by Colin Forbes
'How would you go about it then?'
'You've explained the interior. Divide the troop into a couple of sections. One storms the entrance, clears the ground floor. Two heads straight for the elevator, makes for the platform level, cleans out platform and restaurant. Any idea how big that elevator is?'
'Eight feet wide, six feet deep. I paced it out when we were going up, when I walked out of it.'
'Six men, I suggest. Three pressed against one wall of the elevator, three against the other. Stun grenades at the ready, of course.'
'Just like that?' Blade snapped.
'Main problem as you told it is this Klein and his little toy, the control box with the red button.'
'You're right,' Tweed whispered. 'No assault can be attempted so long as he's holding that gadget. We have to hope for a lucky break.'
'One more idea,' Eddie said, his eye pressed to the telescope which he'd raised to its original position aimed at the lighted windows of the restaurant. 'We place a man with the bazooka on this roof, a man linked with a walkie-talkie to one of the team inside the elevator. How fast does it go up?'
'Seconds,' said Tweed.
'Fair enough. Chap in the elevator gives the word the moment he presses the button for the elevator to go up. Our man up here instantly fires a bazooka shot inside the restaurant - that distracts the attention of any Klein men in the lobby at restaurant level. Only for seconds as the elevator shoots up. Seconds are all we need. Stun grenades, of course, to paralyse any men in the lobby. That's just first thoughts. And an important query. Any hostages?'
'They have a girl with them, Lara Seagrave,' Tweed said.
'With them?' rapped out Blade. 'What does that mean? One of them?'
'I don't think she knew any of this was going to happen. She is the step-daughter of Lady Windermere, the queen of bitches. I met Lady W in London. She drove her step-daughter out of the family home. So Lara goes out to prove she can make it on her own, looking for adventure. I think she's a pawn in Klein's deadly game.'
'Which is it?' Blade demanded. 'We treat her as a hostage?'
'Yes.'
'But if you're wrong,' Eddie whispered, 'if she has a gun in her hand, we shoot. It's the only way we operate. And would you excuse me a second? I want to check with the lads - see if they've any questions. Be back shortly . . .'
'Blade, I have one special instruction to give you for when you go in. You pass it on to everyone in the troop just before the assault . . .'
He whispered for less than a minute and in that time Eddie was back, crouching beside Blade.
'It's OK,' he reported. 'Everyone is happy.'
Happy? Tweed thought only Newman, who had trained with this troop, would understand the use of that word in these circumstances. He led the way back across the roof and down the staircase.
50
Tweed sensed the tension inside the windowless room as soon as the last SAS man closed the anteroom door behind him. The waiting was getting to them. Van Gorp sat very stiffly. Jansen was doodling meaningless shapes on his notepad and he threw down the pen as Tweed entered. Paula gave him a watery smile.
'The fishing boats - Utrecht and Drenthe - have been found,' Van Gorp announced. 'Their crews were tied up. They confirm what Klein told you. Scuba divers went overboard from them carrying the mines inside nets. So now we know definitely.'
'I never doubted it for a moment. Thank you,' he said when Paula poured him a fresh cup of coffee, shoved a plate of ham sandwiches in front of him.
'Eat,' she commanded.
'And,' Van Gorp went on, 'the news is leaking to the outside world. Reuters have sent out a report there is some sort of emergency at Europort. It was inevitable, of course. Some of those people thrown out of the Euromast restaurant have been released. We kept them for questioning as long as we could but there was a limit. They were told not to talk - that lives were at stake. But still some have obviously not resisted the temptation to open their mouths.'
'What about Commander Bellenger?'
'Arrived while you were on the roof. He's now in the anteroom, using the scrambler to have a bomb disposal squad sent here at once.' He tapped his pencil irritably on the table. 'And I have tried to counter the Reuter report by spreading a rumour we've spotted an old sea-mine from World War Two floating near the entrance to the Maas. Might work. For a short while.'
'Clever,' Tweed commented. 'Very clever, that . . .'
He waited as the phone rang and the Dutchman took another call. 'Klein,' he said, putting down the phone. 'He wants to talk to you again.'
'It's only two o'clock. He's an hour early.' Tweed shrugged as he stood up. 'Of course it's deliberate - to keep us off balance.'
'You can tell him the German Chancellor is holding a cabinet meeting at this moment. And the cabinet at The Hague is in all night session.'
'I'll keep that up my sleeve. He's up to something. Let me find out what first.'
'You've hardly eaten anything,' Paula protested. 'Let the bastard wait. Van Gorp can tell him you're on the phone to London.'
'Daren't risk it. Klein isn't normal.' Tweed paused. 'Has anyone noticed the absence of something vital?'
Three blank faces stared back at him . Van Gorp shook his head. 'Nothing I can think of.'
The bombs. He has twenty-four powerful bombs at his disposal. We've heard from him about the sea-mines. Why nothing about those bombs? I'd better go and perform my act.'
Tweed stood at the foot of the tower, microphone in one hand, the other thrust inside his coat pocket. Above him at platform level Klein looked down. Marler strolled out, wrapping a large red silk scarf round his neck.
'Bit nippy out here. Mind you don't catch cold,' he warned Klein amiably.
'Cover Tweed, for God's sake. That's what you're here for.'
'Anything you say.'
Staring up, Tweed saw the tiny figure beside Klein raise his .rifle. In the shadows of the building behind him two Dutch marksmen had taken Newman's place.
'Is the bullion on its way to Frankfurt Airport?' Klein called out through the amplifier on top of Legaud's vehicle. 'If not, I can provide you with a further demonstration.'
The British, German and Dutch governments are considering your demands. And you are one hour early. Our appointment was for three o'clock.'
'I'm advancing the schedule . . .'
'Say what you like, you know such a decision can't be taken in five minutes.'
'Considering are they?' Klein's voice was icy. 'I believe that was the word you used. They need something to encourage them to decide now. I'm holding the control box, Tweed.'
'I assumed you would be . . .'
'I'm going to press button number eight . . .'
Fifteen odd miles away down the Maas a detective called Beets, wearing a dark suit and holding an automatic, was treading very cautiously inside Shell-Mex Number Two. His companion was close behind him. Sent in by Van Gorp - with orders that they must not be seen - they made their way in the dark silence close to the river.
Above them a grid of pipes stretched away; close to them to their left loomed the shadow of a futuristic-looking cat-cracker. In the near distance Beets could see oil storage tanks which had reminded Tweed of giant white cakes. The only sound was the lapping of water against the wharves on the Maas.
Probably Beets' first warning of danger was the hammer blow of the shock wave, but this would have coincided with the deep rumble of the explosion.
Within seconds the complex was a sea of flame and fire as it engulfed everything. An incandescent sheet must have swallowed up Beet and his companion -later their charred and cindered corpses were found, impossible to distinguish one man from another. A deafening boom thundered upriver as the complex became an inferno of high temperature, a red beacon in the night.
Tweed heard the distant boom. He froze. Resisting the impulse to turn round he continued staring up at the platform. Klein was leaning forward, left hand on the rail, right hand out of sight.
'And that was the first oil complex to go up. Would you say that might encourage your so-called governments to consider a little faster. Do look downriver. A spectacular sight. The sun is coming up early today - but from the west.'
Tweed turned round slowly. In the distance the sky was illuminated with a fiery red glow. They would see that aboard the ships offshore was his first thought. He turned back to the tower.
'Which one, if I might enquire?'
'Shell-Mex Two. Totally destroyed. Go away, Tweed!
Come back at three o'clock. With news that the bullion has been loaded.'
A new arrival greeted Tweed when he entered the HO room. Commander Bellenger was standing, wearing a duffel coat. Van Gorp and Jansen, seated at the table, looked grim and Paula watched Tweed intently. Bellenger, bluff and calm, was the first to speak.
'Happened to be taking a shufti on the roof when that little lot went up. Heard every word our Mr Klein said. I'd guess he had two of the larger bombs planted inside the oil complex. Judging from the volume of sound, the intensity of the fire glare. He's prodding us, I take it.'
'Something like that.'
Tweed sank into his chair, drank some coffee, ate a ham sandwich. He was surprised to find he was ravenous. Bellenger joined them at the table as he went on reporting.
'The bomb disposal team is on its way. Flying in. A Captain Nicholls is in charge. Says he met you, Tweed. In Norfolk.'
Tweed glanced at Paula. 'Remember him? His squad defused the bomb on your doorstep.' He looked at Bellenger. 'He has experience of underwater work?'
'Bit of an all-rounder, our Nicholls. Answer is yes. He's an expert scuba diver, has defused mines before. Only chap I know who works on land and sea. Bringing in a mixed team - some of his lot, some of my naval chaps. Bit of a sticky situation we've got ourselves into, I gather.'
Two of my men were probably inside the Shell complex when it was wiped out,' Van Gorp said sombrely. 'And an observer on the opposite bank has confirmed to me the place is a ruin.'
'Sorry to hear that,' Bellenger said. 'Casualties of war.' He turned to Tweed. 'Is there nothing more we can do?'
He looked up as Blade appeared in the doorway to the anteroom. The SAS commander wants one of his men stationed on that roof. Is that all right?'
'Of course,' agreed Van Gorp. Tweed had best accompany him. Otherwise his appearance will scare the wits out of my men.'
Tweed went ahead of the masked SAS man who appeared, recognized that this was Blade's deputy, Eddie. He came back after a few minutes and took his seat at the table, then he explained to Bellenger.
'I know who Klein really is. He has a background of highly professional military training. He's a master planner, probably one of the most brilliant in Europe. He foresees every contingency . . .'
'A ruddy genius,' Bellenger growled.
'Look at the way he's planned this vast operation,' Tweed persisted. 'He made sure the bullion was easily available. He's got a transport plane standing by at Frankfurt large enough to shift that bullion. He has several thousand lives at his mercy as a bargaining counter for the gold. He's chosen the most strategic target in Europe and laced it with bombs, I'm sure - Europort.'
'And he won't allow us to move the bodies of my two men thrown down from the platform,' Van Gorp commented. 'I requested permission while you were on the phone. Answer? No.'
'Hideous,' Tweed agreed. 'But that's a deliberate display of his total ruthlessness . . .'
'One thing which puzzles me is his escape route,' Paula said. 'How does he hope to get away? He can't even use that beastly box as a threat once he's out of range. And we can't be sure of what the range is.'
'Twenty-five to thirty miles,' Bellenger informed her. 'In London we studied blueprints supplied by Tweed . . .'
'The ones they found in the Swiss research director's safe which Beck gave me in Geneva,' Tweed explained.
'. . . and those blueprints were detailed drawings of the radio mechanism,' Bellenger continued. 'We were able to work out the range.'
'Which gives him control from Euromast of all those vessels he's mined,' Van Gorp confirmed.
'His escape route,' Tweed commented, 'which Paula raised. I was coming to that. I doubt it will be a number of cars - as Paula pointed out, once he's beyond the range of detonating those sea-mines we'd have him. I also doubt it's the river - for the same reasons. I've been thinking of the air . . .'
'So have I,' said Van Gorp. 'I've had my men check Rotterdam Airport. There's a Sikorsky waiting there, a big job. Pilot is an Austrian, a Victor Saur. Says he's waiting to collect a number of oil executives - on instructions from a Royal-Dutch senior director called Bouwman. I happen to know him. I've put in a call to his home address to check . . .' The phone began ringing. '. . . and this could be him.' He picked up the receiver.
'Chief of police, Van Gorp, here. Sorry to call at this hour. We met once at a reception. I have an important question to ask you . . .'
Inside his apartment, Bouwman, a stockily built man of forty with a fuzz of thick dark hair, was still fully dressed. His wife sat stiffly in an armchair while the masked man held a Luger to the side of her skull.
'This could be the police checking those Sikorksys,' he warned. 'You know what to say. Get it right first time. Make any attempt to warn them and your wife loses her head.'
The phone went on ringing. Bouwman took a deep breath, lifted the receiver, announced his identity. He listened for a moment while the masked man used his left hand to listen in on the extension phone by the armchair.
'Yes, I remember you, Van Gorp. For God's sake why have you disturbed my sleep. My wife's too, for that matter . . .'
He listened, his eyes glued to the gunman's. 'Yes, that is correct,' he replied. Those two choppers are waiting to pick up a certain delegation for a conference. I will tell you the conference is very secret so please don't broadcast the fact. Some of the individuals involved don't want any publicity. And one machine may have to fly off to pick up some important papers needed urgently. Is that all? Maybe on another occasion you'd call at a more civilized hour.'
Bouwman put down the receiver. The gunman carefully replaced the extension at the same moment. The oil executive used his display handkerchief to wipe his moist forehead.
'For God's sake remove that pistol from my wife's head. The job's done now.'
Van Gorp put down his own phone. 'False alarm. Bouwman confirmed the machines are being held at his disposal. He also bit my ear off for waking him. Normal reaction.'
'Then how will Klein escape?' Paula demanded. 'He'll have a plan. You can bet your life on that.'
The trouble is we are betting so many lives on this business. Now who is it?' Van Gorp growled.
He picked up the phone again as it began ringing, listened and said yes, he'd pass the message on.
'Tweed. London wants you to call back. Some woman called Monica. She says you have the number.'
'I'll use the scrambler.'
Tweed went into the anteroom, closed the door, sat down and dialled. Monica came on the line immediately. The PM had asked her to inform him that the German Chancellor was on the verge of issuing the order to release the bullion. There had been an emergency meeting of the EEC Commissioners in Brussels. And could he call Moscow at the special number? Tweed said he understood, broke the connection and ran to the door which he opened, speaking briefly.
'Bonn is about to release the bullion. Van Gorp, could you get on to Bonn. Tell them to take as long as possible over loading the trucks. Warn them they may be watched. Pretend one of the truck doors is jammed, won't lock. Anything for a short delay. I've another call to make. And could you find me a green Verey pistol? Must be green. The Coastguard or someone must have one.'
'The police launches are two hundred yards from here,' Van Gorp replied. 'The ones at the end of Parkhaven basin. They will have one. We'll sneak one out for you.'
'And what on earth does he want a green Verey pistol for?' asked Bellenger.
> 'It's going to be all action soon,' Paula told him. 'I have heard about this change in Tweed from Butler. A long period of waiting, then he moves.'
'He has moved,' said Jansen with a rare flash of humour. 'He has gone back into the anteroom.'
Seated again at the table, Tweed dialled the special Moscow number Lysenko had given him during their clandestine meeting outside Zürich. A girl operator came on the line, he spoke to her in Russian and within seconds a familiar voice began talking.
'Where are you calling me from, Tweed?' demanded Lysenko.
'Somewhere in Europe. By scrambler. What is it?'
'We are getting reports of a big crisis building up in Rotterdam, Holland. I am also getting reports that American mavericks are involved - men with CIA training.'
'You mean you are spreading those reports. If you don't at once stifle those reports I'll reveal the whole story of Igor Zarov . . .'
'But we have an agreement . . .'
'Made invalid by any underhand manoeuvre on your part. I'm supposed to protect you. I also intend to protect the Americans. Are you going to keep quiet?'
'Providing you abide by our agreement . . .'
'Which I agreed to do. Stop talking nonsense. Why did you really call me?'
'Have you tracked down our traitor? Have you any clue as to where he might be? What steps are you taking now?'
Tweed sighed aloud. 'Now listen to me, Lysenko. I work in my own way. You should know that by now. I certainly have no intention of reporting every move I make. Leave the whole problem in my hands. And call off your propaganda lackeys or you will regret it. Anything else?'
'Not at the moment. Goodbye . . .'
The connection was broken. Paula came in after tapping on the door and hearing his assent to come in. She carried a tray with a plate of sandwiches and coffee.
'Close the door,' he said when she had put the tray on the table. 'This is the first chance we've had to be alone -to talk privately. And do sit down.'
