Deadlock tac-5

by Colin Forbes

  'Really, you don't seem to understand.' Klein was patient, as though dealing with a not too bright child. 'Very fine grains of the bullion could be discovered by police forensic experts. We can't risk it. The barge must go – as we planned. You can get the insurance on it afterwards She has to be sunk where we arranged, Haber. And I have something for you to transport aboard your other barge, the Erika. Nothing so bulky or troublesome, this time. In fact, the case I am holding. I really must insist…'

  'And I told you last time enough was enough. So bugger off…'

  'Haber, you have a longer trip to make this time with this.' Klein put the case down on the wheelhouse floor, his manner calm and confident. 'And I see your partner, Broucker, is on board the Erika further downstream. He must come with us on our trip to Les Dames de Meuse. When we have got rid of the Gargantua we then drive back here and I'll tell you your new destination.'

  'I said get off my barge…'

  'Really, you must think of your family. The charming Martine, your wife, and your young son, Lucien.' He dropped a brooch on the ledge of the wheelhouse.

  Haber stared at it in horror. The horror turned to fury as he lurched forward, grabbing for Klein's throat with both hands. 'What have you done with them, you bastard? If you have harmed either…'

  'They are both in a safe place.' Klein grasped Haber by his wrists, forced him to sit down in the captain's chair. The grip felt like a vice of steel. 'Now quieten down. You are going to make a lot of money. I know you're ambitious. You will be able to buy a fleet of barges. Please keep still – we don't want anyone to see us struggling, do we? Not if your family is to remain safe and well-fed…'

  Inside the wheelhouse aboard the Nantes, a third barge upstream from the Gargantua, Willy Boden turned to his wife, Simone. 'I think Haber is having an argument with that peculiar chap, Klein. No, don't stand up or they'll see us.'

  'I don't like the look of that Klein,' Simone replied, stroking her long hair, 'I think he's trouble…'

  'It's Haber's business, not ours. Let's finish our meal.'

  Half an hour later he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and peered towards Dinant. 'That's funny,' he remarked. The Gargantua is leaving. Moving upstream towards the French border and Les Dames de Meuse. Haber was loaded up with gravel. And Broucker has closed the hatches of the Erika. He's joined Haber aboard the Gargantua. Why would he do that? Why would Haber sail upstream when he always takes the gravel downstream to Liege?'

  'What about that man, Klein?' Simone snapped.

  'He must still be on board. His car is parked by the mooring they have left.'

  I think something is wrong. My intuition tells me…'

  'If we steered this barge by your intuition we'd hit the bank ten times a day. I told you, it's none of our business.

  And Haber does not like interference. We forget it. The deck is in need of a wash-down…'

  Further upstream the Gargantua proceeded towards the citadel towering above Dinant. Klein was satisfied all was well and no one had noticed his confrontation with Haber.

  'This is Sampiero Calgourli,' Lasalle introduced.

  Tweed and Newman made no attempt to shake hands since the Union Corse chief remained seated when Lasalle had told him their names. They followed Lasalle's example and sat down in the dark room cluttered with old-fashioned furniture.

  Calgourli's headquarters was an apartment near the meat market in the southern area of Paris. Swarthy-faced, the Corsican had very wide shoulders in proportion to his lack of height. His neck was thick, his hair dark and greasy, his moustache curved round the corners of a cruel mouth.

  'Who are these people?' Calgourli demanded.

  'Mr Tweed is a very powerful man in England, Mr Newman is his protector. Both – like me – are interested in everything you can tell us about the man known as The Recruiter.'

  'And why should I tell you anything – even if I knew about this man?'

  'Look here, Calgourli…' Lasalle leaned forward. His manner was transformed. All hint of good humour had gone. His expression was grim, his tone tough. '… One day you will need a favour. I make a good friend – and a very bad enemy. I could get the idea into my head it would be an idea to investigate your Italian connection.'

  'Please, my friend!' Calgourli spread his gnarled hands and he smiled, showing bad teeth. 'I merely ask a simple question. I like to know where I stand…'

  'The Recruiter,' Lasalle repeated.

  'Not a man I would do business with. He tried though -this Klein.'

  'Excuse me,' Tweed intervened in French. 'You say his name is Klein?'

  'That is the name he uses. You think that is his real name? He probably has half-a-dozen. He comes here with an introduction from a man in Marseilles. Little does he know I am no longer a friend of this man. I think Perugini has a perverted sense of humour.' He made a dismissive gesture. 'No doubt he extracted a fee for the introduction from Klein.'

  'What did Klein want from you?' Lasalle snapped.

  To recruit one of my associates. A man who is an explosives expert and a scuba diver. Now, Mr Lasalle, where would I find a man like that?'

  'In five minutes on your doorstep – if you wanted to. What was your reply?'

  'I told him to go fishing – something like that. Perhaps I was a little crude…'

  'How did he react to that?' Lasalle pressed.

  'Very calmly. He is a very cold man. I do not mind admitting I was glad I had a friend with me. Klein is a man who would carve up a corpse if he thought the corpse had pearls in its belly. And he laid down absurd conditions for his fee.' Calgourli stirred himself, rang a bell on the table by his side. 'Maurice! Bring wine.'

  Lasalle watched as a thin young man with blank eyes came in, laid a tray of glasses and a bottle of red wine on the table. Calgourli poured wine, offered a glass to each of his guests. Tweed sipped cautiously. Vin ordinaire. Very ordinary. He loathed red wine but thought it best not to disturb the atmosphere. The old ruffian, he felt certain, could be explosively touchy.

  'I trust,' Lasalle began, 'that Maurice is not listening in to this conversation.'

  'If he was I'd cut off an ear.'

  'What were these absurd conditions?' enquired Tweed.

  'That the man he hired should leave Paris that night, that he should tell no one he was leaving, that no one should know his destination – including myself! I do not work in such ways – even had he asked for someone I could have supplied.'

  'How much?' Lasalle asked laconically, not touching his wine.

  'Pardon?'

  'Oh, come on, for God's sake. I'm losing patience with you. What fee did he offer you?'

  'Fifty thousand francs – with a second payment of the same amount when my man had left Paris.'

  'Could you please describe this Klein?' Tweed asked.

  'About a hundred and eighty centimetres tall, about eighty kilogrammes in weight. Colour of hair – no idea. He wore a black beret and a silk scarf which covered the back of his neck. I didn't like his eyes.'

  'What colour?' Tweed continued.

  'No idea. He wore those wrap-round tinted glasses…'

  'Then why didn't you like the eyes – if you couldn't see them?'

  This man is a policeman?' Calgourli asked Lasalle.

  'Answer his question.'

  'I could only see the eyes vaguely, but all the time he was in this room they stared at me from behind those tinted lenses. Ah, yes, and his face was white as death – a death mask.'

  'How did he take your refusal?' Lasalle asked.

  'He seemed amused.' Calgourli's lips tightened at the memory. 'He said if I didn't want to do business that was it.' Calgourli paused, looking at Lasalle. 'I can tell you one thing which would greatly interest you – if you would regard it as a great favour. You know what I mean?'

  'Let me be the judge of that.'

  'He has hired The Monk, the deadliest marksman in Europe.'

  'Amazing,' Lasalle remarked as he settled himself behind t
he wheel of his car beside Tweed with Newman in the back. 'The old villain was actually scared of this Klein. Never before have I heard of anything scaring him.'

  'At least we have a name – Klein,' Tweed remarked. 'And one of my contacts in another country used the same name.'

  'And what use is that?' Lasalle asked as he started the engine and drove off. 'It is a common enough name. Have you any idea how many Kleins there are in France, Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany?'

  'A check on the Interpol computer here might be worth while,' Tweed persisted. 'And I didn't like the news that he has hired The Monk. I've heard of that man – a shadow which passes in the night. Leaving behind a body.'

  'So shadowy no one has been able to pin anything on him,' Lasalle remarked. 'But it's very bad news. What kind of hellish operation can this Klein be planning? Hijacking a cruise liner?'

  'If something is planned I don't think so,' Tweed said. 'I fear it could be something much bigger. Don't ask me what. But Calgourli did provide at long last what I've been looking for. Some facts.'

  'Such as?' asked Newman.

  'Explosives, scuba divers, and a top marksman. The Monk.'

  'Come to check up on me?' Marler asked cheerfully. 'Making sure I was still in Bouillon?'

  'I came to reassure you on our mutual friend's instruction,' Hipper said as they wandered through the streets of the small town. 'To tell you we should be ready soon now. It is very important you remain available at the Panorama…'

  'I'm not staying hemmed in by the four walls of a hotel bedroom day after day. If you phone and I'm out, call back.'

  'That is not entirely satisfactory…'

  'Nothing in life ever is.'

  'I will leave you here. Go straight back to your hotel.'

  'On the double. Sir.'

  Marler gave the Luxembourger a brief mock salute, turned and disappeared round a corner. He ran to where he had parked his newly-hired Volvo, unlocked it, got behind the wheel and started the engine. Ramming a black beret on his head, he perched a pair of dark glasses on his nose and drove to the corner where Hipper was just getting into a Peugeot station wagon.

  He followed Hipper past the castle relic which loomed over the town and settled down to keeping the Peugeot in sight. They had left him marooned in the nowhere place of Bouillon. Not good enough. He needed some idea of where Hipper was based. You couldn't know too much about your employer in his line of business.

  Hipper drove north through the Ardennes, then turned west. Marler had managed to avoid being spotted when Hipper arrived in Givet, the small French town just inside the frontier and south of Dinant.

  Marler drove across the bridge over the river Meuse, turned on to the Quai des Fours, and realized he'd lost Hipper. He parked the Volvo and went into a cafe overlooking the waterfront for some coffee. 'Can't win them all,' he thought as he gazed out of the window.

  A barge was gliding past, moving steadily upstream after passing through the lock. The Gargantua. Marler never gave it a second look as he finished his coffee and called for the bill.

  In Paris Lara Seagrave came out of the public phone box and walked to Smiths' tea-room for morning coffee. She looked round after ordering to see if Tweed happened to be there. He was nowhere in sight. Well, she was used to drinking her coffee alone.

  **

  'I have a call to make,' Tweed told Newman after Lasalle had dropped them at the France et Choiseul. 'From a phone box. Only take a minute. There's one up this street.'

  'I'll wait outside then,' Newman replied. 'Take your time. I've plenty to think about. I have an idea I've forgotten to tell you something significant.'

  Tweed entered the booth, dialled his Park Crescent number. Paula came on the line immediately. Only a brief greeting, then she came to the point.

  'Jacob Rubinstein called you. Said he had something urgent to report. He'll only talk to you. Have you his number?'

  'Yes. I'm still in Paris. I'll phone him when I've finished this call. There may be a call from someone calling themselves Olympus. Like the mountain in Greece…'

  They called fifteen minutes ago. Is it a man or a woman?'

  'Can't tell you that.' Tweed sounded anxious. 'What was the message?'

  'The voice was muffled – like someone talking through tissue paper. Couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. I got them to repeat the message. It's very short. It's the Meuse, the river Meuse. That was it. OK?'

  'Very,' said Tweed.

  Noticing Tweed's absorbed expression Newman kept quiet until they were inside Tweed's room at the France et Choiseul. He waited again until room service had brought the coffee Tweed ordered.

  'I haven't remembered the significant bit, but I have recalled a couple of other items I didn't tell you. I must be slipping.'

  'You didn't have much time after you arrived at Park Crescent. Then you drove me to Heathrow. The plane was full, so we couldn't talk then. And Lasalle met us at Charles de Gaulle. What are the two items?'

  'First, checking Portch's movements after he left Brighton I found there was a six-month gap before he took over at Cockley Ford. The barman whose place overlooks the harbour at Blakeney told me Portch arrived with his furniture, found there was some cock-up in the timing, and went to Holland for about six months.'

  'Probably took a locum job.' Tweed was studying a Michelin map of the general area of the Meuse he'd purchased at Smiths' bookshop. 'What was the other thing?'

  'You said there were six new graves of villagers who died during the meningitis epidemic. I didn't have much chance to take a good look – Portch and that thug, Grimes, were breathing down my neck. But I'm sure there were seven. Could you have miscounted?'

  He had Tweed's full attention now. Tweed pursed his lips in an effort to think back to his night at Cockley Ford. Such a lot had happened since.

  'I can't be sure,' he admitted. 'But we can't worry about it now. We have to split forces. I have to take the express to Brussels to check on that banker, Peter Brand. And damnit, I forgot to call Jacob Rubinstein. I'll do that on our way out to get a quick snack. Here it's a full-dress effort, will take too long.'

  'You said we have to split forces…'

  'Yes. I want you to hire a car and drive to Dinant on the Meuse just across the border in Belgium. Klein may have made one mistake. Which is what I have been waiting for.'

  'What mistake?'

  'This.' Tweed opened a drawer, took out a tissue-wrapped package and handed it to Newman. The foreign correspondent unfolded the paper and stared at the small gingerbread house. He looked at Tweed and shook his head.

  'A couque,' said Tweed. 'A speciality type of gingerbread – and one of the local industries of Dinant. When you arrive, find a bargee, see if this Klein has ever been seen in the area. Follow it up in any way you like. And if you want to get in touch with me quickly call this number.' He wrote on a page from his notebook, handed it to Newman. "That's the number of Brussels police headquarters off the Grand' Place. Chief Inspector Victor Benoit is an old friend of mine – and a very tough policeman. Now, let's get moving.'

  'Hold on a sec. Why this interest in barges?'

  'I may have been thick. A chance remark Paula made while we were back in Basle at the Drei Konige came into my mind before I fell asleep last night. That bullion I told you about – the big haul stolen from those two banks in Basle – may just have been transported from under the noses of the Swiss police. By barge down the Rhine, then maybe via the Canal de Haul Rhin and north to Dinant.'

  "That's a long shot,' Newman objected as they stood up to leave.

  'The whole business is a very long shot…'

  Tweed used the same phone box he had called Paula from to contact Jacob Rubinstein. The bullion merchant came on the line and Tweed announced his identity.

  'Could you tell me, first, what you were wearing the day you came to see me? If you don't mind…'

  'I applaud your caution. Navy-blue serge suit, white shirt, polka dot tie, a Burberry…'


  'I won't mention names on the phone, Mr Tweed. I am referring to the man whose name I gave you. Do you understand?'

  'Perfectly. Please go on.'

  'In my business we hear things. We are on the phone daily to most of the world financial centres. We hear rumours – sometimes very unusual ones. We get so we can sort out the wheat from the chaff, to discount nonsense. Regarding the man we spoke of, I have just heard he has arranged for a truly enormous amount of bullion to be held available by the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. It is supposed to be for a loan to some unnamed South American country. I find it peculiar – the amount combined with the urgency.'

  'How much bullion?'

  'Two hundred million pounds' worth.'

  'Thank you for informing me, Mr Rubinstein. It may or may not be significant. I thank you anyway. Goodbye.'

  Tweed hurried out of the box. 'Back to the hotel. You'll be able to get a meal later. I'll get dinner aboard the Brussels express.' He was striding out along the pavement, checking his watch.

  'A development?' Newman enquired.

  'Peter Brand, the shady banker, has just arranged for bullion to the value of two hundred million pounds to be held ready for swift delivery at the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. That could be the ransome amount Klein -Zarov if it is him – will demand for the West to avoid a major catastrophe. Lysenko told me Zarov wanted to make a fortune while still young. If so, we could be running out of time. He may be ready soon to launch his operation. Drive like hell for Dinant.'

  They had almost reached the hotel when Newman realized Tweed had been listening to him earlier.

  'If you're right, I wonder who is occupying that seventh grave at Cockley Ford?'

  25

  Eighty miles east of Paris – beyond Rheims – Newman's hired Peugeot broke down in the middle of nowhere. There was no other traffic in the middle of the night, no sign of human habitation for miles.

  He slaked his thirst with water from the plastic canister he always carried on motor journeys, made himself as comfortable as possible, and slept through the rest of the night.