by Colin Forbes
'Assumed to be armed with the same deadly Triton Three. Colossal explosive power. Plus twenty-five bombs . . .'
'Probably twenty-four now,' Bellenger pointed out. 'One already used at Blakeney.'
'All smuggled out of Russia,' Tweed continued, 'by Igor Zarov, master planner, expert at deception operations, who walked away from the Soviets. Definitely not your normal defector. Lone wolf type. Wants to make a huge fortune while he's still young . . .'
'Don't we all,' said Howard, but no one laughed.
'Zarov may be using the name Klein. He persuaded a top Swiss watch designer to make him special timer devices and control boxes . . .'
'The one crude aspect of the sea-mine we grabbed,' Bellenger remarked.
'Zarov murders the Swiss as soon as he gets his hands on the timers and boxes. A Turkish Nestle driver is used to transport this lot from Switzerland to some unknown destination. He ends up at the foot of a precipice with his truck. More of Klein's work. Leave no one behind who could help us.'
The bullion stolen in Basle,' Paula interjected.
'Coming to that. Prior to obtaining the timers Klein plans a raid on two Basle banks, uses Triton Three -confirmed by Bellenger's experts from debris taken from the bank vaults. That's converted into ready cash — I'm guessing here - to pay for the very large team of professional cutthroats he's hired.'
'Any idea of the size of that team?' Butler asked.
'From what Lasalle told me, those recruits include Frenchmen, Luxembourgers and maybe other nations. I can only guess - but I'd say that team numbers between twenty and thirty . . .'
'Oh, my God!' It was Howard who had jerked upright. 'I had no idea it was on that scale . . .'
'Which,' Tweed pointed out, 'indicates a target of some very great magnitude. And that's the two hundred million pound question.' He glanced at the wall map. 'Where is the target? As you see, Klein appears to be moving steadily north from southern Europe. He's also recruited The Monk, the top marksman on the continent. And as Bellenger has emphasized, a huge amount of high-explosive is involved. Also a unit of scuba divers. A curious combination. So, can anyone look at that map and make a stab as to what the target might be?'
'Why two hundred million pounds?' Howard enquired. 'That is a gigantic sum.'
'Because a dubious banker - I won't name him - has arranged to have that sum available in gold bullion for some other purpose I don't believe in. Our friend, Klein, has a love of bullion, as you may have gathered.'
'What on earth could he be planning to persuade anyone to hand over money like that?' Howard sounded sceptical.
'Oh, a major catastrophe,' Tweed told him. 'He specializes in organizing them.'
'So what action do you propose to counter this horrendous danger?'
'First, I'd like Commander Bellenger to fly with his experts tonight to SAS HQ in Hereford where the SAS unit is assembling. He can explain to their bomb disposal men about what he's nicknamed the Cossack mines and bombs.'
'Happy to oblige,' Bellenger replied. 'We can be ready to move in one hour. Transport?'
'Two choppers are waiting for you now at Heathrow.' Tweed's tone became grave. 'I must stress to everyone in this room the vital importance of total security. Nothing told you must be even hinted at to anyone else.' He looked at Bellenger. The SAS commander at Hereford has no idea of what I've been talking about. So it must remain.'
'You said "first",' Howard pointed out. 'What else have you in mind?'
Tomorrow I'm flying to Belgium to meet Bob Newman - who at the moment is staying underground . . .'
'Exactly where?' asked Howard, staring at the map.
'If I told you with five of us sitting round this table he'd no longer be underground.' He stood up and walked over to the map, pointing to a certain area. 'We have to make a trip to a stretch of this river known as Les Dames de Meuse. I think there may be interesting developments.'
'Of what sort?' Howard persisted. 'You say you're short of time. I don't see the point.'
'What I have to do,' Tweed explained patiently, 'is to find a link between the banker who handled the bullion stolen from Basle - and Klein himself. I hope to find it there.'
'Why?'
'Because if I'm right the same banker has arranged to have two hundred million pounds more of bullion available. And I am now convinced these waterways - this network of canals from near Basle to the Meuse - is the route along which the bullion travelled. By barge. Maybe the timers and control boxes, too.'
'Sounds like a pleasure trip,' Howard snorted.
'It may turn out to be anything but that.'
28
After leaving Lara, Klein drove north from Antwerp. He crossed the border near Roosendaal into the flatlands of Holland, driving on through the night along Route D. He had changed cars in Antwerp, hiring an Audi and using false papers in the name of Meyer.
It was still dark when he drove through Rotterdam, north again, to the ancient town of Delft. Dawn was breaking as he moved along narrow cobbled streets lined with ancient buildings. In the middle of the streets flowed canals crossed by hump-backed bridges. The place was deserted as he left the town, drove a short distance further and turned into a large camping site.
Neat rows of campers lined the tracks. In many there were lights as the early-rising Dutch prepared breakfast. Grand-Pierre, alerted by his phone call from Antwerp, ushered him inside a larger camper.
'Coffee?' the Frenchman asked in his own language.
'Litres of it. I've been driving all night. How far is the training advanced?'
'Oh, we're ready when you are. I need one day's warning to assemble the whole team here in Delft.'
'Why?'
Grand-Pierre, ex-French Foreign legionnaire, didn't even look at Klein as he bent over the coffee percolator. The Frenchman was huge, six feet tall and heavily built with a mane of black hair. He was an expert safecracker who had never been caught. Those large hands must have a delicate touch, Klein thought as he stood in his dark coat, shuffling his feet restlessly in the confined area of the camper. Just the touch needed for handling timers.
'Why?' Grand-Pierre repeated. 'Because I have over twenty men training in the wilds of Groningen, Holland's northern province. They jog along the beaches, swim in the sea off the Frisian Islands . . .'
'Under the sea, you mean?'
'Of course. They attached the dummy mine you gave me to the underside of a Dutch fishing vessel . . .'
'Wasn't that a risk?' Klein demanded, taking his hands out of his pockets and almost at once thrusting them inside again.
Grand-Pierre noticed the gesture as he handed over a large mug of steaming coffee. Restless type, he thought, a bundle of energy, always wanting to move on to his next destination the moment he'd arrived. The slow-moving giant glanced at Klein's chalk-white face as his guest swallowed his coffee. Bloody brain-box with his clever face, wherever he came from.
Not that Grand-Pierre cared. What he cared for was the hard cash paid. As though reading his mind, Klein took a package from his pocket and handed it to the Frenchman with his chamois-gloved hands.
'Help to keep you going. Expenses, plus the equivalent of twenty thousand francs in Dutch guilder towards your fee.'
'No risk,' Grand-Pierre replied to Klein's earlier question, 'and you might as well, forget the job. I was there myself, underwater, when they carried out the experiment. They released the mine, swam off, and the fishermen had no idea of what had happened. You said train them, I train them. How far to the target? It's a big team to transport.'
'Not far. Have the locals got curious about your presence?'
'Not a whisper. The men are scattered about several camp sites. They're officially on a package deal holiday.-'
'Any problem bringing in supplies? Food, I mean. They don't eat outside, I hope?'
'You said not - so they don't. And always a Dutch-speaking man goes into town for food and coffee. No one drinks. One man disobeyed me. I personally hauled him out of a bar.'
'You disciplined him?'
'Of course.' Grand-Pierre looked surprised. 'I drove him to a quiet spot on the coast, strangled him, weighted him with chains I had in the boot, dumped him in the sea. Is your coffee OK?'
Klein drove back to Rotterdam and inside the city of concrete and glass high-rise buildings, beautiful tree-lined shopping arcades. He parked at a meter near the Hilton, walked along a wide street until he found a public phone box, choosing one where several more stood in a row. It would be a long call to London.
He dialled a number from memory, asked for David Ballard-Smythe, waited. At the other end of the line Ballard-Smythe left his desk at Lloyds of London, walked to the phone.
'Ballard-Smythe here. Who is this?'
'You know who it is. Make a note of this number. Call me back within five minutes. I'm in a hurry. Repeat my number. It's in Holland . . .'
Ballard-Smythe put down the phone, asked a colleague to watch his desk for half an hour. 'A client who is disabled, can't leave his car.'
'OK.' The other man looked at him. 'Something wrong? Look as though you're about to give birth.'
'Well, I'm not. But when you eat an egg for breakfast that's off you don't feel perfect. Be back soon . . .'
Ballard-Smythe, a thin, nervous-looking man in his thirties, hurried out of the building. He'd been paid enough for passing on this information, he needed the money when he had a mistress as well as a wife, but now push came to shove he was wishing he hadn't agreed. The hell of it was he'd spent the advance payment Klein had given him two months ago.
Entering a phone box, he took from his jacket pocket a small leather purse bulging at the seams. Along the top of the telephone directories he arranged a collection of coins. He had an idea he'd be talking for some time.
No need to check the code for Holland. God knew, in his job he was always calling the great port of Rotterdam. He dialled the number he'd written on a scrap of paper and waited.
'Who is this?' a distinctive voice asked in English, a voice Ballard-Smythe instantly recognized.
'Is that you, Klein?'
'Listen. You've kept checking shipping movements in the area I named?'
'Daily. As soon as I reach my desk. My first task . . .'
'Next Thursday. What have we?'
'Well,' Ballard-Smythe began, 'at the head of the list we've got the 50,000-ton German cruise liner, Adenauer. Sailing from Hamburg, she stops offshore to take on board other passengers. They come out by lighters from Euro-port. That will be just before sunset . . .'
'I know. Get on with it. I haven't the time for long calls. What other shipping?'
'Couple of supertankers coming up from the south. Then the usual Sealink ferry will be arriving from Harwich. Oh, and a 10,000-ton freighter, the Otranto, from Genoa. Plus three large container jobs up from Africa. There'll be a fleet of shipping approaching Europort. The Adenauer will heave to about a mile offshore - giving plenty of free passage for the other vessels to move in.'
Thank you,' said Klein.
That's all?' Ballard-Smythe was surprised.
'Not quite,' Klein said. 'You have the key to a safe deposit I gave you - but you don't know where it is.'
That's right. The one containing the second payment in cash.'
Take down these details . . .'
Klein gave him the name and address of the bank, very close to where Ballard-Smythe was phoning from. He scribbled the details on the back of the same scrap of paper.
The third and final payment - the big one - will be delivered to you by registered post in ten days' time . . .'
'Not to my home?' Ballard-Smythe sounded alarmed.
'Of course not. To your office. And in that safe deposit box you will find three packages numbered one, two, three. Take the first two, leave number three.'
'What's inside it?'
'Worthless share certificates. The box is paid for over the period of the next year. It will seem more normal if you leave something in the box. Goodbye.'
The connection was broken. Ballard-Smythe checked his watch. He still had time to go to the safety deposit before he was expected back at the office. He couldn't wait to get at the contents.
At the bank he showed his driver's licence as identification, was escorted down to the vault and the box reserved in his name. He followed Klein's instructions, taking the first two packages, leaving the third.
Returning to the office he went straight to the wash-room and locked himself inside the end cubicle. Envelope One contained one hundred £20 notes. £2,000. The second, heavier package contained a bottle of Napoleon brandy. Funny chap, Klein. Ballard-Smythe remembered discussing drink with him in a pub two months earlier. He'd told Klein how his wife only drank wine, but his favourite tipple was brandy.
At lunchtime he phoned his mistress, Peggy, who worked as a secretary in an insurance office nearby. He met her in a small restaurant not frequented by colleagues. At the coffee stage he handed her a freshly sealed envelope containing the money.
'Keep that safe in your flat,' he told her. 'In the usual place - under that loose floorboard beneath your dressing table
Ballard-Smythe dare not take the money home. His wife, Sue, had a habit of going through his suit prior to pressing it. And he hadn't been able to think of a really secure hiding place in his own house.
That evening, arriving at his detached house in Walton-on-Thames, he felt nervous. To cover up, he suggested a drink as soon as they sat in the living room, waiting for the meal to be ready. He poured her a glass of wine, then produced the bottle of brandy.
'Must have cost a bit, that,' Sue, a thin-faced brunette observed.
'Present from a satisfied customer.'
He poured a generous snifter, raised his glass and took the first long sip. He dropped the glass, clutched at his throat, gave an agonized gurgle and slumped to the floor. The doctor had the unpleasant task of telling Sue he was dead. The post-mortem confirmed what the doctor had suspected. Death from cyanide poisoning.
In Rotterdam Klein went into a bar and ordered coffee. He never drank alcohol - he hated anything which muddled his brain. He looked round the bar at the polished wooden tables, the spotless quarry-tiled floor, the curtains which were so clean. Very Dutch. As he drank his coffee he checked again over the operation in his mind.
Timers. Scuba divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.
Timers. They were due to arrive within a few hours, hidden inside the load of gravel aboard the barge, Erika, Haber would, as arranged, dock his barge at Waalhaven, only a few minutes' drive from where he sat. And Klein would be waiting for him.
Scuba divers. The whole team now based in Delft, a ten-minute train ride from north of Rotterdam. And Grand-Pierre was putting them through their paces - not only training them but keeping them occupied.
Marksman. The Monk was certainly well occupied. By now he'd be on his way to Les Dames de Meuse. His mission should prove good practice for what was coming. He had to kill Newman.
Lara. The sacrificial goat - as he now thought of her -was happily enjoying the luxury of the Mayfair Hotel in Brussels. Doubtless she'd be passing her time exploring the magnificent shops in the Avenue Louise arcade.
Explosives. Safely stashed away. Stored in a very secure place. And only a few hours' travel time away from the target area.
Banker. He would just have time to fly to and consult with Peter Brand. The arrangements the banker had made were the key to the whole operation.
As he finished his coffee Klein thought of the information confirmed to him by Ballard-Smythe over the phone. Everything was working out well. The German cruise liner, Adenauer, was a key element. It carried a complement of over a thousand passengers bound for a Mediterranean holiday ending at Alexandria in Egypt with a paddle steamer trip up the Nile.
More than half the Adenauer's passengers were American - who had flown to Hamburg from New York. They had been reassured by the fact that the German owners had employed Brinks, the American sec
urity organization, to check the ship and everyone who went aboard.
Once sea-mines were attached to the hull of the Adenauer - with enough explosive power to blow the liner sky-high - he was confident Washington would play it low key, make no attempt to interfere with his ransom demand. Not with the lives of over five hundred Americans at stake.
Of course they'd have to be convinced he meant business. That meant a demonstration involving a large number of casualties. In Klein's mind he was simply conducting with great precision a wartime-style operation. Now to take a second look at the target.
Klein drove along the tunnel under the river to reach the south bank. Then he turned west and headed for Europoort as the Dutch spelt it.
Europort. The greatest port in the whole world, handling a vast tonnage of goods coming in to feed and keep the wheels of industry turning. The Gateway to Europe. Nothing less,
If blocked off - closed down - whole nations would reel under the chaos. They could, he thought as he drove out of Rotterdam, organize a Berlin-style 1948 air lift. But that had been to help a city under siege survive. A continent under siege could never survive with the aid of only air transport.
The highway ran on and on as he left Rotterdam behind. it was twenty kilometres from the centre of Rotterdam to Europort, thirty kilometres to what the Dutch called the Nord Zee. He began to pass target points. Shell-Mex oil refinery No. 1. Shell-Mex oil refinery No. 2. The huge Esso oil complex. The bombs would be placed there - and in other places. No oil, no Europe.
Beyond Rotterdam the land becomes very like a desert - with large open areas of sandy stretches of wilderness. Not a tree in sight. He drove on and on along what was now a deserted highway. The salt tang of a strong wind came in through the window off the North Sea. To his right side roads led away to the dock installations. The attack team would be given maps showing their objectives by Grand-Pierre twenty-four hours before the operation was launched.
Certain tradesmen's vans and trucks would be stolen only a few hours before then. The transport to be used had already been located, the habits and timings of the drivers noted.