Deadlock tac-5

by Colin Forbes

  The colonel had planted himself at the head of the gangway, blocking the way. Hands on hips, he glared at the intruders. He held up a hand as Benoit, followed by Tweed and Newman, moved up the gangplank.

  'I asked what the hell this is all about. You can't come aboard. Say your piece from there.'

  'Brussels CID,' snapped Benoit, showing his warrant card. 'Move aside – or I'll move you.'

  'Goddamned impertinence,' the colonel raved. He stepped back a few paces. 'Got a search warrant, have you?'

  'Do I need one?' Benoit enquired.

  They were all standing on deck. Half way down the companionway Josette looked back and Newman winked at her behind Ralston who had turned to Tweed. 'And who, might I ask, are you?'

  Tweed, Commander, Anti-Terrorist Squad.' He also showed his warrant card. 'We can't talk out here,' he continued. 'I suggest we adjourn to the saloon.'

  'Do you now? How very civil of you. On my own vessel.'

  'I have questions to ask…'

  'Which I may not be prepared to answer. In case you have overlooked the point, you carry no authority in Belgium.'

  'I can always get an extradition order within hours and take you to London. The charge? Consorting with terrorists.'

  'And,' Benoit added, 'I can have you taken to Grand' Place HQ in Brussels for questioning- pending your extradition.'

  'The saloon,' Tweed said grimly. 'Kindly lead the way.'

  Bringing up the rear, Newman glanced to the end of the saloon, saw a whisky bottle three-quarters empty on the bar counter, a glass half-full beside it. The colonel had been going it a bit. Hence his loss of judgement. Tweed also noted what stood on the counter. The colonel walked to the bar, stiff-legged, turned round.

  'I suppose you'd better sit down. What's all this nonsense you gabbled about terrorists?'

  'You know a man called Klein?' Tweed began. 'Before you reply think carefully. You know Bob Newman – he was a passenger aboard this cruiser.'

  'A spy, you mean?' Ralston sneered. 'He questioned someone behind my back? Who? Hardly the conduct of a gentleman – and a guest.'

  'A paying guest,' Newman reminded him mildly. 'For a good fat fee. Your crew are a garrulous lot,' he added, protecting Josette who sat opposite him close to the companionway, graceful hands clasped in her lap.

  Conduct of a gentleman… Ye Gods, Tweed thought, what have we here? He prodded harder.

  'Klein was the name I mentioned. Has a man with that name been on board?'

  'I seem to remember someone of that name.' Ralston smoothed down his hair with one hand, then used the other to swallow the rest of the whisky.

  'This isn't good enough.' Tweed stood up, walked down the saloon and stood close to Ralston. 'I think Klein travelled with you more than once. He's a very dangerous terrorist. Many people's lives are at stake. A description, please. Where did you pick him up? Where did he leave this vessel?'

  'Difficult to recall details Benoit intervened. This is useless. I'll fly him in the chopper to Grand' Place, you get your extradition order moving…'

  'Hold hard, it's coming back to me.' Ralston grasped the whisky bottle and Tweed fully expected him to refill his glass. Instead he marched quickly round the end of the counter, planted it on the shelf, took down a bottle of mineral water, poured a glassful and drank the lot. His movements had suddenly become brisk and Tweed suspected he'd been putting on an act.

  'Filthy stuff, that.' Ralston dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. 'Now, this sod, Klein. Six foot tall, slim build, face white as chalk. Funny eyes.'

  Tweed took a photocopy of the Identikit picture from his pocket, unfolded it, handed it to the colonel. 'Recognize him?'

  That I do. Klein. Bit sketchy, but the eyes come out well.' He walked steadily over to Josette. 'You didn't like him either. That him?'

  'Yes. Creepy. Couldn't stand him.'

  She handed the picture back to Tweed. Ralston stood very erect, one hand in his jacket pocket, the thumb protruding. Tweed had the impression he'd made up his mind about something.

  Took him aboard each time at Dinant. As a favour to a friend. Not my fault he turned out to be a bad lot.'

  'No one is suggesting it is.' Tweed's manner changed, adapting to Ralston's own change of mood. How often, it flashed across Tweed's mind, he'd played the chameleon in his earlier role of detective. 'Who is the friend? We need to know, I assure you.'

  'Brand, the banker. Peter Brand. Got a place fit for a king downstream. Near Profondeville. Newman knows all this – he visited Brand with me.'

  'How much did Brand pay you for this service?' Benoit demanded, his tone brusque.

  Ralston stared at him with glaucous eyes. 'I'm not going to have two of you at me. I normally like Belgians. I'll make an exception in your case.'

  A wintry smile. Newman stared in surprise. He'd never have associated the colonel with such wit. Benoit, Tweed sensed, was about to explode. He spoke quickly to Ralston.

  'Can you tell me anything about a bargee called Joseph Haber? He's gone missing.'

  'Has he now? I've seen Klein hobnobbing with him -aboard his barge Gargantua. Again, back at Dinant. Twice, as I recall it. Once several months ago, the other time within the past few days. Dour chap, Haber. Kept himself to himself. You implied this Klein is a terrorist. Couldn't make out what nationality he was. Spoke almost perfect English. Thought he was until he tripped himself up. Queer incident, that.'

  'What incident?'

  'He said something I didn't agree with – can't recall all the details. Doesn't matter. I accused him of talking Double Dutch. He stared at me for a moment with those weird eyes. Then he flew at me, asked what I was hinting at. Sergeant Bradley came in by chance and pulled him up short.'

  'Can you remember,' Benoit interjected, 'whether Klein ever had anyone with him when he visited Joseph Haber on his barge?'

  'Always on his own. Bit of a lone wolf type…'

  'A few minutes ago,' Benoit reminded him, 'you called Klein "this sod". You've said you disliked him. Why?'

  'Because he acted as though he'd taken over the Evening Star. Arrogant as blazes. Ordered Bradley to make him coffee – little things like that. He wasn't popular, I can tell you.' Ralston looked at Tweed. 'Any of this help?'

  'Yes. Thank you for your cooperation. Could I ask where we could locate you if the need arises? It's unlikely, but in case…'

  'I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do. After what you told me I want to distance myself from Peter Brand as far as possible. First opportunity I'm turning round, sailing back upstream and across the French frontier. Take a bit of a joy ride down the Canal de l'Est. No objections?'

  'None as far as I'm concerned,' Tweed replied.

  They left the cruiser after refusing Ralston's offer of tea or a drink, climbed back into the waiting car and drove off to where the Alouette waited. Tweed told Benoit he wanted to reach Brussels at the earliest possible moment. The crisis was imminent.

  36

  Leaving the Sheraton, carrying his bag, Klein headed for a public phone box near the Porte Louise. It was almost dark. Car headlights whipped up the Boulevard de Waterloo, the neon signs had come on, casting a weird light in the dusk. He entered a phone box, dialled a number in Germany.

  He was calling the Hessischer Hof Hotel in Frankfurt. Kurt Saur, the Austrian helicopter pilot, answered the moment he was put through to his room. Klein spoke in German.

  'Klein here. Are you ready to make delivery?'

  'We await your instructions. Both machines are available.'

  'Fly at once to Schiphol. You will be met by my agent, Grand-Pierre. Got the name?'

  'Grand-Pierre. We will arrive roughly two to three hours from now.'

  'Do it.'

  Klein put down the receiver, lifted it again, called Delft and passed on the information to Grand-Pierre. The pilots speak French, he told him. Grand-Pierre said he would drive to Schiphol at once.

  It was news to the Frenchman that two large Sikorsky helicopters wer
e coming. Once again Klein had kept the different members of the assault force in separate cells. On arrival at the Dutch airport near Amsterdam Saur would tell the airport officials both machines were in need of maintenance. They would be held in reserve at Schiphol until required.

  Standing in front of a shop window, Klein went over in his mind the Sikorsky element. Unlike the CRS command vehicle – which had to be stolen because it couldn't be bought on the open market – the Sikorsky machines had been legitimately hired for cash. And he could rely on Saur who led the four men of the helicopter team.

  Kurt Saur, from Graz in the Austrian province of Styria, was forty years old. He'd spent his life hiring himself out for smuggling operations. So far he hadn't been caught. But he felt his luck was running out. He needed one big 'score' to give him the money for a life of leisure. Klein had provided that opportunity.

  Klein was in an edgy mood – and knew why. Several members of his team were now in Brussels. The concentration at this moment was inevitable – they had to be close to the target.

  But it went against all his instincts for security to do this. He was very close to the Mayfair where Lara Seagrave waited. He'd better go and have a word with her, see whether she was becoming restless.

  First he took a cab to Midi station. Here he left his case in a luggage container – which reminded him of the bag he'd deposited at Geneva Cornavin, the bag containing the blood-soaked raincoat after murdering the Swiss, Blanc. So long ago, it seemed.

  He took another cab back to the Porte Louise, paid it off, then walked up the opposite side of the Avenue Louise to where the Mayfair was located. He stood for a while behind a file of cars, deciding the line he would take with Lara.

  He stiffened suddenly as he saw Lara leave the entrance to the Mayfair. Dressed up to the nines in a gaberdine suit. Where could she be going at this hour? She had strict instructions to wait in her room, to eat at the Mayfair.

  On the far side of the street she walked towards the Porte Louise, clasping her shoulder bag. Klein followed at a discreet distance. When the lights were green she crossed the Boulevard de Waterloo. Turning right along the sidewalk, she walked up the Boulevard, stopped briefly to look in a shop window, walked on and entered the Hilton.

  Inside the spacious lobby Lara walked briskly past the long counter for the concierge, reception and cashier. She was seething inwardly. Not one damn word from Klein. Would she ever set eyes on him again? Had the swine cut her out of the operation. Anxiety mingled with fury as she pressed the button for Floor One.

  A tall American guest arrived as the elevator doors opened. 'Please, after you. Kinda warmish this weather…' She smiled her thanks, stepped inside. The American followed and Klein stepped after them a second before the doors shut.

  Lara stared at him, then looked away. He'd been following her. She was livid. The lift ascended, stopped at the first floor, the American again ushered her in front of him. Klein caught up with her as she entered the Maison de B?uf, a large room with an air of luxury, quiet and with only a few tables occupied. An open grille behind a serving counter faced her; behind the counter a young man with a chefs white hat looked up.

  'What the hell do you think you're doing?' Klein whispered.

  He gripped her by the forearm. He needed somewhere quiet without people to sort her out. Discipline. Control…

  'What does it look like?' she snapped. 'Coming out to have dinner …'

  'Who with?'

  'Let… go… of… my… arm,' she demanded, letting her rage show. 'I'm not your serf.'

  'We'll go back to the Mayfair.'

  'No!' This was like dealing with her bloody step-mother, Lady Windermere. 'I'm eating here. The Mayfair can wait.'

  Smoking one of his rare cigarettes, seated in a cosy corner next to the grille, Marler watched the encounter with half-closed eyes. The last man on God's earth he'd expected so soon was Klein. It was only eight o'clock. And who was the girl? It was hardly a friendly meeting.

  Lara gave Klein the mockery of a beaming smile. 'If you don't let go of me I'll create one hell of a scene.'

  'Later then, at the Mayfair.'

  Klein released his grip. The last thing he wanted was a scene drawing attention to himself. He turned abruptly and went back to the elevators.

  Marler rose from his table, walked over to Lara before the head waiter could reach her. He smiled, still holding his napkin in his left hand.

  'Excuse me,' he said, 'but I'm dining alone. Something I never enjoy. Unless you've someone waiting for you, I'd be delighted if you'd share my table. David Ashley. For dinner, I mean – just dinner.'

  She was obviously English and he'd deliberately spoken in that language to reassure her. Being careful not to touch her, he gestured towards his table. 'I'mover there in the corner -you can sit nearest the next table. It's all rather convenient.'

  'What is?' she asked, sizing him up, liking what she saw.

  'The table. Next to the grille. If you order a steak you can watch, shout "stop!" if you like it rare and he's overdoing things.'

  'I like mine well done.'

  She had joined him as he followed her to the table, A considerate man. That little touch about letting her sit in the outside seat – enabling her to leave easily if she wanted to. He reached for a bottle cloth-shrouded in a silver bucket.

  'All girls like champers, so I've heard. Care for a drop while you study the menu?'

  'Thank you. I'd love some. It will calm me down.' 'Then here's to a pleasant evening. I'm rather good at chatter. Even if at nothing else…'

  Klein walked into the bar leading off the lobby of the Hilton. It was dimly lit, which suited him. He sank into an armchair, ordered mineral water, automatically checking the other drinkers.

  Lara's outburst was exactly what he had feared. The long wait was telling on nerves. He'd been so taken up with getting her out of the place he hadn't noticed who was dining in the room, a rare oversight.

  He sat sipping his Perrier, his mind racing over every aspect of the operation. He'd have moved them all out of Brussels that very night – but he couldn't up-date the operation. It all hinged on the fleet of ships moving towards Europort.

  He decided against visiting the cafe Manuel to check on Chabot and Hipper. No one could possibly be aware of his presence in Brussels, but this was the moment not to move about the city.

  Klein had no intention of sleeping anywhere tonight. Without a hotel room he didn't exist. He'd get a quick meal at the cafe Henry further up the Boulevard, have a drink while Marler dined in the Sky Room, then spend half the hours of darkness in a night club.

  An attractive woman sat in a nearby chair facing him, crossed her legs, and gave him a long look. He smiled briefly, looked away. There'd be plenty of time for that later. He was thinking that the Sikorsky helicopters would at this moment be flying from Frankfurt to Schiphol. An essential element in the enterprise.

  The woman signalled her availability, moving one crossed leg up and down. Yes, plenty of time later. When he was safely in Brazil.

  **

  Marler was puzzled as he ate his steak. What role could Lara Seagrave possibly play in the coming operation? She could be Klein's girl friend, but he didn't think so. He continued to probe gently.

  'You have a job? Or is that too personal?'

  'Not at all. This steak is perfect. And I love this restaurant. So warm arid comforting.'

  The tables were well-spaced, the banquettes at the right height and angle for eating, the coverings a mix of brown and beige. The lighting was indirect, but you could see what you were eating.

  'I'm a publisher's scout,' she said, remembering a job a girl friend of hers had.

  'What's that?'

  'Oh, I represent different publishers – in Denmark, Germany, France and Sweden. My languages got me the job-plus the fact I'm an avid reader. I keep a sharp lookout for books I think might interest one of my employers. It means getting in first – before any of my many rivals.'

 
'So you travel a lot?' he suggested, watching her over the rim of his glass.

  'Yes, I do. It's one of the great attractions of the job. I have just come up from France – Marseilles and Paris.'

  'What are you doing, in Brussels?'

  'Enjoying myself.' She smiled impishly, flirting openly. 'I fly home soon. I'm waiting for instructions. From London,' she added.

  'What firms do you represent?'

  She reeled off a list, again bringing back what her friend had told her about the job. Marler nodded, called for the sweet trolley. He didn't believe one damn word she'd told him. So what kind of an operation would call for her services? Klein had better not know they'd met. Fortunate he'd given her a false name. No, prudent. He'd done that after seeing Klein arguing with her. Tension? Was it very close?

  **

  Marler timed the ending of his dinner with Lara carefully. He insisted on paying. To her relief he made no attempt to arrange another meeting, to find out where she was staying. She left at 8.50 p.m. exactly and went back to the Mayfair.

  Marler told the waiter he had another guest joining him, had all traces of Lara's presence cleared off the table. It was 9.15 p.m. when Klein, tight-lipped, walked into the Maison de B?uf, looked round, spotted Marler, walked across and sat beside him.

  'Good evening,' said Marler, one hand nursing his glass of cognac.

  'I've been looking for you. I left a note. Dinner at nine in the Sky Room.'

  'And I got your note,' Marler smiled amiably. 'I prefer this restaurant. I knew you'd find me sooner or later.'

  'When I give an order…'

  'About the operation,' Marler interjected, 'I listen and carry out your wishes. Which is what I'm paid for. I am not paid to be led around like a dog on a leash, eating where you think I should dine.' His tone had hardened. 'I think we should be clear about that. Now, what is it?'

  Klein told the waiter he'd already eaten in the Sky Room, a lie. He ordered coffee and turned to his companion when they were alone.