false papers in the name of Meyer.
It was still dark when he drove through Rotterdam, north again, to the ancient town of Delft. Dawn was breaking as he moved along narrow cobbled streets lined with ancient buildings. In the middle of the streets flowed canals crossed by hump-backed bridges. The place was deserted as he left the town, drove a short distance further and turned into a large camping site.
Neat rows of campers lined the tracks. In many there were lights as the early-rising Dutch prepared breakfast. Grand-Pierre, alerted by his phone call from Antwerp, ushered him inside a larger camper.
'Coffee?' the Frenchman asked in his own language.
'Litres of it. I've been driving all night. How far is the training advanced?'
'Oh, we're ready when you are. I need one day's warning to assemble the whole team here in Delft.'
'Why?'
Grand-Pierre, ex-French Foreign legionnaire, didn't even look at Klein as he bent over the coffee percolator. The Frenchman was huge, six feet tall and heavily built with a mane of black hair. He was an expert safecracker who had never been caught. Those large hands must have a delicate touch, Klein thought as he stood in his dark coat, shuffling his feet restlessly in the confined area of the camper. Just the touch needed for handling timers.
'Why?' Grand-Pierre repeated. 'Because I have over twenty men training in the wilds of Groningen, Holland's northern province. They jog along the beaches, swim in the sea off the Frisian Islands…'
' Under the sea, you mean?'
'Of course. They attached the dummy mine you gave me to the underside of a Dutch fishing vessel…'
'Wasn't that a risk?' Klein demanded, taking his hands out of his pockets and almost at once thrusting them inside again.
Grand-Pierre noticed the gesture as he handed over a large mug of steaming coffee. Restless type, he thought, a bundle of energy, always wanting to move on to his next destination the moment he'd arrived. The slow-moving giant glanced at Klein's chalk-white face as his guest swallowed his coffee. Bloody brain-box with his clever face, wherever he came from.
Not that Grand-Pierre cared. What he cared for was the hard cash paid. As though reading his mind, Klein took a package from his pocket and handed it to the Frenchman with his chamois-gloved hands.
'Help to keep you going. Expenses, plus the equivalent of twenty thousand francs in Dutch guilder towards your fee.'
'No risk,' Grand-Pierre replied to Klein's earlier question, 'and you might as well, forget the job. I was there myself, underwater, when they carried out the experiment. They released the mine, swam off, and the fishermen had no idea of what had happened. You said train them, I train them. How far to the target? It's a big team to transport.'
'Not far. Have the locals got curious about your presence?'
'Not a whisper. The men are scattered about several camp sites. They're officially on a package deal holiday.-'
'Any problem bringing in supplies? Food, I mean. They don't eat outside, I hope?'
'You said not – so they don't. And always a Dutch-speaking man goes into town for food and coffee. No one drinks. One man disobeyed me. I personally hauled him out of a bar.'
'You disciplined him?'
'Of course.' Grand-Pierre looked surprised. 'I drove him to a quiet spot on the coast, strangled him, weighted him with chains I had in the boot, dumped him in the sea. Is your coffee OK?'
Klein drove back to Rotterdam and inside the city of concrete and glass high-rise buildings, beautiful tree- lined shopping arcades. He parked at a meter near the Hilton, walked along a wide street until he found a public phone box, choosing one where several more stood in a row. It would be a long call to London.
He dialled a number from memory, asked for David Ballard-Smythe, waited. At the other end of the line Ballard-Smythe left his desk at Lloyds of London, walked to the phone.
'Ballard-Smythe here. Who is this?'
'You know who it is. Make a note of this number. Call me back within five minutes. I'm in a hurry. Repeat my number. It's in Holland …'
Ballard-Smythe put down the phone, asked a colleague to watch his desk for half an hour. 'A client who is disabled, can't leave his car.'
'OK.' The other man looked at him. 'Something wrong? Look as though you're about to give birth.'
'Well, I'm not. But when you eat an egg for breakfast that's off you don't feel perfect. Be back soon…'
Ballard-Smythe, a thin, nervous-looking man in his thirties, hurried out of the building. He'd been paid enough for passing on this information, he needed the money when he had a mistress as well as a wife, but now push came to shove he was wishing he hadn't agreed. The hell of it was he'd spent the advance payment Klein had given him two months ago.
Entering a phone box, he took from his jacket pocket a small leather purse bulging at the seams. Along the top of the telephone directories he arranged a collection of coins. He had an idea he'd be talking for some time.
No need to check the code for Holland. God knew, in his job he was always calling the great port of Rotterdam. He dialled the number he'd written on a scrap of paper and waited.
'Who is this?' a distinctive voice asked in English, a voice Ballard-Smythe instantly recognized.
'Is that you, Klein?'
'Listen. You've kept checking shipping movements in the area I named?'
'Daily. As soon as I reach my desk. My first task…'
'Next Thursday. What have we?'
'Well,' Ballard-Smythe began, 'at the head of the list we've got the 50,000-ton German cruise liner, Adenauer. Sailing from Hamburg, she stops offshore to take on board other passengers. They come out by lighters from Euro- port. That will be just before sunset…'
'I know. Get on with it. I haven't the time for long calls. What other shipping?'
'Couple of supertankers coming up from the south. Then the usual Sealink ferry will be arriving from Harwich. Oh, and a 10,000-ton freighter, the Otranto, from Genoa. Plus three large container jobs up from Africa. There'll be a fleet of shipping approaching Europort. The Adenauer will heave to about a mile offshore – giving plenty of free passage for the other vessels to move in.'
Thank you,' said Klein.
That's all?' Ballard-Smythe was surprised.
'Not quite,' Klein said. 'You have the key to a safe deposit I gave you – but you don't know where it is.'
That's right. The one containing the second payment in cash.'
Take down these details…'
Klein gave him the name and address of the bank, very close to where Ballard-Smythe was phoning from. He scribbled the details on the back of the same scrap of paper.
The third and final payment – the big one – will be delivered to you by registered post in ten days' time…'
'Not to my home?' Ballard-Smythe sounded alarmed.
'Of course not. To your office. And in that safe deposit box you will find three packages numbered one, two, three. Take the first two, leave number three.'
'What's inside it?'
'Worthless share certificates. The box is paid for over the period of the next year. It will seem more normal if you leave something in the box. Goodbye.'
The connection was broken. Ballard-Smythe checked his watch. He still had time to go to the safety deposit before he was expected back at the office. He couldn't wait to get at the contents.
At the bank he showed his driver's licence as identification, was escorted down to the vault and the box reserved in his name. He followed Klein's instructions, taking the first two packages, leaving the third.
Returning to the office he went straight to the wash-room and locked himself inside the end cubicle. Envelope One contained one hundred?20 notes.?2,000. The second, heavier package contained a bottle of Napoleon brandy. Funny chap, Klein. Ballard-Smythe remembered discussing drink with him in a pub two months earlier. He'd told Klein how his wife only drank wine, but his favourite tipple was brandy.
