At lunchtime he phoned his mistress, Peggy, who worked as a secretary in an insurance office nearby. He met her in a small restaurant not frequented by colleagues. At the coffee stage he handed her a freshly sealed envelope containing the money.
'Keep that safe in your flat,' he told her. 'In the usual place – under that loose floorboard beneath your dressing table
Ballard-Smythe dare not take the money home. His wife, Sue, had a habit of going through his suit prior to pressing it. And he hadn't been able to think of a really secure hiding place in his own house.
That evening, arriving at his detached house in Walton-on-Thames, he felt nervous. To cover up, he suggested a drink as soon as they sat in the living room, waiting for the meal to be ready. He poured her a glass of wine, then produced the bottle of brandy.
'Must have cost a bit, that,' Sue, a thin-faced brunette observed.
'Present from a satisfied customer.'
He poured a generous snifter, raised his glass and took the first long sip. He dropped the glass, clutched at his throat, gave an agonized gurgle and slumped to the floor. The doctor had the unpleasant task of telling Sue he was dead. The post-mortem confirmed what the doctor had suspected. Death from cyanide poisoning.
In Rotterdam Klein went into a bar and ordered coffee. He never drank alcohol – he hated anything which muddled his brain. He looked round the bar at the polished wooden tables, the spotless quarry-tiled floor, the curtains which were so clean. Very Dutch. As he drank his coffee he checked again over the operation in his mind.
Timers. Scuba divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.
Timers. They were due to arrive within a few hours, hidden inside the load of gravel aboard the barge, Erika, Haber would, as arranged, dock his barge at Waalhaven, only a few minutes' drive from where he sat. And Klein would be waiting for him.
Scuba divers. The whole team now based in Delft, a ten-minute train ride from north of Rotterdam. And Grand-Pierre was putting them through their paces – not only training them but keeping them occupied.
Marksman. The Monk was certainly well occupied. By now he'd be on his way to Les Dames de Meuse. His mission should prove good practice for what was coming. He had to kill Newman.
Lara. The sacrificial goat – as he now thought of her -was happily enjoying the luxury of the Mayfair Hotel in Brussels. Doubtless she'd be passing her time exploring the magnificent shops in the Avenue Louise arcade.
Explosives. Safely stashed away. Stored in a very secure place. And only a few hours' travel time away from the target area.
Banker. He would just have time to fly to and consult with Peter Brand. The arrangements the banker had made were the key to the whole operation.
As he finished his coffee Klein thought of the information confirmed to him by Ballard-Smythe over the phone. Everything was working out well. The German cruise liner, Adenauer, was a key element. It carried a complement of over a thousand passengers bound for a Mediterranean holiday ending at Alexandria in Egypt with a paddle steamer trip up the Nile.
More than half the Adenauer's passengers were American – who had flown to Hamburg from New York. They had been reassured by the fact that the German owners had employed Brinks, the American security organization, to check the ship and everyone who went aboard.
Once sea-mines were attached to the hull of the Adenauer – with enough explosive power to blow the liner sky-high – he was confident Washington would play it low key, make no attempt to interfere with his ransom demand. Not with the lives of over five hundred Americans at stake.
Of course they'd have to be convinced he meant business. That meant a demonstration involving a large number of casualties. In Klein's mind he was simply conducting with great precision a wartime-style operation. Now to take a second look at the target.
Klein drove along the tunnel under the river to reach the south bank. Then he turned west and headed for Europoort as the Dutch spelt it.
Europort. The greatest port in the whole world, handling a vast tonnage of goods coming in to feed and keep the wheels of industry turning. The Gateway to Europe. Nothing less,
If blocked off – closed down – whole nations would reel under the chaos. They could, he thought as he drove out of Rotterdam, organize a Berlin-style 1948 air lift. But that had been to help a city under siege survive. A continent under siege could never survive with the aid of only air transport.
The highway ran on and on as he left Rotterdam behind. it was twenty kilometres from the centre of Rotterdam to Europort, thirty kilometres to what the Dutch called the Nord Zee. He began to pass target points. Shell-Mex oil refinery No. 1. Shell-Mex oil refinery No. 2. The huge Esso oil complex. The bombs would be placed there – and in other places. No oil, no Europe.
Beyond Rotterdam the land becomes very like a desert – with large open areas of sandy stretches of wilderness. Not a tree in sight. He drove on and on along what was now a deserted highway. The salt tang of a strong wind came in through the window off the North Sea. To his right side roads led away to the dock installations. The attack team would be given maps showing their objectives by Grand-Pierre twenty-four hours before the operation was launched.
Certain tradesmen's vans and trucks would be stolen only a few hours before then. The transport to be used had already been located, the habits and timings of the drivers noted.
Klein swung off the road across an area of scrubby grass and sand towards a huge concrete breakwater. He parked the car in the same spot he'd used during his reconnaissance weeks earlier. Buttoning up his black coat to the collar, he rammed his wide-brimmed black hat firmly over his head and stepped out.
No one else was in sight as he climbed to the top of the breakwater and stared out across the endless ripples of the North Sea. Only one vessel was in sight, a huge dredger. He took a monocular glass from his pocket, and focused it on the vessel.
A massive craft with a large crane on deck, it was dredging the mouth to the New Waterway, the entrance to the whole system of communication with the heartland of Europe. He scanned the vessel from stem to stern, lowered his glass, nodded to himself with satisfaction as he returned to the car. The dredger would be the first vessel to be sunk with all hands.
29
Tweed arrived at Brussels Airport the following morning. He was accompanied by Harry Butler and Paula. It was only when Monica walked into his office, cured of her flu, that he asked Paula to join them.
'You take over here at base, Monica,' he had instructed. He spent half an hour putting her in the picture. Paula marvelled at his gift for explaining so swiftly all that had happened. She marvelled equally at Monica's ability to absorb the data.
'Monica takes over as from now,' Monica announced when Tweed had finished. She glanced at Paula. 'Your real baptism of fire is coming up, I sense…'
The truth was Tweed had felt – as he had in the past -that a climax was close, that he would need all the back-up he could muster. He hurried off the aircraft in Brussels. He had called Chief Inspector Benoit the night before, asking for certain facilities.
Benoit, a jovial portly man of forty with a great beaked nose, light brown hair and shrewd eyes ushered them into an airport security office which had been placed at his disposal. From his expression Tweed saw the Belgian took an immediate fancy to Paula.
'Don't know how you stand this slave-driving boss of yours,' he commented in English.
'Oh, I just bend with the wind.'
Tweed could understand Benoit's reaction. Paula was kitted out in a suede zip-up and form-fitting jacket, a suede skirt and wore leather knee-length boots. Cups of strong black coffee arrived and Benoit got down to business the moment they were alone.
'A chopper is waiting on the tarmac, an Alouette. As per your request.' He opened a brief-case and brought out a sheaf of charts which he dumped on the table in front of Tweed. 'Those are from the Navigation Institute of
