By Stealth tac-9

by Colin Forbes

  Behind the wheel of the dustcart Briggs had expected to smash into the side of the van at speed, crushing it. Instead he saw the massive garden wall of a mansion in front of him. He turned the wheel desperately. His wheels, slithering in the oil, refused to respond. The truck hit the wall with shattering force. Briggs was thrown forward against the wheel, breaking ribs. But it was the least of his worries. The truck, its front crumpled amid the wreckage of the wall, burst into flames.

  Butler – who had agreed to help Marler – had already left The Boltons. He was driving at cruising speed towards Cromwell Road with his window now closed.

  `Very satisfactory,' Dr Wand thought, relaxed inside the Daimler. 'Perfect timing. I must consider giving Briggs a bonus.'

  It never occurred to him to glance back through the rear window. Even had he done so, it is very doubtful whether he would have noticed the Ford Escort tailing him. Behind the wheel, Marler whistled to himself.

  Butler, he was thinking, had proved a most successful decoy. While the van was parked in full view of No. 185 Marler, in the Ford Escort, had parked a distance away where he could just see the entrance to Dr Wand's mansion. And he wasn't worried about the explosion which had shaken his car: Butler was very capable of looking after himself.

  When he was convinced of the Daimler's destination he picked up the microphone. The car was equipped with a high-powered radio system, tuned to the waveband of the receiving station in the communications centre in another building at Park Crescent.

  `Parker Transport calling base. Have collected fare and now on way to London Airport…'

  Once his message was acknowledged, Marler closed up on the Daimler. He began whistling again. The tune was `Nothing Can Come Between Us'.

  16

  Marler parked the Escort in a long-term bay at London Airport. It seemed the logical thing to do: Dr Wand's chauffeur-driven Daimler was parked nine bays away. Marler sat twiddling a king-sized cigarette between his fingers as he watched. The uniformed chauffeur alighted, opened the rear door, and Wand climbed out. Blinking, he adjusted his gold pince-nez.

  A perfect opportunity. Marler whipped out a small camera from the glove compartment, raised it to his eyes, pressed the automatic self-focus, and within seconds he'd taken six shots.

  The chauffeur, wearing a peaked cap and dark glasses, was opening the boot, taking out two cases. Louis Vuitton. Nothing but the best for Dr Wand. Marler took two shots of the chauffeur. A tall, slim type, well built, aquiline nose, and with an athletic stride. He locked the car and Marler locked his own, following them at a distance.

  Looped round Marler's neck was a compact pair of field-glasses as he carried his case. Five minutes later he was watching through the lenses as a motorized passenger trolley carried Wand, chauffeur, and luggage to a waiting Lear executive jet. Marler registered the number, then ran all the way to the office of Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security. He was lucky: Corcoran was sitting at his desk staring glumly at a pile of reports.

  `Don't bother about those boring old things, sport,' Marler greeted him. 'I've got something far more interesting for you do do.'

  `Oh, yes? And what might that be? Trouble, I'm sure. The last time your boss was here we ended up with a body.'

  `And this just might be connected with that,' Marler guessed wildly. 'Lear jet on the tarmac. Registration number-. A Dr Wand has just gone aboard. Apparently Customs and Passport Control go out to OK His Highness.'

  `Dr Wand?' Corcoran wrinkled his long nose in disgust. `He carries clout. All because he's running some refugee aid outfit. What do you want – and I know I'm going to wish I hadn't asked.'

  `Nothing much. Just find out where he's going. And delay his departure.'

  `Is that all?'

  `Tweed would want it,' Marler said, 'and you've got a superb memory. So you'll recall you owe him While you're doing that mind if I smoke?'

  `With all the "No Smoking" signs glaring at you? Go ahead – you will anyway. I'll check his flight plan. As to delaying his flight, you wouldn't have any ideas how I might go about that?'

  `Easy again. You say you've received a bomb threat to an unidentified executive jet. Send men out to the Lear. You can say later it turned out to be a hoax.'

  It amused Marler to use the same tactic Tweed had told him on the phone the enemy had used in Washington – to give time for an assassin to be waiting for Hilary Vane.

  `This is really important, I suppose?' Corcoran demanded.

  `Case of national security,' Marler said jauntily, using the magic phrase.

  He wandered round, puffing his cigarette, using a tin lid as an ash-tray, while Corcoran busied himself on the phone. Eventually the tall, red-faced, alert-eyed Corcoran put down the phone, started rattling off information.

  `Dr Wand's pilot put in a flight plan for Zaventem Airport, Brussels. A bomb squad has gone out to the jet to do their stuff, God help 'em. Maximum time they can keep the jet on the tarmac three-quarters of an hour. Anything else?'

  `Now that you ask, just one more favour. Book me a seat on the first flight to Brussels. Business Class. When is the first flight?'

  `They're calling it now, first call, that is.' Corcoran sighed, picked up the phone again. A brief call this time. `One Business Class ticket waiting for you at the counter. Sabena flight. Now could I make a request? Good. Nice to have had you around. And get to hell out of here.'

  `One final question,' Marler called out as he reached the door. 'Will my Sabena flight beat that Lear to Brussels?'

  `It will do just that. Close the door quietly, won't you?'

  Inside the Sabena jet Paula sat in a window seat with Tweed alongside her. Across the corridor Newman occupied the aisle seat. Passengers were still boarding. From the few waiting in the final departure lounge the flight was half empty. Paula nudged Tweed, whispered.

  `Look who has arrived.'

  Marler, carrying his small case – which meant he wouldn't be delayed waiting at the carousel, could walk straight off the plane – was heading up the aisle. He didn't even glance at the trio.

  Reaching the front of the aircraft, he appeared to change his mind, walked back past them. Paula waited a moment, then glanced back. Marler was sitting three rows behind them, occupying a window seat on her side with an empty seat next to him.

  `He's taken up a position to watch over us,' Tweed said in a low tone. 'Odd he should be on the same flight.'

  Paula glanced back as though to see how many more passengers were coming into Business Class. Marler was staring through the window, his compact pair of binoculars pressed against his eyes. Round the Lear jet in the distance a team of men were swarming. The retractable steps were still down.

  As he watched, a heavily built man wearing a dark overcoat with an astrakhan collar padded down the steps. He began to pace slowly up and down. He stopped, stared towards the Sabena aircraft. He had a large head, fair hair, and gold pince-nez were perched on his strong nose.

  Marler left his seat, peered back into Economy. More passengers still boarding. He walked up to the front of the aircraft and asked the stewardess a question.

  `Can you give me some idea of the flight time to Brussels?'

  `Fifty minutes, sir.' She looked at Marler, liked what she saw. The passenger seemed restless. 'There are plenty of other seats if you wish to change,' she suggested.

  `I'm the athletic type.' He grinned at her. 'Like to get a bit of exercise – find I get cramped sitting down. And you look very chic in that uniform.'

  `Thank you, sir…'

  Marler was on his way back to his seat, walking slowly. The stewardess watched him with interest. He hadn't made the usual coarse pass she was used to – he'd just paid her a genuine compliment. Marler was timing it carefully, field-glasses clenched in his hand. A woman passenger was coming towards him. They met alongside Tweed.

  Marler appeared to stumble as he stood aside to let the new arrival pass. He fell across Tweed, dropped the binoculars in his lap.

  `I'm so so
rry, sir.' He lowered his voice. 'Lear jet over there. Could be Dr Wand pacing up and down. Destination Brussels.'

  Apologizing again, he returned to his seat. Paula picked up her glasses, raised them to her eyes. They were already focused on the Lear. As she studied the large man he stopped and again stared towards the Sabena plane. In the lenses his face came up close. Remote eyes behind the pince-nez. She shivered.

  `What's the matter?' Tweed asked in a normal voice.

  He'd already checked. No one in the two rows ahead or behind them. Paula swallowed.

  `If that is Dr Wand there's a streak of pure cruelty in the man.'

  `Well, from what's happened so far the mastermind behind it all is certainly cruel – almost to the point of sadism.'

  `You mean the severed arm of Irene, then her body floating in the Solent?'

  `That – and many other things. A sadist capable of the most appalling mental cruelty – as well as physical. Unless I'm wrong in the theory taking shape.'

  `No point in asking you what theory, I suppose?' `Not until I'm sure.'

  The aircraft was in midair, crossing the North Sea, when Paula decided to go to the toilet. Some instinct made her put on tinted glasses. In the aisle she glanced into Economy section and nearly froze.

  Sheer will power – plus SIS training – kept her moving. When she returned she waited until Tweed had settled himself in his seat. Then she leaned close to him.

  `I've had a shock. You'll never guess who is travelling with us. In Economy.'

  `You know I don't like guessing.'

  `Willie Fanshawe, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Helen Claybourne. Helen has the window seat. Willie is next to her. The Brig. is across in the next aisle seat – like Newman with you. Willie was leaning over, chatting to Burgoyne.'

  Did any of them see you?' Tweed enquired.

  `No. I'm certain of it.'

  `Any sign of Lee Holmes?'

  `Absolutely not. And Economy is full up.'

  `Maybe she caught an earlier flight to Brussels. I find it significant – the absence of Lee.'

  `In what way?'

  Tweed ignored her question. Taking off his glasses he began to clean them on his handkerchief, which meant his mind was racing. He asked her the question as he put on his glasses.

  `You never got a chance to give me your impressions of the relationships between Burgoyne and Holmes and between Willie and Helen. Now might be a good time.'

  `At first I made the obvious assumption – both men had their mistress living with them. Nothing odd about that. Then it did become odd. I decided I was wrong. Perhaps only another woman would sense it. The lack of little things indicating intimacy. Before we left each house I was convinced my first impressions had been wildly off the mark.'

  `So what is the relationship?'

  `Odd, as I said. Both women obviously manage house and do the normal jobs wives would do – or some mistresses…'

  `You're becoming as cynical as me.'

  `Let me go on. I had the strongest feeling both women are working for the men in some professional capacity. It's a business relationship, if you like.'

  `Anything else?'

  `Yes. Lee has to handle Burgoyne with kid gloves. Basically he's still the Brigadier, accustomed to giving orders and expecting instant obedience. With Helen I had the opposite impression. Willie is an amiable soul – has all his marbles though. But Helen is calling the shots.'

  `I find your conclusions illuminating. Thank you.'

  `Good. Glad to be of service,' she said ironically. Her tone changed. 'You look worried.'

  `I am wondering how many more have to die before we bring this business to a climax. So far the body count is three, probably four. Harvey Boyd, Irene Andover, Hilary Vane – and I doubt whether we'll ever find Mrs Garnett of Moor's Landing alive.'

  `You seem to be in a great rush to reach Brussels. What do you expect us to find there?'

  `My worst fears confirmed.'

  `I don't understand,' said Paula.

  `You think it's a coincidence that Dr Wand is leaving for Brussels aboard that Lear jet? You think it's another coincidence that Burgoyne, Willie, and Helen are on board this plane?'

  `Do you? It does seem strange.'

  `I never believe in coincidences,' Tweed replied grimly. `And your remark about your worst fears?'

  `I forgot to tell you I called Benoit, stopped him meeting our plane. It could be dangerous to be seen with him. After dumping our bags at the Hilton we're driving straight to Grand' Place – to police headquarters to meet Benoit there. Newman has phoned ahead for a hire car to be waiting for us.'

  `You saw Marler go up to the stewardess yet again? My bet is he's had the pilot radio ahead also for a hire car.' `Probably. He knows what he's doing.'

  `And you're not going to tell me about your worst fears?' she persisted.

  'I'm certain we're involved in a race against time. The problem is very simple. Who will reach Gaston Delvaux first – while he's still alive?'

  17

  They were the first off the plane at Zaventem Airport. It was Tweed who led the headlong rush, with Paula and Newman hurrying to keep up with him. Through Passport Control they carried their only bags, the ones they'd taken aboard the aircraft. Newman caught up with Tweed.

  `Why the mad scramble?'

  `Change of plan. You know where to pick up that car you phoned ahead for in London? Good. Forget the Hilton – drive us straight to police headquarters off Grand' Place. I must check the situation with Benoit, then we race to Liege – to Herstal. To Delvaux's chateau. Not a minute to lose..

  His unusual urgency conveyed itself to the other two. A cool, fast-walking Paula checked her watch. It would be dark when they arrived in Liege. Running outside the airport, Newman swore under his breath. The hire car waiting for them was a red Mercedes. Too conspicuous. It couldn't be helped. He hustled through the formalities with the car-hire girl, accepted the keys, told her to wait while he tested the engine.

  `Get in,' Tweed said impatiently.

  `You might have warned me it was going to be a marathon,' Paula remarked as she dived into the rear.

  `I only decided this would save time when the plane was descending. And we lost time droning round in that holding pattern. All right, Bob?'

  `Engine seems OK. We're off. Grand' Place and Benoit, here we come…'

  Paula groaned inwardly as they drove into Brussels, the most muddled and depressing city in Europe. Like Los Angeles, a series of districts in search of a centre. And the fog which had delayed them was drifting in smoke-like trails in the busy streets.

  Tall concrete blocks rose everywhere, interspersed with small, shabby, two-storey buildings – centuries old, paint peeling – cafes, bars, and shops illuminated with tasteless neon. Street skiving off in all directions. Drivers of cars jousting for the only available slot left in the middle of a wide boulevard.

  The pavements – ankle-breakers – were crowded with Belgian housewives hurrying for metro entrances. The home of the EC commissioners hadn't changed. A worthy home for those fat, well-fed, and over-paid bureaucrats, she thought. The whole place was like a disturbed anthill.

  Newman was driving ruthlessly, at high speed, overtaking. Belgian motorists blared their horns as they had to pull up suddenly to let him through. He's exceeding the speed limit, Paula observed to herself. Tweed's burst of nervous energy had transmitted itself to Newman's wild driving.

  They pulled up outside a building off Grand' Place, which was barred to traffic with frontier-like poles. One of the truly ancient sections of Brussels, Grand' Place was surrounded with medieval buildings. Newman parked in a no-parking zone, took out a pad of stickers, wrote 'Police HQ' on one, attached it to the windscreen.

  Tweed, already outside on the pavement, glanced at the sticker, called out to Newman.

  `It's Politie here. You should have remembered that.'

  Newman scribbled a new sticker. Removing the previous one, he attached the new version, jumped out
of the car, locked it, and followed the others. Tweed and Paula were already inside the building.

  `Chief Inspector Benoit is expecting us. An emergency. Every second counts..

  Tweed had addressed the uniformed desk sergeant in French. He dropped his card in front of the man, a card which gave his name and the fake cover company.

  Chief Inspector Benoit appeared almost at once, running agilely down the stairs. He greeted Paula first, hugging her. 'Welcome to Brussels.'

  She felt glad she was wearing a smart outfit. Under her open trench coat she was clad in a high-necked white blouse, navy blue jacket, and pleated skirt. Tweed was moving restlessly, a reaction which did not escape the Belgian.

  Chief Inspector Benoit, the shrewdest policeman in Belgium, was a jovial portly man in his forties. He had a great, beaked nose, light brown hair, and quick-moving eyes. He ushered them upstairs to his office on the first floor.

  `We have to reach Liege very urgently. Precisely, Gaston Delvaux's chateau at Herstal. We've come straight here from the airport. The Hilton can wait,' Tweed said.

  `I'll phone them, book you accommodation. Executive rooms on the twentieth floor, if I remember. Now, Liege. I rather expected this. You must go by train from Midi…' He checked his watch. 'You just have time to catch the express from Ostend going through to Cologne. Only one stop. At Louvain.'

  `Surely by car-' Tweed began.

  Benoit shook his head. 'With the traffic at this time of day? No, the train. I will try and get there by car to meet your train at Liege, but cannot guarantee I will make it, even with sirens and flashing lights.'

  `You said Delvaux had banned police coming near him,' Tweed objected.

  `True. I have unmarked cars waiting. There will be a silent approach as we come close to the chateau. We will wait a short distance away.' He raised a hand. 'I insist. My territory. You could be in great danger. Which reminds me. You just have time…'