by Colin Forbes
But this time the strong coffee was rather different. As instructed by Klein, he had laced it with a heavy dose of barbiturates. The two prisoners would sleep well. They would sleep for ever.
Part Three
Deadlock
39
'No news of Nield then?' Butler had asked.
Three men were talking in Tweed's room at a small hotel near Grand'Place Benoit had suggested. Tweed, Newman and Butler. Earlier they'd found a small restaurant, dining off omelettes. None of them had felt he could face a large meal.
Tweed had drunk a lot of coffee which had made him more alert. It was two in the morning. He shook his head at Butler.
'Monica said Nield normally reported in daily by phone. He's bought up a load of books, dumped them in a prominent place at the back of his car. Posing as a publisher's representative. He's watching Blakeney – as you suggested, Harry.'
'You said "normally". Has there been a break in communication?'
'Yes. Nothing for the past twenty-four hours. I expect he has his reasons. Now, Bob, I want you to help me -recall everything that's happened since we started this pursuit of Klein. I have the weird idea we've overlooked something. One missing key is the explosives Klein brought out across the Turkish border – before murdering the Armenian truck driver, Dikoyan, and kindly throwing his corpse into the Bosphorus.'
'But what about Klein?' Butler interjected. 'I should be out looking for him. I lost him…'
'Don't worry about that. Benoit has thrown out a huge dragnet, recalled men off duty, had copies made of the Identikit picture and distributed them. His men are combing every hotel in Brussels – including some sleazy places down in the Marolles district. Benoit will be up all night.
Including seeing his Minister to persuade him to alert Antwerp – which I still think is the wrong target. Now, you go ahead, Bob. I listen.'
For quarter of an hour he sat silent, watching Newman who, in his terse, reporter-like manner, recalled previous events. At times Tweed leant his head back against the chair, closed his eyes as he saw visually what he'd experienced. Going right back to his visit to the weird village of Cockley Ford. Newman had just finished retailing details of his visit to Brand's luxurious mansion with Colonel Ralston when Tweed sat up straight.
'Just a minute. Those wheel tracks of some heavy vehicle you saw pressed into Brand's lawn – reminds me of something else. The wheel tracks I saw at the church at Cockley Ford – leading to the mausoleum of Sir John Leinster.'
'And now,' Newman said grimly, 'I remember what it was I wanted to recall and tell you. Go back to where all this started. That cargo of explosives – sea-mines and bombs – stolen from the Soviet depot at Sevastopol. OK, Dikoyan was found with his throat cut in the Bosphorus. But there was a bit after that you told me. Something about a Greek vessel sailing from the Golden Horn in Istanbul about the same time.'
'That's right. It was thought that vessel could have transported the explosives…'
The name! The name!' Newman was unusually excited. The name of that vessel which disappeared, which has never been seen since. Can you remember it?'
The Lesbos…'
Newman turned to Butler. That afternoon we drove to Brancaster looking for Caleb Fox's address. Pouring with rain. We met a chap with a walking stick. Military type. He warned us not to walk out to either of the two hulks lying among the sandbanks offshore.'
That's right,' Butler agreed, wondering where Newman was heading for.
'He said one of the hulks had had its name changed, he took a photo of the thing. He said it was wrecked about six months earlier. My God! I think I've still got the card he gave me with his name and address and phone number. Timms! That was the name. And here is the card…'
'What are you up to?' Tweed asked.
'Ronald Timms.' Newman jumped up from his chair, went over to the bed, perched on it and picked up the phone. 'Calling Mr Timms,' he replied as he dialled for an outside line.
'At this hour?' Tweed commented. 'You will get a lot of cooperation. Middle of the night.'
'He lives alone, I think. And the type who doesn't need much sleep.' He was dialling. He waited as he heard the ringing tone in Norfolk. The phone was answered quickly.
'Mr Ronald Timms?' Newman began. 'Very sorry to call at this hour. Hope I haven't got you out of bed. Robert Newman here. I doubt whether you'll remember me but…'
'Of course I do. The reporter chappie I warned not to wander out across those creeks. And I'm up, making myself a pot of tea. What can I do for you?'
The conversation was brief. Timms was anything but a waffler. Newman thanked him very much, said yes, he'd certainly call on him when he was next in the area, put down the phone, looked at Tweed.
'That wreck off the Norfolk coast, the hulk whose name had been changed. Timms' photograph brought up the real name under a magnifying glass. The Lesbos.'
Nield opened his eyes, stared at a blank white ceiling illuminated indirectly from a light somewhere. He was in bed. Lifting his head he saw the light came through a glass window in the top of a closed door. Where the hell was he?
He pushed back the sheets with an effort, then lifted a hand to his head. It was swathed in bandages. It came back to him. The coaster at Blakeney being loaded. Dr Portch leaning over him, staring down from behind his beak-like nose through pince-nez, A cold, calculating expression. Have to get back to Park Crescent, report what I've found out…
He perched on the edge of the bed, realized he was wearing pyjamas. His head swam, there was a pounding at the back of his skull. He saw his watch on the bedside table, picked it up. Two o'clock. He gazed out of the window. Black as pitch. He fastened the watch on his wrist.
Standing up, he nearly fell down, grabbed for the edge of the bed, saved himself. Unsteadily, he walked to the window. Outside a parking area. He saw his own car. He took several deep breaths. A bit better. Where the devil were his clothes?
He stumbled towards a cupboard, opened it, found the clothes hanging inside. Leaning against the wall, he stripped off the pyjama trousers, hauled on his underpants, his own trousers. He wrestled himself inside his shirt, stuffed his tie inside a pocket, sat down on a chair and eased his feet into socks and shoes. He was fully dressed when the nurse flew into the room.
'Mr Nield! What are you doing? Get back into bed at once…'
'I'm leaving…'
A man in a white coat who had glanced through the window came in. He heard Nield's reply. Walking over, he took hold of him by the arm.
'I'm Dr Nicholson. You're suffering a case of mild… that is, severe… concussion. You must…'
'Where is this hospital?'
The Queen Elizabeth, King's Lynn…'
'And… what day is it? Wednesday?'
'Thursday. Early morning…"
'That's what… I meant. How long have I…'
'You were brought in only four hours ago. I really insist you must get back into bed. This is a reaction from the concussion. You don't know what you're doing.'
'Want to bet?'
Nield forced himself to grin. God knows how he managed it. He was using up all his willpower to stay on his feet. Couldn't call Park Crescent from here. Too public. He got his jacket on. Fully dressed, his morale rose. He could sort these people out.
'My personal effects. My wallet. Keys…'
'At the reception desk, locked away safely.'
'Lay on, MacDuff.'
'I beg your pardon.'
A bit stiff-necked. Stuffy type, Dr Nicholson. Still, trying to do his job. Nield had a terrible thirst. He looked round, saw a jug covered with a cloth, a glass beside it.
'I could do with a drink of water.'
He moved slowly towards the table. The nurse ran past him – as he had hoped. He'd have spilt more on the floor than in the glass. She filled it, gave it to him with tight lips. He drank the lot in four separate gulps, thanked the nurse and looked at Nicholson.
'Which way to reception desk?'
&nb
sp; Til show you.' Nicholson continued his efforts as they went down a long silent corridor. 'I can't recommend this course of action at all. You're not a fit man.'
'But you can't keep me here. I'm discharging myself.'
'I'd rather gathered that,' Nicholson said drily. 'Here is the desk. Nurse, Mr Nield requires his personal effects. See he signs a receipt.' He looked at Nield. 'I refuse to call a cab. If you must be so foolish you do that yourself. And keep those bandages on. Go straight to your local doctor when you get home. We got your details from your driving licence.'
'Thank you. And Good Night,' said Nield, turning to the nurse.
He told her he wanted a breath of fresh air just outside first and left the building. He had a little trouble finding the car park. No one was about as he climbed behind the wheel, fastened his belt and started the engine.
He soon found himself in a familiar part of King's Lynn and took the turning for London. Nield still felt peculiar. There were moments when his vision blurred. At that time of night the road was deserted but he slowed when he saw an isolated pair of headlights approaching. He wasn't worried about himself, but he had to think of other people. He had driven through Woburn when the strain began to tell. He found it harder to concentrate. No point in trying to find a public phone box. He gritted his teeth and drove on, knowing he could reach Park Crescent by dawn on the traffic-free roads. That was, if he could keep control of himself – and the car.
' Lesbos,' Tweed repeated. The ship carrying all those explosives was wrecked off the Norfolk coast. I've been a complete idiot. When Bellenger from the Admiralty told me that bomb on Paula's doorstep was the latest Soviet type I should have guessed. Somehow they transported that hellish armoury ashore, then stored it under our noses.'
'And now you know where?' Newman said.
'Cockley Ford. Those heavy wheel tracks leading from the entrance to the churchyard to Sir John Leinster's mausoleum.'
'Clever bloody Klein,' Newman remarked. 'Hid the stuff where no one would think of looking. So, is the target still Antwerp?'
'No,' Tweed said grimly. 'I've just realized the significance of the strange incident Colonel Ralston told me about aboard his cruiser. Remember he grasped that Klein's English wasn't perfect? Ralston made some remark to Klein about him talking Double Dutch. Klein flew at him. That Sergeant Bradley had to separate them.'
'I'm not following you,' Butler remarked.
'Double-Dutch,' Tweed repeated. 'Klein had never heard the colloquial phrase. He didn't like – was unnerved by – Ralston's reference to Dutch. Because the target is Dutch – not Belgian. It's been staring us in the face. It's Europort, the gateway to Europe.'
'And how is Klein going to transport the explosives across the North Sea?'
'Maybe Nield can tell us that. I'll get Monica on the phone. Which means back to Grand'Place and the scrambler. Nield may have found the key we've been looking for.'
'Nield,' Butler commented, 'is usually in the right place at the right moment.'
40
The Met forecast had held. The sea was calm as the proverbial millpond. Inside the bridge of the coaster, midway across the North Sea, Caleb Fox bent over a chart with Dr Portch beside him. The engines were stopped, the vessel drifted gently with the current, no other ship was in sight on radar.
This is where they meet us,' Fox said. 'We'll wait until we get the signal they're close, then I'll tell the First Mate.'
'Expect any trouble?'
'I'm master of this vessel,' the weasely Fox replied. 'And here they come.'
He had glanced to the port side facing Holland. In the black moonless light a green light was flashing. Three longs, three shorts, two longs. The First Mate came on to the bridge and asked his question.
'Why are we waiting here, Skipper?'
'We're taking on board a group of stevedores. Orders from Head Office. It's a bit secret. Don't tell the crew the real reason, Bates.'
'Which is?'
'After we've unloaded Dr Portch's stuff at Europort we sail up to Hamburg. Some shipyard has a strike. Shipyard owners are taking on this new lot of stevedores, sacking the lot on strike. And we're being well paid for the job.
Bonus in it for you later, Bates. Inform the crew we'll have extra passengers. Handle it in your own way.'
'I'd better go and make preparations. How many stevedores?'
'A dozen I was told. We'll have to see, won't we?'
Half an hour later four lighters hove to on the port side, two ladders had been slung over the coaster's hull, the first man to swarm up and come aboard was Grand-Pierre. He carried a bedroll and a small case. Other men dressed in seamen's gear climbed rapidly up and dropped on deck. Grand-Pierre made straight for the engine room, slamming shut the steel door behind him, gazing down from an iron platform as a stench of oil hit his nostrils.
Two men in the engine room, he'd been told. He saw them gazing up at him. He dumped his case, tucked the bedroll under one powerful arm, descended the ladder. Reaching the bottom, he walked towards the two men who stood by a mass of dials and gauges.
He reached his right hand inside the bedroll, produced the Luger pistol, shot the first man, then the second. The echoes of the reports resounded round the engine room. He moved close to the first slumped body, pressed the Luger muzzle close to the slumped man's skull, pulled the trigger. He performed the same act with the second sprawled body.
Moving with ape-like agility for a man of his size, he scrambled back up the ladder to the platform. He had the Luger out of sight behind his back when Sadler, who was puzzled about something he couldn't yet put his finger on, opened the engine-room door. Grand-Pierre's bulk blocked his view of the engine room.
'What the hell are you doing here?' Sadler demanded.
The Frenchman peered out. The corridor was deserted in both directions. He aimed the Luger and pulled the trigger in one movement. The heavy slug caught Sadler in the chest and slammed his body back against the wall.
' Merde,' muttered Grand-Pierre. Why had he come snooping round at this moment. He hoisted the body over his shoulder, walked back on to the platform, using one hand to shut the door. Perching on the edge of the platform, he dropped his burden. It hit the metal floor thirty feet below with a soft thud. No need for a second bullet there.
Opening the door again, he looked out and saw one of his men carrying another member of the crew towards the engine room. Someone shouted from the other end of the corridor. A crewman was hurrying towards the man stooped under the weight of his dead burden.
'What's the matter with Callaby?' the crewman shouted.
Grand-Pierre waited until he was close, then shot him twice. Gesturing towards the platform to his team member, he picked up the fourth corpse and, as arranged beforehand, dumped that over the edge.
He took a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket as his own man hurried away. Four dealt with out of a crew of nine. An extra name was on the list. A good preliminary exercise for his team, Grand-Pierre thought, a minor trial run for what was to come at Europort and Rotterdam.
'I tried to contact Nield,' Monica told Tweed over the phone as he sat in Benoit's office for the second time that night. 'When he didn't report in I called The Duke's Head. That was at eleven-thirty in the evening. They said his key was still with reception, that he hadn't returned. I'm worried.'
'Don't,' Tweed urged. 'Pete can look after himself. I may be leaving Brussels shortly, but they'll know here where to find me. Better use the code word Ghent to identify yourself. Got it?'
'Yes, Ghent. Are you all right? You're talking fast- the way you do when you're tired.'
'Perfectly OK. Next thing. I want Commander Bellenger from Admiralty to fly over here at once. He'll react when you tell him I asked for him. Tell him to come to Grand' Place. Also call Number Ten. Say I want the SAS team waiting to fly to Schiphol in Holland now. To stand by for further instructions. I'll try and call the PM myself but I may not get her.'
'You will if you call now.
She phoned me a few minutes ago – to ask if I had any news from you. I'd better get off the line. And I'll call when I hear from Nield. Not that much seems to be happening up there.'
'You might be surprised,' Tweed said grimly and rang off.
He looked at Newman and Butler, explained he had to call the PM. They went into the anteroom next door and waited. Butler was not his normal phlegmatic self. He asked Newman for a cigarette although he rarely smoked.
'I'm worried about Nield,' he admitted. 'I was the one who shoved him out on a limb, left him in Norfolk by himself.'
'You heard Tweed say he can look after himself.'
That's true. But we normally work as a team…"
'You are doing right now,' Newman assured him. 'But this time long distance.'
A few minutes later Tweed asked them back into Benoit's office. His expression was grim but before he could explain Benoit came into the room, slammed the door and sat down at the table.
'Coffee is coming. It's going to be a long night. How are things, Tweed?'
'This is confidential. I've spoken to the PM. She agrees with my reasoning that Europort is the target. But she has a problem. She needs evidence to convince the Dutch Government. What I have isn't enough…' He recalled for Benoit's benefit his conversation with Newman and Butler in his hotel room. Benoit shook his head.
'I know you, Tweed. I think you could be right. Although it could still be Antwerp. But can I convince my Minister? Like hell I can. The same problem – he wants ironclad evidence before he'll put Antwerp on siege alert. The most I could get is an order for the Antwerp port authority to reinforce security – which means no more than bringing another dozen men back on duty.'
'What about the SAS team?' asked Newman.
'They would be your first thought,' Tweed observed, 'considering you once served with them for a short time.'
'He did?' Benoit was surprised. 'When was that?'