by Colin Forbes
'Goodbye.'
And that, Tweed mused as he descended the front steps, was a perfect self-portrait of the woman I've just interviewed. He took a deep breath of fresh air, gazing up at the trees in the centre of Eaton Square. God, what a relief to get out of that house.
Timers. Scuba Divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.
After leaving Marler at the Hotel Panorama in Bouillon Klein had phoned Hipper from the Hotel de la Poste. 'Yes, the consignment was now ready for collection,' Hipper had assured him.
Driving to Larochette, Klein had collected a heavy case packed by Louis Chabot which contained the sixty timers and five control boxes. Driving on north to Clervaux – near where the Turkish Nestle truck driver had perished – he swung west, heading for the Belgian town of Dinant on the river Meuse. He had stopped at an isolated spot in the Ardennes and written out his list again. He sat looking at it now, satisfied with the progress he had made.
The timers. In the case behind him, ready for delivery via a means of transport safe from any Customs inspection. A means of transport already tested by the movement of the gold bullion stolen from the two banks in Basle.
Scuba divers. The whole team recruited and hidden away on two camping sites in Holland. And Grand-Pierre -Big Pierre – Dubois would keep them busy with training programmes. The whole assault team had carefully been chosen from French-speaking nationals-Belgians, Frenchmen and Luxembourgers – so they shared a common language. Essential for liaison when the operation was put in motion.
Marksman. The Monk, despite his arrogance, was the finest shot with a rifle available in Western Europe. Now he was in place in Bouillon. Not too long a drive from the target.
Lara. She'd be kept happy exploring Cherbourg until he returned to Paris. And the extra thousand pounds he'd dropped in her lap would keep her even more happy. No trouble from that direction.
Explosives. Again in place where they would never be found. And again not far from the target.
Banker. The key to the whole operation. And he had already arranged for the huge sum to be available. After despatch of the timers Klein would call again on the banker, make the final arrangements.
Klein ticked off the last item mentally, took out his lighter, set fire to the scrap of paper, dropped it into the ash-tray. He'd empty the curled and blackened remnants later into one of the many streams coursing through the Ardennes. Yes, he was satisfied he'd dealt with everything – and left behind no trace.
But the banker. That was the last knot to tie up before he launched the vast operation.
'Special Branch?'
Jacob Rubinstein, bullion merchant with headquarters in the City of London, studied the card. Sitting on the other side of his large mahogany desk Tweed studied Rubinstein. Small and neat, in his early sixties, Tweed estimated, Rubinstein had thinning brown hair tidily brushed above his high forehead. His eyes were alert under hooded lids, his complexion rosy, his face plump with a small moustache, his manner relaxed.
'You do realize, Mr Tweed,' he began in his quiet voice, 'I have an obligation to maintain discretion in my business? You might say my company's reputation is its major asset – if that doesn't sound pompous.'
'I understand completely,' Tweed agreed. He'd foreseen this was going to be difficult. 'But you might say my own organization is based on the same principles. Secrecy. I need information.'
'I feared that.' Rubinstein handed back the card, smiled, waited.
'I'm looking for a dealer in bullion – or a banker – who may not have the same ethics as yourself. Someone who cuts corners – to make a profit.'
'You mean in this country, Mr Tweed? I couldn't possibly point the finger at a member of my profession.'
'In this country just possibly. More likely on the continent.'
'We do a lot of business with Europe.' Rubinstein's tone was apologetic. 'The same ethics would apply.' He paused, rubbing his hands together. Probably the nearest he ever came to showing disquiet. 'Unless, of course, something of a definitely criminal nature was involved.'
Tweed signed inwardly with relief, seeing his opening. 'Now I have to ask you to practise the same admirable discretion you have displayed so far about your colleagues. Nothing I'm about to say must be revealed to another soul. I know I can count on you.'
Rubinstein cocked his head to one side, clasped his pink hands. 'You can rely on me. Please go on.'
'What I'm trying to find out is whether some vast terrorist outrage is planned. Not the people you'd immediately think of. Maybe something far more deadly. There were two bullion robberies in Basle a while ago. The gold has never been found. It could have been used to finance this gigantic operation. I've very few leads. If I could get a clue as to the banker – or bullion merchant – who handled that gold I might be in time to locate the gang involved. It's my only hope. A banker willing to take over that gold, provide a percentage of cash in return. You know such a man?'
'I might.' Rubinstein stared at the ceiling. Tweed kept very still, silent. The go-between is the man you're seeking?'
'Exactly.'
'I don't think you're a man who would exaggerate, Mr Tweed.'
Rubinstein had reached inside a small box, taking out a blank white card. He wrote on it slowly, lips pursed, then handed it to Tweed. 'I know you will never reveal where you obtained that information from. It is the best I can do for you.'
Tweed read the writing on the card. Peter Brand, Banque Sambre. Brussels and Luxembourg City.
'Sounds English,' he commented.
'He is. A brilliant banker – who also deals in bullion. He married the daughter of the man who founded the Banque. He has run it for a number of years. Only about thirty-five or so. He has complete control and has shown a spectacular rise in profits.'
'But surely the Banque belongs to his wife?'
'It does. She is only interested in enjoying herself. What I believe you would call a member of the jet set. Spends a lot of time in the Americas.'
'Which leaves Brand free to run things any way he wishes.'
'Quite right – so long as he provides her with the princely income she needs for her way of life. Which he does. An arrangement which suits both partners. I seem to be gossiping a lot, which is not my habit.'
'Gossip can underlie truth. And Brand deals in bullion, you said?'
'Yes. A brilliant man, as I said earlier. He has every talent you could wish for. Fluent in several languages. His personality is magnetic, a great charmer with the ladies, so I hear. Among the clients he has dealt with are the Russians.'
'Nothing illegal about that.'
'Except that the Kremlin is greedy for hard currency from the West. What better way of getting it than through obtaining large quantities of cut-price bullion.'
'Which makes the origin of the bullion suspect?'
'You said that. I didn't. On the other hand, I don't recall contradicting you.'
Tweed stood up, held out his hand. 'I'm very grateful for your help. You might just have supplied the breakthrough I've been searching for.'
'I just hope I've done the right thing.'
'I'm beginning to think I'm involved in a race against time.'
'Let's hope you're not too late, then.'
'As Wellington once said, it could be the nearest run thing.'
24
Paris, rue des Saussaies. Headquarters of French counter-intelligence is situated in a narrow winding street off the rue du Faubourg St Honore, close to the Elysee Palace. The entrance is a stone archway leading to a cobbled yard beyond and nothing outside indicates its occupants.
Tweed and Newman sat in Lasalle's cramped office, drinking coffee, very strong and bitter. Lasalle had listened in silence while Tweed recalled his conversation with Lady Windermere.
'Sounds a monster,' he commented. 'Why did you see her?'
'One reason only. I wanted to find out whether she knew where Lara was. She doesn't.'
'Why did you want that information?'
'It
's a part of the vague picture building up in my mind.'
Lasalle looked at Newman, shrugged, waved his large hands in a gesture of resignation. 'He's playing it close to the chest. As always.'
'Is Lara still at The Ritz?' Tweed asked. 'Because if you still have tabs on her I want to fake a chance meeting with her.'
'Then you might like a brief report from the man who has been watching her. One of my best men. Leon Valmy.
We call him The Parrot behind his back. You will know why when you see him.' He pressed a switch on his intercom, gave a brief order and a minute later The Parrot entered.
'I want you to tell these two gentlemen from England all you know about Lara Seagrave. They both speak French…'
'I must first apologize for messing up my job,' The Parrot began. 'Losing the girl when she jumped into that Volvo near the Place de la Concorde was sheer carelessness…'
'You hadn't had sleep for God knows how long,' Lasalle told him. 'Now, tell them your story. Start with Marseilles…'
The little man with the funny beaked nose sat down at Lasalle's request and began. Tweed leaned forward, watching him intently. Again he felt himself back in his old Scotland Yard days. Some policemen could spend twenty years in the force and learn nothing from experience. The Parrot was a very different kettle of fish.
He spoke precisely, always explained why he had taken certain action. His opening words impressed Tweed. 'There were these rumours of a strange new organization being built up for some great operation. Maybe the hijacking of a ship. In Marseilles the best viewpoint for a terrorist to check the layout is Notre Dame de la Garde. I had been waiting there – on a hunch – for five days before this girl appeared. ..'
He ended with his losing her when she dived into the Volvo. A colleague had taken over the watch on The Ritz. Lara had returned to the hotel two hours later, walking down the rue St Honore, entering by the main entrance.
'One question,' Tweed said eventually. 'When you've had many years' experience tracking people you get a feeling about your target. What is your feeling about Lara Seagrave?'
'Oh, she is highly suspect. She even watches to see if she is being followed. Professionally, too. She uses shop windows as mirrors. She varies her pace. She has been trained.'
'Does she follow any routine?'
'Only one. She goes each day to Smiths' bookshop tea-room on the first floor – except when she visited Cherbourg. She arrives at 4 p.m. Has tea and a cake.'
'Thank you.' Tweed glanced at Newman. 'I think I shall be having tea at Smiths' at four this afternoon.'
He manoeuvred it carefully. The tea-room was filling up. Lara was pulling out the chair of a corner table when Tweed appeared, performing the same action opposite her. Pausing, he spoke in English.
'I do beg your pardon. I didn't notice you. I was dreaming.'
Lara studied him for a few seconds, then smiled. 'Oh, do come and join me. I'm on my own and getting so bored. It will be nice to have an Englishman to chat to over tea. I've spoken French non-stop ever since I arrived in France.'
'Thank you. After a while one gets homesick.' He picked up the menu. 'I see they have a selection of teas. I want something normal. ..'
'Try the Darjeeling. That's my tipple.' She smiled, offered him her pack of cigarettes and when he refused lit one for herself after asking his permission. 'And if you're hungry, they do a very good toasted tea-cake. English marmalade as well. All home comforts!'
'Paradise,' he responded. 'I'll have the same.'
She ordered for them both and he was careful not to ask any direct questions. 'You like Paris?' he enquired. 'By the way, my name is Tweed.'
'Lara Seagrave.' She extended her slim hand. 'Now we're friends.'
She was enormously attractive, he was thinking – with her long auburn hair, her excellent bone structure, the devil-take-the hindmost tilt of her chin, repeated in the humorous glint in her blue eyes.
'You look as though you enjoy life,' she remarked.
'I suppose I like my job. You'll think it frightfully dull. I'm in insurance.'
'What exactly do you do? Sell insurance? You don't look the type, if I may say so.'
'I'm chief claims investigator. Someone dies, a huge sum is at stake. The statistics show it's a most unusual way for a man to die as he did – a ten thousand-to-one chance. I have to check it. I know the wife benefits, I find she has been having an affair with a man who is a confidence trickster. I launch a full-scale investigation. That's an extreme case.'
'Sounds exciting, like being a detective.'
'I was once.'
They ate their tea-cakes, Tweed said she had good judgement. She poured more tea in both cups, then felt around inside her tote bag, producing two articles wrapped in tissue and handing him one.
'Something extra if you've still got space. Couques. They come from Dinant on the Meuse, just across the border in Belgium.'
Tweed unwrapped the tissue, examined the small gingerbread house. 'Quite remarkable. I've never seen anything so well-designed.'
'They're scrumptious.' She ate hers and watched Tweed wrapping his up in the tissue again.
'If you don't mind,' he said, 'I'll keep mine for later. I get peckish about six in the evening – well before dinner. You have a job here in Paris?'
' Had.' Her blue eyes held his. 'Now I've switched from being a secretary to research. It brings in a lot more money. It gives you independence. I want to show my family I can make it on my own.'
'I applaud the idea.' Tweed frowned. 'Lara Seagrave. I've heard that name somewhere. Probably I'm wrong…'
'Probably you're right,' she said with an ironical twist of her full lips. 'If you ever read the bloody Tatler. I'm the step-daughter of Lady Windermere. She's queen of the hitches.'
'She is the one you want to show you can make it on your own, then?' he suggested.
'You're so right.' She paused and studied him afresh. 'It's funny, I'm talking to you about things I've hardly ever said to anyone else. You're a good listener. I wouldn't like to be questioned by you if I'd committed a crime.'
'No crime in wanting to upstage an unpleasant stepmother,' he said amiably.
She looked at her watch. 'Glory! I'm expecting a phone call. Would you think me rude if I rush?'
'Only if you refuse to allow me to pay for the tea.' He lifted his hand. 'No argument. I was lonely, too.'
She stood up, held out her hand. 'I do hope we meet again, Mr Tweed. Four o'clock here will find me for the next few days. Now, I really must go…'
Tweed rose to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw The Parrot, who had paid his bill early, leaving his table to precede her down the stairs. He looked quite different in a beret and a dark overcoat.
'Tell me again about Dr Portch and Norfolk,' Tweed said to Newman as they sat in the lounge area of the Hotel d France et Choiseul.
'I checked old newspapers in the British Museum reading room for starters. I found what I was looking for two years ago – the story which rang a bell when you mentioned the name Portch. He had a practice in Brighton. Was very popular with the old ladies. Had a number of them as patients. Two died, left him legacies in their wills. A cool ten thousand pounds altogether. People began talking. At the coroner's inquest, it was touch and go whether he was indicted for murder. The coroner was not too bright, retired shortly afterwards. Natural causes was the conclusion.'
'Why the doubt in your opinion? We didn't have too much time to talk about it before we rushed for the Paris flight.'
'I'd left Butler and Nield in King's Lynn for the day while I drove down to Brighton. I poked around, for the police inspector in charge of the case. He also has retired. He was cagey at first. After a few Scotches at his bungalow he suddenly blew up. Said Portch should be behind bars for life. An Inspector Williams. The coroner's verdict stalled his investigation. Both the old ducks died of overdoses of barbiturates. Williams reckons the coroner was senile, and a woman-hater to boot. But it finished Portch in Brighton.'
'How?'
'Rest of his patients voted with their feet, left him. He had to sell the practice for a pittance. Which explains, I suppose, why he ended up taking a backwater position at Cockley Ford. They probably hadn't heard of the case there. The Portch case wasn't widely reported – there was a lot of international news at the time. It only made one national daily – on an inside page.'
'So someone in London who wanted a man like Portch to take over at Cockley Ford could have read the story?'
'Yes. Who are you thinking of?'
'No one in particular. You'll enjoy tomorrow – Lasalle is taking us to meet a Corsican gang leader here in Paris.'
'What for?'
'He knows something about a man the underworld calls The Recruiter.'
At Dinant in the Belgian Ardennes, just north of the French border, a massive cliff rises above the town, topped by a citadel which looks down on the river Meuse. Klein drove the Citroen over the Pont de Charles de Gaulle and headed for the barge moored further upstream.
Aboard the vessel, the Gargantua, its Belgian owner, Joseph Haber, watched the car coming and froze. Haber wore a pair of thick blue serge trousers and an old pea-jacket. A man of forty, he was short and thickset with black hair half-concealed by the peaked cap he habitually wore. He went into the wheelhouse at the rear of the barge and slammed the door as Klein pulled alongside the Gargantua, switched off the engine.
Climbing out of the car, carrying a case, he looked round the deserted waterfront and crossed the gangplank linking the barge to the shore. He pushed open the door and entered the wheelhouse. Haber spoke at once.
'I'm not doing any more for you. Don't care what you offer to pay me.'
'Clean up your mortgage on the Rhine barge and leave you a fortune in the bank…'
'Get off my barge. I don't want to see you again. One job was enough. You paid me. I did it. That's it.'
'I think not.' Klein was amiable. 'For a start there is the problem of the Gargantua. There could be traces of the bullion left down in that hold. I warned you about that at the beginning.'
'I'll have her cleaned out. I'll pay for that myself…'