'I'll want to see you again quickly in Brussels,' he went on. 'How long are you hanging about here?'
'I fly back to Brussels aboard my executive jet later this afternoon…'
'See you stay at the Avenue Louise until I contact you. Better push off now – you have that heavy engagement book to deal with.'
'No one else knows about those loans?' Brand asked as he moved towards the door.
'Of course not. And no one knows you're using capital to send money to your wife in New York. The Belgian woman who thinks it's interest, that you're a whizz kid banker. The woman who is hopping in and out of bed with all and sundry. As you well know.'
He locked the door when Brand had left. No point in telling him Klein had used him to obtain the bullion – after using him to sell the earlier consignments from the Swiss robberies – because he knew Brand was in a financial mess.
Terror and money were the two factors which influenced men. It was a favourite maxim of Klein's. Carrot and stick, as the English put it. There was a knock on the door. He opened it and a girl wearing a peculiar black outfit stood outside.
'I met Mr Brand on his way out. He said I should come to see you.'
'Come inside.' He locked the door again, saw her expression, shook his head. 'Your virginity is safe. Now, listen. Take this case down to the restaurant at street level. Give it to the head waitress. Tell her to keep it until I come down for a meal. Then go back to the bank. Clear?'
'Yes. I mention your name?'
'Why not? It's on the label.'
Alone once more, Klein put on his glasses, clenched the pipe stern between Ins teeth, took the black beret from a drawer and rammed it on his head. He checked his watch.
Timing perfect. He'd worked it all out standing in the Place de la Gare, He would arrive at Findel, buy his ticket and board the flight for Brussels.
Something funny was going on. Seated in the lobby Butler finished off the glass of beer the concierge had brought him from the restaurant and checked over the sequence of events he had witnessed.
The bow-tie girl from the Banque Sambre had gone up to the first floor. Shortly afterwards Brand had emerged from the elevator. He looked furious as he marched out. Butler had to take a quick decision.
He stood up, strolled after the banker and stood in the sunshine. Brand was walking back to where he'd parked the Lamborghini, his pace brisk. Should I follow him? Butler thought. That had been Tweed's general instruction.
But Tweed allowed his staff a lot of latitude, expected them to act independently. Bow-Tie worried Butler. Brand had clearly visited a guest at the hotel. A Bow-Tie didn't strike Butler as the sort of girl Brand would loan to a friend for a quick roll on the bed. He went back inside, sat down. Who was this guest on the first floor?
A minute later the elevator door opened, Bow-Tie stepped out, carrying a small suitcase with a label attached. Butler watched her walk straight into the restaurant. More and more peculiar. She came back quickly and walked out of the main entrance. He followed casually, standing again as though enjoying the sunshine.
He saw her hail a passing cab. He heard her sharp voice tell the driver, 'Banque Sambre'. He walked back inside, picked up his empty glass and took it into the restaurant. A middle-aged waitress thanked him as he placed it on the counter. Beside the glass was the small suitcase. The label read Max Volpe. Butler went back to the lobby, sat down and hid himself behind the newspaper.
Yes, something funny was going on. Why would a girl come all the way from the Avenue de la Liberte to collect a suitcase and take it into the restaurant? Then shove off straight back to the bank?
He heard footsteps coming slowly down the staircase alongside the two elevators. A stooped man wearing a beret, an unlit pipe in his mouth, appeared, walked straight into the restaurant.
Butler frowned. A chalk-white face. Which didn't fit the description Tweed had given him of Klein verbally. Face ruddy. He called back in his memory the photocopy Identikit picture. Butler had not merely studied it – he had imagined it with a moustache, a beard, any form of disguise. The stooped man had looked familiar.
He stood up, said goodbye to the concierge who had reappeared, walked back inside the restaurant. The first thing he noticed was the case had disappeared from the counter. He glanced round the almost empty room. The stooped man sat at a table at the far end, the suitcase tucked under the table.
Butler sat down, ordered coffee, paid the bill when it arrived. He read his newspaper while the other man drank his own coffee, checked his watch, paid the bill and walked into the street carrying the case. Butler followed.
Volpe walked up the side street towards the Place d'Armes. Butler reached his car, slipped behind the wheel and cruised up the rue Chimay some distance behind Volpe. The man he was following hailed a taxi, got inside and the taxi headed north. Butler followed and within five minutes he guessed Volpe's destination. Findel Airport.
The Luxair machine took off into the cloudless sky. Volpe sat near the pilot's cabin. Butler was eight rows behind him. At Findel he had bought a ticket, standing immediately behind Volpe. The other passenger had not given him a glance.
Butler still took precautions to change his appearance. Running back to his parked car, he took his small case out of the boot, changed his check sports jacket for a suede version. He took a trilby hat, punched it, put it on his head. After handing back the car he boarded the aircraft. Destination: Brussels.
33
Tweed changed his mind when the Alouette was airborne. He had gone over in his mind everything Newman had reported. Turning round in his seat, he spoke to Benoit who sat behind them, using his headset. The rotor vibration was like a concrete mixer.
'I told you about that Colonel Ralston Bob encountered on the Meuse – travelling aboard his power cruiser, Evening Star.'
'Yes. A curious character.'
'On our way back to Brussels could we try and locate that craft? If we can find her I'd like a talk with the colonel.'
'Let us hope it is in Belgian waters – then I can use my authority to back you up if necessary…'
Benoit proceeded to instruct the pilot to change course. Newman began to look out of the window after changing places with Tweed. He was confident he'd spot the cruiser if they flew over her. A short while later the river appeared below. Newman tightened his mouth as they flew well above Les Dames de Meuse. He was recalling the unpleasant sight of Broucker's corpse, throat cut, buried to his chest in mud.
'They had a crane aboard a huge floating platform which has hauled up the Gargantua,' he told Tweed later. 'Men swarming over it, cars parked nose to tail along the tow-path.'
'The forensic team, I expect,' Tweed answered absent-mindedly. He was thinking about how he'd tackle Colonel Ralston – if they found him. 'It will take days to check the barge. Too many to help us, I suspect.'
'You think Klein is close to launching his operation?'
'That communications vehicle stolen from the CRS bothers me. He wouldn't hang on to that too long. And from what Lasalle told me about its range of radio signal equipment the operation must be vast.' He tightened his mouth. 'Where the devil could he be hiding that huge armoury of explosives he stole? If we could solve that one we might nip him in the bud. Fat chance of that.'
'Maybe we already know – but don't know what we know.'
Newman was pressing his face close to the window all the time he carried on his conversation. Tweed frowned at his remark. Something rang a bell at the back of his mind but he couldn't latch on to it.
'A cryptic comment if ever I heard one.'
'I wonder how Paula is getting on,' Newman mused, staring down. 'That was a pretty bright theory of hers.'
'Just a theory… What is it?'
'I'd like the pilot to lose more altitude. Now!'
They were just passing over Dinant. From that height the pinnacle of rock topped by the citadel looked like a
