by Colin Forbes
He looked at Paula and Newman. 'And that includes you two.'
`We can all go into another office next door,' Corcoran volunteered. He grinned to lighten the atmosphere. 'Tap three times on the door when it's safe for us to come back.'
`You mentioned the phrase a key element in catastrophe,' Tweed said when they were alone. `Go ahead.'
Seated behind his desk Dr Wand picked up the phone, dialled a Brussels number. He waited, leaning back in his chair, adjusting his pince-nez up the bridge of his strong nose.
`Yes?' a throaty upper-crust voice answered.
`Dr Hyde?'
`Yes. What can I do for you?'
`This is the Director speaking. You recognize my voice? Good. Go to a public phone box and call me back. At once, please.'
Wand replaced the phone. While he waited he studied maps of Britain and Western Europe, marked with crosses in pencil. Easy to erase. After ten minutes the phone rang.
`Dr Hyde speaking.'
`I think you should now proceed to the next programmed stage with your patient. A hand will do very nicely.' `The patient is right-handed,' Hyde informed him. `Oh, well, let us be merciful. Remove the left hand and dispatch it as planned…'
Inside Corcoran's office Dillon was striding backwards and forwards. Tweed had never known him show such agitation. He remained silent, guessing Dillon was deciding how much to tell him.
Eventually the American came very close to Tweed. He began speaking in a whisper.
`Catastrophe is not a strong enough word. We are faced with a new ruthless enemy who could overwhelm western Europe – even annihilate the United States.'
'The identity of this enemy?' Tweed enquired.
'Let me tell you this in my own way, Hilary Vane was a brilliant physicist. She worked part of the time on a top-secret project at the Boeing plant in Seattle. Later she moved to Palmdale, California. We now realize that three top scientists – working on the same project – were kidnapped with their families about three years ago.'
'And the project is?'
'One of the largest and most advanced planes in the world. The Stealth B2 bomber. It is practically undetectable by any known radar – including our own. The process may also have been adapted to. ships and submarines. The enemy may – probably has – these weapons.'
'So we are faced with?'
'Invisible planes and ships. By Stealth.'
14
'I've remembered now where I think I've seen that woman in the wide-brimmed hat before,' said Paula.
She stroked her raven-black hair with one hand, frowning as she sought to marshal her memories. Sitting behind her desk at Park Crescent, she had as an audience Tweed, Newman, and Monica.
Dillon had decided he ought to pay his respects to the Director, Howard. 'And don't think I'm going to enjoy that,' was his parting shot as he left Tweed's office, `because I'm not going to. A bag of wind, if you don't mind my saying so.'
`It was some gesture she made just before she bumped into Hilary Vane at the airport…' Paula mused.
`And pushed the fatal needle into her victim,' Newman commented. 'Cold-blooded murder in broad daylight amid a crowd of people. That takes nerve.'
`Let Paula concentrate,' Tweed chided him.
`Both women have nerve,' Paula observed.
`Which women, for Heaven's sake?' Newman interjected again. He fell silent as Tweed glared.
`Down in the New Forest. Lee Holmes and Helen Claybourne,' Paula continued. 'One of them. The trouble is I just can't recall the resemblance, the gesture. Either woman is tall enough to have played that fiendish role at Heathrow..
`And both Holmes and Claybourne have acting experience,' Monica added. 'I'm building up a file on both those most unusual ladies…'
`One thing I can check,' Paula went on, her mind closed to all interruptions. 'I can phone both places down in the New Forest and see if one of them isn't there.'
`Burgoyne and Fanshawe,' Monica said to herself, checking a local phone directory from her collection. `Here we are.' She scribbled two numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to Paula.
There was an expectant hush in the office. Paula took a tissue out of a box, crumpled it, put it inside her mouth, then wrapped a silk handkerchief round the mouthpiece of her phone to disguise her voice. First she dialled Brigadier Burgoyne's number. She waited several minutes as the ringing tone went on, put down the phone.
`Interesting. No one there. No Lee, no Brig. Now for Helen Claybourne.
She repeated her performance. Again she waited several minutes. The ringing tone went on and on with irritating persistence. She replaced the receiver.
`No one there either. No Helen. No Willie.'
Newman waited no longer. He spoke with great vigour to Tweed.
`Why the hell, I'd like to know, aren't we doing something about Moor's Landing? Poor Mrs Garnett has vanished, as I told you earlier.'
`What do you propose?'
`Put the police on to it. Contact Mark Stanstead. Since you know him he'll act. The next thing we'll hear is Mrs Garnett's body has been found floating in the Solent – like Irene Andover's. A woman has disappeared, Tweed, and I'd have said that was more than enough to turn over the whole of Moor's Landing.'
`You're a great one for premature action occasionally, Bob,' Tweed replied calmly. 'I am deliberately not stirring up that wasps' nest. Yet. We'll let them think they've got away with it.'
`Why?' Newman shot back.
`Because I'm afraid much greater issues are at stake. Let me read a few extracts from the file Andover handed me.' He took the file from a drawer, opened it, began to read slowly.
`Mrs Kramer, get Vulcan on the phone for me. Rather urgently, if you please.'
Dr Wand spent the time while waiting studying the maps on his desk. They showed the south coast of England from Dover to Lymington. He checked other maps covering the coasts of Western Europe from the Dutch border to Denmark across Germany. All of them carried pencil crosses marking certain locations. The phone rang.
`Vulcan speaking.'
`Go to London Airport with our friends at once. Tickets at Sabena desk. We are leaving for Belgium.'
`Understood. There have been intruders at Moor's Landing. Should we evacuate the area?'
`Your opinion, if you would be so kind.'
`Not necessary. I know Tweed. He proceeds step by step until he has all the data before he acts.'
`Then,' Dr Wand replied, 'by going to Belgium we stay a step ahead of him. In any case, arrangements have been made to remove him from this world if necessary…'
This terse conversation took place several hours before Paula made her abortive phone calls.
Tweed continued reading from the Andover file:
"But in the thirteenth century far more momentous events were afoot upon the larger stage of Asia. A Tartar people from the country to the north of China rose suddenly to prominence in the world's affairs, and achieved such a series of conquests as has no parallel in history. These were the Mongols…
– In 1214 Genghis Khan, the leader of the Mongol confederation, made war on the Kin Empire and captured Pekin (1214 AD). He then turned westward, conquered Western Turkestan, Persia, Armenia, India down to Lahore, and south Russia as far as Hungary and Silesia.." '
`I don't see the point of this history lesson,' Newman protested.
`Patience. Let me read a little more…
"His successor, Ogdai Khan… continued this astonishing career of conquest… He completed the conquest of the Kin Empire and then swept his hosts across Asia to Russia (1235 AD), an altogether amazing march. Kieff was destroyed in 1240 AD, and nearly all Russia became tributary to the Mongols. Poland was ravaged, and a mixed army of the Poles and Germans was annihilated at the battle of Liegnitz in Lower Silesia in 1241…"'
`That's getting near to home,' Paula observed as Tweed paused.
`Most intuitive of you. Andover underlined the passage beginning with Poland.'
`You might let m
e in on what this is all about,' Newman complained.
`Shshh!' said Paula. 'Read on,' she prodded Tweed. .. It should be noticed that the Mongols embarked upon the enterprise with full knowledge of the situation of Hungary and the condition of Poland – they had taken care to inform themselves by a well-organized system of spies…"
`Andover has underlined that last passage where I raised my voice,' Tweed commented.
`Still don't get it,' Newman persisted. 'The only Mongols left are a handful of nomadic tribesmen in Central Asia. So what? Andover was a student of history.'
`Andover,' Tweed emphasized, 'is a student of present- day global menaces, trying to foresee the future from past history. Yes, the Mongols are mere nomads of no particular size today. But massive forces exist close to them – forces which Andover believe studied history.'
`Liegnitz is not far from the Atlantic,' Paula said thoughtfully. 'How close, I wonder?'
`You are beginning to detect the shadowy outline of the enormous menace Andover identified,' Tweed told her. `Andover has written a comment on exactly that point…'
– Liegnitz is little more than a hundred and fifty miles from present-day Berlin – and no more than two hundred and fifty miles from Hamburg and its opening to the sea. The Mongols came within a hair's breadth of reaching the Atlantic – and Britain."
The last two words have been also underlined by Andover,' Tweed explained. 'Apart from his comments, what I have read you are extracts from H. G. Wells' A Short History of the World.'
`So now we've had our history lesson,' Newman remarked, stretching himself, 'what is the next move?'
`The next move is for us to hurry to Belgium to have a talk with Professor Gaston Delvaux of Liege. A fresh link in the chain, I hope. Monica has tickets for the three of us. But first I must speak to my old friend, Chief Inspector Benoit of the Brussels police. A man who knows everything going on inside his country.'
`Let's hope he doesn't give us a shock,' Paula said. `Why should he?' Newman demanded.
`I just have a feeling.'
`More intuition?' Newman asked ironically.
Monica phoned the Brussels number and requested the call to be put on a scrambler phone. She was told they would call back. Several minutes later the phone rang.
`Benoit?' Tweed enquired. 'Tweed here.'
`Ah, my old friend has at long last remembered me,' a warm voice greeted him in English. 'How are you? Good. So you must have a problem. Always a problem when you contact me. Shoot, as the vulgar Americans say.'
`I am coming over very shortly..
`Tell Monica to phone me the flight details. I will meet you with a car at Zaventem Airport.'
`A more pleasant welcome to Belgium I can't imagine.
Thank you. I need to visit a M. Gaston Delvaux..
`Are you also on scrambler?' Benoit interjected quickly. `Yes.' Tweed's grip tightened on the phone. 'Why?' `Delvaux the armaments genius in Herstal outside Liege?'
`That's the man,' Tweed confirmed.
`You may have difficulty seeing him, I fear. There is a mystery there. Very strange.'
'What kind of mystery?'
`I don't know. Yes,' Benoit stated, 'I agree that sounds a peculiar thing to say but it is the truth. We are banned from going anywhere near his chateau.'
`What on earth is going on?' Tweed pressed.
`I am not making myself clear. Let me try. But it will not be easy to describe the indescribable.'
The cold facts would help.'
A sigh. 'Gaston Delvaux, so active all his life, and in his fifties still, has withdrawn from all public and commercial activities. He has become a recluse. Possibly a nervous breakdown? Why then has no doctor been to see him as far as I know?'
`How much of a recluse?' Tweed probed. 'And for how long?'
Paula had leaned forward. At the mention of the word `recluse' her eyes gleamed. She watched Tweed closely. Newman, previously drumming his fingers quietly, had stopped and sat upright, also staring at Tweed's expression, which gave nothing away.
`For three to four months. Apparently his wife has left him, ran off with an American millionaire. I find that a little hard to believe.'
Tweed had a jab of memory. His own wife had left him for a Greek shipping magnate. So far as he knew they were living somewhere in South America. He was surprised how little the reminder affected him. It had happened, after all, quite a few years ago. All this flashed through his mind as he immediately responded to Benoit.
`I also find it hard to believe that about Lucie,' Tweed said grimly. 'Gaston brought her to London once for a meeting of INCOMSIN. I had dinner with them. His wife struck me as a very stable woman, very attached to Gaston.'
`My impression also,' Benoit agreed. 'Of course, you cannot always tell with women. But it still does not sound like Lucie. Not at all. But that's what Delvaux has told people.'
`That's the extent of the mystery then?'
`By no means. There is more. I said he had become a recluse. He suddenly resigned all his posts – Scientific Adviser to NATO, Defence Consultant to the EC, etc. All thrown up overnight.'
'How long ago?'
`Three to four months.'
`Which must have just about coincided with the disappearance of his wife, Lucie?'
`That is so. It was assumed here that caused him to withdraw from public life. Myself, I think the psychology is wrong. To cushion the shock of losing his wife he would have immersed himself in his work. I repeat, a mystery.'
`Monica will let you know when we are coming, Benoit.'
'We? Is the delightful Paula coming with you?'
`She is.' Tweed smiled to himself. Benoit had a soft spot for Paula. 'We'll see you soon…'
The phone rang on Dr Wand's desk. He picked it up, glanced at his Rolex watch.
`Yes?'
`I'm phoning from a call box,' a woman's voice informed him. 'I have completed the assignment at London Airport. The job is done.'
`Did anyone see you?'
`Of course not. Conditions were perfect. A large jostling crowd. Ideal atmosphere for the operation.'
`Excellent, my dear,' Wand purred. His pursed mouth smiled with satisfaction. His eyes gleamed behind the pince-nez. 'We shall soon be leaving for Brussels, where I may have another assignment for you. Come here in your usual guise.'
`I'm dressed as a cleaning woman now. I'm on my way…'
Dr Wand put down the phone. He rubbed his large hands together. Everything was proceeding satisfactorily. The next target to check on was in Belgium.
`This is all so weird and disturbing,' Paula said when they had heard Tweed's resume of his conversation with Benoit. 'It sounds like a repeat performance of the experience with Sir Gerald Andover.'
`It does indeed,' Tweed replied. 'I find it most sinister. Which is an added reason for going to Brussels.'
He handed her Andover's file as Cord Dillon came back into the office with Howard. The Director of the SIS was a tall pink-faced man, clean shaven and immaculately clad in a blue chalk-stripe Chester Barrie suit from Harrods. He also wore the obligatory fashionable striped shirt and his accent was upper crust.
`Most unfortunate – to say the least – this incident at London Airport,' he began.
`To say the least,' Tweed repeated drily, wishing he would go away.
`An appalling welcome for our distinguished visitor,' Howard went on. 'And all the information was inside the dead woman's head..
Tweed glanced at Dillon. His expression was poker-faced – clearly he had not said one word about Stealth to Howard, a man he had never liked.
`… so I suppose we'll never know what she was going to tell us,' Howard waffled on. 'I really find this all most regrettable. As you know, Tweed, I'm just back from a visit to Washington.' He looked at Dillon. 'Your Director said there was nothing much going on now. Except the chaos in Russia.' He turned his attention again to Tweed. `So what about the home front..
Huddled over files on her desk Monica groaned in
wardly. The home front. Howard would keep using his out-of-date phraseology. His club language.
`Anything startling to report? Any new activity during my absence?' Howard continued.
`This and that,' Tweed replied off-handedly. 'Too early to draw any conclusions. Much too early.'
`Ah!' Howard removed a speck of dust from his lapel, glanced at Dillon, 'Mum's the word?'
Tweed nodded. Howard had assumed that Tweed didn't wish to reveal anything in front of Dillon. A reaction Tweed had stage-managed to avoid telling Howard anything yet.
`I'd better delve into my files,' Howard decided. 'And if you can find the time, Dillon, do come and have dinner at my club one evening. Welcome to the old UK.
Dillon waited until he had gone. He sat in a chair Paula brought for him, started speaking in his usual abrasive manner.
`What the hell I can't understand is how they had someone waiting at London Airport for Vane to arrive. Had to be planned in advance to have an assassin on the spot.'
`Cord, understandably you're probably suffering from jet lag or you'd have seen it yourself,' Tweed said diplomatically. 'This has to be a big, international, organization we're up against. Your flight from Washington was delayed by five or six hours with a bomb scare – which turns out to be a hoax. You must have been seen with Vane at Dulles Airport. The hoax held up your plane's arrival long enough for the assassin to get to London Airport. Diabolically simple.'
`So we listen to a voice from the dead,' Dillon said.
He took out of his pocket a thick velvet sleeve. From it he extracted a slim container and look at Paula. Opening the plastic container he took out a CD disc.
`Paula, that looks like a machine over there that takes CDs. It is? Good. We recorded Vane's edited statement on CD because it's so easy to conceal. Would you mind playing it? I said edited because I want you to hear the guts…'
Paula inserted the CD after switching on the machine. She pressed the 'play' button and sat down to listen. It was eerie to hear the soft-spoken voice of the dead Hilary Vane.
`I spent six years working with Boeing in Seattle on the Stealth project. Two of the most brilliant researchers in this field were Professors Bauer and Rockmann. Both were married and had children. Three years ago I was due to be transferred to Palmdale, California. Just before I left, Bauer and Rockmann were about to have their contracts renewed. Their specialty was aircraft – Stealth. A third equally brilliant researcher, Professor Crown, believed the technique could be adapted to ships and submarines. Crown had been working on his own for some time. Just before I left for Palmdale Bauer and Rockmann disappeared. They left notes behind at their homes in Seattle saying they were moving to another company. Agents from Washington couldn't find any trace of the two men – or their families. Professor Crown came with me to Palmdale. He was married but had no children. He also disappeared with his wife, leaving behind in his Seattle home a note saying the pressure was proving too much, that he'd taken a long holiday with his wife…'