by Colin Forbes
Silently, the Dutchman pushed a sheet of paper across the table. They had been receiving regular weather forecasts at Tweed's suggestion for some time. He read the latest and Paula felt him stiffen.
'What is it?' she asked.
'More bad news,' Van Gorp told her.
'I wonder,' said Tweed. 'Major weather change on the way. A heavy sea mist expected and little drizzle. It's a new factor.'
'You mean Klein won't be able to see what's going on out at sea, that we might be able to move the ships out of range?' Van Gorp suggested.
'Certainly it will eliminate their visibility to the lookout I am sure Klein keeps up in that Space Tower. As to moving the ships, too dangerous. Remember, he said he had men watching on the coast. They'll be in radio communication with him. If they report movement he'll press that button.' He looked at Paula. 'Thank you,' he said as she completed staunching the flow of blood. 'No,' he continued, 'it is here at Euromast the deadlock must be ended. It is conditions here which count.'
He waited as Van Gorp took another phone call. Another conversation in Dutch. Van Gorp swore as he put down the receiver.
'The news is really leaking out. That Reuter report started it of course. Now newspaper reporters, TV crews are trying to slip through the cordons for a view of the tower. Some are bound to get through. And who the hell is this?' He picked up the phone again, listened, handed it to Tweed.
'It's for you. Newman on the line . . .'
Tweed? This is an open connection. I'm talking from a café near a certain bank . . .' Tweed thought Newman sounded strained, tired. Lack of sleep. '. . . and we're waiting for the banker to leave for the airport. He's being held at gunpoint - if you know what I mean.'
'I do. The expected consignment is on the move. Give me that number so I can call you. Any plan?'
'When the moment comes Butler and I will arrive at the airport first. Ahead of you-know-who. I'll make it up as I go on from there.'
'Bob, when you reach that airport, get Benoit to call me - ask him to keep an open line. I need to know what's going on there as well as here.'
'Will do. Cheers
Van Gorp put down his coffee cup. 'What's the reason for that? Needing data from both ends?'
'Because Klein will be doing the same thing - synchronizing his operation at Findel with what he does here. We have to outwit him - and it may all hinge on seconds.'
The phone rang again. Van Gorp said yes and no several times, put down the receiver, picked it up almost immediately as it rang a second time. He spoke in Dutch, then ended the call.
'First was from Frankfurt. They're loading the bullion aboard the Hercules transport. Brand can check the consignment when it reaches Findel - but the pilot has instructions not to fly on to any destination until Klein surrenders his control box.'
'That arrangement will test my powers of negotiation,' Tweed said thoughtfully with a faraway look.
'Better you than me. The other call was local. My radio interception people are picking up a lot of strange traffic in a language they don't recognize. I can call them back and they can play you part of a tape.'
'Do that. Quickly please. I don't like the sound of that development.'
'Klein is speeding up his operation,' said Paula.
'Trying to catch us on the wrong foot,' agreed Tweed.
He took the phone Van Gorp handed him and listened carefully as a tape was played back. He couldn't understand one word. He handed the phone back.
'I know what it is. Klein is being clever again. He has a large number of Luxembourgers - and that language, so-called, is their patois. Letzeburgesch. Mix of French and German. Understood by neither race. You need a Luxembourger to tell you what is being said. Do you know of one living in Holland?'
'Not off hand. I'll try to locate one, get him to listen to the tapes. I've been thinking about those Sikorskys out at the airport. Something about them bothers me. I'm wondering whether to put guards on them.'
'Don't,' Tweed said quickly. 'Leave them alone. I have my reasons.' He checked his watch. 'And Klein is late calling for me. Bad tactics for me to make the first move. Think I'll go up on the roof, see what's happening.'
'Can I come?' Paula asked.
'Good idea. Give you a breath of fresh air.'
It was drizzling when they emerged on to the roof, a fine sea-like spray. Van Gorp had told Tweed it hadn't rained for weeks. Crouched at the wall, he peered through his binoculars at the huge barges moored close to Euromast in Parkhaven. Four abreast, there were twelve of them altogether, berthed stem to stern.
The weather change had transformed the whole atmosphere. The roads gleamed under street lamps. The decks of the barges had a fine sheen of moisture. Drizzle settled on the oily surface of the Maas.
At that moment Tweed wondered, although he had no way of knowing the weather change would be the key factor when the climax came.
52
'They have given in to our show of force,' Klein said as he paced round the lobby leading to the platform. 'The gold is being loaded aboard the transport plane.'
He seemed as fresh as ever, Marler observed. Still in iron self-control. No excitement showing in his voice which was as cold as ever.
'How can you be certain?' Marler enquired.
'That phone call I took. It was from a man I have watching at Frankfurt Airport. And, of course, the call came via Legaud's van. Legaud reports an increase in radio traffic on the police band. But all routine calls. A prowler seen at such-and-such a street corner, etc.'
'Any conditions before they release the gold?' Marler persisted.
Klein smiled icily. 'Brand, accompanied by my armed guard, is to check the bullion. When he reports it is correct I am supposed to surrender this control box.'
'But you won't?'
'What they don't know is that hidden aboard that transport plane at Frankfurt I have my own armed air crew. Always have an ace up your sleeve, Marler. Now, we will prepare our new shock for Tweed.' He called out to two masked men. 'You know what you have to do with her. Do it!'
The two men seized Lara who still lay on the couch,
bound with ropes. Lifting her upright, they propelled her towards the platform. They had a hard time; she kept fighting. Kicking with her tied ankles she caught one a blow on the shin. 'Merde!' he grunted and gripped her tighter. They lifted her off her feet, she bent her knees, swung back as though on a swing, supported by her captors, swung forward and almost hammered the other man in the groin.
'You've used me, you lousy swine!' she screamed at Klein.
'If you simply relax it will be much easier for you.'
'What the hell are you going to do with me, you bastard?'
'Provide Mr Tweed with a fresh demonstration that we never let up. It's called keeping on the pressure.' His voice changed. He snapped out the order to the two men. 'Get on with it. Take her on to the platform.'
In Luxembourg City Benoit hurried over to the café opened up by the proprietor who slept over the premises. Policemen came and went, drinking coffee, eating sandwiches. He found Newman and Butler hunched over more black coffee, sitting at a window table where they could watch what was going on.
'A phone message from Tweed. The bullion is being loaded on to the plane at Frankfurt. It is only a short flight here.'
'Any sign of activity at the Banque?' Newman enquired.
'Nothing at all. Except someone we couldn't see closed the curtains over his office window. You may have to leave soon now.'
'I've checked the Lamborghini,' Newman replied. 'Best you come with me. Butler can go ahead on his motor-bike. I certainly don't want him behind us.'
'That's slander - or is it libel,' Butler commented amiably. 'I'm very good on one of those machines. '
'But I do wish you'd drive with the wheels on the ground.'
Benoit left them to check the latest position with the inspector. Newman drank more coffee. Anything to keep him awake. His eyelids were heavy as lead.
'If i
t is a fake,' Butler remarked, 'this so-called kidnapping of Brand, why is he throwing away all he has? One of the top bankers. A luxurious estate on the Meuse. A mansion in Brussels. He's got it all.'
'Except Benoit says he hasn't. He spends money like confetti. Apparently the Brussels Fraud Squad has been waiting for an excuse to move in. Friend Brand has been paying interest out of shrinking capital. Even to his madcap wife in New York. And she could arrive back at any time. Brand's trouble is she can read a balance sheet. Her father taught her. If Benoit should be right Brand is on the verge of bankruptcy. So, he needs a safe country, and a slice of that Frankfurt bullion.'
The way things are going, he could get it. Klein has got a stranglehold on us.'
'May be up to us to break that stranglehold.'
'Would you believe it,' growled Van Gorp, 'a TV crew has penetrated the cordon and set up cameras on the roof of a building with a full view of Euromast? Just to the west. I'd like to remove it - but we'll get a scream about police interfering with freedom of the media. In any case, newspaper reports are beginning to appear in Tokyo. Soon the world will know.'
'Klein might not like that,' Tweed warned. 'If not, you'll have to send men to shift them. The reason? They are endangering people's lives . . .'
Van Gorp snatched up the phone at the second ring, listened, said something brief in Dutch, put down the receiver and looked at Tweed.
'Over to you, I fear. Klein wants to talk again . . .'
Tweed appeared near the foot of the tower a few minutes later. On the way he had conversed briefly with Blade who had spread out his Sabre Troop into three different groups. They're ready to attack,' he'd assured Tweed. 'And one man is now on the HQ roof with a bazooka aimed at the restaurant . . .'
Tweed had stopped at the police van to collect the microphone with the long cable. He walked carefully to the same place at the base of the tower; the paving stones were slippery. He felt moisture damping his face and was glad he'd put on his waterproof hat. He looked up and spoke in a firm voice.
'Before you start talking I have a demand to make . . .'
'No demands . . .'
'Shut up and listen to me. You are on the brink of success. Medics are waiting to come out and remove those two dead men on the steps. The medics are dressed in shirts and shorts. You can see they carry no weapons. Unless you agree I have lost the cooperation of the Dutch authorities. They will not allow those men to lie there any longer.'
'By all means remove them. It would be a humanitarian act.'
Tweed stared up at the platform. Why this change of mood? He was suspicious, uneasy. Klein's voice through the amplifiers sounded jocular.
'I'm going to signal them to come and do their job,' Tweed warned. 'I'm out of it if you play any tricks.'
'Would I play tricks on you, Tweed?' The voice was mocking now. 'Send in the medics.'
Tweed studied the tiny figure of Klein leaning over the rail, one hand out of sight. Holding the control box, he felt sure. Beside him Marler stood, a tiny wisp of blond hair showing in the light from the interior lobby, rifle aimed point-blank at Tweed.
Slowly, Tweed raised his left hand. Four men wearing white shirts and shorts walked rapidly out of the shadows, carrying stretchers. In less than a minute they were moving away, each supporting the body of one of the policemen toppled from the platform. Why this change of mood? Tweed asked himself.
'And now,' Klein called out, 'a different demonstration which will show you we will stop at nothing.' He called over his shoulder. 'Bring her out. It will give those TV ghouls over there something they will really enjoy.'
Tweed froze with horror. A girl was being lowered over the rail. He pulled out his binoculars with his left hand and aimed them upwards. Oh, dear God! No! He felt sick in his stomach, a reaction succeeded by one of cold unreasoning fury. He could have killed Klein with a knife if he'd been up there.
Lara Seagrave had a rope tied round her waist. The only support which stopped her plunging three hundred feet. Her legs dangled over the abyss, her hands tied behind her back. He went on staring through the binoculars, pressed hard into his eyes. The horror had only begun.
A masked man leant forward and looped a noose round her neck. She was literally hanging in space. Tweed could see the rope round her waist was extended back up over the rail and out of sight, a rope holding her tightly. From the noose another length of rope - this one loose - extended back also out of sight. This was macabre, unthinkable.
Klein's voice began speaking. His tone was detached, as though describing some everyday occurrence.
'This is Lara Seagrave, daughter of Lady Windermere, a well-known London hostess. You heard the name clearly? Lady Windermere. She is supported safely by the rope round her waist which we have attached to the leg of a very heavy table. The noose round her neck is also attached to another leg of the same table. We only have to cut the first rope and she will hang from the neck until she is dead. Any attempt to storm Euromast and a man standing by cuts the first rope. She is our hostage - our guarantee of good behaviour on your part, Tweed. Now, do you understand the position clearly?'
Tweed lowered his glasses, unable to look at Lara's face for a moment longer. She looked terrified - fear beyond belief. He swallowed, unable to speak, automatically gripping the microphone, struggling for self-control. Lara . . .
'I said,' Klein's voice repeated, 'do you understand?'
Tweed glanced up again, saw the suspended figure, lowered his head. Oh, Jesus Christ! This was awful. He was aware suddenly of the heavy silence. The medics had gone with their grisly burdens. Couldn't hear a thing. Except for the gentle lap of water against those barges. He took a firmer grip on the mike, on himself.
'Klein we also want medics to remove the bodies from that police launch . . .'
'No! They moved without my permission. They stay where they are. I will ask you again . . .'
'Klein! Haul her back inside or you're finished. I will be replaced by a senior Dutch official . . .'
'Then I will talk to him. Go away. We are waiting for the gold to reach Findel. Next move then.'
Tweed looked up quickly. Klein had disappeared. Only Marler stood there, rifle still aimed. He walked slowly away. Handing back the mike to the driver, he trudged on in a daze. Reaching the entry to the side street his feet slipped on the greasy surface. A hand grabbed his arm, steadied him. A voice spoke. Blade's. 'We'll enjoy sending that bugger to kingdom come.'
'We must still wait . . .'
Tweed used his hand to haul himself up the back staircase. Paula met him at the top. She looped an arm through his. 'Come and sit down. That was terrible. I saw it from the roof . . .'
Arriving inside the room, he sagged into his chair, then he straightened his back. Round the table they watched him without speaking. Beilenger, Jansen, Van Gorp. No one seemed to know the right thing to say. Tweed broke the silence.
'I know the girl. Lara Seagrave. Met her in Paris. She had been spotted photographing ports. I liked her. I'd have liked her as a friend. She's Lady Windermere's stepdaughter. Not daughter. That slip was deliberate on Klein's part. Makes her sound more important. Only reason she's up there is the bloody step-mother. Drove her out of the house.' He paused. 'Now, we must put our thinking-caps on. The next stage is Klein's secret escape route. He has to have one. I think I know what it is.'
'Well?' said Van Gorp.
'Let's see what develops. It will be soon now.'
'In the meantime,' commented Bellenger, 'we can do nothing at all. That girl will just have to stick it out . . .'
'How can you be so cold-blooded, so Goddamn callous?' Paula burst out.
'Just getting the thing in perspective. I have a daughter of my own. Not callous at all, I assure you.'
'He's right,' Tweed told her. 'We can only wait.'
'He's got a stranglehold on us . . .' Bellenger paused. 'Not phrased well, that. Sorry.'
'You have a plan, Tweed?' Van Gorp asked.
'I'm playing
it off the cuff. Klein ran out of luck long ago. He's going to make a mistake. I've pandered to his ego. I'm banking on that. He'll make just one mistake.'
53
'I want you to bring that Seagrave girl back in here now.' Chabot faced Klein, a Walther P.38 automatic pistol in his right hand, muzzle pointing at the floor. The Frenchman's face was pallid with fatigue. Behind them on the platform Marler watched, holding his rifle.
'She stays out there, you fool,' Klein rapped back. He extended the control box in front of his waist, thumb poised over the red button. 'Put that gun back into your holster now. This very minute.'
'It's too much . . .'
'Shut up! Listen!' Klein's voice became matter-of-fact as he explained. 'Your knowledge of mass psychology is zero. They now have TV cameras recording the scene out there and soon pictures will appear all over the world.'
'What's that got to do with my request?'
The tense expression on Klein's face, the poised thumb, the steel in his voice frightened him. He slid the gun back inside his hip holster as Klein continued.
'People are stupid, very sentimental. This is something the tiny minds of those watching can take in. One girl on the verge of eternity. One slash of a knife and she hangs from her neck, choking her life out until she is dead. They can take in the fate of a single individual. The idea that two thousand people aboard those ships are at risk is too much for their feeble minds. Using Lara Seagrave as our hostage is my masterstroke. You will see.'
'I still don't like it,' Chabot repeated obstinately.
Then go down to ground floor level and stay there. Someone else can go up to the Space Tower. You are now in charge of the defences at the entrance. And remember, Chabot, if they should attack they will shoot down everyone in their way - if you let them get inside. So, if that happens, you kill them first. Go to the elevator. Don't come back.'
'The French can be so sentimental,' Klein remarked as Chabot disappeared inside the elevator.