by Colin Forbes
`You know it's one of my favourite wines. And thanks for remembering the mineral water…'
Paula thought how strange the situation was. In Marler's company she was feeling as relaxed as she did when out with Newman. But across the street was that sinister fat man waiting for them to leave.
`Mr Audi could be a problem,' she mused after the waitress had served the wine and the mineral water. She also brought a basket of sliced pieces of a baguette. Paula took a slice and devoured the crusty bread. 'This is good too,' she commented.
`Forget Mr Audi,' Marler suggested. 'I've been in this town before and know the geography. I may deal with our friend before we leave. Now, concentrate on the meal..
Drinking her wine, Paula looked outside, fascinated by the Dutch-style architecture. Slim old buildings sheered up to the typical Dutch rounded triangular facade at the top. Five or six storeys high, some buildings had heavy wooden doors on the fifth floor – doors which had once opened to take deliveries hauled up from wagons in the street.
`Looks good to me,' she said as the food arrived. 'And no bones to fiddle with. Glory, look at the amount of beautiful chips.'
`Bet we get through the lot,' said Marler.
They said nothing more as they attacked the meal. More customers flooded in. Obviously locals, Marler thought from their appearance. And regulars, from the way they were greeted by the waitresses. The restaurant was a babble of conversation mingling with the rattle of cutlery and the clink of glasses.
A man in a white coat appeared from the back. He had a characteristic strong Flemish face. He spoke to Marler in French.
`Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?'
`Quite splendid,' Marler enthused. 'A meal fit for a king. By the way, we were touring round at random outside Ghent and arrived at what appeared to be a new model village…'
Paula produced her map quickly. She pointed to the cross she had marked for its location. The white-coated man bent over, nodded his head, continued in French.
`We won't get any business from that place. They are very standoffish. All young executives, apparently. They work in Brussels, I gather. Very little is known about them, but they keep themselves to themselves. Enjoy your meal.
`There is something funny about that village,' Paula insisted after the white-coated man had gone. 'The more I think about it, the more I'm reminded of Moor's Landing – even though that place is renovated thatched cottages.'
Another tram screeched as it passed slowly across Koornmarkt. It was a loud penetrating noise, Marler noted. Trams had rumbled past at frequent intervals while they ate.
`Well,' Marler pointed out, 'Dr Wand is linked with the village outside Ghent. I'm certain the chauffeur was Wand in disguise. So there's one connection. But what connection have we between Dr Wand and the New Forest?'
`A solid one,' Paula reminded him. 'As solid as lead. Butler and Nield followed the camper which had been recording the conversations inside Andover's house. Where does it lead them to? The Boltons. No. 185. The home of Dr Wand in London.'
`You're right. Now what about dessert?'
`Couldn't.' Paula patted her stomach. 'It's full to the brim. And we did finish off all those chips. I don't think I even want coffee.'
Marler glanced out of the window. Fatman was still inside the Audi. He was lighting a fresh cigar. Some lunch, Marler thought. He leaned forward.
`Paula, I'm going to get the bill. I'll leave you the money to pay. Then I'm going outside. As I told you, I know this area. Here are the keys of the car. When you see Fatman disappear go straight to the car and sit in the passenger seat. Put the key into the ignition. Then wait for me to reappear.'
`What makes you think Fatman will vanish?'
`Trust me.'
He waved to the waitress. She hustled up to the table. Marler asked for the bill. She looked stunned.
'Pas de dessert?'
`Non.'
She wrote out the bill. Her expression again was one of disbelief. These English, they do not eat! Marler thanked her, passed several banknotes across to Paula when the waitress was summoned to another table. Then he stood up and walked slowly out of the restaurant and across the square.
Paula handed the money to the waitress, and watched with trepidation as Marler reached the far side and drifted to the left past the Post Office. Fatman leaned forward. Even at that distance Paula could sense his indecision as Marler walked past his parked Mercedes.
Reaching the corner of the building, Marler turned right and disappeared. Fatman moved. Clambering out of the Audi, he locked the car, then followed the way Marler had gone, his short fat legs moving clumsily. Paula guessed he was not accustomed to using his feet: the car was his mode of travel.
She watched him arrive at the same corner, disappear out of sight. Marler's prediction had come true. But what could Marler do to lose him – put him out of action – in the centre of a crowded town? She left the restaurant, paused as another tram screeched slowly past, before running to the Mercedes. Unlocking the car, she ran round the front, slipped into the front passenger seat, slid the ignition key into place, waited.
Meanwhile Marler had strolled along the side of the Post Office. He turned right again at the back of the building into Graslei, a cobbled road running alongside a canal. In the near distance a bridge crossed it. Here he realized luck was on his side.
About half-way along the third side of the building was a group of American tourists clustered together for protection in a foreign land. Well dressed, they were the wealthier Americans who came abroad out of season. A girl courier was lecturing them on the history of Ghent as they huddled close to the wall.
Marler edged his way round the back of them as though part of the group. He smiled at a blue-rinse matron. 'Isn't this just all too wonderful?' she drawled as Marler sidled further into the group. He nodded and glanced back. Fatman had appeared, had stopped, unable to see his quarry.
Marler was now standing at the entrance to a narrow alley – Hazewindstraatje. Flemish names could be jawbreakers. He knew the paved alley led straight back to Koornmarkt. Walking swiftly down it he came out close to where the Audi was parked.
The pavement was crowded with people away from the kerb. Marler had one hand in his trouser pocket as he approached the Audi. Taking his hand out of his pocket, he let a handful of small change fall.
Crouching down, he began to pick up the coins. No one was taking any notice of him as he unscrewed the dustcap from the front wheel. He had noticed three trams were trundling towards Koornmarkt. Perfect! Taking a biro from his pocket, he jammed the pointed end hard down on the spring-loaded valve. The hiss of the air escaping from the tyre was muffled by the screech of the trams. Inside two minutes the tyre was flat as a pancake.
He stood up, walked swiftly to his Mercedes, throwing the dustcap into the gutter. Paula leaned over, opened the door for him. He slid behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, switched on the engine.
`That was a damn near-run thing, as Wellington said about Waterloo,' he remarked. 'Appropriate, as Waterloo is not so far away.'
In his rear-view mirror he saw Fatman appear at the end of the alley. He looked towards the Mercedes, fumbled with his key, dived inside, switched on his own engine.
`Now for some fun,' Marler said.
He drove out of Koornmarkt, heading for the highway to Brussels. Fatman was in such a panic that he was going to lose them that he threw caution to the winds. Ramming his foot down, he pursued the Mercedes.
`What fun?' Paula asked.
'Fatman has a flat front tyre. Watch in your wing mirror. These cobbles will play havoc with him. Any second and one wheel will be riding on the metal rim.'
He increased speed. A cab driver coming in the opposite direction had to be moving at 100 k.p.h. – a little over 60 m.p.h. Marler increased speed. Behind him Fat- man was desperately trying to keep his target in view. Then it happened. Marler checked his rear-view mirror as Paula watched in the wing mirror.
; At far too great a speed the Audi was racing with a wheel grinding over the cobbles on its metal rim. For a second the vehicle rocked madly, then Fatman lost all control. The Audi skidded, swerved into the back of a stationary garbage-collection truck, ramming into it like a sledgehammer. The front telescoped. An avalanche of garbage flooded down over the bonnet, piled up over the windscreen. Fatman had not taken the precaution of fastening his seat belt. He was hurled forward, his head shooting through the glass like a shell from a gun.
Marler turned a corner and the grisly sight vanished from view. Paula let out her breath, thought of something inconsequential to say.
`You mentioned Waterloo. I've never been there. Maybe I can see it sometime.'
`Don't bother,' Marler replied. 'Nothing to see. And nothing ever happens at Waterloo these days.'
25
`He referred to "my modest villa" – it's a palace,' Tweed commented.
Newman had driven Tweed in the Mercedes and they had arrived at Waterloo. He had been driving slowly and now he stopped close to a pair of tall ornamental gates between two large stone pillars. Beyond the pillars stretched an endless ten-foot-high wall. On top of the wall extended a wire which, Tweed felt sure, was electrified. And the gates were closed. On one pillar a large metal plate carried the legend, in English: MOONGLOW REFUGEE AID TRUST INTERNATIONAL.
`He seems to feel himself in need of a lot of security,' Tweed observed.
Newman got out of the car, went to the speak-phone below the name-plate, pressed the bell, spoke into the grille when a voice asked in French who was calling.
`Mr Tweed. By appointment. To see Dr Wand…'
He didn't wait for a reply. As he sat behind the wheel and closed his door the electronically controlled gates began to move slowly inward. Fifty yards or so beyond the gates, perched on top of a terrace, was a wide three- storey mansion with a mansard roof and the walls painted dove grey. On either side of the straight drive the gardens were laid out with a series of sunken paved areas surrounding a fountain. On a larger scale, it reminded Tweed of Delvaux's estate, but without the taste.
Newman drove inside, stopped just beyond the gates and jumped out. Grabbing one of the white-painted stones lining the drive, he carried it behind the car and laid it against one of the open gates, returned to the car. `What are you up to?' Tweed enquired.
`When the gates close automatically – which they are beginning to do now – the right-hand gate will be stopped by that small boulder and won't close. Just in case we find we have to make rather a swift departure…'
Arriving at the foot of the terrace, Newman turned his car so it pointed back down the straight drive. Side by side they mounted ten steps to the terrace, walked up to two large wooden double doors. Before Tweed could press the bell the door opened. A heavily built man with dark hair slicked back and dressed like a butler stood to one side.
`Dr Wand is waiting to see you now, gentlemen.'
Tweed walked in first, followed by Newman. There was a loud pinging noise. Which was when Newman realized the door was framed with a metal detector. The butler closed the door. He addressed Newman.
`One moment, sir. Are you carrying any weapons?' `Yes,' Newman said promptly. 'A Smith amp; Wesson.' `If you don't mind,' the butler went on in French, 'I'll take care of that while you see Dr Wand.'
`No you won't.'
`It is the custom of the villa. No one carrying a gun is permitted into Dr Wand's presence.'
`Then open the bloody door again, flunkey, and we'll go back to Brussels.'
Newman saw his right hand twitch in an upward movement, then relax. During this verbal duel Tweed had remained silent. This could be a dangerous outing and he felt quite prepared to let Newman handle it in his own way. The butler gave Tweed a little bow.
`If you don't mind waiting a few moments, I have to consult my employer.'
`Go ahead,' Tweed urged him.
While waiting in the enormous entrance hall with a polished wood-block floor decorated with Persian rugs casually laid here and there, Tweed, hands clasped behind his back, strolled over to examine a small framed painting of a woman wearing medieval clothes.
`That's a Holbein,' he remarked to Newman. 'An original if I'm not mistaken. It must have cost a mint.'
`Dr Wand doesn't seem to be short of a bob or two,' Newman commented. 'Aiding refugees.'
The butler had walked to the rear of the hall where a large Regency desk stood. Presumably his station to which he summoned servants to give them orders. He was speaking into an old-fashioned phone with a gold handle. Replacing it on the cradle, he walked back.
`Dr Wand is prepared to make an exception in your case. Please follow me. I will be waiting outside his study door.'
`Eavesdropping?' Newman enquired genially.
Marching ahead of them, the butler missed a step, then resumed his military-style walk. Pausing before a heavy door inlaid with panels, he knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside, closing it as soon as they had entered.
Tweed blinked. The study was a very large room but all the heavy velvet curtains were drawn over the windows. The only illumination came from a shaded desk lamp, tilted so it shone on two low arm chairs in front of the Louis Quinze desk. Behind the desk, seated high up in a tall-backed chair, was a shadowy figure. Still in the shadows, the figure stood up slowly, remaining behind his desk.
`Mr Tweed, it is my great pleasure to be honoured with your company. So please come forward both of you and sit down. I am sure that with men of your intelligence we shall find much of interest to discuss.'
Conscious of the deep pile carpet under his feet, Tweed walked forward more slowly than usual, glancing round as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Then he moved sideways, lifted a carver chair, pushed the low armchair out of the way, sat down.
`I prefer this type of chair,' he remarked.
`So do I,' said Newman, bringing forward another carver, seating himself with his legs crossed.
`Mr Newman, I believe?' said Dr Wand, who had settled himself back in his own chair. 'The famous international foreign correspondent. I trust our conversation is – as they say – off the record? I would find it disconcerting to read an account of our meeting later in Der Spiegel.'
`I retired a few years ago,' Newman told him.
`Of course. I recall you wrote an international best-selling book which brought you in a fortune. I read it with fascination. Such a villain.'
`Oh, there's a lot of it about.'
Tweed saw Dr Wand's large head dip forward. For a brief second he saw the eyes behind the gold pince-nez, a flash of pure malevolence. Newman's retort had hit home. Then the head withdrew into the shadows. Wand spoke again in his soft careful voice.
`I must apologize for the paucity of illumination, but strong light affects my eyes. Now, in what way can I be of assistance to you, Mr Tweed?'
`I thought the reverse was the case,' Tweed reminded him. 'We are here at your invitation.'
`Of course. Of course.' Wand paused. 'I find myself intrigued by the fact that you have found it worthwhile spending your valuable time investigating me.'
Now we come to the crunch, Newman thought. He wondered how Tweed would handle the situation. Tweed responded instantly.
`What leads you to think I have the slightest interest in your activities?'
`Come, come, my dear sir. A man in my position – with world-wide interest in the plight of refugees – has of necessity an acute ear to the underground grapevine.'
`Mind if I smoke a cigarette?' Newman asked to throw their host off balance.
`If you must. And you should understand that it is a major concession on my part to allow you in, armed as you are, with a gun.'
His tone of voice had changed. There was an abrasive note. Tweed sensed a dynamic energy in the man he still hadn't seen clearly. Newman responded immediately, removing the cigarette from his mouth.
`Then I would advise you to have a word with your butler. The gun he is carryin
g in a shoulder holster bulges out for all the world to see.'
`Thank you, Mr Newman. Most kind of you.' An edge of sarcasm now. 'I will most certainly have a word with Jules about his armament. But we live in violent times.'
`Talking about armaments, you are quite right,' Tweed shot back quickly. 'Sir Gerald Andover was murdered outside the estate of Gaston Delvaux in Liege last night. You've heard of Andover, of course – on your underground grapevine.'
Newman smiled to himself. The pace was hotting up. Tweed was seizing on every opening. He had the impression Dr Wand was furious he had opened a chink in his armour.
`Yes,' Wand said reflectively, 'somewhere I have indeed heard of Andover. I believe he is – was – a crackpot who propounded bizarre theories.'
`Or a genius who saw what was coming next to menace the Western world,' Tweed snapped with a bite.
`And what is coming next, if I may be so bold as to enquire?'
`The refugee problem, for one thing, is a horrendous menace. Thousands – maybe millions – on the move from the East. Europe would be swamped if they were allowed through. And yet, apparently, your organization is dedicated to infiltrating these people into our midst.'
`Infiltrating!' Wand sounded horrified. He shifted in his chair and his head appeared briefly in the light. Cruel eyes regarded Tweed from behind the flashing of the pince-nez. 'Would you kindly be more explicit? What precisely are you suggesting about my organization, when its only purpose is to help poor and helpless people?'
`It was a figure of speech,' Tweed said smoothly. 'Why is the subject of refugees such a sensitive point?'
`We have to be so selective – distinguishing between political and economic refugees. Surely you have heard the topic argued about?'
`Is there any connection between your trading company operating out of Hong Kong and your refugee organization?'
`None whatsoever.' Wand's tone was very abrasive. `My understanding is your own company is concerned with the negotiation of wealthy men who have been kidnapped. You are supposed to be an expert negotiator in such cases – so how does that link up with what you have been talking about?'