by Colin Forbes
'I'm a good deal cooler than you are - to judge from the expression on your corpse-like face. End of discussion. Next?'
'I see you took your bag with you,' Klein remarked as Marler tucked it between his chair and the wall. 'Does that contain all the equipment you need for the job?'
'It does.'
'What about your clothes back at the Hilton? Could they be left there? For good? Your room is paid for. I assume you paid for meals as you had them?'
'I did. And the clothes are surplus to requirements. They carry no maker's labels. And two suits are the wrong size - crumpled to look as though they've been worn. That way no policeman can estimate my exact height and weight. Why?'
'Because when we leave here we're on our way.'
'Would it strain your security to the limits if I asked you where we are going?'
'No call for sarcasm.'
Marler's reply was to wipe his mouth carefully with his napkin, crumple it and leave it on the table. Independent bastard, Klein said to himself. But that, he reflected again, was what had made The Monk so effective.
'To storm Euromast,' Klein replied.
The call from Paris for Tweed came through just before they left his room to drive to Euromast. Paula was talking with Newman, telling him how she'd broken the news of her husband's death to Martine Haber. 'Pretty grim,' she said, 'but I did my best . . .'
Benoit was talking to Van Gorp and Butler. Blade stood alone by the window, gazing down at the traffic circling the large road intersection below.
'Lasalle here,' the voice on the phone informed Tweed. 'I've been checking up on the whereabouts of The Monk. God knows how many calls I've made to various countries but I got lucky. I know where he is - or supposed to be.'
Tweed's grip on the instrument tightened. 'Where, Rene?'
'Shut away in a clinic in Lucerne, Switzerland. Suffering a major nervous breakdown. No visitors allowed. Beck, chief of police in Berne just phoned me back. He was able to get a description of the patient. Fair-haired with a bald patch on the crown of his head.'
'So, he again has his alibi. He's somewhere here in Rotterdam. Maybe within a mile of where I'm standing. If he slips through our fingers he's in the clear again. I must go now. Thank you.'
The assembled group stopped talking as he put down the phone. Tweed again sensed the atmosphere of frustration, depression. He smiled broadly, spread his hands, his tone jaunty.
The Monk is supposed to be ill in a Swiss clinic.'
'You said he'd be here,' Blade barked. 'The deadliest marksman in Europe you called him.'
'But that proves to me he is here. He always provides himself with an ironclad alibi. You are coming with us, Van Gorp? Despite your suspension from duty?'
'Oh, that.' The Dutchman grinned. 'I told the Minister I needed the instruction in writing before I could accept it. Didn't you know? The Dutch are great ones for the formal procedures being observed? Drives me mad at times. On this occasion the tradition has its uses. The cars are ready - when you are.'
'Just before we leave . . .'Tweed's manner was exuberant. 'I don't think you realize we have one big ace up our sleeves.'
'I'd like to know what that is,' rapped back Newman.
'Klein has no idea we've caught up with him - that we have found the target, that we are already here.'
As they piled into the three waiting cars Tweed noted there was a change of atmosphere, morale had soared.
For Tweed it was a nightmare.
He stood with the others at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance. He gazed up at the structure which reminded him of the most gigantic periscope in the world. The sheering tower, the overhanging viewing platform far above his head. And above that the slimmer needle of concrete spiralling its way endlessly to the final observation point at its tip.
Vertigo.
Only Paula noticed the way he stood stock still, as though hypnotized by the horrific height of the thing. Oh, my God, she thought, I'd forgotten. It's his ultimate terror. Vertigo.
She squeezed his arm. He shook his head to stop her saying anything. He'd realized that she'd understood. He took a deep breath as Van Gorp emerged from the entrance and waved for them to come on. What were they waiting for?
They were waiting for Blade who had wandered off on his own. The Sabre Troop commander was studying the tower from every angle and position. Tweed obviously thought it might be important. He had checked it with a critical eye. He joined Van Gorp and the others mounted the steps and went into the spacious reception hall.
'I've bought tickets,' Van Gorp announced breezily. 'The lift is over there. I think we can all just squeeze in if we have it to ourselves . . .'
The lift - with no view of the outside world - ascended faster than Paula had expected. They had all managed to cram themselves in but they were pressed together and Tweed was hidden behind Blade's tall straight back. He caught Paula looking at him anxiously and winked. There were several levels he noticed from the button panel he could see in a gap between Newman and Van Gorp. One for the restaurant. Who the devil could get any food down - keep it down - up here?
The lift doors slid back. Van Gorp led the way. 'We're on the viewing platform,' he called back cheerily.
Fresh air met Tweed as he stepped out and for the fraction of a second he paused, then forced himself to keep moving, stiff-legged. The platform running round the tower was open. A rail no higher than his waist circled it. Christ! Paula touched his elbow as though by accident. He walked to the rail, grasped it with both hands, stared down. Like gazing over an abyss. Straight down. Sheer drop. Paula stood close on one side, Van Gorp on the other. In the basin barges like match-boxes were moored four abreast. Tweed saw his knuckles were white, gripping the rail like a vice. He forced his hands to relax, holding the metal rail lightly. He concentrated, made himself observe.
Several police launches berthed at the inner end of the basin. He raised his level of vision. The Maas stretched away, a wide river flowing towards the distant sea. Crammed with shipping. Barges, freighters, tourist boats returning with their living cargo.
It was late in the afternoon, early evening. The sun was setting, a wave of purple dusk darkening the clear sky. Lights coming on all over the miniaturized city. He felt a little giddy. The drop was drawing him over the rail. He looked up quickly.
'Glorious view,' said Van Gorp. 'Most spectacular in Holland.'
'Must be,' Tweed said. 'Think I'll walk round the platform. You stay with our friend, Paula.'
He moved away before she could protest. He had a strong urge to stay close to the circular tower, away from the rail. He compelled himself to put one foot in front of another, staring out at the panoramic view.
Blade had disappeared. Continuing his slow walk, Tweed found him leaning out over the rail, far out, gazing down as though estimating the possibility of scaling the tower. God, if he slips . . . Tweed walked on. The platform was deserted. He changed direction, crossed to the rail to see what was below.
A large green park with toy trees. No one inside it at that hour. The pulling sensation began again. He walked on. It seemed a hell of a long way round. Then he saw the others. Butler, Newman, Benoit and Van Gorp with Paula who stared in his direction, gave him a warm smile but stood her ground.
'Fantastic tower this,' Van Gorp began again.
'How high are we?' Tweed asked.
'A hundred and four metres - three hundred and forty feet. The restaurant is just below us. Then there's the crow's nest up there. That's closed in with glass . . .'
Then why the hell didn't you take us there? Paula thought. This is agony for Tweed, but he won't let on. And I can't do a damn thing.
'Look up,' Van Gorp urged. 'See the tower going on higher above the crow's nest? Spectacular is the only word.'
'Great. Just great.'
Tweed looked up and the vertigo seemed worse. The immense height of the needle made him feel dizzy again. He looked up for what would seem a normal length of time, t
hen dropped his gaze. The Dutchman was pointing now, one long arm raised, index finger extended.
'Like to take a look at the Space Tower, Tweed? This down here is nothing compared with up there. Right at the very top. Take you to the lift. Come on. Your ticket covers the trip . . .'
'Have we the time?' Paula asked.
'Only take a few minutes. See half Holland from up there. Almost. The North Sea, too. Not to be missed.'
'I'm getting rather thirsty,' Paula persisted.
'We can go to the restaurant while Tweed makes the trip on his own. It's a much smaller lift. See the diameter up there? Very narrow. This way, Tweed.'
The round trip, as the Americans say,' joked Tweed.
He followed Van Gorp who led him to another lift at a higher level, pressing the button. Paula was nearly going spare. Tweed saw her expression, shook his head.
'Go get a drink. Be back soon. No time at all . . .'
Newman came alongside her as Tweed entered the lift. They watched the doors close on him. 'Why didn't you go up with him, you thoughtless idiot?' she hissed. 'It will be a terrible ordeal - suffering as he does from vertigo.'
'Oh, my God! I'd forgotten - absorbed by the view. You're right . . .'
'I doubt if you've any idea what vertigo's like,' she went on.
'Paula,' he whispered, 'vertigo takes different forms. Once I went up by lift to the top of the Duomo in Milan -the Cathedral. Only a hundred feet up. I came out into the open, walked down a flight of steps at the front, then noticed I could see between the stone balustrade pillars down into the street. I was paralysed. Luckily no one was about - I crawled back up those steps.' He raised his voice, called out to Van Gorp waiting to lead them down to the restaurant.
'How high up is that Space Tower?'
'One hundred and eighty-five metres-six hundred feet.'
'Charming,' Newman muttered.
'Oh, one point I forgot to mention,' Van Gorp said. That Space Tower is a small glass cabin which revolves.'
'Jesus!' Newman muttered again. 'Now he tells us. Maybe I'd better go up . . .'
'Not now,' Paula snapped. Too late - it will be noticed. He'll cope. Somehow.'
Penned up inside the much smaller elevator Tweed was tempted to press the button for the crow's nest. Briefly. He pressed his thumb firmly against the top button and stood motionless.
The elevator shot up much faster than he'd expected, climbing like a rocket. He felt he'd left his stomach behind on the platform. The ascent - up nearly another three hundred feet - took only a few seconds. It will be better at this height, Tweed thought. Like looking down from a plane which never bothered me. The doors slid open, he stepped out.
It wasn't better, it was worse. The elevator doors closed behind him. He was alone inside a small circular cage with glass walls. The light was a glare. He took out a pouch, attached his clip-on tinted glasses over his spectacles, moved close to the glass window.
The sun was setting behind the distant horizon of the sea, a blood-red disc sliding out of sight. Blood. Lots of blood. Why did he think of that now? The sun sank from view. He removed the tinted lenses. He looked down and shuddered. He was gazing down the sheer side of the precipice-like column with a bird's-eye view of the platform so far below. He blinked, feeling disorientated. It felt as though the floor was moving. An illusion . . . God, no! He looked up again and saw the view had changed. The floor was revolving.
He felt giddy. The world began spinning slowly. He was going to faint. Never! Extracting a tube of mints from his pocket, he popped one in his mouth. The bitter taste revived him. Must get on with the job.
Tweed took the binoculars from another pocket, adjusted the focus, aiming them at the mouth of the Maas. The giant dredger was still working, the scoop bringing up muck from the bottom of the river entrance. He raised a little the angle of the glasses, slowly scanned the sea.
Some distance offshore a large liner was approaching from the north, moving very slowly, speckled with lights. He swung the glass further south. Much further away another vessel coming in, a ship which had to be very big - from its silhouette he guessed it was a supertanker. Directly opposite the mouth of the Maas his glass picked up a tiny speck. The Sealink ferry sailing in from Harwich? Some idea twitched at the back of his mind, then it was gone.
He stood very stiffly, sweat forming on his brow, his legs like jelly. If only the damned thing would keep still. He forced his body to turn round, to look in another direction. Two large helicopters were flying in from the north, about to land at Zestienhoven - Rotterdam Airport. A couple of Sikorskys. He watched them drop out of sight.
From that height he could see the spires and towers of The Hague, the home of that stupid Minister of the Interior. Still, he thought, we have enough of those back home.
He popped another mint in his mouth, took one last look down at the layout below. Rotterdam was studded with lights - more coming on every second. What the devil was that idea he'd had at the back of his mind? He pursed his lips, pressed the button for the elevator.
'Are you all right?' Paula strolled forward as he stepped out on to the platform level. She had been waiting for him, pretending to be taking another look at the view. No one was about as she took his arm.
'I'm OK. How high was I?'
'Six hundred feet!'
'Felt a bit like it. Oh, and they move the floor around to give more excitement. You get used to it . . .'
'You've lost colour. The others are in the restaurant. A drop of fresh air - just at the entrance to the platform -would work wonders.'
They stood for a minute or two and Tweed took in deep breaths. He suddenly felt better, almost normal. He lifted one leg, then another. The strength was coming back into them. Thanking her, he said he was ready for a cup of coffee.
The restaurant had tables at two levels - those perched up further away from the windows. Van Gorp, sitting next to a window with Butler alongside him, waved. No one else occupied a table near them.
Tweed saw the huge windows which slanted outwards. Again he experienced the being-pulled-over-the-edge sensation. Paula sensed his disquiet. 'Let's take one of the tables higher up,' she said brightly.
'No, we'll join them.'
Paula went ahead, sat down in the window seat and Tweed took the chair beside her. He ordered coffee for both of them and stared out of the window. The congestion of shipping inside the basins, moving up and down the Maas, was enormous.
'Enjoy yourself on top?' Van Gorp enquired breezily.
'A unique experience. Quite unique.' He leaned forward. 'Why do I feel this place should be watched?'
'Just asked the very same question myself,' said Butler.
'It is,' the Dutchman replied, lowering his voice. 'You see those two men sitting at a table by themselves? My men. Armed. I could only spare a couple - I'm stretched to the limit checking the river and the docks.'
'Where are the others?' Tweed asked.
'Touring round the place. Especially Blade and Newman. That colleague of yours, Blade, wants to see everything. Even had a look at the toilets. Some kind of specialist?'
'He does my leg work.' Tweed kept his voice low. 'Sea-mines. Thirty of them, as I mentioned. What do they suggest to you?'
'A plan to block the Maas. I have men swarming among those docks and basins - looking for the unusual. And we're watching the oil installations you saw. Nothing so far. I'd know.' He picked up his heavy raincoat, pulled something a short way out of the pocket. A walkie-talkie.
'So still we wait,' Tweed ruminated.
'When the others get back we'll take a drive along the Maas - see if anything's stirring. Ah, here they come.'
Tweed swallowed his second large cup of coffee. The experience of his recent battle with vertigo had dehydrated him. He felt parched as the Sahara, refilled the cup as Blade and Newman arrived, followed by Benoit.
'They had coffee before you came down,' Van Gorp explained. He seemed restless, anxious to move on. 'All except Mr Blade.'
he continued. 'Care for some coffee before we go?'
'Not for me, thank you.'
Tweed glanced at Blade sharply. The SAS leader's mind seemed far away; instead of sitting down he stood by the window, staring down.
They descended in the elevator, walked to the parked cars and got inside. Tweed sat alongside Butler in the rear seat of the vehicle driven by Van Gorp. An orange-coloured helicopter was flying downriver, a hundred feet or so above the Maas.
'We ought to be able to work out how Klein will launch an assault,' Tweed said, worrying away at the problem. 'How would we launch it? Remembering he has a team of scuba divers.'
'As I said earlier,' Van Gorp replied, 'by using the mines in the Maas - blocking the entry to all shipping. See that chopper which just flew over? No police markings - but it has my men aboard. We are watching from the land, from the air.'
'But not underwater?' queried Paula who sat beside Van Corp.
'We can hardly have skin-divers permanently swimming around under the Maas,' he told her gently.
'But what I don't understand,' she persisted, 'is they will have to change into wet suits before they plant the mines. Where on earth can they do that - without risk of being seen?'
'No idea.' He started the engine. 'Let's cruise around -this time, Tweed, along the north bank towards the Hook of Holland.' He glanced in the mirror. 'You look thoughtful.'
It was something Paula had said. Tweed suddenly realized the police chief had spoken to him. 'Nothing,' he replied. 'The Hook of Holland, you said. While I was in the Space Tower I saw a dot on the horizon, could have been the Sealink ferry.'
Van Gorp checked his watch, switched on his headlights. 'It would be. She's due to dock soon. Always on time.'
As he pulled away from the kerb Butler turned in his seat to look at Euromast through the rear window. The car containing Newman and the others was following. Tweed also turned in his seat, gazing up at the immense structure.
'Something about that place that worries me,' Butler remarked. 'What it is I can't pin down.'