by Colin Forbes
Know you're the big cheese, you do, Cardon had thought.
Later, driving after them into South Jutland, he had found his souped-up engine was taking him too close. He had slowed down as the gritty sandstorm raged all round him.
He only stopped when he saw the limousine swing west off the road towards the sea and a range of rolling sand dunes. Approaching the dunes on foot, he had seen they concealed a large colony of bungalows. The limousine was parked outside one bungalow where a tall aerial was automatically elevating.
He had immediately returned to the Sierra, settled again behind the wheel, reached for the radio telephone.
Earlier, walking outside Esbjerg Airport, escorted by the security officer, Tweed and Newman had been led to an Opel Omega. A plain-clothes driver had ushered them inside the rear of the vehicle.
`I understand I have to drive you to Anton Norlin at the military encampment,' he said over his shoulder.
`Not yet,' Tweed replied. 'First, can you drop my friend at the Avis car-hire outfit in Ebsjerg? He has to drive somewhere very urgently. Then I must go to the harbour – I have to visit a vessel waiting there.'
`Avis first, then the harbour, then Anton Norlin,' confirmed the driver tersely.
He dropped off Newman outside Avis and drove on with Tweed.
The town was pleasant, busy, but without a strong character. As they reached the harbour in the Byparken the driver pointed out a red-brick crenellated water tower. The harbour was crammed with fishing boats. Stepping out, Tweed spotted a large launch with an ample deck-house from which the Red Ensign flew. Leaning against the wind, he hurried along the waterfront as waves splashed against the wall and a forest of masts swayed drunkenly.
At the gangway leading to the launch – thank God it had rails on either side – Tweed was met by a tall, clean- shaven man in his thirties. Clad in a white roll-neck sweater and immaculate navy blue trousers, he wore a peaked seaman's cap at a jaunty angle.
`I'm Tweed.'
`Dave Lane. Welcome aboard.'
With a tight mouth Tweed descended the gangplank, which was rising and falling, gripping the handrail Lane escorted him inside a comfortable saloon, closed the door, turned to his visitor.
`Identification, please, sir. Regulations…'
Tweed produced his passport, carefully avoiding gazing out of the windows. Lane examined it with care, returned it.
`You want to contact Commander Wilson?'
`Where is the Minotaur now?' Tweed asked quickly.
`Out there.' Lane waved a hand towards the open sea. `He is patrolling off the South Jutland coast.' He sat down in front of a transmitter hidden from the outside world by heavy net curtains drawn over the windows. 'Radio contact may be a bit crackly. Let's see, shall we?'
A minute later he handed the phone to Tweed who sat in the chair Lane had vacated.
`Tweed here. Repeat, Tweed here…'
`Heard you the first time. Tug Wilson at this end. We met at a bash at the Admiralty two years ago. Remember you well. How many targets are expected?'
By 'targets' he meant Stealth vessels. Tweed now recalled the cheerful weather-beaten face of Tug Wilson. And he was being careful – talking on an open line.
`I have no idea,' Tweed confessed.
`Are they armed?'
`Again. Haven't a clue.'
`You're a mine of information!' Wilson chuckled. There was no crackle and the communication was crystal- clear. 'But I understand you're the one who sent me my Christmas present. Most acceptable. My thanks.'
`I shall need to communicate with you from now on from a land base,' Tweed warned. 'That should be possible – they have excellent equipment, I'm sure.'
`Ask Lane for the data. Put him on again, please. Glad to have you aboard…'
Tweed handed the phone back to Dave Lane, walked swiftly to another chair, sat down. The large launch was rocking merrily and he hadn't had the foresight to take a Dramamine. But despite a growing queasiness Tweed felt relieved: Tug Wilson was a good man to have on your side. That last reference to being glad to have you aboard was a great compliment, coming from the tough Navy commander.
He happened to look up at a moment when the launch was heeling towards the sea. He hastily averted his eyes as a fleet of large waves rolled into the harbour. Tweed thanked Heaven he was not aboard the Minotaur. The relief vanished when the thought of Paula flashed into his mind. A deep depression enveloped him. Lane had finished talking to Wilson. He wrote swiftly on a pad, tore off the sheet, folded it, and handed it to Tweed.
`That is top secret. It gives the waveband you can contact the Minotaur on, and the code-word. As you'll see, both are changed every three hours on the hour.'
`I appreciate the excellent security. It's only right you should know the transmitter I'll be using will be operated from a military base. A rather special one. And now, if I may ask, I expect you're returning to the Minotaur?'
`No fear!' Lane grinned boyishly. 'The Commander agreed that I should leave harbour immediately – if that suited you. I'm heading down the coast for South Jutland. You think there'll be a rough house?' he asked eagerly.
`I think that today there will be the deadliest and strangest duel ever fought.'
49
`We'll drive north fast and investigate that weird colony of bungalows you found,' Newman decided.
`Suits me,' Marler drawled. 'I did locate them.'
`Paula,' Newman urged, putting his arm round her shoulders, 'I think you ought to go back to Tonder and get a real rest after what you've been through…'
They had driven away from the house of death, leaving behind Ilena and the infamous Dr Hyde. Only when they reached the road and the house had vanished in the fog had Newman stopped his BMW with Paula beside him.
Marler had followed in his Volvo while Butler brought up the rear in his own Volvo. Now they were all standing outside the BMW. For ten minutes Paula had been striding up and down the road, exercising her limbs, bringing herself both physically and mentally back to normal. She gently removed Newman's arm.
`You think you're going to pack me off to bed when the real climax could be near? I appreciate your sympathy, but I am staying with you.'
`Newman could be right,' Marler suggested.
Paula flared up. 'You can both stick it!' She stood, hands on her hips, glaring at them. 'Stick it, I said!'
Butler, who normally used words as though they were money to be spent frugally, stepped forward.
`The lady is fit again. Didn't you hear what she told you to do with your idea of treating her as an invalid?'
And I wish to God,' Paula continued, 'there was some way we could let Tweed know I'm OK.'
`Facilities for communication are a bit scarce on the ground in this part of the world,' Marler warned.
`Then let's bloody well get moving! We're all armed. Drive north. Stop hanging about,' she stormed. 'Bob, I'll travel with you. We'll lead the attack column…'
Fog. Dense fog was rolling in like a poison-gas cloud from the sea. Paula hid from Newman the emotions which welled up inside her. Fog spelt the horror at Lymington marina on the south coast of Britain – when Harvey Boyd had failed to come back alive.
Fog spelt the nightmare on the Elbe at Blankense harbour – the terror of the Holsten being split in two and sinking barely seconds after they'd rushed ashore.
Fog spelt the unknown, fear, menace. She slipped her hand inside her shoulder-bag, gripped the butt of her Browning for comfort. At that moment Marler drew alongside them, waved his hand for them to stop.
As Newman and Paula climbed out Marler leant in, switched off the BMW's lights. Paula glanced back. No lights any more on Marler's car, on Butler's. She spoke first.
`What's happening? Where are we?'
`Very close to those dunes over to the left,' Marler said sombrely. `And I saw lights – beams from flashlights. A lot of them. If each is held by one man there must be up to twenty of them.'
`So, we're outnumbered – if t
hey're armed,' Paula commented.
`Oh, they'll be armed,' Newman said. 'I think I caught a glimpse of a range of dunes when the fog drifted a moment ago.'
`You did,' Marler confirmed grimly. 'The road from here on is pretty straight. I suggest we drive further north half a mile or so, get away from this place while we think what to do next.'
`Agreed,' replied Newman.
Getting back inside their cars, still led by Newman, they crawled without lights. Soon Newman's night vision showed faint pinpoints of light moving about among the dunes. He continued moving north and then saw a small ridge towards the sea. Checking his rear-view mirror to make sure that Marler was close behind, he turned off the road.
`Where are you going now?' Paula asked.
`That ridge should be a good vantage point to spy on what's going on.' He descended into a small dip, parked the BMW and got out as the other two cars pulled up behind him. His right hand flashed inside his windcheater, withdrew the Smith amp; Wesson. A small figure was coming towards them.
`Mr Robert Newman, I presume?' Philip Cardon called out.
`What the devil are you doing here?'
`Surveying the enemy-' He broke off. 'Paula! Thank God! Are you OK?'
`Very OK. Now,' she added. Briefly she told him of her ordeal without making a big thing of it. Cardon took her by the arm, followed by Newman. 'Tweed will be desperate to hear you're alive. I've got a radio transmitter in the car behind that hummock. Come and talk to him
…'
Several hours earlier, Tweed had left the harbour and was driven to the military encampment south of Esbjerg. He was again impressed by the security. Dropped by the driver at the entrance, he was escorted by a uniformed Danish officer inside the guardhouse.
The wide-spread complex, behind a twelve-foot wire fence he suspected was electrified, comprised single- storey huts like giant portacabins. He had to show the officer not only his passport but also his SIS card.
`Anton Norlin is expecting me.'
`He is expecting you, sir. Please follow me…'
The officer led the way between two rows of huts to the largest edifice. Perched on its roof was an array of aerials and a large satellite dish which revolved slowly. Tweed had a slight shock as the officer opened the door, ushered him inside, closed it without entering. Back in the guardhouse he had briefly used a phone, speaking in Danish, not a word of which Tweed had understood.
The shock came when a tall, sturdily built figure stood up from behind a desk and turned round. His face was hidden by a Balaclava helmet. Penetrating eyes stared at him as he came forward and shook hands.
`We are most glad to see you, Mr Tweed. I am Anton Norlin, although that is not my real name.'
It was exactly like meeting a commander of the British SAS. As they were shaking hands Tweed observed the large but was divided into two sections. Half-way down the long room a glass wall with a closed door cut them off from the far end. Norlin must have noted his quick glance.
`Behind the glass wall is the sophisticated communications section. That will be at your service if needed.'
`It will he needed…'
Sitting down, as Norlin poured coffee from a percolator, he saw all the men beyond the glass wall also wore Balaclavas. Norlin brought his chair round from the other side of the desk to sit close to Tweed.
`Is there anything I should know?' he enquired. `A great deal…'
Norlin listened attentively without saying a word while Tweed told him about his conviction that secret hostile vessels would be approaching the South Jutland coast, about the weird colony of bungalows – he showed Norlin the map marked with a cross – about the Minotaur patrolling off the coast. He put the Dane completely in the picture. Norlin nodded when he had finished, thought for a moment.
`Inspector Nielsen has been in touch with me. I have ready a large team of heavily armed men. They can be transported swiftly to this objective marked on the map. Either by a fleet of helicopters or by trucks.'
`I suggest the main body is moved south by truck,' Tweed urged. 'The arrival of choppers would alert the men who I am certain will be ashore waiting to receive the human cargo from those ships.'
`Trucks, then. These men waiting there – we expect them to be armed?'
`I'd assume they will be. It's rather a complex operation. Subject to the safety of your own troops, I don't give a damn how many already ashore are wiped out. But if possible I'd like to take alive for questioning all those men who are being brought ashore from the ship – or ships.'
Norlin picked up the phone, spoke rapidly in Danish.
Tweed had the impression he was issuing orders at machine-gun speed. Without having seen his face, he was already very impressed by Norlin. The Dane exuded competence, resolution. He put down the phone.
`I have just arranged for large dinghies with outboard motors to be transported aboard the trucks. Also grappling equipment – in case we have to board the ships while at sea.'
`A very sound idea,' Tweed agreed. 'The trouble is I don't know what we shall be facing.'
`So, we prepare for all contingencies…'
He picked up the phone, which had started ringing. A brief stream of Danish. Norlin replaced the receiver, stood up.
`Please come with me into the communications room. There is a message for you from a man called Philip Cardon…'
`Tweed here. Any news of Paula? Found anything, Philip?'
`Answering your first question, I'm entirely on my own at present. Newman and the others could be on their way to me now. We have a tough team searching for Paula,' he reassured Tweed. 'I can answer your second query positively. At the spot marked X there are twenty-eight bungalows well hidden behind sand dunes. Close to the coast. Only a rough estimate, but I'd say there are between fifteen and twenty thugs gathered for the party. Your favourite person is also present, ready to wave his magic wand. You can hear me clearly?'
Perfectly. All understood. Anything more?'
Cardon had been speaking at rapid-fire rate. He never had trusted radio communication.
`Yes. They have been practising with dinghies with outboards. Launching them into the sea, going out a few hundred yards, returning to the beach. That's it so far.' `Good. Very good. Keep in touch…'
Tweed swivelled round in the chair in front of the transmitter. He told Norlin what Cardon had said.
`Good job I arranged for us to take our own dinghies…'
Norlin had made his remark and they were leaving the communications room when the soldier who had slipped back into the chair took another message. He called out to Norlin in Danish.
`Tweed, you're wanted again on the phone,' Norlin told him. 'Inspector Nielsen from Copenhagen.'
`Tweed speaking.'
`I owe you an apology,' Nielsen's distinctive voice began. 'I have been compelled to inform Danish Military Intelligence…'
`Yes?'
The line crackled, went dead. The operator took over and tried time and again to bring Nielsen back on the line. Eventually he stopped, spoke to Norlin again.
`This happens, Tweed,' Norlin explained. 'Something in the atmosphere. You find you can't get through.'
`Could that happen in the middle of the operation – between here and South Jutland?' Tweed asked anxiously.
`No. It's a question of range. Copenhagen is a far greater distance away. From here to the operational area in South Jutland is no more than thirty miles, or even less. We'll have contact with this base without any trouble at all.'
`That's a relief.'
Returning to the other section of the hut, Tweed sat down while Norlin poured more coffee. He was bothered by the reference Nielsen had made to Danish Military Intelligence. He simply couldn't imagine what Nielsen had been trying to warn him about. But he took grim satisfaction from the news that Dr Wand was at the scene of the coming operation. It also confirmed that something big and important was about to take place. Those furnished but unoccupied bungalows were a new Moor's Landing. The bla
ck dog which still sat on his shoulder was the fate of Paula.
Night had fallen on the military encampment. Tweed had compelled himself to eat some of the excellent meal laid before him. It has his duty to keep up his strength.
Outside the wind had vanished. In its place a sinister fog was rolling in across that part of Denmark. Tweed got up and paced backwards and forwards. Norlin remained perfectly motionless in his chair. Iron nerves, but he hadn't got on his mind the worry which was eating up Tweed.
The glass door opened from the communications section. The operator called out urgently in Danish. Norlin jumped up as Tweed ran for the door.
`It's a Commander Wilson calling,' Norlin reported as he caught up with Tweed.
Grim-faced, Tweed picked up the phone. Why the hell hadn't he heard from Newman?
`Tweed here.' He gave the code-word. 'Any development?'
`You are a genius,' Wilson's voice boomed. 'Two targets in sight. One large, one smaller. Like a mother ship bringing in baby. Not a flicker on our normal radar, but blips as clear as the nose on my face on your Christmas present. About twenty miles off shore. Coming in on a course which, if maintained, will make their landfall north of a place called Hojer. When do I challenge – then intercept if necessary?'
`Not until they're stationary very close to the coast – if that action is practical.'
`It is. Incredible – two Marie Celestes coming home. Will keep reporting their position.'
`Thank you, Tug. This is it…'
Again Tweed was leaving the communications room when he was called back. Among the Danish the operator spoke as he vacated the chair Tweed caught the words `Robert Newman'. He grabbed the phone.
`Tweed?' Newman's voice came over clear as a bell. `Hold on. I've got someone here who'd like a word with you.'
`This is Paula. I'm OK. Absolutely OK…' Tweed nearly choked when he heard her buoyant voice. 'Tweed, are you still there?'
`Yes, I'm here. How are you? Did they..
`No, they didn't. I'll say it again. I'm OK! OK! OK! Got it? Wonderful.-to hear your voice. This lot tried to send me to bed. Would you believe it? I won't repeat over this line what I told them to do. Any news about you know what?'