. As it drifted away he saw the building had vanished, leaving behind a scatter of rubble across the parade ground. The van had disappeared and there was a great hole as though a meteorite had landed.

  As he made his way towards the staircase, towards the motorcycle waiting in the street, Prussen was trembling.

  46

  Closeted with Newman only in a room at police headquarters, Tweed used the scrambler phone to call Park Crescent. Monica relayed the message she had received, repeating it.

  'How is it going?' she asked.

  'Not perfect yet. We still haven't located Klein. I have the feeling we shall soon.'

  'One more thing. Cord Dillon arrived from Washington. Since you weren't here he talked with Howard. Don't think he liked his reception. He's flying to Rotterdam to see you. Howard told him you were there. I'm sorry.'

  'Not to worry, I'll cope. 'Bye for now.'

  Tweed repeated to Newman the gist of the message that it was Rotterdam. No doubt this time. 'And that,' he said grimly, 'I think is the last message from Olympus before the balloon goes up
. I'm very worried about Olympus.'

  'Who by some chance is inside Klein's organization. Hence these reports?'

  'In a nutshell. If Klein ever suspects Olympus that will be the end of my agent. Still, there's not a thing I can do about that. Oh, and Cord Dillon, Deputy Director CIA is on his way over here. I think he's heard those rumours there is an American mixed up in this business. We'll just have to see when he gets here.'

  'A rugged type,' Newman commented.

  'You could say that . . .'

  Van Gorp came into the room and did not look happy. With a sigh he straddled a chair and waved his hands in a gesture of frustration.

  'I've been in touch with Marine Control, issued the warning. They refuse to pass it on to the various ships' masters - unless the warning is confirmed by the Minister who is attending a late night Cabinet meeting. The Minister, I'm sure, will refuse.'

  'On what grounds?' demanded Tweed.

  'The usual ones. Lack of positive evidence. The man I spoke to at Marine Control said he had little doubt the whole thing was a hoax. Couldn't convince him.'

  'Jesus,' said Newman.

  'Yes,' Van Gorp agreed, 'we may need His help before long.'

  He looked up, called come in as someone rapped on the door. A uniformed policewoman entered, holding a sheaf of papers. Tweed noticed the papers were quivering.

  'You're needed very urgently, sir.'

  'Excuse me. Back in a minute.'

  'Now what,' Tweed mused as they waited. 'That girl's hands were trembling.'

  'Maybe Van Gorp is a harder taskmaster than we realized,' Newman joked. Anything to lighten the atmosphere of tension he sensed was building up. He lit a cigarette. He had taken only a few short puffs when Van Gorp reappeared, his face ashen. He closed the door carefully.

  'What's wrong?' Tweed asked.

  'Something terrible, really appalling. You remember that I had the marines confined to barracks - with the Minister's approval?'

  'Yes.' Tweed stood up. 'What has happened?'

  'A tremendous explosion - unprecedented power - just took place at the barracks. God knows how many marines are dead. Others badly injured. The entire unit has been wiped out. It must have been several very big bombs . . .'

  'No, just one,' Tweed told him. 'And this is Klein's first opening strike. Clever-fiendishly. He has eliminated what he thinks is the one assault group which could cause him trouble. I'm terribly sorry to hear your news. It's a tragedy. But I must also point out it gives us the measure of what we are up against . . .'

  The uniformed policewoman appeared. 'The Hague is calling you,' she told Van Gorp.

  Before he left he asked Tweed a question.

  'I'm still stunned. What was that you meant by the one assault group, etc.?'

  'Klein doesn't know there's an SAS unit waiting at Rotterdam Airport . . .'

  'I'll remember that when I deal with this phone call.'

  He was away longer this time. Tweed unfolded a map of Rotterdam extending to Europort and the coast and studied it. Newman stood alongside him as Tweed drew a circle with a felt tip pen round Euromast.

  'We should be sending men there now,' he was saying when Van Gorp came back.

  The Dutchman had recovered his normal poise, stood erect and pulled at his moustache before he spoke. His manner was crisp, commanding.

  'Guess what? The Minister has reinstated me. I asked for it to be put in writing.' He grinned cynically and then became businesslike. 'The warning to all shipping lying offshore is being transmitted at this moment - with the full backing of The Hague.'

  'It may be too late,' Tweed warned.

  'We'll take it as it comes. More important. The Dutch PM is calling your PM, asking for permission to use the S AS force if necessary. I suspect the Minister of the Interior is taking full credit for that general alert I sent out earlier - even in an emergency like this politicians never lose a chance to gain kudos.'

  'In that case,' said Tweed, 'I'd like a private word with my colleague, Blade. I can send him out to the airport to alert the SAS team.'

  'Do it. He's waiting downstairs with the others.'

  Tweed was talking to Blade in a small room on their own when Van Gorp appeared. During their few minutes alone Tweed had told Blade about the destruction of the Dutch marine unit.

  'Ruthless type of bastard, this Klein,' Blade had commented. 'Still, with us it's always no holds barred. I'll drive at once to the airport, get the lads to kit up inside the charter aircraft. We'Sl need three plain vans backed up to the machine. That way we can leave unseen the moment you tell me where to head for . . .'

  Van Gorp was terse. 'Permission granted to use the SAS unit. Your PM laid down one condition - which was accepted. The unit takes its orders from you, Tweed.'

  'I'll pass on the message to the troop commander,' Blade said and left.

  'It's carnage out at the marine barracks," Van Gorp told Tweed. 'Pure carnage. Reports keep coming in, every one worse than the last.'

  'In that case we'd better get to Euromast fast. With plenty of armed men. I want Newman and Butler with me. Benoit will come, too, I'm sure . . .'

  Alighting from the Sikorsky at Brussels Airport, Hipper told the pilot to wait, found the hired car he'd phoned ahead for, and drove straight to Peter Brand's headquarters in the house of Avenue Franklin Roosevelt.

  When the front door was opened after he'd used the speakphone, Brand's secretary, Nicole, a Belgian brunette, found herself looking at a small plump man wearing a trilby pulled down over his forehead which did not quite conceal shocks of red hair. He also wore a handkerchief tied below his eyes and dark glasses. His right hand held a Luger pistol.

  'Oh, my God! I thought you were Mr Hipper . . .'

  'That's because I'm a good mimic.' His voice was gravelly.

  As he replied Hipper shoved the Luger muzzle into her midriff, backed her into the palatial marble-floored hall, slammed the door shut with his right foot.

  'Who else is in the house?' Hipper demanded. 'Fool with me and I'll blow a hole right through you.'

  'No . . . one. The servants have been given the day off . . .'

  'Except Peter Brand. Take me to him.'

  He followed her up the broad winding staircase and along a landing to a heavy mahogany door. She rapped on it automatically with a shaking hand. A voice called out, 'Enter.'

  She opened the door and was propelled inside by the muzzle of the Luger. Peter Brand was sitting behind a vast desk whose surface was empty except for three telephones in varying colours.

  'This gentleman . . .' She felt silly as soon as she had spoken.'. . . forced his way in and asked for you. I thought it was Mr Hipper.'

  Brand jack-knifed upright out of his chair.

  'What the bloody hell is going on . . .'

  His right hand reached for an alarm button concealed under the desk. Hipper placed the muzzle against the side of the girl's skull.

  'One mistake and she's dead. That's better.' He reached inside his trench coat pocket and produced a length of strong twine, threw it on the desk. 'Tie her hands behind her back. She lies on the carpet on her stomach while you do it. Then lash her ankles. Try anything funny and she goes first.'

  'I'm sorry about this, Nicole,' Brand said as he came round the desk, 'but we'd better do what he says.'

  'What about you?' Nicole bleated.

  'Don't worry. It will work out in the end. It's a kidnapping, a ransom demand will follow, I expect . . .'

  Brand knelt by the prone girl holding the two strands of twine. He bound her wrists, then her ankles as Hipper stood well back, the Luger aimed at Nicole. On his knees, he looked up at Hipper.

  'What happens next?'

  'Open that wall cupboard over there.'

  'It's my private bathroom . . .'

  'Open the bloody thing. That's better. Now carry her inside and dump her on the floor. Get on with it. We're leaving in a minute.'

  Brand hoisted up the girl, carried her inside the luxurious bathr
oom, placed her gently on the floor, resting her head on a bathmat he rolled into a makeshift pillow.

  'Hurry it up,' snarled Hipper. 'Now shut the door.'

  Brand closed the heavy door, walked to the far side of his spacious office as Hipper lowered the gun and pulled the handkerchief down over his neck. He joined the banker.

  'Can she hear us?' he whispered.

  'No chance. That door is inches thick. I tied her loosely so she'll free herself within the hour. Now she's a witness to the fact I've been kidnapped. How is everything at Rotterdam?'

  'Marine barracks blown up on schedule. It's the talk of the city from something I overhead at Rotterdam Airport. All the marines wiped out . . .'

  Brand was startled. 'I didn't bargain for anything like that. Klein said the minimum of force would be used. I don't like this . . .'

  'But then there's nothing you can do about it now. The machine is in motion, can't be stopped. Hadn't we better get moving? How did you get rid of all the servants?'

  'Gave them the night off . . .' Brand sounded nervous as he slipped on his coat. 'Told them I was holding a confidential conference of bankers.'

  'And were you doing that?'

  'Of course. To cover myself. Don't worry. They won't start arriving for another hour. We hold these nighttime meetings to avoid publicity. I'm ready. You have a car?'

  'Of course.'

  Before he alighted from the car at Brussels Airport Hipper, still wearing his outsize dark glasses, pulled up the collar of his trench coat to hide the lower part of his face.

  He walked very close to Brand as they walked across the reception hall on their way to the helicopter. He had a nasty shock when one of a pair of policemen patrolling called out to the banker.

  'Good evening, sir. Off on your travels again?'

  Brand, who rarely smoked, took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it slowly as Hipper stood shoulder to shoulder with him. The cigarette incident would be remembered later, would indicate he'd been in a nervous state. Nicole would confirm he had given it up, that he only smoked at times of high tension.