by Colin Forbes
Lara was thinking about something else. She was not convinced by Klein's apparent rejection of Antwerp The fact he had given her no fresh port to explore she felt was highly significant. Giving her appearance a final check, she left the hotel.
**
Hipper noted the deserted country lane ahead, looked in his rear view mirror to make sure nothing was in sight behind, then swung off along the tarred track. The old windmill – which had long ago lost its sails when converted into a private house – reared up behind the trees like a mis-shapen Martello tower.
He parked the car inside the trees, collected the package of tinned foods, bread and thermos of coffee from the back seat, and walked to the solid wooden door at the base of the tower. In his right hand he carried a bunch of keys on a ring. Selecting a large old-fashioned key, he unlocked the door, went inside, relocked it.
A musty smell of a building unoccupied for a long time met him as he climbed the circular staircase to the next floor. On the landing he again selected another key as he stood in front of a heavy wooden door.
He took a minute or so arranging himself. The package of food was tucked under his left arm, his left hand held the key while the right gripped the Walther automatic, safety catch off. He unlocked the door and pushed it wide open.
Martine Haber sat on a chair in front of a crude wooden table, one hand behind her back. No sign of the boy, Lucien. The Luxembourger pursed his lips. His soft voice was slow and menacing as he aimed the gun.
Tell the kid to come out from behind the door. Tell him to stand behind that table or I will shoot you within the next ten seconds.'
Crestfallen, a sullen look of frustration on his face, the lad emerged from behind the door, dropped the leg of the chair he had wrenched from it, and walked to the other side of the table.
'Don't try that again,' Hipper warned. 'And you, woman, put your other hand on your lap.'
With a sigh Martine brought her hand into sight, dropping the container of pepper. She would have risked it when Hipper came closer, but she couldn't risk Lucien's life.
The Luxembourger came closer, the gun now aimed at Lucien. Martine sat very still as Hipper dropped the package on the table. Still pointing the gun at Lucien, he examined the strong padlock which locked the closed shutters over the window.
The Elsan bucket needs emptying,' Martine protested.
'Next time…'
'How much longer…' she began, then stopped.
Hipper had backed to the door, slammed it shut, re-locked it. At the foot of the staircase he checked the telephone cord he had detached from the wall socket. There was an extension phone in Marline's room.
Klein had foreseen at some stage Haber would insist on proof that his family was alive, that they were well. He had called La Montagne, arranged with Hipper to be at the mill at a certain time, then permitted Haber to have a brief conversation with his wife from a public call box.
It was Hipper who had kidnapped Martine and Lucien. He drove back at speed to Larochette. Chabot, the explosives expert from Marseilles, was becoming a pain in the arse. Too restless for Hipper's liking. At least he had accomplished the kidnap well, leaving behind nothing to give the police a clue.
Arriving back at La Montagne, Hipper entered the derelict hotel beneath the cliff face and was immediately grabbed from behind. A vicious knife touched his throat. He froze as he heard Chabot's voice. An almost empty bottle of red wine stood on the sideboard. Chabot's voice was slurred. Oh, God! Chabot was drunk.
'No more screwing around,' Chabot snarled. 'I want to know the target. Now! Or I'll slit your gizzard… '
Hipper's mind blurred. 'Antwerp,' he gasped. 'Have you gone mad?'
'No, just lost patience with hanging around.'
Chabot released the Luxembourger and his voice was normal. No trace of being the worse for drink. The bastard had tricked him. Hipper stared in fury at the Frenchman who tossed the knife with a twirling gesture. It landed beside the bottle, the point stuck in the wood, the blade quivering.
'And I'm going out for a walk. This bleedin' place is like being in prison. Worse – with only you as company…'
'It's not quite dark,' Hipper protested.
'It's not quite dark,' Chabot mimicked and rubbed his swarthy chin. 'I'm still going for a walk. See you, little one.'
Hipper waited until he had gone, realizing it was an excellent opportunity to make the urgent call Klein had told him to deal with late in the day. He took a grubby notebook from his pocket, checked the number of the Hotel Panorama in Bouillon, made the call. He asked for M. Lambert, the name Marler was using.
'And who is calling?' Marler's terse voice enquired after a moment.
'Your friend. You can recognize my voice…'
'Yes. Get on with it.'
'Leave tomorrow for the meeting in Brussels. We hope to complete the business deal. Three o'clock in the afternoon would do nicely.'
'Goodbye.'
Marler slammed down the phone and stood in his bedroom, musing on the message. Tomorrow he'd take up residence in the executive suite at the Hilton Klein had told him about. He took out a map, spread it on the bed and studied it for a few minutes, whistling to himself. Then he folded up the map, shoved it in his pocket and left the hotel.
'No news. No developments.'
Back at Park Crescent in Tweed's office Monica gave the same reply to Howard's question she'd given nine times previously. The SIS chief strolled round the room, brushed a hand over the sleeve of his spotless suit, removing an imaginary speck of dust.
Go away! Monica almost screamed to herself inwardly. He stood by the window, gazing towards Regent's Park. Like a lost soul, Monica thought. Lost because he hasn't Tweed to badger.
'The PM also enquired,' Howard remarked. 'Phoned herself.'
Ten times?'
'Well, actually no. Once.'
'And how did she react?'
'Said that was all right, that Tweed would report back in his own good time,' Howard admitted reluctantly. 'Better get back to my own office. The "in" tray is practically piled up to the ceiling. Keep busy, Monica…'
Condescending so-and-so, she thought. The phone rang within thirty seconds of Howard leaving her in peace. She grabbed for it, expecting Tweed on the line. A muffled voice asked for Tweed.
'He's not here. This is Monica. Can I help?'
'Olympus here. The target is Antwerp. I think.'
'Could you repeat that? The line is bad.' Sounded as if the caller were speaking through a silk handkerchief. 'I did catch the Olympus bit…'
'The target is Antwerp. I think.'
'Thank you. I got it that time…'
The line went dead before she finished speaking. Monica replaced the receiver slowly. Tweed had told her any message from Olympus was top priority, and for his ears only. Now she had to work out how to try and track down Tweed.
Had it been a man or a woman she was talking to? She had no idea – no inkling of sex or age or nationality. Only that the caller had spoken in English. She decided to try Chief Inspector Benoit in Brussels first.
32
That's the Avenue de la Liberte where you'll find the Banque Sambre,' Tweed told Butler. 'Leads up from the Place de la Gare. And there is the station. A train is just coming in from the Brussels direction.'
'It's a weird city. Spectacular,' Newman commented, peering over Tweed's shoulder.
The Alouette was flying at a height of several hundred feet, the whole city lay spread out below, the pilot was in touch with Findel control tower as he continued his descent, and the sun shone brilliantly.
Seen from the air, the site of Luxembourg City looks as though in ages past some pagan god wielded an immense axe and clove the ground, leaving behind a vast and deep gulch like a small Grand Canyon. In places the gulch approaches a quarter-mile in width, over a hundred feet in depth.
Possibly the greatest fortress city in Europe, the precipitous walls of the gorge provided a natural defence against armies which ro
ved this part of the continent – a defence enormously reinforced by Louis the Fourteenth's brilliant architect of forts, Vauban.
The Alouette turned east, following the broad highway which leads through open country to the airport. It landed close to the modern building which houses all the facilities associated with airports, a building whose walls seemed to be constructed of glass.
'I want Cargolux,' Tweed told the pilot as they stood on the tarmac. 'If you want refreshment, we won't need you for a little while.'
Harry Butler had already left them, striding towards the airport building to hire a car. As he walked he folded a copy of an Identikit picture Tweed had given him, a facsimile of the photocopy of Igor Zarov given to Tweed in Switzerland. Tweed had simply told him this was probably a portrait of Klein.
'I need a car urgently,' he told the girl behind the desk. 'The make doesn't matter.'
'Would a Citroen suit you?' she asked in English. 'One of our clients has just left a car before boarding a flight.'
'I'll take it.' He began filling in the form as he spoke. 'How long for me to reach the Avenue de la Liberte?'
'At this time of day, no more than twenty minutes. I have a local map. I will mark out the route…"
Klein had leaned up to look out of the window of the compartment he occupied by himself. The express from Brussels was approaching Luxembourg City. It was the sight of the helicopter which caught his attention, flying several hundred feet up and almost parallel with the train.
He took out his monocular glass – the twin of the one he had given to Lara – and focused it on the machine, steadying the glass by perching his elbow on the window ledge. A police job. The word was clearly visible on the fuselage. With Belgian markings.
It appeared to be keeping pace with the express. Probably on traffic patrol. Klein pocketed the glass. No, that couldn't be the reason for its presence. Not in Luxembourg. Not with Belgian markings.
The express slowed, the platform of the station was gliding past, the train stopped. Klein took the light case he always carried off the seat beside him, stood up and prepared to alight. He was going straight to the Banque Sambre to find out what the devil Brand was up to. It was only a short walk from the station exit. Two minutes later he emerged from the booking hall into a blaze of sunshine.
**
Before boarding the Alouette at Dinant, Paula had asked Tweed for a private word. They strolled along the waterfront while the others went to where the machine was waiting on a section of open land on the opposite bank.
'I'm worried about Marline and Lucien,' she said. 'Could I stay here and see if I can locate them? If I can we'll have broken the hold Klein has over Haber.'
'Good idea in theory,' Tweed agreed. 'How are you going to set about it in practice?'
'Visit all the local estate agents. Have a look at all the properties on their books – especially any bought recently but where the deal hasn't been completed. Some place not too far away from here, but with a remote situation and which has been on the market a good while.' She frowned. 'I'mnot putting this very well, but I've a feeling I'll spot the sort of property Klein would choose when I see it.'
'You could give it a try. After I've made certain enquiries at Findel Airport we'll be flying back here. It's a bit vague though – your specification.'
'Oh, it has to have a telephone which is still in use.'
'I don't follow you.'
'What is the usual sequence of events when a kidnapping takes place? The victim still free – in this case Haber – demands proof from the kidnapper that his family is safe and well. The kidnapper gets over that one by letting him have a brief conversation with whoever has been kidnapped. That means telephone communication must be available. See what I'm driving at?'
'I should have thought of that myself.'
'You have got rather a lot on your mind,' she pointed out.
'Come with me. Before we board the Alouette I'll ask Benoit to liaise with the local police. You'll need one of them with you to have the authority to question estate agents…'
And so Tweed had left Paula in Dinant. While the helicopter was flying them to Findel Airport Paula, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, made a tour of the estate agents. She discovered several properties which were promising and was driven to each of them in turn.
It was dusk when they walked away from a property way out in the Ardennes, a large empty house which had once been a clinic for mental patients – and thus had bars on the windows. Paula was disappointed.
'I had high hopes of that place,' she said to Pierre, the handsome young policeman who was enjoying himself hugely in her company.
'Never mind, Miss, we can try again tomorrow. You still have several left for us to explore. I think we should get back to Dinant before dark.'
'I'm tired out,' she admitted. She studied one brochure before getting into the car. 'I'mwondering about this old mill. It looks pretty remote, was on the market for months before being bought by a Mr Hipper. And the phone is still working. How far away is it?'
Pierre checked the address. 'About fifteen miles from Celle. On a lonely country road which doesn't really lead anywhere. We could try that first tomorrow.'
'Let's do that. Now, back to Dinant.'
At the Cargolux counter at Findel the assistant manager was reluctant to provide any information. Benoit took over the conversation from Tweed, showing his warrant card.
'This is an emergency. Get me the chief of police in Luxembourg City on the phone, a man called Fernand Gansen. Then let me speak to him.'
Tweed glanced round the empty reception hall, its floor gleaming like glass. It was very quiet. He liked small airports. Beyond a window he could see a Luxair machine, its tail painted blue with a large white 'L' symbol. The grassy plain spread out into the distance; no sense of being within miles of a city.
Benoit, after conversing with his colleague, whom he obviously knew well, handed the phone to the airport official. 'Talk to him,' he snapped without a hint of his normal joviality. The conversation was brief, the official replaced the receiver.
'I'm authorized to answer any questions,' he said without enthusiasm.
'I want to know if a large cargo-carrying plane is due here – probably from Frankfurt – within the next few days. And its destination may be Rio do Janeiro,' Tweed suggested.
'Let me check.'
The official examined a large folder filled with large forms already filled in. 'Nothing for Rio,' he said. Tweed sensed he was being cagey and Benoit had the same reaction.
'Look here.' He leaned across the counter. 'Gansen gave you instructions. Don't play with me. Answer my colleague. Any large transport machines?'
'Several…'
'One from Frankfurt?'
'Actually, yes. A Hercules. During the next three days. A detailed flight plan is awaited…'
Extracting the information was like trying to get a loan from a miser. Tweed sensed Benoit was going to explode. He nudged him and stared at the official, his tone pleasant.
'Yes, a Hercules is a big job. Do you handle many shipments of that magnitude?'
'No.'
'But they'd have to give you some rough idea of destination. What is it?'
'South America. Details to follow…'
'Name of the consignee?'
Tweed's eyes held the official's. There was a pause. Tweed waited, standing motionless. 'It is police business,' he reminded him.
'The Zurcher Kredit Bank of Basle.'
Keeping an eye open for traffic patrol cars, Butler pressed his foot down, exceeding the speed limit along the deserted highway. Soon he was inside the city, crossing a bridge which spanned the gorge, turning left up a hill. Fortress walls began to appear.
He drove just inside the speed limit through the old city and green lights were with him all the way. He recrossed the canyon over the Pont Adolphe, at a much greater height than the previous bridge. The gorge was far wider, a great depth and the walls had become immense.
>
He was now driving slowly down the Avenue da le Liberte, the home of so many Luxembourg banks. He saw the Banque Sambre on his side of the broad avenue, cruised past and stopped by a parking meter. Using coins he obtained when he changed money at Findel Airport, he dealt with the meter, then settled down behind the wheel, leaving the engine running.
He adjusted the rear view mirror to give him a perfect view of the entrance to the bank. Checking the Identikit photocopy of Klein, he folded it and put it in his pocket. Brand he would recognize from Newman's description, newspaper reporters were good at that sort of observation.
Butler was now in position to watch anyone who entered – or left – the Banque Sambre. Further down the street was the Place de la Gare where several streets met in front of the old station. He pretended to read the newspaper he'd bought at Findel, giving a convincing impression of waiting to pick up someone.
Klein stood outside the station in the Place de la Gare, in a rare state of indecision. To avoid the sun glare he stood with his back to the taxi rank. He had just come out of a cafe on the far side of the street where he'd consumed a sandwich au jambon and drunk some excellent coffee.
His mood was edgy. He sensed danger and was trying to identify what had alerted him. That Belgian police helicopter? No – he had experienced this phase just before he was mounting an operation.
He couldn't imagine that he'd left behind him anywhere a clue. Not in that weird watchmaking town up in the Jura; not in Geneva; not in Marseilles or Paris, And not on the Meuse.
It was the imminent launch of the vast operation, he decided. He always became even more cautious at this stage. He had planned to walk straight up the Avenue de la Liberte, to catch Brand oil guard at the Banque Sambre. Change of plan.
He went inside a telephone booth and called the bank, dialling the number from memory. Data written in notebooks was dangerous. The operator took a minute or two to put him through to Brand, The banker had been caught off balance. Klein would continue to keep him in that frame of mind. There was surprise in Brand's voice when he came on the line.