smell right. And the sudden movement would keep everyone occupied and off balance.
Lara would catch a night train. Marler would drive to Antwerp. Hipper and Chabot would also go by car. Klein himself would travel the short distance by night train. He had his case waiting for him in the luggage container at Midi station – although when he'd deposited it he'd had no intention of ordering the speed-up. He gave a sigh of relief as he settled in the otherwise empty first-class compartment as the train left for Antwerp.
Hipper took the phone call in their room at the cafe Manuel as Chabot was leaving. He gestured for the Frenchman to wait. Putting down the phone Hipper began stuffing clothes into his case as he spoke.
'Pack your things. We're leaving at once.'
'Shit!' Chabot was furious. 'And I was going on the town to enjoy myself for the first time in weeks. Where the devil are we going now?'
'Antwerp. Do hurry up.'
'That's the target?' Chabot asked as he began folding his own things neatly. Hipper was a toad, he thought. Messy about everything: couldn't even pack a case decently
'No idea,' Hipper replied. 'Just our next destination.'
Ten minutes later Hipper had paid Manuel an extortionate sum for the room they'd hardly used and, Chabot behind the wheel, they were driving out of Brussels.
Sagged behind his seat belt, Hipper was lost in thought. The sudden decision of Klein had not surprised him. During his last visit to take food to Haber's wife and his son imprisoned in the old mill he had included the usual thermos of coffee.
But this time the strong coffee was rather different. As instructed by Klein, he had laced it with a heavy dose of barbiturates. The two prisoners would sleep well. They would sleep for ever.
Part Three
39
'No news of Nield then?' Butler had asked.
Three men were talking in Tweed's room at a small hotel near Grand'Place Benoit had suggested. Tweed, Newman and Butler. Earlier they'd found a small restaurant, dining off omelettes. None of them had felt he could face a large meal.
Tweed had drunk a lot of coffee which had made him more alert. It was two in the morning. He shook his head at Butler.
'Monica said Nield normally reported in daily by phone. He's bought up a load of books, dumped them in a prominent place at the back of his car. Posing as a publisher's representative. He's watching Blakeney – as you suggested, Harry.'
'You said 'normally'. Has there been a break in communication?'
'Yes. Nothing for the past twenty-four hours. I expect he has his reasons. Now, Bob, I want you to help me - recall everything that's happened since we started this pursuit of Klein. I have the weird idea we've overlooked something. One missing key is the explosives Klein brought out across the Turkish border – before murdering the Armenian truck driver, Dikoyan, and kindly throwing his corpse into the Bosphorus.'
'But what about Klein?' Butler interjected. 'I should be out looking for him. I lost him…'
'Don't worry about that. Benoit has thrown out a huge dragnet, recalled men off duty, had copies made of the Identikit picture and distributed them. His men are combing every hotel in Brussels – including some sleazy places down in the Marolles district. Benoit will be up all night.
Including seeing his Minister to persuade him to alert Antwerp – which I still think is the wrong target. Now, you go ahead, Bob. I listen.'
For quarter of an hour he sat silent, watching Newman who, in his terse, reporter-like manner, recalled previous events. At times Tweed leant his head back against the chair, closed his eyes as he saw visually what he'd experienced. Going right back to his visit to the weird village of Cockley Ford. Newman had just finished retailing details of his visit to Brand's luxurious mansion with Colonel Ralston when Tweed sat up straight.
'Just a minute. Those wheel tracks of some heavy vehicle you saw pressed into Brand's lawn – reminds me of something else. The wheel tracks I saw at the church at Cockley Ford – leading to the mausoleum of Sir John Leinster.'
'And now,' Newman said grimly, 'I remember what it was I wanted to recall and tell you. Go back to where all this started. That cargo of explosives – sea-mines and bombs – stolen from the Soviet depot at Sevastopol. OK, Dikoyan was found with his throat cut in the Bosphorus. But there was a bit after that you told me. Something about a Greek vessel sailing from the Golden Horn in Istanbul about the same time.'
'That's right. It was thought that vessel could have transported the explosives…'
The name! The name!' Newman was unusually excited. The name of that vessel which disappeared, which has never been seen since. Can you remember it?'
The Lesbos…'
Newman turned to Butler. That afternoon we drove to Brancaster looking for Caleb Fox's address. Pouring with rain. We met a chap with a walking stick. Military type. He warned us not to walk out to either of the two hulks lying among the sandbanks offshore.'
That's right,' Butler agreed, wondering where Newman was heading for.
'He said one of the hulks had had its name changed, he took a photo of the thing. He said it was wrecked about six months earlier. My God! I think I've still got the card he gave me with his name and address and phone number. Timms! That was the name. And here is the card…'
'What are you up to?' Tweed asked.
'Ronald Timms.' Newman jumped up from his chair, went over to the bed, perched on it and picked up the phone. 'Calling Mr Timms,' he replied as he dialled for an outside line.
'At this hour?' Tweed commented. 'You will get a lot of cooperation. Middle of the night.'
'He lives alone, I think. And the type who doesn't need much sleep.' He was dialling. He waited as he heard the ringing tone in Norfolk. The phone was answered quickly.
'Mr Ronald Timms?' Newman began. 'Very sorry to call at this hour. Hope I haven't got you out of bed. Robert Newman here. I doubt whether you'll remember me but…'
'Of course I do. The reporter chappie I warned not to wander out across those creeks. And I'm up, making myself a pot of tea. What can I do for you?'
The conversation was brief. Timms was anything but a waffler. Newman thanked him very much, said yes, he'd certainly call on him when he was next in the area, put down the phone, looked at Tweed.
'That wreck off the Norfolk coast, the hulk whose name had been changed. Timms' photograph brought up the real name under a magnifying glass. The Lesbos.'
Nield opened his eyes, stared at a blank white ceiling illuminated indirectly from a light somewhere. He was in bed. Lifting his head he saw the light came through a glass window in the top of a closed door. Where the hell was he?
He pushed back the sheets with an effort, then lifted a hand to his head. It was swathed in bandages. It came back to him. The coaster at Blakeney being loaded. Dr Portch leaning over him, staring down from behind his beak-like nose through pince-nez, A cold, calculating expression. Have to get back to Park Crescent, report what I've found out…
He perched on the edge of the bed, realized he was wearing pyjamas. His head swam, there was a pounding at the back of his skull. He saw his watch on the bedside table, picked it up. Two o'clock. He gazed out of the window. Black as pitch. He fastened the watch on his wrist.
Standing up, he nearly fell down, grabbed for the edge of the bed, saved himself. Unsteadily, he walked to the
