By Stealth tac-9

by Colin Forbes

  There was a pause. Everyone waited expectantly and Dillon explained.

  `Soon you'll hear me ask her a question. Not much more.'

  He stopped speaking as the dead woman's voice continued. Paula thought she now detected a shakiness in her tone.

  `Again the agents came from Washington and couldn't find any trace of them – Professor Crown and his wife. All three men with their loved ones had vanished into thin air. I found it most disconcerting, made it difficult to concentrate on my work…'

  Another pause. Then Cord Dillon's voice asking the question.

  `Ms Vane, about three years after Crown vanished, did you suddenly remember something you'd forgotten to mention in statements taken from you at the time?'

  `Yes, Mr Dillon. I feel so stupid. It had completely slipped my mind. But Professor Crown went on what I thought was a holiday trip to Belgium before settling down at his new location in Palmdale. When he came back he told me over a drink late at night that he'd found confirmation of his marine Stealth theories from another source. He was very excited…'

  Dillon stood up, strode briskly to the machine, switched it off. He removed the CD disc and replaced it in its velvet cover.

  `That's it, Tweed. It was only one week ago Vane recalled that conversation with Crown over a late-night drink. Only a week ago that Belgium was mentioned. I come here direct from the President. His orders were that I contact you – he knows your track record.'

  `And that's it?' Tweed asked.

  `Not quite. We guessed no one would try to disappear from the States by plane. We knew the disappearance dates so we checked on shipping which left the ports of Seattle and San Francisco. When Bauer and Rockmann vanished we found a freighter – which has never returned – left San Francisco. Same with Crown. A freighter – which again never returned to the States – left Seattle just about the time he vanished with his wife.'

  `You checked the registration of these two ships?' `Sure. Some obscure outfit we couldn't find anything on Moonglow Trading and Mercantile International.'

  `And the destination of those freighters?' Tweed asked. `Hong Kong.'

  15

  It turned out that Cord Dillon was not only suffering from jet lag. He was also recovering from a bout of flu. He had been glad to leave Tweed's office for his room at the Inn on the Park. Shortly after his departure the phone rang. Monica picked it up, listened, put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Tweed.

  `A Commander Noble is waiting to see you downstairs.' `Wheel him up,' Tweed ordered.

  Newman stood up. He was looking dishevelled and washed out.

  `I think I'll get back to my flat and have a bath. That is, unless you think I ought to wait to hear what the Commander has to say?'

  `I'd push off.' Tweed smiled. 'I rather think Commander Noble will want to speak to me alone. Naval Intelligence, as you know. I asked him to locate someone..

  Newman opened the door as the visitor arrived at the top of the stairs. Nodding to him, Newman disappeared. Commander Noble stood six foot two, had a large frame, was in his late thirties, and had the ruddy complexion of a man who has spent time at sea. He wore a business suit.

  Tweed stood up. He held out his hand in greeting.

  `Good of you to come. Not something we could discuss on the phone, I gather?'

  `Don't trust them. Not even scramblers. No thank you,' he responded when Monica offered him coffee. He looked at Paula and Monica before seating himself in the chair Tweed indicated.

  `I don't wish to question the reliability of your staff. But this is a subject strictly between you and me.'

  `I was just going to search for a file,' Paula said tactfully and left the room with Monica, who made a similar excuse. Noble sat upright in the armchair, grim-faced.

  `Tweed, what's all this about ships vanishing without trace and for no apparent reason?'

  `Five in the general area of the Solent this year.'

  Tweed pointed to the wall where Monica, on his instruction, had attached three maps. One of the south coast centring on Lymington. Red-topped pins marked the general areas where Walford, Lymington's Acting. Harbour Master, had reported they had disappeared.

  A second map, large scale, was of the whole of Europe. The third, taking up the most space, was a map of the entire world.

  `Know about those,' Noble commented. 'There have been others.' He paused as though wondering how much to reveal. 'Hell, I know you. But this is top secret. I'm in touch with naval intelligence of other nations. Top secret,' he repeated. Another pause.

  `Of course,' Tweed encouraged him.

  `We've had similar reports of vessels disappearing for no reason off the coasts of Holland, Germany, and Denmark.' He stood up. 'Got more of those pins? Thanks,' he went on as Tweed handed him a glass ash-tray full of red-topped pins.

  `How many ships were involved? What types? And what were weather conditions like?' Tweed fired off his questions.

  `Two offshore from Holland.' Noble jabbed in pins. `Six off the German coast. Often near the Frisian Islands, curiously enough. Borkum, Norderney, and Sylt. There's a German naval base on the northern tip of Sylt…' He jabbed in more pins. 'And then eight off the western coast of Denmark – south of the port of Esbjerg.' Noble rammed in pin after pin, then turned to face Tweed, his hands on his hips.

  `What types, you said. Yachts, coasters, fishing boats, and freighters. In every case no wreckage found. And no survivors. Except in one case. A trifle grisly.'

  `Go on, I'm intrigued,' Tweed urged him.

  `A German radar expert called Vogel took his small sloop out from Norderney in a dense sea mist. He was number six, had gone out to find out what had happened to a close friend. He never came back. A search the following day by a helicopter located a piece of floating wreckage. A chopper crewman descended with a cradle to bring up the relic. He retched up all his breakfast. Vogel's head was jammed in the remains of the bow. He had been decapitated. Head sliced off below the chin as neat as you like. Same with what was left of the sloop.'

  `What did it?' Tweed probed. 'Surely a German pathologist…'

  `Yes. A German pathologist checked the specimen. He'd no idea what had done it. Said the neck was severed so cleanly he'd have thought a surgeon with a huge knife had done the job. Fantastic idea. He didn't mean it – he was just demonstrating how bizarre it was.'

  `And that's the lot? Missing ships?'

  `Glory, no.' Noble picked up the ash-tray from a table, moved to the world map. 'Two fishing boats vanished off the west coast of Africa near the Dakar bulge.' Noble stuck in two more pins. 'Then three freighters disappeared well south of the Cape of Good Hope. Blown off course by a gale, then conditions became very foggy. Oh, there was fog off Dakar, too. Now we move much further east. The Timor Sea – midway between northern Australia and the island of Timor. Three large fishing vessels were lost there. Plus a Japanese freighter, the Subaru.' He jabbed in the final pin and sat down in the armchair.

  `The four vessels which vanished in the Timor Sea did so when a dense fog was present. Seems to be the only common factor. Fog. We're worried and perplexed. Just too many. And no survivors. Except Vogel – if you count his head. Make any sense to you?'

  Tweed didn't answer at once. He seemed to have drifted into a daze as he stared at the maps. Noble checked his watch. He spoke as Tweed stirred.

  `You're on to something, aren't you?'

  `I'm not sure. You used the word bizarre. That describes my theory. I need more data.'

  `When you phoned me and mentioned missing ships you asked if I could locate Sir Gerald Andover's motor yacht, Seahorse III.' Noble broke off, stared at the maps. 'While I remember it, shouldn't I remove those pins before I go?'

  `I'd sooner you didn't. And this is probably the most secure room in London. We've tightened up. And each night two armed men guard my office.'

  `Leave the pins, then. Now, Andover. I started phoning contacts up at Esjberg in Denmark and worked my way south. I got lucky at Antwerp. Thi
s morning. Sea- horse III is now berthed in that Belgian port.'

  `And by train a short ride to Brussels, then another short train trip to Liege,' Tweed said to himself.

  `Pardon? Missed that.'

  `Nothing. Just talking to myself. I owe you one…'

  Alone in his office Tweed had swivelled his chair round so he was facing the maps. He studied them through half- closed eyes. Before leaving, Noble had told him that the `incidents' off Dakar, the Cape of Good Hope, and in the Timor Sea had all taken place well clear of normal shipping lanes.

  `Then what were the fated vessels doing there?' Tweed had asked.

  `All blown off course by gales and heavy seas we assume,' Noble had replied.

  `Significant,' Tweed said.

  He roused himself as someone tapped gently on the door. He called out for the visitor to enter. Into his office walked Marler, summoned by Monica at Tweed's request.

  Marler, in his early thirties, had been a member of the SIS for several years. He was the deadliest marksman with a rifle in Western Europe. Of medium height, slim, clean- shaven, he was smartly dressed in a check sports jacket, grey trousers with a razor crease, a crisp white shirt and a pale blue tie. Fair-haired, he spoke with an upper-class drawl. On the continent he could pass for the typical Englishman of independent means. He perched on the arm of the large chair as Monica and Paula returned.

  `Can we come in, now your naval person has gone?' Paula enquired.

  `Make yourselves at home,' Tweed told them. 'You'll be interested in what I tell Marler.'

  `Got a job, I do hope,' Marler drawled. 'Hanging around looking in sports-print shops gets a trifle boring.'

  Monica watched him Smart as paint, she thought. And so unlike Howard. Behind the Director's back she referred to him as 'our mobile fashion-plate'.

  `Yes,' Tweed confirmed. 'And a very dangerous job I suspect it could be.'

  `Better and better. Gets the old adrenalin moving. Any travel involved?'

  `That's for you to find out. Monica, before he leaves, give Marler five thousand pounds. Plus two thousand in Belgian currency.'

  `Brussels on the agenda?' Marler enquired. 'This sounds up my street. Some good eating-places there.'

  `That's a guess,' Tweed warned. 'Belgium, I mean. No more than a hunch. Your job is to track the movements of a Dr Wand…'

  He explained tersely all he knew about the target, all Monica had been able to dig up so far. He emphasized that no one could be sure what Wand looked like, which made his task difficult.

  `Sounds like the blighter Butler saw at The Boltons the night he played paper boy. Not so many men wearing gold pince-nez.'

  `If that is Dr Wand,' Tweed warned. 'Apparently he's so far never been photographed.'

  `Oh, he will be.' Marler produced a small camera from a pocket. If it does turn out to be Brussels, shouldn't I he weaponed up?'

  `Essential,' Tweed agreed. 'In Belgium you shouldn't have much difficulty obtaining what you need.'

  `Contacts in Antwerp, Brussels, and Liege,' Marler confidently reminded Tweed.

  `I repeat, this man could be very dangerous,' Tweed emphasized.

  `So a target worth tracking. Is that it? If so I'll get my bag from the Registry – the one I leave there packed for swift departures.'

  `One more thing,' Tweed told him. 'I'll be staying soon at the Hilton on the Boulevard de Waterloo with Paula and Newman.'

  `Do we really need our world-famous newspaper correspondent tagging along?'

  Tweed sighed inwardly. In an emergency the two men could work together, rely completely on each other. But both men had their reservations about the other. Personality clash.

  `Newman is coming,' he said firmly. 'I've given you all I can. Sorry it's so little.'

  `Makes it all the more interesting. Finding out. So, Dr Wand, here I come. And you'd better mind your p's and q's…'

  ***

  Monica picked up the phone, which was ringing. She spoke, listened, briefly. Masking the mouthpiece she called out urgently to Tweed.

  `Philip Cardon on the line. Sounds to be short of time.' `Tweed here. Cardon, where are you? I thought you were flying home.'

  `Stopped off at Bangkok…'

  `Where are you calling from?' Tweed asked anxiously. `Public phone box, airport. I'll be three days or so late flying back. I'm going up to Chengmai…'

  `Don't! That's an order…'

  `Can't hear you. Bad line. Must go..

  Tweed realized the connection was broken. He put down the receiver slowly. Paula had been watching him. `What's wrong?'

  `Philip Cardon calling from Bangkok Airport. He's stopped over to visit Chengmai.'

  `The huge drugs distribution centre for the so-called Golden Triangle. You ordered him home?'

  `Yes. He played the old trick on me. Pretended that the line was crackling, said he couldn't hear me. I'm very afraid.'

  `But you do give your top agents a lot of licence to use their initiative,' she reminded him. 'And Cardon is an expert on the Far East. How could drugs come into what we're investigating, if they do?'

  `No idea.'

  He looked up as Newman came into the office. He was carrying a bag and wore a raincoat over his suit. Dumping the bag, he sank into the armchair.

  `Just in case we're on our way. Are we?' want to talk to Dillon if he'll come over now..

  Monica was already dialling the Inn on the Park. She had checked, made a note of the number earlier. After several minutes she nodded and Tweed picked up the phone.

  `Cord, you know who's calling from my voice? Good. Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, but if you could get back to my office I'd appreciate it. I need more details about the specific subject we were discussing.'

  Dillon, sleepy-voiced, immediately caught on to the fact that Tweed was referring to Stealth. To the technique installed in the revolutionary bomber.

  `I'd come over, yes.' Like Tweed, Dillon was phrasing his words carefully, knowing the conversation was passing via the hotel switchboard. 'But I don't think I could tell you what you want. That was the point of my thinking in bringing over Vane. She was the only one who carried all the technical details in her head. That is, over here.'

  `Then go back to sleep. Sorry to disturb you. I may not be available for a few days. Take a rare rest, get out of London into the country. Call you when I get back…'

  Tweed jumped up, went over to the cupboard where he kept a packed case ready for instant travel. He spoke to Monica as he hauled out the case.

  `You have three tickets, Business Class, booked on the Sabena flight to Brussels today?'

  `Yes. I've been moving the reservations from one day to the next. You pick them up from the counter at London Airport.'

  `So we are off,' said Paula, collecting her own case from the cupboard Tweed had left open. 'With what aim?'

  `To visit Gaston Delvaux in Liege as quickly as I can get to him. I didn't like the sound of what Benoit told me. I just hope to God we're in time.'

  Dr Wand stood behind a net-curtained window on the first floor of the mansion in The Boltons. Beside him stood the gaunt, grim-faced Mrs Kramer.

  `We are being spied on,' Wand told her. 'That white van parked up the road. Supposedly Straker's the Florist. A large window in the side. One-way glass, I'm certain. For unseen cameras to photograph who calls or leaves. A job for our Mr Briggs. Rather urgent. The Daimler will be arriving soon to take me to London Airport. Briggs must remove the intruder. Tell him from me, please – any method he chooses.'

  Mrs Kramer left the window immediately. She picked up a phone, gave the instruction to Briggs in careful phrases. Describing the van exactly, she put down the phone.

  `Briggs says fifteen minutes. He has a vehicle standing by for emergencies.'

  Dr Wand turned away from the window, lips pursed, gave his ice-cold smile. Briggs was reliable. He didn't think the van driver – and any other occupants – were due to survive much longer.

  Harry Butler sat behind the wheel o
f the white van parked in The Boltons wearing a white coat – the type worn by florist delivery men sometimes. He was also clad in a peaked cap pulled well down and a dead fag hung from the corner of his lips.

  The van was equipped with a large rear-view mirror and several wing mirrors. The rear was always the dangerous area. Despite the raw cold of a sunny November day, he had his window down. On the seat beside him was a large plastic bag containing a dark liquid.

  He had seen the net curtain in the first-floor window twitch and guessed he had been observed. Fifteen minutes later by his watch he heard the sound of a large vehicle approaching. Trundling round a distant corner of the curved crescent a huge dustcart was approaching. Butler switched on his engine.

  Twenty feet away he saw a man in a dark overcoat with an astrakhan collar, a dark hat, and gold pince-nez walking down the steps of No. 185. He carried a suitcase as a gleaming Daimler overtook Butler, pulled up outside the mansion.

  Butler saw all this with a brief glance. His attention was concentrated on the huge dustcart which had paused at the bend. Suddenly the driver accelerated as the Daimler glided away from the curve with its passenger in the rear seat.

  The dustcart roared round the curving crescent, moving at such speed that Butler guessed the engine was souped up. He changed gear. The truck was thundering alongside him when the driver swung his wheel right over. Butler reversed at high speed, one hand on the wheel. His other hand threw out the plastic bag, which burst, spilling a lake of oil on the road surface. Tweed had told him of their experience with the helicopter next to Hatchet Pond down in the New Forest. Always learn from the enemy.