Molly poured the tea and then opened the letter, while Kathleen twitched with excitement at the other side of the table. It took Molly a long time to read such a short letter. There were only six lines above the signature after all. The Manager himself had written about an endowment policy which had matured in her name. For five thousand pounds! And he had pleasure in enclosing the check for said amount. Molly looked at it with wondering eyes - five thousand pounds and her without as much as a bank account!
"It's bad news, Molly," said Kathleen. "I can tell by your face."
"It's no news," Molly's voice trembled. "It's some kind of mistake."
But there was her name on the envelope - and again on the check itself. Could there be another Mrs. Malone? Another Mrs. Molly L. Malone? Without another word she passed the letter across the table for her sister to read.
0930 Monday
We were installed in the Steigenberger-Hof by 0730. Three white Porsche police cars collected us from the airport at Arne and blazed down the rain-washed autobahn with more flashing lights than a Christmas tree. On the outskirts of the city the convoy slowed down - and split up - one car taking Suzy and the doctor to the clinic Ross had told me about. We followed the lead car along the Am Bunderekantserplatz and round the corner to a side entrance.
Suite 120. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Brand. Arriving at the service entrance took some of the gilt off the gingerbread, but at least I offered to carry Elizabeth over the threshold. The sour look she gave me changed to nervous confusion when Ross intercepted our glances.
LeClerc was waiting for us with two German security men who greeted Ross like visiting royalty. They explained how to make a call on the direct line telephones which they had just installed, promised Ross that the suite had been screened for electronic plumbing, and then they left.
"Any news from Archie?" Ross asked LeClerc, and I realised my last sight of Dorfman was when he was being pulled aboard the helicopter back at the Health Farm.
"Half an hour ago," LeClerc said. "He's still in Ireland. He thinks he's got a trace on the vehicle used to transport the bomb."
"Jesus," Ross whispered, "so tell me."
"Truck load of batteries. Left Ireland on Saturday for Cologne and—"
"Batteries! You mean auto batteries?" Ross sat down in the nearest chair. "Batteries! Oh Jesus! Lead. They'll have run past every Geiger counter between here and—" He punched the side of his jaw. "Shit! Does Twomey know?"
LeClerc nodded. "He's running a trace on the vehicle now - description, plates, the lot. Within half an hour every cop in Europe will be looking for it."
"I'd better get over there." Ross could have meant Ireland for all the explanation he gave. Halfway to the door he waved at the newly installed telephones. "Check in when you can immediately if anything breaks." He looked at me. "We're counting on you, Harry. Sell those guys the hoax story. Keep them off my back for a few hours and I'll pin a medal on you."
"Posthumously of course," I countered.
Ross swore over his shoulder and collided with LeClerc in the doorway. Max trod on their heels and they left.
Elizabeth took her overnight case to the bathroom to replace the colour which strain and lack of sleep had drained from her face. When she came back she was wearing a cream crushproof suit and an uncreased expression. "I packed a clean shirt for you, Harry. If you wash and change, you might persuade yourself you've had a restful night."
I did as I was told and when I returned she was looking out of the window. It was growing light outside, but only just. The Rhine looked as wide as the valley of death and twice as evil. The thick carpet deadened my footfalls, and when I touched her elbow she jumped a mile. It made me feel better in a way. To know that for all her apparent cool, she was as wound up and frightened as I was.
I commandeered a table for twelve in the breakfast room, explaining to the waiter that others would be joining us. At least I hoped they would. Reporters are not renowned early risers, and when he told me about the Reuter's party the night before I guessed this morning would be no exception. So Elizabeth and I sipped good coffee and waited for something to happen. We both tried to make conversation, but gave up after a while and sat in silence. I remembered dinner at the Barracuda a few nights earlier and thought how different it was. We had been tense and worried then, but somehow we had raised enough spirit to flirt with each other and make a game of it. Now so much had happened to us that we could have been two different people. I suppose she was right. Time had run out.
At about 0930 the first one wandered in. He stood in the door, sniffing like a bloodhound and blinking at the morning light which flooded in from the window. I waved him across to the table and introduced Elizabeth. She was like an actress, five minutes earlier she had been shaking with nerves, but once he appeared the curtain went up and within a few moments he was eating out of her hand.
During the next ten minutes some of the other boys drifted in, all in search of black coffee and hangover cures, so that gradually our table became the kind of gathering point Ross must have hoped it would be. One thing became clear fairly quickly. None of them had received an unusual press handout. Neither Elizabeth nor I needed to ask. Something like the Deir Yassin story would have had them pawing the ground with excitement, but instead most of the talk was of the difficulty of getting through to their offices overseas. Direct telephone dialling had broken down for some reason and all overseas calls were being routed via the international operators with consequential delays. The boys were furious.
Back in our suite Elizabeth was jubilant. "They've intercepted it. Don't you see that Harry? They've probably got this Abou Assam locked up somewhere already - and this truck from Ireland."
But LeClerc disillusioned her as soon as she reported on the direct line telephone. As far as they could tell nobody had even tried to circulate a press release. No attempt had been made to contact even one journalist, let alone the entire press corps. And the worst news of all was that the truck from Ireland had still not been located, though its route had been traced. It had crossed into Aachen last night. If there was a bomb, it could now safely be assumed to be in Germany.
Ross came on the line afterward and summoned us to Police Headquarters.
"And Harry?" Elizabeth asked.
"Certainly and Harry!" Ross's reply could be heard a yard away from the telephone. "Do you think I want him left there with an army of newsmen without you keeping an eye on him?"
A plainclothes man picked us up in the lobby, and we were there within ten minutes. Ross was in conference with what seemed a United Nations of policemen. About twenty of them, mostly German, but with the top security man from each of the delegations holding a nervous watching brief.
Ross was doing his best to reassure them. "We know the truck. We know the driver. We know the route taken into Germany," he hammered away, ticking the fingers of his right hand. "Dammit, the truck was even sighted in Aachen in the early hours of this morning. We expect to locate it any minute now. Any minute! There's no need for panic - repeat, no need for panic."
Nobody contradicted him, but nobody passed a vote of confidence either. The mood of the meeting was decidedly uneasy.
Ross tried again. "We're monitoring all outgoing and incoming telephone calls. We've mounted road blocks on all likely routes. Bonn itself is sealed off I tell you. Every known member of the Red Brigade has been pulled in for questioning. Now for Chrissakes - will you guys relax! I tell you there's nothing to worry about."
When they filed out Ross mopped his brow and removed his jacket so that Elizabeth could massage his shoulders. Then LeClerc arrived, on his way from one meeting to another.
"Well?" Ross demanded.
"Twomey's still with the diplomats. None of them believe it's China," LeClerc said helplessly. "Not one of them."
"What do our people in Peking say?"
"Ross, it's 0100 hours in Peking!"
"What are you - a talking clock? What kind of answer's that?"
&nbs
p; "They've asked for another hour," LeClerc protested. "But first off they're incredulous." He made his way back to the door. "I'm on my way to Matthews now - I'll see you in about half an hour."
Ross turned to me. "Harry, you sure none of those newsmen has a sniff of this?"
"Ask Elizabeth," I shook my head. "They don't know a damn thing."
He sighed heavily. Lack of sleep had painted black circles beneath his eyes, and his face had a pinched nervous look to it. "You know what I think? That press release story was another blind. A sop to keep Katoul happy while she was in the game."
"And now she's out of it?" My mouth went dry.
"I don't know," he shook his head. "But if you take Katoul's threats out, you remove the blackmail theory. And if it's not blackmail, what the hell are you left with?"
I looked at him blankly, half understanding what he was driving at but hoping against hope that I had got it wrong.
"It's an act of war," he said softly. "A direct attempt to destroy the leaders of the Western world. There aren't going to be any demands. There isn't going to be any negotiation, because none will be offered. All we're going to get - if we don't find that truck fast - is a very, very loud bang."
And it was as if we were listening for it, because it went very, very quiet in that room.
The man known as Abou had awakened early. He reached for the traveling clock and snapped it shut before it buzzed. Then he lay back on the bed, catching his breath in his excitement as he realised that the day had arrived at last. Today he would begin the long journey home. Home! After being away for so long. Home to the old country to join his people in time of war.
He dressed in the clothes which he had brought with him. Suede shoes, casual slacks and a knitted shirt under a loose fitting blazer. Holiday clothes. Quite different from the business suit worn yesterday.
At 0910 he paid his bill in the lobby. He wore the long black leather coat and hoisted his suitcase easily, as if it was only partially full. Then he collected the rented car from the garage and began the journey to the autobahn, listening to the car radio as he drove. The news program was still full of the summit conference and still there was no hint of a change in arrangements. The first formal session would open at 1030 this morning in Bonn. The commentators continued to speculate on the plight of the dollar and the power of the yen, and were all convinced that today's agenda would be dominated by economic affairs. Abou smiled, he knew otherwise.
It took half an hour to reach the autobahn, including the time taken to stop to pack the leather coat into the case and withdraw the fawn lightweight raincoat he would wear in its place; and once on the autobahn he drove in the direction of Aachen, driving carefully and well within the speed regulation.
The hills on either side of the road were heavily wooded with trees so thick and numerous that there was barely room to swing an axe between them. These days it was the most popular camping area in Germany. In the summer the wilderness of the Eifel soaked up campers and hunters and holidaymakers by the thousand. But it had been different once. In the last war it had been a bloody battleground. The first place where Americans had fought Germans on German soil. The densely packed trees had delayed the American tank attack and they had suffered heavy losses until their artillery had pounded the Germans into retreat. Abou smiled at the irony - it was appropriate that Aachen, once the scene of American victory, should play its part in an American defeat.
He passed the turn-off for Eschwiler and waited for the sign to Stolberg to appear on his left. Then he drove through the little town and out again, the road climbing through hillsides still dense with trees. He drove steadily, always alert for a prowling patrol car. Here they could be either State Police or Border Police with Federal authority. Both were to be avoided. Twice a traffic helicopter dipped low above the treetops to flutter briefly across the cut in the forest made by the road. He glanced nervously upward as he thought of Malone. It was very unlikely that the search had yet concentrated on the Exide truck, but even if it had it wouldn't matter a damn - so long as Malone had followed instructions. And Abou never doubted that Malone would obey orders to the letter. After all, when you offer a man his life he is unlikely to betray you. Besides, the commando who had followed the truck to the German frontier would have reported any cause for alarm.
The road continued to climb, past a deserted picnic area no more than a fire break in the forest, and then running on for another mile before reaching the secondary road on the righthand side. After checking his mirror Abou bumped quickly down the rutted lane. It was exactly ten o'clock.
He had rented the chalet a month before. It was a primitive place, but the lack of comfort had not disturbed him. He had no intention of living there. The chalet's appeal lay in its remoteness, high in the hills above Aachen, well away from habitation and screened by trees. And with a disproportionately large garage - big enough to house a lorry.
He drove round the back, switched off the engine and listened. Neither sign nor sound of life. The big garage doors in front of him remained closed. For a second he panicked. Surely Malone had arrived last night? But the doors were still padlocked - he could see that from here. He opened the car doors and stepped out.
"Cead mikfailte," a voice said softly.
Abou swung around, his hand instinctively reaching for his shoulder holster.
"I wondered if you'd come yourself," Mick Malone stepped out of the bushes.
Abou's relief mingled with suspicion. "What was that other thing you said?"
"A hundred thousand welcomes," Mick bowed. "In Irish, of course."
"Is the truck inside?" Abou jerked his head toward the garage.
"Where else?" Still smiling, Mick took the padlock key from his pocket.
"Open up then. We've work to do and barely the time to do it."
While Mick unlocked the doors, Abou scrutinised his face. "You got here all right then, last night?"
Mick had arrived little more than an hour before, but that was his secret. Something told him that the tall dark man would not have understood his anxiety to contact Molly. Nor would he have approved.
"Just before midnight," Mick lied, using the excuse of opening the doors to avoid the man's eye. "I parked in the garage and slept in the cab."
Reassured, Abou followed him into the gloom of the building and closed the doors behind them. He flicked a light switch and looked at the sealed padlocks above the lorry's tailboard. Then he took a wrench from the wall and started work. Five minutes later the locks were broken.
"It's an offence to open customs seals," Mick said cheerfully. "But I daresay you know that." He was anxious to see inside the truck now and more curious than ever about the cargo which had brought the police forces of three countries to a state of nervous exhaustion. But when the doors swung back all that was revealed was a stack of batteries, all roped securely into position.
"Is that all?" Mick said in bewilderment. "All this trouble
"Give me a hand up," the man said, already clambering aboard the truck. "We'll have to move them one at a time. Start stacking them over there." He indicated the far wall and lifted a battery down to Mick who grunted and did as he was told.
Altogether they removed one hundred and eighty batteries - two entire stacks - and Mick was groaning with fatigue when they finished an hour later. But then he saw his real cargo.
"Sweet Mother of Christ! What is it then - a Trojan horse?" He shook his head, looking at the sleek radiator of a Mercedes ambulance. "Do I get to ride in that all the way to that clinic of yours?"
Abou wiped the sweat from his forehead. His blazer and shoulder holster had long since been discarded, and he rubbed his aching back. He turned to look at the ambulance. It was the low modern kind, with two blue lamps mounted on the roof above the front seats. The walls of the truck either side of it were still lined with batteries and the floor and ceiling of the truck were clad with lead sheets.
He remembered Mick's question. "Only for part of the way. Loo
sen the ropes at that end - we'll have to unload one wall of batteries before I can open the door to get into the ambulance."
And so the backbreaking work continued. When they had finished, another ninety batteries were stacked on the garage floor.
"Lower the tailboard," Abou ordered, climbing behind the wheel of the Mercedes.
Five minutes later the ambulance had been safely unloaded. Mick walked around it carefully, noting the German number plates and the inscription painted on the sides. "What's that mean?" he asked.
"Ravensburg private nursing home," Abou translated.
"Is that the place where I'm going to have this operation?"
Abou shook his head. "Ravensburg's in Germany," he smiled. "But it's close to the Swiss border." He paused to collect his shoulder holster and jacket before turning toward the doors. "Come on into the house. We've just time for a wash before we leave."
1225 Monday
"Mum!"
Molly heard the boy's shout above everything. Above Kathleen's silly chatter and the background music of the radio, above the turmoil of her own thoughts and the muted traffic noise from the street outside.
"Mum!" There was fear in his voice, some kind of warning, mixed with a desperate need to reach her. Her slippered feet knocked the cat's milk flying as she rushed to the door.
"Whatever—"
He flew into her arms. "Mum, there's Gardai all round the house. They tried to stop me—"
"Mrs. Malone?" A uniformed policeman followed the boy into the kitchen.
Molly tightened her grip on the boy and bristled up at the man, her head barely reaching his shoulders. "And what's bothering you? Frightening the boy half to death and—"
But the policeman never stopped to listen. He brushed past her to the hall where he opened the front door before running upstairs. Another policeman followed quickly through the open back door, looked hard at Kathleen and went through into the hall.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 32