by Colin Forbes
In due course they would find a mixture of grit and waterproof grease had been applied to the bearings. No one had seen the scuba diver who had committed the sabotage. And it had been child's play for Klein to locate the vessel. A newspaper reporter had dug out the fact that this cutter would patrol the sea while the Adenauer stood offshore. The paper had printed the story because the Adenauer had become newsworthy the moment the US Secretary of State boarded the ship in Hamburg.
No other cutter was available to replace it. The Dutch Navy was occupied with a NATO sea exercise taking place off Iceland. Marine Control at Europort had just decided to request police launches be sent out to take its place.
The mining of the supertanker, Cayman Conqueror, lying offshore less than a mile from the Adenauer, proved to be a straightforward operation. The same technique was employed but five sea-mines were attached to the hull. The vessel was fifteen hundred feet in length from stem to stern.
The only moment of danger came when a seaman, trudging along the raised catwalk between the extensive piping systems located on the centre line of the tanker, thought he saw a small green lamp flashing to starboard. He stopped, rubbed his sore eyes, looked again. No green lamp.
He was fatigued, aching for bed, and about to come off duty. He put the light down to eye strain and continued his endless walk to food and sleep. The vague silhouette of a fishing vessel a quarter of a mile or more away meant nothing to the lookout. A boat crawling home to port…
On the bridge of the Easter Island Captain Williams took more interest in the lone fishing vessel which seemed stationary. His supertanker was waiting for entry permission from Marine Control, drifting a safe distance from the Conqueror.
From his position inside the navigating bridge at the stern and abaft the single squat funnel Williams swept the fishing boat with his night glasses. He could see its name clearly. Drenthe.
Williams was notorious for his caution, his curiosity about anything unusual. A fishing boat offshore well after dark was unusual. With the night-glasses screwed to his eyes he called out to his First Officer.
'Parker. Flash that vessel a signal…'
He asked very much the same questions which Captain Brunner had to the skipper of the Utrecht a few minutes earlier. Then he leant his elbows on a ledge and waited.
Inside the cramped wheelhouse of the Drenthe Hipper had taken on the role of Grand-Pierre. He held a Luger pistol rammed into the skipper's back. He wore pebble glasses and a handkerchief over the lower half of his face. Curled up on the floor lay the skipper's ten-year-old son, his feet and hands bound with rope, another Luxembourger bent over him with a knife at his throat.
'Signal back that we have a fire on board. That we are getting it under control. No help needed,' Hipper ordered in English. He added the same warning Grand-Pierre had issued.
As the skipper started flashing the reply Hipper took a walkie-talkie from his pocket, raised the antenna, and spoke to one of his men waiting at the stern.
'Mosar, start the fire now. Immediately.'
He spoke in Letzeburgesch, the strange Luxembourg patois which is a mixture of French and German – and understood by neither nation. Putting the walkie-talkie away, Hipper pulled the beret he was wearing further down over his forehead, concealing his hair.
The deck under Mosar's feet at the stern hardly moved, so calm was the sea under the moonless sky. A large man with mongrel features, wearing seaman's gear, he carried the bucket to where it would be visible from the supertanker – at least its contents would be shortly.
The large bucket was three-quarters-full of rags soaked in turpentine with a little petrol added. Stepping back behind the wheelhouse, Mosar picked up the rolled newspaper held with elastic bands, used his lighter to set the tip burning, dropped it inside the bucket and ran back.
There was a flare of flame, a dense cloud of black smoke which climbed into the windless night. The reply signal flashed to the tanker had just been received by Williams on his bridge. He saw the burst of flame, the coil of smoke.
'They have a problem,' he remarked to Parker. 'But they are expecting to deal with it. Better keep an eye on them – just in case it spreads.'
His attention fixed on the fire, Williams had no idea this was the moment when five sea-mines were attached to the underside of his huge vessel laden with oil. The unseen scuba divers – instructed by Klein who had studied the structure of this type of tanker – had avoided the coffer dam.
This was the space which separated the engine-room from the cargo tanks. The mines had carefully been attached beneath both tanks and engine-room. The scuba divers made their way underwater to the waiting dinghy lying astern of the Easter Island. They were not seen.
Aboard the Drenthe, Mosar fetched buckets of water already lined up on deck, doused the flames. He left the bucket which continued to send up clouds of black smoke and informed Hipper over his walkie-talkie his task was completed.
'Now we can move on,' Hipper informed the skipper. 'So start the engine. Next objective, the freighter, Otranto. She's not far away. After that, those three container ships. Then we can all go home,' he concluded in his soft, sibilant voice.
The Drenthe began moving, trailing a white wake, leaving behind the Easter Island, another floating death ship.
45
'We'd better get back to the city,' Van Gorp said as he swung the wheel. 'No sign of anything. No reports of unusual activity. No nothing.'
He sounded subdued. He'd received regular reports over his radio from the patrols scouring the city and the docks along the Maas. Tweed sat hunched up behind Paula, a glazed look in his eyes.
'Something's wrong,' said Paula. 'Very wrong. We've missed some key element. I don't think it is the docks.'
'Can't agree,' Van Gorp responded. 'Haber's body was found in that barge. Tweed said Haber transported the timer devices. This has to be the target.'
'What makes you so sure?' Paula argued.
'One point I forgot to mention. My men found a scuba diver's outfit near Haber's barge. That suggests the river…'
Tweed sat up straight. 'Where exactly was that outfit found?'
'On the deck of a barge next but one to Haber's. It had a large rip in it. Useless. So it was abandoned there. Proof scuba divers are interested in the Maas.'
' On the deck? ' Tweed sounded incredulous. 'So you had no trouble finding it at all?'
'No. What's wrong with that?'
'Everything.' Tweed was vehement. 'Don't you see? Klein is meticulous in his planning. I've just realized that it's odd Haber's body was left exposed in that way. A few shovels of gravel would have covered the corpse. They'd also have hidden that ripped scuba diver outfit. So, it was left there deliberately. Klein is a past master at laying smokescreens.'
'I don't follow that,' Van Gorp objected,
'He wins either way. Case One. We don't get anywhere near Rotterdam. Haber's body discovered. Just another murder. Case Two. By some mischance we get on to him, track him to Rotterdam…'
"You did that,' Van Gorp pointed out. 'With very little to go on. ..'
'We trace him this far,' Tweed continued. 'We find Haber's corpse. Nearby a ripped scuba diver's suit is found. Obvious conclusion? Watch the Maas. Too obvious for my liking.'
'Have you checked the hotels?' Paula asked. 'Your men have copies of that Identikit of Klein.'
'A large team has been checking for hours. Showing the picture – especially to the concierges. Those are the chaps who notice things. Result? Complete blank. So what next?'
'Drive back to Euromast,' Tweed suggested. 'How far away are we?'
'Some distance yet.'
On the roof of the high-rise building Prussen, the Luxembourger hand-picked by Klein, stood staring through binoculars. He was alone on the flat rooftop which was rarely visited by tenants of the flats below except in high summer.
Prussen was watching the progress of a large laundry van along a straight street leading to the entrance to the Dutch marine b
arracks. The driver, delivering laundry to the barracks, was completely under Prussen's control. He was very fond of his mother, now in the hands of Klein's men. When given his instructions by Prussen he had been assured that if he failed to make the expected delivery look normal his mother's head would be severed.
Prussen, a squat, large-headed man, checked his watch. Timing was essential. The driver had synchronized his watch with the Luxembourger's. He had to arrive at the depot at exactly the right moment. Prussen felt in the pocket of his windcheater, took out the control box and waited, still holding the binoculars with one hand. A short time yet before he had to press the button. The extra cargo the driver had no idea he was carrying had been smuggled in among the laundry while Prussen had kept the driver talking at the front of the vehicle.
At Park Crescent Monica's phone rang. She lifted the receiver and immediately recognized the muffled voice. Like talking through a silk handkerchief this time. 'Yes, this is Monica…'
'Olympus speaking. It's Rotterdam. No doubt this time. Got it?'
'Quite clearly. I'll pass the message…'
There was a click. The caller had been in even more of the devil of a rush this time than during earlier calls. Again she'd no idea whether she'd been talking to a man or a woman. Had she detected a trace of foreign accent? Probably sheer imagination. She picked up the phone again, dialled Grand'Place.
'Police headquarters have a message for you, Tweed,' Van Gorp informed him as he replaced the phone. 'Very urgent.'
Tweed hesitated. He wanted to reach Euromast as quickly as possible. But the message could tell him something vital. Van Gorp watched him in the mirror, waiting for his decision.
'It will only take an extra few minutes,' the Dutchman added.
'Police headquarters then…'
The two fishing vessels, Utrecht and Drenthe, were left drifting a short distance offshore. Under the supervision of Grand-Pierre and Hipper their crews were tied up, roped by their wrists and ankles.
Humanity played no part in Klein's earlier instructions to spare their lives. It would only be a matter of time before a Coastguard ship found them and the crews told their stories of what had happened. Thus providing the authorities with ironclad confirmation that the fleet waiting near the Maas mouth had been mined.
The outboard dinghies brought the assault teams ashore to a quiet part of the coast. Chabot was waiting with three four-wheel drive covered trucks. Within minutes the men were aboard, leaving behind the punctured dinghies to sink.
Chabot led the way, driving the first truck over the rough terrain of scrub and sand. He turned on to a main highway and pressed his foot down, heading for the centre of Rotterdam.
Klein drove past the Hilton and along the Kruisgade while Marler sat beside him. He slowed down and cruised as he stared ahead. A girl walking from the direction of the precinct was hurrying towards the entrance of the Hotel Central. She passed under a street light. Lara Seagrave.
Klein pulled in to the kerb, left the engine running, caught hold of her by the arm seconds before she went inside. She stared at his uniform, his tinted glasses without recognition. She was tugging her arm to free it when he spoke and she knew it was Klein.
'You were supposed to stay in the hotel. Where have you been?'
'For a short walk,' she snapped. 'I'm not staying cooped up inside any hotel hour after hour…'
'Your bill was paid in advance. You're coming with me now.'
'I'm going up to the loo first, If you don't mind…'
'I do. There's a toilet where we're going.'
'I said I was going to the loo. I'll be down in a minute.' She tugged loose from his grip, her eyes flaming. 'My case is packed. Do I bring that?'
'Leave it…'
Before he could say another word she'd dashed inside the hotel. Klein was furious. Independent little bitch. He calmed down, began striding slowly up and down past the entrance, a chauffeur waiting for his client. Twice he checked his watch. When she emerged, wearing a camel hair coat, he escorted her to the BMW, opened the rear door and waited while she slid into the rear seat.
Marler stared as he saw her coming, the girl he'd dined with at the Maison de B?uf in Brussels. He decided it would be wise to pretend he'd never met her. She had glanced at him as she reached the car and looked away.
Klein closed the door, went round the back of the car, made sure the boot was locked, the boot which contained the two lengths of rope, one tied into a hangman's noose. Climbing behind the wheel he paused before starting the engine.
'This is Martin Shand,' he told her. 'Martin, this is Lara. Just Lara…'
He turned the ignition, and drove off through the night. The traffic had slackened to almost nothing as he made for the Euromast.
Inside the garage Klein had hired Legaud, the communications expert, sat behind the wheel of the resprayed CRS truck. He checked his watch for the third time in half an hour. Beside him sat a Luxembourger clad in windcheater and denims with a small rug spread across his lap. Beneath the rug he held a Uzi machine gun. The Uzi fires at the rate of six hundred rounds per minute.
Legaud was slim with a clever face which slanted down to a pointed, fox-like chin. He wore rimless glasses, which gave him a professorial appearance. In the main compartment behind the cab was a complex of dials and switches with metres indicating wavelengths. It was also occupied by four men dressed in the same garb as the guard beside Legaud. They were equipped with machine guns and Browning pistols.
Again Legaud checked his watch. He nodded to the guard who descended from the cab, pressed the button on the wail which operated the automatic door. The moment it elevated Legaud backed carefully into the quiet darkened street, turned and headed for his objective. Euromast.
'How long does Euromast stay open?' Butler asked as Van Gorp drove close to the river front.
'Until ten at night. People go there for dinner in the restaurant – and to see the view at night. Why?'
'I just wondered,' Butler replied and lapsed into his normal silence.
Tweed had been sitting gazing out of the window, not seeing the river, his mind squirrelling away. It was a mood Butler was used to and Paula, glancing back once, was careful not to say anything.
'Stop the car!' Tweed said suddenly. 'I've been a complete idiot.'
'What's the matter?' asked Van Gorp, parking by the kerb.
'If you wanted to send a top security message could you do it over your radio – or would it be more secure from police HQ?'
'From police HQ. Amateur radio hacks often tune in to police wavebands. Why?'
'It was staring me in the eyes when I was inside the Space Tower. I failed to grasp its significance.' He didn't mention that it had been his feeling of disorientation which had clogged his brain. 'Paula was right when she queried whether it was really the Maas…'
'Still don't follow you,' the Dutchman commented.
Those thirty sea-mines. Sea -mines! What are they used for in wartime?'
'To sink ships…'
'Exactly. And from the Space Tower I saw God knows how many of them approaching Europort. There was even a large liner.'
'The Adenauer. Stopping to take on board more passengers before it sails for its cruise in the Mediterranean. It also has the US Secretary of State aboard – with his wife.'
'Lord help us. Don't you see? Those ships are the objective, the main one anyway. Klein is going to use those sea-mines to hold them to ransom. That's how he will get his two hundred million pounds in gold bullion. I've puzzled over that a lot – what could be worth such a king's ransom? All those ships must be warned. They're in great danger.'
'Police headquarters,' said Van Gorp and drew away from the kerb, accelerating.
Hipper, driving the Fiat he had transferred to after leaving one of the four-wheel drive trucks at an isolated spot, pulled in by the entrance to Rotterdam Airport. He now wore a plain grey business suit and carried a brief-case.
Inside the reception hall he walked acro
ss to a small bullet-headed man with black hair plastered close to his skull. The description fitted and the man dressed in pilot's clothing was standing by the bookstall, looking at a paperback.
'Excuse me, sir,' Hipper said in German, "out would you by any chance be Victor Saur?'
'I would. Who are you?'
Cold brown eyes like glass marbles stared back at the Luxembourger. A cigarette dangled from the Austrian's thin lips.
'Hipper. You have transport to Brussels for me?'
'Benny will fly you there. That bloke in flying kit over at the drinks counter with an orange juice.'
'Thank you most kindly, sir.'
Creep, thought Saur as he watched Hipper waddle towards Benny, a heavily-built man several inches taller than Saur. There was a brief conversation and the two men went off together as Saur walked outside where he could see the night sky. A few minutes later a Sikorsky helicopter rose above the building, described a half circle and flew off south for Brussels Airport. Saur checked his watch. Dead on time.
A lot of people were going to be dead on time.
On top of the high-rise building overlooking the barracks of the Dutch marines Prussen also checked his watch. Through his night-glasses he saw the laundry van pass through the gates after showing his pass. The van proceeded across the parade ground towards the side entrance where it would park.
Prussen took the control box from his pocket and held it in one hand while the other pressed the glasses to his eyes. The van seemed to crawl. Prussen felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He licked his lips once.
Then he remembered his dark glasses. He nearly panicked. He forced himself to remain calm. Placing the binoculars and the box on the wall-top, he took out the glasses and put them on. He raised the binoculars again. The laundry van was just pulling up outside the entrance.
Prussen took hold of the control box, his thumb half an inch above the button. He took a deep breath as he saw a marine emerge to collect the laundry. Now was the moment. His thumb jammed down hard. He braced himself.