Floodgate

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Ah. Burglar alarms. Photo-electric rays, pressure pads, things like that. Always wanted to meet one of those. It’ll be a pleasure to watch one at work. Little enough scope, I would have thought, for an electronics man around an army truck. Wait a minute.’ Van Effen paused briefly then smiled. ‘By all means go ahead, Mr O’Brien. I’ll take long odds against you finding one, though.’

  ‘Finding what, Mr Danilov?’

  ‘One of those dinky little location transmitters.’

  Agnelli and O’Brien exchanged glances. Agnelli said: ‘Dinky little—I mean, how on earth—’

  ‘Because I removed one this morning. Rather, the Lieutenant did it for me.’

  Agnelli, as van Effen had said, would never stand in line for an Oscar. He was perplexed, apprehensive and suspicious, all at the same time. ‘But why should one—I mean, how did you suspect—’

  ‘Don’t distress yourself.’ Van Effen smiled. ‘Perfectly simple explanation. You see—’

  ‘But this is an army truck!’

  ‘Precisely. Far from uncommon on Army trucks. Use them on their silly war games, especially at night, when there’s no lights permitted and strict radio silence. Only way they can locate each other. The Lieutenant knew where they were usually concealed and found and detached this one.’

  Vasco opened a map compartment by the driver’s seat, removed a tiny metallic object, and handed it to van Effen, who passed it over to O’Brien.

  ‘That’s it, all right,’ O’Brien said. He looked doubtfully at Agnelli. ‘In that case, Romero—’

  ‘No, no,’ van Effen said. ‘Go ahead and search. Be happier if you do. Damn truck could be littered with them, for all I know. Speaking personally, I wouldn’t know where to start looking.’

  Agnelli, trying with his usual lack of success to conceal his relief, nodded to O’Brien. Van Effen and George left the truck and wandered idly around, talking in a desultory fashion. Agnelli, they could see, was displaying a keen interest in O’Brien at work, but none in them. In a far corner van Effen said: ‘Must be an interesting profession being a professional dismantler of alarm systems.’

  ‘Very. Useful, too. If you want to get at the private art collection of some billionaire or other. Or into a secret army base. Or bank vaults.’

  ‘It’s also useful if you want to blow up a dyke or a canal bank?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so either.’

  Although it was only just after 1 p.m. when they left the garage it could well have been night-time for the amount of light left in the sky. And although it seemed impossible that the amount of rain could have increased, it undoubtedly had: the truck was equipped with two-speed wipers but might almost as well have been equipped with none at all. And the wind blew even more strongly from the north. Apart from the occasional triple tram the streets were deserted. One might almost have thought that the efforts and intention of the FFF were wasted: Holland, it appeared, was about to drown under the weight of its own rainfall.

  Agnelli had made his phone call from the garage. Shortly after leaving it, at a word from Agnelli, Vasco, who was driving, pulled up outside an undistinguished café off the Utrechtsestraat. Two cars were parked there, both small, both Renaults. Agnelli got out and spoke hurriedly to the invisible drivers of the cars: he had need to hurry, he had no umbrella and his gaberdine raincoat offered no protection at all to the pitiless rain.

  ‘Joachim and Joop,’ he said on his return. ‘They are following us to a restaurant just this side of Amstelveen. Even the FFF must eat.’ Agnelli was probably back to his smiling again but it was impossible to say. The inside of the truck was almost totally dark.

  ‘If they can follow us,’ van Effen said. ‘In this weather, I can see that my precautions were superfluous. I thought we were to meet your brother and Mr Riordan. I must say I shall be most interested to meet your Mr Riordan. If the newspaper accounts are anything to go by, he must be a most extraordinary character.’ He ignored George’s heavy nudge in the ribs.

  ‘He’s all that. They’ve elected to remain in the cars—I don’t suppose they fancied getting wet. We’ll meet up in De Groene Lanteerne.’

  Riordan was indeed an extraordinary character. For some extraordinary reason—known only to himself—he had elected to dress himself in a sweeping, neck-buttoned, black-and-white shepherd’s tartan cloak with matching deerstalker, of the type much favoured by Highland lairds and Sherlock Holmes. As the cloak ended six inches above his knees and hence made him look even more incongruously tall and skeletal than ever, he couldn’t possibly have been trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He had greeted everyone civilly enough—when he wasn’t declaiming against the IRA he was, it seemed, a normally grave and courteous man—raised his eyes at the sight of Vasco’s uniform, readily accepted its explanation and there after remained silent, not from any wish to disassociate himself from those at the table but because he was carrying a large, very intricate and expensive-looking radio and had a pair of earphones clamped to his head. He was listening, Agnelli explained, to weather forecasts and Dutch and international news broadcasts. Agnelli didn’t have to explain why.

  Lunch over, Riordan elected to continue the journey in the truck, earphones still in place. He ensconced himself in the right-hand corner of the rear bench seat and seemed to approve of the heavy side curtain which he pushed as far forward as possible. Vasco drove south during the dark afternoon making the best speed possible which, because of the near zero visibility, was no speed at all. Van Effen was particularly impressed by the carefully polite attention Vasco paid to Agnelli’s would-be meticulous instruction as how to drive through Utrecht. As Vasco had been born, bred, lived all his life and been a police driver in Utrecht, it said much for Vasco’s heroic patience that he three times followed directions that he must have known to be wrong.

  About mid-afternoon, Riordan unhooked his earphones. ‘Progress, gentlemen, progress. The Dutch Foreign Minister and Defence Minister—that’s that excellent Mr Wieringa of theirs—arrived in London this afternoon and are meeting with their counterparts. A communiqué is expected. It shows that we are being taken seriously.’

  Van Effen said: ‘After those scare headlines, those banner headlines in the papers today, and all the emergency news flashes on TV and radio, did you seriously expect not to be taken seriously?’

  ‘No. But gratifying, none the less, gratifying.’ Riordan re-affixed his earphones and leaned back into his corner. The expression on his face was an odd mixture of the expectant and the beatific. A man with a mission, Riordan wasn’t going to miss out on anything.

  Some twenty minutes later the truck pulled off to the right on to a B-road and, a couple of kilometres further on, left on to a still more minor road. It stopped at a building which appeared to be fronted by a brightly-lit porch.

  ‘Journey’s end,’ Agnelli said. ‘Our headquarters—well, one of them—and our overnight stop. I think you’ll be quite comfortable here.’

  ‘A windmill,’ van Effen said.

  ‘You seem surprised,’ Agnelli said. ‘Hardly uncommon in these parts. Disused but still functional, which is also not unusual. Large extensions and quite modernized. It has the additional attraction of being a long way from anywhere. If you look to this side you’ll see the place of concealment I promised for the truck. Disused barn.’

  ‘And that other barn-like structure beside it?’

  ‘State secret.’

  ‘Helicopter.’

  Agnelli laughed in the darkness. ‘End of state secret. Obvious, I suppose, since we told people that we had taken aerial photographs of those rather stirring scenes north of Alkmaar on the Noord Holland canal.’

  ‘So you’re now the happy owner of both army and air-force property?’

  ‘No. Not air force. Indistinguishable, though. A lick of paint here, a lick of paint there, some carefully selected registration numbers—but it’s unimportant. Let’s go inside and see what we can find in the way o
f old Dutch cheer and hospitality.’ Now that he had, as he thought, completed his mission with a hundred per cent degree of success he was positively radiating a genial cordiality. It could well, van Effen thought, represent his true nature: nature had not designed him for the cut and thrust, riposte and parry that he had been through that afternoon.

  ‘Not for me,’ George said. ‘I’m a businessman and a businessman always likes to—’

  ‘If you’re referring to payment, George, I can assure you—’

  ‘Payment? I’m not referring to payment.’ George sounded pained. ‘I’m referring to standard business practices. Lieutenant, is there an overhead light? Thank you.’ George produced a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket and handed them to Agnelli. ‘Inventory of goods. You have to sign the receipt but not until I have checked the conditions of all the items—you will understand that I had no time to do so this morning—and see how they survived the transport. Standard business ethics.’ No one seemed to find it peculiar that George should use the word ‘ethics’ in connection with stolen goods. ‘But some of that hospitality wouldn’t come amiss. Beer for me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Agnelli said, then added delicately: ‘Would you be requiring any help?’

  ‘Not really. But it is customary for a purchaser or purchaser’s agent to be present. I would suggest Mr O’Brien. Electronics experts are accustomed to small fiddly things and detonators are small fiddly things. A carelessly dropped detonator, Mr Agnelli, and there wouldn’t be a great deal left of your windmill. There wouldn’t be a great deal left of the people inside it, either.’

  Agnelli nodded his satisfaction and led the way to the porch that had been added to the windmill. A tall, shock-haired and unshaven youth whose most notable facial characteristic was the negligible clearance between eyebrows and hairline, moved to bar their entrance. A machine-pistol was held loosely in his right hand.

  ‘One side, Willi.’ Agnelli’s voice was sharp. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Willi scowled—it was the kind of face that wasn’t built for much else—and stared truculently at van Effen. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Hospitality,’ van Effen said. ‘Our genial host, no doubt. God help us. Is this the kind of hired help you have around here?’

  Willi took a threatening step forward, lifting his gun as he did so, then subsided gently to the ground, clutching his midriff as he did so: the blow he had received there had been no friendly tap. Van Effen took his gun, removed the magazine and dropped the gun on top of the wheezing Willi. Van Effen stared at Agnelli, his expression a nice mix of consternation and disbelief.

  ‘Frankly, I’m appalled. I don’t like this one little bit. Is this—I mean, is he typical—you have retarded morons like this on your team? People who are going to hold—no, people who are holding nations to ransom having—having—words fail me. Have you never heard of the weakest link in the chain?’

  ‘My own sentiments exactly,’ Riordan said gravely. ‘You will remember, Romero, that I expressed my reservations about this fellow. Even as a guard, the only possible function he could serve, his limitations have been cruelly exposed.’

  ‘I agree, Mr Riordan, I agree.’ It would have been untrue to say that Agnelli was discomfited, but his ebullience was in temporary abeyance. ‘Willi is a disappointment. He shall have to go.’

  Willi had now slipped over on to his side. He was conscious enough, propped on one shaky elbow and grimacing with pain. Van Effen looked over his all but prone form to the opened doorway beyond. His sister was there, Annemarie by her side, Samuelson just behind them. The expression on both girls’ faces were markedly similar—slightly wide-eyed, slightly shocked, totally uncomprehending. Van Effen let his eyes rest on them for a brief moment then looked indifferently away.

  ‘Have to go, Mr Agnelli? Have to go? If he goes, I go. Can’t you see that you’re stuck with him, want it or not. Stuck with him either above ground or below. Let him go and the first thing he’ll do is talk his head off to the first policeman he meets. No drastic methods, preferably, but his silence must be assured. I hope the rest of your Praetorian guard is a cut above this character.’

  ‘The rest of the Praetorian guard, as you call them, are more than a cut above this unfortunate.’ Samuelson, rubicund, smiling and looking even more prosperous than the previous evening, had gently pushed the girls apart and stepped out on to the stoop. He smelt of some very expensive after-shave lotion. Rubbing his chin with an immaculately manicured hand, he peered down at Willi then looked up at van Effen. ‘You do have a direct way with you, my friend. At the same time one must admit that you come to some remarkably quick conclusions in a commendably short time. I must confess that I have occasionally felt tempted to do just what you have done, but, well, explosive violence of that kind is not my forte. Ah, yes, I saw it all. Very economical, very.’ He extended a hand. ‘Samuelson.’

  ‘Danilov.’ Judging from both his bearing and his speech, van Effen was in no doubt that he was in the presence of the man who mattered. His speech. Samuelson had said so few words the previous evening that his country of origin had remained uncertain. De Graaf had thought him Irish-American. De Graaf, van Effen thought, had been wrong. This man was English-American. Perhaps even an Englishman who had spent just long enough in the United States to pick up a slight American over-tone. Van Effen gestured to the fallen man. ‘Sorry about this, Mr Samuelson. One does not usually treat a host’s staff in so summary a fashion. On the other hand you must admit that it’s not the average guest who finds himself confronted with a sub-machine gun.’

  ‘A well-taken point, Mr Danilov.’ Like Agnelli, Samuelson seemed much given to warm and friendly smiles. ‘A breach of hospitality. It will be the last—as you yourself have personally assured. All is well, Romero?’

  ‘Perfect, Mr Samuelson. Everything there, everything in order. Exactly as Mr Danilov guaranteed.’

  ‘Splendid. Mr Danilov does have a certain aura of competence about him. Come in, come in. Wretched evening. Absolutely wretched.’ That, thought van Effen, made him English for sure. ‘And good evening to you, Captain. I understood you were a lieutenant.’

  ‘A very very recent captain,’ Vasco said hoarsely. ‘Sorry about this throat.’

  ‘Dear me, dear me.’ Samuelson sounded genuinely concerned. ‘A hot toddy, and at once.’ Samuelson did not seem to find it at all amiss that a regular army captain should be in their company: but a man with so smoothly unlined a face could take many things in his stride without registering reactions of any kind. ‘Let me introduce our two charming guests. Miss Meijer, Miss van Effen.’

  Van Effen bowed briefly. ‘Those are the two who figured so prominently in the headlines this morning? Their photographs didn’t do them justice.’

  Agnelli said: ‘Mr Danilov and his friends were rather concerned about their well-being, Mr Samuelson.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Compatriots, of course. No need, no need. As you can see, both in excellent health.’

  There were five other people in the room, all men. Two were earnest looking, intellectual looking youths cast in the mould of Joachim and Joop. The other three were older, bigger and a great deal tougher looking, although that didn’t mean that they were in any way more dangerous: apart from the fact that they lacked sunglasses they looked uncommonly like the Secret Service men who guard an American president. There was nothing criminal in their appearances. Samuelson didn’t see fit to introduce them: as a result, indeed, of some signal that van Effen had not seen they all quietly left the room.

  ‘Well, now.’ Van Effen looked at Samuelson, Agnelli and Riordan in turn. ‘I don’t know which of you I should address. It doesn’t matter. We have delivered the material—one of our number is at present checking the explosives and armaments to see that they are in the best possible working order. We understood that some call might be made on our services—our expertise, if one might put it that way. If you don’t require us, there’s no point in our remaining. We have no wish to impo
se ourselves on anybody.’

  Samuelson smiled. ‘You would rather go?’

  Van Effen smiled in turn. ‘I think you are perfectly well aware that we would rather stay. I’m as curious as the next man. Besides, it would be most interesting to know what is going to happen without having to wait to read about it in the newspapers.’

  ‘Stay you shall,’ Samuelson said. ‘We will probably have need of your expertise. We do, in fact, have plans for you. But first, perhaps, a soupçon of borreltje. 5 p.m., and 5 p.m., I understand, is the prescribed hour. Leonardo’—this to Agnelli’s brother who had just entered with Daniken—’be so kind as to have some hot water brought from the kitchen.’ This, van Effen felt certain, made Samuelson the man who called the tune. ‘And some honey. We must do something about this fearful cold the Captain has. Come. Join me.’

  A log fire burnt in an open hearth built into the windowless back wall. Adjoining this was a circular oaken bar, small but quite splendidly stocked. Samuelson moved behind this as Riordan said: ‘You will, of course, excuse me.’

  ‘Of course, James, of course,’ Samuelson said. Van Effen felt faintly surprised. Riordan didn’t look like a man who had a first name. Riordan nodded to the company and mounted a circular stairway.

  Van Effen said: ‘Mr Riordan doesn’t approve of our heathenish practice of having a borreltje at this hour?’

  ‘Mr Riordan doesn’t disapprove. He doesn’t drink himself, nor does he smoke, but he doesn’t disapprove. I may as well tell you—for you will find out anyway and I don’t wish to cause anybody any embarrassment—that Mr Riordan regularly goes upstairs at this hour for prayer and meditation. He does this several times a day and one cannot but respect a man with such deeply-held beliefs. He is very devout—and is, in fact, an ordained minister of the church.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ van Effen said. He thought briefly. ‘No, on second thoughts you don’t surprise me. It seems very much in character. For such a devout character, I must say, the Reverend has certainly let loose a storm of cats in the dovecotes of Europe today.’