by Colin Forbes
'Since you admire the scenery go to the tennis court on the far side of the house. You get the most marvellous view up the Meuse.'
'And I,' Brand said in his most upper crust tone, 'would be frightfully grateful if ail my guests would assemble by the pool.' He slammed the study door shut and Newman heard an automatic lock click into place. The key,' Brand demanded, extending his hand. No please, Newman noted. Carole delved into a pocket, handed him a key. 'Come with me now,' he told her, 'while Mr Newman is making himself more comfortable.'
After relieving himself, Newman stepped into an empty corridor, walked briskly to the exit door, turned left, marched round the front of the house and down a side passage. The tennis court was elevated on a small plateau. A pair of powerful binoculars were slung from one of the posts supporting the net.
He picked up the field-glasses and peered through them into the distance. The view of the Meuse with its sweeping bends was spectacular. He found it interesting that the focus of the glasses picked out the landing stage and the river beyond clearly.
Assumption? Brand had seen Ralston's cruiser approaching, had recognized him on deck - or thought he had. Hence his demand for the copy of The Times. He'd been going to check the photograph if the girl had brought the paper in time.
Back at the pool Brand's mood had changed. He greeted Newman affably, handed him a fresh drink, took him by the arm and sat him in the canopied swing seat next to Carole.
'He's at his most charming,' Carole whispered as Brand relaxed in one of the chairs. 'Better watch out.'
'I hear Ralston is taking you up to Namur,' Brand remarked. 'If you're really interested in the river you should later reverse - go south across the French frontier to the Dames de Meuse. Really beautiful stretch.'
'I think I might do that tomorrow. Why do they call it that?'
'Legend hath it that centuries ago three unfaithful wives in that region were turned to stone by divine power. My God, nowadays the area would be littered with stone wives. Including my own . . .'
'Do we have to go into that now?' asked Carole.
'While you are eating my food and imbibing my drink, my dear, you sit and listen while I hold forth on any subject which takes my fancy.' He stared at Newman. 'Lilyane is at this moment in New York having it off with a Wall Street broker — one of the advantages of having excellent world-wide communications. There's a titbit for you.'
'I'm not a gossip columnist,' Newman replied mildly.
'Oh, I thought you chaps would use anything that brought in a few quid . . .'
'I think maybe we'd best get back to the boat,' intervened Ralston.
He had stood up rather stiffly, his movements rather like a robot's, his voice husky. But he still walked steadily to the flight of steps as Newman said goodbye to Carole and followed.
'I'll be in touch, Peter,' the Colonel called out from the head of the steps.
'Give me a buzz on the blower.'
'Thanks for the hospitality,' Newman said amiably.
Brand didn't reply, staring at his departing guest with a brief look of hatred.
Brand unlocked his study door which was padded on the inside. He closed it and went straight to his desk, picked up the phone and dialled the number of La Montagne in Larochette. Klein answered and spoke immediately.
'La Montagne Hotel. I'm afraid we're closed for the season.'
'It's Peter. Something which needs attending to has happened . . .'
'Which is?'
'A Robert Newman turned up at my riverside place. The Newman, the foreign correspondent. He mentioned you by name. And he is interested in writing a story on gold bullion.'
For a moment Klein was stunned. His mind flashed back, recalling events of the past few weeks - months. Nowhere had he left a clue. How on earth could Newman, of all people, have linked him with the Meuse?
'My friend, the Colonel, brought him on his cruiser. I made a reference to Newman he ought to see the Dames de Meuse. I think he'll go there tomorrow. I have a picture of him in The Times. Can you send someone to meet him? We are so close to concluding the business deal.'
'I'll send Hipper to your villa this afternoon to pick up the picture. I'll arrange for someone to meet Newman. Stay in your villa until Hipper arrives.'
Klein broke the connection. He sat in a first-floor room at La Montagne with the lights on; the shutters were closed over the windows. He sat for a moment, tapping his long fingers, then dialled the Hotel Panorama in Bouillon.
They had to fetch Marler from the sitting area downstairs. The Englishman paused before he lifted the receiver. Hipper checking up on him again? He'd give him a mouthful.
'Lambert here.'
'You know who I am. A newspaper photograph will be delivered to you later today. You know the area the Dames de Meuse?'
'I do.'
'Be there tomorrow. You have to use your professional skill to conclude a deal with Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent. I do mean conclude.'
'Understood. You do realize the Dames de Meuse covers a pretty large stretch of the river?'
That's your problem. You do grasp what is required?'
'Got wax in your ears? I said understood . . .'
27
Tweed flew back to Heathrow late that afternoon. He changed his plan to go to Brussels after his meeting with Lasalle. Before he left Paris he phoned Paula, told her to call what he termed a 'council of war'.
Harry Butler met him at Heathrow and drove him straight to Ten Downing Street. 'The PM called Paula,' he told Tweed. 'When she heard you were flying back she said she wanted to see you earliest . . .'
Tweed emerged half an hour later from Number Ten, grim-faced. He told Butler to get him to Park Crescent urgently. On the way Butler filled him in on Norfolk.
'I left Nield to watch things up there. I called Park Crescent to report, heard you were returning, decided to drive back and tell you personally. Dr Portch has returned to the village - Cockley Ford. Nield stays overnight at The Duke's Head in King's Lynn - to avoid being conspicuous. Daytime he spends at Blakeney, mostly with the barman at the place overlooking the waterfront. He's developing a reputation for being a hardened drinker . . .'
Tweed listened to Butler's terse report in silence until they arrived at Park Crescent. He ran up the steps, up the staircase to his office, opened the door and Paula looked up with an expression of relief.
'Thank God you've arrived. Newman called from Namur in Belgium. He's established a connection between Klein and some banker called Peter Brand . . .'
'Where is he at this moment?'
'At a hotel in Namur. Tomorrow he's visiting the Dames de Meuse section of the river. I remember it. Very lovely - but very lonely . . .'
'Why?'
This man. Brand, drew his attention to it . . .'
'You have Newman's hotel number in Namur?'
'Yes . . .'
'Call him. Tell him to move at once to a hotel in Liege. When he gets there he's to let you know the name and number. He's to stay there until he hears from me. I'm flying to Brussels tomorrow. Tell him that. And I'm giving him an order.'
'Why?'
'I sense a trap. Klein eliminates anyone who can provide a clue as to what he's planning. His next intended victim could be Newman.'
'Can I tell you something else first?'
'Yes. Anything. For five minutes. Then call Newman.'
Tweed had taken the marked map he'd shown Lasalle in Paris and was pinning it up on a wall. He put a cross on Antwerp, the last known destination of Lara Seagrave. Paula went on reporting.
'Howard is waiting in his office for your council of war. And Commander Bellenger of Naval Intelligence called. Wants to see you very urgently. The results of his analysis of the bombs used to blow the bank vaults in Basle are ready - plus expert opinion on the photocopies we got from Arthur Beck - the ones found in the watchmaker's safe.'
'Call him first - ask him if he can come over right away. He'd better sit in on our meeting. Then
Newman. I'd like the meeting to start in half an hour . . .'
'I'll get people moving now. Something's happening?'
'Something pretty horrific is imminent.'
Five people sat round the table. Tweed, Howard, Bellenger, Butler and Paula. Tweed had obtained the PM's permission to reveal everything - excluding her contact with Gorbachev and Tweed's secret meeting with Lysenko in Switzerland. They were listening as Bellenger, looking very solemn, gave his report.
'The debris collected from the vaults in those two Swiss bank raids has been analysed. It's Triton Three - the same explosive found in the sea-mine we smuggled out of Russia, the same casing used for the bomb left on Miss Grey's doorstep at her house in Blakeney. Tweed, you quoted to me certain figures you said were theoretical - thirty sea-mines and twenty-five bombs. Are they theoretical?'
'No. They were stolen from a Soviet depot, brought out of Russia into the West.'
'Christ! Where are they now?'
That's what we're trying to find out - before they can be used.'
They could annihilate a huge city - I checked with my experts, without revealing the source of my information. I hope they aren't in the UK?' Bellenger asked.
'I don't know . . .'
The phone rang. Paula reached for it as Tweed frowned. 'I said I didn't want any calls.'
'You'll want this one,' she said after listening for a few seconds and handed the instrument to Tweed.
'Yes?'
'Lysenko here. We're on scrambler?'
'Yes. What is it?'
'It has been decided . . .'Pause.'. . . at the highest level that further information should be provided if you haven't tracked Zarov yet. Have you?'
'No. And I'd have liked the lot at the beginning.'
'It was a policy decision . . .'Lysenko sounded nervous. 'I have to tell you that just before Zarov left for West Germany his superior reported he was showing signs of stress. He went into the Serbsky Institute for examination.'
'And the result?' Tweed demanded in a hard voice.
Three psychiatrists said he was fit, two others diagnosed incipient megalomania. There was a bureaucratic delay. These reports reached me after he'd left Russia.'
'Any other tiny item of information you left out?'
'We thought you should know now . . .'
'You were damned right. You were also damned late.'
Tweed slammed down the phone and looked round the table. Four faces stared at him expectantly.
'It's a race against time - maybe with no time left,' Tweed informed them. 'I have just heard that Igor Zarov may be on the verge of insanity.'
'Jesus Christ!' reacted Bellenger. 'And he has that explosive arsenal?'
'I think so, yes. It may be as well the PM has decided in view of what I told her to have an SAS strike force standing by - ready to fly to any part of the continent.'
Hipper arrived in Bouillon after dark and Marler, who was registered at the Panorama as Lambert, a common Belgian name, had to interrupt an excellent dinner.
'What is happening?' he asked as Hipper drove him out of town along wooded deserted roads. 'You've given me Newman's photograph.' He waved the envelope Hipper had handed him.
'Soon you will have to move on,' the pasty-faced Luxembourger said in his slow deliberate manner which irked the Englishman. 'Have your bag packed ready for instant departure.'
'Where to?'
'I will tell you when the time comes.'
'Really?' Marler regarded the plump little man with distaste. 'You will tell me now. Klein knows I don't work completely in the dark. Unless, of course, he'd like his advance back now - minus expenses.'
'He said you would be getting restless . . .'
'Restless be buggered. I'm browned off, mate. Hanging around this one-eyed town pretending to be a huntsman. Up to you. And I hadn't finished my meal. Turn round here and drive back. Tell Klein to stick it.'
'Brussels,' Hipper said quickly, performing a three-point turn at the intersection they had reached. He began driving back to Bouillon. 'Soon after you've completed your commission tomorrow at the Dames de Meuse.'
'That's better. Next time be quicker off the mark - answer a question when I ask you.'
Hipper reached into his pocket, handed Marler an envelope. 'That contains your reservation at the Hilton on the Boulevard de Waterloo. The room will be held until you arrive. An executive suite.' He sniggered, glancing sideways at his passenger. 'Nothing but the best.'
'And you keep your bloody eye on the road - or I'll drive.'
'Lara Seagrave speaking.'
'You know who this is,' Klein's voice answered on the phone. 'Note this address. Boekstraat 198. Got it? Good. Have you a map of Antwerp? Good. Find the address and walk to it as soon as we've finished speaking. Don't be put off by the street. Ask for Mr Knaap at the desk . . .' He spelt out the name. 'Come at once.'
She realized the line had gone dead. She checked the index of streets in her map, found Boekstraat. It was less than five minutes from the Plaza Hotel. Wrapping a scarf round her head, she took the elevator to the lobby and walked out into the streets of Antwerp.
Boekstraat was little more than a sordid alley. A drunken seaman staggered out, stared at her and she walked on. Behind her The Parrot, also clad in seaman's clothes, followed cautiously.
Lara didn't like the look of No. 198. It was a small hotel with a neon light over the doorway. She mounted the steps, entered a bleak lobby. The bright red-haired woman behind the counter looked like a madame. My God, she thought, it's a place where prostitutes bring clients.
'Mr Knaap is expecting me,' she said firmly.
'I'm sure he is, dearie.' The woman spoke French with a heavy Flemish accent. 'My, we're going up in the world, aren't we?'
'I did say Mr Knaap . . .'
'Room 14. Up those stairs. First floor. Fourteen is on the right. No need to give yourself airs and graces.'
'Oh, stuff it,' Lara told her and hurried up the greasy-stepped stairs.
Klein opened the door to her, gave a little bow, gestured for her to enter, closed and locked the door. He waved a hand round the sleazy bedroom.
'I apologize for the accommodation. Security. This place has a secret back exit. For obvious reasons. You'll do better in Brussels.'
'Brussels?'
'That's your next destination. Tell me quickly. What about Antwerp?'
The room was illuminated by a forty-watt bulb inside a bedside table lamp. The pink shade was tattered. Lara remained standing and she sensed Klein was in a hurry to leave. Big deal.
'I don't like the look of Antwerp port,' she said. 'It's a long way up the river Scheldt - a long way from the North Sea. I can't find any safe escape route - the city is dense. It's a trap - rather than an opportunity.' She took a package from her shoulder bag and handed it to him. 'There is a collection of pictures I took. Sorry to be so negative again. In fact, some of the French ports are far more accessible. Is Hamburg the next port to look over?'
'Not yet. I want you to go by train to Brussels tonight -a room has been reserved for you at the Mayfair in the Avenue Louise. You'll enjoy yourself there. It's expensive . . .' He handed her a sheaf of notes held by a paper band. 'For your expenses. I'll contact you there in due course. And now I must leave.'
He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him. They embraced and he pulled away suddenly. 'Not in a place like this. Wait five minutes after I've left, then leave yourself. And if you have trouble with some man in Boek-straat, use this on him. Aim for the eyes.'
He gave her an aerosol can, kissed her again on the cheek and left the room. She timed five minutes and hurried down the staircase, past the counter without a glance at the leering madame, and walked rapidly back out of Boekstraat. The Parrot, concealed in a shadowed doorway, frowned as he began to follow her. He felt that he had missed something.
* *
The atmosphere was tense as the meeting went on at Park Crescent. Tweed had deliberately created the mood of a 'council
of war' to impress on everyone present the seriousness of the situation. The phone rang again, Paula took the call, then looked at Tweed, handing him the instrument as she spoke.
'It's Olympus for you.'
Tweed here. Any news? Time could be running out . . .'
He listened. 'What's that? Please repeat. Thank you.'
He handed the phone back to Paula, picked up a pencil and began tapping it on the table. Paula was beginning to read his gestures. He was worried. He looked round the table.
'Don't ask me how I know. It looks like Belgium. Maybe Brussels itself. HQ of NATO.'
'That doesn't make sense,' Bellenger protested. 'You have been talking about a huge number of sea-mines.'
'I know. I agree.' He glanced at the wall map. 'But it could be Antwerp - the pistol pointed at the heart of Europe, as Churchill once called it in World War One.'
'Makes more sense,' Bellenger agreed. 'What about time running out? You used that phrase.'
'We may have very little of it left.'
'And what, I am curious to know,' Howard enquired, 'is this Olympus business?'
He had said very little up to now, listening instead of talking, which wasn't his style. Paula lowered her head, began doodling in her notebook. How would Tweed deal with this one?
'Oh, that,' Tweed replied casually, 'is just a codeword so I know who is making the report. We change it daily.'
'I'm still puzzled,' Bellenger said. 'Could you briefly sum up the history of this problem - and tell us what progress, if any, we've made?'
'Hear! Hear!' commented Howard and straightened his tie.
'I'll cut corners to make it brief,' Tweed began. 'A bomb was placed outside Miss Grey's house at Blakeney. The bomb disposal team only survived because of information earlier provided by Commander Bellenger. Explosive used was TNT.'
'What about the thirty sea-mines . . .' Howard began.