Deadlock

by Colin Forbes

  'Problems? Or shouldn't I ask?' she enquired, seating herself opposite him as he tackled the food.

  'The Americans have a saying. Between a rock and a hard place. That is my position at the moment. The Russians are the hard place, the Americans the rock. I have Cord Dillon, Deputy Director of the CIA descending on me any minute. I have Moscow wanting to know what is going on. I have to act to keep both happy - or at least quiet. The American alarm I can understand. I think at the very top in Moscow they understand the position - but the man who communicates with me is a pain. What is the atmosphere out there?' He nodded beyond the door to the HQ room.

  'Pretty bloody. It's this waiting for Klein, waiting for a decision about moving the bullion - waiting, waiting - that is telling on their nerves.'

  'It's corning up to three o'clock. I feel it will soon be over. Probably in one great thunderclap of action.'

  'That sounds ominous. You're worried about someone inside Euromast, aren't you?' Paula suggested.

  'I'm worried about all those people aboard the ships waiting offshore. Which reminds me,' Tweed said, standing up, 'I wonder how they've dealt with that problem.'

  Van Gorp was on the phone again as Tweed went into the other room and took the same place at the table. The discussion continued for some time in Dutch and then Van Gorp put down the phone.

  'That was the Dutch EEC Commissioner speaking from Brussels. They, also, have called an all night session. The Commissioners make the point that two hundred million pounds in gold is chicken feed compared with the vast sums which will be lost if Europort is wrecked. They're inclined to give in.'

  'What have you done about informing the masters of all those ships which have been mined?' Tweed asked.

  The only thing we could do. We sent each of them a signal telling them what had happened, leaving it to their discretion as to how much they told their passengers and crew. We also - through Marine Control - ordered them to stay where they are, to make no attempt under any circumstances to disembark passengers.' Van Gorp smiled bitterly. 'I have seen a copy of those signals from Marine Control. They all end up by saying the situation is under control. Like hell it is. Under the control of Klein they mean.'

  'May I ask,' interjected Jansen, 'why you flew Newman and Butler to Findel?'

  'Because they may well have a vital part to play at the climax,' Tweed replied and left it at that.

  51

  The executive jet carrying Newman, Butler and Benoit landed at the deserted airport of Findel. A car drove out to meet them as they descended the small step-ladder the pilot had unfolded.

  'This will be the police,' Benoit said. 'If you don't mind I will handle them. We will talk in French so you will know what is going on.'

  'Be my guest,' said Newman, hoisting the rifle scabbard over his shoulder with a strap.

  Benoit carried on a terse conversation with the Luxembourger inspector of police who alighted from the car to greet him. Yes, Peter Brand had landed earlier from a Sikorsky with a small plump man Brand introduced as his bodyguard. Yes, he had then left the airport in a chauffeur-driven limousine waiting for him. Now there was a crisis in the Avenue de la Liberté . . .

  'What about the Sikorsky pilot and his machine?' Benoit asked.

  'We only heard from him after the limousine had driven off and reached the Banque Sambre,' the inspector explained. 'The pilot had been forced to take off from Rotterdam by Brand's so-called bodyguard - who was actually his kidnapper. The pilot had been warned to wait twenty minutes before he said a word. If a police car intercepted the limousine Brand would be shot instantly.'

  'Of course!' Newman commented ironically.

  'Do go on,' Benoit urged the inspector. 'What happened to the pilot?'

  'He said he must return immediately to Rotterdam where some VIP passengers would arrive at any time to be flown to some secret destination. Something to do with Royal-Dutch Shell.'

  'And this crisis at the Banque Sambre?'

  'You had better come and see for yourself. We have a police car which will take you there now.'

  'It's a bloody muddle,' Butler commented when Newman translated what had been said as they followed Benoit and the inspector to the airport building.

  'Agreed,' Newman whispered back. 'And Tweed would call it a smokescreen. Let's see what's happening first.'

  The Avenue de la Liberté, normally deserted at this hour, was a hive of activity. The whole street was cordoned off with barriers and police cars. All side streets leading into it had been closed off. Police carrying arms patrolled somewhat aimlessly.

  'That building is the Banque Sambre,' the inspector explained, pointing to the closed doors of an edifice with lights on in the first floor. That is Brand's office - up there with the lights on.'

  'What exactly is going on?' Newman demanded.

  'We have a state of siege . . .'

  'Why?'

  The kidnapper phoned police headquarters, said Brand was being held at gunpoint. The gunman warned no attempt should be made to storm the building or Brand would be shot. He also said he is being held to check a gold shipment due to arrive at Findel. I have no idea what he means.'

  'We have,' said Newman. 'It's all linked to what is happening in Rotterdam. Is there any way we can get inside that building over the rooftops. Myself and Butler, I mean.'

  'It is impossible!' The inspector was appalled and his normal air of stolidity vanished. 'Peter Brand's life is at stake. Don't you understand what I have said? He is a most important person.'

  The cat's whiskers,' said Newman.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Nothing. Have any other conditions been laid down -apart from not storming the building?' Newman enquired.

  'Yes, there must be no attempt to interfere with his telephone communications with the outside world. No attempt to tap his lines. Rotterdam has requested us to abide by these conditions. Some man called Tweed . . .'

  'We know about Tweed,' Newman told him. 'I think we'll stay here awhile,' he said to Benoit. 'Meantime,' he went on in French, 'I'd like a very fast car made available for my use.'

  'Brand has a Lamborghini in a garage nearby,' the inspector said. 'But I don't think he'd like it being used.'

  'He's a prisoner,' Newman pointed out. 'What he likes or doesn't like is irrelevant. What happened to the chauffeur-driven limousine which brought him from the airport?'

  'Parked in a side street close to the Banque. The chauffeur has been told to stay with trie car by Brand.'

  'Then get me the Lamborghini now, please. Park it nearby in the street leading across the Viaduct to the airport. With the keys in the ignition and a police guard watching it.'

  'May I ask what you foresee?' Benoit enquired.

  'Sooner or later Brand is going back to Findel to check the gold shipment corning in. You said so yourself. When that happens I want to reach Findel first. Butler and myself.'

  'I know what I'd really like,' said Butler. He looked at a police outrider sitting with his legs straddling a Honda. 'That motor-bike.' He turned to Newman. 'With you inside the Lamborghini and me on the motor-bike it will give us more flexibility for action. And a crash helmet that fits my big head.'

  'Good thinking,' Newman decided.

  Within a few minutes Butler had his Honda. He tried on several helmets the inspector obtained from other outriders, found one that fitted, left it on his head with the ear flaps dangling.

  'You have a plan?' asked Benoit. 'You know what is coming?'

  'Just pray that I'm right.'

  Aboard the Adenauer passengers were dining late, making their meal last. Anything rather than go to bed and not sleep. The liner's master, Captain Brunner, after receiving the signal from Marine Control had taken a strong decision. He would inform everyone of the exact position.

  Waldo Schulzberger, US Secretary of State, was the first to be told as he sat in his stateroom with his wife and Cal Dexter, the lanky chief of security.

  'I'll signal Washington now,' said Dex
ter, springing to his feet. 'Find some way of getting you both off this floating bomb.'

  'You'll do nothing of the sort,' Schulzberger ordered him. 'I don't mind you contacting Washington, but we're staying aboard.' He turned to Captain Brunner. 'You say you're informing all the passengers of the situation?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then my wife and I will not take dinner here in our stateroom. We'll eat in the first-class dining room . . .'

  The rumour spread quickly - no one found out how it started - that the Secretary of State and his wife would be taken off the Adenauer secretly. It caused a sensation when Schulzberger appeared in the dining room. He stopped to chat with guests at several tables.

  'It's a load of hogwash that Lucy and I are leaving the ship,' he told one industrialist who posed the question. 'We've paid our fare like the rest of you folks. We intend to enjoy the cruise soon as those people in Rotterdam have sorted this thing out. Which I know they will . . .'

  He also declined to sit at the captain's table, joining a group of passengers at a large table. The news spread like wildfire through the ship. Soon the crew heard of his decision. Morale soared. If Schulzberger was staying the danger couldn't be all that great. One boisterous woman said as much to Brunner, who smiled and walked on.

  'God help us,' he whispered to his First Officer. 'From that signal I received - reading between the lines - I'd put our chances of survival at fifty-fifty. If that . . .'

  Tweed was talking to Blade on their own in the anteroom.

  'When do you want to get your troop into position for the assault? The situation could develop very fast from now on. The bullion is being loaded at Frankfurt Airport aboard a transport aircraft bound for Findel.'

  'Now. They are ready. And I don't want them cooped up any longer than is necessary. Mainly, I want every man on the ground so he can see for himself the lie of the land. Will you lead the way?'

  'We move now then. Down the back staircase. Van Gorp has warned his men. One thing, I want to try and get aboard one of those police launches - to take a look at Euromast from another angle. Whatever happens, your troop doesn't attack until I fire a green Verey light. Whatever happens,' he repeated.

  Five minutes later they were making their way along the side street towards the line of buildings screening them from the Euromast. It was 2.45 a.m. Fifteen minutes before Tweed was due for another confrontation with Klein.

  Inside Euromast at platform level Klein watched the elevator door open. Chabot, returning from the Space Tower at the summit, stepped out holding a pair of night-glasses. Klein had sent him up there at regular intervals. He never went up himself since that would have isolated him from what was happening below.

  'What is the situation now?' Klein asked.

  'Same as before. All the vessels are waiting with their lights on. The Adenauer is a blaze of lights from stem to stern. No change in their position.'

  'Good. Go up again in ten minutes' time.' He checked his watch. That will be just before Tweed comes to meet me again. Make a quick scan next time. No more than two minutes, then come down to report before I speak to Tweed.'

  'Klein . . .' Chabot took several paces closer and his manner was aggressive. '. . . a lot of us want to know the escape route - how we're going to get away when the gold is delivered.'

  'And I have told you a score of times you will hear later. I will give exact instructions. You will be surprised how easy it will be . . .'

  'Surprise me now ..."

  He stopped talking as Marler appeared from the platform holding his rifle loosely in his right hand. The Englishman was still showing no signs of the strain which was growing among the rest of the team.

  'Bit of activity out there,' Marler remarked. 'Down by those police launches at the end of the basin.'

  'Show me.'

  Gripping the control box in his right hand, looking like a commanding general in his leather greatcoat, a monocular glass looped round his neck, Klein followed Marler on to the platform, standing by the rail as Marler raised his rifle.

  Klein lifted the glass to his eye and gazed down in the same direction. There was movement in the shadows astern of the police launches. He caught a brief glimpse of Tweed, crouched low, who disappeared behind the bulk of the wheelhouse.

  'Wasn't that Tweed?' Marler called out.

  'Yes. Don't shoot him. Yet. We still need him - to conduct the negotiations.' His voice rose to a high pitch. They are testing our willpower. I warned them not to move anywhere in sight of Euromast. Those policemen. Shoot them. That will demonstrate we mean what we say.'

  'How many do you want?' Marler enquired.

  'All police who move. Shoot them down.'

  Tweed slipped aboard the police launch and ran for cover. He was met behind the wheelhouse by the river police chief of the flotilla, Spanjersberg. He gave him instructions as he stood up cautiously, his binoculars aimed at the platform.

  The figure of Klein in his military-style outfit stood out in the lens clearly. A few yards further along a figure with a rifle aimed. The Monk.

  'Here is the Verey pistol I was going to bring you,' Spanjersberg said. 'Loaded with a green. Now I will tell my men . . .'

  They had been confined aboard the cramped launch for hours. Spanjersberg approached each of the four men separately where they had taken up different viewing points. He spoke to them in whispers, retreated back to the safe side of the v/heelhouse and made a gesture with his hand, a downward chopping gesture.

  The four men began running towards the stern at the same moment, zigzagging as they pounded along the deck. For a second the only sound in the deep silence of the night was the thud of their boots on planking. Then came a fresh sound.

  The dull crack of a rifle being fired. In rapid succession. So rapid it was almost a continuous and single sound. Marler was pressing the trigger, moving the muzzle a fraction, pressing the trigger.

  Blade saw it from the shelter of the wall where he crouched. Four running men, spread out. The first fell, rolled, stopped. The second cried out, dropped like a sack of cement with a thud Blade didn't hear. The third man nearly made it to the wheelhouse, then threw up his hands and sprawled inert on the deck. The fourth man dived down the steps of a companionway which swallowed him up.

  'That bastard,' said Blade, his tone mild.

  'We don't move?' Eddie, crouched next to him, asked.

  'Not till Tweed fires the green signal. You know that. God, Tweed will be raving inside.'

  'I see why you were so keen on my skill with a moving target,' Marler commented. 'Must be out of practice.'

  'Why do you say that?' Klein asked in surprise.

  'Only three out of four. Should have got the lot. I'll get better as we go on.'

  'We've made our point,' Klein snapped. 'When Tweed tries to get back let him go. That little demonstration must have shaken his nerve.'

  'Which is the crux of your strategy?'

  'Always keep the enemy off balance. Surprise him. Break him down.'

  They had moved off the platform when Marler asked his question. First he lit a cigarette.

  'This elusive bullion we keep hearing about. Any sign of our getting our hands on the loot?'

  'Brand is under guard in Luxembourg City. He has phoned me to say Bonn is weakening. I expect to have good news soon. Has everyone eaten?' he asked Chabot who appeared from the direction of the restaurant, munching a sandwich. 'Full stomachs are what an arrny marches on. Napoleon.'

  'They have taken it in shifts to eat,' Chabot reported. 'The food we brought with us, that is. And, before you ask, they have drunk nothing but the mineral water or the coffee we also brought with us.'

  Klein nodded. He had known there would be food and drink in the restaurant food store but inside two of the cases his men had carried in to Euromast there had been canned meats, butter and bread, cans of coffee, condensed milk and bottles of mineral water. Klein believed in relying on his own supplies. Drinking water from the kitchen taps had been banned.
The Dutch might get clever and introduce some poisonous element into the water supply.

  'Now,' he said, 'we will prepare the major shock for the next encounter with Tweed.'

  'It may be some time yet,' Tweed warned Blade as he passed the masked figure crouched behind a wall.

  Van Gorp was waiting for him when he entered the HQ room via the back staircase. The Dutchman stood up, his expression bleak. He waited until Tweed was seated.

  'I was on the roof when that incident occurred. Three of my men are dead - or badly injured . .'

  'Dead. Spanjersberg said they had to be. He's waiting with them on the launch . . .'

  'I am not prepared to stand by while that swine kills off my men one by one. What happened?'

  'Spanjersberg indicated they wanted to leave. We thought if all four ran at once there would be too many targets. The marksman on that tower is even better than I thought. It's appalling, I agree.' Tweed looked straight at Van Gorp. 'If you wish to take control of the operation I am in your hands. After all, we are on Dutch soil.'

  The Dutchman sat down slowly, spread his hands. 'I realize it is a matter of psychology - dealing with that megalomaniac. You know him better than any of us. Please carry on. And I see you have your Verey pistol.'

  Tweed had laid it on the table, exposing his right hand. A blob of blood welled up from the back of the hand. Taking a bloodstained handkerchief from his pocket Tweed dabbed at it.

  That needs attention,' Paula burst out.

  'A sharp chip of wood flew up from the deck when a bullet hit it. Nothing to fuss about.'

  'I'm not fussing. It needs washing. I've got Elastoplast in my shoulder bag. I'm dealing with it . . .'

  While she attended to his hand Tweed went on talking to Van Gorp. 'What's the latest met. report? You have a new one?'