Floodgate

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Doesn’t seem to me to be guarding against anything very much,’ van Effen said. ‘Unenthusiastic. Don’t blame him. Must seem like a pretty useless exercise on a night like this.’

  ‘And a pretty freezing exercise, too,’ George said.

  ‘He generates his own heat,’ Vasco said. ‘Wait.’

  They didn’t have to wait long. After less than two minutes the guard reached behind him, lifted a bottle to his lips and took what appeared to be a very considerable swig from it.

  ‘No mineral water, that’s for sure,’ van Effen said. ‘Let’s get inside.’

  They closed the bathroom door behind them and switched on the bedroom light. Vasco handed van Effen a small metallic object sheathed in polythene. Van Effen dropped it in his pocket.

  ‘I’ve stuck the two pieces of soap together and left them in hot water,’ Vasco said. ‘Should be mushed together again pretty soon. I have an idea. Just after I got into the bathroom I saw a man crossing the courtyard towards the barn. That’s when I switched off the light. He disappeared round the back of the barn, you know, where the outside stairs are, and then joined the man who was then standing at the loft door. Changing of the guard, so to speak. That was exactly at seven o’clock. It occurred to me that it might be very convenient if the condition of my throat has deteriorated so badly that I will be unable to join you for dinner. It might be very convenient if we found out how regularly they changed guards.’

  ‘It would indeed,’ van Effen said. ‘An excellent suggestion, Vasco. Should have thought of it myself. Promotion guaranteed—if, that is, we survive this lot. I’m sure Samuelson will be most distressed. Probably insist on sending you another toddy.’

  ‘Make sure it’s a large one, if you please. I’m feeling very weak.’

  ‘Mr Danilov. George.’ As van Effen and George descended the stairs into the living-room, Samuelson advanced to greet them, beaming as if they were long-lost friends. ‘Just in time for the next TV broadcast. Then dinner. But where’s our dashing young Lieutenant?’

  ‘Our young Lieutenant isn’t feeling at all dashing. Throat’s worse. Flu, I think.’

  Samuelson clucked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Damn flu’s everywhere these days. This awful weather. Most important that he’s reasonably fit tomorrow. Herta!’ This to a flaxen-haired young girl who was setting the table for the evening meal. ‘A toddy. A strong one. Take it up to the Lieutenant’s room. Dear me, dear me. Ah!’

  Agnelli had just turned up the volume of the TV set and a rock band, which had been playing, mercifully, in apparent mime, faded from the screen to be replaced by the accustomed announcer looking, if possible, even more lugubrious and funereal than he had on the previous occasion.

  ‘With reference to the threats being made against our country by the unidentified group calling themselves the FFF, the Ministry of Defence has just issued a statement. The British Government and ours are in constant contact but no announcement as to the results of those negotiations can yet be made pending the outcome of discussions between Whitehall and Stormont. Stormont is the parliament or governing body of Northern Ireland which is, of course, next to ourselves, the country most closely concerned with the outcome of those negotiations. Whitehall, it must be said, finds itself in a most difficult and peculiar position. Ulster, Northern Ireland, that is, although an integral part of Great Britain, retains a certain degree of autonomy as far as decisions relating to its own future is concerned. When further news comes to hand the country will be immediately informed.

  ‘The FFF have informed us that they will issue a further communiqué after this broadcast. This will be transmitted to you at 8 p.m.

  ‘In the circumstances, the latest report from the meteorological office is relevant. The wind, due north, is Force Nine and strengthening. Torrential rain is sweeping over most of Scandinavia and is heaviest of all over the Netherlands. The North Sea is expected to reach its highest level for at least the past quarter century inside the next forty-eight hours.’

  The announcer’s image faded and Agnelli switched off the set.

  ‘Dear me, dear me,’ Samuelson said. ‘Things do look very unpromising. Or very promising. All depends upon one’s point of view.’ He gestured towards the bar. ‘Romero, see to it that our friends are not neglected. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I shall be back shortly.’ He disappeared up the stairs.

  While the Agnelli brothers busied themselves behind the bar van Effen wandered aimlessly around the room apparently admiring the paintings and the bronze and copper artefacts that decorated the walls. He paid particular but very brief attention to the telephone: the telephone number had been carefully and thoroughly inked out, which neither surprised nor disturbed him. He was reasonably certain that he could, later that night, have given that number to the police HQ in the Marnixstraat in Amsterdam, which would have enabled them to pinpoint the exact whereabouts of the windmill, but that would not have suited his purpose: the answer to the machinations of the FFF lay elsewhere. Samuelson, presumably and for reasons best known to himself, had gone upstairs to use another telephone to deliver the text of the next FFF communiqué.

  Dinner that night was a rather odd affair. Not that there was anything odd about the food. Obviously, there wasn’t a cordon bleu chef within miles. The Dutch, taken by and large, are not gourmets. Your standard Dutch cook or housewife consider it a matter of personal pride and honour and an insult to their guests if they can see any part of the plate under the mound of food that covers it: the food was palatable enough but Michelin would not have come there a second time.

  What was odd was the contrasting behaviour of the diners. Samuelson, Romero Agnelli, van Effen and George were in an expansive, genial and talkative mood. Daniken made an occasional contribution but was clearly no conversationalist. The Rev. Riordan, apart from delivering a lengthy and, in the circumstances, extremely hypocritical blessing before the meal, remained grave and thoughtful and totally silent throughout the meal: Riordan, van Effen reflected, if not quite deranged or demented, was totally detached from reality and possessed of an incredible naiveté. Leonardo was equally silent. He, too, was thinking, but only of his stomach: for a man of his diminutive stature, he was an awesome trencherman. They spoke only when spoken to, smiled but seldom and for the most part were remote and withdrawn to the point of being dispirited.

  At one point van Effen said to Romero Agnelli: ‘And where’s our friend O’Brien tonight? He’s not down with the flu, I trust?’

  ‘O’Brien’s as fit as a fiddle. He’s elsewhere.’

  Van Effen said: ‘Ah.’

  Samuelson smiled. ‘You really are a singularly incurious person, Mr Danilov.’

  ‘Would it help any if I knew where he was or what he was doing?’

  ‘No. Romero has spoken to me several times about your need-to-know philosophy. It is one with which I am in entire agreement.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Romero, it lacks one minute to eight o’clock.’

  It was the same newscaster. He looked as if he had just heard that his entire family had been wiped out in an air crash.

  ‘We have here the latest communiqué from the FFF.’ He didn’t sound at all like a newsreader, he intoned the words like a minister delivering a funeral oration. ‘It is very brief and reads as follows: “We place no credence in the Ministry of Defence’s statement. We think the Dutch and British governments are either stalling or don’t believe in our threats. Or both. We do not intend to stall. We do intend to make them believe our threats. The dykes north and south of Lelystad will be breached a few minutes after midnight. The nuclear device in the Ijsselmeer will be detonated at 2 p.m. tomorrow. We beg you to believe that these two incidents will be regarded as the merest trifles compared to the disaster that will engulf the Netherlands within twenty-four hours of the detonation of the nuclear device.” That is the end of their communiqué.

  ‘We have also had a further statement from the Ministry of Defence. They say that they have no comment to make
on this latest communiqué on the basis that there is no way that they can predict the irrational workings of the minds of terrorists.’ Samuelson clicked his tongue and shook his head sadly. ‘They say they are prepared to believe that the terrorists are insane enough to carry out their insane threats’—more cluckings and shakings from Samuelson—’and can do no more than warn all local authorities to carry out all possible means of protection.

  ‘Netherlands experts and British nuclear scientists have agreed on the probable results of such a nuclear explosion. It is assumed that this will take place in the Markerwaard. If this device is located in or near the centre of the Markerwaard, the tsunami—the tidal wave—reaching the shores should be of minor proportions, averaging between sixty and seventy centimetres. Should it be placed close inshore the wave could be several times as high and the local results could be disastrous.

  ‘The nation will be immediately informed of any further developments.’

  Agnelli switched off the set. Samuelson, half-smiling, looked at van Effen and said: ‘Do I detect just a trace of a half frown, Mr Danilov?’ Van Effen made no reply. ‘Romero has told me that you are prepared to react in an extremely violent form to any threat to the lives of your fellow citizens or, rather, to the citizens of your adopted country. Romero is of the opinion that you and your two friends are highly dangerous men. I concur. You are, I believe, heavily armed.’

  Van Effen opened his jacket to demonstrate that he wasn’t carrying his shoulder-holstered Smith and Wesson, then turned to Agnelli, who was sitting next to him, crossed his knees and pulled up his right trouser leg to show that he wasn’t carrying his Lilliput either. ‘I do not consider guns as being an essential part of dressing for dinner. Do you think I would be so mad as to start a gun-fight in the company of four beautiful young ladies? Any ladies, come to that?’

  ‘No. My mistake. The nuclear device is in the Markerwaard but is located precisely in its centre. Do you believe me?’

  ‘If I had your unpleasantly suspicious mind I would say that I’d wait until five past two tomorrow afternoon to find out. As it happens, I believe you. Now, Mr Samuelson, you know that I do not normally probe into anyone’s affairs but I must confess to being just a little concerned about those nuclear devices. My two friends and I are acknowledged explosives experts but we know nothing about nuclear devices. We wouldn’t recognize one if we saw it, far less know how to arm it, activate it or deactivate it. But we do know they are nasty, jiggly and unpredictable things. I do know you have some on the premises, although I don’t know how many. What I do know is that I have a healthy regard for my own skin. I assume you’re transporting them elsewhere—they can be of no use to you here. I have no wish to be aboard whatever form of transportation is taking those devices from here to wherever elsewhere may be.’

  Samuelson smiled. ‘Mr Daniken here shares your sentiments exactly.’

  ‘What has Mr Daniken got to do with it?’

  ‘Mr Daniken is our helicopter pilot. He doesn’t want to carry those things.’

  ‘I didn’t refuse to, Mr Samuelson,’ Daniken said. ‘I said I was highly reluctant because of the great risk involved. I agree with Mr Danilov. I don’t know how unstable or temperamental those damn things are. Flying conditions are atrocious, just on the limit. With an updraught or wind shear we can go up or down a hundred feet in two seconds. We could make a heavy landing, a crash landing or, heaven help us, just crash.’

  ‘You and Mr Danilov can relax. Should have mentioned it before, but we made our minds up just before dinner. No helicopter. We have decided to use the army truck with which Mr Danilov and his friends have so thoughtfully provided us. Those devices are quite small and can easily be concealed in what looks like a couple of extra long-range petrol tanks. We’ll have three men dressed in uniforms, Ylvisaker as a full-scale lieutenant-colonel, and the rest—’

  ‘Where did you get the uniforms?’ van Effen said.

  ‘I told you,’ Samuelson said patiently. ‘We’re making a war film. The rest of us go by helicopter.’

  ‘Must be some helicopter.’

  ‘A war film, I said. A gunship. The end of the Vietnam war caught the US Air Force on the hop and they had overproduced. Going for a song. Elderly but fully serviceable. Stripped of armament, of course, but we ordered dummies. I suggest we move to more comfortable chairs for our brandies, liqueurs or whatever.’

  Van Effen said: ‘If I may be excused, I’d like to have a look at the Lieutenant.’

  ‘Give him my sympathies,’ Samuelson said. ‘I suggest he might appreciate another toddy.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure he would. If he’s not asleep, that is.’

  Vasco was not asleep. He was comfortably seated in a small armchair that he had brought into the bathroom. Using the pencil beam of the variably hooded torch which was an indispensable item of his travelling equipment, van Effen handed Vasco the glass.

  ‘Compliments of Mr Samuelson.’

  ‘Very civil of him. Well, it’s eight-twenty now and the same character is still on watch. Judging from his performance with that bottle he must be half sloshed by this time. Like me, as you can see, he’s found an armchair. I’m surprised he hasn’t dropped off by this time. Anyway, I’ll keep watch until they change guard. The toddy will help sustain me through the long watches of the night.’

  Van Effen gave him a brief resumé of the Ministry of Defence’s statement and the FFF’s reply, promised that he and George would be back by nine o’clock and left.

  He returned to the living-room to find that the group seated in armchairs had been considerably depleted.

  ‘The Lieutenant seems to have benefited from that first toddy. He doesn’t sound quite so hoarse. Very drowsy but not too drowsy to attack the second toddy. His thanks. And dear me, dear me, the lovely young ladies have departed. Shame. But I’m not surprised. They were hardly what you might call gay and vivacious at the table tonight.’

  ‘They said they were tired,’ Samuelson said. Julie, van Effen knew, had not been tired. She was a notoriously poor air traveller and the thought of travelling in a helicopter—she’d never been in one in her life—must have been a nightmare. ‘Whatever have they done to make them tired?’

  ‘Nothing. They’re just nervous and apprehensive.’

  ‘Just like George and myself.’

  Samuelson surveyed him dispassionately. ‘I doubt whether you and your big friend have ever been nervous and apprehensive in your lives.’

  ‘There’s always a first time. And where’s the holy father?’

  ‘You know the Reverend doesn’t drink. But it’s not that. Every night before he goes to sleep he spends an hour in meditation and prayer.’

  Van Effen said sombrely: ‘Let’s hope he includes in his prayers the souls of the victims of his nuclear toys.’

  The silence that followed, of which van Effen seemed to be quite unaware, was, to say the least, embarrassing. It was Romero, in a clear attempt to break the silence, who said hastily: ‘Speaking of those nuclear toys, as you call them, I told you earlier I could show them to you. As an explosives expert, I thought you might be interested—’

  ‘Not I.’ Van Effen waved an indifferent hand. ‘Same old principles—need-to-know and would it help any if I saw them?’ He was aware of George’s momentary slight frown but knew that no one else had seen it. Van Effen paused, as if something had just occurred to him, then said: ‘Someone has to be able to trigger off those nuclear devices. Don’t tell me it’s Joop and his psychopathic pals.’

  ‘It is indeed, as you say in your disparaging fashion, Joop and his psychopathic friends.’ The words held a rebuke but the tone didn’t: it required no telepathy to realize that Samuelson shared van Effen’s opinion of the Red Army Faction. ‘When they got hold of those devices in Metnitz, they also obtained copies of the operating instructions. One would have been useless without the other.’

  ‘Remind me not to be within five kilometres of Joop and company when they arm
either of those devices. A palm-reader once told me I had a long life-line but she could have been wrong. How is this device in the Markerwaard to be detonated?’

  ‘Pre-set timing device.’

  ‘And the two other devices?’

  ‘By radio control.’

  ‘God help us all. Make that ten kilometres.’

  ‘You don’t trust them?’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust Joop and his friends with a firework. They are fanatics and fanatics have unstable minds. Unstable hands also, probably. No, I don’t trust them. Neither, I suspect, do you.’

  ‘You still wouldn’t like to see those devices?’

  ‘I presume you’re not lunatic enough to keep those in the mill.’

  ‘They’re a kilometre away in a secure underground cellar.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of going out in that monsoon. And though you might not be lunatic I think you’re guilty of a grave error of judgement. To detonate any device by radio doesn’t call for the mind of an Einstein but it can be tricky and a job for experts. Joop and his band of trusty experts have never detonated a charge in their lives.’

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘That’s being simple-minded. Why did you have to call me in for the palace job?’

  ‘True, true. Would your scruples, or your objections to monsoons, prevent you from having a look at the operating instructions? We have them in this room.’

  Van Effen looked at him then looked away. The TV was on, showing a weirdly dressed quartet who were presumably singing, but, perhaps fortunately, in silence: the volume control had been turned off. Samuelson and his friends were presumably expecting another newscast. Van Effen looked back at Samuelson.

  ‘Scruples? What you have in mind, of course, is that we should do your work—your dirty work—for you instead of those deranged amateurs. Do you know what would happen if those explosions resulted in the deaths of any citizens?’

  ‘Yes. You would ensure that I joined the departed. I wouldn’t like that at all.’