Floodgate

by Alistair MacLean

  Van Effen studied it for no longer a time than it had taken George then returned the list. ‘Specifications.’

  ‘Exactly.’ George, not smiling, looked at the four men in turn then concentrated his gaze on Agnelli. ‘This is a lethal enough list as it is. But it could be dangerous in other ways, even suicidal, if it got into the hands of whoever prepared this list.’

  Agnelli wasn’t smiling either. He looked more than slightly uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘Then I’d better enlighten you. Specifications, as my friend Stephan has said. Explosives—no specifications. Missiles, ditto—and that applies to both types. What kind of primers? What kind of detonators? Fuses—you don’t even say whether wire or chemical, how slow-burning or fast-acting. No explosives expert ever composed this list. Some amateur did, some bungling incompetent. Who?’

  Agnelli studied his glass for some time then said: ‘I’m the incompetent. But I did get some bungling help from my three associates here.’

  ‘God help us all,’ van Effen said. ‘You’re not fit to be let loose with a box of kiddies’ fireworks. I have to ask you, not for the first time, where the hell are your experts?’

  Agnelli smiled ruefully and spread out his hands. ‘I’ll be perfectly frank with you.’ Romero Agnelli, van Effen realized, was about to lie in his teeth. ‘We are temporarily embarrassed. The two men on whom we rely have been called away for other duties and won’t be back for a couple of days. But we thought—well, you gentlemen are both explosives experts and—’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ George said. ‘We know what to get and can give you simple instructions on how to use them without blowing your silly heads off. The missiles are a different matter. Only a trained man can fire one of those.’

  ‘How long does that take?’

  ‘A week. Ten days.’ George was vastly exaggerating, van Effen knew, but the four men’s patent ignorance of all things military was so extensive that it was very likely a safe exaggeration. ‘And don’t ask us, we’re no military men, we’re no more skilled in those matters than you are.’

  Agnelli was silent for some time then said abruptly:

  ‘Do you know of anyone who is. Skilled in such matters, I mean?’

  ‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I do.’ The way George said ‘I do’, in a tone just one degree short of impatience, made it clear that it was quite inevitable that he should know.

  ‘Who?’

  George gave him a look of pity. ‘He hasn’t got a name.’

  ‘You must call him something.’

  ‘The Lieutenant.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he is a lieutenant.’

  ‘Cashiered, of course.’

  ‘Certainly not. A cashiered lieutenant is no good to me. I thought you would appreciate that a person like myself can only operate at second or third hand. A middleman, if you like. Or two.’

  ‘Ah! I see. Your supplier?’

  ‘Mr Agnelli. You can’t possibly be so naive as to expect me to answer so naive a question. I’ll see what can be done. Where do you want this stuff delivered?’

  ‘That depends on how soon you can deliver it.’

  ‘By noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Agnelli looked incredulous then smiled. ‘It looks as if I’ve come to the right shop. How will it be delivered?’

  ‘By Army truck, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Agnelli looked slightly dazed. ‘This makes things a bit difficult. I thought it would be at least the day after tomorrow. Could I call up tomorrow to finalize time and place? And could you hold up delivery for at least a few hours?’

  ‘That can be arranged.’ George looked at van Effen. ‘Mr Agnelli can call here? 10 a.m., say?’ Van Effen nodded and George smiled at Agnelli. ‘Can’t say yet, but somewhere between ten and twelve thousand dollars. We offer the best discount rates in Europe. Dollars, guilders or deutschmarks. More, of course, if our—ah—services are required.’

  Agnelli stood up and smiled, his old relaxed and genial self again. ‘Of course. The price, I must say, doesn’t seem too exorbitant.’

  ‘One thing,’ van Effen said pleasantly. ‘You are aware, aren’t you, Mr Agnelli, that if I moved to another hotel and registered there under another name, that the chances of your ever finding either of us again would be remote?’

  ‘Remote? They wouldn’t exist.’ Agnelli was frowning. ‘Why ever should you mention such a thing?’

  ‘Well, a state of mutual trust does exist between us, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Naturally.’ The puzzlement still there.

  ‘Well, if it does, call off the watchdogs in the lobby, in the dining-room and outside.’

  ‘My watchdogs?’ From the expression on Agnelli’s face one could see that, far from being baffled, he was stalling for time.

  ‘If you don’t, we’ll throw them into the canal—suitably trussed of course—and then move on.’

  Agnelli looked at him, his face for once expressionless. ‘You do play for keeps, don’t you? I really believe you would.’ He smiled and put out his hand. ‘Shame. Very well, watchdogs retired. Shame. But they really weren’t up to it.’

  When they had gone, van Effen said to George: ‘You really should have taken up a life of crime. Too late now. Anyway, you’d have given Colonel de Graaf apoplexy years ago. I’ll bet Annelise has no idea quite how splendid a liar you are. You have Agnelli hooked, outfoxed, outgunned and demoralized, not to say dependent: at least, let’s hope so. Will you talk to Vasco later this evening and tell him that you’ve got an offer of employment for him in the capacity of an army lieutenant—after, of course, he’s made suitable alterations to his appearance? We mustn’t forget that Agnelli has had the opportunity of studying Vasco at close range.’

  ‘There’ll be no problem.’ George handed over Agnelli’s shopping list. ‘I’d give a great deal to see the Colonel’s face when he sees what he’s got to go shopping for in the morning. You’ll be seeing him, I take it, in an hour or so. Has it occurred to you that Agnelli might very well be there along with Riordan and this fellow Samuelson?’

  ‘It’s an intriguing thought and, yes, it has occurred.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Well, what, he asks. We know that Agnelli is Annecy.’

  ‘We’re ninety-nine per cent certain. Don’t forget that I never saw either of the two Annecy brothers that we didn’t manage to catch and put away.’

  ‘The fact that you don’t know him doesn’t mean he doesn’t know you, of course he does—he must have seen your picture in the papers many times during the period of the arrest and trial. How do you think he’s going to react when he sees before him not only the dreaded Lieutenant van Effen but the dreaded lieutenant whose sister he’s got tucked away in some dungeon, the sister who, for all you know, he spends his leisure time with, testing out the latest model in thumbscrews?’

  ‘Should be interesting.’

  ‘Colonel de Graaf was right,’ George muttered. ‘You belong a hundred fathoms down. Just a cold-blooded fish.’

  ‘ “Your ten cents will help to kill a British soldier. It’s a bargain at the price—the best bargain you’ll ever get. That’s what the collectors say when they go around rattling their damn tin cans in the Irish bars in the United States. Especially in the Irish bars in the north-east states. Especially in New York. Most especially of all in the borough of Queens where the Irish are thickest on the ground. Ten cents. That’s all they ask, just ten cents. And, of course, they rattle their cans whenever they hold Irish nights, Irish dances, Irish raffles, Irish whatever you like.

  ‘If you’ve never heard that there are charitable organizations—charitable they call themselves—which collect for arms, then you live in another century or with your head in the sands. They claim that the millions of dollars that they’ve collected over the years have gone to support the widows an
d orphans of the IRA members foully slain by the murderous British. Support widows and orphans! The founder of one such evil organization once made the mistake of telling the truth when he said: “The more British soldiers that are sent back from Ulster in their coffins, the better.” Jack Lynch, a former Irish premier, has gone on record as saying that the money is intended for one purpose only—to make widows and orphans. British widows and orphans.’

  Riordan, an abnormally tall, abnormally thin man, black-haired, deeply tanned and dressed in a near-ankle-length black raincoat which served only to heighten the looming angularity of the man, was literally shaking with rage as he stood facing his audience, his fists ivory-knuckled on the table before him. His sincerity and outrage were unquestionable, his intensity almost terrifying.

  ‘God knows it’s bad enough that the contributions to these infamous organizations should come from honest, God-fearing, intensely religious Catholics who are duped into thinking they are contributing to a worthy cause instead of some damnable crew who make Murder Incorporated look like innocent children playing in a kindergarten. The money goes directly to dedicated IRA operatives. Some of it is used to buy guns at black-market sales in New York itself, auctions usually held in razed areas or empty car parks, always by night, nearly always in the Bronx, Queens or Brooklyn. Guns, gentlemen, are rather easily come by in the fair city of New York.’ In the depth of his bitterness, Riordan almost spat the words out. ‘The rest of the money is used by other operatives who openly travel to the southern and midwestern states where gun permits do not exist. Wherever the guns come from, they all end up in the New York area from where they are shipped out, almost always from New Jersey or Brooklyn, with the warm encouragement and complicity of the stevedore unions and the upright US customs, many of whom are first- or second-generation Irish and feel blood-brothers to the murderous IRA. As the Customs Service is controlled by the US Treasury Department, it is logical to suppose that those dealers in death operate with the cognisance if not the connivance of the US Government. The Irish influence in Congress is as well known as it is remarkably powerful.’

  ‘A moment, Mr Riordan, if you would.’ The interruption came from Aaron Wieringa, the Minister of Defence, a big, florid, blue-eyed and very calm man, a man immensely respected throughout the country and one who would very likely have become premier quite some years ago if he had not been cursed with the unfortunate and crippling handicap, for a politician, of total incorruptibility. ‘One appreciates—one can hardly fail to appreciate—that you are a very angry man. We are not, I assure you, nineteenth-century ostriches and I think it would be true to say that there is not a man in this room who does not understand that your fury is totally justifiable. I would not go so far as to concur in your condemnation of Washington and Congress, but that, in the current and particular circumstances, is by the by. Your opinion, as distinct from your recital of verifiable facts, is not of immediate concern.

  ‘What is of immediate concern is why your wrath has seen fit to focus itself on our unfortunate country in general and the city of Amsterdam in particular. I cannot, at the moment, even begin to fathom the reason for it, although I am certain we will not be left in ignorance for long. But nothing you have said so far begins to justify your attempt to blackmail us into acting as intermediary between you and the British Government. I appreciate that you may have, and very probably do have, very powerful reasons for wanting all British troops to withdraw from Northern Ireland, but how you can possibly imagine that we have the ability to persuade Britain to accede to your preposterous demands quite passes my understanding. No conceivable reason exists why they should so accede.’

  ‘A totally conceivable reason exists. Humanitarian motives. Humanitarian motives on your part and on theirs.’

  ‘Our respective governments would be reluctant to see the Netherlands flooded and countless thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands—drowned in those floods? Before even considering such matters, an answer to my question, please. Why us? Is it that, because of our particular geographical situation, we are peculiarly susceptible to threats of genocide?’

  ‘You have been chosen because Amsterdam is the linchpin in the whole lethal gun-running operation. It is the gun-running centre of Northern Europe and has been for years, just as it has been the heroin centre of Northern Europe. This knowledge is in the public domain, and the continued existence of those two evil practices can only bespeak a deep level of corruption in both government and law-enforcement levels.’ An indignant-looking Mr Wieringa made to interrupt but Riordan imperiously gestured him to silence. ‘There are, it is true, other towns engaged in gun-running, notably Antwerp, but, compared to Amsterdam, Antwerp operates in a minor league.’

  This time Mr Wieringa, speaking in almost a shout which was unknown for him, would not be gainsaid. ‘You mean you would find it impossible to flood Belgium.’

  Riordan carried on as if he had heard nothing. ‘Not all the guns passing through Amsterdam go to Eire, of course. Some go to the RAF. Others go to—’

  ‘The RAF!’ It was, almost inevitably, Bernhard Dessens, the Justice Minister, who rarely if ever contributed anything of significance to any discussion. ‘You suggest that the British Air Force is supplied—’

  ‘Be quiet, you idiot.’ Riordan, it seemed, could descend below the rhetorical level he usually set for himself. ‘I refer to the Red Army Faction, the inheritors of the bloody mantle of the Baader-Meinhof gangsters of the early seventies. Some go to the Sicilian-controlled Mafia-type criminal organizations that are springing up all over Western Germany. But the bulk goes to Eire.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like in Northern Ireland, Mr Minister?’ Nobody bothered to follow his line of vision to know that he was addressing the Minister of Defence and not the Minister of Justice. ‘Can you imagine the hellish conditions that exist there, the hideous tortures practised by both the IRA and UVF, the homicidal insanity that has ruled there for fourteen years? A country ruled by fear that is tearing it to pieces. Northern Ireland will never be governed by representatives of the two communities, Protestant and Catholic working together, because they are far too bitterly divided by religion and, to a lesser extent, race. There are one and a half million people living together in a small area, but in spite of their divisions ninety-nine point nine per cent on either side have never harmed anyone or ever wished to. That ninety-nine point nine per cent on either side are united in only one thing—in abhorring terrorism and in their desire to live only in peace. It is a desire that, as matters stand, can never be realized. Conventional politicians, with all the faults and frailties of their kind, are still those who observe the conventions. In Ulster, conventional politicians are an extinct breed. Moderation has ceased to exist. Demagogues and gunmen rule. The country is ruled by a handful of crazed murderers.’

  Riordan paused for the first time, probably as much for breath as anything else, but no one seemed inclined to take advantage of the hiatus.

  ‘But murderers, even crazed murderers, must have their murder weapons, must they not?’ Riordan said. ‘And so the murder weapons are shipped from Amsterdam, usually, but not always, inside furniture. The weapons are sealed in containers, of course, and if the Amsterdam customs are unaware of this they must be the worst, the blindest, or the most corrupt and avaricious in Europe. Nine times out of ten, the ships unload in Dublin. How they—the containers, I mean—get past the Dublin customs I don’t profess to know but I don’t think there’s any question of collusion—if there were the customs wouldn’t have turned up a million dollars’ worth of illegally imported arms destined for the IRA four years ago. But most of the guns do get through. From Dublin the arms containers variously labelled, but popularly as household goods, are trucked to a warehouse in County Monaghan and from there to a horticultural nursery in County Louth. Don’t ask me how I know but it would be rather difficult not to know: the people thereabouts know but don’t talk. From there the weapons are taken to Northern Ireland, not smuggled over t
he border in the middle of the night by daredevil IRA members, but brought in during daylight hours in cars driven by women, mostly young, surrounded by laughing kids. All very innocuous.

  ‘It’s a long, long way from where a machine-pistol is purchased in a mid-Western state until it’s in the hands of some maniacal killer crouched in the shadows of some back street in Belfast or Londonderry. A long way. But in all that long way the vital stage, the focal point, the nodal point, the venturi in the funnel, is Amsterdam. And so we have come to Amsterdam.’ Riordan sat down.

  The breaking of the ensuing silence was far from immediate. There were, altogether, eight men in Dessen’s luxurious lounge. Three men had accompanied Riordan to the Minister of Justice’s house—Samuelson, whom de Graaf had described to van Effen, O’Brien, who had come to the Trianon, and Agnelli, the man who George had forecast would be there. Samuelson and O’Brien probably thought there was nothing they could profitably add to what Riordan had said and Agnelli had probably yet to recover his full powers of speech. When he had entered the room and seen van Effen, appearance returned to normal, sitting there, his eyes had momentarily widened, his lips momentarily parted and a slight but noticeable amount of colour had left his cheeks, and not momentarily either. Almost certainly van Effen was the only person who had noticed the fleeting sea-change that had overcome Agnelli, but, then, probably, van Effen had been the only person who had been looking for it.

  There were also four men on the other side of the negotiating table; the two ministers, de Graaf and van Effen, and they had nothing immediately to say either, and this for two excellent reasons: there was nothing they could immediately say that would be in any way helpful and all had to admit to themselves that Riordan had expressed his viewpoint with a certain degree of logical persuasion, however unreasonable, threatening and preposterous his accompanying demands might have been. It was Aaron Wieringa, glancing in turn at each of his three companions, who broke the silence.