by Colin Forbes
The trick was to stay as close to the tanker as regulations permitted, to cut down the delayed arrival to the minimum. He was carrying a cargo which bore a penalty clause for every hour of the delay.
On top of that, the Otranto was equipped to carry ten passengers, one of whom was a director of the line with his wife. The woman expected constant attention. Salvi was therefore constantly moving from his seat at the dinner table to check with the radar operator. He mopped sweat from his forehead. Keep cool, he told himself, you will only arrive at Europort a few hours late. Then he remembered that damned cruise ship, the Adenauer. This trip would require all his seamanship.
Trailing behind the Otranto three large container ships up from Africa steamed across the oil-like sea, leaving astern three fan-shaped wakes. Visibility was excellent at this point and their masters could see each other's vessels. They carried soya bean meal and were racing to be first to offload. Their three masters were equally annoyed by the presence dead ahead of the Otranto. If nothing changed it would be up to the harbour master at Europort to decide which would come ashore first.
The British Sealink ferry service was in normal operation plying between Harwich and the Hook of Holland - the port downriver from Rotterdam and opposite Europort.
The number of passengers varied with each ferry. But it never fell below two hundred souls. Often a ferry would be crammed with up to three hundred passengers. Sealink continued its shuttle, going about its lawful occasions.
* *
The Dutch marine controllers at Europort - and the Hook of Holland - were well aware of the number of vessels approaching. They were in radio communication with each ship, they regularly received up-to-the-minute reports from their computers, they had no doubt at all they could handle the situation. This was Europort. The gateway to Europe.
35
Butler had to walk some distance to find a public phone box. He dialled the Park Crescent number. Monica came on the line. Butler sensed immediately she spoke she was in a state of tension.
'Harry, where is Tweed? I have to contact him urgently.'
'No idea. I'm calling from a street phone in Brussels. The last I saw of him he was in Luxembourg City. Findel Airport to be exact. With Bob Newman and Benoit . . .'
'I've tried to locate Benoit. No success. I have two very urgent messages for him.'
'Care to tell me? I'm pretty sure I've located Klein . . .'
'You have! Tweed will want that information, too. Give me a moment to think. You've enough money for the phone?'
'Bags of coins.'
Stupid question, Monica thought. Of course Butler would be prepared for any occasion. His quietness concealed a brain which was always looking ahead.
'Don't toll me if you'll regret it,' Butler warned.
That decided her. She first took the precaution of making absolutely sure who she was talking to - although she recognized his voice clearly. How? Her mind was fogged
- she'd not slept in twenty-four hours, holding the fort. 'Who is your usual partner, the man you often work with - and how does he dress?'
'Pete Nield. Snappy dresser. Smart business suits. Has dark hair and a neat moustache ..."
'OK, Harry. I knew it was you. I've had two calls today reporting the target is Antwerp. "I think," the caller added the first time. Not the second. Now I'll try Grand'Place again. See if they've located Benoit - and Tweed.'
'I'll inform Grand'Place of where I'm staying when I've taken a room. If Tweed contacts you, I've tracked Klein to the Sheraton. I think.'
'Again! That man's a shadow. Take care, Harry.'
Butler walked quickly back to the Sheraton, carrying his bag. He hadn't liked leaving the place unwatched - but you couldn't phone Park Crescent from an instrument which went through a hotel switchboard. He sat down in the lobby to wait a while. He had no way of knowing Klein had just left.
There was an irksome delay after the Alouette had landed on the football field. The co-pilot had to radio police HQ at Dinant for a car.
'Too far to walk to the river,' Benoit explained. 'And Ralston will be on the move. By now his cruiser will have passed through the lock.'
They caught up with the Evening Star proceeding downriver near a landing stage. The driver stood at the tip of the stage with a bullhorn and hailed the vessel.
'Police! Moor your vessel here. Brussels CID are coming aboard.'
'That should put the wind up him,' Tweed observed. 'Just the mood I need before I grille this phoney colonel.'
'Why phoney?' Benoit enquired.
'Oh, there's something not pukka about the bastard,' Newman replied. 'As he himself would phrase it. I travelled with him. I wouldn't loan him five quid.'
The cruiser had changed course, was heading in for the landing stage. By the rail Ralston stood staring at the group waiting, hands gripping the rail. To Newman his face seemed more brick-red than ever; as he came close he seemed flushed with fury.
'What the devil is going on?' he barked. 'Who the hell are you to interfere with the passage of my vessel?'
Crew members had jumped fore and aft on to the stage with mooring ropes. A gangplank was shoved on to the stage with a heavy thud. Newman recognized Sergeant Bradley standing a few paces behind his master. Josette strolled along the deck until Ralston saw her.
'Get below!' he shouted.
Alfredo, cook and dogsbody, peered from lower down the companionway, then vanished. 'The gang's all here,' Newman whispered ironically.
The colonel had planted himself at the head of the gangway, blocking the way. Hands on hips, he glared at the intruders. He held up a hand as Benoit, followed by Tweed and Newman, moved up the gangplank.
'I asked what the hell this is all about. You can't come aboard. Say your piece from there.'
'Brussels CID,' snapped Benoit, showing his warrant card. 'Move aside - or I'll move you.'
'Goddamned impertinence,' the colonel raved. He stepped back a few paces. 'Got a search warrant, have you?'
'Do I need one?' Benoit enquired.
They were all standing on deck. Half way down the companionway Josette looked back and Newman winked at her behind Ralston who had turned to Tweed. 'And who, might I ask, are you?'
Tweed, Commander, Anti-Terrorist Squad.' He also showed his warrant card. 'We can't talk out here,' he continued. 'I suggest we adjourn to the saloon.'
'Do you now? How very civil of you. On my own vessel.'
'I have questions to ask . . .'
'Which I may not be prepared to answer. In case you have overlooked the point, you carry no authority in Belgium.'
'I can always get an extradition order within hours and take you to London. The charge? Consorting with terrorists.'
'And,' Benoit added, 'I can have you taken to Grand' Place HQ in Brussels for questioning- pending your extradition.'
'The saloon,' Tweed said grimly. 'Kindly lead the way.'
Bringing up the rear, Newman glanced to the end of the saloon, saw a whisky bottle three-quarters empty on the bar counter, a glass half-full beside it. The colonel had been going it a bit. Hence his loss of judgement. Tweed also noted what stood on the counter. The colonel walked to the bar, stiff-legged, turned round.
'I suppose you'd better sit down. What's all this nonsense you gabbled about terrorists?'
'You know a man called Klein?' Tweed began. 'Before you reply think carefully. You know Bob Newman - he was a passenger aboard this cruiser.'
'A spy, you mean?' Ralston sneered. 'He questioned someone behind my back? Who? Hardly the conduct of a gentleman - and a guest.'
'A paying guest,' Newman reminded him mildly. 'For a good fat fee. Your crew are a garrulous lot,' he added, protecting Josette who sat opposite him close to the companionway, graceful hands clasped in her lap.
Conduct of a gentleman ... Ye Gods, Tweed thought, what have we here? He prodded harder.
'Klein was the name I mentioned. Has a man with that name been on board?'
'I seem to remember s
omeone of that name.' Ralston smoothed down his hair with one hand, then used the other to swallow the rest of the whisky.
'This isn't good enough.' Tweed stood up, walked down the saloon and stood close to Ralston. 'I think Klein travelled with you more than once. He's a very dangerous terrorist. Many people's lives are at stake. A description, please. Where did you pick him up? Where did he leave this vessel?'
'Difficult to recall details Benoit intervened. This is useless. I'll fly him in the chopper to Grand' Place, you get your extradition order moving . . .'
'Hold hard, it's coming back to me.' Ralston grasped the whisky bottle and Tweed fully expected him to refill his glass. Instead he marched quickly round the end of the counter, planted it on the shelf, took down a bottle of mineral water, poured a glassful and drank the lot. His movements had suddenly become brisk and Tweed suspected he'd been putting on an act.
'Filthy stuff, that.' Ralston dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. 'Now, this sod, Klein. Six foot tall, slim build, face white as chalk. Funny eyes.'
Tweed took a photocopy of the Identikit picture from his pocket, unfolded it, handed it to the colonel. 'Recognize him?'
That I do. Klein. Bit sketchy, but the eyes come out well.' He walked steadily over to Josette. 'You didn't like him either. That him?'
'Yes. Creepy. Couldn't stand him.'
She handed the picture back to Tweed. Ralston stood very erect, one hand in his jacket pocket, the thumb protruding. Tweed had the impression he'd made up his mind about something.
Took him aboard each time at Dinant. As a favour to a friend. Not my fault he turned out to be a bad lot.'
'No one is suggesting it is.' Tweed's manner changed, adapting to Ralston's own change of mood. How often, it flashed across Tweed's mind, he'd played the chameleon in his earlier role of detective. 'Who is the friend? We need to know, I assure you.'
'Brand, the banker. Peter Brand. Got a place fit for a king downstream. Near Profondeville. Newman knows all this - he visited Brand with me.'
'How much did Brand pay you for this service?' Benoit demanded, his tone brusque.
Ralston stared at him with glaucous eyes. 'I'm not going to have two of you at me. I normally like Belgians. I'll make an exception in your case.'
A wintry smile. Newman stared in surprise. He'd never have associated the colonel with such wit. Benoit, Tweed sensed, was about to explode. He spoke quickly to Ralston.
'Can you tell me anything about a bargee called Joseph Haber? He's gone missing.'
'Has he now? I've seen Klein hobnobbing with him -aboard his barge Gargantua. Again, back at Dinant. Twice, as I recall it. Once several months ago, the other time within the past few days. Dour chap, Haber. Kept himself to himself. You implied this Klein is a terrorist. Couldn't make out what nationality he was. Spoke almost perfect English. Thought he was until he tripped himself up. Queer incident, that.'
'What incident?'
'He said something I didn't agree with - can't recall all the details. Doesn't matter. I accused him of talking Double Dutch. He stared at me for a moment with those weird eyes. Then he flew at me, asked what I was hinting at. Sergeant Bradley came in by chance and pulled him up short.'
'Can you remember,' Benoit interjected, 'whether Klein ever had anyone with him when he visited Joseph Haber on his barge?'
'Always on his own. Bit of a lone wolf type . . .'
'A few minutes ago,' Benoit reminded him, 'you called Klein "this sod". You've said you disliked him. Why?'
'Because he acted as though he'd taken over the Evening Star. Arrogant as blazes. Ordered Bradley to make him coffee - little things like that. He wasn't popular, I can tell you.' Ralston looked at Tweed. 'Any of this help?'
'Yes. Thank you for your cooperation. Could I ask where we could locate you if the need arises? It's unlikely, but in case . . .'
'I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do. After what you told me I want to distance myself from Peter Brand as far as possible. First opportunity I'm turning round, sailing back upstream and across the French frontier. Take a bit of a joy ride down the Canal de l'Est. No objections?'
'None as far as I'm concerned,' Tweed replied.
They left the cruiser after refusing Ralston's offer of tea or a drink, climbed back into the waiting car and drove off to where the Alouette waited. Tweed told Benoit he wanted to reach Brussels at the earliest possible moment. The crisis was imminent.
36
Leaving the Sheraton, carrying his bag, Klein headed for a public phone box near the Porte Louise. It was almost dark. Car headlights whipped up the Boulevard de Waterloo, the neon signs had come on, casting a weird light in the dusk. He entered a phone box, dialled a number in Germany.
He was calling the Hessischer Hof Hotel in Frankfurt. Kurt Saur, the Austrian helicopter pilot, answered the moment he was put through to his room. Klein spoke in German.
'Klein here. Are you ready to make delivery?'
'We await your instructions. Both machines are available.'
'Fly at once to Schiphol. You will be met by my agent, Grand-Pierre. Got the name?'
'Grand-Pierre. We will arrive roughly two to three hours from now.'
'Do it.'
Klein put down the receiver, lifted it again, called Delft and passed on the information to Grand-Pierre. The pilots speak French, he told him. Grand-Pierre said he would drive to Schiphol at once.
It was news to the Frenchman that two large Sikorsky helicopters were coming. Once again Klein had kept the different members of the assault force in separate cells. On arrival at the Dutch airport near Amsterdam Saur would tell the airport officials both machines were in need of maintenance. They would be held in reserve at Schiphol until required.
Standing in front of a shop window, Klein went over in his mind the Sikorsky element. Unlike the CRS command vehicle - which had to be stolen because it couldn't be bought on the open market - the Sikorsky machines had been legitimately hired for cash. And he could rely on Saur who led the four men of the helicopter team.
Kurt Saur, from Graz in the Austrian province of Styria, was forty years old. He'd spent his life hiring himself out for smuggling operations. So far he hadn't been caught. But he felt his luck was running out. He needed one big 'score' to give him the money for a life of leisure. Klein had provided that opportunity.
Klein was in an edgy mood - and knew why. Several members of his team were now in Brussels. The concentration at this moment was inevitable - they had to be close to the target.
But it went against all his instincts for security to do this. He was very close to the Mayfair where Lara Seagrave waited. He'd better go and have a word with her, see whether she was becoming restless.
First he took a cab to Midi station. Here he left his case in a luggage container - which reminded him of the bag he'd deposited at Geneva Cornavin, the bag containing the blood-soaked raincoat after murdering the Swiss, Blanc. So long ago, it seemed.
He took another cab back to the Porte Louise, paid it off, then walked up the opposite side of the Avenue Louise to where the Mayfair was located. He stood for a while behind a file of cars, deciding the line he would take with Lara.
He stiffened suddenly as he saw Lara leave the entrance to the Mayfair. Dressed up to the nines in a gaberdine suit. Where could she be going at this hour? She had strict instructions to wait in her room, to eat at the Mayfair.
On the far side of the street she walked towards the Porte Louise, clasping her shoulder bag. Klein followed at a discreet distance. When the lights were green she crossed the Boulevard de Waterloo. Turning right along the sidewalk, she walked up the Boulevard, stopped briefly to look in a shop window, walked on and entered the Hilton.
Inside the spacious lobby Lara walked briskly past the long counter for the concierge, reception and cashier. She was seething inwardly. Not one damn word from Klein. Would she ever set eyes on him again? Had the swine cut her out of the operation. Anxiety mingled with fury as she pressed the button f
or Floor One.
A tall American guest arrived as the elevator doors opened. 'Please, after you. Kinda warmish this weather . . .' She smiled her thanks, stepped inside. The American followed and Klein stepped after them a second before the doors shut.
Lara stared at him, then looked away. He'd been following her. She was livid. The lift ascended, stopped at the first floor, the American again ushered her in front of him. Klein caught up with her as she entered the Maison de Bæuf, a large room with an air of luxury, quiet and with only a few tables occupied. An open grille behind a serving counter faced her; behind the counter a young man with a chefs white hat looked up.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?' Klein whispered.
He gripped her by the forearm. He needed somewhere quiet without people to sort her out. Discipline. Control . . .
'What does it look like?' she snapped. 'Coming out to have dinner . . .'
'Who with?'
'Let ... go ... of ... my . . . arm,' she demanded, letting her rage show. 'I'm not your serf.'
'We'll go back to the Mayfair.'
'No!' This was like dealing with her bloody step-mother, Lady Windermere. 'I'm eating here. The Mayfair can wait.'
Smoking one of his rare cigarettes, seated in a cosy corner next to the grille, Marler watched the encounter with half-closed eyes. The last man on God's earth he'd expected so soon was Klein. It was only eight o'clock. And who was the girl? It was hardly a friendly meeting.
Lara gave Klein the mockery of a beaming smile. 'If you don't let go of me I'll create one hell of a scene.'
'Later then, at the Mayfair.'
Klein released his grip. The last thing he wanted was a scene drawing attention to himself. He turned abruptly and went back to the elevators.
Marler rose from his table, walked over to Lara before the head waiter could reach her. He smiled, still holding his napkin in his left hand.