Deadlock tac-5

by Colin Forbes

  'It may turn out to be anything but that.'

  28

  After leaving Lara, Klein drove north from Antwerp. He crossed the border near Roosendaal into the flatlands of Holland, driving on through the night along Route D. He had changed cars in Antwerp, hiring an Audi and using false papers in the name of Meyer.

  It was still dark when he drove through Rotterdam, north again, to the ancient town of Delft. Dawn was breaking as he moved along narrow cobbled streets lined with ancient buildings. In the middle of the streets flowed canals crossed by hump-backed bridges. The place was deserted as he left the town, drove a short distance further and turned into a large camping site.

  Neat rows of campers lined the tracks. In many there were lights as the early-rising Dutch prepared breakfast. Grand-Pierre, alerted by his phone call from Antwerp, ushered him inside a larger camper.

  'Coffee?' the Frenchman asked in his own language.

  'Litres of it. I've been driving all night. How far is the training advanced?'

  'Oh, we're ready when you are. I need one day's warning to assemble the whole team here in Delft.'

  'Why?'

  Grand-Pierre, ex-French Foreign legionnaire, didn't even look at Klein as he bent over the coffee percolator. The Frenchman was huge, six feet tall and heavily built with a mane of black hair. He was an expert safecracker who had never been caught. Those large hands must have a delicate touch, Klein thought as he stood in his dark coat, shuffling his feet restlessly in the confined area of the camper. Just the touch needed for handling timers.

  'Why?' Grand-Pierre repeated. 'Because I have over twenty men training in the wilds of Groningen, Holland's northern province. They jog along the beaches, swim in the sea off the Frisian Islands…'

  ' Under the sea, you mean?'

  'Of course. They attached the dummy mine you gave me to the underside of a Dutch fishing vessel…'

  'Wasn't that a risk?' Klein demanded, taking his hands out of his pockets and almost at once thrusting them inside again.

  Grand-Pierre noticed the gesture as he handed over a large mug of steaming coffee. Restless type, he thought, a bundle of energy, always wanting to move on to his next destination the moment he'd arrived. The slow-moving giant glanced at Klein's chalk-white face as his guest swallowed his coffee. Bloody brain-box with his clever face, wherever he came from.

  Not that Grand-Pierre cared. What he cared for was the hard cash paid. As though reading his mind, Klein took a package from his pocket and handed it to the Frenchman with his chamois-gloved hands.

  'Help to keep you going. Expenses, plus the equivalent of twenty thousand francs in Dutch guilder towards your fee.'

  'No risk,' Grand-Pierre replied to Klein's earlier question, 'and you might as well, forget the job. I was there myself, underwater, when they carried out the experiment. They released the mine, swam off, and the fishermen had no idea of what had happened. You said train them, I train them. How far to the target? It's a big team to transport.'

  'Not far. Have the locals got curious about your presence?'

  'Not a whisper. The men are scattered about several camp sites. They're officially on a package deal holiday.-'

  'Any problem bringing in supplies? Food, I mean. They don't eat outside, I hope?'

  'You said not – so they don't. And always a Dutch-speaking man goes into town for food and coffee. No one drinks. One man disobeyed me. I personally hauled him out of a bar.'

  'You disciplined him?'

  'Of course.' Grand-Pierre looked surprised. 'I drove him to a quiet spot on the coast, strangled him, weighted him with chains I had in the boot, dumped him in the sea. Is your coffee OK?'

  Klein drove back to Rotterdam and inside the city of concrete and glass high-rise buildings, beautiful tree-lined shopping arcades. He parked at a meter near the Hilton, walked along a wide street until he found a public phone box, choosing one where several more stood in a row. It would be a long call to London.

  He dialled a number from memory, asked for David Ballard-Smythe, waited. At the other end of the line Ballard-Smythe left his desk at Lloyds of London, walked to the phone.

  'Ballard-Smythe here. Who is this?'

  'You know who it is. Make a note of this number. Call me back within five minutes. I'm in a hurry. Repeat my number. It's in Holland …'

  Ballard-Smythe put down the phone, asked a colleague to watch his desk for half an hour. 'A client who is disabled, can't leave his car.'

  'OK.' The other man looked at him. 'Something wrong? Look as though you're about to give birth.'

  'Well, I'm not. But when you eat an egg for breakfast that's off you don't feel perfect. Be back soon…'

  Ballard-Smythe, a thin, nervous-looking man in his thirties, hurried out of the building. He'd been paid enough for passing on this information, he needed the money when he had a mistress as well as a wife, but now push came to shove he was wishing he hadn't agreed. The hell of it was he'd spent the advance payment Klein had given him two months ago.

  Entering a phone box, he took from his jacket pocket a small leather purse bulging at the seams. Along the top of the telephone directories he arranged a collection of coins. He had an idea he'd be talking for some time.

  No need to check the code for Holland. God knew, in his job he was always calling the great port of Rotterdam. He dialled the number he'd written on a scrap of paper and waited.

  'Who is this?' a distinctive voice asked in English, a voice Ballard-Smythe instantly recognized.

  'Is that you, Klein?'

  'Listen. You've kept checking shipping movements in the area I named?'

  'Daily. As soon as I reach my desk. My first task…'

  'Next Thursday. What have we?'

  'Well,' Ballard-Smythe began, 'at the head of the list we've got the 50,000-ton German cruise liner, Adenauer. Sailing from Hamburg, she stops offshore to take on board other passengers. They come out by lighters from Euro-port. That will be just before sunset…'

  'I know. Get on with it. I haven't the time for long calls. What other shipping?'

  'Couple of supertankers coming up from the south. Then the usual Sealink ferry will be arriving from Harwich. Oh, and a 10,000-ton freighter, the Otranto, from Genoa. Plus three large container jobs up from Africa. There'll be a fleet of shipping approaching Europort. The Adenauer will heave to about a mile offshore – giving plenty of free passage for the other vessels to move in.'

  Thank you,' said Klein.

  That's all?' Ballard-Smythe was surprised.

  'Not quite,' Klein said. 'You have the key to a safe deposit I gave you – but you don't know where it is.'

  That's right. The one containing the second payment in cash.'

  Take down these details…'

  Klein gave him the name and address of the bank, very close to where Ballard-Smythe was phoning from. He scribbled the details on the back of the same scrap of paper.

  The third and final payment – the big one – will be delivered to you by registered post in ten days' time…'

  'Not to my home?' Ballard-Smythe sounded alarmed.

  'Of course not. To your office. And in that safe deposit box you will find three packages numbered one, two, three. Take the first two, leave number three.'

  'What's inside it?'

  'Worthless share certificates. The box is paid for over the period of the next year. It will seem more normal if you leave something in the box. Goodbye.'

  The connection was broken. Ballard-Smythe checked his watch. He still had time to go to the safety deposit before he was expected back at the office. He couldn't wait to get at the contents.

  At the bank he showed his driver's licence as identification, was escorted down to the vault and the box reserved in his name. He followed Klein's instructions, taking the first two packages, leaving the third.

  Returning to the office he went straight to the wash-room and locked himself inside the end cubicle. Envelope One contained one hundred?20 notes.?2,000. The second, he
avier package contained a bottle of Napoleon brandy. Funny chap, Klein. Ballard-Smythe remembered discussing drink with him in a pub two months earlier. He'd told Klein how his wife only drank wine, but his favourite tipple was brandy.

  At lunchtime he phoned his mistress, Peggy, who worked as a secretary in an insurance office nearby. He met her in a small restaurant not frequented by colleagues. At the coffee stage he handed her a freshly sealed envelope containing the money.

  'Keep that safe in your flat,' he told her. 'In the usual place – under that loose floorboard beneath your dressing table

  Ballard-Smythe dare not take the money home. His wife, Sue, had a habit of going through his suit prior to pressing it. And he hadn't been able to think of a really secure hiding place in his own house.

  That evening, arriving at his detached house in Walton-on-Thames, he felt nervous. To cover up, he suggested a drink as soon as they sat in the living room, waiting for the meal to be ready. He poured her a glass of wine, then produced the bottle of brandy.

  'Must have cost a bit, that,' Sue, a thin-faced brunette observed.

  'Present from a satisfied customer.'

  He poured a generous snifter, raised his glass and took the first long sip. He dropped the glass, clutched at his throat, gave an agonized gurgle and slumped to the floor. The doctor had the unpleasant task of telling Sue he was dead. The post-mortem confirmed what the doctor had suspected. Death from cyanide poisoning.

  In Rotterdam Klein went into a bar and ordered coffee. He never drank alcohol – he hated anything which muddled his brain. He looked round the bar at the polished wooden tables, the spotless quarry-tiled floor, the curtains which were so clean. Very Dutch. As he drank his coffee he checked again over the operation in his mind.

  Timers. Scuba divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.

  Timers. They were due to arrive within a few hours, hidden inside the load of gravel aboard the barge, Erika, Haber would, as arranged, dock his barge at Waalhaven, only a few minutes' drive from where he sat. And Klein would be waiting for him.

  Scuba divers. The whole team now based in Delft, a ten-minute train ride from north of Rotterdam. And Grand-Pierre was putting them through their paces – not only training them but keeping them occupied.

  Marksman. The Monk was certainly well occupied. By now he'd be on his way to Les Dames de Meuse. His mission should prove good practice for what was coming. He had to kill Newman.

  Lara. The sacrificial goat – as he now thought of her -was happily enjoying the luxury of the Mayfair Hotel in Brussels. Doubtless she'd be passing her time exploring the magnificent shops in the Avenue Louise arcade.

  Explosives. Safely stashed away. Stored in a very secure place. And only a few hours' travel time away from the target area.

  Banker. He would just have time to fly to and consult with Peter Brand. The arrangements the banker had made were the key to the whole operation.

  As he finished his coffee Klein thought of the information confirmed to him by Ballard-Smythe over the phone. Everything was working out well. The German cruise liner, Adenauer, was a key element. It carried a complement of over a thousand passengers bound for a Mediterranean holiday ending at Alexandria in Egypt with a paddle steamer trip up the Nile.

  More than half the Adenauer's passengers were American – who had flown to Hamburg from New York. They had been reassured by the fact that the German owners had employed Brinks, the American security organization, to check the ship and everyone who went aboard.

  Once sea-mines were attached to the hull of the Adenauer – with enough explosive power to blow the liner sky-high – he was confident Washington would play it low key, make no attempt to interfere with his ransom demand. Not with the lives of over five hundred Americans at stake.

  Of course they'd have to be convinced he meant business. That meant a demonstration involving a large number of casualties. In Klein's mind he was simply conducting with great precision a wartime-style operation. Now to take a second look at the target.

  Klein drove along the tunnel under the river to reach the south bank. Then he turned west and headed for Europoort as the Dutch spelt it.

  Europort. The greatest port in the whole world, handling a vast tonnage of goods coming in to feed and keep the wheels of industry turning. The Gateway to Europe. Nothing less,

  If blocked off – closed down – whole nations would reel under the chaos. They could, he thought as he drove out of Rotterdam, organize a Berlin-style 1948 air lift. But that had been to help a city under siege survive. A continent under siege could never survive with the aid of only air transport.

  The highway ran on and on as he left Rotterdam behind. it was twenty kilometres from the centre of Rotterdam to Europort, thirty kilometres to what the Dutch called the Nord Zee. He began to pass target points. Shell-Mex oil refinery No. 1. Shell-Mex oil refinery No. 2. The huge Esso oil complex. The bombs would be placed there – and in other places. No oil, no Europe.

  Beyond Rotterdam the land becomes very like a desert – with large open areas of sandy stretches of wilderness. Not a tree in sight. He drove on and on along what was now a deserted highway. The salt tang of a strong wind came in through the window off the North Sea. To his right side roads led away to the dock installations. The attack team would be given maps showing their objectives by Grand-Pierre twenty-four hours before the operation was launched.

  Certain tradesmen's vans and trucks would be stolen only a few hours before then. The transport to be used had already been located, the habits and timings of the drivers noted.

  Klein swung off the road across an area of scrubby grass and sand towards a huge concrete breakwater. He parked the car in the same spot he'd used during his reconnaissance weeks earlier. Buttoning up his black coat to the collar, he rammed his wide-brimmed black hat firmly over his head and stepped out.

  No one else was in sight as he climbed to the top of the breakwater and stared out across the endless ripples of the North Sea. Only one vessel was in sight, a huge dredger. He took a monocular glass from his pocket, and focused it on the vessel.

  A massive craft with a large crane on deck, it was dredging the mouth to the New Waterway, the entrance to the whole system of communication with the heartland of Europe. He scanned the vessel from stem to stern, lowered his glass, nodded to himself with satisfaction as he returned to the car. The dredger would be the first vessel to be sunk with all hands.

  29

  Tweed arrived at Brussels Airport the following morning. He was accompanied by Harry Butler and Paula. It was only when Monica walked into his office, cured of her flu, that he asked Paula to join them.

  'You take over here at base, Monica,' he had instructed. He spent half an hour putting her in the picture. Paula marvelled at his gift for explaining so swiftly all that had happened. She marvelled equally at Monica's ability to absorb the data.

  'Monica takes over as from now,' Monica announced when Tweed had finished. She glanced at Paula. 'Your real baptism of fire is coming up, I sense…'

  The truth was Tweed had felt – as he had in the past -that a climax was close, that he would need all the back-up he could muster. He hurried off the aircraft in Brussels. He had called Chief Inspector Benoit the night before, asking for certain facilities.

  Benoit, a jovial portly man of forty with a great beaked nose, light brown hair and shrewd eyes ushered them into an airport security office which had been placed at his disposal. From his expression Tweed saw the Belgian took an immediate fancy to Paula.

  'Don't know how you stand this slave-driving boss of yours,' he commented in English.

  'Oh, I just bend with the wind.'

  Tweed could understand Benoit's reaction. Paula was kitted out in a suede zip-up and form-fitting jacket, a suede skirt and wore leather knee-length boots. Cups of strong black coffee arrived and Benoit got down to business the moment they were alone.

  'A chopper is waiting on the tarmac, an Alouette. As per your request.' He opened a br
ief-case and brought out a sheaf of charts which he dumped on the table in front of Tweed. 'Those are from the Navigation Institute of Waterways. They extend down the Meuse across the border into France. I rang Lasalle in Paris as you suggested.'

  'His reaction?'

  'Surprising. Electric when I mentioned your name. He's flying to Givet just south of Dinant. And we have permission to overfly the frontier if necessary. What are we looking for?'

  'A missing Belgian barge. The Gargantua. It sailed from Dinant upstream towards Les Dames de Meuse and hasn't been seen since. I want to find it.'

  'May be a problem – in the Dames de Meuse – if we don't find it further downstream. The chopper pilot warned me. They get heavy mists in that area. The Ardennes rise to thirteen hundred feet. On either side of the river. Imagine the risk our chopper pilot will face if you want a closer look.'

  'I think, Paula,' Tweed said, 'you'd better wait here until we return.'

  Paula, her forearms rested on the table, sat very erect, clasping her hands as she stared at Tweed. 'Paula did not come to drink coffee hour after hour in an airport. Remember Monica? My real baptism of fire, she said. When do we leave?'

  Tweed glanced at Butler who shrugged his shoulders. 'Better give in now. She's a will of her own, this one has. And a pair of sharp eyes. May come in very useful.'

  'Thank you for the vote of confidence, Harry,' Paula said, giving him her warmest smile.

  That was when the phone rang. Benoit reached for it. 'I told Grand'Place they could get me here,' he told Tweed. He listened, spoke in French, then handed the receiver to Tweed.

  'It's Lasalle in Paris – for you. He rang London and they told him you should be at Grand'Place…'

  'Tweed speaking…'

  'The Parrot never gives up, my friend,' Lasalle boomed. 'He has followed your girl friend. I have a surprise. Lara Seagrave is on your doorstep.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'She is staying at the Mayfair Hotel, Avenue Louise in Brussels. She has returned from Antwerp – where she followed her usual routine. Took many photographs of the port area. And watched many ships through her binoculars. The Parrot is furious about one thing. She left her hotel in Antwerp to visit a street of ill fame, the Boekstraat. The Parrot thinks she met someone there – but he didn't know there was a rear exit. Have you traced Klein yet?'