The two motorbikes came into view, but screeched to a stop just two metres from their position. The bikers removed their helmets, holding them by their side. Sideburns and Shorty stood to attention and looked at Wellens respectfully.
"Good afternoon, Sir."
"Good afternoon. How did it go?"
"Fine, Sir."
"Glad to hear it."
Shorty nodded at Sideburns, who handed the case to Sam. Once it was open, Wellens satisfied himself of its contents.
"Gentlemen, I am proud of you. All of your colleagues and yourselves are to be commended. Yours is the last piece. Now, we will be able to assemble the laser, and sell it. You will receive your reward before the day is over. Please step over to Sam, who will administer your chip. You will both receive the same one. It is a precaution in case one of you is killed."
"We understand, Sir," Shorty said, as he extended his bare arm. The rectangular instrument Sam had placed on Shorty's forearm buzzed once. When it was lifted off, Shorty's arm sported a small, reddened patch of skin. Sam did the same for Sideburns.
"Don't scratch. Join the others at the rendezvous point."
"Good luck, Sir," Shorty and Sideburns said in unison, as they straddled their motorbikes.
"Luck has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, and we'll see you later."
They watched the two bikers drive off, then Wellens glanced at his watch.
"Right. It's time to get things running. I'm going to the hotel. Now that the OPA is out of the way, they won't be worrying about people entering or exiting any building. Sam, assemble the laser, and take it to Grayson's rendezvous point. It's time to reap our reward."
***
Michaux had chosen an empty desk to work on. Laid out in front of him were the OPA weapons. Next to them were the different parts of the defence system. I didn't recognise much, but I did notice the grenades and the claymores, I think they're called. He had assured me that they were all deactivated, but I felt uneasy with all that potential destructive power so near.
Two of Michaux's men approached him. One was on the phone, and the other held some papers in his hand.
"Sir, we found these." Holding a sheet in front of Michaux, one man said, "This one is a map with the locations of the bombs the OPA placed. They weren't bluffing. Every major hotel is booby-trapped, as well as at least four buildings around each one."
Michaux took the map and began to study it.
The man with the phone placed his hand on the mouthpiece.
"We've checked out the first bomb. It has a remote control device attached, just as we thought. It's a beeper, and it's in 'vibration' mode, so it doesn't ring. It's a feature used for restaurants and meetings where you don't want to annoy everyone with the sound. The bomb has a trembler trigger. All the beepers must be set to vibration mode. To set them off, you simply dial the beeper number from any phone you want. The beeper vibrates, and the bomb goes off." He looked at his colleague, who handed Michaux another sheet. "Here are some of the numbers we've found. We're trying to get the Bourgmestre on the line to stop all telephone communications in case someone inadvertently dials a wrong number."
"Good," Michaux mumbled absentmindedly, the frown on his face indicating another train of thought. "Maria," he said "Maybe now would be a good time to get your specialist over here. Ron I think you called him."
I tried to concentrate on my own work, but I couldn't help thinking about all those bombs around the city; bombs that were still active and dangerous despite the death of the OPA.
I raised my mug to my lips and sipped lazily, but all I managed to swallow was air. I returned to the kitchen for a refill, and sat down to think.
Why did Stephane want the OPA dead? Maybe that was the real question. What possible purpose could a terrorist group like the OPA serve that would require their death?
Start at the beginning. The OPA paralysed the city and made its demands, difficult ones to accede to, incidentally. Now, Stephane set the OPA running, like a clockwork toy, leaving him free to go about his business. Whatever that was.
Somehow the fact that Stephane was a colleague of mine made me feel partly responsible. Perhaps not responsible, more like involved. Since I knew him best, I had to understand what he was doing and why. He had betrayed us at the TMC, and I wasn't ready to let him get away with it. Anything I could do to thwart his plans would offset my anger and frustration.
All these questions were running around my head aimlessly, and until I found the link, they would continue to do so. To help my thoughts, I decided to have a cigarette. From the breast pocket of my shirt, I retrieved the packet.
Empty.
Hastily, I mumbled to Martin that I would be but a few minutes, and walked out.
The road was still full of quiet, parked vehicles. The many voices of the drivers made it sound more like a market than a major artery of Brussels. More people were standing about outside their cars, most of them looking resigned to being stuck in the traffic jam for a while longer. There was even a card game in progress on the hood of one car, the participants obviously drivers of the cars adjacent to it.
Halfway down the road, I spied an open newsagent, a small shop with a grimy window. It took up the lower floor of a two-story house dwarfed by two modern metal and glass monuments to avarice, a bank and the headquarters of an insurance company. The owner was darting to and from his shop, serving the drivers with papers, magazines and drinks. I headed in his direction.
At one point, I saw his face, sweaty and gleaming with greed. He probably could not believe his luck. He might have heard of a captive audience before, but never a captive clientele. By the looks of things, if we could not clear the traffic jam any quicker, this newsagent would be empty before the day was out. And the owner would be off to Tenerife, one of the few people to profit from the city's misfortune.
While he was back inside, on one of his supply runs, I entered. Already the magazine racks were virtually empty, though not as much as the newspaper piles. The fridge, however, was full. This took me a bit by surprise until the owner darted out of the back of the shop with a tray of twenty-four cans, and shoved them as one into the top shelf. He grabbed three cans from further down, and rammed them into his jacket pockets; then and only then did he notice me.
Surprised to see someone in his shop, I suppose. After all, he was offering a good service today. Drivers stuck in the traffic jam just had to wait for him to come round. He did not seem to be worried that when he did his rounds, he left his shop wide open. Not that a thief would be likely today. A getaway car wouldn't go far, and no one would dare hold up a shop if they were on foot. A pedestrian might just try a bit of shoplifting, nothing serious, though.
A pedestrian like me. He froze and eyed me suspiciously "What are you doing here?"
"I came on foot."
"What do you want?" he snapped nervously. I was holding him up. He was anxious to get out there and make some more money.
"A pack of..." As he reached up to get one, I hesitated. Maybe that would not be enough. "Better make that two." He practically threw them at me, then quoted me a higher price than usual.
Taken aback, I stared at him. He repeated the outrageous price again.
"But that's twice the official price." I stuttered.
An evil smile crept across his face. "Take it or leave it. That's today's price. My suppliers are late today." He sniggered quietly.
"What if I call the police?"
The smile evaporated. "Go ahead. If you're ready to wait for them, be my guest." Pointing to a chair in the corner, he added, "Better make yourself comfortable, though."
He had a point. Back at the TMC, when we had a real emergency, not just a petty theft, Maria and her colleagues had taken some time to arrive. Reluctantly, I paid him, and left his grimy little shop.
Slightly dazed, I wandered back to the backup TMC. Today I had seen quite a few things out of the ordinary, but seeing pure greed at work in this way was quite sobering.
&nb
sp; Buried deep in my troubled thoughts, I nearly missed him. He was coming out of the underground parking lot of the backup TMC.
What was the bastard up to?
Leaving me no time to finish the thought, Stephane turned and ran up the street, away from me. He had not seen me.
Return to Contents
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
3h15 PM
What should I do? Martin would probably be able to handle the network for a while on his own. Many surprising things had happened today, but this time I didn't have the benefit of Michaux's opinion. I had to make a decision on my own. He would probably want me to follow Stephane. If I didn't, we would probably never know why the OPA had to die.
Michaux and Maria would never forgive me for passing up this chance to follow the only lead we had. After all, the OPA weren't going to be much help anymore.
With little more conscious thought on my part, I found myself following him. He led me on a merry walk around town, never once stopping for a rest or a breather.
He led me through the Park du Botanique, smack in the centre of the city, where none of the usual picnickers and businessmen out for a sandwich in the open air, could be seen.
All of a sudden, he vanished. I was desperately trying to find a way of warning the backup TMC, telling them where I was and what I was doing. For a few seconds I took my eyes off him, and when I looked back, he was gone. There were a few people around at the time, and it took me a while to assure myself that he wasn't among them. I was surprised to find out how many people look similar from behind, they always make it look easy in films. Spies can spot their man hunched down in a crowd wearing his coat inside out, while I had difficulty differentiating men from women with short hair.
Anyway, I had lost him. In itself it meant nothing, but then we knew he was devious. Maybe he had seen me following him.
Despondent, I started back. Glancing around aimlessly, I failed to see the crack in the pavement. The toe of my shoe butted against it, and I lost my balance. Instinctively, I put my arms out ahead of me, and fell forward, banging my head on a hard, cold surface.
Stunned, I shook my head, and looked up. In fact, I had stumbled into the side of a glass phone booth that had been staring me in the face. Now it had hit me in the head. Sometimes, that's what it takes to see the obvious.
Michaux came immediately to the phone. I rapidly went over what I had been doing, or rather, what Stephane had been doing. To give him credit, he didn't complain about my losing him, but then he started asking strange questions.
Was he in a hurry? What was he wearing? Did he look like he was ready for a trip? I just answered automatically while staring out through the glass panel.
Several people walked past hurriedly. I watched them enviously; their only worry was reaching the office despite the traffic jam. Surely they, safe in the knowledge that the transport authority was working to free the city from gridlock, were having a better day than I. Gladly would I switch places with any one of them at the moment.
Michaux was still throwing questions at me.
From around the corner a long pair of tanned legs appeared. Slowly, I moved my eyes up as I followed their path across the street. They belonged to a stunning young woman wearing a short summer skirt that blew attractively in the wind. She reached the other side, and disappeared behind a building.
Wistfully, I kept my eyes riveted on where she had been seconds before, and Stephane walked out from behind the building to cross the street.
Michaux asked me another question, which I answered before it hit me.
What a laugh.
Think about it. I lose him at the precise moment he doubles back around the block, to check for 'tags' I think they call them. To check whether he had been followed. He hadn't, and that made me laugh.
Michaux snapped at me. I interrupted him and gave him the street name, then hung up.
We were getting near to where Stephane had intended to go. He must have doubled back so as not to give away the location of the hiding place, or wherever it was he was taking me. It turned out to be the Conrad Hotel.
He steered clear of the few plainclothes policemen off to one side. Their presence puzzled me until I remembered that this was the favourite hotel of the British Prime Minister when he visited Brussels.
Apparently, now that the OPA had been dealt with, the city authorities had relaxed their restriction for entry and exit to the hotel. Confining a foreign dignitary as well as other guests must have been a difficult task without disclosing the danger of the OPA bomb in the basement.
Stephane passed through the revolving door, and I followed at a cautious distance once I had assured myself there was a small crowd between us. He paused at the reception long enough to have a question answered politely. He nodded to the helpful desk clerk, then headed for the lifts. I waited until the lift door closed before moving. The desk clerk noticed me, and favoured me with a large smile.
"Bonjour Monsieur, comment puis-je vous aider?"
"Yes. Bonjour. Errr..."
"Good afternoon, Sir. How may I help you?" he said, switching languages when he heard my accent.
If he was going to speak English, that was fine by me. "The man who just asked you for something, could you tell me which room he went to?"
The smile vanished, and his attitude became defensive. "Sir, this is a respectable hotel. We don't divulge information like that."
"Yes, but it's an emergency."
"I'm sure it is, Sir. But the answer is still no. Now, if that will be all?"
I gave up. It was no use; he wouldn't help me, unless he received the order from someone in authority. "Excuse me. Could you direct me to the phones, please?"
He pointed across the lobby at three videophone booths, but said nothing. I entered one of them, and closed the door behind me. The glass of the window became opaque to ensure the utter privacy of the booth from the throng of the lobby. Before I had been able to enter any number, the screen displayed a little warning message. "GSM network out of order". Good, that meant that no one was going to be able to phone with a GSM from this phone booth, and possibly set of one of the bombs in this city.
I dialled the TMC. The videophone screen lit up, and the little red light by the camera lens, indicating that my picture was being transmitted, blinked, then stayed on.
Martin picked up the phone, but he passed me through to Michaux without hesitation.
"Hugh, where are you now?"
"I'm at the Conrad Hotel. Stephane's gone up to one of the rooms."
"Which one?"
"I wasn't able to get that information from the clerk. He won't tell me."
"OK, stay there. Go back to the reception desk, and wait. I'm calling the Bourgmestre."
With that, he hung up. I left the booth, and went to sit in one of the armchairs near the reception desk. The lobby was unusually full. Every armchair and couch was occupied. I had taken the last empty seat. Even the railings over by the door were being used, as smart young men in designer suits sat astride them with either a laptop computer or a hand-held organiser balanced on their knees. From here, at least, those positions didn't look very comfortable. Next to them, a fairly mixed group of men and women, all of them dressed in jeans and loose fitting shirts, sat on the ground with their backs against the railings. They seemed more comfortable and appeared more relaxed, maybe even enjoying the situation.
The low tables with the armchairs around them, normally used for serving cocktails, were full of papers and briefcases. Men in serious suits with serious faces squatted on the edges of the armchairs, and examined their documents with serious expressions. The centre of the tables were littered with half-empty drinks of various descriptions, cups of coffee, plastic glasses filled with fruit juice, and cans of Coca-Cola. There were plates of partly eaten sandwiches and the wrappers from chocolate snacks placed strategically so that the ashtrays were still accessible to everyone.
The only things I didn't see lying a
round were GSMs. The nagging electronic ringing sound usually found in any public space these days was absent. In the five minutes I had watched the lobby, not a single ring of a phone or a beeper disrupted the hushed whisper of conversations. I knew the danger those phones could be, especially in this building, since there was still a bomb here, but I know that Michaux had not wanted to announce that fact publicly. So, where were these people's phones, and why were they not using them? It took me several minutes to find the answer to my question. At one end of the reception desk, two policemen leaned against a large mahogany table. I had noticed them earlier, but had not seen what was on the table. It contained the largest collection of portable phones and beepers I have seen in my life. Most of them were the normal black, but some of them, in garish fluorescent colours, stood out from the mass. There were also some PDA's, a few GSM enabled lap-top computers, and three hands-free GSM sets.
Obviously, the policemen had collected them from people in the lobby, and were guarding their hoard. Michaux must have been in touch with them, and it seemed to me that they had found an effective way of ensuring no one phoned with a GSM. They had even set up the phone booths, so that no calls to GSMs or beepers would be possible.
A short, wiry man in an impeccable black sober suit stepped in front of me. He looked me over as someone checking out a description he had been given. He bent over slightly.
"Mr. Ryan? My name is Hamlyn. Please, come with me." He noticed my hesitation. "Mr. Michaux sent me to get you."
He waited until we were in the privacy of the lift before he began his explanation. He showed me his identification. All I had time to notice was 'His Majesty's Secret Service' before his wallet disappeared back into his jacket.
"Michaux has been in touch with the Prime Minister. Now, from what he tells us, one of the terrorists is in this hotel. We got the room number you were unable to get from the desk clerk."
The lift stopped. We stepped out, and I followed Hamlyn, dazed by the speed with which Michaux had got things moving. He stopped just outside one room, and knocked before entering.
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