Tweed sensed, was about to explode. He spoke quickly to Ralston.
'Can you tell me anything about a bargee called Joseph Haber? He's gone missing.'
'Has he now? I've seen Klein hobnobbing with him -aboard his barge Gargantua. Again, back at Dinant. Twice, as I recall it. Once several months ago, the other time within the past few days. Dour chap, Haber. Kept himself to himself. You implied this Klein is a terrorist. Couldn't make out what nationality he was. Spoke almost perfect English. Thought he was until he tripped himself up. Queer incident, that.'
'What incident?'
'He said something I didn't agree with – can't recall all the details. Doesn't matter. I accused him of talking Double Dutch. He stared at me for a moment with those weird eyes. Then he flew at me, asked what I was hinting at. Sergeant Bradley came in by chance and pulled him up short.'
'Can you remember,' Benoit interjected, 'whether Klein ever had anyone with him when he visited Joseph Haber on his barge?'
'Always on his own. Bit of a lone wolf type…'
'A few minutes ago,' Benoit reminded him, 'you called Klein 'this sod'. You've said you disliked him. Why?'
'Because he acted as though he'd taken over the Evening Star. Arrogant as blazes. Ordered Bradley to make him coffee – little things like that. He wasn't popular, I can tell you.' Ralston looked at Tweed. 'Any of this help?'
'Yes. Thank you for your cooperation. Could I ask where we could locate you if the need arises? It's unlikely, but in case…'
'I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do. After what you told me I want to distance myself from Peter Brand as far as possible. First opportunity I'm turning round, sailing back upstream and across the French frontier. Take a bit of a joy ride down the Canal de l'Est. No objections?'
'None as far as I'm concerned,' Tweed replied.
They left the cruiser after refusing Ralston's offer of tea or a drink, climbed back into the waiting car and drove off to where the Alouette waited. Tweed told Benoit he wanted to reach Brussels at the earliest possible moment. The crisis was imminent.
36
Leaving the Sheraton, carrying his bag, Klein headed for a public phone box near the Porte Louise. It was almost dark. Car headlights whipped up the Boulevard de Waterloo, the neon signs had come on, casting a weird light in the dusk. He entered a phone box, dialled a number in Germany.
He was calling the Hessischer Hof Hotel in Frankfurt. Kurt Saur, the Austrian helicopter pilot, answered the moment he was put through to his room. Klein spoke in German.
'Klein here. Are you ready to make delivery?'
'We await your instructions. Both machines are available.'
'Fly at once to Schiphol. You will be met by my agent, Grand-Pierre. Got the name?'
'Grand-Pierre. We will arrive roughly two to three hours from now.'
'Do it.'
Klein put down the receiver, lifted it again, called Delft and passed on the information to Grand-Pierre. The pilots speak French, he told him. Grand-Pierre said he would drive to Schiphol at once.
It was news to the Frenchman that two large Sikorsky helicopters were coming. Once again Klein had kept the different members of the assault force in separate cells. On arrival at the Dutch airport near Amsterdam Saur would tell the airport officials both machines were in need of maintenance. They would be held in reserve at Schiphol until required.
Standing in front of a shop window, Klein went over in his mind the Sikorsky element. Unlike the CRS command vehicle – which had to be stolen because it couldn't be bought on the open market – the Sikorsky machines had been legitimately hired for cash. And he could rely on Saur who led the four men of the helicopter team.
Kurt Saur, from Graz in the Austrian province of Styria, was forty years old. He'd spent his life hiring himself out for smuggling operations. So far he hadn't been caught. But he felt his luck was running out. He needed one big 'score' to give him the money for a life of leisure. Klein had provided that opportunity.
Klein was in an edgy mood – and knew why. Several members of his team were now in Brussels. The concentration at this moment was inevitable – they had to be close to the target.
But it went against all his instincts for security to do this. He was very close to the Mayfair where Lara Seagrave waited. He'd better go and have a word with her, see whether she was becoming restless.
First he took a cab to Midi station. Here he left his case in a luggage container – which reminded him of the bag he'd deposited at Geneva Cornavin, the bag containing the blood-soaked raincoat after murdering the Swiss, Blanc. So long ago, it seemed.
He took another cab back to the Porte Louise, paid it off, then walked up the opposite side of the Avenue Louise to where the Mayfair was located. He stood for a while behind a file of cars, deciding the line he would take with Lara.
He stiffened suddenly as he saw Lara leave the entrance to the Mayfair. Dressed up to the nines in a gaberdine suit. Where could she be going at this hour? She had strict instructions to wait in her room, to eat at the Mayfair.
On the far side of the street she walked towards the Porte Louise, clasping her shoulder bag. Klein followed at a discreet distance. When the lights were green she crossed the Boulevard de Waterloo. Turning right along the sidewalk, she walked up the Boulevard, stopped briefly to look in a shop window, walked on and entered the Hilton.
Inside the spacious lobby Lara walked briskly past the long counter for the concierge, reception and cashier. She was seething inwardly. Not one damn word from Klein. Would she ever set eyes on him again? Had the swine cut her out of the operation. Anxiety mingled with fury as she pressed the button for Floor One.
A tall American guest arrived as the elevator doors opened. 'Please, after you. Kinda warmish this weather…' She smiled her thanks, stepped inside. The American followed and Klein stepped after them a second before the doors shut.
Lara stared at him, then looked away. He'd been following her. She was livid. The lift ascended, stopped at the first floor, the American again ushered her in front of him. Klein caught up with her as she entered the Maison de B?uf, a large room with an air of luxury, quiet and with only a few tables occupied. An open grille behind a serving counter faced her; behind the counter a young man with a chefs white hat looked up.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?' Klein whispered.
He gripped her by the forearm. He needed somewhere quiet without people to sort her out. Discipline. Control…
'What does it look like?' she snapped. 'Coming out to have dinner …'
'Who with?'
'Let… go… of… my… arm,' she demanded, letting her rage show. 'I'm not your serf.'
'We'll go back to the Mayfair.'
'No!' This was like dealing with her bloody step-mother, Lady Windermere. 'I'm eating here. The Mayfair can wait.'
Smoking one of his rare cigarettes, seated in a cosy corner next to the grille, Marler watched the encounter with half-closed eyes. The last man on God's earth he'd expected so soon was Klein. It was only eight o'clock. And who was the girl? It was hardly a friendly meeting.
Lara gave Klein the mockery of a beaming smile. 'If you don't let go of me I'll create one hell of a scene.'
'Later then, at the Mayfair.'
Klein released his grip. The last thing he wanted was a scene drawing attention to himself. He turned abruptly and went back to the elevators.
Marler rose from his table, walked over to Lara before the head waiter could reach her. He smiled, still
