by Colin Forbes
'Klein? Where are you?
'Luxembourg City.'
'You might have warned me…'
'No reason to. I hope? Meet me half an hour from now. At the Hotel Cravat. Ask for my friend, Max Volpe. Arrange for one of your secretaries ~ someone you can trust – to come to the same place a quarter of an hour after you've left. She also is to ask for Max Volpe. My friend's room. See you…'
'Wait a minute!' A hint of annoyance in Brand's upper crust voice. 'I have a full engagement book I can probably squeeze you in…'
'Check your watch. Thirty minutes from now.'
Klein replaced the receiver Discipline. Instant obedience. The only way to keep the upper hand. And Brand was about to make another fortune Or so he thought…
He walked out of the booth, climbed inside a cab.
'Hotel Cravat, if you please.'
Klein asked for a double room, registered in the name Max Volpe – another advantage of operating inside the Common Market. The Swiss were meticulous (pedantic was the word Klein used) about hotel registration and often asked to see your passport.
He was given a room on the first floor overlooking the Place de la Constitution and a panoramic view of the curving chasm beyond. Locking the door, he dumped his case on the bed, took out his make-up box and went to the bathroom.
Standing in front of the mirror over the wash-basin he applied foundation cream and then the light-coloured face powder. The face which stared back at him was now chalk-white. Returning to the bedroom, he took a black beret from his case, pulled it well down so it concealed all trace of his black hair.
He next took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the case and perched them on the bridge of his nose. The final item which completed the transformation was a curved pipe, the bowl already filled with tobacco which he'd tamped into the pipe aboard the express.
Stripping off his jacket and trousers, he substituted an old and worn sports jacket and a pair of grey slacks. He repacked the suit and closed and locked the case. Taking a label from his wallet, he penned in capitals the name Max Volpe and attached the label to the case. The make-up box he slipped inside his raincoat pocket.
He stood for a moment, checking over in his mind the sequence of events he had planned. Yes, everything was ready. He walked back into the bathroom and double-checked his appearance. The smartly-dressed businessman who had walked into the Cravat was now replaced by a professorial type.
And there would be no trouble at reception when he left. While registering he had insisted on paying two days in advance for the room, explaining he might have to leave urgently to attend a conference.
He was standing by the circular corner window, looking down into the rue Chimay, when the phone rang. Reception calling. A Mr Brand had arrived, asking for Mr Volpe.
**
In the rear view mirror Butler saw Newman's word picture of Peter Brand emerge from the Banque Sambre and climb into the red Lamborghini. He dropped his newspaper and waited, knowing Brand had to drive past him. Avenue de la Liberte was a one-way street – except for the buses.
Brand wore a small-check suit and a deerstalker hat. Flashy type. Plus the car. One of the boys. Played hell with the women. Butler had him summed up in seconds. He pulled out and followed the Lamborghini.
Brand turned left at the bottom of the Avenue and before he reached the Place de la Gare. Butler had a rough mental plan of Luxembourg City in his mind – after a few minutes' study of the street chart the car girl at Findel had provided. It looked as though Brand was heading back -along the one-way system – by the same route Butler had entered the city. Was it Findel?
Brand streaked across the Viaduct spanning the gorge, past the British Ambassador's residence perched on a projecting plateau above the gorge, past the Cathedral, was then stopped by lights. Which enabled Butler to drive up closer one car behind the banker.
Brand then turned off into the rue Chimay, braked savagely, waited for a girl to leave her slot. Butler drove slowly past, spotted another empty slot, parked his car and was in time to follow Brand walking back down the street.
The banker walked past the ground floor restaurant of the Hotel Cravat, disappearing inside the main entrance. Butler arrived as he left the reception counter and entered a waiting elevator.
The lobby was medium-sized, had a sitting area from where the two elevators and the staircase could be observed. Butler settled into an armchair, took out his newspaper and saw by the lights over the elevator that Brand had alighted on the first floor. A rendezvous?
He checked the layout of the place as he slowly turned the pages of the paper. Almost opposite the staircase was the entrance to the downstairs restaurant from the hotel. On his way down rue Chimay Butler had noted there was a separate entrance to that restaurant direct from the street. Obviously a place used by the locals as well as guests. He crossed his legs and prepared to wait. Butler, a patient man, was good at waiting.
'Something damned peculiar going on,' commented Newman.
'What is that?' asked Benoit.
Tweed had led the way to the canteen at Findel Airport and the three men were sitting at a table by themselves, the only customers in the whole place.
The Zurcher Kredit Bank – the consignee for that huge transport aircraft – is one of the two Swiss banks a load of bullion was stolen from a few months ago,' Tweed explained.
'Of course! I should have remembered. I don't understand.'
'Neither do I,' Newman agreed, 'but we are on to something. No doubt about that. Just what, I'm not sure.'
'We may be on to the smooth Colonel Romer, the director of the Zurcher Kredit I saw in Basle. I never could understand that bank raid business.'
'Understand what?' Benoit enquired.
'How any gang could take out ten million in bullion from two banks in the centre of Basle and move the loot. Eventually I suspected one of Haber's barges might have been used to spirit it away. That would mean only a short journey for the trucks used to transport the bullion – down to the Rhine. But still it seemed tricky – unless it was achieved with the help of an insider. And now I think we'd better move fast – with the aid of your Alouette once more, Benoit. Back to Brussels. From there I can call Arthur Beck, chief of the Swiss Federal Police, and warn him about Colonel Romer. I think Klein's operation is just about to start.'
'And the target?' queried Newman.
'Wish to God I knew.'
'What about Harry Butler?'
'I arranged with him while we were flying here that he caught a train back to Brussels – or drove there. Depends whether he finds anything at the Banque Sambre. I wonder how Harry is getting on? Still, he's quite capable of running his own show.' He drank the last of his coffee, stood up.
'Can we get moving?'
'The Alouette is at your disposal,' responded Benoit.
'Beautiful weather this, sir,' the concierge remarked to Butler as he stood by the door. He was a friendly soul who obviously liked a chat, a short man with an ample stomach.
'It is, indeed,' replied Butler.
A girl in her early thirties with raven black hair came in from the street, rushed up to the empty counter and stared round. The concierge walked over and asked if he could help.
'I've come to see Mr Max Volpe. He's expecting me.'
'Let me just call his room first…'
Butler studied the girl while the concierge used the phone. She wore long black pants, a white shirt under her black jacket and a man's bow tie. Her whole style of dress was mannish, which Butler disliked. The concierge said something to her after replacing the receiver and she hurried inside an empty elevator. Butler noticed she got off at the first floor as the concierge came back.
'Funny way for a girl to dress,' Butler went on in English.
'I don't fancy the type much myself, sir – between you and me. She's from the Banque Sambre. I've seen her there when I've been in to make payments. I gather she's personal assistant to Mr Brand.'
'Really?' sai
d Butler as though the remark meant nothing.
'What is it?' Brand asked testily as Klein locked the bedroom door. This time he was going to assert himself. 'I do know what I'm doing.'
'Just what are you doing here?'
Klein had removed the spectacles before opening the door and the pipe was inside his pocket. His voice was cold, his tone clipped when he asked the question in English. He stared at the banker.
The eyes again worried Brand. He felt his assertive manner slipping. Klein had addressed him like the chairman of the board questioning a director's ability.
'I came here specially to check the arrangements for movement of the bullion from Frankfurt. The Deutsche Bank is getting restless. They want to know details of the collateral to safeguard the bullion.'
'I thought you were going to form a consortium of bankers to guarantee that. And to contribute a small fraction yourself?'
'It's proved more difficult than I expected…'
'Because you can't produce your own contribution. You gamble it all away at Monte. And you're paying interest on loans out of capital – just like that swindler, the Swede Kreuger, did in the 1930s.'
'How did you know that?' Brand's face was ashen.
'I check out the people I deal with – before I deal with them. No more chatter. What is the position now?'
'The Deutsche Bank is holding the bullion for ten more days. How close is the operation?'
Transport arrangements?' Klein demanded curtly, ignoring the question.
The Hercules machine is reserved for our use. What about the air crew?'
'They will be taken over when the aircraft is in mid-air on its way to Findel – by my own air crew.'
Klein thought it unwise to tell Brand the original crew would be shot out of hand, the bodies dumped in the Atlantic. A bit too strong for the Englishman's nerves.
'I'll want to see you again quickly in Brussels,' he went on. 'How long are you hanging about here?'
'I fly back to Brussels aboard my executive jet later this afternoon…'
'See you stay at the Avenue Louise until I contact you. Better push off now – you have that heavy engagement book to deal with.'
'No one else knows about those loans?' Brand asked as he moved towards the door.
'Of course not. And no one knows you're using capital to send money to your wife in New York. The Belgian woman who thinks it's interest, that you're a whizz kid banker. The woman who is hopping in and out of bed with all and sundry. As you well know.'
He locked the door when Brand had left. No point in telling him Klein had used him to obtain the bullion – after using him to sell the earlier consignments from the Swiss robberies – because he knew Brand was in a financial mess.
Terror and money were the two factors which influenced men. It was a favourite maxim of Klein's. Carrot and stick, as the English put it. There was a knock on the door. He opened it and a girl wearing a peculiar black outfit stood outside.
'I met Mr Brand on his way out. He said I should come to see you.'
'Come inside.' He locked the door again, saw her expression, shook his head. 'Your virginity is safe. Now, listen. Take this case down to the restaurant at street level. Give it to the head waitress. Tell her to keep it until I come down for a meal. Then go back to the bank. Clear?'
'Yes. I mention your name?'
'Why not? It's on the label.'
Alone once more, Klein put on his glasses, clenched the pipe stern between Ins teeth, took the black beret from a drawer and rammed it on his head. He checked his watch.
Timing perfect. He'd worked it all out standing in the Place de la Gare, He would arrive at Findel, buy his ticket and board the flight for Brussels.
Something funny was going on. Seated in the lobby Butler finished off the glass of beer the concierge had brought him from the restaurant and checked over the sequence of events he had witnessed.
The bow-tie girl from the Banque Sambre had gone up to the first floor. Shortly afterwards Brand had emerged from the elevator. He looked furious as he marched out. Butler had to take a quick decision.
He stood up, strolled after the banker and stood in the sunshine. Brand was walking back to where he'd parked the Lamborghini, his pace brisk. Should I follow him? Butler thought. That had been Tweed's general instruction.
But Tweed allowed his staff a lot of latitude, expected them to act independently. Bow-Tie worried Butler. Brand had clearly visited a guest at the hotel. A Bow-Tie didn't strike Butler as the sort of girl Brand would loan to a friend for a quick roll on the bed. He went back inside, sat down. Who was this guest on the first floor?
A minute later the elevator door opened, Bow-Tie stepped out, carrying a small suitcase with a label attached. Butler watched her walk straight into the restaurant. More and more peculiar. She came back quickly and walked out of the main entrance. He followed casually, standing again as though enjoying the sunshine.
He saw her hail a passing cab. He heard her sharp voice tell the driver, 'Banque Sambre'. He walked back inside, picked up his empty glass and took it into the restaurant. A middle-aged waitress thanked him as he placed it on the counter. Beside the glass was the small suitcase. The label read Max Volpe. Butler went back to the lobby, sat down and hid himself behind the newspaper.
Yes, something funny was going on. Why would a girl come all the way from the Avenue de la Liberte to collect a suitcase and take it into the restaurant? Then shove off straight back to the bank?
He heard footsteps coming slowly down the staircase alongside the two elevators. A stooped man wearing a beret, an unlit pipe in his mouth, appeared, walked straight into the restaurant.
Butler frowned. A chalk-white face. Which didn't fit the description Tweed had given him of Klein verbally. Face ruddy. He called back in his memory the photocopy Identikit picture. Butler had not merely studied it – he had imagined it with a moustache, a beard, any form of disguise. The stooped man had looked familiar.
He stood up, said goodbye to the concierge who had reappeared, walked back inside the restaurant. The first thing he noticed was the case had disappeared from the counter. He glanced round the almost empty room. The stooped man sat at a table at the far end, the suitcase tucked under the table.
Butler sat down, ordered coffee, paid the bill when it arrived. He read his newspaper while the other man drank his own coffee, checked his watch, paid the bill and walked into the street carrying the case. Butler followed.
Volpe walked up the side street towards the Place d'Armes. Butler reached his car, slipped behind the wheel and cruised up the rue Chimay some distance behind Volpe. The man he was following hailed a taxi, got inside and the taxi headed north. Butler followed and within five minutes he guessed Volpe's destination. Findel Airport.
The Luxair machine took off into the cloudless sky. Volpe sat near the pilot's cabin. Butler was eight rows behind him. At Findel he had bought a ticket, standing immediately behind Volpe. The other passenger had not given him a glance.
Butler still took precautions to change his appearance. Running back to his parked car, he took his small case out of the boot, changed his check sports jacket for a suede version. He took a trilby hat, punched it, put it on his head. After handing back the car he boarded the aircraft. Destination: Brussels.
33
Tweed changed his mind when the Alouette was airborne. He had gone over in his mind everything Newman had reported. Turning round in his seat, he spoke to Benoit who sat behind them, using his headset. The rotor vibration was like a concrete mixer.
'I told you about that Colonel Ralston Bob encountered on the Meuse – travelling aboard his power cruiser, Evening Star.'
'Yes. A curious character.'
'On our way back to Brussels could we try and locate that craft? If we can find her I'd like a talk with the colonel.'
'Let us hope it is in Belgian waters – then I can use my authority to back you up if necessary…'
Benoit proceeded to instruct the pilot t
o change course. Newman began to look out of the window after changing places with Tweed. He was confident he'd spot the cruiser if they flew over her. A short while later the river appeared below. Newman tightened his mouth as they flew well above Les Dames de Meuse. He was recalling the unpleasant sight of Broucker's corpse, throat cut, buried to his chest in mud.
"They had a crane aboard a huge floating platform which has hauled up the Gargantua,' he told Tweed later. 'Men swarming over it, cars parked nose to tail along the tow-path.'
'The forensic team, I expect,' Tweed answered absent-mindedly. He was thinking about how he'd tackle Colonel Ralston – if they found him. 'It will take days to check the barge. Too many to help us, I suspect.'
'You think Klein is close to launching his operation?'
'That communications vehicle stolen from the CRS bothers me. He wouldn't hang on to that too long. And from what Lasalle told me about its range of radio signal equipment the operation must be vast.' He tightened his mouth. 'Where the devil could he be hiding that huge armoury of explosives he stole? If we could solve that one we might nip him in the bud. Fat chance of that.'
'Maybe we already know – but don't know what we know.'
Newman was pressing his face close to the window all the time he carried on his conversation. Tweed frowned at his remark. Something rang a bell at the back of his mind but he couldn't latch on to it.
'A cryptic comment if ever I heard one.'
'I wonder how Paula is getting on,' Newman mused, staring down. 'That was a pretty bright theory of hers.'
'Just a theory… What is it?'
'I'd like the pilot to lose more altitude. Now!'
They were just passing over Dinant. From that height the pinnacle of rock topped by the citadel looked like a toy. Over the inter-communication system the pilot heard Newman and began to descend lower before Newman spoke again. He'd already lost a lot of height once he'd cleared the heights of Les Dames de Meuse.