starboard clear of the deep water.
Sliding his left hand along the rail, he slithered, recovered his balance, continued towards the bow. Following close behind, Paula was amazed at the agility he displayed, moving one foot in front of the other, feeling his way cautiously, checking what lay ahead with the torch.
Paula knew something was wrong when, close to the slanting bow, he stopped suddenly, his posture rigid. He switched off the torch, turned and called out over his shoulder in a brusque but calm voice.
'Paula, go back. Now!'
'What is it?' she demanded. 'I'm not a schoolgirl, Goddamnit. You saw something. What was it? I'm determined to see.'
'Better come back with me,' Newman suggested.
'Oh, do belt up, Bob. Go back yourself, if you must.'
'Very well,' Tweed said. 'Maybe you're right. Look there.'
He switched on the torch again, directed the beam to a point in the swamp just beyond the bow. Paula stared along the beam. She suddenly felt horribly cold. Her legs went like jelly. She gritted her teeth, stiffened her legs, pressed her feet hard against a loop of chain she stood on, forced herself to stand erect.
'Oh, yuck!' She let out her breath. 'I'm all right.'
Framed in the circular beam of the torchlight was the head and shoulders of a man sunk in the swamp. He appeared to be grinning, his mouth slack, his teeth showing. Below his chin his thick neck was slashed with a red wound from ear to ear. The blood had congealed into what looked like a scar. His black hair was matted flat over his head and his eyes stared sightless at the intruders. Just below water level the body had enlarged, bloated like an obscene balloon.
'Haber,' said Tweed. 'He killed Haber, sank his barge.'
Sonnet had come up behind Newman. He peered round Newman's body to get a better look. Paula distinctly heard in the silence a hiss as Sonnet sucked in his breath.
'That's not Haber. That's Broucker, Haber's employee. The bargee he uses to sail the Erika.'
30
Marler peered through his telescopic sight. The mist had cleared briefly and he watched the outboard dinghy returning towards the towpath across the river. Newman's face jumped into the sight, the dinghy continued its passage, Marler had a glimpse of another man, who was Tweed. His finger tightened on the trigger, the image blurred.
He lowered the rifle, gazing down. Another bank of mist had drifted below the bluff, blotting out the Meuse. He waited patiently, glancing behind him. Hipper had perched himself in a rocky crevice above the far side of the road. He also had lowered his camera. He came scrambling awkwardly down the hillside.
'Why did you not shoot? I saw him clearly in my lens…'
'Hipper…' Marler reached out a hand and clenched the Luxembourger's shoulder, '… are you trying to tell me how to do my job?' His grip tightened. 'Because if so it will give me great pleasure to hurl you off the top of this crag. I do need a clear field of fire and the mist came across it. Also, you are not thinking, are you?'
'What do you mean?' Hipper winced. 'And you are hurting me.'
'Hipper,' Marler repeated, 'when the job is done we need a safe escape route. Those are police down there -with a chopper. So, we need two things. Enough ceiling fog to stop the chopper taking off and locating us from the air when we drive off. But, as I said, I also need a clear field of fire. No mist. A difficult combination.'
'What are you going to do about it?'
'Oh, it's just me now? That's better. Go back to your rabbit hole.' His tone changed, became very cold. 'And stay there until the job is done.'
He turned away, looked up towards the sky above the Meuse. Dense as cotton wool. No chopper could take off up into that. He smoothed a hand over the crown of his head. The patch he normally kept bald with an electric shaver had grown over – making identification more difficult. The bald patch was his trademark; hence his nickname, The Monk.
He stiffened as he looked down. The river bank was clear of fog. A group of four men and a girl stood chatting on the towpath. The fifth man had cruised back downstream, presumably to the point where he'd found the dinghy.
He raised his rifle, squinted through it. Newman's face and head was bisected by the crosshairs. Very close to him was another man, who appeared to be Tweed. Marler took careful aim, steady as a rock. He pressed the trigger as Newman moved a pace to his right, as Tweed stooped to empty water from his shoe.
The crack of the shot echoed weirdly in the mist. Marler gazed through the sight for a few seconds, then stepped back from the bluff. Hipper made record time reaching him. The Englishman looked amazed.
'Missed him. He moved at the last second. And we'd better get moving…'
'A bit close that…'
Tweed showed his hat. The bullet had nicked the brim. He stared up towards the bluff and it vanished in a fresh bank of drifting vapour. Lasalle reacted first.
'Someone up there tried to kill one of us. Listen! A car has started. Get that chopper up…' He ran to the machine, spoke to the pilot, who slammed the door, started the rotors, began to ascend vertically. He ran back to the others.
The Monk's work, I suspect,' Tweed remarked.
'Is it safe for the Alouette to take off?' Benoit asked.
'The pilot says OK,' Lasalle told him. 'All he has to do is keep rising vertically on the upward course where he descended. He's climbing until he gets above the fog, then he's going after that car.'
'Lord,' Paula said, eyeing Tweed's hat, 'he could have killed you.' She shivered.
'You know what they say – a miss is as good as a mile. And what's this coming?'
Two cars, Deux-Chevaux, orange-coloured, were proceeding at slow speed along the towpath. Sonnet sat beside the driver of one of them. Lasalle took off again, running towards the lead vehicle. He spoke quickly to Sonnet, who nodded as Lasalle gestured vigorously. Jumping out of the car, he ran back to the vehicle behind, spoke to the driver. The vehicle began backing away along the towpath as Tweed watched anxiously. The driver was going to end up in the river.
He didn't. He reached a certain point, turned his wheel and disappeared inside the forest. Sonnet walked back to them.
'I instructed him to find that car. He has driven up one of the tracks which will take him on to the road. He has radio. The Alouette will be able to communicate, guide him. And he is calling for reinforcements.'
Lasalle had been staring up the side of the hill. The mist cleared again, clearly exposing the huge bluff. He pulled an automatic from his shoulder holster, aimed the gun and emptied the magazine, filing at intervals round the crag, varying his aim. Taking a fresh magazine from his pocket, he rammed it in place and holstered the weapon.
'What was that in aid of?' Newman asked. 'He's gone…'
'He appears to have gone,' Lasalle replied. 'He could have had another man with him, someone who drove away their car. Just a precaution. My fusillade will have frightened him off- if he was still there. Who was he trying to kill, I wonder? How did he know we would be here?'
'I think Newman was the target,' Tweed replied quietly. 'He was pointed to this area by Peter Brand, the banker. Later I think we should have a talk with Mr Brand. Meantime, may I make a request?' he addressed Inspector Sonnet. 'Could I have a brief chat with Newman in that car?'
'Of course, sir. I kept it so we have transport back to Givet. Another car is on the way.'
'We have things to talk over, Bob,' Tweed said and led the way to the car.
'Can't you drive faster?' yelped Hipper. 'You were wrong about that helicopter. I heard it taking off. And why are you turning off the main road? You can't drive fast along here…'
'Hipper, shut your mouth. I crave silence. If you do not mind – even if you do.'
They had turned on to a winding country lane which was climbing. Overhead the trees on either side met,
