by Colin Forbes
He saw her hail a passing cab. He heard her sharp voice tell the driver, 'Banque Sambre'. He walked back inside, picked up his empty glass and took it into the restaurant. A middle-aged waitress thanked him as he placed it on the counter. Beside the glass was the small suitcase. The label read Max Volpe. Butler went back to the lobby, sat down and hid himself behind the newspaper.
Yes, something funny was going on. Why would a girl come all the way from the Avenue de la Liberté to collect a suitcase and take it into the restaurant? Then shove off straight back to the bank?
He heard footsteps coming slowly down the staircase alongside the two elevators. A stooped man wearing a beret, an unlit pipe in his mouth, appeared, walked straight into the restaurant.
Butler frowned. A chalk-white face. Which didn't fit the description Tweed had given him of Klein verbally. Face ruddy. He called back in his memory the photocopy Identikit picture. Butler had not merely studied it - he had imagined it with a moustache, a beard, any form of disguise. The stooped man had looked familiar.
He stood up, said goodbye to the concierge who had reappeared, walked back inside the restaurant. The first thing he noticed was the case had disappeared from the counter. He glanced round the almost empty room. The stooped man sat at a table at the far end, the suitcase tucked under the table.
Butler sat down, ordered coffee, paid the bill when it arrived. He read his newspaper while the other man drank his own coffee, checked his watch, paid the bill and walked into the street carrying the case. Butler followed.
Volpe walked up the side street towards the Place d'Armes. Butler reached his car, slipped behind the wheel and cruised up the rue Chimay some distance behind Volpe. The man he was following hailed a taxi, got inside and the taxi headed north. Butler followed and within five minutes he guessed Volpe's destination. Findel Airport.
The Luxair machine took off into the cloudless sky. Volpe sat near the pilot's cabin. Butler was eight rows behind him. At Findel he had bought a ticket, standing immediately behind Volpe. The other passenger had not given him a glance.
Butler still took precautions to change his appearance. Running back to his parked car, he took his small case out of the boot, changed his check sports jacket for a suede version. He took a trilby hat, punched it, put it on his head. After handing back the car he boarded the aircraft. Destination: Brussels.
33
Tweed changed his mind when the Alouette was airborne. He had gone over in his mind everything Newman had reported. Turning round in his seat, he spoke to Benoit who sat behind them, using his headset. The rotor vibration was like a concrete mixer.
'I told you about that Colonel Ralston Bob encountered on the Meuse - travelling aboard his power cruiser, Evening Star.'
'Yes. A curious character.'
'On our way back to Brussels could we try and locate that craft? If we can find her I'd like a talk with the colonel.'
'Let us hope it is in Belgian waters - then I can use my authority to back you up if necessary . . .'
Benoit proceeded to instruct the pilot to change course. Newman began to look out of the window after changing places with Tweed. He was confident he'd spot the cruiser if they flew over her. A short while later the river appeared below. Newman tightened his mouth as they flew well above Les Dames de Meuse. He was recalling the unpleasant sight of Broucker's corpse, throat cut, buried to his chest in mud.
"They had a crane aboard a huge floating platform which has hauled up the Gargantua,' he told Tweed later. 'Men swarming over it, cars parked nose to tail along the tow-path.'
'The forensic team, I expect,' Tweed answered absent-mindedly. He was thinking about how he'd tackle Colonel Ralston - if they found him. 'It will take days to check the barge. Too many to help us, I suspect.'
'You think Klein is close to launching his operation?'
'That communications vehicle stolen from the CRS bothers me. He wouldn't hang on to that too long. And from what Lasalle told me about its range of radio signal equipment the operation must be vast.' He tightened his mouth. 'Where the devil could he be hiding that huge armoury of explosives he stole? If we could solve that one we might nip him in the bud. Fat chance of that.'
'Maybe we already know - but don't know what we know.'
Newman was pressing his face close to the window all the time he carried on his conversation. Tweed frowned at his remark. Something rang a bell at the back of his mind but he couldn't latch on to it.
'A cryptic comment if ever I heard one.'
'I wonder how Paula is getting on,' Newman mused, staring down. 'That was a pretty bright theory of hers.'
'Just a theory . . . What is it?'
'I'd like the pilot to lose more altitude. Now!'
They were just passing over Dinant. From that height the pinnacle of rock topped by the citadel looked like a toy. Over the inter-communication system the pilot heard Newman and began to descend lower before Newman spoke again. He'd already lost a lot of height once he'd cleared the heights of Les Dames de Meuse.
'There's the Evening Star. Just entering a lock north of Dinant. I'm sure that's it. Wait till we get a bit lower . . .'
'Moving upstream or down?' Tweed asked.
'Downstream - towards Namur. Odd, that. When I disembarked at Namur he said he was going on to Liege. It's almost as though he's patrolling the Meuse - up and down.'
'Where's the nearest point you can land?' Benoit's voice asked the pilot.
'Football field. I can see it now. No one playing on it.'
'Land there, then.'
'A radio message for you, sir. They want you to call headquarters.'
To hell with Grand'Place. They can either cope - or wait.'
Marler drove up the Boulevard de Waterloo and was glad to be back in Brussels. He passed the Hilton on the far side of the highway, paused for the lights to change at the top, then swung round and drove back in the direction he'd come but down the narrow street leading to the hotel.
The city was a fascinating mix of ancient and modern buildings. Opposite the Hilton an old church stood next to a small bistro-style restaurant. Beyond Were high-rise office blocks. About to turn in to the Hilton's underground garage, he changed his mind. Bad security. Having your transport trapped where you were staying.
Ten minutes later, his Volvo parked in an above-ground park, he walked into the huge reception hall-cum-lounge area. He marched straight up to the desk, carrying a sports bag in one hand, a suitcase in the other.
'Dupont,' he addressed the dark-haired girl receptionist in French. 'Room 1914 . . .'
'Oh that's an executive suite, sir. You register on the eighteenth floor.'
'Of course I do.' Marler was very bluff in manner. 'Stupid of me to forget.'
A porter relieved him of the suitcase but Marler hung on to the sports bag. On the eighteenth floor he stepped out into a pleasant room with a blonde girl facing him behind a large desk. Good looker.
'Dupont,' he repeated when she had offered him a seat. '1914. The suite's been reserved for a while.'
She looked puzzled as she pushed the registration pad towards him. 'A man with the same name occupied your suite for a few hours, sir. I hope that was all right?'
Marler gave a broad grin as he filled in the form. 'Quite all right. My brother. Nice view from up here.' He nodded towards the window where the lights of Brussels were coming on as dusk descended, like stars sparkling close to ground level. He tipped his passport towards himself as he filled in a French passport number.
'Your key, sir. I hope you will really enjoy your stay with us.'
'Can hardly fail to in Brussels.'
He gave her another dazzling smile as he stood up. She was eyeing him speculatively. He winked, turned back to the elevators and pressed the button.
Rid of the porter, he explored the suite. Luxurious. Plenty of space. The vast bulk of the Palais de Justice loomed beyond the window, which appealed to his sense of humour. He made a systematic search of the room, found a l
arge drawer which locked, opened it, laid the sports bag inside.
It contained the dismantled sections of his rifle and the telescopic sight, plus ammunition. He placed the sports bag carefully at a certain angle, took a pen from his pocket and made a mark on the base of the drawer at one corner of the bag. He'd know if someone had been fiddling with the padlocked bag. He closed the drawer, attached the key to his ring.
On a table was a basket of fresh fruit, a printed card - with the compliments of the manager. Alongside was a sealed envelope with M. Dupont typed on the outside. He opened it. Brief message.
Dinner at the Sky Room. 9p.m. K. He put the sheet of paper in his wallet, picked up the brochure of the hotel, a de-luxe production. Three restaurants. The Sky Room. 27th floor. Music and dancing until dawn. The Maison de Bœuf. 1st floor and the café d'Egmont. Entrance hall floor. The last was the coffee shop.
He glanced again through the illustrated brochure. The Maison de Bœuf attracted him. Stuff Klein and the Sky Room. He'd have to come looking.
He unpacked his suitcase, went into the bathroom for a wash. Marler was wearing a natty blue pinstripe suit, blue striped shirt, plain blue tie. An outfit he hadn't worn out in the country in Bouillon, waiting for Godot. Satisfied with his appearance, he left the luxurious suite. There were beautiful women in Brussels.
Several of them in the lobby glanced his way as he walked out of the hotel and up the street.
Lara Seagrave walked back off the Avenue Louise into the Mayfair Hotel and took the elevator to her room. She had the key in her shoulder bag. It gave you that extra bit of mobility in an emergency.
Inside her room she lit a cigarette, paced restlessly. She was going spare. No word from Klein. If the bastard thought she was going to hang around waiting on his whim all evening he had another think coining. She was going out on the town, maybe meet some interesting man. Just for the evening and dinner. Nothing heavy.
Lara had learned to do everything quickly. She had a ten-minute bath, changed into a navy blue gaberdine suit and a white blouse with ruffles. She carefully chose court shoes with medium heels: in case she had to run for it.
Two minutes in front of the dressing-table mirror for a touch of blusher, powder, lipstick and eye shadow. She was ready for anything - anyone. 'I want some new place tonight,' she thought. 'Somewhere close. I'll try the Hilton.'
Behind the wheel of the Renault station wagon Chabot was driving into Brussels. A silent and sullen Hipper sat beside him. There had been a row when the Luxembourger told Chabot without warning they were leaving immediately for Brussels in the newly hired Renault.
'I'll drive,' the heavily built Frenchman had told him.
'No!' Hipper had squeaked in the kitchen at La Montagne. 'I am in charge . . .'
'Not of me, you're not. Klein pays me. Klein is my boss - and if I don't like something he says I tell him. So, let's not bugger about. I'm driving. Got it? And I'll be bloody glad to leave this prison ..."
He'd glanced back as he moved out of the drive at the bleak shuttered stone hulk of a building lying under the cliffs. Bloody glad. And although Hipper wouldn't talk about it, Chabof guessed the operation must be pretty close, thank God. Earlier, with a knife at his throat, Hipper had said the target was Antwerp. Now they were heading for Brussels - only a short train ride from Antwerp.
Entering Brussels, Hipper guided the Frenchman. He drove up the Boulevard de Waterloo, following the same route Marler had taken earlier, turning round at the top and coming down the side street past the Hilton.
'Where are we staying?' he asked. 'And if you don't answer I'll drive this frigging car round Brussels till dawn.'
'The Marolles,' his plump companion, sagging in his seat, replied. Turn right at the bottom past the Palais de Justice. It's a poor quarter they are renovating. We stay at the café Manuel, a Spanish place. The owner has rooms he lets out. No registration.'
Hipper guided Chabot down a curving street behind the Palais de Justice which emerged into a rabbit warren of old streets. Chabot peered up at four-storey buildings which had an abandoned look. The wooden doors padlocked. Roofs collapsing, exposing crumbling rafters like ancient bones. Other buildings were newish, seven- and eight-storey apartment blocks. He grimaced at the old quarter.
'Renovation, you said. They're pulling down the comfortable old places, putting concrete blockhouses up instead.' A minute later. That's the café Manuel.'
'Park the car round the back.'
Chabot didn't bother to ask how long they'd be stuck in this dump. The operation had to be pretty soon - now they'd moved him into the open.
Disembarking at Brussels Airport, Butler followed Klein through Passport Control and Customs, hailed the next cab after the one Klein had entered. He climbed in quickly.
'That cab just leaving. Please follow it. And please don't lose it. I'm sure the passenger is going to meet my wife. I want to be there when it happens.'
'Understood.' The driver looked at Butler in his mirror as he pulled away from the kerb, gave a knowing grin. 'Life is full of problems. What would we do without them?'
'I could do without this one,' Butler replied and subsided into silence.
Over half an hour later Klein's cab stopped at the Sheraton and Butler's pulled in a few yards behind. Butler tipped him generously and followed Klein inside. He moved close enough to the counter, hatless, to hear a reservation had been made in advance. The reception clerk addressed him as M. Andersen.
Klein glanced round as the porter took his case. Butler was studying a brochure he'd extracted from a display piece on the counter. He didn't think he'd been spotted; four more taxis had pulled up behind his own outside. He waited until the elevator had closed, then wandered over and watched the lights. Klein got off at Floor 12.
Butler went into the street to find a public phone booth, to call Park Crescent.
Klein sat in his bedroom, drinking mineral water, his case untouched. He wouldn't be staying here for more than a short time. He was going over his mental check list in his mind.
Chabot and Hipper. They would soon be in Brussels staying at the café Manuel in the Marolles. A safe enough spot for a short time. He just hoped Hipper would be able to control Chabot - who would undoubtedly wish to explore the city after being penned up at Larochette. Probably looking for a woman.
The Monk. Marler would soon be installed at the Hilton. There would be no problem with him. He could look after himself in any situation. Independent as the devil. A little too much so for Klein's liking.
Legaud and the stolen CRS command truck. Already in Holland at the appointed rendezvous outside Delft. By now the vehicle should be resprayed - unrecognizable and equipped with Dutch number plates stolen with a car - a car owned by a man away from his apartment on business.
Grand-Pierre's team of scuba divers. They would be coming back from their training in the remote north of Holland, assembling at Delft.
Spread out over the continent for weeks, even months, Klein was now concentrating his forces close to the target. Europort.
34
Jumbo jets were still flying into Hamburg Airport - each carrying a number of American passengers bound for the cruise liner Adenauer. The stately 50,000-ton ship with its twin squat funnels dwarfed the dock where a steady stream of taxis and limousines deposited men, women and children eager to start the great adventure.
Unlike other cruise liners plying the world the Adenauer was not one class. It had been designed on the model of pre-World War Two transatlantic leviathans. There was de-luxe class - with the most expensively furnished staterooms afloat. Below came first class. Below that second class. Each level had its own restaurant and was sealed off from other classes.
Texas millionaires, wearing Stetson hats, stood by the rails, watching the other passengers file aboard. The Captain had informed his First Officer there was even some of the 'quiet' money from Philadelphia. From these he'd chosen those honoured to sit at his table.
And even when the m
ajestic queen of the seas sailed from Hamburg down the Elbe she would not yet have taken aboard her full complement of passengers. She would heave to in the North Sea to pick up from lighters further passengers. From Rotterdam.
The 500,000-ton tanker, Cayman Conqueror, fully loaded with oil for Europe, had left behind the balmy winds blowing off the shores of Africa. She was now proceeding north off the coast of France, heading for the English Channel.
Her master, Homer Grivas, had been warned he would arrive at the moment the Adenauer would be lying offshore, taking aboard passengers. It would take some skilful manoeuvring to bring his giant vessel into port but he was confident there would be no problem. He would make Europort at the agreed ETA.
Twenty miles astern of the Cayman Conqueror the 350,000-ton tanker, Easter Island, also proceeded on a steady course for the English Channel. Its master, Captain Williams, had given orders to keep a sharp lookout on the sophisticated radar system.
He had been informed not only about the Adenauer but also of the presence of the Conqueror sailing ahead of his vessel. It was important that the distance between the two tankers should not dose any further. Apart from that he was quite confident all would be routine. Europort could handle an incredible number of large ships.
Captain Luigi Salvi, skipper of the 10,000-ton freighter Otranto, out from Genoa, was sweating with anxiety. His radar operator had the Easter Island clearly on his 'scope, moving ponderously ahead of his own ship. He knew he'd have to keep 'in line' - allow the tanker to pass up the channel first, but this would mean late arrival, a fact he'd already reported to the Dutch authorities.