she recognized his voice clearly. How? Her mind was fogged
– she'd not slept in twenty-four hours, holding the fort. 'Who is your usual partner, the man you often work with – and how does he dress?'
'Pete Nield. Snappy dresser. Smart business suits. Has dark hair and a neat moustache…'
'OK, Harry. I knew it was you. I've had two calls today reporting the target is Antwerp. 'I think,' the caller added the first time. Not the second. Now I'll try Grand'Place again. See if they've located Benoit – and Tweed.'
'I'll inform Grand'Place of where I'm staying when I've taken a room. If Tweed contacts you, I've tracked Klein to the Sheraton. I think.'
'Again! That man's a shadow. Take care, Harry.'
Butler walked quickly back to the Sheraton, carrying his bag. He hadn't liked leaving the place unwatched – but you couldn't phone Park Crescent from an instrument which went through a hotel switchboard. He sat down in the lobby to wait a while. He had no way of knowing Klein had just left.
There was an irksome delay after the Alouette had landed on the football field. The co-pilot had to radio police HQ at Dinant for a car.
'Too far to walk to the river,' Benoit explained. 'And Ralston will be on the move. By now his cruiser will have passed through the lock.'
They caught up with the Evening Star proceeding downriver near a landing stage. The driver stood at the tip of the stage with a bullhorn and hailed the vessel.
'Police! Moor your vessel here. Brussels CID are coming aboard.'
'That should put the wind up him,' Tweed observed. 'Just the mood I need before I grille this phoney colonel.'
'Why phoney?' Benoit enquired.
'Oh, there's something not pukka about the bastard,' Newman replied. 'As he himself would phrase it. I travelled with him. I wouldn't loan him five quid.'
The cruiser had changed course, was heading in for the landing stage. By the rail Ralston stood staring at the group waiting, hands gripping the rail. To Newman his face seemed more brick-red than ever; as he came close he seemed flushed with fury.
'What the devil is going on?' he barked. 'Who the hell are you to interfere with the passage of my vessel?'
Crew members had jumped fore and aft on to the stage with mooring ropes. A gangplank was shoved on to the stage with a heavy thud. Newman recognized Sergeant Bradley standing a few paces behind his master. Josette strolled along the deck until Ralston saw her.
'Get below!' he shouted.
Alfredo, cook and dogsbody, peered from lower down the companionway, then vanished. 'The gang's all here,' Newman whispered ironically.
The colonel had planted himself at the head of the gangway, blocking the way. Hands on hips, he glared at the intruders. He held up a hand as Benoit, followed by Tweed and Newman, moved up the gangplank.
'I asked what the hell this is all about. You can't come aboard. Say your piece from there.'
'Brussels CID,' snapped Benoit, showing his warrant card. 'Move aside – or I'll move you.'
'Goddamned impertinence,' the colonel raved. He stepped back a few paces. 'Got a search warrant, have you?'
'Do I need one?' Benoit enquired.
They were all standing on deck. Half way down the companionway Josette looked back and Newman winked at her behind Ralston who had turned to Tweed. 'And who, might I ask, are you?'
Tweed, Commander, Anti-Terrorist Squad.' He also showed his warrant card. 'We can't talk out here,' he continued. 'I suggest we adjourn to the saloon.'
'Do you now? How very civil of you. On my own vessel.'
'I have questions to ask…'
'Which I may not be prepared to answer. In case you have overlooked the point, you carry no authority in Belgium.'
'I can always get an extradition order within hours and take you to London. The charge? Consorting with terrorists.'
'And,' Benoit added, 'I can have you taken to Grand' Place HQ in Brussels for questioning- pending your extradition.'
'The saloon,' Tweed said grimly. 'Kindly lead the way.'
Bringing up the rear, Newman glanced to the end of the saloon, saw a whisky bottle three-quarters empty on the bar counter, a glass half-full beside it. The colonel had been going it a bit. Hence his loss of judgement. Tweed also noted what stood on the counter. The colonel walked to the bar, stiff-legged, turned round.
'I suppose you'd better sit down. What's all this nonsense you gabbled about terrorists?'
'You know a man called Klein?' Tweed began. 'Before you reply think carefully. You know Bob Newman – he was a passenger aboard this cruiser.'
'A spy, you mean?' Ralston sneered. 'He questioned someone behind my back? Who? Hardly the conduct of a gentleman – and a guest.'
'A paying guest,' Newman reminded him mildly. 'For a good fat fee. Your crew are a garrulous lot,' he added, protecting Josette who sat opposite him close to the companionway, graceful hands clasped in her lap.
Conduct of a gentleman… Ye Gods, Tweed thought, what have we here? He prodded harder.
'Klein was the name I mentioned. Has a man with that name been on board?'
'I seem to remember someone of that name.' Ralston smoothed down his hair with one hand, then used the other to swallow the rest of the whisky.
'This isn't good enough.' Tweed stood up, walked down the saloon and stood close to Ralston. 'I think Klein travelled with you more than once. He's a very dangerous terrorist. Many people's lives are at stake. A description, please. Where did you pick him up? Where did he leave this vessel?'
'Difficult to recall details Benoit intervened. This is useless. I'll fly him in the chopper to Grand' Place, you get your extradition order moving…'
'Hold hard, it's coming back to me.' Ralston grasped the whisky bottle and Tweed fully expected him to refill his glass. Instead he marched quickly round the end of the counter, planted it on the shelf, took down a bottle of mineral water, poured a glassful and drank the lot. His movements had suddenly become brisk and Tweed suspected he'd been putting on an act.
'Filthy stuff, that.' Ralston dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. 'Now, this sod, Klein. Six foot tall, slim build, face white as chalk. Funny eyes.'
Tweed took a photocopy of the Identikit picture from his pocket, unfolded it, handed it to the colonel. 'Recognize him?'
That I do. Klein. Bit sketchy, but the eyes come out well.' He walked steadily over to Josette. 'You didn't like him either. That him?'
'Yes. Creepy. Couldn't stand him.'
She handed the picture back to Tweed. Ralston stood very erect, one hand in his jacket pocket, the thumb protruding. Tweed had the impression he'd made up his mind about something.
Took him aboard each time at Dinant. As a favour to a friend. Not my fault he turned out to be a bad lot.'
'No one is suggesting it is.' Tweed's manner changed, adapting to Ralston's own change of mood. How often, it flashed across Tweed's mind, he'd played the chameleon in his earlier role of detective. 'Who is the friend? We need to know, I assure you.'
'Brand, the banker. Peter Brand. Got a place fit for a king downstream. Near Profondeville. Newman knows all this – he visited Brand with me.'
'How much did Brand pay you for this service?' Benoit demanded, his tone brusque.
Ralston stared at him with glaucous eyes. 'I'm not going to have two of you at me. I normally like Belgians. I'll make an exception in your case.'
A wintry smile. Newman stared in surprise. He'd never have associated the colonel with such wit. Benoit,
