by Colin Forbes
Pierre checked the address. 'About fifteen miles from Celle. On a lonely country road which doesn't really lead anywhere. We could try that first tomorrow.'
'Let's do that. Now, back to Dinant.'
At the Cargolux counter at Findel the assistant manager was reluctant to provide any information. Benoit took over the conversation from Tweed, showing his warrant card.
'This is an emergency. Get me the chief of police in Luxembourg City on the phone, a man called Fernand Gansen. Then let me speak to him.'
Tweed glanced round the empty reception hall, its floor gleaming like glass. It was very quiet. He liked small airports. Beyond a window he could see a Luxair machine, its tail painted blue with a large white 'L' symbol. The grassy plain spread out into the distance; no sense of being within miles of a city.
Benoit, after conversing with his colleague, whom he obviously knew well, handed the phone to the airport official. 'Talk to him,' he snapped without a hint of his normal joviality. The conversation was brief, the official replaced the receiver.
'I'm authorized to answer any questions,' he said without enthusiasm.
'I want to know if a large cargo-carrying plane is due here - probably from Frankfurt - within the next few days. And its destination may be Rio do Janeiro,' Tweed suggested.
'Let me check.'
The official examined a large folder filled with large forms already filled in. 'Nothing for Rio,' he said. Tweed sensed he was being cagey and Benoit had the same reaction.
'Look here.' He leaned across the counter. 'Gansen gave you instructions. Don't play with me. Answer my colleague. Any large transport machines?'
'Several . . .'
'One from Frankfurt?'
'Actually, yes. A Hercules. During the next three days. A detailed flight plan is awaited . . .'
Extracting the information was like trying to get a loan from a miser. Tweed sensed Benoit was going to explode. He nudged him and stared at the official, his tone pleasant.
'Yes, a Hercules is a big job. Do you handle many shipments of that magnitude?'
'No.'
'But they'd have to give you some rough idea of destination. What is it?'
'South America. Details to follow . . .'
'Name of the consignee?'
Tweed's eyes held the official's. There was a pause. Tweed waited, standing motionless. 'It is police business,' he reminded him.
'The Zurcher Kredit Bank of Basle.'
Keeping an eye open for traffic patrol cars, Butler pressed his foot down, exceeding the speed limit along the deserted highway. Soon he was inside the city, crossing a bridge which spanned the gorge, turning left up a hill. Fortress walls began to appear.
He drove just inside the speed limit through the old city and green lights were with him all the way. He recrossed the canyon over the Pont Adolphe, at a much greater height than the previous bridge. The gorge was far wider, a great depth and the walls had become immense.
He was now driving slowly down the Avenue da le Liberté, the home of so many Luxembourg banks. He saw the Banque Sambre on his side of the broad avenue, cruised past and stopped by a parking meter. Using coins he obtained when he changed money at Findel Airport, he dealt with the meter, then settled down behind the wheel, leaving the engine running.
He adjusted the rear view mirror to give him a perfect view of the entrance to the bank. Checking the Identikit photocopy of Klein, he folded it and put it in his pocket. Brand he would recognize from Newman's description, newspaper reporters were good at that sort of observation.
Butler was now in position to watch anyone who entered - or left - the Banque Sambre. Further down the street was the Place de la Gare where several streets met in front of the old station. He pretended to read the newspaper he'd bought at Findel, giving a convincing impression of waiting to pick up someone.
Klein stood outside the station in the Place de la Gare, in a rare state of indecision. To avoid the sun glare he stood with his back to the taxi rank. He had just come out of a café on the far side of the street where he'd consumed a sandwich au jambon and drunk some excellent coffee.
His mood was edgy. He sensed danger and was trying to identify what had alerted him. That Belgian police helicopter? No - he had experienced this phase just before he was mounting an operation.
He couldn't imagine that he'd left behind him anywhere a clue. Not in that weird watchmaking town up in the Jura; not in Geneva; not in Marseilles or Paris, And not on the Meuse.
It was the imminent launch of the vast operation, he decided. He always became even more cautious at this stage. He had planned to walk straight up the Avenue de la Liberté, to catch Brand oil guard at the Banque Sambre. Change of plan.
He went inside a telephone booth and called the bank, dialling the number from memory. Data written in notebooks was dangerous. The operator took a minute or two to put him through to Brand, The banker had been caught off balance. Klein would continue to keep him in that frame of mind. There was surprise in Brand's voice when he came on the line.
'Klein? Where are you?
'Luxembourg City.'
'You might have warned me . . .'
'No reason to. I hope? Meet me half an hour from now. At the Hotel Cravat. Ask for my friend, Max Volpe. Arrange for one of your secretaries ~ someone you can trust - to come to the same place a quarter of an hour after you've left. She also is to ask for Max Volpe. My friend's room. See you . . .'
'Wait a minute!' A hint of annoyance in Brand's upper crust voice. 'I have a full engagement book I can probably squeeze you in . . .'
'Check your watch. Thirty minutes from now.'
Klein replaced the receiver Discipline. Instant obedience. The only way to keep the upper hand. And Brand was about to make another fortune Or so he thought . . .
He walked out of the booth, climbed inside a cab.
'Hotel Cravat, if you please.'
Klein asked for a double room, registered in the name Max Volpe - another advantage of operating inside the Common Market. The Swiss were meticulous (pedantic was the word Klein used) about hotel registration and often asked to see your passport.
He was given a room on the first floor overlooking the Place de la Constitution and a panoramic view of the curving chasm beyond. Locking the door, he dumped his case on the bed, took out his make-up box and went to the bathroom.
Standing in front of the mirror over the wash-basin he applied foundation cream and then the light-coloured face powder. The face which stared back at him was now chalk-white. Returning to the bedroom, he took a black beret from his case, pulled it well down so it concealed all trace of his black hair.
He next took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the case and perched them on the bridge of his nose. The final item which completed the transformation was a curved pipe, the bowl already filled with tobacco which he'd tamped into the pipe aboard the express.
Stripping off his jacket and trousers, he substituted an old and worn sports jacket and a pair of grey slacks. He repacked the suit and closed and locked the case. Taking a label from his wallet, he penned in capitals the name Max Volpe and attached the label to the case. The make-up box he slipped inside his raincoat pocket.
He stood for a moment, checking over in his mind the sequence of events he had planned. Yes, everything was ready. He walked back into the bathroom and double-checked his appearance. The smartly-dressed businessman who had walked into the Cravat was now replaced by a professorial type.
And there would be no trouble at reception when he left. While registering he had insisted on paying two days in advance for the room, explaining he might have to leave urgently to attend a conference.
He was standing by the circular corner window, looking down into the rue Chimay, when the phone rang. Reception calling. A Mr Brand had arrived, asking for Mr Volpe.
* *
In the rear view mirror Butler saw Newman's word picture of Peter Brand emerge from the Banque Sambre and climb into the red Lamborghini
. He dropped his newspaper and waited, knowing Brand had to drive past him. Avenue de la Liberté was a one-way street - except for the buses.
Brand wore a small-check suit and a deerstalker hat. Flashy type. Plus the car. One of the boys. Played hell with the women. Butler had him summed up in seconds. He pulled out and followed the Lamborghini.
Brand turned left at the bottom of the Avenue and before he reached the Place de la Gare. Butler had a rough mental plan of Luxembourg City in his mind - after a few minutes' study of the street chart the car girl at Findel had provided. It looked as though Brand was heading back -along the one-way system - by the same route Butler had entered the city. Was it Findel?
Brand streaked across the Viaduct spanning the gorge, past the British Ambassador's residence perched on a projecting plateau above the gorge, past the Cathedral, was then stopped by lights. Which enabled Butler to drive up closer one car behind the banker.
Brand then turned off into the rue Chimay, braked savagely, waited for a girl to leave her slot. Butler drove slowly past, spotted another empty slot, parked his car and was in time to follow Brand walking back down the street.
The banker walked past the ground floor restaurant of the Hotel Cravat, disappearing inside the main entrance. Butler arrived as he left the reception counter and entered a waiting elevator.
The lobby was medium-sized, had a sitting area from where the two elevators and the staircase could be observed. Butler settled into an armchair, took out his newspaper and saw by the lights over the elevator that Brand had alighted on the first floor. A rendezvous?
He checked the layout of the place as he slowly turned the pages of the paper. Almost opposite the staircase was the entrance to the downstairs restaurant from the hotel. On his way down rue Chimay Butler had noted there was a separate entrance to that restaurant direct from the street. Obviously a place used by the locals as well as guests. He crossed his legs and prepared to wait. Butler, a patient man, was good at waiting.
'Something damned peculiar going on,' commented Newman.
'What is that?' asked Benoit.
Tweed had led the way to the canteen at Findel Airport and the three men were sitting at a table by themselves, the only customers in the whole place.
The Zurcher Kredit Bank - the consignee for that huge transport aircraft - is one of the two Swiss banks a load of bullion was stolen from a few months ago,' Tweed explained.
'Of course! I should have remembered. I don't understand.'
'Neither do I,' Newman agreed, 'but we are on to something. No doubt about that. Just what, I'm not sure.'
'We may be on to the smooth Colonel Romer, the director of the Zurcher Kredit I saw in Basle. I never could understand that bank raid business.'
'Understand what?' Benoit enquired.
'How any gang could take out ten million in bullion from two banks in the centre of Basle and move the loot. Eventually I suspected one of Haber's barges might have been used to spirit it away. That would mean only a short journey for the trucks used to transport the bullion - down to the Rhine. But still it seemed tricky - unless it was achieved with the help of an insider. And now I think we'd better move fast - with the aid of your Alouette once more, Benoit. Back to Brussels. From there I can call Arthur Beck, chief of the Swiss Federal Police, and warn him about Colonel Romer. I think Klein's operation is just about to start.'
'And the target?' queried Newman.
'Wish to God I knew.'
'What about Harry Butler?'
'I arranged with him while we were flying here that he caught a train back to Brussels - or drove there. Depends whether he finds anything at the Banque Sambre. I wonder how Harry is getting on? Still, he's quite capable of running his own show.' He drank the last of his coffee, stood up.
'Can we get moving?'
'The Alouette is at your disposal,' responded Benoit.
'Beautiful weather this, sir,' the concierge remarked to Butler as he stood by the door. He was a friendly soul who obviously liked a chat, a short man with an ample stomach.
'It is, indeed,' replied Butler.
A girl in her early thirties with raven black hair came in from the street, rushed up to the empty counter and stared round. The concierge walked over and asked if he could help.
'I've come to see Mr Max Volpe. He's expecting me.'
'Let me just call his room first . . .'
Butler studied the girl while the concierge used the phone. She wore long black pants, a white shirt under her black jacket and a man's bow tie. Her whole style of dress was mannish, which Butler disliked. The concierge said something to her after replacing the receiver and she hurried inside an empty elevator. Butler noticed she got off at the first floor as the concierge came back.
'Funny way for a girl to dress,' Butler went on in English.
'I don't fancy the type much myself, sir - between you and me. She's from the Banque Sambre. I've seen her there when I've been in to make payments. I gather she's personal assistant to Mr Brand.'
'Really?' said Butler as though the remark meant nothing.
'What is it?' Brand asked testily as Klein locked the bedroom door. This time he was going to assert himself. 'I do know what I'm doing.'
'Just what are you doing here?'
Klein had removed the spectacles before opening the door and the pipe was inside his pocket. His voice was cold, his tone clipped when he asked the question in English. He stared at the banker.
The eyes again worried Brand. He felt his assertive manner slipping. Klein had addressed him like the chairman of the board questioning a director's ability.
'I came here specially to check the arrangements for movement of the bullion from Frankfurt. The Deutsche Bank is getting restless. They want to know details of the collateral to safeguard the bullion.'
'I thought you were going to form a consortium of bankers to guarantee that. And to contribute a small fraction yourself?'
'It's proved more difficult than I expected . . .'
'Because you can't produce your own contribution. You gamble it all away at Monte. And you're paying interest on loans out of capital - just like that swindler, the Swede Kreuger, did in the 1930s.'
'How did you know that?' Brand's face was ashen.
'I check out the people I deal with - before I deal with them. No more chatter. What is the position now?'
'The Deutsche Bank is holding the bullion for ten more days. How close is the operation?'
Transport arrangements?' Klein demanded curtly, ignoring the question.
The Hercules machine is reserved for our use. What about the air crew?'
'They will be taken over when the aircraft is in mid-air on its way to Findel - by my own air crew.'
Klein thought it unwise to tell Brand the original crew would be shot out of hand, the bodies dumped in the Atlantic. A bit too strong for the Englishman's nerves.
'I'll want to see you again quickly in Brussels,' he went on. 'How long are you hanging about here?'
'I fly back to Brussels aboard my executive jet later this afternoon . . .'
'See you stay at the Avenue Louise until I contact you. Better push off now - you have that heavy engagement book to deal with.'
'No one else knows about those loans?' Brand asked as he moved towards the door.
'Of course not. And no one knows you're using capital to send money to your wife in New York. The Belgian woman who thinks it's interest, that you're a whizz kid banker. The woman who is hopping in and out of bed with all and sundry. As you well know.'
He locked the door when Brand had left. No point in telling him Klein had used him to obtain the bullion - after using him to sell the earlier consignments from the Swiss robberies - because he knew Brand was in a financial mess.
Terror and money were the two factors which influenced men. It was a favourite maxim of Klein's. Carrot and stick, as the English put it. There was a knock on the door. He opened it and a girl wearing a peculiar black outfit stood outside.
/> 'I met Mr Brand on his way out. He said I should come to see you.'
'Come inside.' He locked the door again, saw her expression, shook his head. 'Your virginity is safe. Now, listen. Take this case down to the restaurant at street level. Give it to the head waitress. Tell her to keep it until I come down for a meal. Then go back to the bank. Clear?'
'Yes. I mention your name?'
'Why not? It's on the label.'
Alone once more, Klein put on his glasses, clenched the pipe stern between Ins teeth, took the black beret from a drawer and rammed it on his head. He checked his watch.
Timing perfect. He'd worked it all out standing in the Place de la Gare, He would arrive at Findel, buy his ticket and board the flight for Brussels.
Something funny was going on. Seated in the lobby Butler finished off the glass of beer the concierge had brought him from the restaurant and checked over the sequence of events he had witnessed.
The bow-tie girl from the Banque Sambre had gone up to the first floor. Shortly afterwards Brand had emerged from the elevator. He looked furious as he marched out. Butler had to take a quick decision.
He stood up, strolled after the banker and stood in the sunshine. Brand was walking back to where he'd parked the Lamborghini, his pace brisk. Should I follow him? Butler thought. That had been Tweed's general instruction.
But Tweed allowed his staff a lot of latitude, expected them to act independently. Bow-Tie worried Butler. Brand had clearly visited a guest at the hotel. A Bow-Tie didn't strike Butler as the sort of girl Brand would loan to a friend for a quick roll on the bed. He went back inside, sat down. Who was this guest on the first floor?
A minute later the elevator door opened, Bow-Tie stepped out, carrying a small suitcase with a label attached. Butler watched her walk straight into the restaurant. More and more peculiar. She came back quickly and walked out of the main entrance. He followed casually, standing again as though enjoying the sunshine.