'I will be in touch. Goodbye.'
Klein broke the connection, took a map from his pocket, unfolded it and spread it out on one of the beds. He carried a detailed map of Europe in his head, but there was no substitute for checking, checking, checking…
Legaud, the communications specialist, had done well. Maastricht was just over the frontier from Belgium. Legaud was already inside Holland. He would drive the vehicle to the rendezvous prearranged with Grand-Pierre out in the wilds – where the black vehicle would be fitted with Dutch number plates, the bodywork resprayed from black to cream.
The call had come through quickly. Excellent. His next appointment was with Peter Brand at his residence on the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. There final arrangements would be concluded for the transportation of two hundred million pounds worth of gold bullion at present held by the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. When the time came.
The Alouette lifted off shortly after midday. Tweed, Newman, Butler, Paula and Benoit were aboard as the pilot flew south-east, heading for the start point down the Meuse Tweed had suggested. Namur.
They passed over Namur and Tweed looked down on the citadel, on the fork where the Sambre river entered the Meuse. The pilot then flew steadily south a few hundred feet above the winding river in clear weather. On the port side Tweed used binoculars to check the names of each barge proceeding downstream. Benoit, with his own pair of field glasses, performed the same function to starboard.
They flew above Dinant. Another citadel perched on top of a pinnacle of rock. They were approaching Givet when the co-pilot reported receipt of a message from Chief Inspector Lasalle. Would they land briefly at Givet – on the French side of the frontier – and pick him up from one of the quays?
'Are you feeling all right?' Paula asked Tweed alongside her as the pilot began his tricky descent. 'You've lost colour.'
'Hate ships. They bob about. So does this thing. Think I'd better take a Dramamine.'
'Take it now. Don't think about it. Do it…'
Tweed swallowed one of the brown tablets from the packet he always carried. 'It takes effect in less than half an hour,' he commented. 'There could be turbulence over Les Dames de Meuse. Those Ardennes.. .'
Lasalle came aboard with an inspector called Sonnet, a stern-faced slim individual who was a local from Givet. Benoit greeted Lasalle like an old friend and then they were airborne. Tweed left Newman to explain the situation through his head-set. He was entering the pilot's cabin when the machine suddenly climbed vertically, swaying from side to side. Grimly, he held on, staring ahead.
'Ah! Ah!' the pilot called out. 'We are in trouble.'
Tweed didn't need to be told. Approaching Les Dames de Meuse, a bank of solid white fog appeared ahead. Vapour drifted past the perspex window in the pilot's cabin. The river below had vanished. They were flying blind.
'Have to climb,' the pilot continued. 'The hills rise to above thirteen hundred feet…'
The machine went on climbing, Tweed caught a glimpse of solid rock on the starboard side, rock which seemed feet away from the plane. He swallowed, binoculars looped round his neck. How the hell could they hope to spot the barge in this stuff? He wished to God he'd insisted on Paula staying behind. He glanced back into the cabin, caught Paula's eye and she winked. Guts, he thought.
He watched the altimeter climb well above the equivalent of thirteen hundred feet in metres. They should be safe – but the whole exercise was becoming pointless. He peered forward. The fog, rolling in waves, was thinning.
'Where are we?' he asked through his mouthpiece. 'Have you any idea?'
'Directly above Les Dames de Meuse,' the pilot replied. 'I have a wall of rock on both sides. Below us.'
Tweed hardly heard him. He was gazing with intensity at the mist ahead. A great hole seemed to have appeared in the dense whiteness. He peered down. The river was immediately below. He had an impression of loneliness, no water traffic, thick forest descending to the water's edge, a wide belt of reeds spreading out from the bank. He stared at something, leaned forward.
'Pilot! Can you take her down? Now? Land on that towpath?'
'Risky…'
'It's clear below us…'
'Give it a try, sir.'
Something touched Tweed's sleeve. He glanced up. Benoit, who had heard the exchange, was beside him. Standing behind the Belgian were Newman and Lasalle. The machine began a slow descent as trails of vapour curled round the fuselage.
Tweed had forgotten his queasy stomach. His eyes were fixed on a vast swathe of reeds and grasses projecting from the left bank. Almost like a dense swamp, dark and brooding at a bend in the river. His eyes flickered to the right. Another brief glimpse. This time of forest clinging to the near cliff-like hillside. Again it seemed to be feet away from the machine.
'What is it?' Benoit asked.
'I think I saw something. Down there among the reeds.'
'What was it?'
'Let's wait till we're down…'
The pilot was glancing from side to side. More mist had drifted in close to the chopper, mist rising up from the river. He had poor visibility. End up in the bloody river, he was thinking. He said nothing, concentrating on his controls, praying the towpath would appear in the right place as they went down, down, down.
'This,' Lasalle contributed, 'if I'm not mistaken, is where the Ardennes are at their highest. The river is almost walled in by rock and forest. Perhaps your eyes deceived you…'
'Perhaps.'
Behind Newman Paula stared fascinated at Tweed. He was crouched forward, like a hound watching a fox, ignoring the chopper's descent. His head was motionless, his stare fixed, gazing at the swamp-like morass extending from the river bank.
She jumped as the machine hit something, settled, lying still. The pilot operated another control, switching off the engine. The whirling rotors began to slow. They had landed on the towpath.
'This is bloody ridiculous. You know that?' Marler remarked to Hipper who sat beside him as he drove on, his headlights hardly penetrating the fog.
They were driving along a curving road above Les Dames de Meuse. Visibility came and went as the fog curtain whirled in front of them. And Marler's mood was not improved by the presence of the soft-spoken Luxembourger.
Hipper turned up early in the morning at the Panorama in Bouillon unexpectedly. He had explained that their 'mutual acquaintance' wished him to accompany Marler on his mission. Marler would have told him to piss off -but he didn't want to draw attention to them in the hotel lobby. The next thing he knew Hipper was in the car beside him, carrying a whacking great Leica cine-camera equipped with a zoom lens.
'Why?' enquired Hipper as Marler drove on along a deserted road.
'Why what?'
'Why is it ridiculous?'
'Oh, God Almighty.' Mailer's tone was at its most superior and resigned. 'It is ridiculous because how do you think I am going to locate Newman in this fog? Just assuming he is within a hundred miles of this part of the world.'
'We shall find his car. You will recognize him from the picture I gave you. He will come.'
'How do you know?'
'A friend of our friend pointed him to Les Dames de Meuse. For today.'
'Why don't you say Klein? Your so-called friend is Klein, I take it? Give me an answer or I'll pitch you out of the car.'
'Yes. But you see…' That slow pedantic voice. Marler felt he could strangle him.'… I have trained myself never to use his name. It is good security…'
'Shut up! I heard something. An engine…'
'Maybe Newman in his car…'
'I said shut up – and I meant it.' Marler stopped the car as the road began running downhill towards the river.
